Op-Center Novels 7-12

Divide and Conquer

Line of Control

Mission

Sea of Fire

Call to Treason

War of Eagles

Tom Clancy

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Acknowledgements

ONE - Baku, Azerbaijan Sunday, 11:33 P.M.

TWO - Camp Springs, Maryland Sunday, 4:12 P.M.

THREE - Washington, D.C. Sunday, 6:32 P.M.

FOUR - Baku, Azerbaijan Monday, 2:47 A.M.

FIVE - Washington., D. C. Sunday, 8:00 P.M.

SIX - Hellspot Station, the Caspian Sea Monday, 3:01 A.M.

SEVEN - Camp Springs, Maryland Monday, 12:44 A.M.

EIGHT - Baku, Azerbaijan Monday, 4:00 P.M.

NINE - Washington, D.C. Monday, 11:55 A.M.

TEN - Baku, Azerbaijan Monday, 9:21 P.M.

ELEVEN - Washington, D. C. Monday, 3:00 P.M.

TWELVE - Camp Springs, Maryland Monday, 3:14 P.M.

THIRTEEN - Gobustan, Azerbaijan Monday, 11:56 P.M.

FOURTEEN - New York, New York Monday, 4:01 P.M.

FIFTEEN - Washington, D.C. Monday, 4:03 P.M.

SIXTEEN - Baku, Azerbaijan Tuesday, 12:07 A.M.

SEVENTEEN - Washington, D. C. Monday, 4:13 P.M.

EIGHTEEN - Gobustan, Azerbaijan Tuesday, 1:22 A.M.

NINETEEN - Baku, Azerbaijan Tuesday, 1:35 A.M.

TWENTY - Washington, D.C. Monday, 6:46 P.M.

TWENTY-ONE - Baku, Azerbaijan Tuesday, 3:58 A.M.

TWENTY-TWO - Saint Petersburg, Russia Tuesday, 4:01 A.M.

TWENTY-THREE - Washington, D.C. Monday, 7:51 P.M.

TWENTY-FOUR - Khachmas, Azerbaijan Tuesday, 4:44 A.M.

TWENTY-FIVE - Saint Petersburg, Russia Tuesday, 4:47 A.M.

TWENTY-SIX - Washington, D. C. Monday, 9:00 P.M.

TWENTY-SEVEN - Baku, Azerbaijan Tuesday, 5:01 A.M.

TWENTY-EIGHT - Washington, D.C. Monday, 10:03 P.M.

TWENTY-NINE - Baku, Azerbaijan Tuesday, 6:15 A.M.

THIRTY - Baku, Azerbaijan Tuesday, 6:16 A.M.

THIRTY-ONE - Washington, D.C. Monday, 11:11 P.M.

THIRTY-TWO - Washington, D.C. Monday, 11:24 P.M.

THIRTY-THREE - Baku, Azerbaijan Tuesday, 8:09 A.M.

THIRTY-FOUR - Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 12:10 A.M.

THIRTY-FIVE - Saint Petersburg, Russia Tuesday, 8:30 A.M.

THIRTY-SIX - Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 12:30 A.M.

THIRTY-SEVEN - Baku, Azerbaijan Tuesday, 9:01 A.M.

THIRTY-EIGHT - Saint Petersburg, Russia Tuesday, 9:31 A.M

THIRTY-NINE - Teheran, Iran Tuesday, 10:07 A.M.

FORTY - Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 1:33 A.M.

FORTY-ONE - Washington, D.C Tuesday, 1:34 A.M.

FORTY-TWO - Saint Petersburg, Russia Tuesday, 9:56 A.M.

FORTY-THREE - Baku, Azerbaijan Tuesday, 10:07 A.M.

FORTY-FOUR - Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 2:08 A.M.

FORTY-FIVE - Saint Petersburg, Russia Tuesday, 10:20 A.M.

FORTY-SIX - Baku, Azerbaijan Tuesday, 10:31 A.M.

FORTY-SEVEN - Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 2:32 A.M.

FORTY-EIGHT - Baku, Azerbaijan Tuesday, 10:47 A.M.

FORTY-NINE - Saint Petersburg, Russia Tuesday, 11:02 A.M.

FIFTY - Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 3:06 A.M.

FIFTY-ONE - Baku, Azerbaijan Tuesday, 11:09 A.M.

FIFTY-TWO - Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 3:13 A.M.

FIFTY-THREE - Baku, Azerbaijan Tuesday, 11:15 A.M.

FIFTY-FOUR - Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 3:17 A.M.

FIFTY-FIVE - Baku, Azerbaijan Tuesday, 11:22 A.M.

FIFTY-SIX - Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 4:27 A.M.

FIFTY-SEVEN - Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 4:41 A.M.

FIFTY-EIGHT - Saint Petersburg, Russia Tuesday, 12:53 P.M.

FIFTY-NINE - Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 5:04 A.M.

SIXTY - Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 6:46 A.M.

EPILOGUE

THE BESTSELLING NOVELS OF Tom Clancy

RAINBOW SIX

Clancy’s shocking story of international terrorism—closer to reality than any government would care to admit.

“GRIPPING . . . BOLT-ACTION MAYHEM.”

—People

EXECUTIVE ORDERS

Jack Ryan has always been a soldier. Now he’s giving the orders.

“AN ENORMOUS, ACTION-PACKED, HEAT-SEEKING MISSILE OF A TOM CLANCY NOVEL.”

—Seattle Times

DEBT OF HONOR

It begins with the murder of an American woman in the backstreets of Tokyo. It ends in war. . .

“A SHOCKER CLIMAX SO PLAUSIBLE YOU’LL WONDER WHY IT HASN’T YET HAPPENED!”

—Entertainment Weekly

THE HUNT FOR RED OCTOBER

The smash bestseller that launched Clancy’s career—the incredible search for a Soviet defector and the nuclear submarine he commands . . .

“BREATHLESSLY EXCITING!”

—Washington Post

RED STORM RISING

The ultimate scenario for World War III—the final battle for global control . . .

“THE ULTIMATE WAR GAME . . . BRILLIANT!”

—Newsweek

PATRIOT GAMES

CIA analyst Jack Ryan stops an assassination—and incurs the wrath of Irish terrorists . . .

“A HIGH PITCH OF EXCITEMENT!”

—Wall Street Journal

THE CARDINAL OF THE KREMLIN

The superpowers race for the ultimate Star Wars missile defense system . . .

“CARDINAL EXCITES, ILLUMINATES ... A REAL PAGE-TURNER!”

—Los Angeles Daily News

CLEAR AND PRESENT DANGER

The killing of three U.S. officials in Colombia ignites the American government’s explosive, and top secret, response ...

“A CRACKLING GOOD YARN!”

—Washington Post

THE SUM OF ALL FEARS

The disappearance of an Israeli nuclear weapon threatens the balance of power in the Middle East—and around the world . . .

“CLANCY AT HIS BEST . . . NOT TO BE MISSED!”

—Dallas Morning News

WITHOUT REMORSE

The Clancy epic fans have been waiting for. His code name is Mr. Clark. And his work for the CIA is brilliant, cold-blooded, and efficient . . . but who is he really?

“HIGHLY ENTERTAINING!”

—Wall Street Journal

Novels by Tom Clancy

THE HUNT FOR RED OCTOBER

RED STORM RISING

PATRIOT GAMES

THE CARDINAL OF THE KREMLIN

CLEAR AND PRESENT DANGER

THE SUM OF ALL FEARS

WITHOUT REMORSE

DEBT OF HONOR

EXECUTIVE ORDERS

RAINBOW SIX

SSN: STRATEGIES OF SUBMARINE WARFARE

Created by Tom Clancy and Steve Pieczenik

TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER

TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: MIRROR IMAGE

TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: GAMES OF STATE

TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: ACTS OF WAR

TOM CLANCY’ S OP-CENTER: BALANCE OF POWER

TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: STATE OF SIEGE

TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: DIVIDE AND CONQUER

TOM CLANCY’ NET FORCE

TOM CLANCY’S NET FORCE: HIDDEN AGENDAS

TOM CLANCY’S NET FORCE: NIGHT MOVES

Created by Tom Clancy and Martin Greenberg

TOM CLANCY’S POWER PLAYS: POLITIKA

TOM CLANCY’S POWER PLAYS: RUTHLESS.COM

TOM CLANCY’S POWER PLAYS: SHADOW WATCH

Nonfiction

SUBMARINE: A GUIDED TOUR INSIDE A NUCLEAR WARSHIP

ARMORED CAV: A GUIDED TOUR OF AN ARMORED CAVALRY REGIMENT

FIGHTER WING: A GUIDED TOUR OF AN AIR FORCE COMBAT WING

MARINE: A GUIDED TOUR OF A MARINE EXPEDITIONARY UNIT

AIRBORNE: A GUIDED TOUR OF AN AIRBORNE TASK FORCE

CARRIER: A GUIDED TOUR OF AN AIRCRAFT CARRIER

INTO THE STORM: A STUDY IN COMMAND

(written with General Fred Franks)

EVERY MAN A TIGER

(written with General Charles Horner)

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: DIVIDE AND CONQUER

A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with

Jack Ryan Limited Partnership and S & R Literary, Inc.

PRINTING HISTORY

Berkley edition / June 2000

All rights reserved.

Copyright © 2000 by Jack Ryan Limited Partnership and

S & R Literary, Inc.

This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. For information address:

The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is http://www.penguinputnam.com

eISBN : 978-1-101-00366-4

BERKLEY®

Berkley Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York,

New York 10014.

BERKLEY and the “B” design are trademarks belonging to

Penguin Putnam Inc.

http://us.penguingroup.com

Acknowledgments

We would like to acknowledge the assistance of Martin H. Greenberg, Larry Segriff, Robert Youdelman, Esq., Tom Mallon, Esq., and the wonderful people at Penguin Putnam, including Phyllis Grann, David Shanks, and Tom Colgan. As always, we would like to thank Robert Gottlieb of The William Morris Agency, our agent and friend, without whom this book would never have been conceived. But most important, it is for you, our readers, to determine how successful our collective endeavor has been.

—Tom Clancy and Steve Pieczenik

PROLOGUE

Washington, D.C. Sunday, 1:55 P.M.

The two middle-aged men sat in leather armchairs in a corner of the wood-paneled library. The room was in a quiet corner of a Massachusetts Avenue mansion. The blinds were drawn to protect the centuries-old art from the direct rays of the early-afternoon sun. The only light came from a dull fire that was smoldering in the fireplace. The fire gave the old, wood-paneled room a faintly smoky smell.

One of the men was tall, stout, and casually dressed with thinning gray hair and a lean face. He was drinking black coffee from a blue Camp David mug while he studied a single sheet of paper resting in a green folder. The other individual, seated across from him with his back to the bookcase, was a short bulldog of a man with a three-piece gray suit and buzz-cut red hair. He was holding an empty shot glass that, moments before, had been brimming with scotch. His legs were crossed, his foot was dancing nervously, and his cheek and chin bore the nicks of a quick, unsatisfactory shave.

The taller man shut the folder and smiled. “These are wonderful comments. Just perfect.”

“Thank you,” said the red-haired man. ”Jen’s a very good writer.” He shifted slowly, uncrossing his legs. He leaned forward, causing the leather seat to groan. ”Along with this afternoon’s briefing, this is really going to accelerate matters. You know that, don’t you?”

“Of course,” the taller man said. He put his coffee mug on a small table, rose, and walked to the fireplace. He picked up a poker. “Does that scare you?”

“A little,” the red-haired man admitted.

“Why?” the taller man asked as he threw the folder into the flames. It caught fire quickly. “Our tracks are covered.”

“It’s not us I’m worried about. There will be a price,” the red-haired man said sadly.

“We’ve discussed this before,” the taller man said. “Wall Street will love it. The people will recover. And any foreign powers that try to take advantage of the situation will wish they hadn’t.” He jabbed the burning folder. “Jack ran the psychological profiles. We know where all the potential trouble spots are. The only one who’s going to be hurt is the man who created the problem. And he’ll recover. Hell, he’ll do better than recover. He’ll write books, give speeches, make millions.”

The taller man’s words sounded cold, though the red-haired man knew they weren’t. He had known the other man for nearly thirty-five years, ever since they served together in Vietnam. They fought side by side in Hue during the Tet offensive, holding an ammunition depot after the rest of the platoon had been killed. They both loved their country passionately, and what they were doing was a measure of that deep, deep love.

“What’s the news from Azerbaijan?” the taller man asked.

“Everyone’s in place.” The red-haired man looked at his watch. “They’ll be eyeballing the target close-up, showing the man what he has to do. We don’t expect the next report for another seven hours or so.”

The taller man nodded. There was a short silence broken only by the crackling of the burning folder.

The red--haired man sighed, put his glass on the table, and rose. “You’ve got to get ready for the briefing. Is there anything else you need?”

The taller man stabbed the ashes, destroying them. Then he replaced the poker and faced the red-haired man.

“Yes,” he said. “I need you to relax. There’s only one thing we have to fear.”

The red-haired man smiled knowingly. “Fear itself.”

“No,” said the other. “Panic and doubt. We know what we want, and we know how to get there. If we stay calm and sure, we’ve got it.”

The red-haired man nodded. Then he picked up the leather briefcase from beside the chair. “What was it that Benjamin Franklin said? That revolution is always legal in the first person, as in ‘our’ revolution. It’s only illegal in the third person, as in ‘their’ revolution.”

“I never heard that,” said the taller man. “It’s nice.”

The red-haired man smiled. “I keep telling myself that what we’re doing is the same thing the founding fathers did. Trading a bad form of government for a better one.”

“That’s correct,” the other man said. “Now, what I want you to do is go home, relax, and watch a football game. Stop worrying. It’s all going to work out.”

“I wish I could be as confident.”

“Wasn’t it Franklin who also said, ‘In this world nothing can be said to be certain, except death and taxes’? We’ve done the best we can, and we’ve done everything we can. We have to put our trust in that.”

The red-haired man nodded.

They shook hands, and the shorter man left.

A young aide was working at a large, mahogany desk outside the library. She smiled up at the red-haired man as he strode down the long, wide, carpeted corridor toward the outside door.

He believed that this would work out. He truly did. What he didn’t believe was that the repercussions would be so easy to control.

Not that it matters, he thought as a security guard opened the door for him and he stepped into the sunlight. He pulled sunglasses from his shirt pocket and slipped them on. This has to be done, and it has to be done now.

As he walked down the paved drive to his car, the red-haired man held tight to the notion that the founding fathers had committed what many considered to be treasonous acts when they forged this nation. He also thought of Jefferson Davis and the Southern leaders who formed the Confederacy to protest what they considered repression. What he and his people were doing now was neither unprecedented nor immoral.

But it was dangerous, not just for themselves but for the nation. And that, more than anything, would continue to scare the hell out of him until the country was firmly under their control.

ONE

Baku, Azerbaijan Sunday, 11:33 P.M.

David Battat looked impatiently at his watch. They were over three minutes late. Which is nothing to be concerned about, the short, agile American told himself. A thousand things could have held them up, but they would be here. They would come by launch or motorboat, possibly from another boat, possibly from the wharf four hundred yards to his right. But they would arrive.

They had better, he thought. He couldn’t afford to screw up twice. Not that the first mistake had been his fault.

The forty-three-year-old Battat was the director of the Central Intelligence Agency’s small New York field office, which was located across the street from the United Nations building. Battat and his small team were responsible for electronic SOS activities: spying on spies. Keeping track of foreign “diplomats” who used their consulates as bases for surveillance and intelligence-gathering activities. Battat also had been responsible for overseeing the activities of junior agent Annabelle Hampton.

Ten days before, Battat had come to the American embassy in Moscow. The CIA was running tests in the communications center on an uplink with a new high-gain acoustic satellite. If the satellite worked on the Kremlin, the CIA planned on using it in New York to eavesdrop more efficiently on foreign consulates. While Battat was in Moscow, however, Annabelle helped a group of terrorists infiltrate the United Nations. What made it especially painful was that the young woman did it for pay, not principle. Battat could respect a misguided idealist. He could not respect a common hustler.

Though Battat had not been blamed officially for what Annabelle did, he was the one who had run the background check on her. He was the one who had hired her. And her “seconding action,” as it was officially classified, had happened during his watch. Psychologically and also politically, Battat needed to atone for that mistake. Otherwise, chances were good that he would get back to the United States and discover that the field agent who had been brought in from Washington to operate the office in his absence was now the permanent New York field director. Battat might find himself reassigned to Moscow, and he didn’t want that. The FBI had all the ins with the black marketeers who were running Russia and the Bureau didn’t like to share information or contacts with the CIA. There wouldn’t be anything to do in Moscow but debrief bored aparatchiks who had nothing to say except that they missed the old days and could they please get a visa to anywhere west of the Danube?

Battat looked out over the tall grasses at the dark waters of the Bay of Baku, which led to the Caspian Sea. He raised his digital camera and studied the Rachel through the telephoto lens. There was no activity on the deck of the sixty-one-foot motor yacht. A few lights were on below deck. They must be waiting. He lowered the camera. He wondered if the passengers were as impatient as he was.

Probably, he decided. Terrorists were always edgy but focused. It was an unusual combination, and one way that security forces zeroed in on potential troublemakers in crowds.

Battat looked at his watch again. Now they were five minutes late. Maybe it was just as well. It gave him a chance to get a handle on the adrenaline, to concentrate on the job. It was difficult.

Battat had not been in the field for nearly fifteen years. In the closing days of the war in Afghanistan, he had been a CIA liaison with the Mujahideen guerrilla fighters. He had reported from the front on Soviet troop strength, arms, deployment, tactics, and other battlefield details. Anything the military might need to know if the United States ever fought Soviet or Soviet-trained soldiers. That was back when the United States still had people on the ground collecting solid, firsthand intelligence instead of satellites gathering pictures and audio transmissions, which teams of experts then had to interpret. Former operatives like Battat who had been trained in HUMINT—human intelligence—called those experts “educated lucky guessers,” since they were wrong just as often as they were right.

Now, dressed in black boots, blue jeans, leather gloves, a black turtleneck, and a black baseball cap, Battat was watching for a possible new enemy. One of those satellites Battat hated had picked up a communication during a test run in Moscow. For reasons as yet unknown, a group known as “Dover Street” was meeting on the Rachel, presumably a boat, to pick up “the Harpooner.” If this was the same Harpooner the CIA had missed grabbing in Beirut and Saudi Arabia, they wanted him. Over the past twenty-five years, he had been responsible for the deaths of hundreds of Americans in terrorist bombings. After discussing the contents of the message with Washington, it was decided that Battat would photograph the individuals and return to the American consulate in Baku for positive ID. After that, the boat would be tracked by satellite, and a special ops team would be dispatched from Turkey to take him out. No extradition debate, no political hot potato, just a good, old-fashioned erasure. The kind the CIA used to do before Iran-Contra gave black ops a bad name. Before “do something” was replaced by “due process.” Before good manners replaced good government.

Battat had flown to Baku. Clearing customs, he had taken the crowded but clean metro out to the Khatayi stop on the sea. The ride cost the equivalent of three cents, and everyone was exceedingly polite, helping one another on and off and holding the doors for late arrivals.

The United States embassy in Baku maintained a small CIA field office staffed by two agents. The agents were presumably known to the Azerbaijani police and rarely went into the field themselves. Instead, they brought in outside personnel whenever neccessary. The embassy would not be happy to be presented with the action as a fait accompli. But there were increasing tensions between the United States and Azerbaijan over Caspian oil. The republic was attempting to flood the market with inexpensive oil to bolster its weak economy. That represented enormous potential damage to American oil companies, who were only marginally represented here—a holdover from the days of the Soviet Union. The CIA in Moscow did not want to inflame those tensions.

Battat spent the late afternoon walking around a section of beach, looking for a particular boat. When he found it, anchored about three hundred yards offshore, he made himself comfortable on a low, flat rock among a thatch of high reeds. With his backpack, water bottle, and bag dinner at his side and the camera hanging around his neck, he waited.

The smell of salty air and oil from the offshore rigs was strong here, like nowhere else in the world. It almost burned his nostrils. But he loved it. He loved the sand under his rubber soles, the cool breeze on his cheek, the sweat on his palms, and the accelerated beat of his heart.

Battat wondered how many foreign invaders had stood on these shores, perhaps in this very spot. The Persians in the eleventh century. The Mongols in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. The Russians in the eighteenth century, then the Persians again, then the Soviets. He couldn’t decide whether he was part of a dramatic historical pageant or an ugly, unending rape.

Not that it matters, he told himself. He wasn’t here to safeguard Azerbaijan. He was here to redeem himself and to protect American interests.

Crouched among the high reeds at this isolated section of beachfront, Battat felt as though he had never been away from the field. Danger did that. It was like a fond song or a familiar food smell, a bookmark in the soul. He loved that, too. He also felt good about what he was doing. Not just to atone for Annabelle but because it was right.

Battat had been here for nearly seven hours now. The cell phone communications they’d intercepted said that the pickup was scheduled for eleven-thirty P.M. The Harpooner was supposed to be there to examine the parcel, whatever it was, then pay for it and leave.

Just then, something happened on the boat. A hatch door opened, and a man climbed out onto the deck. Battat looked out at the water. The man turned on a radio. It was playing what sounded like local folk tunes. Maybe that was a signal. Battat’s gaze swept across the water.

Suddenly, an elbow locked around Battat’s throat from behind and yanked him to his feet. He gagged. He tried to tuck his chin into the elbow, to relieve the pressure on his throat so he could breathe, but the attacker was well trained. He had locked his right arm around his throat and was pushing Battat’s head with his left hand so he couldn’t turn it. Battat tried to drive an elbow back into the attacker’s gut, but the man was standing to the side. Finally, he tried to reach back and grab the shoulder of the choking arm and pull the attacker over.

The attacker responded by tilting his own body back and lifting Battat from the ground. Although Battat was able to grab the man’s shoulder, he couldn’t throw the attacker. Battat’s feet were in the air and he had no leverage.

The struggle lasted five seconds. The attacker’s arm squeezed against the American’s carotid arteries from the side, immediately cutting the blood supply to the head and causing Battat to black out. Taking no chances, the attacker kept pressing the arteries for another half minute. Then he dropped the unconscious body to the sand.

The Harpooner reached into the pocket of his windbreaker. He removed a syringe from his pocket, pulled off the plastic tip, and injected the man in the neck. After wiping away the small drop of blood, he took out a flashlight and flicked it on. He waved it back and forth several times. Another flashlight answered from the Rachel.

Then both lights went dark. Moments later, a motor dinghy lowered from the boat and headed toward shore.

TWO

Camp Springs, Maryland Sunday, 4:12 P.M.

Paul Hood sat on an armchair in the corner of the small, TV-lit hotel room. The heavy shades were drawn and a football game was on, but Hood wasn’t really watching it. He was watching reruns in his mind. Reruns of over sixteen years of married life.

Old pictures in my new home, he thought.

Home was an anonymous fifth-floor suite at the Days Inn on Mercedes Boulevard, located a short distance from Andrews Air Force Base. Hood had moved in late Saturday night. Though he could have stayed at a motel right next to the base where Op-Center was located, he wanted the option of being able to get away from work. Which was ironic. It was Hood’s dedication to Op-Center that had cost him his marriage.

Or so his wife maintained.

Over the past several years, Sharon Hood had become increasingly frustrated by the long hours her husband kept at Op-Center. She grew tense and angry each time an international crisis caused him to miss one of their daughter Harleigh’s violin recitals or their son Alexander’s ball games. She was bitter that virtually every vacation they planned had to be canceled because of a coup attempt or assassination that demanded his attention. She resented how he was on the phone, even when he was with his family, checking with Deputy Director Mike Rodgers on how the mobile Regional Op-Center was performing in field tests or discussing with Intelligence Chief Bob Herbert what they could do to strengthen the new relationship with Op-Center’s Russian counterpart in Saint Petersburg.

But Hood had never believed that work itself was really the problem. It was something older and deeper than that.

Even when he had resigned his position as director of Op-Center and went to New York for Harleigh’s performance at a United Nations reception, Sharon still wasn’t happy. She was jealous of the attention that other mothers on the junket gave him. Sharon realized that the women were drawn to Hood because he had been a highly visible mayor of Los Angeles. After that, he had held a powerful job in Washington, where power was the coin of the realm. It didn’t matter to Sharon that Hood put no stock in fame and power. It didn’t matter to her that his replies to the women were always polite but short. All Sharon knew was that she had to share her husband again.

Then came the nightmare. Harleigh and the other young musicians were taken hostage in the Security Council chambers by renegade United Nations peacekeepers. Hood had left Sharon at the State Department’s understaffed crisis center so that he could oversee Op-Center’s successful covert effort to rescue the teenagers and the captive foreign delegates. In Sharon’s eyes, he had not been there for her again. When they returned to Washington, she immediately took the children to her parents’ house in Old Saybrook, Connecticut. Sharon had said she wanted to get Harleigh away from the media zoo that had pursued the children from New York.

Hood couldn’t argue with that. Harleigh had seen one of her friends seriously wounded and several other people executed. She was almost killed herself. She had suffered the clinical consequences of classic stressor triggers for post-traumatic stress disorder: threats to the physical integrity of herself and others; fear and helplessness; and a guilt response to survival. After all that, to have been surrounded by TV lights and shouting members of the press corps would have been the worst thing for Harleigh.

But Hood knew that wasn’t the only reason his wife had gone back to Old Saybrook. Sharon herself needed to get away. She needed the comfort and safety of her childhood home in order to think about her future.

About their future.

Hood shut off the TV. He put the remote on the night table, lay back on the bunched pillows, and looked up at the white ceiling. Only he didn’t see a ceiling. Hood saw Sharon’s pale face and dark eyes. He saw how they had looked on Friday when she came home and told him she wanted a divorce.

That wasn’t a surprise. It was actually a relief in some ways. After Hood had returned from New York, he met briefly with the president about repairing the rift between the United States and the UN. Being back at the White House, being plugged into the world, had made him want to withdraw his resignation from Op-Center. He liked the work he was doing: the challenge, the implications, the risk. On Friday evening, after Sharon had told him of her decision, he was able to withdraw his resignation with a clear conscience.

By the time Hood and Sharon talked again on Saturday, the emotional distancing had already begun. They agreed that Sharon could use their family attorney. Paul would have Op-Center’s legal officer, Lowell Coffey III, recommend someone for him. It was all very polite, mature, formal.

The big questions they still had to decide were whether to tell the kids and whether Hood should leave the house immediately. He had called Op-Center’s staff psychologist Liz Gordon, who was counseling Harleigh before turning her over to a psychiatrist who specialized in treating PTSD. Liz told Hood that he should be extremely gentle whenever he was around Harleigh. He was the only family member who had been with her during the siege. Harleigh would associate his strength and calmness with security. That would help to speed her recovery. Liz added that whatever instability was introduced by his departure was less dangerous than the ongoing strife between him and his wife. That tension would not show Hood in the light Harleigh needed to see him. Liz also told him that intensive therapy for Harleigh should begin as soon as possible. They had to deal with the problem, or she ran the risk of being psychologically impaired for the rest of her life.

After having discussed the situation with Liz Gordon, Hood and Sharon decided to tell the kids calmly and openly what was happening. For the last time as a family, they sat in the den—the same room where they had set up their Christmas tree every year and taught the kids Monopoly and chess and had birthday parties. Alexander seemed to take it well after being assured that his life wouldn’t change very much. Harleigh was initially upset, feeling that what had happened to her was the cause. Hood and his wife assured Harleigh that was not the case at all, and they would both be there for her.

When they were finished, Sharon had dinner with Harleigh at home, and Hood took Alexander out to their favorite greasy pit, the Corner Bistro—the “Coroner Bistro” as the health-conscious Sharon called it. Hood put on his best face, and they had a fun time. Then he came back to the house, quickly and quietly packed a few things, and left for his new home.

Hood looked around the hotel room. There was a glass-covered desk with a blotter, a lamp, and a folder full of postcards. A queen-sized bed. An industrial-strength carpet that matched the opaque drapes. A framed print of a painting of a harlequin whose outfit matched the carpet. A dresser with a built-in cabinet for a minirefrigerator and another cabinet for the TV. And, of course, a drawer with a Bible. There was also a night table with a lamp like the one on the desk, four wastebaskets, a clock, and a box of tissues he had moved from the bathroom.

My new home, he thought again.

Except for the laptop on the desk and the pictures of the kids beside it—last year’s school photos, still in their warping cardboard frames—there was nothing of home here. The stains on the carpet weren’t apple juice Alexander had spilled as a boy. Harleigh hadn’t painted the picture of the harlequin. The refrigerator wasn’t stocked with rows of plastic containers filled with that wretched kiwi-strawberry-yogurt juice that Sharon liked. The television had never shown home videotapes of birthday parties, pool parties, and anniversaries, of relatives and coworkers who were gone. Hood had never watched the sun rise or set from this window. He had never had the flu or felt his unborn child kick in this bed. If he called out to the kids, they wouldn’t come.

Tears pressed against the backs of his eyes. He turned to look at the clock, anything to break the steady succession of thoughts and pictures. He would have to get ready soon. Time—and government—stopped for no man. He still had professional obligations. But lord God, Hood thought, he didn’t feel like going. Talking, putting on a happy face the way he did with his son, wondering who knew and who didn’t in the instant message machine known as the Washington grapevine.

He looked up at the ceiling. Part of him had wanted this to happen. Hood wanted the freedom to do his job. He wanted an end to being judged and criticized by Sharon. He also wanted to stop constantly disappointing his wife.

But another part of him, by far the largest part, was bitterly sad that it had come to this. There would be no more shared experiences, and the children were going to suffer for their parents’ shortcomings.

As the finality of the divorce hit him, hit him hard, Hood allowed the tears to flow.

THREE

Washington, D.C. Sunday, 6:32 P.M.

Sixty-one-year-old First Lady Megan Catherine Lawrence paused before the late-seventeenth-century gilded pier mirror over a matching commode. She gave her short, straight, silver hair and ivory satin gown one last check before picking up her white gloves and leaving her third-floor salon. Satisfied, the tall, slender, elegant woman crossed the South American rug collected by President Herbert Hoover and entered the private presidential bedroom. The president’s private dressing room was directly across from her. As she stepped out, she looked out at the lamp-lit white walls and light-blue Kennedy curtains, the bed that was first used by Grover and Frances Cleveland, the rocking chair where delicate, devoted Eliza Johnson awaited word of her husband Andrew’s impeachment trial in 1868, and the bedside table where each night the seventh president, Andrew Jackson, would remove a miniature portrait of his dead wife from its place beside his heart, set it on the table next to her well-read Bible, and made certain that her face was the first thing he saw each morning.

As she looked out at the room, Megan smiled. When they first moved into the White House, friends and acquaintances would say to her, “It must be amazing having access to all the secret information about President Kennedy’s missing brain and the Roswell aliens.” She told them the secret was that there was no secret information. The only amazing thing was that, after nearly seven years of living in the White House, Megan still felt a thrill to be here among the ghosts, the greatness, the art, and the history.

Her husband, former Governor Michael Lawrence, had been president of the United States for one term when a series of stock market tumbles helped the moderate conservative lose a close election to Washington outsiders Ronald Bozer and Jack Jordan. Pundits said it was as much the family lumber fortune of the Oregon redwood that had made the president a target, since he was largely unaffected by the downturn. Michael Lawrence didn’t agree, and he was not a quitter. Rather than become a token partner in some law firm or join the board of directors of his family corporation, the former president stayed in Washington, set up a nonpartisan think tank, American Sense, and was a hands-on manager. He used the next eight years to find ways to fix or fine-tune what he perceived had been wrong with his first term, from the economy to foreign policy to social programs. His think tank members did the Sunday morning talk show circuit, wrote op-ed pieces, published books, and gave speeches. With a weak incumbent vice president to run against, and a new vice president on his own ticket—New York Senator Charles Cotten—Mi—chael Lawrence decisively won reelection. His popularity rating remained in the 60 percent region, and reelection was considered a fait accompli.

Megan crossed the room to the president’s dressing room. The door was shut, which was the only way to keep the bathroom warm, since draftiness came with the old walls and history. That meant her husband was probably still in the shower, which was surprising. Selected guests would be arriving at the second-floor study for a small, private half-hour cocktail reception at seven. Her husband usually liked to be ready fifteen minutes before that to sit with his thick personnel folder and review the likes, dislikes, hobbies, and family data of foreign guests. Tonight, he had the newly appointed acting ambassadors from Sweden and Italy coming up before a state dinner for key United Nations delegates. Their predecessors had been assassinated during the recent siege, and the replacements had been named quickly to show the world that terrorism could not stop the pursuits of peace and diplomacy. The president wanted a chance to meet the two men privately. After that, they’d go down to the Blue Room for a formal predinner reception with other influential United Nations delegates. Then it was on to the dinner itself, which was designed to show unity and support after the attack the previous week.

The president had come up shortly before six o’clock, which should have given him plenty of time to shower and shave. Megan couldn’t understand what was keeping him. Perhaps he was on the phone. His staff tried to keep calls to the private residence to a minimum, but he’d been getting more and more calls over the past few days, sometimes in the small hours of the morning. She did not want to sleep in one of the guest bedrooms, but she wasn’t a youngster anymore. Years ago, when they first started campaigning for public office, she used to be able to get by on two or three hours of sleep. No more. It had to be even worse on her husband. He was looking more tired than usual and desperately needed rest. The crisis at the United Nations had forced them to cancel a planned vacation in the northwest, and they had not been able to reschedule it.

The First Lady stopped by the six-panel door and listened. The shower was not running. Neither was the water in the sink. And it didn’t sound as if he was on the phone.

“Michael?”

Her husband did not answer. She turned the bright brass handle and opened the door.

There was a narrow anteroom before the bathroom. In an alcove to the right was a stand-alone cherry wood wardrobe where the president’s valet left his clothes for the day. In an alcove to the left was a matching cherry wood dressing table with a large, brightly lit wall mirror above it. The president was dressed in a royal blue bathrobe. He was standing there, breathing heavily, a look of rage in his narrow blue eyes. His fists were white-knuckle tight at his sides.

“Michael, are you all right?”

He glared at her. She had never seen him look so angry and—disoriented was the word that came to mind. It frightened her deeply.

“Michael, what is it?”

He looked back at the mirror. His eyes softened and his hands relaxed. His breathing came more easily. Then he slowly lowered himself into a walnut side chair in front of the dressing table.

“It’s nothing,” he said. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“A moment ago, you looked like you wanted to take a bite out of something,” Megan told him.

He shook his head. “That was just leftover energy from my exercises,” he said.

“Your exercises? I thought you were at a meeting before.”

“I was just doing isometrics,” he told her. “Senator Samuels does them for ten minutes every morning and evening. He says they’re a great tension releaser when you can’t get to the gym.”

Megan did not believe him. Her husband perspired easily when he exercised. His forehead and upper lip were dry. Something else was happening here. He had seemed increasingly distant the past few days, and it was starting to scare her.

She stepped forward, coming to his side, and touched his face.

“Something’s bothering you, hon,” she said. “Talk to me.”

The president looked at her. “It’s nothing,” he said. “These past couple of days have been rough, that’s all.”

“You mean the calls at night—”

“That, plus everything else that’s going on,” the president said.

“Is it worse than usual?”

“In some ways,” he said.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not right now,” he said, forcing a little smile. His deep voice had regained some of its vigor and confidence, and his eyes had a little sparkle now. The president took her hands in his and rose. He stood just over six-foot-four. He looked down at her. “You look beautiful.”

“Thank you,” Megan said. “But you’ve still got me worried.”

“Don’t be,” he said. He looked to his right. There was a shelf with a gold clock that had belonged to Thomas Jefferson. “It’s late,” the president said. “I’d better get ready.”

“I’ll wait for you,” she told him. “And you’d better do something about your eyes.”

“My eyes?” he said, glancing at the mirror. He’d gotten up even earlier than she had that morning, and his eyes were severely bloodshot. It was bad for an individual in a position of great responsibility to look weak or tired.

“I didn’t sleep very well last night,” he said, touching and tugging on the skin around them. “A few eyedrops will take care of that.” The president turned back to his wife and kissed her gently on the forehead. “It’s all right, I promise,” he said, then smiled again and turned away.

Megan watched as her husband walked slowly toward the bathroom and shut the door. She heard him turn on the shower. She listened. Michael usually hummed rock and roll oldies when he showered. Sometimes he even sang. Tonight he was silent.

For the first time in a long time, Megan didn’t believe what her husband had told her. No politician was entirely truthful on the outside. Sometimes they had to say what voters and political rivals wanted to hear. But Michael was an honest man on the inside, at least with Megan. When she looked into his eyes, she knew whether or not he was hiding something. When he was, Megan could usually coax him into telling her about it.

But not today, and that bothered her deeply. She was suddenly very scared for him.

Slowly, Megan walked back toward her own dressing room. She pulled on her gloves and tried to concentrate on what she had to do for the next four hours. She had to be an outgoing hostess. She had to be gracious and complimentary to the delegates’ wives. At least she would be with people she didn’t know. It was easier to hide her feelings when she was with strangers. They would not know that she was putting on an act.

But it would be an act.

Megan went back into the bedroom. There was a small, early-nineteenth-century mahogany Tambour writing cabinet on her side of the bed. She picked up a folder from her executive secretary and went over the guest list, paying particular attention to the names of the foreign delegates and their wives. There was a phonetic guide beside each name, and she reviewed the pronunciation aloud. The names came easily to the First Lady. She had an affinity for language and had planned on becoming a translator when she met and married her husband. Ironically, she had wanted to work for the United Nations.

Megan closed the folder and set it down. She looked around the room. The magic was still here, the lurking spirits and the resonance of great drama. But she was also acutely aware of something she didn’t often feel here. Here, in a house that was literally watched by every eye in the world.

She suddenly felt a great sense of isolation.

FOUR

Baku, Azerbaijan Monday, 2:47 A.M.

David Battat awoke slowly.

The sea air was chilly and becoming raw. David was lying on his belly, his face turned to the reeds in front of the water. There was cool moisture on his cheeks, condensation from the Caspian.

He tried to move, but his head felt as if it were made of concrete. His throat was raw, and his neck hurt. He touched it gently and winced. The skin was bruised and extremely sore. His camera was gone. The CIA team back in Moscow wouldn’t be able to study the photographs he took to see who else might have been on the boat, or calculate how much weight it was carrying by where the waterline reached. Artillery and missiles weighed a lot more than explosives, currency, or drugs.

Battat tried to push himself off the ground. As he did, he felt as though a spike had been hammered through the back of his neck. He dropped, waited a few seconds, then tried again even more slowly. He managed to get his knees under him, then sat looking out across the dark water.

The Rachel was gone. He’d blown this big time. Like it or not, he’d have to let Moscow know as soon as possible.

Battat’s head throbbed, and he lowered himself back to the ground. He rested on his forearms, placed his forehead on the cool earth, and tried to get a handle on the pain. He also tried to make sense of what had happened.

Why was he still alive? Battat wondered. The Harpooner had never let anyone live. Why him?

Then it occurred to him that maybe he went down before the Harpooner even arrived. Maybe some waterfront thug had happened by, saw his camera and backpack, and decided to steal them. Battat couldn’t decide which was worse: letting his target sneak up on him or being mugged. Not that it mattered. They were both bad.

The operative took a long breath, then rose slowly, first to his knees again and then to his feet. He stood unsteadily as his head pounded. He looked around for his backpack. That was gone, too. No flashlight, no chance to look around for footprints or other clues.

He looked at his watch. His wrist was trembling, and he used his free hand to steady it. It would be dawn in less than three hours. Fishermen would be setting out soon, and Battat didn’t want to be seen here. Just in case he wasn’t meant to survive, he didn’t want anyone to know that he had. He walked slowly from the shore, his head drumming. Each swallow was painful, and the collar of his turtleneck chafed his bruised neck.

But the worst pain was none of those.

The worst pain was the knowledge that he’d failed.

FIVE

Washington., D. C. Sunday, 8:00 P.M.

As he entered the White House through the East Appointment Gate, Paul Hood remembered the first time he brought his children here. Hood had come to Washington for a conference of mayors. Harleigh was eight at the time, and Alexander was six. Alexander was not impressed by the imposing G. P. A. Healy painting of Abraham Lincoln or the magnificent Blue Room chairs bought by James Monroe or even the secret service officers. Alexander had seen paintings and chairs and police officers in Los Angeles. The spectacular chandelier in the State Dining Room was barely worth an upward glance, and the Rose Garden was just grass and flowers. But as they crossed the lawn toward E Street, the young boy finally saw something that impressed him.

Horse chestnuts.

The dark green chestnuts growing from the stout trees resembled nothing so much as little floating mines with Herz horns projecting from all sides. Alexander was convinced that they were little bombs to keep prowlers out. They’d bump their heads, and the chestnuts would explode. Alexander’s father played along with the idea, even snatching a few of the chestnuts—carefully, of course—so they could plant them in the ground back at home. Harleigh finally busted her dad by stepping on one of the newly planted chestnuts and failing to blow up.

Sharon had never approved of the deception. She felt that it encouraged militarism. Hood felt that it was just a boy’s imagination at work, nothing more.

It was rare that Paul Hood came to the White House without thinking of the horse chestnut trees. Tonight was no different, except that for the first time in years, Hood had the strong desire to go out back and pluck a few. Bring them to his son as a token, a memory of a good time shared. Besides, walking around the grounds would have been preferable to what he was doing.

He had dressed in his tuxedo, driven to the White House, and presented his calligraphic invitation at the East Appointment Gate. A junior secret service agent met Hood there and escorted him to the Red Room, which adjoined the State Dining Room. The president and First Lady were still in the Blue Room, which was the next room over. Though no one said so, the smaller Red Room—typically used for entertaining by the first ladies—was for the B-level guests.

Hood recognized but did not really know many of the people who were there. He knew some of them from conferences, some from briefings, and many from other dinners he attended here. The White House had two hundred fifty state dinners every year, and he was invited to at least fifteen of those. His background in Los Angeles government—which really meant knowing movie stars—finance, and espionage made him an ideal dinner guest. He could talk to generals, world leaders, diplomats, reporters, senators, and their spouses, informing and entertaining them and also not offending them. That was important.

Sharon usually came with him to those dinners. Being in the health-food business, she was generally unhappy with the fare, though she always loved the settings, which were from different administrations, different centuries. When Sharon couldn’t make it, Op-Center’s press liaison Ann Farris went with Hood. She liked any food that was put in front of her and, unlike Sharon, enjoyed talking to whoever she was seated with.

This was the first time Hood had come stag. Regardless of how the White House might try to position it, Hood did not consider Mala Chatterjee as his date. The UN secretary-general was also coming alone and was assigned a seat at Hood’s table, directly to his left.

Hood opened the door and looked into the long, chandelier-lit dining room. Fourteen round tables had been brought into the dining room. Each one was set for ten people. Hood’s invitation had said that he was seated at table two, near the center of the room. That was good. He was rarely seated so close to the president. If things got tense between him and Chatterjee, Hood would be able to exchange knowing glances with the First Lady. Megan Lawrence had been raised in Santa Barbara, California. She had spent time with Hood when he was mayor of Los Angeles, and they got to know each other quite well. She was a smart, classy lady with a dry sense of humor.

While senior staff members watched, liveried White House waitstaff hurried around, making last-minute adjustments to the rose centerpieces. They were dressed in black jackets and were multiethnic, which was to be expected at an affair of this kind.

The White House selected from a large pool of security-cleared hourly employees. And though no one liked to admit it, the composition of the staff was determined by the nature of the dinner. The young and attractive personnel were filling crystal water glasses and making sure the flatware was spaced exactly alike from setting to setting.

Straight ahead was the towering 1869 portrait of Abraham Lincoln that hadn’t impressed Alexander. It was the only painting in the dining room. Directly across from him, inscribed on the mantel, was a passage written by John Adams to his wife Abigail before they moved into the newly completed executive mansion. Franklin Roosevelt had read the lines and liked them so much that they became the official White House prayer. The inscription read:

I pray Heaven to bestow the best of blessings on this house and all that shall hereafter inhabit it. May none but honest and wise men ever rule under this roof.

Sorry, Mr. Adams, Hood thought. We managed to blow that one.

One of the senior attendants walked over. Dressed in white trousers and a white waistcoat with gold braid, he politely but insistently shut the door. Hood stepped back into the Red Room. It had grown noisier and more crowded as people began filing in from the Blue Room. He couldn’t imagine what it was like in here before air-conditioning.

Hood happened to be facing the door to the Blue Room as Mala Chatterjee entered. She was on the arm of the president, who was followed by the First Lady and two delegates. The vice president and Mrs. Cotten came in next followed by California Senator Barbara Fox. Hood knew Fox well. She looked uncharacteristically confused. Hood didn’t get to ask why. At almost exactly that moment, the door to the State Dining Room opened. There was no more rushing around inside the hall. The twenty members of the waitstaff were lined up along the northwest wall, while attendants stood in a row by the door to show guests to their tables.

Hood made no effort to link up with Chatterjee. She was an intense woman, and she seemed caught up in her conversation with the president. He turned and went back into the dining hall.

Hood watched as the glitterati entered beneath the golden light of the chandelier. There was something almost ghostly about the procession: people moving slowly, stiffly dignified, and without much expression; voices low and hollow in the echoing chamber, with only occasional polite laughter; chairs soundlessly lifted and moved by attendants so they didn’t drag on the hardwood floor; and a sense that this scene had been repeated over and over throughout the years, throughout the centuries, with the same people: those who had power, those who wanted it, and people like Hood who were the buffers between them.

Hood took a sip of water. He wondered if divorce turned all men into cynics.

Chatterjee had left the president’s side and was being shown to the table. Hood rose as the New Delhi native neared. The attendant pulled out her chair. The secretary-general thanked him and sat down. Without obviously ignoring Hood, the forty-three-year-old woman managed not to look at him. Hood had no patience for that.

“Good evening, Madam Secretary-General,” Hood said.

“Good evening, Mr. Hood,” she replied, still without looking at him.

Other people began arriving at the table. Chatterjee turned and smiled at Agriculture Secretary Richard Ortiz and his wife. That left Hood staring at the back of the secretary-general’s head. He exited the awkward moment by reaching for his napkin, putting it on his lap, and looking the other way.

Hood tried to put himself in Chatterjee’s position. The attorney-turned-diplomat had only been on the job for a short while when the terrorists struck. She had joined the United Nations as an avowed peacekeeper, and here were terrorists executing diplomats and threatening to shoot children. Chatterjee’s negotiating tactics had failed, and Hood had embarrassed her publicly by infiltrating the Security Council and ending the crisis with quick, violent action. Chatterjee was further humiliated by the way many member nations loudly applauded Hood’s attack.

But Hood and Secretary-General Chatterjee were supposed to be putting that ill will behind them, not nurturing it. She was an avowed advocate of first move detente, in which one party demonstrated trust by being the first to lay down arms or surrender land.

Or maybe she only believes in that when she advocates others to make the first move, Hood thought.

Suddenly, someone appeared behind Hood and spoke his name. He turned and looked up. It was the First Lady.

“Good evening, Paul.”

Hood rose. “Mrs. Lawrence. It’s good to see you.”

“It’s been too long,” she said, taking his hand in hers and holding it tight. “I miss those Los Angeles fund-raisers.”

“We had fun,” Hood said. “We made some history, and hopefully we did some good, too.”

“I like to think so,” the First Lady said. “How is Harleigh?”

“She took a very hard hit, and is having a rough time,” Hood admitted.

“I can’t even imagine,” the First Lady said. “Who’s working with her?”

“Right now, it’s just Liz Gordon, our staff psych at Op-Center,” Hood said. “Liz is getting a little trust going. Hopefully, in a week or two, we can bring in some specialists.”

Megan Lawrence smiled warmly. “Paul, maybe there’s something we can do to help each other. Are you free for lunch tomorrow?”

“Sure,” he said.

“Good. I’ll see you at twelve-thirty.” The First Lady smiled, turned, and went back to her table.

That was strange, Hood thought. “Maybe there’s something we can do to help each other.” What could she possibly need his help for? Whatever it was, it must be important. A First Lady’s social calendar was usually well-booked months in advance. She would have had to move her engagements around to make room for him.

Hood sat back down. The table had been joined by Deputy Secretary of State Hal Jordan and his wife Barri Allen-Jordan as well as two diplomats and their spouses who Hood did not know. Mala Chatterjee did not introduce him, so he introduced himself. The secretary-general continued to ignore him, even after the president rose at his table to offer a toast and say a few words about how he hoped this dinner and its show of unity would send a message to terrorists that the civilized nations of the world would never yield to them. As the White House photographer took pictures and a C-SPAN camera unobtrusively recorded the event from the southwest corner of the hall, the president underscored his faith in the United Nations by announcing officially, and to great applause, that the United States was about to retire its nearly two billion dollar debt to the United Nations.

Hood knew that paying off the debt had very little to do with terrorists. The United Nations didn’t scare them, and the president knew it, even if Mala Chatterjee didn’t. What the two billion dollars did was get the United States out of the doghouse with poor countries like Nepal and Liberia. With thawed economic relations in the Third World, we could then convince them to take loans with the provision that they buy American goods, services, and military intelligence. That would become a self-perpetuating source of income for American companies, even when other nations started putting money into those countries. That was the great thing about a government budgetary surplus and a politically expedient moment. When they came together, an administration could look benevolent and score points on the stock exchange.

Hood was only half listening to the speech when the president said something that drew him back in.

“Finally,” the president said, “I am happy to inform you that American intelligence leaders are presently earmarking personnel and resources for a vital new initiative. It is their intention to work closely with governments around the world and guarantee that attacks against the United Nations cannot, do not, and will not happen again.”

There was mild applause from tables where there were delegates. But the statement had caught Hood’s attention because he knew something that the president apparently did not.

It wasn’t true.

SIX

Hellspot Station, the Caspian Sea Monday, 3:01 A.M.

The white Cessna U206F flew low over the dark Caspian Sea, its single engine roaring loudly. Its only occupants were a Russian pilot and the man seated beside him, an Englishman of average build and average appearance.

This trip had started out off the coast of Baku. After taking off, the seaplane had headed northeast and had traveled nearly two hundred miles in the past ninety minutes. It had been a smooth, quiet ride. Neither the pilot nor his passenger spoke a word the entire time. Though forty-one-year-old Maurice Charles spoke Russian—along with nine other languages—he did not know the pilot well and did not trust even those people he did know well. That was one reason he’d managed to survive as a mercenary for nearly twenty years.

When they finally arrived, all the pilot said was, “Below, four o’clock.”

Charles looked out his window. His pale blue eyes fixed on the target. It was a beautiful thing. Tall, brightly lit, majestic.

And alone.

The semisubmersible offshore oil drilling platform stood approximately 150 feet above the water and was surrounded by sea. There was a helipad on the north side of the platform, a 200-foot-tall derrick beside it on the northwest side, and a network of tanks, cranes, antennae, and other equipment in the oil processing area.

The rig was like a lady standing on a deserted avenue under a streetlamp late at night by the Mersey back home. Charles could do what he wanted with it. And he would.

Charles picked up a camera that was sitting in his lap. He popped the button on the tan leather carrying case and removed the top. The camera was the same thirty-five-millimeter reflex that he had used in his first assignment, back in Beirut in April 1983. He began snapping pictures. A second camera, the one he had taken from the CIA operative on the beach, lay on the floor of the cabin between his feet along with the man’s backpack. There might be names or numbers in there that would prove useful. Just like the operative himself would be useful, which was why Charles had left him alive.

The airplane circled the oil platform twice, once at 600 feet and once at 300 feet. Charles exposed three rolls of film, then indicated to the pilot that it was all right to leave. The seaplane swung back to its cruising altitude of 2000 feet and headed to Baku. There, Charles would rejoin the crew of the Rachel, which by now would have removed the white banner with the fake name. They had ferried him to the plane and would be his partners in the next part of the undertaking.

But that would only be the start. His employers in America had very specific goals, and the team Charles had put together were experts in achieving those goals: turning neighbor against neighbor, nation against nation, through acts of terrorism and assassination. Before they were finished, the region would be awash in fire and blood from around the world.

And though he had already made a lot of money in the terrorist game, he had spent a lot of that wealth buying weapons, passports, transportation, anonymity. With this job, he would be richer than he had ever dared to imagine. And he had a fertile imagination.

When he was growing up in Liverpool, Charles had often dreamed about wealth and how he might obtain it. He thought about it when he swept the train station where his father sold tickets. He thought about it when he slept with his two brothers and grandfather in the living room of their one-bedroom flat, a flat that always smelled of perspiration and trash from the adjoining alley. He thought about it when he helped his father coach the local men’s football team. The elder Charles knew how to communicate, how to strategize, how to win. He was a natural leader. But Maurice’s father, his family, his working-class people were held down by the upper class. They were not permitted to go to the better schools, even if they could have afforded them. They weren’t allowed to work in the upper levels of banking, of communications, of politics. They had funny, common accents and brawny shoulders and weather-beaten faces and weren’t taken seriously.

Charles grew up feeling bad that the only outlet, the only joy his father had was football. Charles also idolized the Beatles because they had made it out—the same reason, ironically, his father and so many of his contemporaries hated “those young punks.” Charles realized that he could not escape poverty musically because he had no talent for that and it had already been done. He had to get out his way, make a mark that was uniquely his own. How could he have known that he would find his hidden skills by joining the Royal Marines, 29 Commando Regiment, Royal Artillery, and learning to work with explosives? By discovering the pleasure and genius involved in tearing things down?

It was a glorious feeling to put events like this in motion. It was the creation of art: living, breathing, powerful, bleeding, changing, utterly unforgettable art. There was nothing else like it in the world, the aesthetics of destruction. And what was most rewarding was that the CIA had inadvertently helped him by sending that man to watch for him. The agency would conclude that it couldn’t be the Harpooner who had attacked their man. No one had ever survived an encounter with the Harpooner.

Charles settled comfortably into his seat as the Cessna left the lights of the rig behind.

That was the beauty about being an artist, he told himself.

It gave him the right and privilege to surprise.

SEVEN

Camp Springs, Maryland Monday, 12:44 A.M.

Throughout the Cold War, the nondescript two-story building located near the Naval Reserve flight line at Andrews Air Force Base was a staging area for pilots and their crews. In the event of a nuclear attack, their job would have been to evacuate key officials from the government and military to a safe compound in the Blue Ridge Mountains.

But the ivory-colored building with its neat, green lawn was not just a monument to the Cold War. The seventy-eight full-time employees who worked there now were employed by the National Crisis Management Center, familiarly known as Op-Center, an independent agency that was designed to collect, process, and analyze data on potential crisis points domestically and abroad. Once that was done, Op-Center then had to decide whether to defuse them preemptively through political, diplomatic, media, economic, legal, or psychological means or else—after gaining the approval of the Congressional Intelligence Oversight Committee—to terminate them through military means. To this end, Op-Center had at its disposal a twelve-person tactical strike team known as Striker. Led by Colonel Brett August, Striker was based at the nearby Quantico FBI Academy.

In addition to the offices upstairs, a secure basement had been built into the facility to house the more sensitive intelligence retrieval systems and personnel. It was here that Paul Hood and his top advisers worked.

Hood came directly from the White House affair. He was still dressed in his tuxedo, which earned him a “Good morning, Mr. Bond” greeting from the Naval officer at the gate. It made him smile. It was the only thing that had done that for days.

A strange uneasiness had settled over Hood after the president made his comments. He couldn’t imagine why the president had said the United States would offer intelligence assistance to the United Nations. If there was one thing many member nations feared, it was that the United States was already using the international organization as a means of spying on them.

The president’s short speech had pleased some people, most notably delegates who were targets for acts of terrorism. But it struck some other attendees as odd. Vice president Cotten appeared surprised, as did Secretary of State Dean Carr and America’s United Nations Ambassador Meriwether. And Mala Chatterjee had been openly bothered by the comment. So much so that she’d actually turned to Hood and asked if she had understood the president correctly. He told her that he believed she had. What he didn’t tell her was that Op-Center would almost certainly have been involved in or briefed about any such arrangement. Something might have been arranged during the time that he was away, but Hood doubted it. When he visited his office the day before to catch up on business he had missed, he saw no reference to a multinational intelligence effort.

Hood didn’t bother talking to anyone after the dinner. He left promptly and went to Op-Center, where he did additional digging into the matter. This was the first time he had seen the weekend night crew since his return. They were glad to see him, especially weekend night director Nicholas Grillo. Grillo was a fifty-three-year-old former Navy SEAL intelligence expert who had moved over from the Pentagon around the same time Hood had first joined Op-Center. Grillo congratulated him on the fine job he and General Rodgers had done in New York and asked how his daughter was. Hood thanked him and told him that Harleigh would be all right.

Hood began by accessing the files of the DCI—the Director of Central Intelligence. This independent body was a clearinghouse of information for four other intelligence departments: the Central Intelligence Agency; Op-Center; the Department of Defense, which included the four branches of the military, the National Reconnaissance Office, the National Security Agency, and the National Imagery and Mapping Agency; and Department Intelligence, which consisted of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the Department of State, the Department of Energy, and the Department of Treasury.

Once Hood was into the DCI database, he asked for recent agreements or initiatives pertaining to the United Nations. There were nearly five thousand listings. He eliminated those that did not involve intelligence-gathering for the United Nations and its members. That reduced the list to twenty-seven. Hood browsed those quickly. The last was filed a week before, a preliminary report about the failure of the CIA field office to catch Annabelle Hampton’s terrorist-support activities in New York. Blame was placed on New York field office head David Battat and his supervisor in Washington, Deputy Assistant Director Wong. Wong was given a written warning, which was not entered into his record. Battat was given a sterner reprimand, which did not become part of his permanent dossier. But Battat would be hung out to dry for a while, doing what Bob Herbert had once described as “sewer rat-a-tat” jobs—dirty work in the line of fire. The kind of work that freshmen agents usually had to perform.

There was nothing about a United Nations operation involving any of the fourteen intelligence agencies. Given the new detente the president was trying to establish with the United Nations, it wasn’t surprising that Lawrence would look for a way to help them. But presenting a desire or opportunity as a done deal was mystifying.

The president would have needed the cooperation of the head of at least one of these agencies just to undertake a study for such a proposition, and that wasn’t anywhere in the files. There wasn’t even any correspondence, electronic or otherwise, requesting such a study. The only answer Hood could think of was a handshake deal between the president and the CIA, FBI, or one of the other groups. But then one of those persons would have been there at tonight’s dinner, and the only representative from the intelligence community was Hood. Perhaps the president was trying to force the issue, the way John F. Kennedy did when he announced, publicly, that he wanted Congress to give NASA the funds to put a man on the moon. But United States involvement in international intelligence-gathering was an extremely sensitive area. A president would be reckless to attempt a wide-ranging operation like this without assurances from his own team that it was possible.

It could all be the result of a series of misunderstandings. Maybe the president thought he had the support of the intelligence community. Confusion was certainly not uncommon in government. The question was what to do now that the idea had been presented to the world body. The United States intelligence community was sure to be torn. Some experts would welcome the opportunity to plug directly into resources in nations like China, Colombia, and several former Soviet republics where they currently had very restricted access. Others—Hood included—would be afraid of joining forces with other nations and being fed false data, data that would then become part of U.S. intelligence gospel with potentially disastrous results. Herbert once told him about a situation in 1978, just before the overthrow of the shah of Iran, when antiextremist forces provided the CIA with a code used by supporters of the Ayatollah Khomeini to communicate via telefax. The code was accurate—then. Once the ayatollah assumed power, the shah’s files were raided, and the code was found to be in American hands. The code remained in the CIA’s system and was used to interpret secret communiques. It wasn’t until the ayatollah’s death in 1989—when the secret communiques said he was recovering—that the CIA went back and took a close look at the code and the disinformation they’d received. Ten years of data had to be reviewed and much of it purged.

Hood could just imagine what Teheran would say about joining this new antiterrorism network. “Sure, sign us up. And don’t forget to use this new code to monitor the Sunni terrorists working out of Azerbaijan. ” It could be a real code for real transmissions, or the Iranians could use false transmissions to create deeper mistrust of the Sunnis. The United States could not refuse to help them, because the president had offered; we could not trust the code; and yet what if it turned out to be real and we ignored it?

The whole thing was a potential for disaster. For his part, Hood intended to contact Burton Gable, the president’s chief of staff, to find out what he knew about the situation. Hood didn’t know Gable well, but he had been one of Lawrence’s think tank geniuses and was instrumental in getting the president reelected. Gable hadn’t been at the dinner, but there was no policy undertaking in which he was not involved.

Hood went back to the motel, napped, then was back at Op-Center at five-thirty. He wanted to be there when his staff arrived.

Hood had spoken to psychologist Liz Gordon about Harleigh, and to attorney Lowell Coffey about the divorce, so both of them knew he was coming back. Hood had also informed General Rodgers, who had let intelligence chief Bob Herbert know.

Herbert rolled in first. He had lost his wife and the use of his legs in the American embassy bombing in Beirut in 1983. But he had turned that setback into an advantage: Herbert’s customized wheelchair was a mini-communications center with phone, fax, and even a satellite uplink that helped to make him one of the most effective intelligence collectors and analysts in the world.

Rodgers followed him in. Though the gray-haired officer had played a key role in ending the terrorist standoff at the United Nations, he was still recovering emotionally from the torture he’d suffered at the hands of Kurdish terrorists in the Middle East. Since his return, there hadn’t been quite the same fire in his eyes or bounce in his walk. Though he hadn’t broken, some proud, vital part of him had died in that cave in the Bekaa Valley.

Rodgers and Herbert were happy to see him. The two men stayed long enough to welcome him back and for Hood to brief them on what had happened at the state dinner. Herbert was blown away by what the president had said.

“That’s like the Goodyear Blimp saying it’s going to watch the stands for rowdy fans instead of watching the Super Bowl,” Herbert said. “No one would believe that. No one.”

“I agree,” Hood said. “Which is why we’ve got to find out why the president said it. If he has a plan that we don’t know about, we need to be brought into the loop. Talk to the other intel people and find out.”

“I’m on it,” Herbert said as he wheeled out.

Rodgers told Hood that he would get in touch with the heads of Army, Navy, Air Force, and Marine intelligence to find out what their knowledge of the situation was.

When Herbert and Rodgers left, Hood was visited by the only key members of the team who hadn’t known about Hood’s return, FBI and Interpol liaison Darrell McCaskey and press liaison Ann Farris. McCaskey was just back from a stay in Europe, working with his Interpol associates and nurturing a romance with Maria Corneja, an operative he had worked with in Spain. Hood had a good sense about people, and his instincts told him that Darrell would be handing in his resignation before long to return to Maria. Since McCaskey was gone while Hood’s retirement was briefly in effect, he had not missed his boss.

Ann Farris was a different story. The five-foot, seven-inch-tall divorcee had always been close to Hood and had hated to see him leave. Hood knew that she cared for him, though no one could have told that just by looking at her. The thirty-four-year-old woman had developed the perfect poker face for reporters. No question, no revelation, no announcement made her jump. But to Hood, her large, dark-rust eyes were more articulate than any speech-maker or television moderator he had ever heard. And right now, her eyes were telling Hood that she was happy, sad, and surprised all at once.

Ann walked toward the desk. She was dressed in what she called her “uniform,” a black pantsuit and white blouse with a pearl necklace. Her brown hair was shoulder length and held back from her face with a pair of clips. Hood’s office was stripped of his personal touches. He hadn’t had time to put the photographs and mementos back. Yet after the struggles with Sharon and the coldness of his hotel room, Ann’s arrival suddenly made this place seem like home.

“Mike just told me,” she said.

“Told you what?”

“About Sharon,” Ann replied. “About your coming back. Paul, are you all right?”

“I’m a little banged up, but I’ll be okay.”

Ann stopped in front of the desk. Was it only just ten days ago that she had stood there while I packed? Hood thought. It seemed so much longer. Why did pain stretch time while happiness made it feel so short?

“What can I do, Paul?” Ann asked. “How are Sharon and the kids?”

“We’re all reeling. Liz is helping Harleigh, Sharon and I are pretty civil, and Alexander is Alexander. He’s okay.” Hood dragged a hand through his wavy black hair. “As for what you can do, I just realized we’re going to have to send out a press release about my return.”

“I know.” She smiled. “A head’s-up would have been a big help.”

“I’m sorry,” Hood said.

“That’s all right,” Ann replied. “You had other things on your mind. I’ll write something up and show it to you.”

Ann looked down at him, her shoulder-length brown hair framing her angular features. Hood had always felt the sexual tension between them. Hell, he thought. Everyone around them did. Bob Herbert and Lowell Coffey used to tease Hood about it. Hood’s unwillingness to give in to that tension had always kept Ann at a distance. But he could feel that distance closing.

“I know you have a lot to do,” Ann said, “but if you need anything, I’m here. If you want to talk or don’t want to be by yourself, don’t be shy. We go back quite a few years.”

“Thanks,” Hood said.

Ann’s eyes held him for a long moment. “I’m sorry for what you and your family are going through, Paul. But you’ve done an amazing job here, and I’m glad you’re back.”

“It’s good to be back,” Paul admitted. “I think that frustrated me more than anything else.”

“What did?” she asked.

“Not being able to finish the work I started,” he said. “It may sound corny, but the teamwork of exceptional men and women built this nation. Op-Center is a part of that tradition. We have a great team here doing important work, and I hated leaving that.”

Ann continued to look at him. She seemed to want to say something more but didn’t. She stepped back from the desk.

“Well, I’ve got to get to work on the press release,” she said. “Do you want me to say anything about the situation with Sharon?”

“No,” Hood said. “If anyone wants to know, tell them. Otherwise, just say I had a change of heart.”

“That’s going to make you sound wishy-washy,” she said.

“What the Washington Post thinks isn’t going to affect my job performance,” he said.

“Maybe not now,” Ann said. “But it might if you ever decide to run for public office again.”

Hood looked at her. “Good point,” he said.

“Why don’t we tell them that the president asked you to return?” she said.

“Because he didn’t,” Hood said.

“You two had a private meeting when you came back from New York,” she said. “He won’t deny asking you to return. It shows loyalty on his part. Everyone benefits.”

“But it isn’t true,” Hood said.

“Then let’s just say this,” Ann said. “After meeting with the president, you decided to reconsider your resignation. That’s true.”

“You really want to get the president in there.”

“Whenever I can,” Ann said. “It gives us weight.”

“Weight?” Hood said. “You mean suction.”

“Excuse me?”

“Nick Grillo said that the word-de-jour is suction.”

“Actually, that’s not quite right,” Ann informed him. “Weight is when someone has credibility. Suction is when they have considerable influence. There’s a difference.”

“I see,” Hood said. They smiled at each other. Hood looked away. “I’d better get to work,” he said. “There’s a lot of catching up to do.”

“I’m sure,” Ann said. “I’ll e-mail you a copy of the press release before it goes out.”

“Thanks again,” Hood said. “For everything.”

“Sure.” Ann hesitated. She looked at Hood for a long moment more and then left.

Hood turned to the computer monitor on his right. He did not want to watch Ann go. Ann Farris was a beautiful, intelligent, very sexual woman. For the five years they had known each other, they had flirted, she more openly than he. Now that Hood was going to be single, he felt uneasy about continuing the game. There was no longer someone between them. Flirting no longer felt like a game.

But Hood did not have time to think about that now. There was a lot to do. He had to review the daily briefings that had gone to Mike Rodgers during the past week, which included intelligence data collected from around the world as well as ongoing covert operations. He also had to look at reports from the rest of the staff and have a glance at the schedule for the upcoming week before he went to see the First Lady. He noticed that Rodgers was going to be interviewing the final candidates to replace Martha Mackall, the political liaison who had been assassinated in Spain, as well as candidates for the new post of economic adviser. With more and more nations linked together financially—“Siamese megatuplets,” was how Lowell Coffey had put it—poli—tics was becoming a troublesome sideshow to the force that really drove the world.

Hood decided to let Mike make those hires. Not only had he started the process, but Hood was going to be too busy with everything else. But with all that was going on, one thing remained true.

Paul Hood loved this work, this place.

It was good to be back.

EIGHT

Baku, Azerbaijan Monday, 4:00 P.M.

Azerbaijan is a nation in flux.

Because of political conflict in the Nagorno-Karabakh region, twenty percent of the country—mostly in the southwest, along the borders with Armenia and Iran—are occupied by rebel forces. Though a cease-fire has been observed since 1994, firefights occur with some regularity. Privately, diplomats fear that the self-proclaimed Republic of Nagorno-Karabakh will become the next Kosovo. Protests, often violent, erupt in Baku and other cities without warning. Some of them pertain to politics, others to general unrest. Since the breakup of the Soviet Union, there has been an extreme shortage of staples such as medical supplies, produce, and new technology. Cash—preferably U.S. dollars—is the only form of exchange recognized in most areas of the country, including the capital.

The United States has managed to openly support the legitimate government of Azerbaijan without alienating the powerful insurgent forces. Loans have been granted to Baku, while goods have been sold directly to “the people”—primarily the rebels. In the event of widespread revolt, the United States wants to have open lines of communication on both sides.

Maintaining that balance is the primary task of the small American embassy. Since March 1993, the fifteen employees and ten marine guards have operated from a small stone building at 83 Azadlig Prospect. In the back of that building, in a windowless, wood-paneled room, is the Department of News Services. Unlike the small press department, which issues news releases and arranges for interviews and photo ops with U.S. congressmen, senators, and other government leaders, officially the job of the DNS is to collect news clippings from around Russia and keep them on file for reference.

Officially.

In fact, the DNS is staffed by one CIA operative who gathers intelligence from around the nation. Most of the information comes from electronic surveillance that is conducted both from the office via satellite and from vans. Some of it comes from personnel who are paid to watch, listen to, and photograph government officials—sometimes in compromising situations. Some of those situations are also arranged by the DNS.

Because he was hurt, David Battat did not want to attempt returning to Moscow. Instead, he made his way to the embassy on foot. He was taken to see Deputy Ambassador Dorothy Williamson, who brought in Senior Researcher Tom Moore. Williamson was a large woman with curly black hair. Battat guessed her to be about forty. Moore was a lean giant in his thirties with a long, gaunt face and a lugubrious expression. If Battat had to be stranded in Baku, his expression would be gloomy as well.

Williamson’s aide was a smart veteran named Ron Friday. He was the only one who gave Battat an encouraging smile. Battat appreciated that.

While Battat gave Moore a quick rundown on what had happened, Williamson had the Marine medic take a look at Battat’s wounds. There was swelling in his throat and traces of blood in his saliva, though the damage did not appear to be serious. When the medic was finished with him, Battat was taken to the DNS room. He was given privacy while he called Moscow. He spoke to Pat Thomas, the assistant director of public information at the embassy. Thomas was also an OTR—off the record—field director for the CIA. That meant there was no record of him at agency headquarters. His reports were delivered directly to Washington in the diplomatic pouch.

Thomas did not take the news well. If Battat had succeeded in identifying the Harpooner, Thomas would have been a hero. Instead, he would have to explain to his counterpart in Baku and his superior in Washington how they had managed to blow the relatively simple job of surveillance.

Thomas said that he would think about their next step and let him know. Food was brought in. Battat ate, even though he had left his appetite back at the beach, along with his self-esteem, his energy, the mission, and his career. Then he sat in a chair resting until Williamson and Moore arrived for a second, more thorough, conversation. Moore looked grim. This was going to be painful.

Acoustic devices planted in the walls caused conversations to sound like static to the electronic eavesdropping devices that the Azerbaijanis had placed on surrounding buildings.

Battat told them that Moscow had suspected the Harpooner was in Baku, and he had been sent to try and identify him. This news did not meet with the approval of the senior researcher.

“The field office in Moscow obviously didn’t feel it was necessary to involve us in this operation,” Moore complained. “Do you want to tell me why?”

“They were afraid that our target might have people watching the embassy,” Battat said.

“Not all of our people are in the embassy,” Moore pointed out. “We have external resources.”

“I understand,” Battat said. “But Moscow felt that the fewer people who were in the loop, the better our chances of surprising the target.”

“Which didn’t really help, did it?” Moore said.

“No,”

“Whoever attacked you obviously knew you were coming.”

“Apparently, though I don’t understand how,” Battat said. “I was well hidden, and I wasn’t using anything that gave out an electronic pulse. The camera was one of the digital seventies. No flash, no glass in front to reflect light, no moving parts that clicked.”

“Couldn’t this Harpooner or his people have done a routine sweep of the shore?” the deputy ambassador asked.

“I was watching for that,” said Battat. “I got to the site early, at a spot we’d selected through satellite imaging. We chose it specifically so that I could see and hear people coming and going.”

“Then why didn’t you see or hear the goddamned assailant coming?” asked Moore.

“Because they hit me just when something started to happen out on the boat I was watching,” he said. “Someone came from below and turned on a radio. It was a perfect distraction.”

“Which suggests that someone knew you were in that spot, Mr. Battat,” Moore said.

“Probably.”

“Possibly even before you got there,” Moore went on.

“I don’t see how, but I can’t rule it out,” Battat agreed.

“What I really want to know, though, is whether this was even the Harpooner,” Moore went on.

“What do you mean?” the deputy ambassador asked.

“The Harpooner has been a terrorist for over two decades,” Moore told her. “He has personally run or been a part of at least fifteen terrorist strikes that we know of and probably many more that we don’t know about. He’s eluded countless efforts to trap him thanks, in large part, to his ability to stay mobile. He has no permanent address that we know of, hires whoever he needs, and rarely uses the same people twice. We only know what he looks like because one of his arms suppliers once snuck a photo to us. The supplier’s body was found a few months later on a sailboat, slit from chin to belly with a fish-gutting knife—after we’d relocated him and given him a new ID.”

“I see,” the deputy ambassador said.

“He left the knife behind,” Moore said. “He always leaves his weapons behind, from spearguns to bowline stirrups.”

“Sea-related things,” said Williamson.

“Often,” Moore said. “We suspect he was in the naval service somewhere—not a big leap of faith, though we haven’t been able to trace him. But in all that time, the Harpooner never left a witness. Which means that either it wasn’t the Harpooner who attacked Mr. Battat or the Harpooner wanted him alive.”

The deputy ambassador regarded Battat. “For what reason?”

“I can’t think of one,” Battat admitted.

The three were silent for a moment. The only sound was the hum of the air vent.

“Mr. Battat, the presence of a man like the Harpooner in this region could have terrible ramifications for all of us,” said the deputy ambassador.

“Which is another reason why we should have been in the loop on this!” Moore said angrily. “Hell, we know who the undercover guys are that are watching us, and they haven’t been around for days. They’re too busy trying to find a Russian spy who slipped out of jail two days ago.”

“Again, I’m sorry,” said Battat.

“Would you mind staying in Baku while we try to make sense of all this?” the deputy ambassador asked.

“Not at all,” said Battat. “I want to help.”

“Hopefully, it’s not too late for that,” Moore said.

They rose. “What about the Rachel?” Battat asked.

“I’ve sent a small plane out to look for it,” Moore told him. “But they’ve had several hours head start, and God knows which direction they went. I’m not optimistic.”

“Can’t you trace the name?” Battat asked. “Isn’t there a local registry?”

“There is,” Moore told him, “and the Rachel isn’t in it. We’re checking records in Dagestan, Kalmyk, and other republics on the Caspian, but my guess is she’s a rogue.”

Moore showed Battat to a small guest room on the second floor of the building. There was a cot in the corner, and Battat lay down to think. The boat, the music they played, the brief glimpse he had of the man on deck—he replayed the sounds and images over and over, looking for more information. Something that might tell him who the crew of the Rachel were, how they were dressed, or where they might have come from. In SD sessions—subconscious debriefing—trained interviewers would walk agents through experiences to help them remember lost details. The interviewers would ask about the color of the sky, the look of the water, the force of the wind and the smells riding it. Once the agent was reimmersed in the scene, the interviewer would move him around, ask him to describe distinctive markings on the hull of the boat or whether there were banners on the stern or mast or sounds coming from the deck or below. It always surprised Battat how much information the brain stored that was not always immediately accessible.

Though Battat closed his eyes and breathed slowly and deeply and went through the SD checklist, he could not remember anything that brought him closer to whoever was on the boat or from what direction his assailant might have come. He could not even remember the feel of the fabric on the arm that had been choking him or the smell of the man who had attacked him. He couldn’t remember if the man’s cheek had touched him and whether he was bearded or clean-shaven. Battat had been too focused on trying to survive.

Battat’s eyes remained shut. They stopped looking into the past and gazed ahead. He would stay in Baku, but not just because the deputy ambassador had asked. Until Battat found whoever had attacked him, his confidence was broken and his life belonged to them.

Which, he realized, could be why he was left alive.

NINE

Washington, D.C. Monday, 11:55 A.M.

It had always amazed Hood how different Washington looked during the daytime. At night, the white facades were brightly lit and appeared to stand alone, shining with Olympian grandeur. In the day, situated between modern office buildings, vending carts, and glossy restaurant logos, beneath loud and ever-present jet traffic and security barricades of concrete and steel, the landmarks seemed almost antique instead of timeless.

Yet both were Washington. They represented an old, increasingly monolithic bureaucracy that had to be dealt with, and a vision of greatness that could not be ignored or diminished.

Hood parked in the Ellipse on the southern side of the grounds. He crossed E Street and walked up East Executive to the East Appointment Gate. He was buzzed through the iron gate and, after passing through a metal detector, waited inside the East Wing for one of the First Lady’s aides.

Of all the landmarks in Washington, Hood had always been partial to the Capitol. For one thing, it was the guts of the government, the place where Congress put wheels on the president’s vision. They were often square wheels or wheels of different sizes, but nothing could move without them. For another thing, the building itself was a vast museum of art and history, with treasures everywhere. Here a plaque indicating where the desk of Congressman Abraham Lincoln was located. There a statue of General Lew Wallace, the onetime governor of the territory of New Mexico and the author of Ben-Hur. Somewhere else a sign indicating the status of the search for the cornerstone of the building, which was laid over two hundred years before in a little-noted ceremony and was somehow buried and then lost under numerous modifications to the foundation.

The White House wasn’t as imposing as the Capitol. It was a much smaller structure, with peeling paint and warping wood on the exterior. But its grounds and columns, its rooms and many familiar angles were intertwined in American memory with images of great leaders doing great things—or, sometimes, infamous, very human things. It would always be the symbolic heart of the United States.

A young male assistant to the First Lady arrived. He brought Hood to the elevator that led to the third floor. Hood was somewhat surprised that the First Lady wanted to see him upstairs. She had an office on the first floor and typically received visitors there.

Hood was taken to the First Lady’s sitting room, which adjoined the presidential bedroom. It was a small room with a main door that led to the corridor and another, he assumed, that opened into the bedroom. There was a gold settee against the far wall, two matching wing chairs across from it, and a coffee table between them. A tall secretary with a laptop sat on the opposite wall. The Persian rug was white, red, and gold; the drapes were white, and they were drawn. A small chandelier threw bright shards of light around the room.

Hood looked at the two portraits on the wall. One was of Alice Roosevelt, daughter of Theodore. The other was a painting of Hannah Simpson, mother of Ulysses S. Grant. He was wondering why they were here when the First Lady entered. She was dressed casually in beige slacks and a matching sweater. Her aide shut the door behind her, leaving the two of them alone.

“Nancy Reagan found them in the basement,” Megan said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“The portraits,” she said. “She found them personally. She hated the idea of women being left to gather dust.”

Hood smiled. They embraced lightly, and then Megan gestured toward the settee.

“There are still wonderful things down there,” Megan said as they sat. “Furnishings, books, documents, things like Tad Lincoln’s writing slate and a diary that belonged to Florence Harding.”

“I thought most of that memorabilia was in the Smith-sonian.”

“A lot of it is. But many of the family-related things are still here. People have gotten jaded by all the scandals over the years,” Megan said. “They forget how much the White House was and is a home. Children were born and raised here, there were weddings, birthdays, and holidays.”

Coffee arrived, and Megan was silent as it was served. Hood watched her as the White House steward quietly and efficiently set out the silver service, poured the first cup, then left.

The passion in Megan’s voice was exactly as Hood remembered. She never did anything she didn’t care deeply about, whether it was addressing a crowd or advocating greater education spending on TV talk shows or discussing the White House with an old friend. But there was something in her expression he had never seen before. The old enthusiasm stopped short of her eyes. When he looked in them, they seemed frightened. Confused.

Hood picked up his cup, took a sip of coffee, then turned to Megan.

“I appreciate your coming,” the First Lady said. Her cup and saucer were on her lap, and she was looking down. “I know you’re busy and that you have problems of your own. But this isn’t just about me or the president, Paul.” She looked up. “It’s about the nation.”

“What’s wrong?” Hood asked.

Megan breathed deeply. “My husband has been behaving strangely over the last few days.”

Megan fell silent. Hood didn’t push her. He waited while she drank some of her coffee.

“Over the past week or so, he’s been more and more distracted,” she said. “He hasn’t asked about our grandson, which is very unusual. He says that it’s work, and maybe it is. But things got very strange yesterday.” She regarded Hood intently. “This remains between us.”

“Of course.”

Megan took a short, reinforcing breath. “Before the dinner last night, I found him sitting at his dressing table. He was running late. He wasn’t showered or dressed. He was just staring at the mirror, flushed and looking as though he’d been crying. When I asked him about it, he said he’d been exercising. He told me that his eyes were bloodshot because he hadn’t been sleeping. I didn’t believe him, but I let it be. Then, at the predinner reception, he was flat. He smiled and was pleasant, but there was no enthusiasm in him at all. Until he received a phone call. He took it in his office and returned about two minutes later. When he came back, his manner was entirely different. He was outgoing and confident.”

“That’s certainly how he seemed at dinner,” Hood said. “When you say the president was flat, what exactly do you mean?”

Megan thought for a moment. “Do you know how someone gets when they’re really jet-lagged?” she asked. “There’s a glassiness in their eyes and a kind of delayed reaction to whatever is said?”

Hood nodded.

“That’s exactly how he was until the call,” Megan said.

“Do you know who called?” Hood asked.

“He told me it was Jack Fenwick.”

Fenwick was a quiet, efficient man who had been the president’s budget director in his first administration. Fenwick had joined Lawrence’s American Sense think tank, where he added intelligence issues to his repertoire. When the president was reelected, Fenwick was named the head of the National Security Agency, which was a separate intelligence division of the Department of Defense. Unlike other divisions of military intelligence, the NSA was also chartered to provide support for nondefense activities of the Executive Branch.

“What did Fenwick tell the president?” Hood asked.

“That everything had come together,” she told Hood. “That was all he would say.”

“You have no idea who or what that is?”

Megan shook her head. “Mr. Fenwick left for New York this morning, and when I asked his assistant what the phone call was about, she said something very strange. She asked me, ‘What call?’ ”

“Did you check the log?”

Megan nodded. “The only call that came into that line at that time was from the Hay-Adams Hotel.”

The elegant old hotel was located on the other side of Lafayette Park, literally across the street from the White House.

“I had a staff member visit the hotel this morning,” Megan went on. “He got the names of the night staff, went to their homes, and showed them pictures of Fenwick. They never saw him.”

“He could have come in a back entrance,” Hood said. “Did you run a check of the registry?”

“Yes,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean anything. There could have been any number of aliases. Congressmen often use the hotel for private meetings.”

Hood knew that Megan wasn’t just referring to political meetings.

“But that wasn’t the only thing,” Megan went on. “When we went downstairs to the Blue Room, Michael saw Senator Fox and went over to thank her. She seemed very surprised and asked why he was thanking her. He said, ‘For budgeting the initiative.’ I could see that she had no idea what he was talking about.”

Hood nodded. That would explain the confusion he had noticed when Senator Fox entered the room. Things were beginning to fall into place a little. Senator Fox was a member of the Congressional Intelligence Oversight Committee. If any kind of intelligence operation had been approved, she would have to have known about it. Apparently, she was as surprised to learn about the international intelligence-sharing operation as Hood had been. Yet the president either assumed or had been told, possibly by Jack Fenwick, that she had helped make it happen.

“How was the president after the dinner?” Hood asked.

“That’s actually the worst of it,” Megan said. Her composure began to break. She set her coffee cup aside and Hood did likewise. He moved closer. “As we were getting ready for bed, Michael received a call from Kirk Pike.”

The former chief of Navy Intelligence, Pike was the newly appointed director of the CIA.

“He took the call in the bedroom,” Megan went on. “The conversation was brief, and when Michael hung up, he just sat on the bed, staring. He looked shell-shocked.”

“What did Pike tell him?”

“I don’t know,” Megan told him. “Michael didn’t say. It may have been nothing, just an update that got his mind working. But I don’t think he slept all night. He wasn’t in bed when I got up this morning, and he’s been in meetings all day. We usually talk around eleven o’clock, even if it’s just a quick hello, but not today.”

“Have you talked to the president’s physician about this?” Hood asked.

Megan shook her head. “If Dr. Smith can’t find anything wrong with my husband, he might recommend that Michael see Dr. Benn.”

“The psychiatrist at Walter Reed,” Hood said.

“Correct,” Megan said. “Dr. Smith and he work closely together. Paul, you know what will happen if the president of the United States goes to see a psychiatrist. As much as we might try to keep something like that a secret, the risks are much too high.”

“The risks are higher if the president isn’t well,” Hood said.

“I know,” Megan said, “which is why I wanted to see you. Paul, there are too many things going on that don’t make sense. If there’s something wrong with my husband, I’ll insist that he see Dr. Benn and to hell with the political fallout. But before I ask Michael to submit to that, I want to know whether something else is going on.”

“Glitches in the communications system or a hacker playing tricks,” Hood said. “Maybe more Chinese spies.”

“Yes,” Megan said. “Exactly.”

He could see Megan’s expression, her entire mood, lighten when he said that. If it were something from the outside, then it could be fixed without hurting the president.

“I’ll see what I can find out,” Hood promised.

“Quietly,” Megan said. “Please, don’t let this get out.”

“I won’t,” Hood assured her. “In the meantime, try and talk to Michael. See if you can get him to open up somehow. Any information, any names other than what you’ve told me, will be a big help.”

“I’ll do that,” Megan said. She smiled. “You’re the only one I can trust with this, Paul. Thank you for being there.”

He smiled back. “I get to help an old friend and my country. Not a lot of people get that chance.”

Megan rose. Hood stood, and they shook hands. “I know this is not an easy time for you, either,” the First Lady said. “Let me know if there’s anything you need.”

“I will,” Hood promised.

The First Lady left, and her aide returned to show Hood out.

TEN

Baku, Azerbaijan Monday, 9:21 P.M.

Pat Thomas experienced two miracles in one day.

First, the Aeroflot TU-154 that was scheduled to leave Moscow at six P.M. did so. On time. With the possible exception of Uganda Royal Airways, Aeroflot was the most notoriously late carrier Thomas had ever flown on. Second, the airplane landed in Baku at 8:45 P.M.—five minutes ahead of schedule. During his five years of service at the American embassy in Moscow, Thomas had never experienced either of those events. What was more, despite a relatively full aircraft, the airline had not double- or triple-booked his seat.

The slim, nearly six-foot-tall, forty-two-year-old Thomas was assistant director of public information at the embassy. What the title of ADPI really meant was that Thomas was a spy: a diplomatic private investigator was how he viewed the acronym. The Russians knew that, of course, which was the reason one or two Russian agents always shadowed Thomas in public. He was certain that someone in Baku would be waiting to tail him as well. Technically, of course, the KGB was finished. But the personnel and the infrastructure of the intelligence operation were still very much in place and very much in use as the Federal Security Service and other “services.”

Thomas was dressed in a three-piece gray winter suit that would keep him warm in the heavy cold that always rolled in from the Bay of Baku. Thomas knew he would need more than that—strong Georgian coffee or even stronger Russian cognac—to warm him after the reception he expected to receive at the embassy. Unfortunately, keeping secrets from your own people was part of the spy business, too. Hopefully, they would vent a little, Thomas would act contrite, and everyone could move on.

Thomas was met by a staff car from the embassy. He didn’t rush tossing his single bag in the trunk. He didn’t want any Russian or Azerbaijani agents thinking he was in a hurry. He paused to pop a sucker into his mouth, stretched, then climbed into the car. Be boring. That was the key when you thought you were being watched. Then, if you had to speed up suddenly, chances were good you might surprise and lose whoever was trailing you.

It was a thirty-minute drive from Baku International Airport to the bay-side region that housed the embassies and the city’s commercial district. Thomas never got to spend more than a day or two at a time here, though that was something he still meant to do. He had been to the local bazaars, to the Fire Worshipper’s Temple, to the State Museum of Carpets—a museum with a name like that demanded to be seen—and to the most famous local landmark, the Maiden Tower. Located in the old Inner City on the bay and at least two thousand years old, the eight-story tower was built by a young girl who either wanted to lock herself inside or throw herself into the sea—no one knew for certain which version was true. Thomas knew how she felt.

Thomas was taken to see Deputy Ambassador Williamson, who had returned from dinner and was sitting behind her desk, waiting for him. They shook hands and exchanged a few banal words. Then she picked up a pen and noted the time on a legal pad. Moore and Battat came to her office moments later. The agent’s neck was mottled black and gunmetal gray. In addition to the bruises, he looked exhausted.

Thomas offered Battat his hand. “Are you all right?”

“A little banged up,” Battat said. “I’m sorry about all this, Pat.”

Thomas made a face. “Nothing’s guaranteed, David. Let’s see how we can fix it.”

Thomas looked at Moore, who was standing beside Battat. The men had met several times at various Asian embassy conferences and functions. Moore was a good man, what they called a twenty-four/seven-an agent who lived and ate his work twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Right now, Moore was making no attempt to conceal his dark, unforgiving mood.

Thomas extended his hand. Moore accepted it.

“How have you been?” Thomas asked.

“That isn’t important,” Moore said. “I’m not happy now. There was no reason for this to go down the way it did.”

“Mr. Moore, you’re correct,” Thomas said as he released his hand. “In retrospect, we should have done this all differently. The question is, how do we fix it now?”

Moore sneered. “You don’t get off that easily,” he said. “Your team mounted a small operation here and didn’t tell us. Your man says you were worried about security risks and other factors. What do you think, Mr. Thomas—that the Azerbaijani are wet-wired into the system? That we can’t conduct a surveillance without them finding out?”

Thomas walked to an armchair across from Williamson. “Mr. Moore, Ms. Williamson, we had a short time to make a quick decision. We made a bad one, a wrong one. The question is, what do we do now? If the Harpooner is here, can we find him and stop him from getting away?”

“How do we bail you out, you mean?” Moore asked.

“If you like,” Thomas conceded. Anything to get this out of reverse and moving ahead.

Moore relaxed. “It isn’t going to be easy,” he said. “We’ve found no trace of the boat Mr. Battat says he saw, and we have a man watching the airport. No one who fits the description of the Harpooner has left today.”

“What about working backward?” Thomas said. “Why would the Harpooner be in Baku?”

“There are any number of targets a terrorist for hire could hit,” Moore said. “Or he may just have been passing through on his way to another republic or to the Middle East. You know these people. They rarely take a direct route anywhere.”

“If Baku was just a layover, the Harpooner is probably long gone,” Thomas said. “Let’s concentrate on possible targets in the region and reasons for hitting those targets.”

“The Nagorno-Karabakh and Iran are our biggest concerns,” Williamson said. “The people in NK have voted themselves an independent republic, while Azerbaijan and Armenia are both fighting to claim it. The whole region will probably explode when Azerbaijan gets enough money to buy more advanced weapons for its military. That would be bad enough for both nations, but with Iran just fifteen miles to the south, it could end up being quite an explosion. As for Iran, even without the NK situation, Teheran and Baku have been gnawing at each other for years over access to everything from offshore oil to Caspian sturgeon and caviar. When the Soviet Union watched over the Caspian, they took what they wanted. And not only are there problems, but the problems overlap,” Williamson added. “Sloppy drilling by Azerbaijan has caused a quarter-inch-thick oil film in parts of the sea where Iran fishes for sturgeon. The pollution is killing the fish.”

“What is the oil situation, exactly?” Thomas asked.

“There are four major oil fields,” Williamson said. “Azeri, Chirag, Guneshli, and Azerbaijan. Azerbaijan and the Western Consortium members that underwrite the drilling are convinced that international law protects their exclusive rights to the sites. But their claim is based on boundaries that are defined by fishing rights, which both Iran and Russia insist do not apply. So far, the arguments have all been diplomatic.”

“But if someone perpetrated a new action somewhere,” Thomas said, “such as an embassy explosion or an assassination—”

“There could be a disastrous chain reaction reaching into a half-dozen surrounding nations, affecting oil supplies worldwide, and drawing the United States into a major foreign war,” Williamson said.

Moore added sarcastically, “That’s why we like to be kept informed about covert actions in our backward little outpost.”

Thomas shook his head. “Mea culpa. Now, can we all agree to look ahead instead of back?”

Moore regarded him for a moment, then nodded.

“So,” Williamson said, looking down at her notes. “As I understand this, there are two possible scenarios. First, that the individual who attacked Mr. Battat was not the Harpooner, in which case we may have nothing more than a drug smuggler or gunrunner on our hands. One who managed to get the drop on Mr. Battat and then slip away.”

“Correct,” said Thomas.

“What are the chances of that?” Williamson asked.

“They’re unlikely,” Thomas said. “We know that the Harpooner is in the region. An official from the Department of State Bureau of Intelligence and Research was on a Turkish Airlines flight from London to Moscow and made a tentative ID of the Harpooner. He tried to follow the target but lost him.”

“You’re saying an INR guy and the world’s most wanted terrorist just happened to be on the same flight?” Moore said.

“I can’t speak for the Harpooner, only for the DOS official,” Thomas replied. “But we’re finding that more and more terrorists and spies take the diplomatic routes. They try to pick up intel from laptops and phone calls. DOS has issued several alerts about that. Maybe it was a coincidence; maybe there was a diskette or phone number the Harpooner wanted to try and steal when the official went to the rest room. I don’t know.”

“The official was able to identify the Harpooner based on what?” Williamson asked.

“The only known photograph,” Thomas told him.

“It was a good picture, reliable,” Moore assured her.

“We were notified and did some checking,” Thomas went on. “It fit with some intel we had picked up independently. The passenger was traveling under an assumed name with a fake British passport. We checked taxi records, found that he had been picked up at the Kensington Hilton in London. He’d only been there for one night, where he met with several people who, according to the concierge, looked and sounded Middle Eastern. We tried to track the individual in Moscow, but no one saw him leave the terminal. So we checked flights to other areas. Someone matching his description had shown a Russian passport in the name of Gardner and flown to Baku.”

“It is the Harpooner’s boat,” Deputy Ambassador Williamson said suddenly. “It has to be.”

The others looked at her.

“You’ve heard of it?” Thomas asked.

“Yes. I went to college,” Williamson said. “Gardner is the captain of the Rachel in Moby-Dick. It’s one of the ships that was chasing the elusive white whale. She failed to capture him, I might add.”

Thomas regarded Battat unhappily. “The Harpooner,” Thomas said. “Dammit. Of course. He planted that for us to find.”

“Now, there’s a smart terrorist,” Moore said. “If you recognize the allusion, you would have thought it a joke and wouldn’t have bothered to pursue. If you thought it was real, then the Harpooner knew just where you’d be looking for him. And he would be there, waiting to stop you.”

“But the boat was real,” Battat said. “I saw the name—”

“A name that was put there to hold your attention for a while,” Thomas said. “Shit. We fell for that one, big time.”

“Which brings us to the second and suddenly very likely scenario,” Williamson said. “If the Harpooner has been in Baku, there are two things we need to find out pretty damn quick. First, what he wanted and second, where he is now. Is that about right?”

Thomas nodded.

Moore rose. “I’m betting he’s no longer using the Russian passport. I’ll get into the hotel computers and check the names of the guests against our passport registry database. See if any new names pop up.”

“He may also be working with people here, in which case he may not be staying at a hotel,” Thomas said.

“I’ll give you a list of known or suspected foreign cells,” Moore told him. “You and Mr. Battat can crosscheck those with people the Harpooner might have worked with before.”

Battat said he would do that.

“There’s one other thing we should try,” Thomas said. “We pretty much tapped out our Moscow-based sources on this before Mr. Battat came down. It wasn’t very productive, but that was all we had time for. What about other governments in the region?”

“We haven’t made any significant intelligence inroads with any of them,” the deputy ambassador admitted. “We don’t have the personnel to nurse the relationships, and a lot of the republics, including Azerbaijan, have had their resources strained with internal problems. Everyone is busy spying on each other, especially on Chechnya.”

“Why there?” Battat asked.

“Because despite the coalition government that exists on paper, Chechnya is really controlled by Islamic militias intent on destabilizing and bringing down the other republics, including Russia,” she said. “I’m hoping that the initiative the president announced last night in Washington will remedy that.”

“What initiative?” Battat asked.

“An intelligence cooperative with the United Nations,” Moore told him. “He announced it last night in Washington.”

Battat rolled his eyes.

“You know, there is one place we might be able to try,” Thomas said. “A couple of years ago I remember hearing that the National Crisis Management Center was involved with a Russian group based in Saint Petersburg.”

“A Russian crisis management group,” Moore said. “Yeah, I remember hearing about that.”

“I can call Washington and have them contact Op-Center,” Moore said. “See if they still have a relationship with the Russians.”

“When you do, have them contact Bob Herbert over there,” Thomas suggested. “He’s the head of intelligence—a really capable guy from what I hear. I understand that the new guy running the place, General Rodgers, is something of a hard-ass.”

“He’s not running Op-Center,” the deputy ambassador said.

“Who is?” asked Thomas.

“Paul Hood,” said the deputy ambassador. “We got a directory update this morning. He withdrew his resignation.”

Moore snickered. “I’ll bet he won’t be involved in the UN intelligence program.”

“Regardless,” Thomas said, “have them contact Herbert. The Harpooner may try to slip out of the region by heading north, into Scandanavia. If he does, the Russians may be able to help us up there.”

Thomas agreed. Everyone rose then, and Thomas offered his hand to the deputy ambassador. “Thank you for everything,” Thomas said. “I’m truly sorry about all this.”

“So far, no real harm has been done.”

“We’re going to see that it stays that way,” Thomas said.

“I’ll have a room prepared for the two of you,” Williamson said. “It’s not fancy, but it’s a place to crash.”

“Thanks,” Thomas said. “But until we find our man, I have a feeling I won’t be getting a lot of sleep.”

“None of us will, Mr. Thomas,” Williamson assured him. “If you’ll excuse me, Ambassador Small is due back from Washington at ten P.M. He’ll want to be briefed on this as soon as possible.”

Thomas left and walked down the corridor to Moore’s office. The ADPI hated having lost the Harpooner. But he also hated the fact that the bastard was probably laughing at them for taking the whale bait. He also wondered if the Harpooner might somehow have known that Battat had come from Moscow. Maybe that was why he’d let the agent live, to create conflict between the CIA office in Moscow and Baku. Or maybe he did it just to confuse them, have them waste time wondering why he hadn’t killed Battat.

Thomas shook his head. Your mind is all over the damn place, he chided himself. Stop it. You’ve got to focus. But that was going to be tough, Thomas knew, because the Harpooner was obviously a man who liked to keep his trackers off balance by mixing games with reality.

And so far, he was doing a helluva job.

ELEVEN

Washington, D. C. Monday, 3:00 P.M.

The cell phone rang in the office of the red-haired man. He shooed out two young assistants who closed the door behind them. Then he swiveled his chair so the high leather back was facing the door. He looked out the window, drew the cell phone from his inside jacket pocket, and answered on the fifth ring. If the phone had been stolen or lost and someone answered before that, the caller had been instructed to hang up.

“Yes?” the red-haired man said softly.

“He’s completed phase one,” said the caller. “Everything is exactly on schedule.”

“Thank you,” said the red-haired man and clicked off. He immediately punched in a new number. The phone was answered on the fifth ring.

“Hello?” said a gravelly voice.

“We’re on track,” said the red-haired man.

“Very good,” said the other.

“Anything from Benn?” asked the red-haired man.

“Nothing yet,” said the other. “It will come.”

The men hung up.

The red-haired man put the phone back in his jacket pocket. He looked out across his desk and the office beyond. The photographs with the president and foreign heads of state. The commendations. A seven-by-ten-inch American flag that had been given to him by his mother. The red-haired man had carried it, folded, in his back pocket during his tour of duty in Vietnam. It was framed on the wall, still creased and soiled with sweat and mud, the lubricants of combat.

As the red-haired man called his two aides back to the office, the ordinary nature of that act, the return of routine, underscored the extreme and complex nature of what he and his partners were undertaking. To remake the international political and economic map was one thing. But to do it quickly, in a stroke such as this, was unprecedented.

The work was daunting, and it was exciting. If the operation ever were to become publicly known, it would be considered monstrous by some. But to many, so were the American Revolution and the Civil War in their day. So was the involvement of the United States in World War II, before Pearl Harbor. The red-haired man only hoped that if their actions were ever revealed, people would understand why they had been necessary. That the world in which the United States existed was radically different from the world into which the United States had been born. That in order to grow it was sometimes necessary to destroy. Sometimes rules, sometimes lives.

Sometimes both.

TWELVE

Camp Springs, Maryland Monday, 3:14 P.M.

Paul Hood called Senator Fox after returning from the White House. She admitted being totally confused by the president’s remarks and had put in a call to him to talk about it. Hood asked her to hold off until after he had had a chance to review the situation. She agreed. Then Hood called Bob Herbert. Hood briefed the intelligence chief on his conversation with the First Lady, after which he asked Herbert to find out what he could about the phone call from the hotel and whether anyone else had noticed any odd behavior from the president. Because Herbert stayed in touch with so many people—never asking them for anything, just seeing how they were doing, what the family was up to—it was easy for him to call and slip in important questions among the chitchat without making it seem as though he were fishing.

Now the two men were back in Hood’s office. But the Herbert who wheeled through the door was different than before.

“Is everything all right?” Hood asked.

The usually outgoing Mississippi native didn’t answer immediately. He was extremely subdued and staring ahead at something only he could see.

“Bob?” Hood pressed.

“They thought they had him,” Herbert said.

“What are you talking about?”

“A friend of mine at the CIA slipped me some news from the embassy in Moscow,” Herbert said.

“Why?”

Herbert took a long breath. “Apparently, they had a solid lead that the Harpooner was in Baku.”

“Jesus,” Hood said. “What for?”

“They don’t know,” Herbert said. “And they lost him. They sent one freakin’ guy to do the recon and—sur—prise!—he got clocked. I can’t blame them for wanting to be low profile, but with a guy like the Harpooner, you have to have backup.”

“Where is he now?” Hood asked. “Is there anything we can do?”

“They don’t have a clue where he went,” Herbert said. He shook his head slowly and swung the computer monitor up from the armrest. “For almost twenty years what I’ve wanted most out of life is to be able to hold the bastard’s throat between my hands, squeeze real hard, and look into his eyes as he dies. If I can’t have that, I want to know that he’s decaying in a hole somewhere with no hope of ever seeing the sun. That’s not a lot to ask for, is it?”

“Considering what he did, no,” Hood said.

“Unfortunately, Santa’s not listening,” Herbert said bitterly. He angled the monitor so he could see it. “But enough about that son of a bitch. Let’s talk about the president.”

Herbert shifted in his seat. Hood could see the anger in his eyes, in the hard set of his mouth, in the tense movements of his fingers. “I had Matt Stoll check the Hay-Adams phone log.”

Matt Stoll was Op-Center’s computer wizard.

“He hacked into the Bell Atlantic records,” Herbert said. “The call came from the hotel, all right, but it didn’t originate in any of the rooms. It originated in the system itself.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning someone didn’t want to be in one of the rooms where they might have been seen coming or going,” Herbert said. “So they got to the wires somewhere else.”

“What do you mean ‘got’ to them?” Hood asked.

“They hooked in a modem to transfer a call from somewhere else,” Herbert said. “It’s called dial-up hacking. It’s the same technology phone scammers use to generate fake dial tones on public phones in order to collect credit card and bank account numbers. All you need to do is get access to the wiring at some point in the system. Matt and I brought up a blueprint of the hotel. The easiest place to do that would have been at the phone box in the basement. That’s where all the wiring is. But there’s only one entrance, and it’s monitored by a security camera—too risky. Our guess is that whoever hacked the line went to one of the two public phones outside the Off the Record bar.”

Hood knew the bar well. The phones were right beside the door that opened onto H Street. They were in closetlike booths and there were no security cameras at that spot. Someone could have slipped in and gotten away without being seen.

“So, with the help of a dial-up hacker,” Hood said, “Jack Fenwick could have called the president from anywhere.”

“Right,” Herbert told him. “Now, as far as we can tell, the First Lady is correct. Fenwick’s in New York right now, supposedly attending top-level meetings with UN ambassadors. I got his cell phone number and called several times, but his voice mail picked up. I left messages for him to call me, saying it was urgent. I left the same message at his home and office. So far, I haven’t heard from him. Meanwhile, Mike and I checked with the other intel departments. The president’s announcement was news to each of them. Only one of them was involved in this cooperative effort with the United Nations.”

“The National Security Agency,” Hood said.

Herbert nodded. “Which means Mr. Fenwick must have sold the president some bill of goods to convince him they could handle this operation solo.”

Herbert was correct, though in one way the National Security Agency would have been the perfect agency to interface with new intelligence partners. The primary functions of the NSA are in the areas of cryptology and both protecting and collecting signals intelligence. Unlike the CIA and the State Department, the NSA is not authorized to maintain undercover personnel on foreign soil. Thus, they do not generate the kind of knee-jerk paranoia that would make foreign governments nervous about cooperating with them. If the White House was looking for an intel group to pair with the United Nations, the NSA was it. What was surprising, though, was that the president didn’t brief the other agencies. And he should have at least notified Senator Fox. The Congressional Intelligence Oversight Committee is directly responsible for approving programs of counter-proliferation, counterterrorism, counternarcotics, counterintelligence, and covert activites abroad. What the president had proposed certainly fell under their jurisdiction.

But because the NSA does operate independently, and in very specific areas, it’s also the least-equipped to organize and oversee a massive undertaking of the kind described by the president. That was the reason Hood didn’t believe Lawrence when he announced the initiative at the dinner. It was why a large part of him still didn’t believe it.

“Did you talk to Don Roedner about this?” Hood asked. Roedner was the Deputy National Security Adviser, second in command to Fenwick.

“He’s with Fenwick, and I couldn’t get him on the phone either,” Herbert told him. “But I did talk to Assistant Deputy National Security Adviser Al Gibbons. And this is where things get a little weirder. Gibbons said that he was present at an NSA meeting on Sunday afternoon where Fenwick didn’t mention a goddamn thing about a cooperative intelligence effort with other nations.”

“Was the president at that meeting?”

“No,” Herbert said.

“But just a few hours later, Fenwick called the president and apparently told him that they had an intelligence deal with several foreign governments,” Hood said.

Herbert nodded.

Hood considered that. It was possible that the UN initiative was on a need-to-know basis and that Gibbons wasn’t part of that loop. Or maybe there was a bureaucratic struggle between different divisions of the NSA. That wouldn’t have been unprecedented. When Hood first came to Op-Center, he studied the pair of 1997 reports that had effectively authorized the creation of Op-Center. Report 105-24 issued by the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence and 105-135 published by the House Permanent Select Committee on Intelligence the two arms of the Congressional Intelligence Oversight Committee—both proclaimed that the intelligence community was extremely top-heavy with “intramural struggles, waste, and uninformed personnel lacking depth, breadth, and expertise in political, military, and economic analysis,” as the SIC report summed it up. Congressional reports didn’t get much rougher than that. When Op-Center was chartered by act of Congress, Hood’s mandate had been to hire the best and the brightest while the CIA and other intelligence groups worked on cleaning house. But the current situation was unusual, even by intelligence community standards, if the NSA’s senior staff didn’t know what was going on.

“This whole thing just doesn’t make sense,” Herbert said. “Between Op-Center and the CIA, we already have official cooperative intelligence plans with twenty-seven different nations. We have intelligence relationships with eleven other governments unofficially, through connections with high-ranking officials. Military intelligence has their hands in seven other nations. Whoever talked the president into this wants their own discreet, dedicated intelligence line for a reason.”

“Either that, or they wanted to embarrass him,” Hood said.

“What do you mean?”

“Sell him a project, tell him it’s been cleared with other agencies and foreign governments, and then have him make a big public stumble.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know,” Hood said.

He didn’t, but he didn’t like where this was leading him. Op-Center had once run a psy-ops game called Alternate Reality on how to make Saddam Hussein so paranoid that he would turn on his most trusted advisers. What if a foreign government were doing something like that to the president?

It was a far-fetched idea, but so was the KGB killing a dissident by poking him with a poisoned umbrella, and the CIA attempting to slip Fidel Castro a poison cigar. Yet these things had happened.

Then there was another option he didn’t want to consider : that it wasn’t a foreign government but our own. It was possible.

It could also be less sinister than that. The First Lady said her husband wasn’t himself. What if she was right? Lawrence had spent four tough years in the White House and then eight tough years winning it back. Now he was in the hot seat again. That was a lot of pressure.

Hood was aware of several presidents who had showed signs of breaking during extended periods of stress: Woodrow Wilson, Franklin Roosevelt, Richard Nixon, and Bill Clinton. In the case of Nixon, his closest advisers encouraged him to resign not just for the health of the nation but for his own mental well-being. With Clinton, the president’s staff and friends decided not to bring in doctors or psychiatrists but to keep a careful watch and hope he came through the impeachment crisis. He did.

But in at least two cases, allowing the president to carry the full burden of decision making and politicking was not the best policy. Wilson ended up with a stroke trying to push the League of Nations through Congress. And toward the end of World War II, burdened by the pressure of winning the war and drawing up plans for a postwar world, Roosevelt’s closest advisers feared for his health. Had they impressed on him the absolute need to slow down, he might not have died of a cerebral hemorrhage.

Any of those scenarios could be correct, or they could all be dead wrong. But Hood had always believed that it was better to consider every option, even the least likely, rather than be surprised. Especially when the result of being right could be cataclysmic. He would have to proceed carefully. If he could get to see the president, he would have an opportunity to lay his few cards on the table and also observe Lawrence, see whether Megan’s concerns had merit. The worst that could happen was the president would ask for his resignation. Fortunately, he still had his last one on file.

“What are you thinking?” Herbert asked.

Hood reached for the telephone. “I’ve got to see the president.”

“Excellent,” Herbert said. “Straight ahead has always been my favorite way, too.”

Hood punched in the president’s direct line. The phone beeped at the desk of his executive secretary, Jamie Leigh, instead of going through the switchboard. Hood asked Mrs. Leigh if she could please squeeze him in for a few minutes somewhere. She asked him for a log line for the calendar to let the president know what this was about. Hood said that it had to do with Op-Center having a role in the United Nations intelligence program.

Mrs. Leigh liked Hood, and she arranged for him to see the president for five minutes, from four-ten to four-fifteen.

Hood thanked her then looked at Herbert. “I’ve got to get going,” Hood said. “My appointment’s in forty minutes.”

“You don’t look happy,” Herbert said.

“I’m not,” Hood said. “Can we get someone to nail down who Fenwick is meeting in New York?”

“Mike was able to connect with someone at the State Department when you two were up there,” Herbert said.

“Who?”

“Lisa Baroni,” Herbert told him. “She was a liaison with the parents during the crisis.”

“I didn’t meet her,” Hood said. “How did Mike find her?”

“He did what any good spymaster does,” Herbert said. “When he’s someplace new, he looks for the unhappy employee and promises them something better if they deliver. Let’s see if she can deliver.”

“Good,” Hood said as he rose. “God. I feel like I do whenever I go to Christmas Eve Mass.”

“And how is that?” Herbert asked. “Guilty that you don’t go to church more often?”

“No,” Hood replied. “I feel like there’s something going on that’s much bigger than me. And I’m afraid that when I figure out what that is, it’s going to scare the hell out of me.”

“Isn’t that what church is supposed to be about?” Herbert asked.

Hood thought about that for a moment. Then he grinned as he left the office. “Touché,” he said.

“Good luck,” Herbert replied as he wheeled out after him.

THIRTEEN

Gobustan, Azerbaijan Monday, 11:56 P.M.

Gobustan is a small, rustic village located forty-three miles south of Baku. The region was settled as far back as 8000 B.C. and is riddled by caves and towering out-croppings of rock. The caves boast prehistoric art as well as more recent forms of expression—graffiti left two thousand years ago by Roman legionnaires.

Situated low in the foothills, just beneath the caves, are several shepherds’ shacks. Spread out over hundreds of acres of grazeable land, they were built early in the century and most of them remain in use, though not always by men tending their flocks. One large shack is hidden behind a rock that commands a view of the entire village. The only way up is along a rutted dirt road cut through the foothills by millennia of foot traffic and erosion.

Inside, five men sat around a rickety wooden table in the center of the small room. Another man sat on a chair by a window overlooking the road. There was an Uzi in his lap. A seventh man was still in Baku, watching the hospital. They weren’t sure when the patient would arrive, but when he did, Maurice Charles wanted his man to be ready.

The window was open, and a cool breeze was blowing in. Except for the occasional hooting of an owl or rocks dislodged by prowling foxes in search of field mice, there was silence outside the shack—the kind of silence that the Harpooner rarely heard in his travels around the world.

Except for Charles, the men were stripped to their shorts. They were studying photographs that had been received through a satellite uplink. The portable six-inch dish had been mounted on the top of the shack, which had an unobstructed view of the southeastern sky and the GorizonT3. Located 35,736 kilometers above twenty-one degrees twenty-five minutes north, sixty degrees twenty-seven minutes east, that was the satellite the United States National Reconnaissance Office used to keep watch on the Caspian Sea. Charles’s American contact had given him the restricted web site and access code, and he had downloaded images from the past twenty-four hours.

The decoder they used, a StellarPhoto Judge 7, had also been provided by Charles’s contact through one of the embassies. It was a compact unit roughly the size and configuration of a fax machine. The SPJ 7 printed photographs on thick sublimation paper, a slick, oil-based sheet that could not be faxed or electronically transmitted. Any attempt to do so would be like pressing on a liquid crystal display. All the receiver would see was a smudge. The unit provided magnification with a resolution of ten meters. Combined with infrared lenses on the satellite, he was able to read the numbers on the wing of the plane.

Charles smiled. His plane was on the image. Or rather, the Azerbaijani plane that they had bought.

“Are you certain the Americans will find that when they go looking for clues?” asked one of the men. He was a short, husky, swarthy man with a shaved head and dark, deep-set eyes. A hand-rolled cigarette hung from his downturned lips. There was a tattoo of a coiled snake on his left forearm.

“Our friend will make sure of it,” Charles said.

And they would. That was the reason for staging this attack on the Iranian oil rig. Once the incident occurred, the United States National Reconnaissance Office would search the satellite database of images from the Guneshli oil region of the Caspian. Surveillance experts would look back over the past few days to see who might have been reconnoitering near the rig. They would find the images of Charles’s plane. Then they would find something else.

Shortly after the attack, a body would be dropped into the sea—the body of a Russian terrorist, Sergei Cherkassov. Cherkassov had been captured by Azerbaijan in the NK, freed from prison by Charles’s men, and was presently being held on the Rachel. Cherkassov would be killed shortly before the attack, shot with a shell from an Iranian-made Gewehr 3 rifle. That was the same kind of bullet that would have been fired by security personnel on the rig. When the Russian’s body was found—thanks to intelligence that would be leaked to the CIA—the Americans would find photographs in the terrorist’s pockets: the photographs Charles had taken from the airplane. One of those photographs would show portions of the airplane’s wing and the same numbers seen in the satellite view. Another of the photographs would have markings in grease pencil showing the spot that particular terrorist was supposed to have attacked.

With the satellite photographs and the body of the terrorist, Charles had no doubt that the United States and the rest of the world would draw the conclusion that he and his sponsors wanted them to draw.

The wrong one.

That Russia and Azerbaijan had united to try to force Iran from its lucrative rigs in Guneshli.

FOURTEEN

New York, New York Monday, 4:01 P.M.

The State Department maintains two offices in the vicinity of the United Nations Building on New York’s East Side. One is the Office of Foreign Missions and the other is the Bureau of Diplomatic Security.

Forty-three-year-old attorney Lisa Baroni was the assistant director of diplomatic claims for the Diplomatic Liaison Office. That meant whenever a diplomat had a problem with the United States’ legal system, she became involved. A legal problem could mean anything from an allegedly unlawful search of a diplomat’s luggage at one of the local airports, or a hit-and-run accident involving a diplomat, to the recent seizure of the Security Council by terrorists.

Ten days before, Baroni had been on hand to provide counsel for diplomats but found herself giving comfort to parents of children who were held hostage during the attack. That was when she’d met General Mike Rodgers. The general talked with her briefly when the siege was over. He said he was impressed by the way she had remained calm, communicative, and responsible in the midst of the crisis. He explained that he was the new head of Op-Center in Washington and was looking for good people to work with. He asked if he could call her and arrange an interview. Rodgers had seemed like a nononsense officer, one who was more interested in her talent than her gender, in her abilities more than in the length of her skirt. That appealed to her. So did the prospect of going back to Washington, D.C. Baroni had grown up there, she had studied international law at Georgetown University, and all her friends and family still lived there. After three years in New York, Baroni could not wait to get back.

But when General Rodgers finally called, it was not quite the call Baroni had been expecting.

It came early in the afternoon. Baroni listened as Rodgers explained that his superior, Paul Hood, had withdrawn his resignation. But Rodgers was still looking for good people and offered her a proposition. He had checked her State Department records and thought she would be a good candidate to replace Martha Mackall, the political officer who had been assassinated in Spain. He would bring her to Washington for an interview if she would help him with a problem in New York.

Baroni asked if the help he needed was legal. Rodgers assured her it was. In that case, Baroni told him, she would be happy to help. That was how relationships were forged in Washington. Through back-scratching.

What Rodgers needed, he explained, was the itinerary of NSA Chief Jack Fenwick who was in New York for meetings with United Nations delegates. Rodgers said he didn’t want the published itinerary. He wanted to know where Fenwick actually ended up.

That should have been relatively easy for Baroni to find. Fenwick had an office in her building, and he usually used it when he came to New York. It was on the seventh floor, along with the office for the secretary of state. However, Fenwick’s New York deputy said that he wasn’t coming to the office during this trip but was holding all of his meetings at different consulates.

Instead, Baroni checked the file of government-issued license plates. This listing was maintained in the event of a diplomatic kidnapping. The NSA chief always rode in the same town car when he came to New York. Baroni got the license number and asked her friend, Detective Steve Mitchell at Midtown South, to try to find the car on the street. Then she got the number of the car’s windshield-mounted electronic security pass. The ESP enabled vehicles to enter embassy and government parking garages with a minimum of delay, giving potential assassins less time to stage ambushes.

The ESP didn’t show up on any of the United States checkpoints, which were transmitted immediately to State Department security files. That meant that Fenwick was visiting foreign embassies. Over one hundred nations also transmitted that data to the DOS within minutes. Most of those were close U.S. allies, such as Great Britain, Japan, and Israel. Fenwick had not yet gone to visit any of them. She used secure e-mail to forward to Rodgers the information where Fenwick hadn’t been.

Then, just after four P.M., Baroni got a call from Detective Mitchell. One of his squad cars spotted the chief of staff’s car leaving a building at 622 Third Avenue. That was just below Forty-second Street. Baroni looked up the address in her guide to permanent missions.

The occupant surprised her.

FIFTEEN

Washington, D.C. Monday, 4:03 P.M.

Paul Hood arrived at the west wing of the White House at four o’clock. Even before he had finished passing through the security checkpoint, a presidential intern had arrived to show him to the Oval Office. Hood could tell he had been here at least several months. Like most seasoned interns, the freshly scrubbed young man had a slightly cocky air. Here he was, a kid in his early twenties, working at the White House. The ID badge around his neck was his trump card with women at bars, with chatty neighbors on airplanes, with brothers and cousins when he went home for the holidays. Whatever anyone else said or did, he was interacting with the president, the vice president, cabinet, and congressional leaders on a daily basis. He was exposed to real power, he was plugged into the world, and he was moving past the eyes and ears of all media where the expressions and casual utterances of even people like him could cause events that would ripple through history. Hood remembered feeling a lot of that when he was a kid working in the Los Angeles office of the governor of California. He could only imagine how much more extreme it was for this kid, the sense of being at the center of the universe.

The Oval Office is located at the far southeast corner of the West Wing. Hood followed the young man in silence as they made their way through the busy corridors, passed by people who did not seem at all self-important. They had the look and carriage of people who were very late for a plane. Hood walked past the office of the national security adviser and the vice president, then turned east at the vice president’s office and walked past the office of the press secretary. Then they turned south past the cabinet room. They walked in silence all the while. Hood wondered if the young man wasn’t speaking to him because the kid had a sense of propriety or because Hood wasn’t enough of a celebrity to merit talking to. Hood decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.

The office past the cabinet room belonged to Mrs. Leigh. She was seated behind her desk. Behind it was the only door that led to the Oval Office. The intern excused himself. Hood and the president’s tall, white-haired secretary greeted each other with smiles. Mrs. Leigh was from Texas, with the steel, poise, patience, and dry, self-effacing humor required for the guardian of the gate. Her husband was the late Senator Titus Leigh, a legendary cattleman.

“The president’s running a few minutes late,” Mrs. Leigh said. “But that’s all right. You can tell me how you are.”

“Coping,” Hood said. “And you?”

“Fine,” she replied flatly. “My strength is the strength of ten because my heart is pure.”

“I’ve heard that somewhere,” Hood said as he continued toward the secretary’s desk.

“It’s Lord Tennyson,” she replied. “How is your daughter?”

“She’s strong, too,” Hood said. “And she has an awful lot of people pulling for her.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Mrs. Leigh said, still smiling. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

“I absolutely will,” Hood said. He looked into her gray eyes. “There is something you can do for me, though.”

“And that is?”

“Off the record?”

“Of course,” she assured him.

“Mrs. Leigh, has the president seemed all right to you?” Hood asked.

The woman’s smile wavered. She looked down. “Is that what this meeting is about?”

“No,” Hood said.

“What makes you ask a question like that?”

“People close to him are worried,” Hood said.

“And you’re the one who’s been asked to bell the cat?” she asked.

“Nothing that calculated,” Hood said as his cell phone beeped. He reached into his jacket pocket and answered the phone.

“This is Paul.”

“Paul, it’s Mike.”

“Mike, what’s up?” If Rodgers was calling him here, now, it had to be important.

“The target was seen leaving the Iranian mission to the UN about three minutes ago.”

“Any idea where he was the rest of the time?” Hood asked.

“Negative,” said Rodgers. “We’re working on that. But apparently, the car didn’t show up at the embassies of any of our top allies.”

“Thanks,” Hood said. “Let me know if you find out anything else.”

Hood hung up. He put the phone back in his pocket. That was strange. The president had announced an intelligence initiative involving the United Nations, and one of the first missions the national security adviser visits belongs to Iran. As a sponsor of the kind of terrorism the United Nations opposed, that did not make sense.

The door to the Oval Office opened.

“Mrs. Leigh, would you do me a favor?” Hood said.

“Yes.”

“Would you get me Jack Fenwick’s itinerary in New York?”

“Fenwick? Why?”

“He’s one of the reasons I asked you the question I did,” Hood replied.

Mrs. Leigh looked at Hood. “All right. Do you want it while you’re with the president?”

“As soon as possible,” Hood said. “And when you get the file number, let me know what else is in the file. I don’t need specific documents, just dates when they were filed.”

“All right,” she said. “And Paul—what you asked before ? I have noticed a change.”

He smiled at her. “Thanks. If there’s a problem, we’re going to try and fix it quickly and quietly, whatever it is.”

She nodded and sat at her computer as the vice president emerged from the Oval Office. Charles Cotten was a tall, stout man with a thin face and thinning gray hair. He greeted Paul Hood with a warm handshake and a smile but didn’t stop to talk. Mrs. Leigh punched the phone intercom. The president answered. She told him that Paul Hood was here, and the president asked her to send him in. Hood went around the desk and walked into the Oval Office.

SIXTEEN

Baku, Azerbaijan Tuesday, 12:07 A.M.

David Battat lay on the flimsy cot and stared at the dark ceiling of the damp basement storehouse. Pat Thomas slept on his back in a cot on the other side of the small room, breathing softly, regularly. But Battat couldn’t sleep.

His neck still ached, and he was angry at himself for having gotten cold-cocked, but that wasn’t what was keeping him awake. Before going to sleep, Battat had reviewed the original data the CIA had received about the Harpooner. He could not put it out of his mind. All signs, including a reliable eyewitness, pointed to it having been the terrorist that was being met by the Rachel. And if that were so, if the Harpooner had passed through Baku on his way to somewhere else, Battat was deeply troubled by one question: Why am I still alive?

Why would a terrorist with a reputation for scorched-earth attacks and homicidal behavior leave an enemy alive? To mislead them? To make them think it wasn’t the Harpooner who was there? That had been his initial reaction. But maybe the terrorist had left him alive for another reason. And Battat lay there, trying to figure out what that reason could be.

The only reason he could think of would be to carry misinformation back to his superiors. But he had not carried any information back, other than what was already known: that the Rachel was where it was supposed to be. And without knowing who got on or where it went, that information did them no good.

Battat’s clothes had been gone over carefully for an electronic bug or a radioactive tracer of some kind. Nothing had been found, and the clothes were subsequently destroyed. If one had been located, it would have been used to spread disinformation or to misdirect the enemy. Moore had gone through Battat’s hair, checked under his fingernails, looked in his mouth and elsewhere for a microtransmitter that could be used to locate Battat or eavesdrop on any conversations he might have. Nothing had been found.

There wasn’t a damn thing, he thought. And it gnawed at him because he didn’t think this was a screw-up. He was alive for a reason.

He shut his eyes and turned on his side. Thinking about this while he was dead tired would get him nowhere. He had to sleep. He forced himself to think about something pleasant: what he would do when he found the Harpooner.

The thought relaxed him. As he lay there, Battat began to feel warm. He attributed that to the poor ventilation in the room and the distress he was feeling over everything that had happened.

A few minutes later, he was asleep.

A few minutes after that, he began to perspire.

A few minutes after that, he was awake and gasping for breath.

SEVENTEEN

Washington, D. C. Monday, 4:13 P.M.

The president was writing on a white legal pad when Hood entered. The president told Hood to have a seat; he needed to make a few notes before they talked. Hood quietly shut the door behind him and walked toward a brown leather armchair in front of the desk. He turned off his cell phone and sat down.

The president was dressed in a black suit and silver and black striped tie. A rich yellow light gleamed off the panes of bulletproof glass behind the president. Beyond it, the Rose Garden looked rich and alive. Everything seemed so right here, so healthy and normal, that for a moment Hood doubted himself.

But only for a moment. Hood’s instincts got him where he was; there was no reason to start doubting them now. Besides, the battle was always somewhere else, never in the command tent.

The president finished writing, put down his pen, and looked at Hood. His face was drawn and wan, but his eyes had their usual gleam.

“Talk to me, Paul,” the president said.

Hood grew warm behind the ears. This wasn’t going to be easy. Even if he were correct, it wasn’t going to be easy convincing the president that members of his staff might be running an operation of their own. Hood did not have a lot to go on, and part of him wished that he had gone to the First Lady before coming here. It would have been better to let her talk to him in private. But if the intelligence Herbert had received was right, there might not be time for that. Ironically, Hood would have to keep Megan Lawrence out of this. He did not want the president to know that his wife had been talking about him behind his back.

Hood leaned forward. “Mr. President, I have some concerns about the United Nations intelligence operation.”

“Jack Fenwick is setting it all up,” the president said. “There’ll be a comprehensive briefing when he returns from New York.”

“Will the NSA be running the project?”

“Yes,” the president informed him. “Jack will be reporting directly to me. Paul, I hope this visit isn’t about some kind of territorial pissing contest between Op-Center and the NSA—”

“No, sir,” Hood assured him.

The intercom beeped. The president answered. It was Mrs. Leigh. She said she had something for Paul Hood. The president frowned and asked her to bring it in. He looked at Hood.

“Paul, what’s going on?”

“Hopefully, nothing,” Hood said.

Mrs. Leigh walked in and handed Hood a single sheet of paper.

“Is this all?” Hood asked.

She nodded.

“What about the file itself?”

“Empty,” she said.

Hood thanked Mrs. Leigh, and she left.

“What file is empty?” the president asked irritably. “Paul, what the hell is going on?”

“I’ll tell you in a moment, Mr. President,” Hood said. He looked down at the paper. “From eleven A.M. this morning until four P.M., Jack Fenwick was scheduled to meet with representatives of the government of Iran at their permanent mission in New York.”

“Impossible,” said the president.

“Sir, Mrs. Leigh obtained this from the NSA office,” Hood said. He handed the president the paper. “It has their file number on top. And according to intel we received, Fenwick did spend a good part of the afternoon at the Iranian mission.”

The president looked at the paper and was still for a long moment. Then he shook his head slowly. “Fenwick was supposed to be meeting with the Syrians, the Vietnamese, a half-dozen others,” he said. “That’s what he told me last night. Hell, we aren’t even close to reaching an intelligence agreement with Iran.”

“I know,” Hood said. “But Fenwick was there. And except for this document, the file is empty. As far as the NSA is concerned, there is no such thing as the UN initiative.”

“This has to be bullshit,” the president said dismissively. “More bullshit.” The president jabbed the intercom button on his phone. “Mrs. Leigh, get me Jack Fenwick—”

“Sir, I don’t think you should talk to anyone at the NSA,” Hood said.

“Excuse me?”

“Not yet, at least,” Hood said.

“Hold on, Mrs. Leigh,” the president said. “Paul, you just told me my national security adviser is way off the playbook. Now you’re telling me not to bother finding out if that’s true?”

“Before you do that, we need to talk,” Hood said.

“About what?”

“I don’t believe this situation with Fenwick is a miscommunication,” Hood said.

“Neither do I,” the president said. “My conversations with him were very explicit. That’s why he and I need to talk.”

“But what if something is very wrong?” Hood asked.

“Explain.”

“What if this is a rogue operation of some kind?” Hood asked.

“You’re out of your mind,” the president said. He appeared stunned. “Christ, Paul, I’ve known most of these people for fifteen, twenty years—they’re good friends!”

Hood understood. And all he could think to say was, “‘Et tu, Brute?’ ”

The president looked at him. “Paul, what are you talking about?”

“When Julius Caesar was killed by republicans in the senate, it was his closest and oldest friend who organized the assassination,” Hood said.

The president looked at him. A moment later, he told Mrs. Leigh to forget the call. Then he shook his head slowly. “I’m listening,” the president said. “But this better be good.”

Hood knew that. What he didn’t know was where to begin. There was a possible conspiracy and possible mental illness. Perhaps both. He decided to start at the beginning and work his way through.

“Mr. President, why did Fenwick call you last night?” he asked.

“He had finished a day of meetings with ambassadors at the Hay-Adams,” the president said. “There was strong opposition to the intelligence initiative from several key governments. He was supposed to let me know if and when he finally pulled it all together.”

“Mr. President,” Hood said, “we don’t believe that Jack Fenwick was at the Hay-Adams Hotel last night. The call he made to you was apparently routed to the hotel from somewhere else.”

“From where?” the president asked.

“I don’t know,” Hood admitted. “Perhaps he was already in New York. Was Fenwick also liaising with the CIOC?”

“No,” the president said. “Getting approvals from the Oversight Committee was the responsibility of Fenwick’s deputy, Don Roedner, and Red Gable on this end.”

Hood didn’t know Roedner any better than he knew Gable. He didn’t even know Gable had a nickname.

“Sir,” Hood continued, “last night, when you thanked Senator Fox for budgeting Mr. Fenwick’s initiative, that was the first she’d heard about it.”

President Lawrence froze, but only for a moment. His expression changed slowly. He looked very strange for a moment, both twenty years older and like a lost boy. He sat back.

“Gable wouldn’t go behind my back on something,” the president said faintly. “He wouldn’t. And if he did, I’d read it in his face.”

“When was the last time you saw him?” Hood asked.

The president thought. “Friday, at the cabinet meeting.”

“There were a lot of people there, a lot of issues on the table,” Hood said. “You might have missed it. Or maybe he was snookered by the NSA.”

“I can’t believe that, either,” the president said.

“I see,” Hood said. “Well, if Fenwick and Gable aren’t rogue, there’s only one other option I can think of.”

“Which is?”

Hood had to be careful how he said this. He was no longer floating ideas about the president’s staff but about the president himself.

“Maybe none of this happened,” Hood said. “The UN initiative, the meetings with foreign governments—none of it.”

“You mean I imagined it all,” the president said. Hood didn’t answer.

“Do you believe that?” the president asked.

“I do not,” Hood replied truthfully. If nothing else, there was the rerouted phone call from the Hay-Adams, and the president didn’t imagine that. “But I won’t lie to you, Mr. President,” Hood went on. “You do seem tense, guarded, distracted. Definitely not yourself.”

The president took a long breath. He started to say something and then stopped. “All right, Paul. You’ve got my attention. What do we do next?”

“I suggest we proceed under the assumption that we’ve got a serious problem,” Hood said. “I’ll continue the investigation from our end. We’ll see what we can find out about the Iranian connection. Check on what else Fenwick has been doing, who he’s been talking to.”

“Sounds good,” Lawrence said. “Fenwick is due back late tonight. I won’t say anything to him or to Red until I hear from you. Let me know as soon as you learn anything else.”

“I will, sir.”

“Will you also bring Senator Fox up to speed?”

Hood said he would and then stood. So did the president. He seemed a little stronger now, more in command. But the things Megan had told Hood still troubled him.

“Mr. President,” Hood said, “I do have one more question.”

The president looked at Hood intently and nodded once.

“A few minutes ago, you said that this was ‘more bullshit,’ ” Hood said. “What did you mean?”

The president continued to regard Hood. “Before I answer that, let me ask you a question.”

“All right.”

“Don’t you already know the answer to that?” the president asked.

Hood said that he did not.

“You came to see me only because of what happened last night?” the president asked.

Hood hesitated. The president knew that he and the First Lady were old friends. It was not Hood’s place to tell the president that his wife was worried about him. But Hood also did not want to be just one more person who was lying to the president.

“No,” Hood answered truthfully. “That is not the only reason.”

The president smiled faintly. “Fair enough, Paul. I won’t press you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“But I will tell you one thing about the bullshit,” the president said. “This is not the only mix-up we’ve had here over the past few weeks. It’s been frustrating.” The president extended his hand across his desk. “Thanks for coming, Paul. And thanks for pushing me.”

Hood smiled and shook the president’s hand. Then he turned and left the Oval Office.

There was a group of eager-looking Boy Scouts waiting outside with a photographer. The young men were award-winners of some kind, judging by their sashes. Hood winked at them, taking a moment to savor their openmouthed awe and innocence. Then he thanked Mrs. Leigh as he passed her desk. She flashed a concerned look at Hood, and he indicated that he would call her. She mouthed a thank-you and then showed the Boy Scouts inside.

Hood walked briskly to his car. He started the engine, then took out his cell phone and checked his messages. There was only one. It was from Bob Herbert. As Hood headed toward Fifteenth Street, he called Herbert back.

“Bob, it’s Paul,” said Hood. “What’s up?”

“Plenty,” Herbert said. “First of all, Matt traced the call that came from the Hay-Adams.”

“And?”

“The call originated on Fenwick’s cell phone.”

“Bingo!” Hood said.

“Maybe, maybe not,” Herbert replied.

“Explain,” Hood said.

“I got a call a few minutes ago, one I didn’t expect to get,” Herbert said.

“From?”

“Fenwick,” Herbert replied. “He was open and sounded surprised by what I had to say. He told me he didn’t speak to the president last night. He said his briefcase was stolen, which is why he didn’t get the calls I left on his cell phone. He only got the one I left at his office.”

“I’m not ready to buy that,” Hood replied. “The president did receive a call, and it was routed through the hotel.”

“True,” Herbert said. “But do you remember Marta Streeb?”

“The woman who had the affair with Senator Lancaster?” Hood asked.

“Right.”

“What about her?”

“Her calls were run through a phone bank at Union Station so they couldn’t be traced,” Herbert said.

“I remember,” Hood said. “But the president isn’t having an affair.”

“Are you sure?” Herbert asked. “His wife said he was acting strange. That could be guilt—”

“It could be, but let’s rule out the national security issues first,” Hood snapped.

“Sure,” Herbert replied.

Hood took a moment to calm down. His anger surprised him. Hood had never had an affair, but for some reason, Herbert’s comment made him feel guilty about Sharon.

“What else did Fenwick have to say?” Hood asked.

“That he doesn’t know a damn thing about any UN initiative,” Herbert said. “He didn’t get any calls about it and didn’t read about it in the paper. He told me he was sent to New York to help the Iranians with the situation involving the Harpooner and possible Azerbaijani terrorists in the Caspian. And there could be some truth to that,” Herbert pointed out. “If the CIA was compromised over there, the Iranians might need to turn to someone else for help. Someone that could get them signal intelligence capacity ASAP.”

“Were the Iranians working with the CIA on this?”

“I’m trying to find that out,” Herbert said. “You know those Company guys. They don’t like to share. But think about it. Op-Center’s worked with other governments, some of them hostile. We’d get in bed with Teheran if all we were going to do was snuggle a little.”

That was true, Hood had to admit.

“And Fenwick was at the mission,” Herbert continued. “That much is pretty clear.”

“It’s about the only thing that is,” Hood replied. “Bob, you said that Fenwick was sent to New York. Did he say who sent him?”

“Yes,” Herbert replied, “and I don’t think you’re going to like this. Fenwick says the president was the one who sent him.”

“Triple-O?” Hood asked. Triple-0 was oral orders only. They were given when an official didn’t want to leave a paper trail to or from a potentially explosive situation.

“Triple-O,” Herbert told him.

“Jesus,” Hood said. “Look—someone else would have to have been in this Iranian loop.”

“Sure,” Herbert agreed. “The veep, probably. The chief of staff—”

“Call Vice President Cotten’s office,” Hood said. “Find out what he has to say. I’ll be there as soon as possible.”

“I’ll call out for pizza,” Herbert told him.

Hood hung up and concentrated on getting himself through the maddening rush-hour traffic.

At the moment, it was a welcome diversion.

EIGHTEEN

Gobustan, Azerbaijan Tuesday, 1:22 A.M.

The other men had gone to sleep on threadbare bedrolls they had bought secondhand in Baku. But Maurice Charles was still awake, still sitting at the wooden table in the shepherd’s shack. Though he never had trouble sleeping before a mission, he did have trouble waiting for other people to do things. Things on which the mission depended. Until then, he would not—could not—rest.

When the phone finally beeped, he felt a nearly electric shock. This was it. The last unfinished business before H-hour.

Charles went to the equipment table. Beside the StellarPhoto Judge 7 was a Zed-4 unit, which had been developed by the KGB in 1992. The secure phone system was the size and general shape of an ordinary hardcover book. The small, flat receiver fit neatly into the side. It was a remarkable improvement over the point-to-point radios Charles had used when he was first starting out. Those had a range of two and one-half miles. The Zed-4 utilized a series of satellite links to pick up cellular transmissions from around the world. A series of internal audio enhancers and boosters virtually eliminated breakup and lost signals.

The Zed-4 was also quite secure. Most secure-phone calls, including the United States Tac-Sat units, were encrypted with a 155-digit number. In order to crack the code, eavesdroppers had to factor that into its two-component prime numbers. Even using sophisticated computers like the Cray 916, that could take weeks. The CIA had managed to cut that time into days by stealing computer time from personal computers. In 1997, the agency began using Internet servers to piggyback the numbers into home computer systems. Small amounts of memory were appropriated to work on the problem without the user being aware of it. Networked throughout a system of millions of PCs, the CIA was able to add gigabytes of computation power to the problem. It also created a problem for counterprogrammers, since it was not possible to shut down the CIA’s so-called Stealth Field System. Thus, the Zed-4 was created using a complex encryption code of 309 digits. Even the SFS lacked sufficient power to break that code in a timely fashion.

Charles answered on the third ring. “B-sharp,” he said. That was the receiver code name.

“C-natural,” said the caller.

“Go ahead,” said Charles.

“I’m across the street from the target,” said the caller. “They’re bringing him out the side door.”

“No ambulance?”

“No,” said the caller.

“Who’s with him?” Charles asked.

“Two men,” said the caller. “Neither of them in uniform.”

Charles smiled. Americans were so predictable. If there were more than one operative, they invariably went to the user’s manual. “How to Be a Soldier or Spy,” Rule Fifty-three: Put the man above the mission. That thinking went at least as far back as the United States cavalry out West. Whenever the more aggressive Native American tribes like the Apaches were being pursued, they would stop to attack homesteaders. The warriors would always rape one of the women, leaving her where the cavalry was certain to find her. Invariably, the soldiers would send the woman back to the fort with an escort. That would not only delay the pursuing column but leave them depleted.

“Is backup in place?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then take them,” Charles said.

“It’s done,” the caller said confidently. “Out.”

The phone went dead. Charles hung up.

That was it. The last piece. He’d allowed the one agent to live to draw the others out. An injection in the neck, a fast-acting bacterial pneumonia, and the entire local cast was out of commission. Now there would be no one to put pieces together, to stop him from completing the mission.

Charles had one more call to place before he went to bed. It was to a secure line in Washington, to one of the few men who knew of Charles’s involvement in this operation.

To a man who didn’t follow the rule book.

To a man who helped devise one of the most audacious schemes of modern times.

NINETEEN

Baku, Azerbaijan Tuesday, 1:35 A.M.

The ride to the VIP Hospital took just under ten minutes. The VIP was the only hospital the American embassy deemed to be up to the standards of western health care. They had an arrangement with Dr. Kanibov, one of the city’s few English-speaking physicians. The fifty-seven-year-old Kanibov was paid off the books to be available for around-the-clock emergencies and to recommend qualified specialists when necessary.

Tom Moore didn’t know if a specialist was going to be necessary. All he knew was that Pat Thomas had woken him twenty minutes earlier. Thomas had heard David Battat moaning on his cot. When Thomas went over to check on Battat, he found him soaked with perspiration and trembling. The embassy nurse had a look at him and took Battat’s temperature. He had a fever of 105. The nurse suggested that Battat may have hit his head or suffered capillary damage when he was attacked. Rather than wait for an ambulance, Thomas and Moore loaded Battat into one of the embassy staff cars in the gated parking lot and brought him to the hospital themselves. The medic called ahead to let Dr. Kanibov know that they had a possible case of neurogenic shock.

This is all we need, to be down a man, Thomas thought as he drove through the dark, deserted streets of the embassy and business district. It was bad enough to have too few people to deal with normal intelligence work. But to find the Harpooner, one of the world’s most elusive terrorists, was going to take more. Thomas only hoped that his call to Washington would get them timely cooperation on a Saint Petersburg connection.

Dr. Kanibov lived just a block from the hospital. The tall, elderly, white-goateed physician was waiting when they arrived. Battat’s teeth were chattering, and he was coughing. By the time a pair of orderlies put him on a gurney just inside the door, the American’s lips and fingernail beds were rich blue.

“Very restricted blood flow,” said Kanibov to one of the orderlies. “Oxygen.” He looked in Battat’s mouth. “Traces of mucus. Suction, then give me an oral temperature.”

“What do you think is wrong?” Thomas asked.

“I don’t know yet,” Kanibov said.

“The nurse at the embassy said it could be neurogenic shock,” Thomas said to the doctor.

“If it were, his face would be pale, not flushed,” the doctor said with annoyance. He looked at Thomas and Moore. “You gentlemen can wait here or you can go back and wait—”

“We’ll stay here,” Thomas informed him. “At least until you know what’s wrong.”

“Very well,” the doctor said as they wheeled Battat into the ward.

It seemed strangely quiet for an emergency room, Thomas thought. Whenever his three boys hurt themselves back in Washington or in Moscow, the ERs were like the West Wing of the White House: loud, purposeful chaos. He imagined that the clinics in the poorer sections of Baku must be more like that. Still, the silence was unnerving, deathlike.

Thomas looked at Moore. “There’s no sense for both of us to be here,” Thomas said. “One of us should get a little sleep.”

“I wasn’t sleeping,” Moore said. “I was making those contacts we discussed and reviewing files.”

“Did you find anything?” Thomas asked.

“Nothing,” Moore said.

“All the more reason for you to go back to the embassy,” Thomas said. “David is my responsibility. I’ll wait here.”

Moore considered that. “All right,” he said. “You’ll call as soon as you know something?”

“Of course,” Thomas said.

Moore gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder, then walked back through the lobby. He pushed the door open and walked around the front of the car to the driver’s side.

A moment later, Tom Moore’s head jerked to the right and he dropped to the asphalt.

TWENTY

Washington, D.C. Monday, 6:46 P.M.

Paul Hood arrived at Op-Center, where he was to meet with Bob Herbert and Mike Rodgers. He also telephoned Liz Gordon. He asked her to wait around so he could talk to her later. He wanted to get her input on what, if anything, might be happening with the president from a clinical standpoint.

Hood bumped into Ann Farris on the way to his office. She walked with him through the tight, winding maze of cubicles to the executive wing. As Herbert had joked when he first went to work at Op-Center, that was where the cubicles had ceilings.

“Anything interesting going on?” Ann asked.

“The usual confusion,” Hood said. “Only this time, it’s happening in Washington, not overseas.”

“Is it something really bad?”

“I don’t know yet,” Hood said. “There seems to be a loose cannon somewhere in the NSA.” Hood didn’t want to say anything about the president possibly having mental lapses of some kind. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Ann, but Megan Lawrence had told him something in confidence. For now, he wanted to keep the number of people with whom he shared that as small as possible. “What’s going on in your department?”

“The usual efficiency and expert coordination,” she said with a disarming smile.

“You mean nothing’s going on.”

“Exactly,” Ann said. She waited a moment, then asked, “Do you expect to be here long?”

“A couple of hours,” he said. “There’s no reason to go back to the hotel. I’d just sit there and watch some bad sitcom.”

“Can I interest you in dinner?” she asked.

“It may be a long night,” Hood said.

“I don’t have any plans, either,” she said. “My son is staying with his dad this week. There’s nothing for me to go home to but a spoiled cat and those same sitcoms.”

Hood’s heart began thumping a little faster than usual. He very much wanted to say yes to Ann. But he was still a married man, and going out with a divorced female coworker could cause trouble, legally as well as ethically. And Op-Center did not need this distraction. The intelligence team was brilliant at uncovering information. Hood having dinner with Farris would be common knowledge by morning. Besides, if dinner with Ann was in the back of his mind, he would not be focusing on a crisis in the executive branch.

“Ann, I wish I could,” he said sincerely. “But I don’t know when I’ll be finished here. Some other time?”

“Sure,” she said with a small, sad smile. She touched the back of his hand. “Have a good meeting.”

“Thanks,” Hood said.

Ann left, and Hood continued on his way.

Hood felt terrible now. He had not done what he really wanted to do, which was have dinner with Ann. And he had hurt her feelings.

He stopped. He wanted to go after her and tell her he would have the dinner. But once he started down that road, there was no turning back. Hood continued toward his office.

Hood buzzed Rodgers and Herbert when he arrived. Rodgers said he would be right over. Herbert was on the computer and said he would be with them in a few minutes.

Rodgers was alert and professional when he arrived. The general had always wanted to run Op-Center. If he harbored any resentment about having it handed to him and then abruptly pulled away, it did not show. Above all, Rodgers was a good man and a team player.

General Rodgers had spent most of the day overseeing the activities of Op-Center while Paul Hood was involved with the president and the UN initiative. As Hood briefed his deputy director about Herbert’s talk with Fenwick, Herbert wheeled in. The intelligence chief was flushed and perspiring slightly. He had hurried to get here.

“How’s your relationship with Sergei Orlov at the Russian Op-Center?” Herbert asked breathlessly.

The question surprised Hood. “I haven’t spoken to him in about six months. Why?”

“I just received a message that was forwarded from the U.S. embassy in Baku,” Herbert said. “One of the CIA’s people over there, Tom Moore, is now convinced that Baku has had a visit from the Harpooner. Moore doesn’t know why the bastard’s there—”

“It could have something to do with what you were just telling me about,” Rodgers said to Hood. “Bob’s conversation with Fenwick—”

“About Iran fearing terrorist attacks from Azerbaijan,” Hood said.

Rodgers nodded.

“I agree that that’s a possibility,” Herbert said. “Paul, if it is the Harpooner, Moore wants to catch him going into or keep him from getting out of the former USSR. He’s hoping that the Russian Op-Center can help.”

“How?” Hood asked. “Orlov and I shared our files years ago. There was nothing on the Harpooner.”

“Orlov’s facility was new then,” Herbert said. “He or his people may have found something in the old KGB files since then. Something they might not have told us about.”

“It’s possible,” Hood agreed. Op-Center was understaffed, and the situation at their Russian counterpart was even worse. Keeping up a regular flow of information was difficult.

“In addition to intel on the Harpooner,” Herbert said, “More was hoping that Orlov’s people might be able to watch the northern and northwestern sections of Russia. He was thinking that the Harpooner might try to leave the region through Scandinavia.”

Hood looked at his watch. “It’s about three in the morning over there,” he said.

“Can you reach him at home?” Herbert asked. “This is important. You know it is.”

Herbert was right. Regardless of the intelligence chief’s desire to see the terrorist captured, tried, and executed, the Harpooner was a man who deserved to be out of circulation.

“I’ll call,” Hood said.

“Before you do, what about President Lawrence?” Rodgers asked. “How did things go over there?”

“I’ll fill you in after I talk to Orlov,” Hood said as he accessed his secure phone list on the computer. He found Orlov’s number. “But from the look of it, we’re facing a lose-lose situation. Either the president is suffering from some kind of mental fatigue, or we’ve got a group of top officials running a black ops action of some kind—”

“Or both,” Herbert said.

“Or both,” Hood agreed. “I’ve got Liz Gordon coming in later to talk about what the president might be experiencing.”

Before punching in Orlov’s home telephone number, Hood called Op-Center’s linguistics office. He got Orly Turner on the line. Orly was one of Op-Center’s four staff translators. Her area of expertise was Eastern Europe and Russia. Hood conferenced her in to the call. Though Orlov spoke English well enough, Hood wanted to make sure there were no misunderstandings, no delays if technical terms or acronyms had to be explained.

“You want to know what my gut tells me?” Herbert said.

“What?” Hood asked as he punched in Orlov’s number.

“That all of this is related,” Herbert said. “The president being out of the loop, Fenwick dealing secretly with Iran, the Harpooner showing up in Baku. It’s all part of a big picture that we haven’t figured out yet.”

Herbert left the office. Hood didn’t disagree with him. In fact, his own gut was willing to go one step further.

That the big picture was bigger than what they imagined.

TWENTY-ONE

Baku, Azerbaijan Tuesday, 3:58 A.M.

When Tom Moore went down, Pat Thomas ran toward the hospital door. He was halfway out when he saw blood pulsing from the side of Moore’s head. Thomas stopped and jumped back just as a shot blew out the glass in the door. The bullet punched into his left thigh and knocked him down. He landed in a sitting position and continued to scuttle back. A second bullet chewed up the green tile inches in front of his foot. Thomas hurried backward along the floor, propelled by his palms and right heel. The wound burned viciously, and each move was agony. He left a long smear of blood behind him.

It was a few moments before the hospital staff realized what had happened. One of the nurses, a young woman, ran forward and helped pull Thomas back. Several orderlies followed. They dragged him behind the admissions desk. Another nurse called the police.

A bald-headed doctor knelt beside Thomas. He was wearing off-white surgical gloves and shouted instructions in Azerbaijani to other hospital workers who were in front of the counter. As he did, he took a pocket knife from his white coat and carefully cut away the fabric around the wound.

Thomas winced as the khaki fabric came away. He watched as the doctor exposed the wound.

“Will I live?” Thomas asked.

The doctor didn’t answer. Suddenly, the bald man started to rise. But instead of getting up, he straddled the American’s legs. He sat on the wound, sending fire up through his patient’s waist. Thomas wanted to scream, but he could not. A moment later, the doctor slipped a hand behind the America’s head, holding it in place, and pushed the knife blade through his throat. The metal entered the skin just behind Thomas’s chin and pinned his mouth shut. The blade continued upward until Thomas could feel the point of the blade under his tongue.

Thomas choked as he coughed blood into his closed mouth. He raised his hands and tried to push the bald man back. But he was too weak. Calmly and quickly, the bald man angled the knife back. Then he drew the knife down until it reached Thomas’s larynx. He cut swiftly to the left and right, following the line of the jaw all the way to the ears. Then he removed the blade, rose, and allowed Thomas to flop to the floor. The doctor pocketed the knife and walked away without a glance back.

The American lay there, his arms weak and his fingers moving aimlessly. He could feel the warm blood flowing from both sides of his throat as the flesh around it grew cold. He tried to call out, but his voice was a burbling whisper. Then he realized that his chest was moving but no air was going to it. There was blood in his throat.

Thomas’s thoughts were confused. His vision swirled black. He thought about flying up to Baku, about meeting with Moore. He wondered how Moore was. And then he thought about his children. For a moment, he was back playing ball with them on the front lawn.

Then they were gone.

TWENTY-TWO

Saint Petersburg, Russia Tuesday, 4:01 A.M.

General Sergei Orlov was standing in the snow in the small town of Nar’yan Mar on the Arctic Ocean when a peeping bird caused him to start. He turned to look for it and found himself staring at his alarm clock.

He was back in his one-bedroom apartment in Saint Petersburg.

“Damn you,” Orlov said as the phone rang again. The former cosmonaut did not often dream of the town where he grew up. He hated being taken away from it and from his loving parents.

“Sergei?” his wife Masha said groggily beside him.

“I have it,” Orlov told her. He picked up the receiver of the cordless phone. He held it to his chest to stifle the ringing. “Go back to sleep.”

“All right,” she said.

Orlov listened enviously to the cozy rustle of the sheets as his wife curled up on her side. He got out of bed, pulled a bathrobe from the edge of the door, and pulled it on as he stepped into the living room. Even if this were a wrong number, Orlov would have trouble getting back to sleep.

He finally answered the telephone. “Hello,” Orlov said with a trace of annoyance.

“General Orlov?” said the voice on the other end. It was a man.

“Yes?” Orlov said as he rubbed his eyes vigorously with his free hand. “Who is this?”

“General, it’s Paul Hood,” said the caller.

Orlov was suddenly very much awake. “Paul!” he practically shouted. “Paul Hood, my friend. How are you? I heard that you resigned. And I heard about what happened in New York. Are you all right?”

Orlov walked over to an armchair while the woman translated. The general had a decent command of English, the result of the years he spent as a goodwill ambassador for the Russian space program after his flying days were finished. But he let the woman translate to be sure he didn’t miss anything.

Orlov sat down. Standing just under five-foot-seven, he had the narrow shoulders and compact build that had made him an ideal cosmonaut. Yet he had presence. His striking brown eyes, high cheekbones, and dark complexion were, like his adventurous spirit, a part of his Manchu heritage. He walked with a significant limp due to a left leg and hip badly broken when his parachute failed to deploy in what turned out to be his last space mission.

“I’m fine,” Hood said in reply. “I withdrew my resignation.”

While Turner translated, Orlov turned on the lamp beside the chair and sat down. He picked up a pen and pad he kept on the small end table.

“Good, good!” Orlov said.

“Listen, General,” Hood went on, “I’m very sorry to be calling you so early and at home.”

“It’s no bother, Paul,” Orlov replied. “What can I do for you?”

“The terrorist who calls himself the Harpooner,” Hood said. “You and I once spoke about him.”

“I remember,” said Orlov. “We’ve been looking for him in connection with the terror bombings in Moscow several years ago.”

“General, we believe he is in Azerbaijan.”

Orlov’s full lips tightened. “That would not surprise me,” he said. “We thought we had him located in Moscow two days ago. A guard near Lenin’s Tomb was very confident in his identification. He summoned police assistance, but by the time it had arrived, the suspect had disappeared.”

“Do you mean the police lost him, or the suspect knew he was being watched and managed to get away?” Hood asked.

“The police are generally good at surveillance,” Orlov replied. “The subject went around a corner and was gone. He could have changed clothes somehow—I don’t know. The Kievskaya metro stop is near where he was last seen. It is possible he went down there.”

“It’s more than possible,” Hood said. “That was where one of our embassy people spotted him.”

“Explain, please,” Orlov said.

“We had heard that he was in Moscow,” Hood said. “The embassy person followed the man he thought was the Harpooner onto the metro. They went to a transfer station, and the Harpooner got off. He boarded another train, left it at the Paveletskaya stop, then he literally vanished.”

Orlov was now very interested. “You’re sure it was Paveletskaya?” he asked.

“Yes,” Hood asked. “Is that significant?”

“Perhaps,” Orlov said.

“General Orlov,” Hood said, “however the Harpooner left Moscow, it’s possible that he may be headed back there or toward Saint Petersburg. Do you think you could help us try and find him?”

“I would love to capture that monster,” Orlov replied. “I will contact Moscow and see what they have. In the meantime, please send whatever information you have to my office. I will be there within the hour.”

“Thank you, General,” Hood said. “And again, I’m sorry to have wakened you. I didn’t want to lose any time.”

“You did the right thing,” Orlov assured him. “It was good speaking with you. I will talk to you later in the day.”

Orlov rose and went back to the bedroom. He hung up the phone, kissed his precious, sleeping Masha on the forehead, then quietly went to the closet and removed his uniform. He carried it into the living room. Then he went back for the rest of his clothes. He dressed quickly and quietly, then left his wife a note. After nearly thirty years, Masha was not unaccustomed to his comings and goings in the middle of the night. When he had been a fighter pilot, Orlov was often called for missions at odd hours. During his spacefaring years, it was common for him to suit up while it was still dark. Before his first orbital flight he had left her a note that read, “My dearest—I am leaving the earth for several days. Can you pick me up at the spaceport on Sunday morning? Your loving husband, Sergei. PS: I will try to catch you a shooting star.”

Of course, Masha was there.

Orlov left the apartment and took the stairs to the basement garage. The government had finally given him a car after three years, since the buses were unreliable. And with everything that was going on in and around Russia, from restless republics to rampant gangsterism in major cities, it was often imperative for Orlov to be able to get to his Op-Center’s headquarters.

And it was imperative now. The Harpooner was back in Russia.

TWENTY-THREE

Washington, D.C. Monday, 7:51 P.M.

Liz Gordon came to Hood’s office after his conversation with Orlov. A husky woman with sparkling eyes and short, curly brown hair, Gordon was chewing nicotine gum and carrying her ever-present cup of coffee. Mike Rodgers remained for the talk.

Hood told Gordon how the president had seemed during their meeting. Hood also gave the woman a brief overview of the possible covert activities that might explain what appeared to be the president’s delusions.

When Hood was finished, Gordon refilled her coffee cup from a pot in the corner of the office. Though Hood had been dubious of psychiatry when he had first come to Op-Center, Gordon’s profiling work had impressed him. He had also been won over by her thoroughness. She brought a mathematician’s prooflike manner to the process. That, coupled with her compassion, had made her an increasingly valuable and respected member of the team. Hood did not have any trouble entrusting his daughter to her.

“The president’s behavior does not seem extreme,” Gordon said, “so we can eliminate some very serious dementias, which would indicate a complete or nearcomplete loss of intellectual capacity. That leaves us with dangerous but more elusive delusions, of which there are basically six kinds. First there’s organic, which is brought on by illness such as epilepsy or brain lesions. Second is substance-induced, meaning drugs. Third is somatic, which involves a kind of hyperawareness of the body—anorexia nervosa or hypochondria, for example. What you’ve described doesn’t sound like any of those. Besides, they certainly would have been caught by the president’s physician during one of his regular checkups. We can also rule out delusions of grandeur—megalo—mania—since that would show up in public. We haven’t seen any of that.

“The only two possibilities are delusions of reference and delusions of persecution,” she went on. “Delusions of reference is actually a mild form of delusions of persecution, in which innocent remarks are deemed to be critical. That doesn’t seem to apply here. But I can’t be as quick to rule out persecution delusions.”

“Why not?” Hood asked.

“Because the sufferer will go to great pains to conceal them,” she said. “He or she believes that others are trying to stop them or hurt them in some way. They often imagine a conspiracy of some kind. If the president fears that people are out to get him, he won’t want to confide in anyone.”

“But the stress might come out in little bursts,” Rodgers said.

“Exactly,” Gordon told him. “Crying, withdrawal, distraction, temper—all of the things Paul described.”

“He seemed to want to trust me,” Hood said.

“That’s true and also characteristic of the illness,” Gordon said. “Delusions of persecution is a form of paranoia. But as a sage once said, ‘Sometimes even paranoids have enemies.’ ”

“Is there something we should do?” Hood asked. “The First Lady’s feelings notwithstanding, we have to do something if the president can’t continue to function under these circumstances.”

“Whatever is going on sounds like it’s in an advanced-early stage,” Gordon said. “The effects are unlikely to be permanent.”

Hood’s phone beeped.

“If there is a conspiracy, and you can expose it quickly,” Gordon went on, “there is every reason to believe the president can stay on the job after a short rest. Whatever has happened probably wouldn’t have any effects, long-term or short.”

Hood nodded as he answered the phone. “Yes?”

“Paul, it’s Bob,” said Herbert.

“What’s up?”

“A major situation,” he said. “I just got a call from the CIA suit who relayed Tom Moore’s request to me from Baku. Moore and the CIA guy from Moscow, Pat Thomas, were just wasted. They were taking David Battat to the hospital—the guy the Harpooner attacked during the stakeout. Moore was tagged by a sniper outside the hospital, and Thomas had his throat cut in the lobby.”

“By who?” Hood asked.

“We don’t know.”

“No one saw him?” Hood asked.

“Apparently not,” Herbert replied. “Or if they did, they didn’t see him again.”

“Where is Battat?”

“He’s still at the hospital, which is why the suit called me,” Herbert said. “The embassy called for police protection, but we don’t know whether they’ve been compromised or not. The CIA is out of people, and they’re afraid Battat will be next, and soon. We don’t have anyone in Baku, but I thought—”

“Orlov,” Hood said urgently. “I’ll call him now.”

TWENTY-FOUR

Khachmas, Azerbaijan Tuesday, 4:44 A.M.

Maurice Charles did not like to repeat himself.

If he arrived someplace by car, he liked to leave by bus or rail. If he went west by air, he liked to go east by car or bus. If he wore a hat in the morning, he took it off in the afternoon. Or else he wore a different one or dyed his hair. If he destroyed a car with a pipe bomb, he attacked the next target with C-4. If he had done surveillance along a coastline, he retreated inland for a short time. Repetition was the means by which entrepreneurs in any field were undone. Patterns enabled lesser thinkers to anticipate you. The only exceptions were densely populated cities where he might be seen. If he found a relatively obscure route through a place like that, he would use it more than once. The risk of being spotted and identified was greater than the risk of reusing an out-of-the-way road or tunnel.

Because Charles had surveyed the Caspian oil drilling site by plane, he decided to return to it by boat. The American and possibly Russian satellites would be looking for an aircraft by now. He and his team would take the motor yacht, which would have a different name on its side than it had the day before. One of the team members had made those arrangements in Baku. It would be waiting for them in Khachmas, a coastal town some fifty miles north of Baku. A freelance crew had been hired in Baku and sailed up with one of Charles’s Iranian sailors. Not only was Khachmas closer to their target, it was unlikely that anyone would recognize them or the vessel.

After a short sleep, which was all he needed, Charles and his comrades had climbed into a van that was parked behind the shack. Their gear was already on board, and they drove from Gobustan back toward Baku. They traveled along roads that were utterly deserted at this time of night. Though Charles did not drive, he did not sleep. He sat in the backseat with a .45 in his lap. If anyone approached the van for any reason, he wanted to be awake.

The van arrived in sleepy Khachmas shortly before 4:30. They had driven the seventy miles nonstop. No one had approached them.

The Rachel—now the Saint Elmo—was waiting in a slip at a ramshackle marina. The berth was close to shore. The hired crew had been dismissed. They had departed in their own boat, a fishing vessel, which had accompanied the motor yacht north.

Wearing night-vision goggles, Charles stood watch while the equipment was transferred from the van to the Saint Elmo. When all the gear was on board, one of the team members drove off in the van. The vehicle would be painted locally and driven to another city. Finally, the motor yacht set off.

The trip to the target would take fifty minutes. The sun would just be coming up when they arrived. That was important. Working at sea, Charles did not like to use artificial lights. They were too easy to spot in the dark and reflected on the water. He also didn’t like to work during bright daylight when the wet suits glistened. Early dawn was best. There would be just enough time to get the job done and depart without being seen.

Then he would leave Azerbaijan and do nothing but enjoy life for a month or two. Savor the international ramifications of what he had accomplished. Cherish the fact, as he always did, that no world leader, no army, no business, had a greater impact on international events than he did.

TWENTY-FIVE

Saint Petersburg, Russia Tuesday, 4:47 A.M.

After the fall of the Soviet Union, many officials in Moscow were afraid of the Ministerstvo Bezopasnosti Ruskii, or MBR, the Security Ministry of Russia. They were even more afraid than when the intelligence agency had been known as the KGB and was routinely tapping their phone lines and opening their mail. The officials feared that leaders of the former Soviet intelligence group would either support ousted Communists in an effort to recapture power or attempt to seize power themselves. Because of this, the Kremlin’s new regime had created an autonomous intelligence agency outside of Moscow, away from the immediate reach of the MBR. They based it in Saint Petersburg. And, following the adage of hiding in plain sight, they located the Op-Center in one of the most visited places in Russia: the Hermitage.

The Hermitage was built by Catherine the Great as a retreat. The towering, white, neoclassical building was formally known as the Winter Palace. It was a place where Catherine could enjoy the gems and great old masters paintings, drawings, and sculptures she had collected. She literally acquired them at a rate of one every other day from 1762 to 1772. When Catherine first opened her home to the patrician public, her only comments were that visitors should be joyful. However, she added, they “shall not try to damage, break, or gnaw at anything.” The Hermitage remained a repository of the imperial collection until 1917. After the Russian Revolution, the Hermitage was opened to all the people. Its collection was expanded to include art from other schools as well as modern art. It currently houses over 8,000 paintings, 40,000 etchings, and 500,000 illustrations. Today, it is second only to the Louvre in Paris in terms of the size of its collection.

The Russian Op-Center was constructed underneath a fully operational television studio. Though the broadcast facility had been built as a cover for the construction of the intelligence center, satellite dishes beamed famed Hermitage programs around the world. Most of the time, however, the highly advanced uplinks allowed the Op-Center to interface with satellites for both domestic and international electronic communications. The comings and goings of museum staff and tourists helped to disguise the presence of Op-Center personnel. Also, the Kremlin had decided that in the event of war or revolution, no one would bomb the Hermitage. Even if an enemy had no use for art as an aesthetic possession, paintings and sculptures were always as negotiable as currency.

It was still dark when the fifty-three-year-old Orlov arrived at the museum. Because the Hermitage was still closed, he entered through an inconspicuous studio door on the northeastern side of the museum. As he did, he gazed north across the dark Neva River. Directly across the water were the stately Academy of Sciences and Museum of Anthropology. Nearby was the Frunze Naval College. In addition to training cadets, the college housed the dozen soldiers of the center’s special operations force, Molot, which meant Hammer.

There was a guard seated behind a desk inside the TV studio. Orlov acknowledged him as he passed. The elderly guard stood and saluted. The general reached a door and used the keypad to enter. Once inside, he made his way through the dark reception area and down a short flight of stairs. At the far end, he punched the new day’s four-digit code on a keypad, and the door popped open. The next day’s number was always given to Orlov by the center’s security chief at the end of each workday. When Orlov shut the door behind him, the overhead lighting snapped on automatically. There was another, longer set of stairs. He walked down where a second keypad gained him access to the Op-Center.

The facility consisted of a very long corridor with offices to the left and right. Orlov’s office was at the end, literally at the shores of the Neva. There were times when he could hear barges passing overhead.

Ordinarily, Orlov did not arrive until nine o’clock. There was a skeletal night staff, and they were surprised to see the general. He greeted them without stopping. When he entered his small, wood-paneled office, he shut the door and walked over to his desk. The desk faced the door. On the walls were framed photographs Orlov had taken from space. There were no photographs of the general himself. Though he was proud of his accomplishments, he didn’t enjoy looking at the past. All he saw was how short he fell of his goals. How he had hoped to walk on the moon and command a manned mission to Mars. How he had dreamed of seeing the cosmonaut corps grow and prosper. Perhaps if he had used his celebrity more constructively, more aggressively, he could have helped make that happen. Perhaps if he had spoken out against the war in Afghanistan. That struggle drained the nation’s resources and pride and hastened the union’s downfall.

There were no photographs of himself because General Orlov preferred to look ahead. The future held no regrets, only promise.

There was a voice mail from Paul Hood. The message did not say very much. Only that the matter was urgent. Orlov sat down and booted his computer. As he opened his secure phone list and auto-dialed Hood, he thought back to how the American Op-Center had helped him prevent a cabal of right-wing Russian officials from overthrowing the government. The counterattack had cost Hood one of his top field operatives, Lieutenant Colonel Charles Squires. Since then, the two Op-Centers had occasionally exchanged information. But they had never become fully integrated partners, which was something both Hood and Orlov had wanted. Unfortunately, like many of the progressive dreams Orlov had, the bureaucrats had not been ready for this. Distrust between the nations was still too deep.

The phone beeped once. Hood answered.

“Hello?” Hood said.

“Paul, it’s Sergei,” Orlov said.

Op-Center’s translator was on standby. It only took her a moment to get on the line.

“General, I need your trust, and I need it fast,” Hood said. His urgent tone left no room for discussion.

“Of course,” Orlov said.

“Our team searching for the Harpooner suffered a catastrophic hit at a hospital in Baku,” Hood informed him. “It happened a little over an hour ago. Two of our men were killed. The first was taken down by a sniper outside the hospital. The second had his throat cut inside the lobby. The last man is a patient. His name is David Battat, and he is ill with a fever of some kind.”

Orlov took a moment to write the name down.

“The police are at the hospital, but we don’t know who the killer is,” Hood said. “He or she may still be in the hospital.”

“The killer could be a police officer,” Orlov pointed out.

“Exactly,” Hood said. “General, do you have anyone in Baku?”

“Yes, we do,” Orlov said without hesitation. “In what room is Mr. Battat located?”

“He’s in one fifty-seven,” Hood said.

“I will send someone at once,” Orlov said. “Tell no one.”

Hood gave him his word.

Orlov hung up.

The three most powerful Russian intelligence groups had their own personnel. These groups were the MBR; the military’s Glavnoye Razvedyvatelnoye Upravlenie, or GRU, the Main Intelligence Directorate; and the Ministerstvo Vnutrennikh Del, or MVD, the Ministry of Internal Affairs. The Russian Op-Center did not have the financial resources to maintain its own network of intelligence and counterintelligence personnel, so it was necessary to share people with other relatively small

Russian agencies. These were administered by the Sisteme Objedinennovo Utschotya Dannych o Protivniki, or SOUD, the Interlinked System for Recognizing Enemies. SOUD also provided personnel for the Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki, or SVR, the Foreign Intelligence Service; the Federal’naya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti, or FSB, the Federal Security Service; the Federal’naya Sluzhba Kontr-razvedky, or FSK, the Federal Counterintelligence Service; and the Federal’naya Sluzhba Okhrani, or FSO, the Federal Protective Service.

Orlov quickly accessed the SOUD files. He input the highest-priority code, Red Thirteen. This meant that the request was not only coming from a senior official—level thirteen—but involved a case of immediate national emergency: the apprehension of the Harpooner. The Red Thirteen code gave Orlov the names, locations, and telephone numbers of field personnel around the world. Even if the operatives were involved in other sit uations, he would be authorized to commandeer them.

Orlov went to the file for Baku, Azerbaijan.

He found what he was looking for.

He hesitated.

General Orlov was about to ask a deep-cover operative to try to help an American spy. If the Americans were planning an operation in Baku, this would be the quickest way to expose and neutralize Russian intelligence resources. But to believe that, Orlov would have to believe that Paul Hood would betray him.

Orlov made the call.

TWENTY-SIX

Washington, D. C. Monday, 9:00 P.M.

Paul Hood was angry when he hung up with Orlov.

Hood was angry at the system, at the intelligence community, and at himself. The dead men were not his people. The man at risk was not his operative. But they had failed, and the Harpooner had succeeded, partly because of the way spies did business. The Harpooner commanded a team. Most American agents worked as part of a team. Theoretically, that should give the operatives a support system. In practice, it forced them to operate within a bureaucracy. A bureaucracy with rules of conduct and accountability to directors who were nowhere near the battlegrounds. No one could fight a man like the Harpooner with baggage like that. And Hood was guilty of supporting that system. He was as guilty as his counterparts at CIA, NSA, or anywhere else.

The irony was that Jack Fenwick had apparently done something off the books. It was Hood’s job to find out what that was.

The bureaucrats are checking up on the bureaucrats, Hood thought bitterly. Of course, he probably should not be thinking at all right now. He was tired and frustrated about the situation with Battat. And he had not even called home to see how Harleigh was doing.

Rodgers had stayed with Hood between the time he first phoned Orlov and Orlov returned the call. While they waited for Bob Herbert to come back, Rodgers left to grab a soda. Hood decided to call home. It did not improve his mood.

He was doing just the thing that Sharon had always hated. Working late. Calling home as an afterthought. He could hear the anger in her throat, in the tightness of her mouth, in the brevity of her answers.

“I’m doing laundry,” Sharon said. “Harleigh is in the den playing solitaire on the computer. Alexander is in his room doing homework and studying for a history test.”

“How does Harleigh seem today?” Hood asked.

“How do you think?” Sharon said. “Your own psychologist said it’s going to be a while before we see any kind of change. If we see any kind of change,” Sharon added. “But don’t worry, Paul. I’ll handle whatever comes up.”

“I’m not going anywhere, Sharon,“ Hood said. “I want to help.”

“I’m glad. Do you want me to get Alexander?” she asked.

“Not if he’s studying,” Hood said. “Just tell him I called.”

“Sure.”

“Good night,” Hood said.

He could feel Sharon hesitate. It was only a moment, but it felt much, much longer. “ ’Night, Paul,” she said, then hung up.

Hood sat there holding the phone for several moments. Now he was a bastard and a bureaucrat. He lay the phone in its cradle, folded his hands, and waited for Rodgers. As he sat there, something began to tick inside him. It wasn’t a clock or a bomb. It was like a cam and rocker arm. And with each click of the arm, a spring grew tighter inside him. A desire to do something—and not just debate or call the Russians for help. Hood wanted to act. Something was not right, and he needed to know what it was.

Rodgers and Herbert arrived together. They found Hood staring at the back wall of his office where plaques and framed photographs once hung, the mementos of his years in government. Pictures with world leaders, with constituents. Photographs of Hood laying cornerstones or working in a Thanksgiving soup kitchen.

His life as a bloody goddamn bureaucrat. As part of the problem, not the solution.

“Are you all right?” Herbert asked.

“Fine,” Hood said.

“Did you get news?” Herbert pressed.

“No,” Hood said. “But I want to make some.”

“You know where I stand on that,” Herbert said. “What were you thinking of?”

“Battat,” Hood said. That was not entirely true. He was thinking that he never should have withdrawn his resignation. He should have left Op-Center and never looked back. He wondered if resigning had actually been for him and not to spend more time with his family, as he had believed. But he was back, and he was not going to run away.

Battat was the next stop in his thought process. “This man was sent to the hospital with some kind of sickness where a pair of assassins were waiting,” he said. “That doesn’t sound like a coincidence.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Herbert agreed. “My brain trust and I have been looking into that.”

Herbert’s brain trust consisted of four deputy intelligence directors who had been brought to Op-Center from military intelligence, the NSA, and the CIA. They were three men and one woman who ranged in age from twenty-nine to fifty-seven. With input from Darrell McCaskey, who liaised with the FBI and Interpol, Op-Center had the best per capita intelligence team in Washington.

“Here’s what we’ve been thinking,” Herbert said. “The CIA is ninety-nine percent certain the Harpooner passed through Moscow and went to Baku. A DOS agent thinks he saw him on a flight to Moscow, but that may have been intentional.”

“Why?” Rodgers asked.

“It wouldn’t be unprecedented for a terrorist to let himself be seen,” Herbert said. “Back in 1959, the Soviet spy Igor Slavosk allowed himself to be seen at Grand Central Station in New York so he could draw police attention and bring FBI personnel to his apartment. When they got to the place down on Jane Street, it blew up. Slavosk came back, collected badges and IDs, and had perfect fakes made. He used them to get into FBI headquarters in Washington. So, yes, it’s possible the Harpooner allowed his presence to be known through channels.”

“Go on,” Hood said quietly. He was getting impatient. Not at Bob Herbert; the intelligence chief was simply a convenient target. Hood wanted Orlov to call him back. He wanted to hear that everything was all right at the hospital. He wanted some good news for a change.

“Sorry,” Herbert said. “So the Harpooner somehow lets it be known that he’s going to Baku. He has some kind of operation planned. He knows there are CIA personnel attached to the embassy. He also knows that the CIA might not want to expose those people since police from the Azerbaijani Ministry of Internal Security are probably keeping an eye on embassy personnel, watching for foreign intelligence operations. So the CIA brings someone in from Moscow.”

“Battat,” said Hood.

“Yes,” Herbert said. He seemed a little uneasy. “David Battat was the head of the CIA’s New York City field office. He was the man who hired Annabelle Hampton.”

“The junior officer we busted during the UN siege?” Rodgers said.

Herbert nodded. “Battat was in Moscow at the time. We checked him. He’s clean. One of our CIA contacts told me he was sent to Baku to do penance for the New York screwup.”

Hood nodded. “All right. You’ve got Battat in Baku.” “Battat goes out to a target area to watch for the Harpooner and gets taken down,” Herbert said. “Not taken out, which the Harpooner could have done with no problem. Battat was apparently infected with a virus or chemical designed to drop him at a specific time. Something serious enough so that he’d be taken to the hospital.”

“Under guard from his fellow CIA operatives,” Hood said.

“Exactly,” Herbert replied. “Pretty maids all in a row.”

“Which leaves the Harpooner free of CIA interference to do whatever he’s planning,” Hood said.

“That’s what it looks like,” Herbert said. “No one but the United States, Russia, and probably Iran has any kind of intelligence presence in Baku.”

“Because of the Caspian oil?” Rodgers asked.

Herbert nodded. “If the Harpooner also hit operatives from Moscow and Teheran, we haven’t heard about it.”

Hood thought about that. “Iran,” he said softly.

“Excuse me?” Herbert said.

“That’s the second time we’ve been talking about Iran today,” Hood said.

“But not for the same—” Herbert said, then stopped.

“Not for the same reason?” Hood asked.

“Aw, no,” Herbert said after a moment. “No.”

“Hold on,” Rodgers said. “What am I missing?”

“You’re thinking the game of telephone could go from the Harpooner to Teheran to Jack Fenwick to the NSA to the CIA,” Herbert said.

“It’s possible,” Hood said.

“That would put Fenwick in bed with them on something involving the Harpooner,” Herbert said.

“Something he would not want the president to know about,” Hood pointed out.

Herbert was shaking his head. “I don’t want this to be happening,” he said. “I don’t want us working with the sonofabitch who killed my wife.”

“Bob, I need you to calm down,” Hood said.

Herbert was glaring at Hood’s desk.

“If the Harpooner is up to something in Baku, we might still be able to get him,” Hood said. “But only if we stay focused.”

Herbert did not respond.

“Bob”

“I hear you,” Herbert said. “I’m focused.”

Hood looked at Rodgers. A minute ago, Hood wanted to lash out. Now that one of his friends was hurting, the desire had subsided. All he wanted to do was help Herbert.

Why did he never feel that way about Sharon when she was angry?

“Mike,” Hood said, “we really need to pin down what Fenwick’s been up to and who, if anyone, he’s been working with.”

“I’ll get that information,” Rodgers said. “But I can tell you this much. I found two e-mails in my computer files from six months ago. They were written by Jack Fenwick and Burt Gable.”

“What were the memos about?” Hood asked.

“They were responding to a Pentagon white paper,” Rodgers said. “The paper was about the minimal threat of possible Russian military alliances with neighbors who were not part of the former Soviet Union. Fenwick and Gable took issue with that.” “The head of the National Security Agency and the president’s chief of staff both took issue to the report, independently,” Hood said.

“Correct,” said Rodgers. “The memos were sent to all the members of congress and various military leaders.”

“I wonder if the two men met philosophically on-line,” Hood said. “What was the time code on the memos?”

“A few hours apart,” Rodgers said. “They didn’t appear to be part of a concerted effort. But they both shared an aggressive disapproval of the report.”

“I guess it doesn’t matter whether Fenwick and Gable issued those memos independent of one another or whether they found out they had something in common when they read them,” Hood said. “The question is whether they did something about it. Whether they got together and did some plotting.”

“What makes you think they might have?” asked Herbert, easing back into the conversation.

“Gable’s name came up today in my talk with the president,” Hood said. “He and Fenwick’s assistant Don Roedner were responsible for keeping the CIOC in the loop about that UN initiative.”

“And didn’t,” Herbert said.

“No, they didn’t.” Hood tapped the desk slowly. “We’ve got two issues here,” he said a moment later. “Fenwick’s activities in New York and the Harpooner’s activities in Baku.”

“Assuming they are separate.” Herbert said. “The two operations do have Iran in common. The Harpooner has worked for Teheran before.”

Hood nodded. “What if he’s working for them again?”

“Against Azerbaijan,” said Herbert.

“It’s possible,” Rodgers said. “The Iranians have two potential areas of conflict with Azerbaijan. The Caspian oil reserves and the bordering Nagorno-Karabakh region.”

“But why would Fenwick want to be involved in something like that?” Herbert said. “Just to prove the Pentagon wrong? Then what?”

“I don’t know,” Hood said. He looked at Rodgers. “Get to him and make him open up. Not only about Iran but about why he lied to the president.”

“Tell him you’ve got information you can only tell him face-to-face,” Herbert said.

“Right,” Hood said. “Have Liz work out a psych profile of the president. One based on firsthand observations, including my own, that makes it look as though Lawrence is losing his grip. Bring that to Fenwick, ostensibly on the Q.T. Ask if he’s heard anything about this.”

Rodgers nodded and left.

Hood looked at Herbert. “If Iran has any military adventures on the drawing board, they may have moved troops or matériel. The NRO may have noticed something. Has Stephen Viens gone back to work there?”

“Last week,” Herbert said.

The NRO was the National Reconnaissance Office, the top-secret facility that manages most of America’s spy satellites. An agency of the Department of Defense, the NRO is staffed by personnel from the CIA, the military, and civilian DOD personnel. The existence of the NRO was declassified in September of 1992, twenty years after it was first established. Stephen Viens was an old college buddy of Op-Center’s computer chief Matt Stoll. He had been extremely helpful getting information to Op-Center when more established groups like military intelligence, the CIA, and the NSA were fighting for satellite time. Viens had been accused of hiding money in a black ops situation but was later vindicated.

“Good,” Hood said. “See if Viens can find anything. The NRO may have spotted activity in Iran without perceiving any immediate danger.”

“I’m on it,” Herbert said.

The intelligence chief wheeled his chair from the office. Hood sat back. He looked at the phone. He wanted to hear from Orlov. He wanted to hear that the Russian had someone in place and that Battat would be all right. He wanted to hear that they had managed to put the brakes on the bad news and could start turning this situation around.

We have to, Hood thought. There was something out there. Something big and dangerous. He did not know what it was or who was behind it. He did not know if the pieces Op-Center had collected would fit together. He only knew one thing for certain: Whatever it was, it had to be stopped.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Baku, Azerbaijan Tuesday, 5:01 A.M.

David Battat felt frigidly cold and light-headed. He could hear his heart in his ears, feel it in his throat. He was aware of being wheeled somewhere. There were faces over him. Lights flashed by. Then he felt himself being lifted. He was placed on a bed, still experiencing a sense of forward motion. He was not strapped down, but there were raised metal gates on the side of the bed.

Battat shut his eyes. He did not know what had happened to him. He remembered waking up at the embassy, perspiring and shaking. Moore and Thomas brought him to the car, and then he must have slept. The next thing he knew, he woke up on a gurney.

He heard people moving around him. He coughed and opened his eyes. There was a white-haired man looking down at him.

“Mr. Battat, can you hear me?” the man shouted.

Battat nodded.

“We are going to undress you and put you in a gown,” the man said to him. “Then we need to get an IV into you. Do you understand?”

Battat nodded. “What . . . happened?”

“You’re ill,” the doctor told him as a pair of male nurses came over. They began lifting and undressing him. “You have a very high fever. We have to bring it down.”

“Okay,” Battat said. What else could he say? He could not have resisted if he wanted to. But he did not understand how he could have gotten sick. He had felt fine before.

The medical team worked on him for several minutes. Battat was not entirely aware of what they were doing. He only knew that he was being shifted and turned and poked. He felt a pinch in his right arm, at the elbow, and then there was no further pain. He was also shivering, and he felt cold. Sweat had soaked into Battat’s pillow. His fever warmed it quickly. His head sank into the down, muffling the sounds of the people and whatever it was they were doing. He shut his eyes again and allowed his mind to go wherever it wanted.

Soon it was quiet and dark. Battat began to feel a little warmer, more comfortable. He no longer heard drumming in his ears. He was awake, but his thoughts were dreamlike. His mind went back over the days. He saw short, blurry visions of the embassy in Moscow, the trip to Baku, the seashore, the sudden pain of the attack. A pinch in his neck. He was unaware of time passing or the hospital room. There was just a strange, not unpleasant sense of drifting. There must be something in the IV. Something that was relaxing him.

Then Battat heard something click. It sounded like a gun hammer cocking. He opened his eyes. There was a window to the left of the bed, but it was shut. He glanced toward the foot of the bed. The last time he had looked, the door was ajar. Now it was shut. A doctor or nurse must have closed it. The room was even quieter than before. It was nice. He shut his eyes again. There were no more visions, only darkness. Battat slipped quickly into a dreamless sleep.

There was another click. The sound woke Battat, and he opened his eyes. The door was still closed. But now there was someone in the room. He could see a dark figure standing in front of the door. The figure was black against the darkness behind it.

Battat was not sure he was awake.

“Hi,” he said. He heard his own voice. He was definitely awake.

Slowly, the shadow moved toward him. Someone must have come to check on him.

“It’s all bright,” Battat said in a soft slur. “You can turn on the light. I’m awake.”

The figure did not speak. Battat could not make out whether it was a man or a woman. It appeared to be wearing a medical robe of some kind. And it was holding something long and slender. Battat could see the silhouette low at its side. It looked like a knife.

“Do you speak English?” Battat asked.

There was a monitor on the wall behind Battat. The green glow threw a faint light on the figure as it stopped beside the bed. It was a man. And he was definitely holding a knife. The long blade gleamed in the dull light.

“What is this?” Battat asked. It was beginning to penetrate his foggy mind that the newcomer was not a doctor. Battat tried to move, but his arms felt like they were full of wet sand.

The man’s arm went back.

“Someone!” Battat said, trying to raise his voice. “Help me—”

And then the man vanished.

A moment later, sounds came from the floor. There were low grunts, chattering, and then a long, slow groan. They were followed by silence.

Battat tried to raise himself on an elbow. His arm shook, and he fell back down.

Suddenly, someone rose beside the bed.

“There may be others,” said the figure. “We have to leave.”

The sharp, thickly accented voice belonged to a woman. There were an awful lot of people here.

“I thought this was a private room,” Battat said.

With swift, sure movements, the woman lowered the gate beside the bed, unhooked the IV, and raised Battat to a sitting position. She kept her hand on his back.

“Can you walk?” she asked.

“If you let go ... I’m not sure I can sit,” he replied.

The woman lay Battat back down and stepped away from the bed. She was a tall, lean woman with broad shoulders. He could see now that she was wearing a police uniform. The woman went to the window and pulled the curtains aside. She turned the latch and raised the window. A cool, salty breeze blew in. It made him shiver. The woman looked outside. Then she grabbed a bathrobe from a hook behind the door and returned to the bed. She sat Battat up again and pulled the robe around his shoulders.

“What are we doing?” he asked. Without the IV in his arm, he was feeling a little more focused. His head was also hurting from sitting up.

“No talk,” she said.

“But wait,” he said.

“They’ve killed your companions, and they’re trying to kill you,” she snapped. “I was sent to get you out.”

“Killed them?”

“Quiet!” she hissed.

Battat stopped talking.

His head ached as the woman helped him stand. She grabbed Battat’s clothes, then slipped his left arm around her shoulder and helped him to the window. As they hobbled over, Battat tried to focus on what she had just told him. Were Moore and Thomas dead? If so, it had to be the Harpooner. Maybe he thought they knew more than they did. But if they were dead, who had sent this woman to help him? And how did he know that she was not working for the Harpooner? She might be taking him somewhere so the killer could finish the job.

But Battat knew he might as well trust her. He was certainly in no condition to resist. Besides, the woman was being gentle with him. And if she had wanted him dead, she could have killed him in the bed. Or she could have let the other intruder kill him.

When they reached the window, the woman told Battat to lean on the sill. He did, unsteadily. She kept a hand on him, helping to keep him upright as she slipped around him. She landed quietly among the hedges outside the window and then helped him down. She put his arm back around her shoulder and then crouched. They listened for several seconds.

Battat was shivering again, his teeth clattering. But at least he was more awake than before. After a moment, they were on the move again. He felt as if he was being carried through the night. They had emerged in back of the hospital and were making their way around to the north side. They stopped at a car. To Battat’s surprise, it wasn’t a police car but a small black Hyundai.

She probably was not a policewoman at all. Battat did not know if that were a good thing or a bad thing. But as she laid him across the backseat and climbed behind the wheel, he knew one thing for certain.

If he remained conscious, he would find out very soon.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Washington, D.C. Monday, 10:03 P.M.

The red-haired man sat behind his large desk. The office was dark, save for the glow of a green-shaded desk lamp and the red light on top of the phone. That meant the scrambler function was engaged.

“People are asking about Fenwick’s trip,” said the red-haired man.

“What people?” said the man on the other end of the line.

“The intelligence unit at Op-Center.”

“Op-Center is well removed from the president,” the other man said. “They don’t have the same clout as the CIA—”

“I’m not so sure about that,” the red-haired man interrupted.

“What do you mean?”

“I was told that Director Hood asked for and received a private meeting with the president a few hours ago,” said the red-haired man.

“I know.”

“Do you know what they discussed?” asked the red-haired man.

“No. More fallout from the United Nations affair. I’d guess. Do you have reason to believe otherwise?” the man asked.

“Paul Hood spoke briefly with the First Lady last night.” the red-haired man said. “I checked his file. They knew each other in the past.”

“Knew each other in a way we can use?”

“No,” said the red-haired man. “It was platonic. Anyway, she might have seen a change in the president. Maybe she said something to Hood. I just don’t know.”

“I see,” said the other.

There was a long silence. The red-haired man waited. He was concerned about the unexpected presence of Op-Center. The other agencies had all been covered. He and his partners had been counting on the transition period between Paul Hood and General Rodgers to keep Op-Center’s eyes looking inward. Unfortunately, that had not happened. But with H-hour approaching on the foreign operation, they could not afford to have anyone watching. Harpooner had seen to it on his end. They must see to it on their end.

“Is the other documentation ready?” the other man finally asked.

The red-haired man looked at his watch. He really needed glasses to read this close, but he was fighting that. He was fighting a lot of things. He moved his wrist back slightly. “In another hour or so,” he replied.

“All right,” said the other man. “I don’t want to move against Op-Center directly. There isn’t time. And without careful planning, we might do more harm than good.”

“I agree,” said the red-haired man.

“Let’s continue with the plan,” said the other man. “If Op-Center is watching Fenwick or the president without any real idea what we’re up to, that should keep them busy enough. Just make sure Fenwick. doesn’t do or say anything that might give them more information.”

“Understood,” said the red-haired man. “I’ll let Fenwick know.”

The other man thanked him and hung up.

The red-haired man placed the receiver in the cradle. He would call Fenwick in a minute. This was serious, unprecedented business. He needed a moment to remind himself that this was all being done for a good reason: to make sure that the United States survived the new millennium.

Despite this small setback, everything was still working the way they had planned. Reporters had been calling his office to find out about the new UN initiative, an initiatve that only the president seemed to be aware of. Members of the CIOC and even people at the UN apparently had not known about it. One very dogged TV reporter had called this evening to ask if the president had imagined “this whole thing, too.” And Red Gable, the president’s chief of staff, had answered off the record, “I honestly don’t know, Sam. I do not know what is wrong with the president.”

Though the quote would be off the record, Gable knew that his sentiment would be mentioned in the broadcast. The reporter reminded Red that this was the third time in a week the president had gotten something seriously wrong. The first time was at a breakfast with reporters. The president commented about farm subsidy legislation that was supposedly before congress. It was not. The second time, just two days ago, was at a press conference. The president’s opening remarks included comments about a civil rights case that was supposedly before the Supreme Court. No such case existed. What Gable did not tell the reporter, of course, was that the set of documents the president had been given during his daily briefings was different from the set of documents that he should have seen. The real ones. Gable had slipped those documents into the president’s files after he made the public misstatements. When the president had the files brought to him, he did not understand where the misinformation had come from. Investigations by Gable and his assistants failed to turn up any suspicious activity.

Gable did not smile. He could not. The situation was too serious. But he was gratified. The reporter and many of his colleagues were very concerned about the president’s state of mind. By tomorrow afternoon, the rest of the nation would also be concerned. Events that were about to unfold a world away and in Washington had been very carefully orchestrated. Events that would be misinterpreted by everyone except the third and most important leader of their team: the vice president. The president would insist that Azerbaijan had attacked an Iranian oil rig. He would recommend staying out of the conflict because it was a local issue. As Iran built up its forces in the region, the vice president would publicly urge a different tack. He would say that he did not trust Iran and would strongly advise building up an American military presence in the Caspian. Fenwick would back up the vice president. He would report that during his meetings with the Iranians, they had spoken vaguely of events that were on the horizon. He would say that they asked the United States to do nothing while they strengthened their hold on oil reserves in the region.

The Iranians would deny that, of course. But no one in America would believe them.

The disagreement between the president and vice president would cause a very public rift.

And when the Harpooner’s Iranian cohorts were found dead with photographs and other evidence of sabotage on their bodies—murdered by the Harpooner himself—the vice president and Fenwick would be vindicated.

Reporters would then openly discuss the president’s questionable judgment. Washington would be abuzz with rumors that the president was unstable. Senators like Barbara Fox would have no choice but to support a motion to impeachment. Sex scandals were one thing. Mental illness was something much different. There would be calls for Lawrence to step down. For the good of the nation, Lawrence would have no choice but to resign.

Vice president Cotten would become president. He would ask Jack Fenwick to become his new vice president. Congress would quickly endorse his selection. Meanwhile, the American military would move into the Caspian. They would help the Azerbaijanis protect their rigs.

In the heat of rising tensions, President Cotten would remain strong.

And then something else would happen. Something that would demand an American response so firm, so devastating, that religious fanatics would never again attack a target under American protection.

In the end, Gable told himself, the career of a president was worth that sacrifice.

TWENTY-NINE

Baku, Azerbaijan Tuesday, 6:15 A.M.

When forty-seven-year-old Ron Friday first arrived in Baku, he felt as though he had been dropped into medieval times.

It was not a question of architecture. Embassy row was in a very modern section of the city. The modern buildings could have been lifted whole from Washington, D.C., or London, or Tokyo, or any other modern metropolis. But Baku was not like those cities where he had spent so much time. Once you moved past the embassies and business center of Baku, there was a pronounced sense of age. Many of the buildings had been standing when Columbus reached the Americas.

No, the architecture was not what made Baku seem so old, so feudal. It was a sense of entropy among the people. Azerbaijan had been ruled from the outside for so long, now that the people were free and independent, they seemed unmotivated, directionless. If it were not for petrodollars, they would probably slip deep into the Third World.

At least, that was Friday’s impression. Fortunately, when the former Army Ranger and his people were finished with what they were doing here, Azerbaijan would not be quite so independent.

Friday entered his seven-story apartment building. The ten-year-old brick building was located two blocks from the embassy. He made his way up the marble stairs. Friday lived on the top floor, but he did not like being in elevators. Even when he was with the other embassy workers who lived here, he took the stairs. Elevators were too confining, and they left him vulnerable.

Friday walked toward his apartment. He could not believe that he had been here nearly six months. It seemed much longer, and he was glad his tenure was coming to an end. Not because Deputy Ambassador Williamson didn’t need him. To the contrary, Friday had proven valuable to the diplomat, especially in her efforts to moderate Azerbaijani claims on Caspian oil. Friday’s years as an attorney for a large international oil company served him well in that capacity. But Friday’s real boss would need him elsewhere, in some other trouble spot. He would see to it that Friday was transferred.

To India or Pakistan, perhaps. That was where Friday really wanted to go. There were oil issues to be dealt with there, in the Arabian Sea and on the border between the Great Indian Desert in the Rajasthan province of India and the Thar Desert in Pakistan. But more than that, the Indian subcontinent was the place where the next big war would begin, perhaps triggered by a nuclear exchange. Friday wanted to be in there, helping to manipulate the politics of the region. It had been a dream of his ever since he was in college. Since the day when he had first gone to work for the National Security Agency.

Friday put the key in the door and listened. He heard the cat cry. Her mewing was a normal welcome. That was a very good indication that no one was waiting for him inside.

Friday had been recruited by the NSA when he was in law school. One of his professors, Vincent Van Heusen, had been an OSS operative during World War II. After the war, Van Heusen had helped draft the National Security Act of 1947, the legislation that led to the founding of the Central Intelligence Agency.

Professor Van Heusen saw in Friday some of the same qualities he himself had possessed as a young man. Among those was independence. Friday had learned that growing up in the Michigan woods where he attended a one-room schoolhouse and went hunting with his father every weekend—not only with a rifle but with a longbow. After graduating from NYU, Friday spent time at the NSA as a trainee. When he went to work for the oil industry a year later, he was also working as a spy. In addition to making contacts in Europe, the Middle East, and the Caspian, Friday was given the names of CIA operatives working in those countries. From time to time, he was asked to watch them—to spy on the spies, to make certain that they were working only for the United States.

Friday finally left the private sector five years ago, bored with working for the oil industry. They had become more concerned with international profits than with the vitality of America and its economy. But that was not why he quit. He left the private sector out of patriotism. He wanted to work for the NSA full-time. He had watched as intelligence operations went to hell overseas. Electronic espionage had replaced hands-on human surveillance. The result was much less efficient mass intelligence gathering. To Friday, that was like getting meat from a slaughterhouse instead of hunting it down. The food didn’t taste as good when it was mass-produced. The experience was less satisfying. And over time, the hunter grew soft.

Friday had no intention of growing soft. So when his Washington contact told him that Jack Fenwick wanted to talk to him, Friday was eager to meet. Friday went to see him at the Off the Record bar at the Hay-Adams Hotel. It was during the week of the president’s inauguration, so the bar was jammed, and the men were barely noticed. It was then that Fenwick suggested a plan so bold that Friday thought it was a joke. Or a test of some kind.

Then Friday agreed to meet with some of the other members of the group. And he believed.

Oh, how he believed. They sent him here and, through contacts in Iran, he was put in touch with the Harpooner. Iran did not realize they were going to be double-crossed. That once they had an excuse to move into the Caspian Sea, a new American president would move against them.

And the Harpooner? He did not care. Friday and the Harpooner had worked closely organizing the attack against Battat and the program of disinformation to the CIA.

Friday was still dressed in yesterday’s clothes. In case anyone saw him, that would support the story he would tell them. It was just one of the many stories he had perfected over the years to cover meetings he had to make with operatives.

Or targets.

Friday was glad the Harpooner had put one of his other men inside the hospital as backup. They had hoped that Friday would be able to get both Moore and Thomas while they were outside. But the way the ambulance was parked he did not have a clear shot at Thomas. Friday hoped the Iranian assassin had been able to get the other man. It would have been easier, of course, if Friday could have taken all three men out in the embassy. But that might have exposed him. The embassy was not that large, and someone might have seen them. And there were security cameras everywhere. This way had been cleaner, easier.

After firing the shot, Friday had dropped the rifle the Harpooner had given to him. It was a G3, a Heckler & Koch model, Iranian manufacture. He had others at his disposal if he needed them. Friday had tossed the weapon in a shallow pond near the hospital. He knew the local police would search the area for clues and would probably find it. He wanted it to be traced back to Teheran. Friday and his people wanted to make very sure that the world knew Iran had assassinated two officials of the United States embassy. The Iranians would disavow that, of course, but America would not believe the Iranians. The NSA would see to that.

The Iranians who were working with the Harpooner had made cell phone calls to one another during the past few days. They had discussed the attack on the oil rig and described the two pylons that had to be destroyed: “target one” and “target two.” The Iranians did not know that the Harpooner made certain those calls were monitored by the NSA. That the conversations were recorded and then digitally altered. Now, on those tapes, the targets the Iranians were discussing were embassy employees, not pylons.

In a phone call of his own, the Harpooner had added that the deaths would be a warning, designed to discourage Americans from pursuing any action against Iran in the coming oil wars. The Harpooner pointed out in the call that if Washington insisted on becoming involved, American officials would be assassinated worldwide.

Of course, that threat would backfire. After President Lawrence resigned, the new president of the United States would use the brutal murders as a rallying cry. He was not a live-and-let-live leader like the incumbent. Someone who was willing to cooperate with the United Nations to the detriment of his own nation. The assassinations, like the attacks on the oil rigs, would underscore that the United States had unfinished business from the previous century: the need to strike a decisive, fullscale blow against terrorist regimes and terrorist groups that were being protected by those regimes.

Friday entered his apartment. He saw the red light on his answering machine flashing. He walked over and played the message. There was only one, from Deputy Ambassador Williamson. She needed him to come to the embassy right away. She said that she had tried his cell phone but could not reach him.

Well, of course she could not. His cell phone had been in his jacket, and his jacket had been slung over a chair in another room. He had not heard the phone because he was in the bedroom of a woman he had met at the International Bar.

Friday called her back at the embassy. Williamson did not bother to ask where he had been. She just told him the bad news. Tom Moore had been shot and killed by a sniper outside the hospital. Pat Thomas’s throat had been cut by an assassin inside the hospital.

Friday allowed himself a small, contented smile. The Harpooner’s assassin had succeeded.

“Fortunately,” Williamson went on, “David Battat was able to stop the man who tried to kill him.”

Friday’s expression darkened. “How?”

“His throat was cut with his own knife,” she said.

“But Battat was ill—”

“I know,” said the deputy ambassador. “And either Battat was delirious or afraid. After he stopped the killer, he left the hospital by the window. The police are out looking for him now. So far, all they’ve found was the rifle used to kill Mr. Moore. Metal detectors picked it up in a pond.”

“I see,” Friday said. The assassin did not speak English. Even if Battat were lucid, he could not have learned anything from the killer. But Fenwick and the Harpooner would be furious if Battat were still alive. “I’d better go out and join the search,” Friday said.

“No,” Williamson said. “I need you here at the embassy. Someone has to liaise between the Baku police and Washington. I’ve got to deal with the political ramifications.”

“What political ramifications?” Friday asked innocently. This was going to be sweet. It was going to be very sweet.

“The police found the rifle they think was used in the attack on Moore,” she said. “I don’t want to talk about this on an open line. I’ll tell you more when you get here.”

That was good news, at least. The deputy ambassador had concluded that the killings were political and not random.

“I’m on my way,” Friday said.

“Watch yourself,” Williamson said.

“I always do,” he replied. Friday hung up, turned around, and left the apartment. “I always do.”

THIRTY

Baku, Azerbaijan Tuesday, 6:16 A.M.

The Harpooner and his team reached the oil rig just before dawn. The boat cut its engines one thousand feet from the nearest of the four columns. Then the Harpooner and four members of his Iranian team slipped into the water. They were all wearing wet suits and compressed air cylinders. Slipping beneath the dark surface of the sea, the men swam toward the rig.

Two of them carried waterproof pouches containing watergel high-energy explosives. The Harpooner had carefully injected the blue sticks with heat-sensitive pentanitroaniline. As the sun rose, the heat would cause the foil packet to warm. The sunlight itself would detonate the explosion.

Two other men carried an inflatable raft. This would allow them some stability underneath the platform. Many rigs had sensors on the columns and motion detectors along the sea line. Avoiding the columns and going under the motion detectors was the safest way to get inside the perimeter. Once the explosives were placed, it would be virtually impossible for the crew of the rig to get to them in time.

The Harpooner carried a spear gun and night-vision glasses. He would use the gun to fire the watergel packets around the support struts beneath the platform. The Harpooner had brought along only a dozen of the seven-eighths-inch sticks of explosive. He had learned long ago that the trick to destroying something big is not necessarily to hit it with something big. In hand-to-hand combat, a foe could be driven back with a powerful roundhouse punch. He can be debilitated faster, more efficiently, and with more control, with a finger pressed against his throat, just below the larynx and above the clavicle. Hooking the top of a foot behind the knee and then stepping down with the side of the foot will drop someone faster than hitting them with a baseball bat. Besides, all it takes to neutralize a bat attack is to move in close to the attacker.

The Iranian oil rigs in the Caspian Sea are mostly semisubmersible platforms. They rest on four thick legs with massive pontoons that sink below the waterline. There is a platform on top of the legs. The riser system—the underwater component, which includes the drill—descends from the derrick, which is mounted on the platform. The key to destroying a platform like that is not to take out the columns but to weaken the center of the platform. Once that has happened, the weight of the structures on top will do the rest. The Harpooner’s team had been able to get copies of the oil rig blueprints. He knew just where to place the watergel.

The men reached the underbelly of the rig without incident. Though it was dark in the water, the higher struts of the rig caught the first glint of dawn. As the Harpooner eyeballed the target, two men inflated the raft while the other two attached a pair of watergel sticks beneath the tip of three spears. The twelve-inch-long sticks were carefully taped belly-to-belly. This configuration allowed the spear to be fitted into the tube muzzle. It also made sure that the sticks of watergel would not upset the balance of the spear. Though it would have been easier to assemble the package on the boat, the Harpooner had wanted to keep the watergel packets as dry as possible. Though moisture would not harm the explosives, wet foil would take longer for the sun to warm. These packets would only be exposed to direct sunlight for a half hour. He had to make certain they were dry enough—and thus hot enough—to explode within that time.

The raft was a six-man hexagonal platform. The Harpooner did not need it to hold six men. He wanted the larger size for stability. Larger rafts tended to ignore the smaller waves. That was important when he lay on his back to fire. He had removed the canopy to make it lighter. The large case in which it had been carried was discarded. The Harpooner climbed on board while the other men hung onto the sides to steady the raft even more.

The speargun was made of stainless steel. It was painted matte black to minimize reflected sunlight. The spears were also black. The weapon was comprised of a forty-inch-long black tube and a yellow grip and trigger at the end. Only a foot of spear protruded from the end. Normally, a rope was attached to the spears so that prey could be hauled back to the spearman. The Harpooner had removed these back on the boat.

There were six-inch-thick acoustic dampeners beneath the platform. They were located fifty feet above the sea. The hard rubber pads had been placed there to muffle the sounds of activity. This was done so that people who lived on the rig would suffer as little noise pollution as possible. The Harpooner had chosen his targets from the blueprints. He would fire two harpoons. The first would go into the padded area below and to the northeast of the derrick. The derrick was in the southwest corner of the platform. When the detonation occurred, the derrick would fall toward the center of the platform. A second harpoon would be fired into the platform at the point where the heavy center of the derrick would land. The second explosion, plus the impact of the derrick, would shatter the platform and cause it to collapse inward. Everything would slide to the center and tumble into the sea.

The Harpooner would not need the third harpoon to destroy the rig, though he did not tell his people that.

The terrorist donned night-vision glasses and lay on his back. The speargun had terrific recoil, equivalent to a twelve-gauge shotgun. That would give him quite a bump. But his shoulder could take it. He aimed the weapon and fired. There was a sound like a metallic cough and the spear flew through the dark.

It hit the target with a faint thunk. The Harpooner quickly repositioned himself to fire the second shaft. It, too, struck its target. He motioned the men to start back. As soon as the others ducked underwater, the Harpooner pulled the tape from the spear, grabbed one of the equipment bags, and slipped the watergel sticks inside. Then he slid into the water and followed his men back to the boat.

Upon boarding the vessel, the men dropped the remains of Sergei Cherkassov into the sea. On the way over, they had burned the body. It would look as though he had been killed in the blast. The photographs that had been taken from the airplane were already in his pocket. As far as the Iranians on board knew, the Russians and the Azerbaijanis would be blamed for the attack.

The Harpooner knew differently.

When Cherkassov was in the water, the boat departed. They were nearly out of visual range when the oil rig exploded.

The Harpooner was watching through high-powered binoculars. He saw the puff of yellow red smoke under the platform. He saw the tower shudder and then do a slow pirouette drop toward the center. A moment later, the muted pop of the first explosion reached the boat.

The Iranians on the deck all cheered. Which was odd, the Harpooner thought. Even though they thought they were doing this for the national good, they were happy about the deaths of at least one hundred of their countrymen.

A moment before the derrick hit, the second watergel packet exploded. The Harpooner had positioned the two to go off nearly at the same time. It would not have done for the derrick to crash, knock the spear from the rubber padding, and drop it into the sea. A second cloud of red and yellow smoke began to form, but it was flattened and disbursed when the derrick struck the platform. It hit with a small-sounding crunch. Debris flew into the morning sky, chasing away the distant gulls.

The entire rig shuddered. The whole thing reminded the Harpooner of a vignette he had seen as a child. A poplar tree had been split during a storm and fell across power lines. It hit them, bounced, then hit them again. The lines hung there for a moment before sagging and then ripping from the poles on the left and right. That was what happened here. The platform stood for a moment after the derrick struck. Then, slowly, the steel and concrete sagged where the second blast had weakened them. The platform bent inward. Sheds, cranes, tanks, and even the helicopter began sliding toward the crease. Their weight caused additional strain. The Harpooner could hear the ugly collisions in the distance, see the smoke and shattered pieces of wood and metal fly into the air.

And then it happened. The added weight was too much for the platform to bear. It cracked and dumped everything into the sea. The boat was now too far away for the Harpooner to make everything out. The collapse looked like a waterfall from this distance, especially when the cascade of white and silver debris hit the sea, sending up waves and spray.

As the rig disappeared beyond the horizon, all the Harpooner could see was a large ball of mist hanging in the new day.

He turned away, accepting the congratulations of the team. They were treating him like a football hero, but he felt more like an artist. Using the medium of explosives and a canvas of steel and concrete, the Harpooner had created a perfect destruction.

He went below to wash up. He always needed to wash after creation. It was a symbolic act of completion and of getting ready for the next work. Which would be soon. Very soon.

When the boat reached the docks, the Harpooner told the crew he wanted to go ashore. He told the Iranians he wanted to make certain that the Azerbaijani police had not already learned of the blast. If they had, the police might be checking incoming vessels. They might be looking for possible terrorists and also for eyewitnesses to the explosion.

The men thought that was a good idea.

The Harpooner told them that if he did not come back in five minutes, they should leave the dock and head to the open sea. The Harpooner said that if the police were talking to people, stopping them from leaving the area, he would figure out a way to elude them.

The men agreed. The Harpooner went ashore.

Six minutes later, there was a massive explosion in the harbor. The Harpooner had stuck a timed detonator into one of the sticks of watergel. He had set it and then left it below, under one of the bunks. Evidence from the attack was still on board. It would take a while, but eventually the authorities would find traces of the watergel on the boat and on the rig and realize that the Iranians, aided by a Russian terrorist, had attacked their own operation. The Iranians would dispute that, of course, and tensions would rise even higher. The United States would suspect that the Russians and Iranians were working together to seize the Caspian oil wells. There would be no way to avoid what was coming.

The Harpooner got in the repainted van and drove it from the harbor. There were no police there. Not yet. At this hour, the Baku police force was involved primarily in traffic management and accident investigation. Besides, there was no indication that a boat had attacked the rig or that it had come to Baku. That would come later, when they found the Russian and the Americans had sent over satellite photographs of the region.

The Harpooner headed toward the Old City. There, he drove up Inshaatchilar Prospekti toward the hotels on Bakihanov Kuchasi. Two days before, he had taken a hotel room under an assumed name. Here he was Ivan Ganiev, a telecommunications consultant. It was a name and profession he had chosen with care. If he were ever stopped by customs agents or police, he could explain why he was traveling with high-tech equipment. And being Russian had another advantage, especially here. One that would help him get out of the country when the time came.

He had left clothing, gear, and cash in the room and a do not disturb sign on the door. He would clean himself up, dye his hair, and then take a long nap. When he woke, he would apply a fake mustache, slip colored contact lenses into his eyes, and call a cab to take him to the train station. A cabdriver was always a good hostage in case he was discovered and surrounded. He would use his fake passport to leave the city.

He parked the van in an alley near the hospital. Then he pulled a packet of dental floss from his pocket. He rubbed it deeply between two teeth until his mouth filled with blood. Then he spat on the floor, dashboard, and seat cushion. It was the fastest way to draw blood. It also left no scars, in case anyone decided to stop him and check for wounds. He did not need a lot of blood. Just traces for the forensics people to find. When he was finished with that, he slipped a plastic mircochip in the gas tank. Then he replaced the cap.

When he was finished dressing the van, the Harpooner took the backpack containing the Zed-4 phone and left. When the authorities found the vehicle, they would also find evidence inside tying it to the Iranians in the boat. That would include their fingerprints on the wheel, glove compartment, and handles. They would assume that one or more of the men got away. The blood would suggest that he was injured. The police would waste time looking through hospital records for a possible perpetrator.

The Harpooner would return to Moscow. Then he would leave Russia and permit himself a rest. Possibly a vacation in some country where he had never committed terrorism. Some place where they would not be looking out for him.

Some place where he could sit back and read the newspapers.

Enjoy once again the impact his art had had on the world.

THIRTY-ONE

Washington, D.C. Monday, 11:11 P.M.

Paul Hood was concerned, confused, and tired.

Bob Herbert had just spoken with Stephen Viens of the National Reconnaissance Office. Viens was working late to catch up on paperwork that had collected during his absence. While Viens was there, an NRO satellite had recorded an explosion in the Caspian Sea. He had called Herbert, who wanted to know if anything unusual had happened in the region. Then Herbert called Paul Hood.

“According to our files, the coordinates of the explosion match those of Iran’s Majidi-2 oil rig,” Herbert said.

“Could it have been an accident?” Hood asked.

“We’re checking that now,” Herbert said. “We’ve got some faint radio signals coming from the rig, which means there may be survivors.”

“May be?”

“A lot of those rigs have automatic beacons to signal rescue craft in the area,” Herbert said. “That may be what we’re hearing. The audio keeps breaking up, so we can’t tell if it’s a recording.”

“Understood,” Hood said. “Bob, I’ve got a bad feeling about this. Fenwick goes to the Iranian mission, and then an Iranian rig is attacked.”

“I know,” Herbert said. “I tried to call him, but there was no answer. I’m wondering if the NSA knew about this attack, and Fenwick took intelligence to the mission in New York.”

“If Fenwick had intel, wouldn’t Iran have tried to prevent the attack?” Hood asked.

“Not necessarily,” Herbert told Hood. “Teheran has been itching for a reason to establish a stronger military presence in the Caspian Sea. An attack by Azerbaijan could give them that reason. It’s no different than historians who say that Franklin Roosevelt allowed Pearl Harbor to be attacked so we’d have a reason to get into World War Two.”

“But then why all the deception with the president?” Hood asked.

“Plausible deniability?” Herbert replied. “The president has been getting misinformation.”

“Yes, but Jack Fenwick would not undertake something of this magnitude on his own,” Hood said.

“Why not?” Herbert asked. “Ollie North ran an uberoperation during Iran-Centra—”

“A military officer might have the balls for that but not Jack Fenwick,” Hood said. “I had a look at his dossier. The guy is Mr. Support Systems. He’s instituted backup systems for backup systems at the NSA. Got congress to jack up the budget fifteen percent for next year. The CIA only got an eight percent bump and we got six.”

“Impressive.”

“Yeah,” Hood said. “And he just doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy to take this kind of chance. Not without backup.”

“So?” Herbert said. “Maybe he’s got it.”

Shit, Hood thought. Maybe he does.

“Think about it,” Herbert went on. “He got double the increases everyone else got. Who has that kind of sway with congress? Not President Lawrence, that’s for sure. He’s not conservative enough for the budget group.”

“No, he’s not,” Hood agreed. “Bob, find out if Matt can get into Fenwick’s phone records and calendar. See who he might have talked to and met with over the past few days and weeks.”

“Sure,” he said. “But it’s going to be tough to draw any conclusions from that. The NSA head meets with practically everyone.”

“Exactly,” Hood said.

“I don’t follow.”

“If Fenwick were part of a black-ops situation, he would probably meet with his team away from the office. Maybe by seeing who he stopped meeting with, officially, we can figure out who he’s been seeing on the sly.”

“Nice one, Paul,” Herbert said. “I wouldn’t have thought of that.”

“But that isn’t what has me worried,” Hood went on. The phone beeped. “Excuse me, Bob. Would you bring Mike up to date on this?”

“Will do,” Herbert said.

Hood switched lines. Sergei Orlov was on the other end.

“Paul,” Orlov said, “good news. We have your man.”

“What do you mean you have him?” Hood asked. The Russian operative was only supposed to keep an eye on him.

“Our operative arrived in time to save him from joining his comrades,” Orlov said. “The assassin was dispatched and left in the hospital room. Your man was taken from the hospital to another location. He is there now.”

“General, I don’t know what to say,” Hood told him. “Thank you.”

“Thank you is good enough,” Orlov said. “But what do we do now? Can he help us get the Harpooner?”

“I hope so,” Hood told him. “The Harpooner must still be there. Otherwise, he would not have had to draw these people out and assassinate them. General, did you hear what happened in the Caspian?”

“Yes,” Orlov said. “An Iranian oil rig was destroyed. The Azerbaijanis are probably going to be blamed, whether they did it or not. Do you know anything more about it?”

“Not yet,” Hood said. “But the operative you saved might. If the Harpooner’s behind this attack, we need to know. Can you arrange for the American agent to call me here?”

“Yes,” Orlov said.

Hood thanked him and said he would wait by the phone.

Orlov was correct. Suspicion would fall on Azerbaijan. They were the ones who disputed Iran’s presence in that region of the sea. They were the ones who had the most to gain. But the Harpooner had done most of his work for Middle Eastern nations. What if Azerbaijan wasn’t behind the attack? What if another nation was trying to make it seem that way?

Hood got back on the phone with Herbert. He also patched in Mike Rodgers and briefed them both. When he was finished, there was a short silence.

“Frankly, I’m stumped,” Herbert said. “We need more intel.”

“I agree,” Hood said. “But we may have more intel than we think.”

“What do you mean?” Herbert asked.

“I mean we’ve got the NSA working with Iran,” Hood said. “We have a president who was kept out of the loop by the NSA. We have a terrorist who works with Iran taking out CIA agents in Azerbaijan. We have an attack on an Iranian oil installation off the coast of Azerbaijan. There’s a lot of information there. Maybe we’re not putting it together in the right way.”

“Paul, do we know who in the CIA first found out the Harpooner was in Baku?” Rodgers asked.

“No,” Hood said. “Good point.”

“I’ll get someone to find that out ASAP,” Herbert said.

Hood and Rodgers waited while Herbert made the call. Hood sat there trying to make sense of the facts, but it still was not coming together. Concerned, confused, and tired. It was a bad combination, especially for a man in his forties. He used to be able to pull all-nighters without a problem. Not anymore.

Herbert got back on. “I’ve got someone calling the director’s office, Code Red-One,” he said. “We’ll have the information soon.”

Code Red-One signified an imminent emergency to national interest. Despite the competitiveness between the agencies, CR1s were generally not denied.

“Thanks,” Hood said.

“Paul, do you know the story about the Man Who Never Was?” Rodgers asked.

“The World War Two story? I read the book in high school,” Hood said. “He was part of the disinformation campaign during World War Two.”

“Correct,” Rodgers said. “A British intelligence group took the body of a homeless man, created a false identity for it, and planted papers on the body that said the Allies would invade Greece, not Sicily. The body was left where the Germans would find it. This helped divert Axis forces from Sicily. I mention this because a key player in the operation was a British general named Howard Tower. He was key in the sense that he was also fed misinformation.”

“For what reason?” Hood asked.

“General Tower’s communiques were intercepted by the Germans,” Rodgers said. “British Intelligence saw to that.”

“I’m missing something here,” Herbert said. “Why are we talking about World War Two?”

“When Tower learned what had happened, he put a gun barrel in his ear and pulled the trigger,” Rodgers said.

“Because he was used?” Hood asked.

“No,” Rodgers said, “because he thought he’d screwed up.”

“I’m still not getting this,” Herbert admitted.

“Paul, you said the president was pretty upset when you spoke with him,” Rodgers went on. “And when you met with the First Lady, she described a man who sounded like he was having a breakdown.”

“Right,” Hood said.

“That may not mean anything,” Herbert said. “He’s president of the United States. The job has a way of aging people.”

“Hold on, Bob. Mike may be onto something,” Hood said. There was something gnawing at Hood’s stomach. Something that was getting worse the more he thought about it. “The president did not look tired when I saw him. He looked disturbed.”

“I’m not surprised,” Herbert said. “He was being kept out of the loop and made an apparent faux pas about the UN. He was embarrassed.”

“But there’s another component to this,” Hood told him. “There’s the cumulative psychological impact of disinformation. What if plausible deniability and bureaucratic confusion aren’t the reasons the president was misled? What if there’s another reason?”

“Such as?” Herbert asked.

“What if disinformation isn’t the end but the means?” Hood said. “What if someone is trying to convince Lawrence that he’s losing his grip?”

“You mean, what if someone is trying to gaslight the president of the United States?” Herbert declared.

“Yes,” Hood replied.

“Well, it’s going to take a lot of convincing before I buy that,” Herbert said. “For one thing, anyone who tried that would never get away with it. There are too many people around the president—”

“Bob, we already decided that this is something Jack Fenwick would not, probably could not, do on his own,” Hood said.

“Yes, but to make it work, he’d need a small army of people who were very close to the president,” Herbert said.

“Who?” Hood asked. “The chief of staff?”

“For one,” Herbert said. “He’s privy to most of the same briefings the president receives.”

“Okay,” Hood said. “Gable’s already on my list of unreliables. Who else? Who would be absolutely necessary for a plan like this to work?”

Before Herbert could answer, his phone beeped. He answered the call and was back in less than a minute.

“Don’t tell me, ‘I told you so,’ ” Herbert said.

“Why?” Hood asked.

“A high-level official at the CIA in Washington got the intel about the Harpooner from the NSA,” Herbert told them. “The NSA didn’t have anyone in Baku, so they notified the CIA. The CIA sent David Battat.”

“Whom the Harpooner knew just where to find,” Rodgers said. “Instead of killing him, the Harpooner poisoned him somehow. And then Battat was used to bring out Moore and Thomas at the hospital.”

“Apparently,” Herbert said.

“Paul, you asked a question a moment ago,” Rodgers said. “You wanted to know who else would be necessary for a psy-ops maneuver to work against the president. That’s a good question, but it’s not the first one we need to answer.”

“No?” Hood said. “What is?”

“Who would benefit the most from the mental incapacitation of the president?” Rodgers asked. “And at the same time, who would be in a perfect position to help make some of the disinformation happen?”

Hood’s stomach was growling now. The answer was obvious.

The vice president of the United States.

THIRTY-TWO

Washington, D.C. Monday, 11:24 P.M.

Vice President Charles Cotten was in the ground-floor sitting room of the vice presidential residence. The mansion was located on the sprawling Massachusetts Avenue grounds of the United States Naval Observatory. It was a twenty-minute drive from here to the vice president’s two offices: one in the White House and the other in the neighboring Old Executive Office Building. It was just a short walk from the mansion to the National Cathedral. Lately, Cotten had been spending more time than usual at the cathedral.

Praying.

An aide knocked and entered. The woman told the vice president that his car was ready. The vice president thanked her and rose from the leather armchair. He entered the dark, wood-paneled hallway and headed toward the front door. Upstairs, Cotten’s wife and children were asleep.

My wife and children. They were words Cotten never thought would be part of his life. When he was a senator from New York, Cotten had been the ultimate lady’s man. A new, gorgeous date to every function. The press referred to these younger women as “Cotten candy.” There were regular jokes about what went on below the Cotten belt. Then he met Marsha Arnell at a Museum of Modern Art fund-raiser in Manhattan, and everything changed. Marsha was twenty-seven, eleven years his junior. She was a painter and an art historian. She was telling a group of guests about late—twentieth-century art and how the work of commercial artists like Frank Frazetta, James Bama, and Rich Corben defined a new American vision: the power of the human form and face blended with landscapes from dream and fantasy. Cotten was hypnotized by the young woman’s voice, her ideas, and her vital and optimistic view of America.

They were married four months later.

For nearly ten years, Marsha and their twin girls had been the foundation of Charles Cotten’s life. They were his focus, his heart, and their future was never far from his thoughts.

They were the reason the vice president had conceived of this plan. To preserve America for his family.

The fact was, the United States was at risk. Not just from terrorist attacks, though more and more those were becoming a very real threat. The danger facing the United States was that it was on the verge of becoming irrelevant. Our military could destroy the world many times over. But other nations knew that we would never do that, so they did not fear us. Our economy was relatively strong. But so were the economies of many other nations and alliances. The Eurodollar was strong, and the new South American League and their SAL currency was growing in power and influence. Central America and Mexico were talking about a new confederacy. Canada was being tempted to join the European economy. Those unions, those nations, did not face the kind of suspicion and resentment that greeted America the world over. The reason? America was a giant everyone wanted to see brought down. Not destroyed; they needed us too much for international policing. They simply wanted us humbled and humiliated. We were a meddling thug to our enemies and an overbearing big brother to our supposed allies.

These were not concerns that bothered other nations during times of international depression or world war. It was all right to invade France to free the French of Hitler. But it was not okay to fly over France to bomb Libya, the home of a different despot. It was all right to maintain a military presence in Saudi Arabia to protect the nation from Saddam Hussein. But it was not all right to fly jets from Riyadh to protect American troops in the region.

We were not respected, and we were not feared. That had to change. And it had to change long before Michael Lawrence was scheduled to leave the White House in three years. That would be too late to act.

The problem had not been caused by Michael Lawrence. He was simply the latest bearer of the torch of arrogant isolationism. When he was in the Senate, Cotten had felt that there needed to be a United States that was better integrated with the world. The one that Teddy Roosevelt had described. The one that carried a big stick and was not afraid to use it. But also one that knew how to speak softly. An America that knew how to use and exert diplomacy and economic pressure. One that had the resolve to use quiet assassination and blackmail instead of mounting very public and unpopular miniwars.

When the senator was tapped to share a ticket with presidential candidate Michael Lawrence, Cotten accepted. The public liked Lawrence’s “I’m for the people” slogan and style, his perception as a man who had come back from the political wilderness to serve them. But he had wanted to balance his relatively up-front and independent manner with someone who knew how to work the back rooms of Congress and the corridors of power abroad.

Cotten left the mansion and slid into the car. The driver shut the door for him. They rolled into the dark, still night. Cotten’s soul was on fire. He was not going to enjoy what he and his allies were about to do. He remembered when he had first approached them and others individually. Seemingly casual remarks were dropped. If they were ignored, he let the subject drop. If not, he pursued it with more pointed remarks. Cotten realized that was what it must be like for a married man to ask a woman to have an affair. Go too far with the wrong individual, and everything could be lost.

Each man had become involved for the same reason: patriotism. The creation of an America that led the world community rather than reacted to it. An America that rewarded peace with prosperity and punished warmongers not with a public pummeling and credibility but with quiet, lonely death. Lawrence was not willing to cross the line from legal war to illegal murder, even though lives would be saved. But the dawn of the twenty-first century was not a time for warfare. It bred short-term misery and long-term hatred. The world was becoming too small, too crowded for bombs. As distasteful as this was, a change had to come. For the nation and for the sake of its children. For the sake of his children.

The car moved swiftly through the empty streets. Washington was always so deserted at night. Only the spies and plotters were afoot. It seemed strange to think of himself in that capacity. He had always been a straight shooter. If you felt passionately about something, you spoke your mind. If you didn’t feel passionately, then it probably was not worth doing. But this was different. This operation had to be kept very quiet. Kept only among those who were actively involved in its planning and execution.

Now this was it, Cotten thought. The last leg of the operation. According to the president’s staff, announcing a UN intelligence initiative that did not exist had seriously rattled Lawrence. It had shaken him more than the other canards Fenwick and Gable had fed him and subsequently denied—usually during a cabinet session or meeting in the Oval Office.

“No, Mr. President,” Cotten would say softly, seemingly embarrassed for the confusion of the president, “there was never a Pentagon report that Russia and China exchanged artillery fire over the Amur River. Sir, we had not heard that the FBI director had threatened to resign. When did this happen? Mr. President, don’t you recall? We had agreed that Mr. Fenwick would share this new intelligence with Iran.”

The question of sharing intelligence with Iran had been important to the final stage of the operation. Jack Fenwick had told the Iranian ambassador that according to United States intelligence sources, an attack would come from Azerbaijan. They weren’t sure what the target would be, but it would probably be a terrorist attack in the heart of Teheran. Fenwick had assured Iran that if they retaliated, the United States would stay out of it. This nation wanted to nurture closer ties with the Islamic Republic of Iran, not stand in the way of its self-defense.

Lawrence, of course, would be pushed to behave in a less accommodating manner. And when he realized where his confused perceptions had taken the nation, he would be forced to resign.

The fact that Lawrence had known nothing about the meeting was irrelevant. At tonight’s meeting with the so-called “Eyes Only Group”—Gable, Fenwick, and the vice president—the men would convince the president that he had been kept informed. They would show him memos that he had seen and signed. They would show him the calendar his secretary kept on the computer. The appointment had been added after she left for the day. Then they would jump right into the current crisis. They would trust and the president would lead. By morning, Michael Lawrence would be publicly committed to a path of confrontation with two of the most volatile nations on earth.

The following morning, with the help of unnamed NSA sources, the Washington Post would run a front-page, above-the-fold article about the president’s mental health. Though the newspaper piece would be hooked to the UN fiasco, it would also contain exclusive details about some of the president’s increasingly dramatic and fully documented lapses. The nation would not tolerate instability from the commander-in-chief. Especially as he was about to send the nation to war.

Things would happen very quickly after that. There was no constitutional provision for the president to take a leave of absence. And there was no short-term cure for mental illness. Lawrence would be forced to resign, if not by public pressure then by act of congress. Cotten would become president. The United States military would immediately back down in the Caspian Sea to avoid a confrontation with Iran and Russia. Instead, through intelligence operations, they would prove that Iran had masterminded the entire operation in the first place. Teheran would protest, but the government’s credibility would be seriously compromised. Then, through diplomacy, the United States would find ways to encourage moderates in Iran to seize more power. Meanwhile, spared a pounding from Iran and Russia, Azerbaijan would be in America’s debt.

After the clouds of war drifted away, President Cotten would make certain of something else. That Azerbaijan and America shared in the oil reserves of the Caspian Sea. The Middle East would never again hold the United States hostage. Not in their embassies nor at the gas pump.

With order restored and American influence and credibility at its peak, President Charles Cotten would reach out to the nations of the world. They would be invited to join us in a permanent peace and prosperity. When their people experienced freedom and economic reward for the first time, they would cast those governments out. Eventually, even China would follow suit. They had to. People were greedy, and the old-line Communists would not live forever. If the United States stopped provoking them, providing the government with a public enemy, Beijing would weaken and evolve.

This was the world that Charles Cotten wanted for America. It was the world he wanted for his own children. He had thought about it for years. He had worked to achieve it. He had prayed for it.

And very soon, he would have it.

THIRTY-THREE

Baku, Azerbaijan Tuesday, 8:09 A.M.

David Battat was lying on a hard twin bed in the small, sparsely furnished studio apartment. There was a window to his left. Though the blinds were drawn, the room brightened as light leaked through the slats.

Battat was shivering but alert. His abductor, hostess, or savior—he had not yet decided which—was in the kitchenette off to the right. She had been making eggs, sausage, and tea when the phone rang.

Battat hoped the call was brief. The food smelled good, but the thought of tea was even better. He needed to warm himself inside. Do something to stop the trembling. He felt as though he had the flu. He was weak and everything he saw or heard seemed dreamlike. But his head and chest were also very tight. More than from any sickness he could remember. Hopefully, once he had tea and something to eat, he would be able to focus a little better, try to understand what had happened back at the hospital.

The woman walked over to the bed. She was carrying the phone. She stood about five-foot-nine and had a lean, dark face framed by thick, black, shoulder-length hair. Her cheekbones were pronounced, and her eyes were blue. Battat was willing to bet there was Lithuanian blood in her. She handed the receiver to Battat.

“There is someone who wishes to speak with you,” she said in thickly accented English.

“Thank you,” said Battat. His own voice was a weak croak. He accepted the cordless phone. He did not bother to ask her who it was. He would find out soon enough. “Hello?”

“David Battat?” said the caller.

“Yes—”

“David, this is Paul Hood, the director of Op-Center.”

“Paul Hood?” Battat was confused. Op-Center found him here and was calling him now to ask about—that? “Sir, I’m sorry about what happened,” Battat said, “but I didn’t know that Annabelle Hampton was working with—”

“This isn’t about the United Nations siege,” Hood interrupted. “David, listen to me. We have reason to believe that the NSA set you and your colleagues up.”

It took a moment for Battat to process what Hood had said. “They set us up to be murdered? Why?”

“I can’t tell you that now,” Hood replied. “What’s important is that for the present, you’re out of danger.”

The young woman walked over with a cup of tea. She set it on the night table beside the bed. Battat used an elbow to drag himself into a sitting position. She helped him by putting strong hands under his arm and literally lifting him from the bed.

“What I need to know is this,” Hood went on. “If we can locate the Harpooner, do you feel up to helping us take him down?”

“If there’s a way for me to get the Harpooner, I’m up for it,” Battat said. Just the thought of that energized him.

“Good,” Hood told him. “We’re working with a Russian intelligence group on this. I don’t know when we’ll have additional information. But when we do, I’ll let you and your new partner know.”

Battat looked over at the young woman. She was standing in the kitchenette spooning eggs onto two plates. The last time he was in the field, Russians were the enemy. It was a strange business they were in.

“Before I go, is there anything else you can tell us about the Harpooner?” Hood asked. “Anything you might have seen or heard while you were looking for him? Anything Moore or Thomas might have said?”

“No,” Battat said. He took a sip of tea. It was stronger than he was used to. It was like a shot of adrenaline. “All I know is that someone put me in a choke hold from behind. The next thing I knew, I was on the ground. As for Moore and Thomas, they were as mystified as I was.”

“Because—?”

“The Harpooner had let me live,” Battat said.

“Assuming it was the Harpooner,” Hood said. “Listen. Use the time you have to rest. We don’t know where the Harpooner may turn up or how much time you may have to get to him. But we need you to be ready to move out.”

“I’ll be ready,” Battat said.

Hood thanked him and hung up. Battat placed the phone on the night table. Then he took another swallow of tea. He still felt weak, but he was trembling a little less than before.

The young woman walked over with a plate for him. Battat watched her as she set the plate on his legs and placed a cloth napkin and utensils on the night table. She looked tired.

“My name is David Battat,” he said.

“I know,” she said.

“And you are—?” he pressed.

“In Baku, I am Odette Kolker,” she said. There was finality in the young woman’s voice. It told him two things. First, that she was definitely not an Azerbaijani recruited by the Russians. And second, that Battat would not be getting her real name. Not from her, anyway.

“I’m pleased to meet you,” Battat said, extending his hand. “I’m also extremely grateful for everything you’ve done.”

“You’re welcome,” she said.

The young woman shook Battat’s hand firmly but perfunctorily. As she did, Battat noticed several small bloodstains on the sleeve of her off-white police blouse. There were no lacerations on her hand or forearm. The blood did not appear to be hers.

“Are you really a policewoman?” Battat asked.

“Yes,” she replied.

“Were you working the night shift?” he asked.

“No,” she replied. “I was called in to do this.” She smiled slightly. “And I cannot collect overtime for it.”

Battat sipped more tea and smiled back. “I’m sorry they had to wake you.” He moved the plate to the night table and started to throw off the cover. “I probably shouldn’t be taking your bed—”

“No, it’s all right,” she said. “I’m expected on duty in less than an hour. Besides, I’m accustomed to having unexpected guests.”

“A hazard of the business,” he said.

“Yes,” Odette observed. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to eat. You should do the same. Eat and then rest.”

“I will,” Battat promised.

“Do you need salt or anything else?”

“No thank you,” he said.

Odette turned and walked slowly toward the kitchenette.

Less than an hour ago, she had killed a man. Now she was serving Battat breakfast. This was a strange business. A very strange business indeed.

THIRTY-FOUR

Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 12:10 A.M.

“Hello, Paul.”

Sharon’s voice was thick and cold on the other end of the phone. Hood glanced at the clock on his computer. “Hi,” he said warily. “Is everything okay?”

“Not really,” she replied.

“I just got back from the hospital.”

“What happened?”

“The short version,” she said, “is that Harleigh freaked out about ninety minutes ago. I called an ambulance—I didn’t know what else to do.”

“You did the right thing,” Hood said. “How is she?”

“Dr. Basralian sedated her, and she’s sleeping now,” Sharon went on.

“What does he think is wrong?” Hood asked. “Is it physical—?”

“He isn’t sure,” she said. “They’re going to run tests in the morning. The doctor said that sometimes a traumatic event can have physical repercussions. It can affect the thyroid, cause it to get hyper, or create a surplus of adrenaline. Anyway, I didn’t call so you’d drop what you’re doing and go to see her. I just wanted you to know.”

“Thank you,” Hood said. “I’ll still get over as soon as I can.”

“No need for that,” Sharon told him. “Everything’s quiet. I’ll let you know if there’s a change.”

“All right,” Hood said. “If that’s what you want.”

“I do. Just some down-time. Tell me, Paul. Is there a problem?” Sharon asked.

“With what?”

“The world,” Sharon said.

“Always,” Hood replied.

“I tried the motel first,” Sharon told him. “When you weren’t there, I figured you must be putting out a fire somewhere.”

Hood was not exactly sure how to take that remark. He tried not to read anything into it.

“There’s a problem in the Middle East,” Hood said. “Could be a bad one.”

“Then I won’t keep you,” Sharon said. “Just don’t kill yourself, Paul. You’re not a kid anymore. You need sleep. And the kids need you.”

“I’ll take care of myself,” he promised.

Sharon hung up. When Hood and his wife were together, Sharon used to be frustrated and angry whenever he worked long hours. Now that the two of them were apart, she was calm and concerned. Or maybe she was holding it all together for Harleigh’s sake. Whatever the reason, it was a sad, sad joke being played on the Hood family.

But Hood did not have time to consider the injustice of it all or even the condition of his daughter. The phone rang a moment after he hung up. The call was from another concerned wife.

The president’s.

THIRTY-FIVE

Saint Petersburg, Russia Tuesday, 8:30 A.M.

General Orlov was proud that his operative had been able to save the American. Proud, but not surprised.

Odette—Natalia Basov—had been working with him for three years. The thirty-two-year-old was a former decryption expert who had begun her career with the GRU, Soviet military intelligence. Her husband Viktor was an officer in the Spetsnaz, the Russian special forces. When Viktor was killed on a mission in Chechnya, Basov became deeply depressed. She wanted to get out from behind a desk. Because the GRU was being dismantled and its components downsized, Basov was sent to see Orlov. Orlov was happy to put her in the field. Not only was Basov skilled in electronic intelligence, her husband had taught her the self-defense techniques of the systema, the lethal martial arts style of the Spetsnaz. Orlov himself had studied the basics as a way of staying in shape. The systema did not rely on practiced moves or on physical strength. It taught that during an assault, your own defensive motion dictated what the counterattack should be. If you were struck on the right side of the chest, you instinctively turned the right side away to avoid the blow. As a result, your left side automatically came forward. Thus, your attack would be with the left arm. And it would not be a single blow. It would be a trinity. Perhaps a fist to the chin, an elbow to the jaw, and a swipe with the back of the hand, all in quick succession. While that was going on, you were positioning yourself to unleash the next trinity. Typically, an opponent did not get more than a first chance to strike. Multiple opponents were too busy avoiding their falling comrades to move in.

Basov had mastered the form well. And she had proven to be a valuable asset in Azerbaijan. Orlov’s people had created a false identity for her, and she had obtained a job with the police force. That put her in a job to watch and question people, other officers, guards, and night watchmen at plants and military bases. To learn what was happening in Baku’s corridors of power and in the military. Being a beautiful woman made men more inclined to talk to her, especially in bars. And underestimate her.

Basov said that she and her guest were safe, but they were not what bothered Orlov right now. What concerned him was finding the Harpooner. Basov had told Orlov that the Baku police radio was reporting an explosion in the harbor. A boat had blown up, killing everyone on board. Orlov was willing to bet that the boat had belonged to the Harpooner. That was his way—to destroy all the evidence along with some or all of his coworkers. The dead men would probably be blamed for the rig attack. Orlov wondered who they were. Azerbaijanis? Iraqis? Russians? There were any number of people he could have recruited for a job like that. Just as long as they did not know what usually happened to his employees.

Most of Orlov’s staff began arriving at half-past eight. The general had left e-mail for the two key members of his intelligence team, Boris and Piotr, to come and see him as soon as possible. If the Harpooner had been responsible for the attack in the Caspian, he probably would not attempt to leave Baku immediately. In the past, the Harpooner apparently waited a day or two after an attack. And when he finally moved, he often passed through Moscow. No one knew why. Unfortunately, by the time authorities learned he was in the city, he had vanished. General Orlov did not want that to happen again. The question was how to find him. And Paul Hood might have unwittingly given them a clue.

Boris Grosky was a sullen, gray-haired intelligence veteran who missed the Cold War. Piotr Korsov was an eager newcomer who had studied at Technion in Haifa, Israel. He was openly thrilled to be working in a field he loved and for a man who had helped pioneer space travel. The men entered the windowless office within a minute of one another. They sat on the couch across from Orlov’s desk, Boris drinking tea and Korsov sitting with a laptop on his knees.

Orlov briefed the men. Grosky became noticeably more interested when the general mentioned that the NSA and CIA might somehow be involved in the Caspian operation.

“What I want to know is this,” Orlov said. “We have eavesdropped on cell phone communications between American intelligence operatives before. We’ve gotten through many of their secure lines.”

“We’ve gotten through most of them,” Grosky pointed out.

“They try to keep you out by altering the signal from second to second,” Korsov said. “The shifts are all within just a few megahertz in the superhigh frequency. We’ve learned how to ride most of the shifts.”

“The difficult part is decoding the messages, which are scrambled electronically,” Grosky added. “The American agencies use very complex codes. Our computers aren’t always up to the task of decrypting the calls.”

“Do the same callers usually use the same signals, the same patterns?” Orlov asked Korsov.

“Usually,” Korsov told him. “Otherwise, there would be audio crossover. Callers would keep bumping into one another.”

“Do we keep records of the calls?” Orlov asked.

“The conversations?” Grosky asked. “Yes. We keep working on them, trying to decode—”

“I mean the signals,” Orlov interrupted.

“Absolutely,” said Grosky. “We send them up to the Laika so it can keep a lookout for those signals.”

The Laika was the Russian Op-Center’s sentry satellite. Named for the pioneering Soviet space dog, the Laika was in a high geostationary orbit over Washington, D.C. It could intercept signals from the United States, all of Europe, and parts of Asia.

“So, if the Harpooner spoke with an intelligence unit in Washington, we might have picked up the signal if not the content,” Orlov said.

“That’s right,” said Kosov.

“Very good,” said Orlov. “Go to the computer records for the past two weeks. Look up communiques between Azerbaijan and the National Security Agency in Washington. Get me all the information you have.”

“Even if we haven’t decrypted them,” said Kosov.

“Yes,” Orlov replied. “I want to know exactly where the Harpooner or his people might have been calling from.”

“When you know that, what will you do?” Grosky asked.

“I’ll call the American Op-Center and ask them to go through any satellite imaging they have for the region,” Orlov said. “The Harpooner had to move explosives and personnel into position. If we can pinpoint his location, there may be a photographic record of it—”

“And clues to where he might be,” Grosky said. Orlov nodded.

“We’ll have that information for you as soon as possible,” Kosov said eagerly. “It would be a coup if we could catch that monster.”

“It would be,” Orlov agreed.

The men left. Orlov put in a call to Paul Hood to bring him up to date.

Catching the Harpooner would be a highlight of his career. But more than that, he wondered if this close cooperation between Op-Centers could become increasingly routine. If the trust and sharing could lead to less suspicion and greater international security.

That would be the real coup.

THIRTY-SIX

Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 12:30 A.M.

“Paul, I’m glad I found you,” Megan Lawrence said. “I think you should come here. There’s something going on.”

The First Lady’s voice was steady when she got on the line, but Hood knew her well enough to know that it was Megan’s “I have to be strong” voice. He had heard that voice during the campaign when there were hard questions from the press about an abortion she had had before she met the president. As she had years before, Megan was pulling this strength from deep inside. She would crash only when it was safe to do so.

“Talk to me,” Hood said. He was drawing on his own emotional and psychological reserves to deal with the First Lady’s problem. The call from Sharon had shaken him.

“We were just getting into bed when Michael received a call from Jack Fenwick,” Megan said. “Whatever Fenwick said rattled my husband very much. His voice was calm while they talked and then afterward, but I watched this look come over him.”

“What kind of look?” Hood asked.

“It’s difficult to describe,” she said.

“Was it guarded, startled, doubtful?” Hood asked.

“All of that,” Megan replied.

Hood understood. That was what he saw in the Oval Office. “Where is the president now?” he asked.

“He went down to meet with Fenwick, the vice president, and Red Gable,” Megan said.

“Did he say what the meeting was about?” Hood asked.

“No. But he told me not to wait up,” she said.

It was probably about the Caspian situation. A small, nonconspiratorial part of Hood said that this might not be anything to worry about. On the other hand, the president was meeting with people who had fed him misinformation before. Perhaps that was what Megan had seen in her husband’s expression. The fear that it might be happening again.

“Paul, whatever is going on, I think Michael needs to have friends around him,” Megan said. “He should be with people he knows well and can trust. Not just policy advisers.”

Hood’s aide Stef Van Cleef beeped. She said there was a call from General Orlov. Hood told her to apologize to the general for the delay. He would take it in just a moment.

“Megan, I don’t disagree,” Hood said. “But I can’t just invite myself to a meeting in the Oval Office—”

“You have the security clearance,” she said.

“To get into the West Wing, not the Oval Office,” he reminded her. Hood stopped. His eyes were on the beeping light on the phone. Maybe he would not have to get himself invited.

“Paul?”

“I’m here,” Hood said. “Megan, listen to me. I’m going to take a call, and then I’m going to the White House. I’ll call your private line later and let you know how things are going.”

“All right,” Megan said. “Thank you.”

Hood hung up and took the call from Orlov. The Russian general briefed him on the plan to try to locate the Harpooner. Orlov also told him about the destruction of the boat in the harbor. He suspected that Azerbaijani officials would find bodies in the water, either the Harpooner’s hirelings or people who were abducted to impersonate hirelings.

Hood thanked Orlov and informed the general that he would have Op-Center’s full cooperation. Hood indicated that he would be away from the office for a while and that he should contact Mike Rodgers with any new information. When Hood hung up, he conferenced Herbert and Rodgers on his cell phone. He updated them as he hurried to the parking lot.

“Do you want me to let the president know you’re coming?” Rodgers asked him.

“No,” Hood said. “I don’t want to give Fenwick a reason to end the meeting early.”

“But you’re also giving Fenwick and his people more time to act,” Rodgers pointed out.

“We have to take that chance,” Hood said. “If Fenwick and Gable are launching some kind of endgame, I want to give them time to expose it. Maybe we can catch them in the act.”

“I still think it’s risky,” Rodgers said. “Fenwick will press the president to act before other advisers can be consulted.”

“That could be why this was timed the way it was,” Herbert pointed out. “If there’s a plot of some kind, it was designed to happen when it was the middle of the night here.”

“If this is tied to the Caspian situation, the president will have to act quickly,” Rodgers went on.

“Mike, Bob, I don’t disagree with what you’re saying,” Hood told them. “I also don’t want to give these bastards a chance to discredit anything I may have to say before I get there.”

“That’s a tough call,” Herbert said. “Real tough. You don’t have a lot of information on the situation overseas.”

“I know,” Hood said. “Hopefully, we’ll have more intel before too long.”

“I’ll be praying for you,” Herbert said. “And if that doesn’t work, I’ll be checking other sources.”

“Thanks,” Hood said. “I’ll be in touch.”

Hood sped through the deserted streets toward the nation’s capital. There was a can of Coke in the glove compartment. Hood kept it there for emergencies. He grabbed the can and popped the tab. He really needed the caffeine. Even warm, the cola felt good going down.

Rodgers was correct. Hood was taking a chance. But Hood had warned the president about Fenwick. The rerouted phone call, the visit to the Iranian mission, failure to communicate with Senator Fox and the COIC. Hopefully, Lawrence would look very carefully at whatever data was being presented to him. The president might also take the time to run the information through Op-Center, just to make sure it was valid.

But Hood’s hopes did not change the fact that the president was under an unusual amount of stress. There was only one way to be certain what Michael Lawrence would do. That was for Hood to get there with new intelligence. And while Hood was there, to help the president sift through whatever information Fenwick was presenting to him.

And there was one more thing Hood had to do. Pray that Mike Rodgers was not right.

That there was still time.

THIRTY-SEVEN

Baku, Azerbaijan Tuesday, 9:01 A.M.

Maurice Charles settled into his small room at the Hyatt. The room had a queen-sized bed and a tall cabinet that held the TV and minibar. There was a desk to the left of them and a night table on either side of the bed. An armchair was tucked into a corner opposite the desk. There was very little room, which was fine with Charles. He did not like suites. There was too much open space. Too many places for people to hide.

The first thing Charles did was to tie a nylon rope to one of the legs of the desk. It was located near the window. The room was on the third floor of the ten-story hotel. If Charles were cornered there for any reason, the police would find it difficult to climb from the ground or rappel from the roof without making noise. That left only the door as a means of getting in. And he was prepared to deal with that. He carried cans of shaving cream that were actually filled with highly flammable liquid methanol. Spilled under the doorway and set aflame, it burned hot and fast and drove people back. That would give Charles time to shoot anyone who was waiting for him outside the window, then use the rope to climb out. Methanol was also a fatal poison. The liquid’s fumes were so potent that even brief exposure to the vapors could cause blindness.

Charles turned on the light beside the bed and drew the heavy drapes. Next, he picked the locks between his room and the adjoining room. That was another route of escape in case he needed it. Then he pulled over the desk chair. He braced the back of the wooden chair under the knob of the door between his room and the next. He would be able to remove the chair quickly to escape. But if anyone on the other side tried the door, they would think it was locked.

The security arrangements took under a half hour. When they were finished, Charles sat on the bed. He went to his luggage and took out his .45. He placed it on the floor beside the bed. He pulled a Swiss army knife from his pocket and lay it on the night table. He also brought over a bag of several stuffed animals he had bought when he first came to Baku. All of the animals had costumes. If Charles were ever questioned, the plush toys were for his daughter. There were photos of a young girl in his wallet. It was not his daughter, but that did not matter. Then he opened the Zed-4. There was one last call to make.

The call was to the abandoned van. The microchip he had placed in the gas tank was a remote detonator. It had been nicknamed a Kamikaze Cell Phone by its Taiwanese inventor. The KCP had no function other than to pick up the signal, do its job, and then die. This particular KCP had been programmed to heat to 145 degrees Fahrenheit when triggered. Some chips could be programmed to emit high-pitched sounds to interfere with electronic signals or even confuse bloodhounds. Other chips could be used to create magnetic bursts that would cause radar or navigational tools to go haywire.

This chip would melt and leave no trace of itself. It would also set the gas tank afire. The police and fire department would be forced to respond at once to calls about a burning van. They would arrive in time to save some of the vehicle along with what little evidence Charles had left for them to find. That included the traces of Charles’s blood. The heat of the fire would cause the water content of the blood to evaporate, leaving clear stains on the metal door handle, glove compartment knob, and other sections of the van that had not burned. The police would conclude that the wounded terrorist had tried to destroy the van and the evidence before leaving. They would assume that their quick response had enabled them to save what they were not supposed to see.

Charles punched in the number of the KCP. He waited while his signal traveled twenty-five miles into space and bounced back to a street three blocks away. There were two short clicks and then the dial tone returned. That meant the call had been completed. The chip had been designed to disconnect from the Zed-4 as it began to heat up.

Charles hung up. He put everything into his backpack except for the .45. As he did, he heard sirens. They stopped exactly where they were supposed to.

By the burning van.

Comforted by the unparalleled feeling of a job well done, Maurice Charles made the final preparations for his stay. He removed one of the pillows from the bed and put it on the floor between the bed and the window, directly in front of the nightstand. Then he lay down and looked to his right, toward the bed. The hem of the bedspread reached nearly to the floor. Beneath and beyond the bed, he could see the front door. If for some reason anyone came in, Charles would see their feet. That was all he had to see to stop them.

Charles kept his clothes and shoes on in case he had to leave in a hurry, but they did not distract him. Nothing did now. This was the time he enjoyed most. When he had earned his rest and his pay.

Soon, even the sound of the police and fire sirens did not penetrate his deep, rewarding sleep.

THIRTY-EIGHT

Saint Petersburg, Russia Tuesday, 9:31 A.M

At 9:22 A.M. Piotr Korsov e-mailed General Orlov a brief data file. The file contained a list of the secure calls that had been intercepted between Azerbaijan and Washington during the past few weeks. Most of those calls had been between the American embassy and either the CIA or the NSA. The Russian Op-Center had been unable to decrypt any of the conversations, but Orlov was able to scratch them off his list. Those calls were pretty much routine and not likely suspects for calls made by the Harpooner.

Over the past few days, there had also been calls to the NSA from Gobustan, a village to the south of Baku. They were all made before the attack on the oil rig. The calls from the embassy to the United States had a slightly different bandwith from the Gobustan calls. That meant the calls were made from different secure phones. In a note attached to the file, Korsov said he was watching for new calls made from either line.

Orlov was not very hopeful. The Harpooner probably would not signal his allies to tell them he had been successful. Whoever he was in league with would hear about that from their own intelligence sources.

The very fact that a secure satellite uplink had played any part in this business was personally disturbing to Orlov. That was the kind of technology his space flights had helped to pioneer—satellite communications. The fact that they were being so expertly abused by terrorists like the Harpooner made him wonder if the technology should have been developed at all. It was the same argument people had made for and against splitting the atom. It had produced plentiful and relatively clean atomic power, but it had also bred the atomic bomb. But Orlov had not had a hand in that work. Just in this.

Then again, Orlov thought, as Boris Pasternak wrote in one of his favorite novels, Doctor Zhivago, “I don’t like people who have never fallen or stumbled. Their virtue is lifeless and it isn’t of much value. Life hasn’t revealed its beauty to them.” Progress had to allow monsters like the Harpooner to surface. That was how it showed the creators where the flaws were.

Orlov had just finished reviewing the material when his private internal line beeped. It was Korsov.

“We picked up a ping,” Korsov said excitedly.

“What kind of ping?” Orlov asked. A ping was how his intelligence officers described any kind of electronic communication.

“The same one we recorded as having been sent from Gobustan,” Korsov replied.

“Was the call made from Gobustan?”

“No,” Korsov replied. “It was made from Baku to a site very close by. A site that was also in Baku.”

“How close?” Orlov asked.

“The caller and receiver were less than a quarter mile,” Korsov told him. “We can’t measure distances less than that.”

“Maybe the Harpooner was calling accomplices who have another secure line,” Orlov suggested.

“I don’t think so,” Korsov told him. “The phone call only lasted three seconds. As far as we can tell there was no verbal communication.”

“What was sent?”

“Just an empty signal,” Krosov said. “We’ve fed cartographical data into the computer. Grosky is overlaying the signal and trying to pinpoint the exact location now.”

“Very good,” Orlov said. “Let me know as soon as you have it.”

As soon as Orlov hung up, he put in a call to Mike Rodgers to let him know about the apparent NSA-Harpooner connection and the possible location of the Harpooner. Then he called Odette. He hoped that the American she had saved was ready to move out. Orlov did not want to send Odette against the Harpooner unassisted, but he would if he had to. Because more than that, he did not want to lose the Harpooner.

As Orlov punched in Odette’s number, he began to feel hopeful and upbeat. The technology that he had helped put into space was actually a two-edged sword. The Harpooner had been using a secure satellite uplink to help destroy lives. Now, with luck, that uplink would have an unexpected use.

To pinpoint the Harpooner and help destroy him.

THIRTY-NINE

Teheran, Iran Tuesday, 10:07 A.M.

The chief of the Supreme Command Council of the Armed Forces of the Islamic Republic of Iran had been called at home shortly after dawn. Teheran maintained listening posts on many of their oil rigs in the Caspian Sea. From there, they eavesdropped electronically on foreign shipping and on military sites along the Caspian coast. Each post sent a pulse every five minutes to indicate that the electronics were still on-line. The sudden silence of Post Four was the first indication anyone in Teheran had that something was wrong in the Caspian.

An F-14 Tomcat was immediately dispatched from the Doshan Tapeh Air Base outside of Teheran. The Tomcat was one of ten that remained of the seventy-seven that had been a part of the shah’s state-of-the-art air force. The fighter confirmed that the oil rig had been destroyed. Salvage experts and military engineers were immediately parachuted into the region by a Kawasaki C-1 transport. While rescue patrol boats hurried to the site from Caspian fleet headquarters in Bandar-e Anzelli, the engineers found burn marks on the platform that were consistent with powerful high explosives. The fact that the underside had been struck suggested a submarine attack that had somehow eluded sonar detection. At nine-thirty A.M., the salvage experts found something more. The body of Russian terrorist Sergei Cherkassov.

The report galvanized the often fractious officers of the SCCAF as well as the minister of the Islamic Revolutions Guards Corps, the minster of foreign affairs, the minister of the interior, and the minister of intelligence. The moderates had joined the extremists, and by ten A.M., the order had been given: the IRI military was ordered to defend Iranian interests in the Caspian at any and all cost.

On the sea, the initial thrust was to be an antisubmarine defense. That was spearheaded by antisubmarine aircraft and helicopters. Marine battalions in the region were also mobilized. The second wave would consist of destroyers and frigates, which were to be stationed around the remaining rigs. Chinese-made Silkworm missiles were rushed to the forces defending the Caspian.

In the air, Chinese-made Shenyang F-6s began regular patrols from both the Doshan Tapeh Air Base and the Mehrabad Air Base. Three surface-to-air missile battalions in the region were also put on high alert.

At the same time, Iranian embassies in Moscow and Baku were ordered to notify the Russian and Azerbaijani governments that while the attack was under investigation, any further moves against Iranian interests would be regarded as a declaration of war by those governments. Iranian diplomats were informed by both governments that they had had no hand in the attack on the Iranian oil facility. Representatives of Moscow and Baku added that Iran’s increased military presence was unwelcome. Both nations indicated that their own navies and air forces would be placed on alert and would increase patrols in the region.

By late morning, waters that had given lives to fishermen and oilmen the night before were rich with something else.

The promise of death.

FORTY

Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 1:33 A.M.

Mike Rodgers was in his office when General Orlov called. After hearing what the Russian had to say, Rodgers immediately called Paul Hood in his car and gave him the new information about the Harpooner.

“How certain is General Orlov. about the NSA-Harpooner connection?” Hood asked.

“I asked him that,” Rodgers told Hood. “Orlov answered that he is very certain. Though I’m not sure the president is going to put a lot of credence in what a Russian general thinks.”

“Especially if several of the president’s top advisers refute that information,” Hood said.

“Paul, if Orlov is correct, we’re going to have to do more than tell the president,” Rodgers said. “There’s going to have to be a massive housecleaning in the NSA. We can’t have American intelligence agencies hiring terrorists who have attacked American interests, taken American lives.”

“Didn’t we do that with the German rocket scientists after World War Two?” Hood asked.

“The operative phrase is, ‘after World War Two,’ ” Rodgers said. “We didn’t hire German scientists to work for us while they were still building missiles to attack Great Britain.”

“Good point,” Hood said.

“Paul, this is the guy that helped kill Bob Herbert’s wife,” Rodgers said. “If Orlov’s intel is true, the NSA has to be held accountable for this.”

“I hear you,” Hood said. “Look, I’ll be at the White House soon. Work on trying to get me any kind of backup you can. See if Bob can dig up signal intelligence that backs up Orlov’s claims.”

“He’s working on that now,” Rodgers said.

Hood hung up, and Rodgers got up. He poured coffee from the pot that sat on a cart in the back of his room. It was an aluminum cart from the 1950s. He’d picked it up at a Pentagon garage sale ten years before. He wondered if the sounds of crisis still resonated somewhere deep in its molecular structure. Arguments and decisions about Korea, the Cold War, Vietnam.

Or were they arguments about whose turn it was to treat for coffee and Danish? Rodgers wondered. That was part of war, too, of course. The moments of down-time that let decision makers catch their breath. Do something real instead of theoretical. Remind themselves that they were talking about people’s lives and not just statistics.

When he sat back down, Rodgers started going through the files of the NSA’s top officials. He was looking for people who had previous ties with Jack Fenwick or had ever investigated Middle Eastern terrorist groups. The NSA could not have contacted the Harpooner unless someone in one of those groups had helped. If it turned out that Orlov was right, Rodgers wanted to be ready to help with the purge. A purge of Americans who had collaborated with a man who had murdered American men and women, soldiers, and civilians.

He wanted to be ready with a vengeance.

FORTY-ONE

Washington, D.C Tuesday, 1:34 A.M.

The White House is an aging monument in constant need of repair. There is peeling paint on the southern columns and splitting wood on the third-floor terraces.

But in the West Wing, especially in the Oval Office, there is a sense of constant renewal. To outsiders, power is a large part of the appeal of the Oval Office. To insiders, it is the idea that an intense new drama presents itself every hour of every day. Whether it’s small, cautious maneuvering against a political rival or the mobilization of the military for a massive offensive and possible casualties, each situation starts, builds, and ends. For someone who thrives on outthinking an adversary or on extrapolating short- and long-term results from quiet decisions, the Oval Office is the ultimate challenge. It clears the game board every few minutes and offers new contests with new rules. Some presidents are aged and drained by the process. Other presidents thrive on it.

There was a time until very recently when Michael Lawrence was invigorated by the problems that crossed his desk. He was undaunted by crises, even those that required quick military action and possible casualties. That was part of the job description. A president’s task was to minimize the damage caused by inevitable aggression.

But something had changed over the past few days. Lawrence had always felt that however stressful situations got, he was at least in control of the process. He could chair meetings with confidence. Lately, that was no longer the case. It was difficult for him even to focus.

Lawrence had worked with Jack Fenwick and Red Gable for many years. They were old friends of the vice president, and Lawrence trusted Jack Cotten. He trusted his judgment. Lawrence would not have selected him as a running mate otherwise. As vice president, Cotten had been more closely involved in the activities of the NSA than any previous vice president. Lawrence had wanted it that way. For years, the CIA, the FBI, and military intelligence had had their own agendas. The Executive Branch needed its own eyes and ears abroad. Lawrence and Cotten had more or less appropriated the NSA for that task. The military could still utilize the NSA’s chartered assets, which were the centralized coordination and direction of U.S. government intelligence technical functions and communications. Under Cotten, its role had quietly been expanded to increase the breadth and detail of intelligence that was coming directly to the president. Or, rather, to Fenwick and the vice president and then to the president.

The president stared at the open laptop on his desk. Jack Fenwick was talking about Iran. Data was downloading quickly from the NSA. Fenwick had some facts and a good deal of supposition. He also had an edge. He appeared to be going somewhere, though he had not yet indicated where.

Meanwhile, Lawrence’s eyes stung, and his vision was foggy. It was difficult to concentrate. He was tired, but he was also distracted. He did not know who to believe or even what to believe. Was the data from the NSA real or falsified? Was Fenwick’s intelligence accurate or fabricated?

Paul Hood suspected Fenwick of deception. Hood appeared to have the evidence for it. But what if it were Hood’s evidence that wasn’t trustworthy? Hood was going through an extremely stressful time. He had resigned his post at Op-Center, then returned. He had been at ground zero of the explosive UN hostage crisis. His daughter was suffering from an extreme case of post-traumatic stress disorder. Hood was in the process of getting a divorce.

What if it were Hood who had the agenda, not Fenwick, the president wondered. When Fenwick had arrived at the White House before, he admitted that he had been to the Iranian mission. He admitted it openly. But he insisted that the president had been informed. The vice president corroborated that fact. So did the calendar on the president’s computer. As for the call regarding the United Nations initiative, Fenwick insisted that was not placed by him. He said the NSA would investigate. Could it have been placed by Hood?

“Mr. President?” Fenwick said.

The president looked at Fenwick. The national security adviser was seated in an armchair to the left of the desk. Gable was to the right, and the vice president was in the center.

“Yes, Jack?” the president replied.

“Are you all right, sir?” Fenwick asked.

“Yes,” Lawrence replied. “Go on.”

Fenwick smiled and nodded and continued.

The president sat up taller. He had to focus on the issue at hand. When he got through this crisis, he would schedule a short vacation. Very soon. And he would invite his childhood friend and golfing buddy, Dr. Edmond Leidesdorf, and his wife. Leidesdorf was a psychiatrist attached to Walter Reed. The president had not wanted to see him officially with this problem because the press would find out about it. Once that happened, his political career would be over. But they had played golf and gone sailing before. They could talk on a golf course or boat without raising suspicion.

“The latest intelligence puts the Russian terrorist Sergei Cherkassov at the scene of the explosion,” Fenwick continued. “He had escaped from prison three days before the attack on the rig. His body was found at sea. There were burn marks consistent with flash explosives. There was also very little bloating. Cherkassov had not been in the water for very long.”

“Do the Azerbaijanis have that information?” the president asked.

“We suspect they do,” Fenwick replied. “The Iranian naval patrol that found Cherkassov radioed shore on an open channel. Those channels are routinely monitored by the Azerbaijanis.”

“Maybe Teheran wanted the rest of the world to have the information,” the president suggested. “It might turn them against Russia.”

“That’s possible,” Fenwick agreed. “It’s also possible that Cherkassov was working for Azerbaijan.”

“He was being held in an Azerbaijani prison,” the vice president said. “They might have allowed him to escape so that he could be blamed for the attack.”

“How likely is that?” the president asked.

“We’re checking with sources at the prison now,” Fenwick said. “But it’s looking very likely.”

“Which means that instead of the attack turning Iran against Russia, Azerbaijan may have succeeded in uniting both nations against them,” the vice president said.

Fenwick leaned forward. “Mr. President, there’s one thing more. We suspect that creating a union between Russia and Iran may actually have been the ultimate goal of the Azerbaijani government.”

“Why in hell would they do that?” the president asked.

“Because they are practically at war with Iran in the Nagorno-Karabakh region,” Fenwick said. “And both Russia and Iran have been pressing claims on some of their oil fields in the Caspian.”

“Azerbaijan wouldn’t stand a chance against either nation individually,” the president pointed out. “Why unite them?”

Even as he said it, the president knew why.

To win allies.

“How much of our oil do we get from that region?” the president asked.

“We’re up to seventeen percent this year with a projection of twenty percent next year,” Gable informed him. “We’re getting much better prices from Baku than we are from the Middle East. That was guaranteed by the trade agreement we signed with Baku in March 1993. And they’ve been very good about upholding their end of the agreement.”

“Shit,” the president said. “What about the other members of the Commonwealth of Independent States?” he asked. “Where will they stand if two of their members go to war?”

“I took the liberty of having my staff put in calls to all of our ambassadors before I came over here,” the vice president said. “We’re in the process of ascertaining exactly where everyone stands. But a preliminary guess is that it will pretty much be split. Five or six of the poorer, smaller republics will side with Azerbaijan in the hopes of forming a new union with a share of the oil money. The other half will go with Russia for pretty much the same reason.”

“So we risk a wider war as well,” the president said.

“But this is more than just the possibility of us losing oil and watching a war erupt,” Fenwick pointed out. “It’s Iran and the Russian black market getting their hands on petrodollars that scares me.”

The president shook his head. “I’m going to have to bring the joint chiefs in on this.”

The vice president nodded. “We’re going to have to move quickly. It’s midmorning in the region. Things are going to happen very quickly. If they get ahead of us—”

“I know,” the president said. He was suddenly energized, ready to deal with the situation. He looked at his watch and then at Gable. “Red, would you notify the joint chiefs to be here at three? Also, get the press secretary out of bed. I want him here as well.” He looked at the vice president. “We’ll need to alert the thirty-ninth Wing at Incirlik and the naval resources in the region.”

“That would be the Constellation in the North Arabian Sea and the Ronald Reagan in the Persian Gulf, sir,” Fenwick said.

“I’ll put them on alert,” the vice president said. He excused himself and went to the president’s private study. It was a small room that adjoined the Oval Office on the western side. That was also where the president’s private lavatory and dining parlor were located.

“We’ll also have to brief NATO command,” the president told Gable. “I don’t want them holding us up if we decide to act. And we’re going to need a complete chemical and biological workup of the Azerbaijani military. See how far they’ll go if we don’t join in.”

“I already have that, sir,” Fenwick said. “They’ve got deep reserves of anthrax as well as methyl cyanide and acetonitrile on the chemical side. All have surface-to-surface missile delivery systems. Most of the reserves are stored in or near the NK. We’re watching to see if any of them are moved.”

The president nodded as his intercom beeped. It was his deputy executive secretary Charlotte Parker.

“Mr. President,” said Parker, “Paul Hood would like to see you. He says it’s very important.”

Fenwick did not appear to react. He turned to Gable and began talking softly as he pointed to data on his notepad.

Are they talking about the Caspian or about Hood? the president wondered. Lawrence thought for a moment. If Hood were the one who had lost his way—either intentionally or because of external pressures—this would be the time and the place to find out.

“Tell him to come in,” said the president.

FORTY-TWO

Saint Petersburg, Russia Tuesday, 9:56 A.M.

“We have the Harpooner’s location!” Korsov shouted. Orlov looked up as Korsov rushed into his office. The young intelligence officer was followed by Boris Grosky, who looked less glum than Orlov had ever seen him. He did not look happy, but he did not look miserable. Korsov was holding several papers in his hands.

“Where is he?” Orlov asked.

Korsov slapped a computer printout on Orlov’s desk. There was a map and an arrow pointing to a building. Another arrow pointed to a street several blocks away.

“The signal originated at a hotel in Baku,” Korsov said. “From there it went to Suleyman Ragimov Kuchasi. It’s an avenue that runs parallel to Bakihanov Kuchasi, the location of the hotel.”

“Was he calling someone with a cell phone?” Orlov asked.

“We don’t believe so,” Grosky said. “We’ve been monitoring police broadcasts from the area to find out more about the oil rig explosion. While we were listening, we heard about a van explosion on Suleyman Ragimov. The blast is being investigated now.”

“It doesn’t sound like a coincidence,” Korsov added.

“No, it doesn’t,” Orlov agreed.

“Let’s assume the Harpooner was behind that,” Korsov said. “He might want to see it from his hotel room—”

“That might not be necessary, as long as he could hear it,” Orlov said. “No. The Harpooner would be worried about security if he were staying in a hotel room. Do we have any way of fine-tuning the location of the signal?”

“No,” Korsov said. “It was too brief, and our equipment is not sensitive enough to determine height in increments under two hundred feet.”

“Can we get a diagram of the hotel?” Orlov asked.

“I have that,” Korsov said. He pulled a page from the pile he was holding and laid it beside the map. It showed a ten-story hotel.

“Natasha is trying to break into the reservations list,” Grosky said. He was referring to the Op-Center’s twenty-three-year-old computer genius Natasha Revsky. “If she can get in, she will give us the names of all single male occupants.”

“Get single females as well,” Orlov said. “The Harpooner has been known to adopt a variety of disguises.”

Grosky nodded.

“You feel very confident about this?” Orlov asked. Korsov had been leaning over the desk. Now he stood like a soldier, his chest puffed. “Completely,” he replied.

“All right,” Orlov said. “Leave the hotel diagram with me. This was very good work. Thank you both.”

As Grosky and Korsov left, Orlov picked up the phone. He wanted to talk to Odette about the hotel and then get her on site. Hopefully, the American would be strong enough to go with her.

The Harpooner was not a man to tackle alone.

FORTY-THREE

Baku, Azerbaijan Tuesday, 10:07 A.M.

Odette Kolker was cleaning up the breakfast plates when the phone beeped. It was the apartment phone, not her cell phone. That meant it was not General Orlov who was calling.

She allowed her answering machine to pick up. It was Captain Kilar. The commander of her police unit had not been in when she phoned the duty sergeant to let him know that she would be out sick. Kilar was calling to tell her that she was a good and hardworking officer, and he wanted her to get well. He said that she should take whatever time she needed to recuperate.

Odette felt bad about that. She was hardworking. And though the Baku Municipal Police Department paid relatively well—twenty thousand manats, the equivalent of eight thousand American dollars—they did not pay overtime. However, the work Odette did was not always for the BMP and the people of Baku. The time she spent at her computer or on the street was often for General Orlov. Baku was a staging area for many of the arms dealers and terrorists who worked in Russia and the former Soviet republics. Checking on visa applications, customs activity, and passenger lists for boats, planes, and trains enabled her to keep track of many of these people.

After putting away the few dishes, Odette turned and looked back at her guest. The American had fallen asleep and was breathing evenly. She had placed a cool washcloth on his head and he was perspiring less than when she had brought him home. She had seen the bruises on his throat. They were consistent with choke marks. Obviously, the incident in the hospital was not the first time someone had tried to kill him. There was also a tiny red spot on his neck. A puncture wound, it looked like. She wondered if this illness were the result of his having been injected with a virus. The KGB and other Eastern European intelligence services used to do that quite a bit, typically with lethal viruses or poison. The toxin would be placed inside microscopic pellets. The pellets were sugar-coated metal spheres with numerous holes in their surface. These would be injected by an umbrella tip, pen point, or some other sharp object. It would take the body anywhere from several minutes to an hour or two to eat through the sugar coating. That would give the assassin time to get away. If this man had been injected, he probably was not supposed to die by the virus. He had been used to draw his colleagues out into the open. The hospital ambush had been well organized.

Just like the ambush that killed her husband in Chechnya, she thought. Her husband, her lover, her mentor, her dearest friend. They all perished when Viktor died on a cold, dark, and lonely mountainside.

Viktor had successfully infiltrated the Chechan mujihadin forces. For seven months, Viktor was able to obtain the ever-changing radio frequencies with which different rebel factions communicated. He would write this information down and leave it for a member of the KGB field force to collect and radio to Moscow. Then the idiot KGB officer got sloppy. He confused the frequency he was supposed to use with the one he was reporting about. Instead of communicating with his superiors, he broadcast directly to one of the rebel camps. The KGB officer was captured, tortured for information, and killed. He had not known Viktor’s name but he knew which unit her husband had infiltrated and when he had arrived. The rebel leaders had no trouble figuring out who the Russian agent was. Viktor would always leave his information under a rock which he would chip in a distinctive fashion. While he was out one night, supposedly standing watch, Viktor was brought down by ten men, then taken into the mountains. There, his Achilles tendons were severed and his wrists were slashed. Viktor bled to death before he could crawl to help. His last message to her was painted on a tree trunk with his own blood. It was a small heart with his wife’s initials inside.

Odette’s cell phone beeped softly. She picked it up from the kitchen counter and turned her back toward her guest. The woman spoke softly so she would not wake him.

“Yes?”

“We believe we’ve found the Harpooner.”

That got Odette’s attention. “Where?”

“At a hotel not far from you,” Orlov said. “We’re trying to pinpoint his room now.”

Odette moved quietly toward the bed. She was required to check her service revolver when she left police headquarters every night. But she kept a spare weapon in the nightstand. It was always loaded. A woman living alone had to be careful. A spy at home or abroad had to be even more careful.

“What’s the mission?” Odette asked.

“Termination,” Orlov said. “We can’t take a chance that he’ll get away.”

“Understood,” Odette said calmly. The woman believed in the work she was doing, protecting the interests of her country. Killing did not bother her when doing it would save lives. The man she had terminated just a few hours before meant little more to her than someone she might have passed in the street.

“Once we’ve narrowed down the guests who might be the Harpooner, you’re going to have to make the final call,” Orlov said. “The rest depends on what he does, how he acts. What you see in his eyes. He’s probably going to have showered but still look tired.”

“He’s been a busy bastard,” Odette said. “I can read that in a man.”

“The chances are he won’t open the door to the hotel staff,” Orlov went on. “And if you pretend to be a housekeeper or security officer, that will only put him on guard.”

“I agree,” she said. “I’ll find a way to get in and take him by surprise.”

“I spoke to our profiler,” Orlov said. “If you do get to him, he’ll probably be cool and even pleasant and will appear to cooperate. He might attempt to bribe you or get you to be overconfident. Try to get your guard down so he can attack. Don’t even listen. Make your assessment and do your job. I wouldn’t be surprised if he also has several traps at the ready. A gas canister in an air duct, an explosive device, or maybe just a magnesium flash to blind you. He might have rigged it to a light switch or a remote control in his heel, something he can activate when he ties his shoe. We just don’t know enough about him to say for certain how he secures a room.”

“It’s all right,” Odette assured him. “I’ll make the ID and neutralize him.”

“I wish I could tell you to go in with a squad of police,” Orlov said apologetically. “But that isn’t advisable. A shout, rerouted traffic, anything out of the ordinary can alert him. Or the Harpooner may sense their presence. If he does, he may get away before you can even get to him. I’m sure he has carefully planned his escape routes. Or he may try to take hostages.”

“I understand,” Odette said. “All right. Where is the Harpooner registered?”

“Before I tell you that, how is your guest?” Orlov asked.

“He’s sleeping,” Odette replied. She looked down at the man on the bed. He was lying on his back, his arms at his side. His breathing was slow and heavy. “Whatever he’s suffering from was probably artificially induced,” she said. “Possibly by injection.”

“How is his fever?”

“Down a bit, I think,” she said. “He’ll be okay.”

“Good,” Orlov said. “Wake him.”

“Sir?” The order took her completely by surprise.

“I want you to wake him,” Orlov told her. “You’re bringing him with you.”

“But that’s not possible!” Odette protested. “I don’t even know if the American can stand.”

“He’ll stand,” Orlov said. “He has to.”

“Sir, this is not going to help me—”

“I’m not going to have you face the Harpooner without experienced backup,” Orlov said. “Now, you know the drill. Do it.”

Odetted shook her head. She knew the drill. Viktor had taught it to her. Lit matches were applied to the soles of the feet. It not only woke up the ill or people who had been tortured into unconsciousness, but the pain kept them awake and alert as they walked.

Odette shook her head. By definition, field work was a solo pursuit. What had happened to Viktor underscored the danger of working with someone even briefly. Even if the American were well, she was not sure she wanted a partner. Ill, he would be more of a burden than an asset.

“All right,” Odette said. She turned her back on the American and walked toward the kitchenette. “Where is he?”

“We believe the Harpooner is in the Hyatt,” Orlov told her. “We’re trying to have a look at their computer records now. I’ll let you know if we learn anything from the files.”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes,” Odette promised. “Is there anything else, General?”

“Just this,” Orlov said. “I have grave reservations about sending you after this man. I want you both to be careful.”

“We will,” Odette said. “And thank you.”

She hung up and hooked the cell phone on her belt. She removed the gun and ankle holster from the night table and slipped them on. Her long police skirt would cover the weapon. She slipped a silencer in her right pocket. She had brought a switchblade to the hospital. That was still tucked in her left skirt pocket. If she did not need it for self-defense, she would need it as a throwaway. If she were stopped for any reason, perhaps by hotel security, Odette could say that she was visiting a friend—the checkout who, of course, would no longer be there. Odette would be able to say that she knocked on the wrong door and the Harpooner attacked her. With her help—using information provided by Orlov and the Americans—the police would connect the dead man with the terrorist attack.

Hopefully, though, it would not be necessary to explain anything to anyone. With surprise on her side, Odette might be able to catch the Harpooner relatively unprepared.

Odette walked on slightly bent knees and tiptoed to the front door of the apartment. The hardwood floors creaked loudly underfoot. It was strange, Odette thought. It had never been necessary for her to be quiet here before. Until today, there had never been anyone but her in this bed. Not that she regretted that. Viktor had been all she ever wanted.

Odette opened the door. Before leaving, she looked back at the sleeping American.

The woman felt bad about lying to General Orlov. Though the coin of her profession was subterfuge and deceit, she had never lied to Orlov. Fortunately, this was a win-win situation for her. If she succeeded in bringing down the Harpooner, Orlov would be angry with her—but not very. And if she failed, she would not be around to hear Orlov complain.

Odette stepped into the corridor and quietly shut the door behind her. If she blew this assignment, she would probably have to listen to Viktor complain. Listen for all eternity.

She smiled. That, too, was a win situation.

FORTY-FOUR

Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 2:08 A.M.

A stoic secret service agent opened the door to the Oval Office and admitted Paul Hood. The large, white door closed with a small click. The sound seemed very loud to Hood as he crossed the carpet toward the president’s desk. So did the sound of Hood’s heart. He had no way of knowing for certain whether Fenwick was a rogue figure or working as part of a team. Either way, convincing others about possible involvement in an international conspiracy of some kind was going to be extremely difficult.

The mood in the room was hostile. Hood could feel that even before he saw the faces of the vice president, Fenwick, and Gable. None of the men looked back at him, and the president’s expression was severe. Mike Rodgers once said that when he first joined the military, he had a commanding officer with a very singular expression of disapproval. He looked at you as though he wanted to tear heads off and use them for punting practice.

The president had that look.

Hood quickly made his way between the armchairs to the president’s desk. The Washington Monument was visible through the windows behind the president. The tower was brightly moonlit in the flat, black night. Seeing it then gave Hood the flash of courage he needed.

“I’m sorry to intrude, Mr. President, gentlemen,” Hood announced. “This couldn’t wait.”

“Things never can wait with you, can they?” Fenwick asked. He glanced back at the green folder in his lap.

A preemptive strike, Hood thought. The bastard was good. Hood turned and looked at the NSA chief. The short, slender man had deep-set eyes beneath a head of thick, curly white hair. The whiteness of his hair emphasized the darkness of his eyes.

“Your team has a history of rushing blindly into evolving crises, Mr. Hood. North Korea, the Bekaa Valley, the United Nations. You’re a lighted match waiting for the wrong tinderbox.”

“We haven’t blown one yet,” Hood pointed out.

“Yet,” Fenwick agreed. He looked at Lawrence. “Mr. President, we need to finish reviewing our data so that you can make a decision about the Caspian situation.”

“What does Maurice Charles have to do with the Caspian situation?” Hood demanded. He was still looking at Fenwick. He was not going to let the man wriggle away.

“Charles? The terrorist?” Fenwick asked.

“That’s right,” Hood said. Hood said nothing else. He wanted to see where this went.

The president looked at Fenwick. “Did the NSA know that Charles was involved with this?”

“Yes, Mr. President, we did,” Fenwick admitted. “But we don’t know what his involvement was. We’ve been looking into that.”

“Maybe I can point you in the right direction, Mr. Fenwick,” Hood said. “Maurice Charles was in touch with the NSA both before and after the attack on the Iranian oil rig.”

“That’s bullshit!” Fenwick charged.

“You seem sure of that,” Hood said.

“I am!” Fenwick said. “No one in my organization would have anything to do with that man!”

Hood had expected Fenwick to 3D the charge: disavow, deny, and delay. But neither the vice president nor Gable had jumped in to defend him. Perhaps because they knew it was true?

Hood turned to the president. “Sir, we have every reason to believe that Charles, the Harpooner, was involved in the destruction of that rig.”

“Evidence from whom?” Fenwick demanded.

“Unimpeachable sources,” Hood replied.

“Who?” Vice President Cotten asked.

Hood faced him. The vice president was a calm and reasonable man. Hood was going to have to bite the bullet on this one. “General Sergei Orlov, commander of the Russian Op-Center.”

Gable shook his head. Fenwick rolled his eyes.

“The Russians,” the vice president said dismissively. “They may have been the ones who sent Cherkassov into the region to attack the rig. His body was found in the water nearby.”

“Moscow has every reason not to want us involved in the region,” Gable said. “If Azerbaijan is chased out of the Caspian, Moscow can lay claim to more of the oil reserves. Mr. President, I suggest we table this side of the problem until we’ve dealt with the larger issue of the Iranian mobilization.”

“We’ve reviewed the data Orlov provided, and we believe it’s accurate,” Hood stated.

“I’d like to see that data,” Fenwick said.

“You will,” Hood promised.

“You wouldn’t also have given General Orlov any secure codes to help him listen in on alleged NSA conversations, would you?”

Hood ignored that. “Mr. President, the Harpooner is an expert at creating and executing complex cover stories. If he’s involved in this operation, we have to look carefully at any evidence that comes in. We should also inform Teheran that this action may have nothing to do with Baku.”

“Nothing?” Fenwick said. “For all we know, they may have hired the Harpooner.”

“You may be right,” Hood said. “What I’m saying is that we have no evidence of anything except the fact that the Harpooner is in the region and was probably involved in the attack.”

“Secondhand evidence,” Fenwick said. “Besides, I spent a day trying to open a dialogue with Teheran about an intelligence exchange. The bottom line is that they don’t trust us, and we can’t trust them.”

“That is not the bottom line!” Hood snapped. He stopped. He had to watch that—showing anger. He was frustrated, and he was extremely tired. But if he lost control, he would also lose credibility. “The bottom line,” Hood continued evenly, “is that misinformation has been passed regularly between the NSA, the CIOC, and the Oval Office—”

“Mr. President, we need to move on,” Fenwick said calmly. “Iran is moving warships into the Caspian region. That is a fact, and it must be dealt with immediately.”

“I agree,” said the vice president. Cotten looked at Hood. There was condescension in the vice president’s eyes. “Paul, if you have concerns about the actions of personnel at the NSA, you should bring your proof to the CIOC, not to us. They will deal with it.”

“When it’s too late,” Hood said.

“Too late for what?” the president asked.

Hood turned to the president. “I don’t know the answer to that, sir,” Hood admitted. “But I do believe you should hold off making any decisions about the Caspian right now.”

Fenwick shook his head. “Based on hearsay from Russians who may themselves be moving planes and ships into the region.”

“Mr. Fenwick has a point,” the president said.

“The Russians may indeed have designs on the Caspian oil,” Hood agreed. “That in itself doesn’t repudiate General Orlov’s intelligence.”

“How long do you need, Paul?”

“Give me another twelve hours,” Hood said.

“Twelve hours will give Iran and Russia time to position ships in the Azerbaijani oil regions,” Gable said.

The president looked at his watch. He thought for a moment. “I’ll give you five hours,” he said.

That was not what Hood wanted, but it was obviously all he was going to get. He took it.

“I’ll need an office,” Hood said. He did not want to waste time running back to Op-Center.

“Take the Cabinet Room,” the president said. “That way I know you’ll be done by seven. We’ll be moving in then.”

“Thank you, sir,” Hood said.

Hood turned. He ignored the other men as he left the Oval Office. The hostility was much greater now than when he had come in. Hood was certain he had hit a bull’s-eye. Just not with enough firepower.

It would have been too much to expect the president to buy everything he was telling him. Even after their earlier conversation, Lawrence was still obviously struggling with the idea that Jack Fenwick could be a traitor. But at least the president had not dismissed the idea entirely. Hood had been able to buy himself some time.

Hood walked down the quiet, green-carpeted hallway of the West Wing. He made his way past two silent secret service officers. One was posted outside the Oval Office. The other was standing down the hall between the doorway that led to the press secretary’s office on the northwest end of the corridor and door to the Cabinet Room on the northeast side.

Hood entered the oblong room. There was a large conference table in the center of the room. Beyond it, in the northern end of the room, was a desk with a computer and a telephone. Hood went over and sat down.

The first thing Hood would do was contact Herbert. He had to try to get more information about the Harpooner’s contacts with the NSA. Yet even having the exact time and location of the calls would probably not persuade the president that there was a conspiracy.

Hood needed proof. And right now, he did not know how he was going to get it.

FORTY-FIVE

Saint Petersburg, Russia Tuesday, 10:20 A.M.

When he was a cosmonaut, General Orlov had learned to read voices. Often, that was the only way he learned whether there was a problem with a flight. Ground control had once told him that all was well with his Salyut space station mission. In fact, pitting from micrometeoroid dust and a chemical cloud dumped by the spacecraft’s own thrusters had corroded the solar array. The panels had been so seriously compromised that the station was going to lose power before a Kosmos ship from Earth was due to ferry them home.

The first hint of trouble came from the voice of the liaison in ground control. His cadence was a little different from usual. Orlov already had an ear for voices from the years he spent as a test pilot. Orlov insisted on being told what the problem was with the Salyut. The entire world heard the conversation, embarrassing the Kremlin. But Orlov was able to shut down noncritical systems and conserve power rather than wait for scientists to figure out how to realign the remaining panels while also shielding them from further corrosion.

Orlov trusted Natalia Basov. Completely. But he did not always believe her, which was not the same thing. There was something in her tone of voice that worried him. It was as if she had been concealing something. Just like the liaison at ground control.

Several minutes after they spoke on her cell phone, Orlov called the phone registered to Odette Kolker at her apartment. It rang a dozen times and no one answered. Orlov hoped that meant she had taken the American with her. Twenty minutes later, he called back again.

This time a man with a slurred voice answered. In English.

Orlov looked at the readout on the telephone to make sure he had the correct number. He did. The woman had left without the American.

“This is General Sergei Orlov,” he said to the man. “Is this Mr. Battat?”

“Yes,” Battat replied groggily.

“Mr. Battat, the woman who rescued you is my subordinate,” Orlov went on. “She has gone out to try and apprehend the man who attacked you on the beach. You know who I am talking about?”

“Yes,” Battat replied. “I do.”

“She has no backup, and I’m worried about her and about the mission,” Orlov said. “Are you well enough to get around the city?”

There was a short delay. Orlov heard grunts and moans.

“I’m on my feet, and I see my clothes hanging behind the door,” Battat replied. “I’ll take one step at a time. Where did she go?”

Orlov told the American he had no idea what Odette’s plan was, or if she even had one. Orlov added that his team was still trying to get into the hotel computer to find out which rooms were occupied by single males.

Battat asked Orlov to call him a taxi, since he did not really speak the language.

Orlov said he would do that and thanked him. He gave Battat his telephone number at the Op-Center and then hung up.

Orlov sat still. Save for the faint buzz of the fluorescent light on his desk, his underground office was dead silent. Even space was not this quiet. There were always creaks as metal warmed and cooled or bumps as loose objects struck equipment. There were sounds of coolant moving through pipes and air rushing through vents. And every now and then there was someone talking in his headphone, either from Earth or somewhere else in the ship.

Not here. This was a lonelier-feeling place by far.

By now, Odette had probably reached the hotel and gone inside. He could phone her and order her back, but he did not think she would listen. And if she was intent on going through with this, he did not want to rattle her. She needed to know she had his support.

Orlov was angry at Odette for having disobeyed orders and lying to him. His anger was tempered by an understanding of what had driven the woman. Her husband had been a loner as well. A loner who had died because of someone else’s carelessness.

Still, she would not stand in the way of Orlov’s job. And that job was not just to capture or kill the Harpooner.

It was to make certain that Odette did not end up like Viktor.

FORTY-SIX

Baku, Azerbaijan Tuesday, 10:31 A.M.

There was a great deal of traffic, and it took Odette twice as long as she expected to reach the Hyatt Hotel. She parked on a side street less than a block from the employees’ entrance. She did not want to park out front. There was still a sniper out there somewhere, the person who had shot the American diplomat outside the hospital. The killer might be bird-dogging the hotel for the Harpooner. He might have seen her car at the hospital and could recognize it again.

It was a sunny morning, and Odette enjoyed the brief walk to the front of the hotel. The air tasted richer and seemed to fill her lungs more than usual. She wondered if Viktor had felt this way while he was in Chechnya. If simple moments had seemed more rewarding when there was a real risk of losing it all.

Odette had been to the rear entrance of the hotel twice before. Once was to help a cook who had burned himself in a skillet fire. Another time was to quiet a man who was complaining about charges on his dinner bill. She knew her way around the back. Unfortunately, she didn’t think she would find the Harpooner here. Odette assumed that when the Harpooner came and went, he used the front entrance. Sneaking out a delivery door or first-floor window might call attention to himself. Smart terrorists hid in plain sight.

And smart counterterrorists waited for them rather than charging into their lair, she thought.

But Odette had no idea when the Harpooner would be leaving. It could be the middle of the night. It could be early afternoon. It could be three days from now. She could not be here the entire time. She also had no idea whether or not he would be disguised. And for all she knew, he might even hire a prostitute to pose as his daughter, wife, or even his mother. There were some old prostitutes in Baku. Some very young ones, too. Odette had arrested a number of them.

There were many possibilities, all of which made it imperative that Odette get to the Harpooner before he left. The question was how to find him. She had no idea what his name was or what name he might be using.

Except for the Harpooner, Odette thought. She laughed to herself. Maybe she should run down the halls shouting that name. Watch to see which doors did not open. Anyone who did not need to see what the uproar was about had to be the Harpooner.

Odette rounded the corner and walked toward the front of the hotel. There was a kiosk around the corner. A newspaper extra was already announcing the Iranian buildup in the Caspian Sea. There were aerial reconnaissance photos of Iranian ships setting sail. Baku had always been relatively insulated from military action. This was something new for the nation’s capital. That would help to explain the traffic. Most people lived in the suburbs. Many of them probably came to work, heard the news, and were getting out of town in the event of attack.

There was just one person standing beneath the gold and green awning. A doorman in a green blazer and matching cap. There were no tour buses, though that was not surprising. They usually left by nine A.M. Tourists who had entered the country as part of a group probably could not opt for early departure and had almost certainly gone ahead with their plans. In any case, checkout was not until noon. People who did want to leave were probably on the phones trying to book plane, train, or car reservations—

Of course, she thought. The phone.

Orlov had said that the Harpooner made a call using a secure phone. That would mean he probably had not made any calls using the hotel phone. She would look for a single male occupant with no phone charges on his bill.

Odette entered the hotel. She looked away from the front desk as she crossed the lobby. She did not want to risk being seen by the manager or any of the clerks who might recognize her. The first thing she did was turn to the right, toward the corridor that led to housekeeping. The long, simple office was located in the back of the hotel. There was a desk with a supervisor in the front of the office. Behind her was an array of cleaning carts. To her right was a Peg-Board with keys for all the rooms. A row of master keys was located on the bottom. These were given out to the cleaning staff each morning. Two keys remained.

Odette asked the elderly clerk if she could have more shampoo. Smiling pleasantly, the clerk rose and went to one of the carts. While the woman’s back was turned, Odette took one of the master keys from the wall. The clerk returned with three small bottles of shampoo. The woman asked if she needed anything else. Odette said that she did not. Thanking her, Odette returned to the lobby and walked to the bank of telephone booths that lined an alcove in the back.

As she was walking, her phone beeped. She tucked herself into one of the booths, shut the door, then answered it.

Orlov said his team had broken into the hotel computer and they had five possibilities. Odette wrote down the names and room numbers.

“We might be able to narrow it down a little more,” Orlov told her. “If someone wanted to get out of the country quickly, he would assume a nationality the Azerbaijani would not want around.”

“Iranian,” Odette said.

“No,” Orlov countered. “Iranians might be detained. Russian is more likely. And there are two Russians at the hotel.”

Odette said she might be able to narrow it down even further by checking the room telephone records.

“Good thinking,” Orlov said. “Hold on while we’re checking. Also, Odette, there’s one thing more.”

Odette felt her lower belly tighten. There was something about the general’s voice.

“I spoke with Mr. Battat a few minutes ago,” Orlov said.

Odette felt as if she’d run into a thick, low-lying tree branch. Her momentum died and her head began to throb. She did not think she had done wrong, leaving a sick man at home. But she had disobeyed an order and could think of nothing to say in her defense.

“The American is on his way to the hotel,” General Orlov continued evenly. “I told him to look for you in the lobby. You’re to wait until he arrives before you try to take down your man. Do you understand, Odette?”

“Yes, sir,” she replied.

“Good,” Orlov said.

The woman held on as Orlov’s staff checked the records. Her palms were damp. That was less from nervousness than from having been caught. She was an honest woman by nature, and Orlov’s trust was important to her. She hoped he understood why she had lied. It was not just to protect Battat. It was to allow herself to concentrate on the mission instead of on a sick man.

According to the hotel’s records, two of the five men staying there had not made any calls from the room. One of them, Ivan Ganiev, was Russian. Orlov told her they were also checking the computer’s housekeeping records. According to the last report, filed the day before, Ganiev’s room, number 310, had not been cleaned in the three days he had been there.

Meanwhile, Orlov went to his computer and asked for a background check on the name. It came up quickly.

“Ganiev is a telecommunications consultant who lives in Moscow. We’re checking the address now to make sure it’s valid. He doesn’t appear to work for any one company,” Orlov said.

“So there’s no personnel file we can check for his education or background,” she said.

“Exactly,” Orlov said. “He’s registered with the Central Technology Licensing Bureau, but all it takes to get a license is a bribe. Ganiev does not have family in Moscow, does not appear to belong to any organizations, and receives his mail at a post office box.”

That made sense, Odette thought. No mail collecting in the postbox, no newspapers piling up on the stoop. None of the neighbors would be certain whether he was there or not.

“Hold on, we have his address,” Orlov added. He was silent for a moment. Then he said, “It’s him. It has to be.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Ganiev’s residence is a block from the Kievskaya metro stop,” Orlov told her.

“Which means—?”

“That’s where we’ve lost the Harpooner on at least two other occasions,” Orlov said.

Battat walked into the lobby just then. He looked like Viktor did after ten rounds of boxing in the military amateurs. Wobbly. Battat saw Odette and walked toward her.

“So it looks as though he’s our man,” Odette said. “Do we proceed as planned?”

This was the most difficult part of intelligence work. Making a determination about life and death based on an educated guess. If General Orlov were wrong, then an innocent man would die. Not the first and certainly not the last. National security was never error-free. But if he were correct, hundreds of lives might be spared. Then there was the option of attempting to capture the Harpooner and turn him over to Azerbaijani authorities. Even if it could be done, there were two problems with that. First, the Azerbaijanis would find out who Odette really was. Worse, they might not want to try to extradite the Harpooner. It was an Iranian rig he had attacked. And Russian buildings. And American embassies. The Azerbaijanis might want to make some kind of arrangement with him. Release him in exchange for his cooperation, for help in covert actions of their own. That was something Moscow could not risk.

“You’re going to wait for the American to arrive?” Orlov asked.

“He’s here now,” Odette said. “Do you want to speak with him?”

“That won’t be necessary,” Orlov said. “The Harpooner will probably be traveling with high-tech equipment to go with his cover story. I want you to take some of it and any money he’s carrying. Pull out drawers and empty the luggage. Make it look like a robbery. And work out an escape route before you go in.”

“All right,” she said.

There was nothing patronizing about Orlov’s tone. He was giving instructions and also reviewing a checklist out loud. He was making sure that both he and Odette understood what must be done before she closed in.

Orlov was quiet again. Odette imagined him reviewing the data on his computer. He would be looking for additional confirmation that this was their quarry. Or a reason to suspect it was not.

“I’m arranging for airline tickets out of the country in case you need them when you’re finished,” Orlov said. He waited another moment and then decided as Odette knew he must. “Go and get him.”

Odette acknowledged the order and hung up.

FORTY-SEVEN

Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 2:32 A.M.

Hood shut the door of the Cabinet Room behind him. There was a coffee machine on a small table in the far corner. The first thing Paul did upon entering was brew a pot using bottled water. He felt guilty doing that in the midst of a crisis, but he needed the caffeine kick. Desperately. Though his mind was speeding, his eyes and body from the shoulders down were crashing. Even the smell of the coffee helped as it began to brew. As he stood watching the steam, he thought back to the meeting he had just left. The shortest way of defusing the crisis on this end was to break Fenwick and whatever cabal he had put together. He hoped he could go back there with information, something to rattle Fenwick or Gable.

“I need time to think,” he muttered to himself. Time to figure out how best to attack them if he had nothing more than he did now.

Hood turned from the coffeemaker. He sat on the edge of the large conference table and pulled over one of the telephones. He called Bob Herbert to see if his intelligence chief had any news or sources he could hit up for information about the Harpooner and possible contact with the NSA.

He did not.

“Unless no news is news,” Herbert added.

Herbert had already woken several acquaintances who either worked for or were familiar with the activities of the NSA. Calling them in the middle of the night had the advantage of catching them off guard. If they knew anything, they would probably blurt it out. Herbert asked if any of them had heard about U.S. intelligence overtures to Iran.

None of them had.

“Which isn’t surprising,” Herbert said. “Something of that magnitude and delicacy would only be conducted at the highest executive levels. But it’s also true that if more than one person knows about an operation over there, then everyone has heard at least a piece of the story. Not so here.”

“Maybe more than one person at the NSA doesn’t know about this,” Hood said.

“That could very well be,” Herbert agreed.

Herbert said he was still waiting to hear from HUM-INT sources in Teheran. They might know something about this.

“The only solid news we have is from Mike’s people at the Pentagon,” Herbert said. “Military Intelligence has picked up signs of Russian mobilization in the Caspian region. Stephen Viens at the NRO has confirmed that. The Slava-class cruiser Admiral Lobov is apparently aleady heading south and the Udaloy II-class destroyer Admiral Chebanenko is joining it along with several corvettes and small missile craft. Mike expects air cover over the Russian oil installations to commence within a few hours.”

“All from something that started with the Harpooner—or whoever first hired him,” Hood said.

“Eisenhower was the first to use the metaphor in 1954,” Herbert said. “He said, ‘You have a row of dominoes set up; you knock over the first one and what will happen to the last one is that it will go over very quickly.’ He was talking about Vietnam, but it applies to this.”

Herbert was right. You could count on the fact that dominoes not only fell, but they dropped quickly. And the only way to stop dominoes falling was to get far enough ahead of the chain and remove a few tiles.

After hanging up, Hood poured himself coffee, sat down in one of the leather seats, and called Sergei Orlov. The fresh, black coffee was a lifesaver. In the midst of chaos even a small respite seemed enormous.

The general brought Hood up to date on the situation with the Harpooner. Hood could hear the tension in the Russian’s voice as he explained what the overall plan was. Hood related to Orlov’s concern completely. There was worry for his operative Odette and a desperate desire to end the career of a notorious terrorist. Hood had been in that place. And he had both won there and lost there. This was not like a film or novel where the hero necessarily won.

Hood was still on the phone with General Orlov when the door opened. He glanced up.

It was Jack Fenwick. The time to think was over.

The NSA head entered the room and shut the door behind him. The Cabinet Room was a large room, but it suddenly seemed small and very close.

Fenwick walked over to the coffee and helped himself. Hood was nearly finished with the call. He ended the conversation as quickly as possible without seeming to hurry. He did not want Fenwick to hear anything. But he also did not want to show the NSA chief a hint of desperation.

Hood hung up. He took a swallow of coffee and glanced over at Fenwick. The man’s dark eyes were on Hood.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Fenwick said. He indicated the coffee.

“Why should I?” Hood asked.

“I don’t know, Paul,” Fenwick shrugged. “People can get protective about things. Good coffee, by the way.”

“Thanks.”

Fenwick perched himself on the edge of the table. He was just a few feet from Hood. “We’ve taken a little break,” Fenwick told him. “The president is waiting for the joint chiefs and secretary of state before making any decisions about the Caspian situation.”

“Thanks for the update.”

“You’re welcome,” Fenwick said. “I can give you more than an update,” he went on. “I can give you a prediction.”

“Oh?”

Fenwick nodded confidently. “The president is going to respond militarily. Emphatically. He has to.”

Both Op-Center and the NSA had access to photographic reconnaissance from the NRO. No doubt Fenwick knew about the Russians as well.

Hood got up to freshen his coffee. As he did, he remembered what he had been thinking just a few minutes before.

The only way to stop the dominoes falling was to get far enough ahead of the chain and remove a few tiles.

“The question is not what the president will do, what the nation will do. The question is what are you going to do?” Fenwick said.

“Is that why you came here? To pick my brains?”

“I came here to stretch my legs,” Fenwick said. “But now that we’ve gone there, I am curious. What are you going to do?”

“About what?” Hood asked as he poured more coffee. The dance was on. They were each watching their words.

“About the current crisis,” Fenwick replied. “What part are you going to play?”

“I’m going to do my job,” Hood said. He was either being interviewed or threatened. He had not yet decided which. Nor did he care.

“And how do you see that?” Fenwick asked.

“The job description says ‘crisis management,’ ” Hood said. He looked back at Fenwick. “But at the moment, I see it as more than that. I see it as learning the truth behind this crisis and presenting the facts to the president.”

“What truth is that?” Fenwick asked. Though his expression did not change, there was condescension in his voice. “You obviously don’t agree with what Mr. Gable, the vice president, and I were telling him.”

“No, I don’t,” Hood said. He had to be cautious. Part of what he was about to say was real, part of it was bluff. If he were wrong it would be the equivalent of crying wolf. Fenwick would not be concerned about anything Hood had to say. And Fenwick could use this to undermine Hood’s credibility with the president.

But that was only if he were wrong.

“I’ve just been informed that we captured the Harpooner at the Hyatt Hotel in Baku,” Hood said. He had to present it as a fait accompli. He did not want Fenwick calling the hotel and warning the terrorist.

“Then it’s definitely the Harpooner?” Fenwick said. Fenwick took a sip of coffee and held it in his mouth. Hood let the silence hang there. After a long moment, Fenwick swallowed.

“I’m glad,” Fenwick said without much enthusiasm.

“That’s one less terrorist Americans have to worry about. How did you get him? Interpol, the CIA, the FBI—they’ve all been trying for over twenty years.”

“We’ve been following him for several days,” Hood went on. “We were observing him and listening to his phone calls.”

“Who are we?”

“A group comprised of Op-Center, CIA, and foreign resources,” Hood replied. “We pulled it together when we heard the Harpooner was in the region. We managed to lure him out using a CIA agent as bait.”

Hood felt safe revealing the CIA’s role since it was probably Fenwick who had given the information about Battat to the Harpooner.

Fenwick continued to regard Hood. “So you’ve got the Harpooner,” Fenwick said. “What does all this have to do with the truth about what’s going on? Do you know something that I don’t?”

“The Harpooner apparently had a hand in what happened in the Caspian,” Hood said.

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Fenwick said. “The Harpooner will work for anyone.”

“Even us,” Hood said.

Fenwick started when he heard that. Just a little, but enough so that Hood noticed. “I’m tired, and I don’t have time for guessing games,” Fenwick complained. “What do you mean?”

“We’re talking to him now,” Hood went on. “He seems willing to tell us who hired him in exchange for limited amnesty.”

“Of course he does,” Fenwick said dismissively.

“That bastard would probably say anything to save his hide.”

“He might,” Hood agreed. “But why lie when only the truth can save his life?”

“Because he’s a twisted bastard,” Fenwick said angrily. The NSA chief threw his cup into the wastebasket beneath the coffeemaker and got up from the table. “I’m not going to let you advise the president based on the testimony of a terrorist. I suggest you go home. Your work here is finished.”

Before Hood could say anything else, Fenwick left the Cabinet Room. He pulled the door shut behind him. The room seemed to return to its former size.

Hood did not believe that Fenwick was concerned about the president getting misinformation. Nor did he believe that Fenwick was overworked and simply venting. Hood believed that he had come very close to exposing a relationship that Fenwick had worked hard to conceal.

A relationship between a high-ranking adviser to the president and the terrorist who had helped him to engineer a war.

FORTY-EIGHT

Baku, Azerbaijan Tuesday, 10:47 A.M.

When David Battat was six years old, he came down with the mumps and was extremely sick. He could barely swallow and his belly and thighs ached whenever he moved. Which was not so much of a problem because David had been too weak to move.

Battat felt too weak to move now. And it hurt when he did move. Not just in his throat and abdomen but in his legs, arms, shoulders, and chest. Whatever that bastard Harpooner had injected him with was debilitating. But it was also helpful, in a way. The pain kept him awake and alert. It was like a dull toothache all over his body. Whatever energy Battat had now was coming from anger. Anger at having been ambushed and debilitated by the Harpooner. And now anger at having been indirectly responsible for the deaths of Thomas and Moore.

Battat’s hearing was muffled and he had to blink to see clearly. Yet he was extremely aware of his surroundings. The elevator was polished brass with green carpet. There were rows of small bright lightbulbs in the ceiling. There was a trapdoor in the back, and a fish-eye video lens beside it.

The elevator was empty except for Battat and Odette. When they reached the third floor, they stepped out. Odette took Battat’s hand, like they were a young couple looking for their room. They checked the room numbers posted on the wall in front of them: 300 to 320 were to the right. That put 310 in the center of a long, brightly lit corridor. They started toward it.

“What are we doing?” Battat asked.

“Checking the stairwell first,” Odette said. “I want to make sure the other killer isn’t watching the room from there.”

“And after that?” Battat asked.

“How would you feel about being married?” she asked.

“I tried it once and didn’t like it,” Battat said.

“Then you’ll probably like this less,” she replied. “I’ll tell you what I’m thinking when we reach the stairwell.”

They headed toward the stairwell, which was located at the opposite end of the corridor. As they neared 310, Battat felt his heart speed up. The “Do Not Disturb” sign was hanging from the door handle. There was something dangerous about the place. Battat felt it as they passed. It was not a physical sensation but a spiritual one. Battat was not prepared to go so far as to say it was palpable evil, but the room definitely had the feel of an animal’s lair.

Odette released his hand when they reached the stairwell. She removed the gun from her holster and screwed on the silencer. Then she stepped ahead of Battat and cautiously peered through the window at the top of the door. No one was there. Odette turned the knob and stepped inside. Battat followed. He backed toward the concrete steps and leaned on the iron banister with one arm. It felt good not to have to move. Odette kept a heel in the door so it would not close and lock them out. She faced Battat.

“I’m sure the Harpooner has his room heavily protected from the inside,” she said. “Since we probably won’t be able to break in, we’re going to have to try and draw him out.”

“Agreed,” Battat said. He was tired and dizzy and had to force himself to focus. “What do you propose?”

“You and I are going to have a lovers’ quarrel,” she said.

That got his attention. “About what?” he asked.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “As long as we end up arguing about which room is ours.”

“One of us will say it’s 312 and the other will insist it’s 310,” Battat said.

“Exactly,” Odette replied. “Then we’ll open the door to 310.”

“How?”

Odette reached into her pocket.

“With this,” she said as she pulled out the master key she had taken from the housekeeper. “If we’re lucky, the Harpooner will only want to chase us away.”

“What if someone else comes from their room or calls hotel security?” Battat asked.

“Then we argue more quickly,” Odette said as she took off her jacket and slipped it over her forearm, concealing the gun.

The woman seemed to be growing impatient, a little anxious. Not that Battat blamed her. They were facing both the Harpooner and the unknown. If it were not for the dullness caused by whatever was afflicting him, he would have been experiencing fear on top of his lingering anger.

“This is not a science,” she added. “The point of what we’re doing is to distract the Harpooner long enough to kill him.”

“I understand,” Battat said. “What do you want me to do?”

“When I open the door, I want you to push it back hard,” she said. “That should startle the Harpooner and also give me a moment to aim and fire. When we’re finished, we come back to the stairwell and leave.”

“All right,” Battat said.

“Are you sure you feel up to this?” Odette asked.

“I’ll be able to do what you want me to,” he said. She nodded and gave him a reassuring half smile. Or maybe she was trying to reassure herself.

A moment later, they headed down the hall.

FORTY-NINE

Saint Petersburg, Russia Tuesday, 11:02 A.M.

Josef Norivsky was the Russian Op-Center’s liaison between the country’s other intelligence and investigative agencies as well as Interpol. He was a young, broad-shouldered man with short black hair and a long, pale face. He strode into General Orlov’s office wearing an expression that was somewhere between fury and disbelief.

“Something is wrong,” he said. Norivsky did not disseminate information unless he was sure of it. As a result, when he spoke, he had a way of making any statement seem like a pronouncement.

The intelligence liaison handed Orlov a set of eight-by-ten photographs. Orlov looked quickly at the eleven blurry black-and-white pictures. The shots showed five men in ski masks moving a sixth, unmasked man through a corridor made of cinder blocks.

“These photographs were taken by security cameras at the Lenkoran high-security prison in Azerbaijan,” Norivsky explained. “We received them two days ago. The man without the mask is Sergei Cherkassov. The SIS was hoping we could help to identify the others.”

The SIS was Azerbaijan’s State Intelligence Service. They still maintained relatively close, cooperative relations with Russian intelligence groups.

“What have you come up with?” Orlov asked as he finished going through the photographs.

“The weapons they’re carrying are IMI Uzis,” said Norivsky. “They’re based on the submachine guns Iran bought from Israel before the Islamic revolution. In and of themselves, they don’t necessarily mean anything. Iranian arms dealers could have sold them to anyone. But look how the men are moving.”

Orlov went back through the pictures. “I don’t follow,” he said.

Norivsky leaned over the desk and pointed to the fourth picture. “The men in the ski masks have formed a diamond shape around the Cherkassov. The point man covers the package, the escapee, the man in the rear watches their flank, and the men on the sides cover right and left. The fifth man, the only one who appears in pictures one and two, is ahead of the group, securing the escape route. Probably with a rocket launcher, according to reports.” Norivsky stood. “This is the standard evacuation procedure used by VEVAK.”

VEVAK was Vezarat-e Etella’at va Amniat-e Keshvar. The Iranian Ministry of Intelligence and Security.

“Why would Iran want to free a Russian terrorist from Azerbaijan?” Norivsky asked. The intelligence chief answered the question himself. “To use his talents? It’s possible. But another possibility is that they wanted to dump his body at the attack site. How many bodies were found in the harbor at Baku? Four to six, depending on how the pieces eventually fit together.”

“The same number of people who helped him to escape,” Orlov said.

“Yes,” Nirovsky replied.

“Which may mean they were all working together,” Orlov said. “Nothing more than that.”

“Except for the presence of the Harpooner,” Norivsky pointed out. “We know that he has worked for Iran on many occasions. We know that he can usually be contacted through a series of associates in Teheran. What I’m saying, General, is, what if Iran organized the attack on its own oil rig as an excuse to move warships into the area?”

“That wouldn’t explain the involvement of the American National Security Agency,” Orlov said.

“But Cherkassov’s presence might,” Norivsky insisted. “Consider, sir. Iran threatens Azerbaijan. The United States becomes involved in that conflict. It has to. American oil supplies are being threatened. If the foe is only Iran, Americans are not opposed to an air and sea war. They have wanted to strike back at Teheran for decades, ever since the hostage crisis in 1979. But imagine that Russia is brought into the situation. At his trial, Cherkassov admitted working for the Kremlin. That was how he avoided execution. Suppose Azerbaijan or Iran retaliates by attacking Russian oil platforms in the Caspian. Are the people of the United States going to stand for a world war erupting in the region?”

“I don’t think they would,” Orlov said. He thought for a moment. “And maybe they wouldn’t have to stand for it.”

“What do you mean?” Norivsky asked.

“The Harpooner was working with the NSA, apparently to orchestrate this showdown,” Orlov said. “What if someone in the American government made a deal with Iran before it happened?”

“Does the NSA have that kind of authority?” Norivsky asked.

“I don’t believe so,” Orlov said. “They would probably need higher-ranking officials working with them. Paul Hood at Op-Center indicated that contacts of that type may have taken place. What if the Americans agreed they would back down at a certain point? Allow Iran to have more of the oil-rich regions in exchange for American access to that oil?”

“A normalization of relations?” Norivsky suggested.

“Possibly,” Orlov said. “The American military pushed to brinkmanship then pulled back for some reason. But what reason? That had to have been arranged as well.”

Orlov did not know the answer, but he knew who might. Thanking Norivsky, Orlov rang his translator and put in a call to Paul Hood.

FIFTY

Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 3:06 A.M.

After Fenwick left the Cabinet Room, Hood sat alone at the long conference table. He was trying to figure out what he could tell the president to convince him that something was wrong with the intelligence he was receiving. That was going to be difficult without new information. Hood thought he had convinced him of Fenwick’s duplicity earlier. But in the press of developing crises, crisis managers often took the advice of trusted and especially passionate friends. Fenwick was passionate, and Cotten was an old ally. Without hard facts, Hood would not be able to combat that. But what troubled him nearly as much was something the NSA head had said to Hood before leaving the Cabinet Room.

“I’m not going to let you advise the president.” This was not just an international showdown. It was also a territorial fight in the Oval Office. But for what, exactly? It was not just about access to the president of the United States. Fenwick had tried to confuse Lawrence, to embarrass him, to mislead him. Why?

Hood shook his head and rose. Even though he had nothing to add to what he said before, Hood wanted to hear what the joint chiefs had to say. And Fenwick could not bar him from the Oval Office.

As Hood was leaving the Cabinet Room, his phone beeped. It was General Orlov.

“Paul, we have some disturbing information,” Orlov said.

“Talk to me,” Hood replied.

Orlov briefed him. When he was finished, Orlov said, “We have reason to believe that the Harpooner and Iranian nationals carried out the attack on the Iranian oil rig. We believe the attack may have been the same Iranians who freed the Russian terrorist Sergei Cherkassov from prison. This would make it seem as if Moscow was involved.”

“Compelling the United States to lend its support to Azerbaijan as a counterbalance,” Hood said. “Do you know if Teheran sanctioned the attack?”

“Very possibly,” Orlov replied. “The Iranians appear to have been working for or were trained by VEVAK.”

“In order to precipitate a crisis that would allow them to move in militarily,” Hood said.

“Yes,” Orlov agreed. “And the presence of Cherkassov, we think, was designed to give Iran a reason to threaten our oil facilities. To draw Russia into the crisis. Cherkassov may have had nothing to do with the attack itself.”

“That makes sense,” Hood agreed.

“Paul, you said before that members of your own government, of the NSA, were in contact with the Iranian mission in New York. That it was a member of the NSA that was in communication with the Harpooner in Baku. Could that agency be involved in this?”

“I don’t know,” Hood admitted.

“Perhaps the mission put them in contact with the Harpooner,” Orlov suggested.

That was possible. Hood thought about it for a moment. Why would Fenwick help Iran to blow up its own rig and then encourage the president to attack Iran? Was this a plot to sucker Iran into a showdown? Was that why Fenwick had concealed his whereabouts from the president?

But Fenwick would have known about Cherkassov, Hood thought. He had to know that Russia would be drawn in as well.

And that still did not explain why Fenwick had made a point of calling the president right before the United Nations dinner. That was a move designed to humiliate Lawrence. To erode confidence in the president‘s—

Mental state, Hood thought suddenly.

Hood followed the thread. Wasn’t that what Megan Lawrence was concerned about? Mental instability, apparent or real, created by a careful pattern of deception and confusion? The president becomes deeply shaken. The United States finds itself on the precipice of war, led there by Fenwick. Lawrence tries to manage the crisis. What happens next? Does Fenwick undermine him somehow? Make him doubt his abilities—

Or does he make the public doubt his abilities? Hood wondered.

Senator Fox was already concerned about the president. Mala Chatterjee had no love for him. The secretary-general would certainly give interviews stating that the president had been completely mistaken about the United Nations initiative. What if Gable or Fenwick were also to leak information about bad judgment the president had shown over the past few weeks?

Reporters would swallow it whole, Hood knew. It would be easy to manipulate the press with a story like that. Especially if it came from a reliable source like Jack Fenwick.

And it wasn’t just Fenwick and Gable who were involved in this, Hood now knew for certain.

The vice president had been on the same page as Fenwick and Gable back in the Oval Office. Who stood to benefit most if the president himself and possibly the electorate were convinced that he was unfit to lead the nation in a time of crisis? The man who would succeed him, of course.

“General Orlov, have we heard from our people tracking the Harpooner?” Hood asked.

“They’re both at the hotel where he is staying,” Orlov reported. “They’re moving in on him now.”

“To terminate, not capture.”

“We don’t have the manpower to capture him,” Orlov stated. “The truth is, we may not even have the manpower to complete the mission at hand. It’s a great risk, Paul.”

“I understand,” Hood said. “General, are you solid about this information? That the men who attacked the Iranian rig are Iranian?”

“Until their body parts are collected and identified, an educated guess is the best I can do,” Orlov said.

“All right,” Hood said. “I’m going to take that information to the president. His advisers are pushing him to a military response. Obviously, we have to get him to postpone that.”

“I agree,” Orlov said. “We’re mobilizing as well.”

“Call me with any other news,” Hood said. “And thank you, General. Thank you very much.”

Hood hung up the phone. He ran from the Cabinet Room and jogged down the carpeted hallway toward the Oval Office. Canvas portraits of Woodrow Wilson and First Lady Edith Bolling Wilson looked down from the wall. She had effectively run the country in 1919 when her husband suffered a stroke. But she was protecting his health while looking out for the country’s best interests. Not her own advancement. Had we become more corrupt since then? Or had the line between right and wrong become entirely erased? Did presumably virtuous ends justify corrupt means?

This was maddening. Hood had information, and he had a strong, plausible scenario. He had Fenwick turning pale when he said that the Harpooner had been captured. But Hood did not have proof. And without that, he did not see how he was going to convince the president to proceed slowly, carefully, regardless of what Iran did. Nor were the joint chiefs likely to be much help. The military had been itching for a legitimate reason to strike back at Teheran for over twenty years.

He turned the corner and reached the Oval Office. The secret service officer stationed at the door stopped him.

“I have to see the president,” Hood told him.

“I’m sorry, sir, you’ll have to leave,” the young man insisted.

Hood wagged the badge that hung around his neck. “I have blue-level access,” he said. “I can stand here. Please. Just knock on the door and tell the president I’m here.”

“Sir, my doing that won’t help you to see the president,” the secret service agent told him. “They’ve moved the meeting downstairs.”

“Where?” Hood asked. But he already knew.

“To the Situation Room.”

Hood turned and swore. Fenwick was correct. He was going to keep him from seeing the president. The only way to get down there was with the next-level access badge, which was red level. Everyone who had that level would be down there. Being seduced and controlled by Jack Fenwick.

Hood walked back toward the Cabinet Room. He was still holding his cell phone and tapping it against his open palm. He felt like throwing the damn thing. He could not phone the president. Calls to the Situation Room went through a different switchboard than the rest of the White House. He did not have clearance for direct dial, and Fenwick would certainly have arranged it so that any calls Hood made would be refused or delayed.

Hood was accustomed to challenges, to delays. But he always had access to the people he needed to talk to and persuade. Even when terrorists had seized the United Nations Security Council, there had been ways to get in. All he needed was the resolve and manpower to do it. He was not accustomed to being utterly stonewalled like this. It was miserably frustrating.

He stopped walking. He looked up at the portrait of Woodrow Wilson, then looked at the painting of Mrs. Wilson.

“Shit,” he said.

He glanced down at the phone. Maybe he wasn’t as stonewalled as he thought.

Jogging again, Hood returned to the Cabinet Room. He was willing to bet there was one avenue Jack Fenwick hadn’t closed down.

He couldn’t have, even if he wanted to.

A queen always beat a Jack.

FIFTY-ONE

Baku, Azerbaijan Tuesday, 11:09 A.M.

As Odette walked down the hall, she had two concerns.

One worry was that she might be making a mistake about the identity of the man in room 310. That he was not, in fact, the Harpooner. Orlov had given Odette a general idea what the Harpooner looked like. But he had added that the Harpooner probably wore disguises. She had a mental picture of someone tall and aquiline with pale, hateful eyes and long fingers. Would she hesitate to shoot if someone not-so-tall and heavyset with blue, welcoming eyes and stubby fingers opened the door? Would that give him a chance to strike first?

An innocent man would come over and say “Hello,” she told herself. The Harpooner might do that to throw off her guard. She had to strike first, whoever was in there.

Her other concern was a question of confidence. She had been thinking about the reluctance she heard in General Orlov’s voice. Odette wondered what concerned him most. That something would happen to her or that the Harpooner might escape? Probably both. Though she tried to rev up an “I’ll show him” mentality, General Orlov’s lack of confidence did not boost her own.

It doesn’t matter, she told herself. Focus on the goal and on nothing else. The mission was all that mattered. The target was just a few doors down.

Odette and David Battat had agreed that she would start their spat. She was the one who had to open the door and go in. She should control the timing. The couple passed room 314. Odette was holding the key in her left hand. She still had the gun in her right hand, under the jacket, which was draped over her forearm. Battat was holding the switchblade at his side. He seemed to be somewhat more focused than he had been when he arrived. Odette was not surprised.

She was, too.

They passed room 312.

Odette turned to Battat. “Why are you stopping?” she asked him. Odette made sure not to shout just so the Harpooner could hear. Her tone was normal, conversational.

“What do you mean, ‘Why am I stopping?’” he asked right back.

Odette moved ahead several steps. She stopped in front of room 310. Her heart was speeding. “Aren’t we going inside?”

“Yes,” he replied impatiently.

“That’s not our room,” Odette said.

“Yes it is,” Battat said.

“No,” Odette said. “This is our room.”

“We’re in 312,” Battat said confidently.

She put the key in the slot of 310. That was the signal for Battat to step over to the room. He walked over and stopped directly behind her. His right shoulder was practically touching the door.

Odette’s fingers were damp with sweat. She could actually smell the brass of the key. She hesitated. This is what you’ve been waiting for, she reminded herself. An opportunity to prove herself and to make Viktor proud. She turned the key to the right. The bolt went with it. The door opened.

“I told you this was our room,” she said to Battat. Odette swallowed hard. The words had caught in her throat and she did not want to show her fear. The Harpooner might hear it in her voice.

With the door open a sliver, Odette withdrew the key. She slipped it in her pocket and used that moment to listen. The TV was off and the Harpooner was not in the shower. Odette was half hoping he had been in the bathroom, cornered. But she heard nothing. She opened the door a little more.

There was a short, narrow hallway inside. It was cavedark and utterly still. They had assumed the Harpooner would be hiding in the room, but what if he were not? He could be out for a late breakfast. Or he might have left Baku. Perhaps he kept the room as a safe house in case he needed it.

But what if he’s waiting for us? she thought then. And she answered her own question. Then we’ll have to handle the situation. Viktor used to say that nothing was guaranteed.

“What’s wrong, honey?” Battat asked.

The words startled her. Odette looked back at her companion. The American’s brow was pinched. He was obviously concerned. She realized that she was probably waiting too long to go in.

“Nothing’s wrong,” she said. She opened the door a little farther and reached in with her left hand. “I’m just looking for the light.”

Odette pushed the door until it was halfway open. She could see the glowing red numbers of the alarm clock on the night table. There was a jagged line of white light in the center of the drapes. Its brilliance only made the rest of the room seem darker.

Odette’s gun was still hidden under her jacket, still behind the half-closed door. She found the light switch with her left hand. She flicked it on. The hall light came on as did the lamps on the night tables. The walls and furniture brightened with a dull yellow orange glow.

Odette did not breathe as she stepped into the hallway. The bathroom was to her right. She turned and looked in. There were toiletries on the counter beside the sink. The soap was opened.

She looked at the bed. It had not been slept in, though the pillows had been moved around. She saw a suitcase on the luggage stand, but she did not see the Harpooner’s shoes. Maybe he was out.

“Something’s wrong here,” Odette said.

“What do you mean?”

“That’s not our bag on the luggage rack,” she replied. Battat stepped in behind her. He looked around. “So I was right,” he said. “This isn’t our room.”

“Then why did the key work?” she asked.

“Let’s go back downstairs and find out,” Battat urged. He was still looking around.

“Maybe the bellman made a mistake and put someone else in here,” Odette suggested.

Battat suddenly grabbed Odette’s left shoulder. He roughly shoved her into the bathroom and followed her in.

Odette turned and glared at Battat. He put a finger to his lips and moved very close.

“What’s wrong?” she whispered.

“He’s in there,” Battat said quietly.

“Where?”

“Behind the bed, on the floor,” Battat told her. “I saw his reflection in the brass headboard.”

“Is he armed?” she asked.

“I couldn’t tell,” Battat said. “I’m betting he is.” Odette put her jacket on the floor. There was no longer any reason to conceal the gun. Battat was standing a few steps in front of her, near the door. Just then she saw a small round mirror and extender arm attached to the wall to his right. She had an idea.

“Hold this,” she whispered and handed Battat the gun. Then she walked around him, popped the mirror from its holder, and moved toward the door. Crouching, she carefully poked the mirror into the corridor. She angled it so that she could see under the bed.

No one was there.

“He’s gone,” she said quietly.

Odette extended the mirror arm a little farther so she could see more of the room. She angled it slowly from side to side. There was no one in the corners, and she could not see a bulge behind the drapes.

“He’s definitely not here,” she said.

Battat squatted behind her and looked into the mirror. Odette wondered if the feverish man had really seen anyone or if he had been hallucinating.

“Wait a second,” Battat said. “Move the mirror so we can see the head of the bed.”

Odette did as he asked. The drapes were moving there. It looked as if they were being stirred by a gentle wind.

“The window’s open,” Odette said.

Battat rose. He entered the room cautiously and looked around. “Damn.”

“What?” Odette asked as she stood.

“There’s a rope under the drape,” he said and started toward it. “The bastard climbed—”

Suddenly, Battat turned and hurried back into the bathroom.

“Down!” he shouted and shoved Odette roughly to the floor. He dove down beside her, next to the fiberglass bathtub. Quickly, he pulled her jacket over their heads and lay beside her, his arm across her back.

A moment later, the hotel room was lit by a yellow red flare. There was a whooshing sound as the air became superheated. The flare died after a moment, leaving a sickly sweet smell mixed with the stench of burning fabric and carpet. The room smoke detector was squealing.

Odette whipped her jacket from them and knelt. “What happened?” she shouted.

“There was a TIC on the desk!” Battat yelled.

“A what?”

“A TIC,” Battat said as he jumped to his feet. “Terrorist in a can. Come on—we’ve got to get out of here!”

Battat helped Odette up. She grabbed her jacket and the two of them swung into the hallway. Battat shut the door and staggered over to room 312. He was obviously having difficulty staying on his feet.

“What’s a terrorist in a can?” Odette asked.

“Napalm with a benzene chaser,” Battat said. “It looks like shaving cream and doesn’t register on airport X-ray machines. All you have to do is twist the cap to set the timer, and blam.” The main fire alarm began to clang behind them. “Give me the master key,” he said as they reached 312.

Odette handed it over.

Battat opened the door. Smoke was already spilling through the door that connected the room to 310. Battat hurried past it and ran to the window. The heavy drapes were open. He edged toward the window, standing back just enough so that he could see out but not be seen from below. Odette stepped up behind him. Battat had to lean against the wall to keep from falling. They looked out at the empty parking lot.

“There,” Battat said, pointing.

Odette moved closer. She looked out.

“Do you see him?” Battat asked. “In the white shirt, blue jeans, carrying a black backpack.”

“I see him,” Odette replied.

“That’s the man I saw in the room,” Battat said.

So that’s the Harpooner, she thought. The monster cut an unimposing figure as he walked unhurriedly from the hotel. But his easygoing manner only made him seem even more noxious. People might be dying in the fire he set to cover his escape. Yet he did not care. Odette wished she could shoot him from here.

“He’s probably going to keep moving slowly so he won’t attract attention,” Battat told her. He gave the gun back to her. He was panting, having trouble standing. “You’ve got enough time to catch up to him and take him out.”

“What about you?”

“I’d only slow you down,” he said.

She hesitated. An hour ago, she had not wanted him to be part of this. Now she felt as if she was deserting him.

“You’re wasting time,” Battat said. He gave her a gentle push and started toward the door. “Just go. I’ll get to the stairwell and make my way back to the embassy. I’ll see if I can do anything from there.”

“All right,” she said, then turned and hurried toward the door.

“He’ll be armed!” Battat yelled after her. “Don’t hesitate!”

She acknowledged with a wave as she left the room. The hallway was filling with smoke. The few guests who had been in their rooms were filing into the hallway to see what was happening. Housekeeping staff and security personnel were beginning to arrive. They were helping everyone toward the stairwell.

Odette told one of the security men that someone needed help in 312. Then she rushed ahead to the stairwell.

In less than a minute, she was in the street. The parking lot was on the other side of the building. She ran toward it.

The Harpooner was gone.

FIFTY-TWO

Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 3:13 A.M.

Paul Hood returned to the Cabinet Room and shut the door. He took a calming breath. The room smelled of coffee. He was glad. It covered the stink of treason. Then he took out his Palm Pilot, looked up a number, and went to the phone to enter it. This was not something that Hood wanted to do. It was something he had to do. It was the only way he could think of to prevent what was effectively shaping up as a coup d’état.

The phone was answered right after the second ring. “Hello?” said the voice on the other end.

“Megan, it’s Paul Hood.”

“Paul, where are you?” asked the First Lady. “I’ve been worried—”

“I’m in the Cabinet Room,” he said. “Megan, listen. Fenwick is definitely involved in a conspiracy of some kind. My feeling is that he, Gable, and whoever else is in this have been trying to gaslight the president.”

“Why would anyone want to make my husband think he’s lost his mind?” she asked.

“Because they’ve also set in motion a confrontation with Iran and Russia in the Caspian Sea,” Hood told her. “If they can convince the president or the public that he’s not equipped to handle the showdown, he’ll have to resign. Then the new president will either escalate the war or, more likely, he’ll end it. That will win him points with the people and with Iran. Maybe then we’ll all divide up the oil wells that used to belong to Azerbaijan.”

“Paul, that’s monstrous,” Megan said. “Is the vice president involved with this?”

“Possibly,” Hood said.

“And they expect to get away with it?”

“Megan, they are very close to getting away with it,” Hood informed her. “The Caspian situation is revving up, and they’ve moved the strategy sessions from the Oval Office to the Situation Room. I don’t have security clearance to go down there.”

“I’ll phone Michael on the private number and ask him to see you,” Megan told him.

“That won’t be enough,” Hood said. “I need you to do something else.”

Megan asked him what that was. Hood told her. “I’ll do it,” she said when he was finished. “Give me five minutes.”

Hood thanked her and hung up.

What Hood had proposed was a potentially dangerous tactic for him and for the First Lady. And under the best of circumstances, it was not going to be pleasant. But it was necessary.

Hood looked around the room.

This was not like rescuing his daughter. That had been instinctive. He had to act if she were to survive. There had been no choice.

This was different.

Hood tried to imagine the decisions that had been made in this room over the centuries. Decisions about war, about depressions, about human rights, about foreign policy. Every one of them had affected history in some way, large or small. But more important than that, whether they were right or wrong, all of them had required a commitment. Someone had to believe they were making the proper decision. They had to risk anything from a career or national security to the lives of millions on that belief.

Hood was about to do that. He was about to do both, in fact. But there was a proverb that used to hang in the high school classroom where Hood’s father taught civics. It was appropriate now:

“The first faults are theirs that commit them. The second theirs that permit them.”

As Hood turned and left the Cabinet Room, he did not feel the weight of the decision he made. Nor did he feel the danger it represented.

He felt only the privilege of being able to serve his country.

FIFTY-THREE

Baku, Azerbaijan Tuesday, 11:15 A.M.

It had been a long time since Maurice Charles had to make a sudden retreat from a safe site. It infuriated him to run from a place he had carefully prepared. But it infuriated him even more to run from anyone or anything. It did not even matter to him at the moment how someone had found out where he was. From their accents, the intruders were Russian and American. Perhaps Moscow and Washington had been tracking him without him knowing it. Perhaps he had slipped up somewhere. Or maybe one of his associates had made a mistake.

But Charles did not believe the couple had been there by accident. For one thing, he had taken both of the keys to room 310 when he checked in. The front desk did not have a third key to give out. When the click of the bolt being opened woke him up, he knew something was not right. For another thing, Charles had watched the woman’s feet, listened to her speak as she came in. Everything about her entrance was tentative. If she truly thought this were her room, she would have strode in and turned on the light. Women were always eager to prove things when they believed they were correct.

Yet, as angry as Charles was, he refused to give in to his rage. The immediate task was to cover his tracks so he could get away. That meant eliminating the couple who had come to his room. He had not considered calling the assassins he had used the night before. He did not want it to be known that he had run into trouble. That would be bad for his reputation and bad for business.

He had gotten a good look at the couple’s feet and pants. That would be enough to identify them. He had his gun and his knife. They would not survive the morning.

Charles had walked halfway into the parking lot before turning around. If the couple were looking out a window to find him, he wanted them to see him. He wanted them to come rushing downstairs to stop him from getting away. That would make them easier to spot. It would also tell him whether or not they had backup. If they had called for help, cars or other personnel would converge on the parking lot within moments. If that did not happen, he could dispatch them and then get out of the city by train as he had planned.

After giving the couple a chance to see him, Charles doubled back to the hotel. He entered by the side door, which led past a row of shops. There were fire sirens approaching the hotel but no police sirens. No other cars came speeding into the lot. That did not mean Charles was home free. But it did suggest that the man and woman had been acting without immediate backup near or on site. Losing himself in a crowd that was fleeing a fire should be easy. First, however, he had to finish his business with the intruders.

FIFTY-FOUR

Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 3:17 A.M.

During the administration of Harry Truman, the White House was virtually gutted and rebuilt due to the weakened condition of its centuries-old wooden beams and interior walls. The Trumans moved across the street to Blair House and, from 1948 to 1952, new foundations were laid and the decaying wooden struts were replaced by steel girders. A basement was also excavated, ostensibly to provide more storage space. In fact, it was created to provide safe areas for the president and members of his staff and family in the event of nuclear attack. Over the years, the basement was secretly expanded to include offices, command headquarters, medical facilities, surveillance posts, and recreational areas. It is now comprised of four levels that go down over two hundred feet.

All four basement levels are only accessible by a pair of elevators. These are located in both the East and West Wings. The West Wing elevator is located a short distance west of the president’s private dining room, in a corner that is halfway between the Oval Office and the vice president’s office. The carriage is small and wood-paneled and holds six people comfortably. Access to the elevator is gained by thumbprint identification. There is a small green monitor to the right of the door for this purpose. Since the White House recreation areas are down there, all the members of the First Family have access to the elevator.

Hood went to the vice president’s office and waited outside. Because the vice president was at the White House, there was a secret service agent standing a little farther along the corridor. The vice president’s office was close to the State Dining Room, where the original White House meets the newer, century-old West Wing.

Hood was there less than a minute when Megan Lawrence arrived. The First Lady was dressed in a medium-length white skirt and a red blouse with a blue scarf. She was wearing very little makeup. Her fair skin made her silver hair seem darker.

The secret service agent wished the First Lady a good morning as she passed. Megan smiled back at the young man and then continued on. She embraced Hood warmly.

“Thank you for coming down,” Hood said.

Megan put her arm through his and turned toward the elevator. That gave her a reason to stand close to Hood and talk quietly. The secret service man was behind them.

“How are you going to handle this?” she asked.

“It’s going to be a tough, uphill fight,” Hood admitted. “Back in the Oval Office, the president was very focused. If your husband has had doubts about his ability to function, then what Fenwick and the others have given him is the perfect remedy. A crisis. They couldn’t have planned it better. The president seemed to be putting a lot of trust in what Fenwick was telling him. He needed to. It was helping him get his confidence back.”

“So you said,” the First Lady remarked. “And they’re all lies.”

“I’m certain of it,” Hood assured her. “The problem is, I don’t have hard evidence.”

“Then what makes you so sure they are lies?” the First Lady asked.

“I called Fenwick’s bluff when we were alone in the Cabinet Room,” Hood said. “I told him we had the terrorist who orchestrated the situation overseas. I told him the terrorist is going to tell us who he was working for. Meaning Fenwick. Fenwick told me I’ll never get the information to the president.”

They reached the elevator. Megan gently put her thumb on the screen. There was a faint hum behind it.

“Fenwick will deny he ever threatened you,” she pointed out.

“Of course he will,” Hood said. “That’s why I need you to get the president away from the meeting. Tell him you need to see him for five minutes. If I did that, Fenwick and his people would chew me up. But they’ll be very reluctant to attack you. That would turn the president against them.”

“All right,” Megan replied. The door slid open. The First Lady and Hood stepped in. She pressed button S1—Sublevel One. The door closed, and the elevator began to move.

“There’s a guard downstairs,” Megan said. “He’s going to have to call ahead. I don’t have access to the Situation Room.”

“I know,” Hood replied. “Hopefully, someone other than Fenwick or Gable will answer the phone.”

“What if I can only get my husband alone? Just the two of us,” Megan asked. “I get his attention. Then what?”

“Tell him what you’ve noticed over the past few weeks,” Hood said. “Talk to him honestly about what we’re afraid of, that Fenwick has been manipulating him. Buy me time, even if it’s only two or three hours. I need that to get the evidence to stop a war.”

The elevator stopped. The door opened. Outside was a brightly lit corridor. The walls were white and lined with paintings of American military officers and famous battles from the Revolution to the present. The Situation Room was located at the end of the corridor behind two black double doors.

A young, blond, fresh-faced marine guard was seated at a desk to the right of the elevator. There was a telephone, a computer, and a lamp on the desk. On a metal stand to his left were several security monitors.

The guard rose and looked from Hood to Megan. “Good morning, Mrs. Lawrence,” he said. “Up kind of early for a swim,” he added with a smile.

“Up kind of late, Corporal Cain,” she smiled back. “This is my guest, Mr. Hood. And I’m not going for a swim.”

“I didn’t think so, ma‘am,” he replied. The guard’s eyes shifted to Hood. “Good morning, sir.”

“Good morning,” Hood said.

“Corporal, would you please phone the president?” Megan said. “Tell him I need to speak with him. Privately, in person.”

“Certainly,” the guard said.

Cain sat and picked up the phone. He punched in the extension of the Situation Room.

Hood did not often pray, but he found himself praying that someone other than one of Fenwick’s people was there to answer the phone.

A moment later, the guard said, “The First Lady is here to see the president.”

The guard fell silent then. Hood and Megan stood still in the quiet corridor. The only sound was a high faint whine that came from the security monitors.

After a moment, the guard looked up. “No, sir,” he said. “She’s with a gentleman. A Mr. Hood.” The guard fell silent again.

That wasn’t a good sign. Only one of Fenwick’s people would have thought to ask that question.

After several seconds the guard said, “Yes, sir,” and hung up. He rose and looked at the First Lady. “I’m sorry, ma‘am. I’ve been told that the meeting can’t be interrupted.”

“Told by whom?” she asked.

“Mr. Gable, ma’am.”

“Mr. Gable is trying to keep Mr. Hood from delivering an important message to the president,” Megan said. “A message that may prevent a war. I need to see my husband.”

“Corporal,” Hood said. “You’re a military man. You don’t have to take orders from a civilian. I’m going to ask you to place the call again. Ask to speak to an officer, and repeat the First Lady’s message.”

“If Mr. Gable gives you trouble, I will take responsibility,” Megan said.

Corporal Cain hesitated, but only for a moment. He picked up the phone and remained standing as he punched in the extension.

“Mr. Gable?” he said. “I would like to speak with General Burg.”

General Otis Burg was the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

“No, sir,” Cain said after a moment. “This is a military matter, sir. A security issue.”

There was another pause. Hood tasted something tart in the back of his throat. He realized, after a moment, that it was blood. He was biting his tongue. He relaxed.

A few seconds later, Corporal Cain’s voice and demeanor changed. His posture was stiffer, his tone formal. He was speaking with General Burg.

Cain repeated the request. Several seconds after that, the young Corporal hung up. He looked at the First Lady.

“Your husband will see you both,” he said proudly.

Megan smiled and thanked him.

Hood and Megan turned and hurried down the corridor to the Situation Room.

FIFTY-FIVE

Baku, Azerbaijan Tuesday, 11:22 A.M.

Unsteadily, David Battat made his way down the stairwell.

Because of the late morning hour, not many people were exiting the hotel. Several of the people who did pass Battat asked if he needed help. The American told them that he had inhaled some smoke but would be all right. Hugging the iron banister, he made his way slowly down the concrete stairs. When Battat reached the lobby, he leaned against a wall near the house phones. He did not want to sit down. He was weak and dizzy and afraid he would not get back up. One of the hotel staff members, an assistant manager, asked him who he was and what room he was staying in. He said he was not a guest but had been visiting a friend. The young woman told him that firefighters wanted everyone to go outside. Battat said he would go out as soon as he caught his breath.

Battat looked across the lobby. It was crowded with people, mostly hotel staff, along with about fifty or sixty guests. The guests were concerned about their belongings and asking questions about security. They did not seem in a hurry to leave. There was no smoke in the lobby, and firefighters were just pulling into the circular drive in front of the hotel.

Battat was concerned about how Odette was making out. He had been proud of her when she left the hotel. If she had been afraid, she did not show it. He wished he were a little steadier. He did not like the idea of her having to face the Harpooner alone.

There was a side exit down the corridor to Battat’s right. The parking lot was to the right, the front of the hotel to the left. Since the fire trucks were out front, he felt he stood a better chance of catching a taxi in the parking lot. If not, there was a major thoroughfare beyond the parking lot. He had seen it from the upstairs window. He could probably catch a bus there.

Pushing himself off the wall, Battat shuffled down the carpeted hallway. He felt feverish again, though he did not feel worse than he had before. His body was fighting whatever he had been injected with. That probably meant it was viral rather than chemical. He could finally get medical attention and start to shake this.

Battat’s vision was misty as he moved past the bank of telephones. There were several shops beyond, their picture windows reflecting each other. There was no one inside, either customers or employees. The displays of shirts and trinkets, of luggage and toys, all seemed to merge as Battat neared. He tried to blink them clear. He could not. The sickness plus the exertion had worn him down much more than he thought. Battat gave serious thought to going back to the lobby and asking the fire department medics for a ride to the hospital. He had been afraid to go there lest someone recognize him from the night before and ask about the dead man in his room. But he was beginning to doubt that he could make it from the hotel, let alone reach the embassy.

Suddenly, someone appeared in Battat’s line of vision. The American stopped and squinted. It was a man wearing jeans and a white shirt. There were straps around his shoulder.

A black backpack.

Oh Christ, Battat thought as the man approached. He knew who it was. And he had no doubt that the man recognized him. And knew why he was in such a weakened condition. After all, it was probably this same man who had injected him with the toxin on the beach.

The Harpooner.

The assassin had just walked in through the side door. He was about twenty feet away. He was holding what looked like a knife in his right hand. Battat would not be able to fight him. He had to try and get back to the lobby.

Battat turned, but he moved too fast. His vision blurred and he stumbled against one of the shop windows. He quickly pushed off with his shoulder. He staggered ahead. If he could just get to the lobby, even if he fell square on his face, someone might get to him before the Harpooner could.

Battat reached the bank of phones. He extended his left arm, used it to move himself along the wall. Push, step, push, step.

He was halfway along the bank when he felt starched fabric slide along the front of his throat. A sleeve. A strong arm pulled back, putting Battat into a choke hold.

“The last time we met, I needed you alive,” the assassin whispered harshly. “Not this time. Unless you tell me who you’re working with.”

“Up yours,” Battat gasped.

Battat felt a knee against the small of his back. If the Harpooner intended to kill him standing up, he was going to be disappointed. Battat’s legs gave out and he dropped to the floor. The Harpooner immediately released Battat and swung around in front of him. He straddled Battat and dropped a knee on his chest. Battat felt a sharp jab in his side and exhaled painfully. One or more of his ribs had been broken. The Harpooner brought the knife to the left side of the American’s throat. He pressed the sharp tip just below the ear.

“No,” the Harpooner hissed as he glared down at Battat. “This is going up yours.”

Battat was too weak to fight. He was aware that he was going to be cut from ear to ear and then left to drown in his own blood. But there was nothing he could do about it. Nothing.

Battat felt a pinch in his throat. A moment later, he heard a soft pop and blood sprayed into his eyes. He thought it would hurt more, having his throat pierced. But there was no pain after the initial pinch. He did not feel the blade moving through his skin. And he was still able to breathe.

An instant later, Battat heard a second pop. He blinked hard to clear the blood from his eyes. He watched as the Harpooner just hovered there, crouched on his chest. Blood was pumping from a wound in his throat. There was no drama in his face, no great gesture befitting the size of his crimes. Just a momentary look of confusion and surprise. Then the killer’s eyes shut, the knife fell from his hand, and the Harpooner tumbled to the floor between Battat and the phone bank.

Battat lay there. He did not know exactly what had happened until Odette appeared from behind. She was holding her silenced pistol in front of her and looking down at the Harpooner.

“Are you all right?” she asked Battat.

He reached up and felt his throat. Except for a trickle of blood on the left side, it felt intact.

“I think I’m okay,” Battat said. “Thank you.”

Battat managed to half wriggle, half crawl away as Odette bent and examined the Harpooner. The woman kept the gun pointed at the Harpooner’s head as she felt his wrist for a pulse. Then she held her fingers under his nose, feeling for breath. But she had struck him once in the throat and once in the chest. His white shirt was already thick and dripping with blood.

“I’m glad you followed him,” Battat said. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it to his own wound.

“I didn’t,” Odette said as she rose. “I lost him. But then I thought he might come back to try to cover his tracks. And I knew which one of us he would recognize.”

Just then, a housekeeper in the lobby saw the body and screamed. Battat looked back. She was pointing at them and shouting for help.

Odette stepped around the corpse to help Battat to his feet. “We’ve got to get out of here,” she said urgently. “Come on. My car isn’t far—”

“Wait,” Battat said. He bent over the Harpooner’s body and began working on the straps of the backpack. “Help me get this off. There may be evidence we can use to identify his partners.”

“You just get on your feet,” Odette said as she pulled out her knife. “I’ll do that.”

Battat pulled himself up, using the ledge under the phones while Odette cut the backpack free. Then, lending Battat her shoulder, Odette led the American down the hall.

They were nearly at the door when someone yelled at them from behind.

“Stop!” a man yelled.

Battat and Odette turned. An elderly hotel security officer was standing just beyond the phone bank. Odette let Battat lean against one of the shop windows while she pulled her badge from her back pocket. She held it toward the security officer.

“I’m Odette Kolker of Metropolitan Squad Three,” she said. “The man on the floor is a wanted terrorist. He started the fire in 310. Make sure the room is sealed off. I’m taking my partner to the hospital to see that he gets proper care. Then I’ll be back.”

Odette did not wait for the man to answer or for other security personnel to arrive. She turned and helped Battat from the building.

She did that well, Battat thought. Gave the man a mission, made him feel important, so he would not interfere with them.

The brisk, clear air and sharp sunshine helped give Battat yet another fresh start. This was the last one, though. He knew that for certain. The American’s legs were rubbery, and he was having trouble holding his head up. At least his neck was not bleeding badly. And the handkerchief was keeping most of that inside, where it belonged.

Only after they had made their way through the parking lot to the rear of the hotel did it hit Battat. Odette had done it. She had not only saved his life but she had stopped the Harpooner. She had killed a terrorist who had eluded all of Europe’s top security agencies. He was proud to have had a small hand in this. The only downside was that Odette probably would not be able to remain in Baku after this. It was going to be tough to explain this to her police superiors. And if the Harpooner had allies, they might come looking for her. It was probably a good time for Odette to assume another identity.

Five minutes later, Battat was seated in the passenger’s seat of Odette’s car. They pulled from the curb and headed toward the American embassy. It would be a short ride, but there was something that could not wait. The Harpooner’s backpack was in Battat’s lap. There was a small padlock on the flap. He borrowed Odette’s knife and cut the flap away. He looked inside.

There were some documents as well as a Zed-4 phone. He had worked one of those when he was in Moscow. They were more compact and sophisticated than the American Tac-Sats.

Battat removed the phone from the case. There was an alphanumeric keypad along with several other buttons. Above them was a liquid crystal display on top. He pushed the menu button to the right of the display. For the Harpooner’s sake, the instructions were in English.

And for the first time since David Battat arrived in Baku, he did something he had missed.

He smiled.

FIFTY-SIX

Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 4:27 A.M.

The Situation Room was a brightly lit chamber with a low ceiling, white walls, and soft, fluorescent lighting. There was a conference table in the center of the room and chairs along three of the four walls. Computer monitors were attached to the arms of the chairs. They provided aides with up-to-the-minute information. The fourth wall was fitted with a ten-foot-long high-definition TV monitor. The screen was linked to the National Reconnaissance Office. Real-time satellite images could be displayed there with magnification of objects up to three feet long. Most of these high-tech improvements were made within the last four years using over two billion dollars that had been allocated to fixing the White House recreation facilities, including the pool and tennis court.

Hood and the First Lady entered through the door that was under the high-definition monitor. The chiefs of the army, navy, and air force and the commandant of the marine corps were sitting along one side of the table with their chairman, General Otis Burg, in the center. Burg was a big, barrel-chested man in his late fifties. He had a shaved head and steel gray eyes that had been hardened by war and political bureaucracy. The joint chiefs’ aides were seated behind them. Along the other side of the table were the president, the vice president, NSA head Fenwick, Chief of Staff Gable, and Deputy National Security adviser Don Roedner. Judging by their tense expressions, either it was a difficult meeting or they did not appreciate the interruption. Or both.

Several members of the Joint Chiefs of Staff registered surprise to see Hood with the First Lady. So did the president. He had been in the process of rising to go into an adjoining study and talk with her. The president froze and looked from Megan to Hood, then back to Megan. The new arrivals stopped at the head of the conference table.

“What’s going on?” the president asked.

Hood glanced at the joint chiefs, who were a wall of impatience. He still did not know whether the frustration was with him or with the issue at hand. All he knew was that he would not have much time to present his case.

“Sir,” Hood said, “there is increasing evidence that the attack on the Iranian oil rig was executed not by Azerbaijanis but by Iranians under the direction of the terrorist known as the Harpooner.”

The president sat back down. “Why?” he asked. “So that Iran could justify moving ships into the region and seize as many oil resources as possible,” Hood told him.

“And risk a military showdown with the United States?” Lawrence asked.

“No, sir,” Hood replied. He looked at Fenwick. “I believe there is an agreement in place to make sure the United States does not interfere. Then, when the tensions are defused, we simply buy our oil from Teheran.”

“And when was this agreement made?” the president asked.

“Yesterday, in New York,” Hood said. “Probably after many months of negotiations.”

“You’re referring to Jack’s visit to the Iranian mission,” the president said.

“Yes, sir,” Hood replied.

“Mr. Fenwick was not empowered to make such a promise,” the president pointed out. “If he did make one, it would not be valid.”

“It might be if you were not in office,” Hood said.

“This is ridiculous!” Fenwick declared. “I was at the Iranian mission to try and expand our intelligence resources in the Middle East. I’ve explained that, and I can document it. I can tell you who I met with and when.”

“All part of the big lie,” Hood said.

“Mr. Roedner was with me,” Fenwick said. “I have the notes I made, and I’ll be happy to name my contacts. What do you have, Mr. Hood?”

“The truth,” he replied without hesitation. “It’s the same thing I had when you vowed to keep me from seeing the president.”

“What I vowed was to keep you from bothering the president,” Fenwick insisted. “Secret deals with Iran. The president being out of office. This isn’t the truth, Mr. Hood. It’s paranoia!”

The vice president looked at his watch. “Mr. President, forgive me, but we’re wasting time. We need to get on with this meeting.”

“I agree,” said General Burg. “I’m not up to speed on any of this back-and-forth, and it isn’t my job to say which of these gentlemen is full of gravy. But whether we play offense or defense, we have to make some quick decisions if we’re going to match Iran’s deployment.”

The president nodded.

“Then get on with the meeting, Mr. President, General Burg,” Hood said. “But please delay taking military action for as long as possible. Give me time to finish the investigation we’ve begun.”

“I asked for evidence to back your claims,” the president said, his voice extremely calm. “You don’t have that.”

“Not yet,” Hood said.

“And we don’t have the extra time I thought there’d be to investigate. We’ve got to proceed as if the Caspian threat is real,” the president said with finality.

“Which is exactly what they want you to do!” Hood said. He was growing agitated and had to pull himself back. An outburst would undermine his own credibility. “We believe a crisis is being engineered, one that will call into question your ability to govern.”

“People have argued about that for years,” the president said. “They voted me out of office once. But I don’t make decisions based on polls.”

“I’m not talking about a policy debate,” Hood said. “I’m talking about your mental and emotional state. That will be the issue.”

Fenwick shook his head sadly. “Sir, mental health is the issue. Mr. Hood has been under a great deal of stress these past two weeks. His teenage daughter is mentally ill. He’s going through a divorce. He needs a long vacation.”

“I don’t think Mr. Hood is the one who needs a leave of absence,” the First Lady said. Her voice was clear and edged with anger. It quieted the room. “Mr. Fenwick, I have watched my husband being misled and misinformed for several weeks now. Mr. Hood looked into the situation at my personal request. His investigation has been methodical, and I believe his findings have merit.” She glared at Fenwick. “Or do you intend to call me a liar as well?”

Fenwick said nothing.

The president looked at his wife. Megan was standing straight and stoic at Hood’s side. There was nothing apologetic in her expression. The president looked tired, but Hood thought he also seemed sad. He could not tell whether it was because Megan had run an operation behind his back or because he felt he had let her down. The couple was silent. It was clearly an issue they would settle some other time, in private.

After a moment, the president’s eyes returned to Hood. The sadness remained. “Your concern is noted and appreciated,” the president said. “But I won’t jeopardize the nation’s interests to protect my own. Especially when you have no evidence that they’re at risk.”

“All I want is a few hours,” Hood said.

“Unfortunately, we don’t have a few hours,” the president replied.

For a moment, Megan looked as though she was going to hug her husband. She did not. She looked at Fenwick and then at the joint chiefs. “Thank you for hearing us out,” she said. “I’m sorry to have interrupted.” She turned and started toward the door.

Hood did not know what else to say. He would have to go back to the Cabinet Room and work with Herbert and Orlov. Try to get the proof the president needed and get it quickly.

He turned to follow the First Lady from the Situation Room. As he did, there was a gentle beep from somewhere in the room. A cell phone. The sound had come from the inside pocket of Fenwick’s suit.

He shouldn’t be able to get a signal in here, Hood thought. The walls of the Situation Room were lined with chips that generated random electrical impulses or impedence webs. The IWs were designed to block bugs from broadcasting to anyone on the White House grounds. They also blocked cell phone calls with one exception: transmissions relayed by the government’s Hephaestus satellite array.

Hood turned back as the NSA chief had slipped a hand into his jacket. Fenwick took out the phone and shut off the ringer.

Bingo.

If it got through IW security, it had to be a Hephaestus call. Highest security. Who wouldn’t Fenwick want to talk to right now?

Hood leaned over the NSA chief and pulled the phone from his hand. Fenwick reached for it, but Hood stepped away.

“What the hell are you doing?” Fenwick demanded. He pushed the chair back and rose. He walked toward Hood.

“I’m betting my career on a hunch,” Hood said. He flipped open the cover and answered the call. “Yes?”

“Who is this?” asked the caller.

“This is Jack Fenwick’s line at the NSA,” Hood said. He walked toward the president. “Who’s calling?”

“My name is David Battat,” said the clear voice on the other end.

Hood felt the world slide off his shoulders. He held the cell phone so the president could listen as well. Fenwick stopped beside them. The NSA head did not reach for the phone. He just stood there. Hood saw just where the weight of the world had shifted.

“Mr. Battat, this is Paul Hood of Op-Center,” said Hood.

“Paul Hood?” Battat said. “Why are you answering this line?”

“It’s a long story,” Hood said. “What is your situation?”

“A helluva lot better than Mr. Fenwick’s,” Battat said.

“We just took down the Harpooner and recovered his secure phone. This number was the first one that came up on the Harpooner’s instant-dial menu.”

FIFTY-SEVEN

Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 4:41 A.M.

Paul Hood stepped to a corner of the room to finish speaking with Battat. It was important that he get all the information he could about the Harpooner and what had happened.

While Hood did that, President Lawrence stood. He glanced over at his wife, who was standing by the door. He gave her a little smile. Just a small one to show that he was okay and that she had done the right thing. Then Lawrence turned to Fenwick. The NSA chief was still standing beside him. His arms were stiff at his side and his expression was defiant. The other men remained seated around the table. Everyone was watching Lawrence and Fenwick.

“Why did the Harpooner have your direct number and the Hephaestus access code?” the president asked. There was a new confidence in his voice.

“I can’t answer that,” Fenwick said.

“Were you working with Iran to orchestrate a takeover of Azerbaijani oil deposits?” the president asked.

“I was not.”

“Were you working with anyone to organize a takeover of the Oval Office?” the president asked.

“No, sir,” Fenwick replied. “I’m as puzzled as you are.”

“Do you still believe that Mr. Hood is a liar?”

“I believe that he’s misinformed. I have no explanation for what is going on,” Fenwick said.

The president sat back down. “None at all.”

“No, Mr. President.”

The president looked across the table. “General Burg, I’m going to get the secretary of state and our UN ambassador working on this right away. How would you feel about coordinating a midlevel alert for the region?”

Burg looked at his colleagues in turn. No one voiced a protest. The general looked at the president. “Given the confusion about just who we should be fighting, I’m very comfortable with yellow status.”

The president nodded. He looked at his watch. “We’ll reconvene in the Oval Office at six-thirty. That will give me time to work with the press secretary to get something on the morning news shows. I want to be able to put people at ease about our troops and about the status of our oil supply.” He regarded vice president Cotten and Gable. “I’m going to ask the attorney general to look into the rest of this situation as quietly as possible. I want him to ascertain whether treasonable acts have been committed. Do any of you have any thoughts?”

There was something challenging in the president’s voice. Hood had just finished up with Battat and turned back to the table. He remained in the corner, however. Everyone else was still.

The vice president leaned forward and folded his hands on the table. He said nothing. Gable did not move. Fenwick’s deputy, Don Roedner, was staring at the conference table.

“No suggestions at all?” the president pressed.

The heavy silence lasted a moment longer. Then the vice president said, “There will not be an investigation.”

“Why not?” asked the president.

“Because you will have three letters of resignation on your desk by the end of the morning,” Cotten replied.

“Mr. Fenwick’s, Mr. Gable’s, and Mr. Roedner’s. In exchange for those resignations, there will be no charges, no prosecution, and no explanation other than that members of the administration had a difference of policy opinion.”

Fenwick’s forehead flushed. “Three letters, Mr. Vice President?”

“That’s correct, Mr. Fenwick,” Cotten replied. The vice president did not look at the NSA chief. “In exchange for complete amnesty.”

Hood did not miss the subtext. Nor, he was sure, did the president. The vice president was in on this, too. He was asking the others to take a fall for him—though not a big one. Quitting an administration, high-ranking officials often tumbled upward in the private sector.

The president shook his head. “I have here a group of administration officials who apparently conspired with an international terrorist to steal oil from one nation, give it to another, reap foreign policy benefits, and in the process steal the office of president of the United States. And you sit there arrogantly declaring that these men will be given de facto amnesty. And that one of them, it appears, will remain in office, in line for the presidency.”

Cotten regarded Lawrence. “I do declare that, yes,” he said. “The alternative is an international incident in which the United States will be seen as having betrayed Azerbaijan. A series of investigations and trials that will ghost this administration and become its sole legacy. Plus a president who was unaware of what was going on among his closest advisers. A president who his own wife thought might be suffering from a mental or emotional breakdown. That will not boost public confidence in his abilities.”

“Everyone gets off,” the president said angrily. “I’m supposed to agree to that?”

“Everyone gets off,” the vice president repeated calmly.

“Mr. Vice President, sir?” General Burg said. “I just want to say if I had my weapon here, I would shoot you in the ass.”

“General Burg,” the vice president replied, “given the pitiful state of our military, I’m confident you’d miss.” He regarded the president. “There was never going to be a war. No one was going to shoot at anyone or be shot at. Peace would have been reached with Iran, relations would have been normalized, and Americans would have had a guaranteed fuel supply. Whatever one may think of the methods, this was all done for the good of the nation.”

“Any time laws are broken, it is not for the good of the nation,” the president said. “You endangered a small, industrious country trying to get its footing in a post-Soviet world. You sought to undo the will of the American electorate. And you betrayed my faith in you.”

Cotten rose. “I did none of those things, Mr. President,” he replied. “Otherwise, I would be resigning. I’ll see you all at the six-thirty meeting.”

“You will not be needed there,” the president said.

“Ah,” said the vice president. “You would prefer I go on the Today Show to discuss administration policy in the Caspian region.”

“No,” the president replied. “I would prefer that you draft your letter of resignation to submit with the others.”

The vice president shook his head. “I won’t do that.” “You will,” the president replied. “And attribute your resignation to mental exhaustion. I won’t make you a martyr to an anticonstitutional fringe. Find some other line of work, Mr. Cotten.”

“Mr. President, you are pushing the wrong man,” Cotten warned.

“I don’t think so,” the president replied. His eyes and voice grew steely. “You’re correct, Mr. Cotten. I don’t want a national or international scandal. But I’ll suffer those before I leave a traitor in the line of succession to the office of president. Either you resign or, in exchange for that amnesty, I will urge Mr. Fenwick and his associates to tell the attorney general what they know about your involvement in this operation.”

Cotten was silent. Red and silent.

The president reached for the phone in front of him. He pushed a button. “Corporal Cain?”

“Yes, Mr. President?”

“Please have an unarmed detail report to the Situation Room at once,” Lawrence told him. “There are some gentlemen who need to be escorted to their offices and then from the grounds.”

“Unarmed, sir?” Cain repeated.

“That’s right,” Lawrence said. “There won’t be any trouble.”

“Right away, sir.”

“Wait outside the door when you’re finished,” the president added. “The men will be joining you in just a moment.”

“Yes, sir.”

The president hung up. He regarded the four men. “One more thing. Information about your participation in these events must not leave this room. Amnesty will not be based on anything I intend to do for you. Pardoning you would be a sin. It will be based solely on the absence of news.”

The men turned and walked toward the door. Megan Lawrence stepped aside.

Hood’s eyes met hers. The First Lady was glowing with pride. They were obviously thinking the same thing.

She was the only Lawrence who would be stepping aside this day.

FIFTY-EIGHT

Saint Petersburg, Russia Tuesday, 12:53 P.M.

In most intelligence agencies it’s often difficult to tell night from day. That’s because conspiracy and espionage never rest, so the counterterrorists and spybusters also work around the clock. Most are usually fully staffed. The distinction is even less noticeable in the Russian Op-Center because the facility is below ground. There are no windows anywhere.

But General Orlov always knew when it was afternoon. He knew because that was when his devoted wife called. She always rang shortly after lunchtime to see how her Sergei’s sandwich was. She phoned even today, when she had not had time to prepare a bag lunch before he left.

Unfortunately, the call was brief. It often was. They usually had longer conversations when he was in space than they did at the Op-Center. Two minutes after Masha called, Orlov received a call from Odette. He told Masha he would have to call her back. She understood. Masha always understood.

Orlov switched lines. “Odette, how are you?” the general asked eagerly.

“I’m very well,” the woman replied. “We accomplished our mission.”

Orlov was unable to speak for a moment. He had been worried about Odette and concerned about the mission. The fact that she was safe and triumphant left him choked with pride.

“We terminated with complications,” Odette went on, “but we got away. There were no other injuries.”

“Where are you now?” Orlov asked.

“At the U.S. embassy,” she said. “Mr. Battat is getting medical care. Then I’ll be going to the police station. I had to show my badge to a hotel worker, but I think I’ll be able to work it out with my superior. The Harpooner set a fire. I can tell the captain that I went there to see if I could help.”

“So you don’t want to leave, then?” Orlov. asked.

“I think there will be some interesting problems because of all this,” she said. “I’d like to stay for a while.”

“We’ll talk about it,” Orlov said. “I’m proud of you, Odette. And I know someone else would be, too.”

“Thank you,” she said. “I think Viktor was looking out for me today. So was David Battat. I’m glad you asked him to come along.”

Odette gave Orlov additional information about what had happened. They arranged to talk again in six hours. If it became necessary for Odette to leave Baku, there was an Aeroflot flight she could catch at eight P.M.

Orlov took a moment to savor the victory’s many rewards. First, having won the battle against a tenacious enemy. Second, having made the right decision to send Odette and Battat into the field together. And finally, having been able to help Paul Hood. Not only did it repay an old debt, but it hopefully opened the door to future close collaborations.

Odette said that Battat had spoken with Paul Hood. There was nothing Orlov could add to that. Orlov would call him in a few minutes. First, however, he wanted to brief the staff members who had been involved in the hunt.

He was about to send for Grosky and Kosov when the men came to his office door. Kosov was carrying a rolled-up blueprint.

“General,” said the outgoing Kosov, “we have some news.”

“Good news?” Orlov asked.

“Yes, sir,” Kosov said. “That information the Americans gave us about the Harpooner’s Russian identity has proved very useful.”

“In what way?” Orlov asked.

“It suggested to us how he has been able to come to Moscow and disappear without ever being seen,” Kosov said. He stepped forward and unrolled the blueprint on Orlov’s desk. “This is a map of the old Soviet army railroad routes,” he said. “As you know, they go underground well outside of Moscow and stop at various points beneath the city.”

“It was designed that way so troops could be moved into place clandestinely, to put down riots or even foreign attacks,” Grosky added.

“I know about these,” Orlov said. “I’ve traveled in them.”

“But what you may not know about is this one,” Kosov said.

The intelligence analyst used a pen to point to a faint red line. It led from Kievskaya metro stop to several other stations around the city. Kosov was right. Orlov did not know what it was.

“This is unmarked, as you can see, even though it links up to the main trunk,” Kosov continued. “We thought it might be a service tunnel of some kind, but we looked at an older map from the GRU files just to make certain. It was the old Stalin tunnel. If the German army had ever reached Moscow during World War II, Stalin would have been evacuated through this system. Only his closest military advisers know that it existed.” Kosov stepped back and folded his arms. “We believe, sir, that all we need to do to catch our rat is to put video cameras at the entrance and exit. Sooner or later, the Harpooner is certain to show up there.”

Orlov looked at the map for a moment, then sat back. “You may have solved a very perplexing riddle,” he said. “Excellent work.”

“Thank you, sir,” Kosov beamed.

“Fortunately,” Orlov went on, “the Harpooner was killed earlier today. The only rats that will be using the tunnel are the four-legged kind.”

Grosky’s mouth twisted slightly at one end. Kosov’s expression seemed to fall entirely.

“But we could not have taken him without you, and I will say so in my report to the president’s director of intelligence review,” Orlov promised. He rose and extended his hand to each man in turn. “I am proud of you both and deeply grateful.”

Kosov’s disappointment evaporated quickly. Grosky’s mouth remained bent. But even Grosky’s perpetual sourness couldn’t spoil the moment. An inexperienced woman, a sick man, and two former enemies had joined forces to win a big one.

It was an extraordinary feeling.

FIFTY-NINE

Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 5:04 A.M.

After the vice president and his team had been ushered away, the president asked Hood to wait for him. Hood stepped outside the Situation Room as the president and Megan stood alone behind the conference table, talking. The president took his wife’s hands in his. He seemed composed, once again in control.

The Joint Chiefs of Staff filed out quickly after Cotten’s group had been led off. They headed quickly toward the elevator. Before leaving, General Burg paused and turned to Hood. He shook the intelligence leader’s hand.

“What you did in there was good work, smart work,” the general said. “It was also ballsy. My congratulations, Mr. Hood. I’m proud to be associated with you. Proud to be an American.”

Coming from anyone else under almost any other circumstance, that sentiment might have sounded corny. But the system had worked, despite the formidable forces and pressures rallied against it. General Burg had every reason to feel proud. Hood did.

“Thank you, General,” Hood said sincerely.

After the Joint Chiefs left, the hall was quiet, save for the whispered conversation of the president and First Lady. Hood was relieved but still a little shell-shocked by everything that had just happened. He did not believe that the press would accept the given explanations for a mass resignation of the vice president and top administration officials. But that was a battle for other warriors and another day. Hood and his team had saved the presidency and defeated the Harpooner. Right now, all he wanted to do was hear what the president wanted to say, get back to the hotel, and go to sleep.

The president and First Lady emerged a few minutes later. They looked tired but content.

“Did your man in Baku have anything else to say?” the president asked as he walked toward Hood.

“Not really, sir,” Hood said. “He’s at the American embassy now. We’ll talk again. If there’s any other intel, I’ll let you know at once.”

The president nodded as he stopped next to Hood. Megan was standing beside him.

“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, but Mrs. Lawrence and I wanted to thank you together,” the president said. “She told me you’ve been working on this nonstop since Sunday night.”

“It’s been a long day and a half,” Hood admitted.

“You’re more than welcome to sleep upstairs, if you’d like,” the president said. “Or a driver will take you home.”

“Thank you, sir,” Hood said. He looked at his watch. “Rush hour doesn’t start until six, so I should be all right. I’ll just roll down the window and enjoy the fresh air.”

“If you’re certain,” the president said. He offered his hand. “I’ve got work to do. Megan will make sure you get back upstairs. And thank you again. For everything.”

Hood accepted the president’s hand. “It’s been an honor, sir.”

After the president left, Megan faced Hood. There were tears in her eyes. “You saved him, Paul. While I stood there, I watched him pull back from wherever they had taken him.”

“He did that by himself,” Hood said. “And without your heads-up, I wouldn’t have acted on any of this.”

“For once in your life, Paul, give the self-effacement a rest,” Megan said. “You took all the risks in there. If things had gone the other way, you would have been ruined.”

Hood shrugged.

Megan grimaced. “You’re exasperating. Michael is right about one thing, though. You’re tired. Are you sure you won’t rest awhile before you head back?”

“I’m sure,” Hood said. “There are still a few things we have to tie up, and I want to call Sharon.”

“How’s that going?” Megan asked.

“As good as could be expected,” Hood said. “Harleigh’s in the hospital so we’re focused on that.”

Megan touched his arm. “If you want to talk, I’m here.”

Hood thanked her with a smile. They left together, and then Hood headed for his car. A plane rumbled in the distance. Hood looked up as he unlocked his car door. The first hint of daylight was appearing on the other side of the White House grounds.

Somehow, that seemed fitting.

SIXTY

Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 6:46 A.M.

Hood was surprisingly alert when he reached his office.

Mike Rodgers was gone. He had left a voice mail message two hours before about a military situation that was developing along the Pakistan-India border. Rodgers said he had gone home to get some rest before going off to a meeting at the Pentagon. Although General Rodgers was officially attached to Op-Center, he was called upon to assess flashpoints in different corners of the world.

Bob Herbert was still awake and “at the switch,” as he described it. He came to Hood’s office and quickly brought Hood up to speed on the little additional intelligence that Orlov had on the Harpooner and his movements. Then Herbert asked Hood how things had gone at the White House.

Herbert listened intently to his chief’s matter-of-fact recitation of the facts. When Hood was finished, the intelligence head sighed. “I’ve been sitting here collecting intelligence while you were out there, in the field, saving America and the Constitution from a demagogue.”

“Some guys have all the luck,” Hood said dryly.

“Yeah,” Herbert said. “But you’re not the one I envy.”

“Oh?”

Hood thought for a moment. Then, just before Herbert said it, Hood knew what was coming.

“I wish I had been the one who pulled the plug on the Harpooner,” Herbert said. His voice was a low monotone. His eyes were staring. His mind was somewhere else. “I’d have done it slowly. Very slowly. I would have made him suffer the way I’ve suffered without my wife.”

Hood did not know what to say, so he said nothing. Herbert looked at him. “I’ve got a lot of vacation time coming, Paul. I’m going to take it.”

“You should,” Hood said.

“I want to go to Baku and meet this woman Odette,” Herbert said. “I want to see where it happened.”

“I understand,” Hood told him.

Herbert smiled. His eyes were damp. “I knew you would.” His voice cracked. “Look at me. You’re the one who’s had his ass on the firing line twice in the past two weeks. But I’m the one cracking up.”

“You’ve been carrying this pain and frustration for nearly twenty years,” Hood said. “It’s got to come out.” He snickered humorlessly. “I’ll break, too, Bob. One day the UN thing, the White House—it’s all going to hit me and I’ll come apart big time.”

Herbert smiled. “Just hold on till I’m back from vacation so I can pick up all the cogs and wheels.”

“It’s a deal,” Hood said.

Herbert wheeled around the desk and hugged Hood warmly. Then he turned his chair around and left the office.

Hood put in a quick call to General Orlov, thanking him for everything he had done and suggesting that they work out a way to integrate their two systems on some level. Create an Interpol for crisis management. Orlov was all for the idea. They agreed to talk about it the following day.

After hanging up with Orlov, Hood looked at the computer clock. It was still too early to call home. He decided to go to the hotel and phone Sharon and the kids from his room. There would be no other calls, no distractions.

Hood left his office and headed back upstairs. He greeted members of the day team as they arrived: Darrell McCaskey, Matt Stoll, and Liz Gordon. He told them each to go see Bob Herbert for an update. Hood said he would brief them more fully later in the day.

By the time he reached the parking lot, he was starting to crash. The caffeine had made its way through his system. Hood’s body was definitely winding down. As he neared his car, he saw Ann Farris. She was just pulling through the gate. The press liaison saw him, waved, and drove over.

She rolled down the window. “Is everything all right?” she asked.

Hood nodded. “Just tired,” he said. “Bob is still there. He’ll brief you. There’s nothing we have to press release, though. Not yet.”

“Where are you headed?” she asked.

“Back to the hotel,” he said. “I’ve got to get some rest.”

“Hop in and I’ll run you over,” she said. “You don’t look like you should be driving.”

“I don’t know when I’ll be coming back,” Hood told her. “I need the car.”

“You’ll be coming back this afternoon,” Ann said. “I know you. A two- or three-hour power nap, and then you’ll be back. Just call when you wake up, and I’ll come and get you.”

The offer sounded inviting. He did not feel like driving anymore.

“All right,” Hood said.

Hood went to the passenger’s side and slid in. He shut his eyes and had to be nudged awake when they arrived. He was groggy. Ann left her car out front and walked him to his room.

She returned a few minutes later, climbed behind the wheel, and sat there for a moment.

“Screw this,” she said. Instead of driving off, she moved the car to the main lot. Then she went back inside.

Hood had just finished his short chat with Sharon. His wife had said that there had been no change in anything.

Hood removed his shoes and tie and was unbuttoning his shirt when there was a knock on the door. It had to be a bellboy with a fax from the office or his attorney. No one else knew he was here. He fished a dollar from his wallet and opened the door. He was surprised to see Ann.

“Thanks,” she said, “but I didn’t come back for my tip.”

He smiled and let her in.

Ann was still wearing her jacket, but she looked different. There was something more accessible about her. It was in the eyes, he decided.

Hood shut the door behind her. As he did, he was surprised by something else. He was glad that she had come back.

EPILOGUE

Baku, Azerbaijan Tuesday, 3:00 P.M.

Throughout the late morning and early afternoon, the surprises kept coming for Ron Friday, each one more startling than the last.

First, Friday was surprised to find David Battat at the embassy. The CIA operative was being nursed to health by the embassy medic. He looked in remarkably good health and even better spirits.

Next, Friday was even more surprised to hear that a local policewoman had been responsible for killing the Harpooner. Friday himself would not have known how to find him or what he looked like. He could not imagine how a policewoman had gotten to him. Maybe it was an accident or they were mistaken. Perhaps someone else had been mistaken for the Harpooner. In any case, authorities were speculating that he had been the man behind the attack on the Iranian oil rig. Prodded by the United States, military mobilization was being delayed while an investigation was under way.

But the biggest surprise was the call from Jack Fenwick’s executive secretary, Dori. Her boss, Don Roedner, Red Gable, and the vice president were all resigning later that morning. Dori did not know anything about the operation Fenwick had been running and was stunned by the announcement. Friday was stunned, too. He could not imagine how everything had come unraveled. He could not imagine what his old mentor must be feeling. He wished he could speak with him, say something reassuring.

But Friday had not been able to reach Fenwick on his cell phone. Someone else answered, and he quickly hung up. He did not know whether the NSA chief would be investigated and whether that investigation would ever get to him. Friday did not generally report to Fenwick directly. He reported to T. Perry Gord, assistant deputy director of South Asian affairs. There was no reason it should reach him. Gord knew nothing about Fenwick’s other activities.

Still, after weighing whether or not to remain in Baku, Friday decided it would be best to leave. He would go somewhere that was a little bit off the radar. Someplace the international press would not be paying so much attention to over the next few weeks.

Fortunately, there was a situation developing on the India-Pakistan border that fell within Gord’s jurisdiction. Rather than send someone over from Washington, Friday arranged to have himself transferred to the embassy in Islamabad in order to do on-site intelligence gathering. There was a Pakistan International Airlines flight leaving Moscow the following morning. He would fly from Baku tonight and make certain that he was on it.

It would have been nice, he thought, if it had all worked out for Fenwick. With Cotten in the White House, Fenwick would have had unprecedented access and power. And any one of the few people who had taken part in the changeover would have been rewarded. Not just for their contribution but for their silence. On the other hand, one of the reasons Friday had gone into intelligence work was for the challenge. The danger. He had done his job. And he had enjoyed doing it, taking out a CIA operative who had CIA swagger. The kind that had helped to keep Friday back his whole life. That swagger did not prevent Thomas Moore from walking into a neat little NSA trap.

All right, Friday thought. Things had not worked out. It was on to the next project.

That, too, was one of the things Ron Friday enjoyed about intelligence work. It was never the same. He never knew who he might be working with—or against. In Islamabad, for example, it was not just a question of getting a good man to the flashpoint. It was getting the right man there quickly. Gord had heard through the grapevine that someone from Op-Center was being brought in to consult on the India-Pakistan situation and was probably going to be sent to the region. Over the past few years, Op-Center had taken over a great deal of the work Fenwick’s team used to handle. That had resulted in ongoing budget and personnel battles at the NSA. Fenwick got the monies he wanted but it had turned a heated rivalry into a ferocious one.

Friday carefully disassembled and packed a rifle. He took along two boxes of shells. Because he was going to Islamabad with diplomatic credentials, his luggage would not be checked.

Showing up Op-Center was important. But as Friday had demonstrated in Baku and elsewhere, outperforming a rival was not the only way to bring them down.

Whoever this man Mike Rodgers was, he would learn that the hard way.

Novels by Tom Clancy

THE HUNT FOR RED OCTOBER

RED STORM RISING

PATRIOT GAMES

THE CARDINAL OF THE KREMLIN

CLEAR AND PRESENT DANGER

THE SUM OF ALL FEARS

WITHOUT REMORSE

DEBT OF HONOR

EXECUTIVE ORDERS

RAINBOW SIX

SSN: STRATEGIES OF SUBMARINE WARFARE

Created by Tom Clancy and Steve Pieczenik

TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER

TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: MIRROR IMAGE

TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: GAMES OF STATE

TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: ACTS OF WAR

TOM CLANCY’ S OP-CENTER: BALANCE OF POWER

TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: STATE OF SIEGE

TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: DIVIDE AND CONQUER

TOM CLANCY’ NET FORCE

TOM CLANCY’S NET FORCE: HIDDEN AGENDAS

TOM CLANCY’S NET FORCE: NIGHT MOVES

Created by Tom Clancy and Martin Greenberg

TOM CLANCY’S POWER PLAYS: POLITIKA

TOM CLANCY’S POWER PLAYS: RUTHLESS.COM

TOM CLANCY’S POWER PLAYS: SHADOW WATCH

Nonfiction

SUBMARINE: A GUIDED TOUR INSIDE A NUCLEAR WARSHIP

ARMORED CAV: A GUIDED TOUR OF AN ARMORED CAVALRY REGIMENT

FIGHTER WING: A GUIDED TOUR OF AN AIR FORCE COMBAT WING

MARINE: A GUIDED TOUR OF A MARINE EXPEDITIONARY UNIT

AIRBORNE: A GUIDED TOUR OF AN AIRBORNE TASK FORCE

CARRIER: A GUIDED TOUR OF AN AIRCRAFT CARRIER

INTO THE STORM: A STUDY IN COMMAND

(written with General Fred Franks)

EVERY MAN A TIGER

(written with General Charles Horner)

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Acknowledgements

ONE - Washington, D. C. Wednesday, 5:56 A.M.

TWO - Srinagar, India Wednesday, 3:51 P.M.

THREE - Washington, D.C. Wednesday, 6:32 A.M.

FOUR - Kargil, Kashmir Wednesday, 4:11 P.M.

FIVE - Washington, D.C. Wednesday, 7:00 A.M.

SIX - Srinagar, India Wednesday, 4:22 P.M.

SEVEN - Washington, D.C. Wednesday, 7:10 A.M.

EIGHT - Srinagar, India Wednesday, 4:41 P.M.

NINE - Srinagar, India Wednesday, 4:55 P.M.

TEN - Siachin Base 3, Kashmir Wednesday, 5:42 P.M.

ELEVEN - Washington, D.C. Wednesday, 8:21 A.M.

TWELVE - C-130 Cabin Wednesday, 10:13 A.M.

THIRTEEN - Srinagar, Kashmir Wednesday, 6:59 P.M.

FOURTEEN - Kargil, Kashmir Wednesday, 7:00 P.M.

FIFTEEN - Washington, D.C. Wednesday, 10:51 A.M.

SIXTEEN - Siachin Base 2E, Kashmir Wednesday, 9:02 P.M.

SEVENTEEN - Srinagar, Kashmir Wednesday, 10:00 P.M.

EIGHTEEN - Alconbury, Great Britain Wednesday, 7:10 P.M.

NINETEEN - Kargil, Kashmir Thursday, 6:45 A.M.

TWENTY - Washington, D.C. Wednesday, 8:17 P.M.

TWENTY-ONE - Siachin Base 2E, Kashmir Thursday, 7:01 A.M.

TWENTY-TWO - Washington, D.C. Wednesday, 9:36 P.M.

TWENTY-THREE - Kargil, Kashmir Thursday, 7:43 A.M.

TWENTY-FOUR - Siachin Base 3, Kashmir Thursday, 9:16 A.M.

TWENTY-FIVE - Washington, D.C. Wednesday, 11:45 P.M.

TWENTY-SIX - Washington, D.C. Thursday, 1:12 A.M.

TWENTY-SEVEN - Kargil, Kashmir Thursday, 12:01 P.M.

TWENTY-EIGHT - Washington, D.C. Thursday, 4:02 A.M.

TWENTY-NINE - New Delhi, India Thursday, 2:06 P.M.

THIRTY - Ankara, Turkey Thursday, 11:47 A.M.

THIRTY-ONE - Jaudar, Kashmir Thursday, 3:33 P.M.

THIRTY-TWO - Washington, D.C. Thursday, 6:25 A.M.

THIRTY-THREE - Mt. Kanzalwan Thursday, 4:16 P.M.

THIRTY-FOUR - Washington, D.C. Thursday, 6:51 A.M.

THIRTY-FIVE - The Great Himalaya Range Thursday, 4:19 P.M.

THIRTY-SIX - The Great Himalaya Range Thursday, 4:42 P.M.

THIRTY-SEVEN - The Great Himalaya Range Thursday, 4:46 P.M.

THIRTY-EIGHT - Washington, D.C. Thursday, 7:24 A.M.

THIRTY-NINE - The Mangala Valley Thursday, 5:30 P.M.

FORTY - The Great Himalaya Range Thursday, 5:41 P.M.

FORTY-ONE - Washington, D.C. Thursday, 8:30 A.M.

FORTY-TWO - The Great Himalaya Range Thursday, 6:42 P.M.

FORTY-THREE - The Great Himalaya Range Thursday, 6:57 P.M.

FORTY-FOUR - Washington, D.C. Thursday, 10:30 A.M.

FORTY-FIVE - The Siachin Glacier Thursday, 9:11 P.M.

FORTY-SIX - Washington, D.C. Thursday, 12:00 P.M.

FORTY-SEVEN - The Siachin Glacier Thursday, 10:57 P.M.

FORTY-EIGHT - Washington, D.C. Thursday, 1:28 P.M.

FORTY-NINE - Washington, D.C. Thursday, 1:36 P.M.

FIFTY - The Siachin Glacier Thursday, 11:40 P.M.

FIFTY-ONE - The Himachal Peaks Thursday, 11:41 P.M.

FIFTY-TWO - The Siachin Glacier Friday, 12:00 A.M.

FIFTY-THREE - The Siachin Glacier Friday, 12:53 A.M.

FIFTY-FOUR - The Siachin Glacier Friday, 12:55 A.M.

FIFTY-FIVE - Washington, D.C. Thursday, 4:30 P.M.

FIFTY-SIX - The Siachin Glacier Friday, 2:07 A.M.

FIFTY-SEVEN - Washington, D.C. Thursday, 5:00 P.M.

FIFTY-EIGHT - The Siachin Glacier Friday, 2:35 A.M.

FIFTY-NINE - The Siachin Glacier Friday, 2:42 A.M.

SIXTY - The Siachin Glacier Friday, 2:51 A.M.

SIXTY-ONE - Siachin Base 3, Kashmir Friday, 3:22 A.M.

SIXTY-TWO - The Siachin Glacier Friday, 3:23 A.M.

SIXTY-THREE - The Siachin Glacier Friday, 3:25 A.M.

SIXTY-FOUR - The Siachin Glacier Friday, 3:27 A.M.

SIXTY-FIVE - Washington, D.C. Thursday, 6:21 P.M.

SIXTY-SIX - Washington, D.C. Thursday, 6:24 P.M.

SIXTY-SEVEN - The Siachin Glacier Friday, 4:00 A.M.

SIXTY-EIGHT - The Siachin Glacier Friday, 4:07 A.M.

SIXTY-NINE - The Himachal Peaks Friday, 4:12 A.M.

SEVENTY - Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 7:10 A.M.

THE BESTSELLING NOVELS OF Tom Clancy

THE BEAR AND THE DRAGON

President Jack Ryan faces a world crisis unlike any he has ever known . . .

“INTOXICATING . . . A JUGGERNAUT.”

—Publishers Weekly (starred review)

RAINBOW SIX

Clancy’s shocking story of international terrorism—closer to reality than any government would care to admit . . .

“GRIPPING . . . BOLT-ACTION MAYHEM.”

—People

EXECUTIVE ORDERS

Jack Ryan has always been a soldier. Now he’s giving the orders.

“AN ENORMOUS, ACTION-PACKED, HEAT-SEEKING MISSILE OF A TOM CLANCY NOVEL.”

—The Seattle Times

DEBT OF HONOR

It begins with the murder of an American woman in the back streets of Tokyo. It ends in war . . .

“A SHOCKER CLIMAX SO PLAUSIBLE YOU’LL WONDER WHY IT HASN’T YET HAPPENED!”

—Entertainment Weekly

NOVELS BY TOM CLANCY

The Hunt for Red October

Red Storm Rising

Patriot Games

The Cardinal of the Kremlin

Clear and Present Danger

The Sum of All Fears

Without Remorse

Debt of Honor

Executive Orders

Rainbow Six

The Bear and the Dragon

Red Rabbit

The Teeth of the Tiger

SSN: Strategies of Submarine Warfare

NONFICTION

Submarine: A Guided Tour Inside a Nuclear Warship

Armored Cav: A Guided Tour of an Armored Cavalry Regiment

Fighter Wing: A Guided Tour of an Air Force Combat Wing

Marine: A Guided Tour of a Marine Expeditionary Unit

Airborne: A Guided Tour of an Airborne Task Force

Carrier: A Guided Tour of an Aircraft Carrier

Special Forces: A Guided Tour of U.S. Army Special Forces

Into the Storm: A Study in Command

(written with General Fred Franks, Jr., Ret.)

Every Man a Tiger

(written with General Charles Homer, Ret.)

Shadow Warriors: Inside the Special Forces

(written with General Carl Stiner, Ret., and Tony Koltz)

CREATED BY TOM CLANCY

Splinter Cell

CREATED BY TOM CLANCY AND STEVE PIECZENIK

Tom Clancy’s Op-Center

Tom Clancy’s Op-Center: Mirror Image

Tom Clancy’s Op-Center: Games of State

Tom Clancy’s Op-Center: Acts of War

Tom Clancy’s Op-Center: Balance of Power

Tom Clancy’s Op-Center: State of Siege

Tom Clancy’s Op-Center: Divide and Conquer

Tom Clancy’s Op-Center: Line of Control

Tom Clancy’s Op-Center: Mission of Honor

Tom Clancy’s Op-Center: Sea of Fire

Tom Clancy’s Op-Center: Call to Treason

Tom Clancy’s Net Force

Tom Clancy’s Net Force: Hidden Agendas

Tom Clancy’s Net Force: Night Moves

Tom Clancy’s Net Force: Breaking Point

Tom Clancy’s Net Force: Point of Impact

Tom Clancy’s Net Force: CyberNation

Tom Clancy’s Net Force: State of War

Tom Clancy’s Net Force: Changing of the Guard

Tom Clancy’s Net Force: Springboard

CREATED BY TOM CLANCY AND MARTIN GREENBERG

Tom Clancy’s Power Plays: Politika

Tom Clancy’s Power Plays: ruthless.com

Tom Clancy’s Power Plays: Shadow Watch

Tom Clancy’s Power Plays: Bio-Strike

Tom Clancy’s Power Plays: Cold War

Tom Clancy’s Power Plays: Cutting Edge

Tom Clancy’s Power Plays: Zero Hour

Tom Clancy’s Power Plays: Wild Card

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

Penguin Group (Canada), 10 Alcorn Avenue, Toronto, Ontario M4V 3B2, Canada

(a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England

Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)

Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia

(a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)

Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India

Penguin Group (NZ), Cnr. Airborne and Rosedale Roads, Albany, Auckland 1310, New Zealand

(a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196,

South Africa

Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

TOM CLANCY’ S OP-CENTER: LINE OF CONTROL

A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with Jack Ryan Limited Partnership and S & R Literary, Inc.

PRINTING HISTORY

Berkley edition / June 2001

Copyright © 2001 by Jack Ryan Limited Partnership and S & R Literary, Inc.

OP-CENTER™ is a trademark of Jack Ryan Limited Partnership and S & R Literary, Inc.

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

eISBN : 978-1-101-00367-1

BERKLEY®

Berkley Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

BERKLEY is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

The “B” design is a trademark belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

http://us.penguingroup.com

Acknowledgments

We would like to acknowledge the assistance of Martin H. Greenberg, Larry Segriff, Robert Youdelman, Esq., Tom Mallon, Esq., and the wonderful people at Penguin Putnam Inc., including Phyllis Grann, David Shanks, and Tom Colgan. As always, we would like to thank Robert Gottlieb, without whom this book would never have been conceived. But most important, it is for you, our readers, to determine how successful our collective endeavor has been.

—Tom Clancy and Steve Pieczenik

PROLOGUE

Siachin Base 3, Kashmir Wednesday, 5:42 A.M.

Major Dev Puri could not sleep. He had not yet gotten used to the flimsy cots the Indian army used in the field. Or the thin air in the mountains. Or the quiet. Outside his former barracks in Udhampur there were always the sounds of trucks and automobiles, of soldiers and activity. Here, the quiet reminded him of a hospital. Or a morgue.

Instead, he put on his olive green uniform and red turban. Puri left his tent and walked over to the front-line trenches. There, he looked out as the rich morning sun rose behind him. He watched as a brilliant orange glow crept through the valley and settled slowly across the flat, deserted demilitarized zone. It was the flimsiest of barriers in the most dangerous place on earth.

Here in the Himalayan foothills of Kashmir, human life was always in jeopardy. It was routinely threatened by the extreme weather conditions and rugged terrain. In the warmer, lower elevations it was at risk whenever one failed to spot a lethal king cobra or naja naja, the Indian cobra, hiding in the underbrush. It was endangered whenever one was an instant too late swatting a disease-carrying mosquito or venomous brown widow spider in time. Life was in even greater peril a few miles to the north, on the brutal Siachin Glacier. There was barely enough air to support life on the steep, blinding-white hills. Avalanches and subzero temperatures were a daily danger to foot patrols.

Yet the natural hazards were not what made this the most dangerous spot on the planet. All of those dangers were nothing compared to how humans threatened each other here. Those threats were not dependent on the time of day or the season of the year. They were constant, every minute of every hour of every day for nearly the past sixty years.

Puri stood on an aluminum ladder in a trench with corrugated tin walls. Directly in front of him were five-foot-high sandbags protected by razor wire strung tightly above them from iron posts. To the right, about thirty feet away, was a small sentry post, a wooden shelter erected behind the sandbags. There was hemp netting on top with camouflage greenery overhead. To the right, forty feet away, was another watch post.

One hundred and twenty yards in front of him, due west, was a nearly identical Pakistan trench.

With deliberate slowness, the officer removed a pouch of ghutka, chewable tobacco, from his pants pocket. Sudden moves were discouraged out here where they might be noticed and misinterpreted as reaching for a weapon. He unfolded the packet and pushed a small wad in his cheek. Soldiers were encouraged not to smoke, since a lighted cigarette could give away the position of a scout or patrol.

As Puri chewed the tobacco he watched squadrons of black flies begin their own morning patrol. They were searching for fecal matter left by red squirrels, goatlike markhors, and other herbivores that woke and fed before dawn. It was early winter now. Puri had heard that in the summer the insects were so thick they seemed like clouds of smoke drifting low over the rocks and scrub.

The major wondered if he would be alive to see them. During some weeks thousands of men on both sides were killed. That was inevitable with more than one million fanatic soldiers facing one another across an extremely narrow, two-hundred-mile-long “line of control.” Major Puri could see some of those soldiers now, across the sandy stretch between the trenches. Their mouths were covered with black muslin scarves to protect them against the westward-blowing winds. But the eyes in their wind-burned faces blazed with hatred that had been sparked back in the eighth century. That was when Hindus and Muslims first clashed in this region. The ancient farmers and merchants took up arms and fought about trade routes, land and water rights, and ideology. The struggle became even more fierce in 1947 when Great Britain abandoned its empire on the subcontinent. The British gave the rival Hindus and Muslims the nations of India and Pakistan to call their own. That partition also gave India control over the Muslim-dominated region of Kashmir. Since that time the Pakistans have regarded the Indians as an occupying force in Kashmir. Warfare has been almost constant as the two sides struggled over what became the symbolic heart of the conflict.

And I am in the heart of the heart, Puri thought.

Base 3 was a potential flashpoint, the fortified zone nearest both Pakistan and China. It was ironic, the career soldier told himself. This “heart” looked exactly like Dabhoi, the small town where he had grown up at the foot of the Satpura Range in central India. Dabhoi had no real value except to the natives, who were mostly tradesmen, and to those trying to get to the city of Broach on the Bay of Cambay. That was where they could buy fish cheap. It was disturbing how hate rather than cooperation made one place more valuable than another. Instead of trying to expand what they had in common they were trying to destroy what was uncommon.

The officer stared out at the cease-fire zone. Lining the sandbags were orange binoculars mounted on small iron poles. That was the only thing the Indians and Pakistans had ever agreed on: coloring the binoculars so they would not be mistaken for guns. But Puri did not need them here. The brilliant sun was rising behind him. He could clearly see the dark faces of the Pakistans behind their cinderblock barricades. The faces looked just like Indian faces except that they were on the wrong side of the line of control.

Puri made a point of breathing evenly. The line of control was a strip of land so narrow in places that cold breath was visible from sentries on both sides. And being visible, the puffs of breath could tell guards on either side if their counterparts were anxious and breathing rapidly or asleep and breathing slowly. There, a wrong word whispered to a fellow soldier and overheard by the other side could break the fragile truce. A hammer hitting a nail had to be muffled with cloth lest it be mistaken for a gunshot and trigger return rifle fire, then artillery, then nuclear weapons. That exchange could happen so fast that the heavily barricaded bases would be vaporized even before the echoes of the first guns had died in the towering mountain passageways.

Mentally and physically, it was such a trying and unforgiving environment that any officer who successfully completed a one-year tour of duty was automatically eligible for a desk job in a “safe zone” like Calcutta or New Delhi. That was what the forty-one-year-old Puri was working toward. Three months before, he had been transferred from the army’s HQ Northern Command where he trained border patrols. Nine more months of running this small base, of “kiting with tripwire,” as his predecessor had put it, and he could live comfortably for the rest of his life. Indulge his passion for going out on anthropological digs. He loved learning more about the history of his people. The Indus Valley civilization was over 4,500 years old. Back then the Pkitania and Indian people were one. There was a thousand years of peace. That was before religion came to the region.

Major Puri chewed his tobacco. He smelled the brewed tea coming from the mess tent. It was time for breakfast, after which he would join his men for the morning briefing. He took another moment to savor the morning. It was not that a new day brought new hope. All it meant was that the night had passed without a confrontation.

Puri turned and stepped down the stairs. He did not imagine that there would be very many mornings like this in the weeks ahead. If the rumors from his friends at HQ were true, the powder keg was about to get a new fuse.

A very short, very hot fuse.

ONE

Washington, D. C. Wednesday, 5:56 A.M.

The air was unseasonably chilly. Thick, charcoal-gray clouds hung low over Andrews Air Force Base. But in spite of the dreary weather Mike Rodgers felt terrific.

The forty-seven-year-old two-star general left his black 1970 Mustang in the officers’ parking lot. Stepping briskly, he crossed the neatly manicured lawn to the Op-Center offices. Rodgers’s light brown eyes had a sparkle that almost made them appear golden. He was still humming the last tune he had been listening to on the portable CD player. It was Victoria Bundonis’s recording of the 1950s David Seville ditty “Witch Doctor.” The young singer’s low, torchy take on “Oo-ee-oo-ah-ah” was always an invigorating way to start the day. Usually, when he crossed the grass here, he was in a different frame of mind. This early, dew would dampen his polished shoes as they sank into the soft soil. His neatly pressed uniform and his short, graying black hair would ripple in the strong breeze. But Rodgers was usually oblivious to the earth, wind, and water—three of the four ancient elements. He was only aware of the fourth element, fire. That was because it was bottled and capped inside the man himself. He carried it carefully as though it were nitroglycerin. One sudden move and he would blow.

But not today.

There was a young guard standing in a bullet-proof glass booth just inside the door. He saluted smartly as Rodgers entered.

“Good morning, sir,” the sentry said.

“Good morning,” Rodgers replied. “ ‘Wolverine.’ ”

That was Rodgers’s personal password for the day. It was left on his GovNet e-mail pager the night before by Op-Center’s internal security chief, Jenkin Wynne. If the password did not match what the guard had on his computer Rodgers would not have been allowed to enter.

“Thank you, sir,” the guard said and saluted again. He pressed a button and the door clicked open. Rodgers entered.

There was a single elevator directly ahead. As Rodgers walked toward it he wondered how old the airman first class was. Twenty-two? Twenty-three? A few months ago Rodgers would have given his rank, his experiences, everything he owned or knew to be back where this young sentry was. Healthy and sharp, with all his options spread before him. That was after Rodgers had disastrously field-tested the Regional Op-Center. The mobile, hi-tech facility had been seized in the Middle East. Rodgers and his personnel were imprisoned and tortured. Upon the team’s release, Senator Barbara Fox and the Congressional Intelligence Oversight Committee rethought the ROC program. The watchdog group felt that having a U.S. intelligence base working openly on foreign soil was provocative rather than a deterrent. Because the ROC had been Rodgers’s responsibility he felt as though he’d let Op-Center down. He also felt as though he had blown his last, best chance to get back into the field.

Rodgers was wrong. The United States needed intelligence on the nuclear situation in Kashmir. Specifically, whether Pakistan had deployed warheads deep in the mountains of the region. Indian operatives could not go into the field. If the Pakistanis found them it might trigger the war the United States was hoping to avoid. An American unit would have some wiggle room. Especially if they could prove that they were bringing intelligence about Indian nuclear capabilities to Pakistan, intelligence that a National Security Agency liaison would be giving Rodgers in the town of Srinagar. Of course, the Indian military would not know he had that. It was all a big, dangerous game of three-card monte. All the dealer had to do was remember where all the cards were and never get busted.

Rodgers entered the small, brightly lit elevator and rode it to the basement level.

Op-Center—officially the National Crisis Management Center—was housed in a two-story building located near the Naval Reserve flight line. During the Cold War the nondescript, ivory-colored building was a staging area for crack flight crews. In the event of a nuclear attack their job would have been to evacuate key officials from Washington, D.C. With the fall of the Soviet Union and the downsizing of the air force’s NuRRDs—nuclear rapid-response divisions—the building was given to the newly commissioned NCMC.

The upstairs offices were for nonclassified operations such as news monitoring, finance, and human resources. The basement was where Hood, Rodgers, Intelligence Chief Bob Herbert, and the rest of the intelligence-gathering and -processing personnel worked.

Rodgers reached the underground level. He walked through the cubicles in the center to his office. He retrieved his old leather briefcase from under the desk. He packed his laptop and began collecting the diskettes he would need for his journey. The files contained intelligence reports from India and Pakistan, maps of Kashmir, and the names of contacts as well as safe houses throughout the region. As he packed the tools of his trade Rodgers felt almost like he did as a kid growing up in Hartford, Connecticut. Hartford endured fierce winter storms. But they were damp storms that brought packing snow. Before putting on his snow suit Rodgers would get his bucket, rope, spade, and swimming goggles and toss them into his school gym bag. His mother insisted on the goggles. She knew she could not prevent her son from fighting but she did not want him getting hit by a snowball and losing an eye. Once outside, while all the other kids were building snow forts, Rodgers would climb a tree and build a snow tree house on a piece of plywood. No one ever expected that. A rain of snowballs from a thick branch.

After Rodgers had his briefcase packed he would head to the “Gulf cart” parked at the back door. That was what the military had christened the motorized carts that had shuttled officers from meeting to meeting during both Desert Shield and Desert Storm. The Pentagon bought thousands of them just before what turned out to be the last gasp of face-to-face strategy meetings before secure video-conferencing was created. After that, the obsolete carts had been distributed to bases around the country as Christmas presents to senior officers.

The Gulf cart would not have far to travel. A C-130 Hercules was parked just a quarter of a mile away, in the holding area of the airstrip that passed directly behind the NCMC building. In slightly under an hour the hundred-foot-long transport would begin a NATO supply trek that would secretly ferry Rodgers and his Striker unit from Andrews to the Royal Air Force Alconbury station in Great Britain to a NATO base outside Ankara, Turkey. There, the team would be met by an Indian Air Force AN-12 transport, part of the Himalayan Eagles squadron. They would be flown to the high-altitude base at Chushul near the Chinese border and then choppered to Srinagar to meet their contact. It would be a long and difficult journey lasting just over twenty-four hours. And there would be no time to rest when they reached India. The team had to be ready to go as soon as they touched down.

But that was fine with Mike Rodgers. He had been “ready to go” for years. He had never wanted to be second-in-command of anything. During the Spanish-American War, his great-great-grandfather Captain Malachai T. Rodgers went from leading a unit to serving under upstart Lt. Colonel Teddy Roosevelt. As Captain Rodgers wrote to Mrs. Rodgers at the time, “There is nothing better than running things. And there is nothing worse than being a runner-up, even if that happens to be under a gentleman you respect.”

Malachai Rodgers was right. The only reason Mike Rodgers had taken the deputy director’s position was because he never expected Paul Hood to stay at Op-Center. Rodgers assumed that the former Los Angeles mayor was a politician at heart who had eyes on the Senate or the White House. Rodgers was wrong. The general hit another big bump in the road when Hood resigned from Op-Center to spend more time with his family. Rodgers thought Op-Center would finally be his. But Paul and Sharon Kent Hood weren’t able to fix what was wrong with their marriage. They separated and Hood came back to Op-Center. Rodgers went back to being number two.

Rodgers needed to command. A few weeks before, he and Hood had ended a hostage siege at the United Nations. Rodgers had directed that operation. That reminded him of how much he enjoyed risking everything on his ability to outthink and outperform an adversary. Doing it safely from behind a desk just was not the same thing.

Rodgers turned to the open door a moment before Bob Herbert arrived. Op-Center’s number three man was always announced by the low purr of his motorized wheelchair.

“Good morning,” Herbert said as he swung into view.

“Good morning, Bob,” Rodgers replied.

“Mind if I come in?”

“Not at all,” Rodgers told him.

Herbert swung the wheelchair into the office. The balding, thirty-nine-year-old intelligence genius had lost the use of his legs in the Beirut embassy bombing in 1983. The terrorist attack had also taken the life of Herbert’s beloved wife. Op-Center’s computer wizard Matt Stoll had helped design this state-of-the-art wheelchair. It included a computer that folded into the armrest and a small satellite dish that opened from a box attached to the back of the chair.

“I just wanted to wish you good luck,” Herbert said.

“Thanks,” Rodgers replied.

“Also, Paul asked if you would pop in before you left,” Herbet said. “He’s on the phone with Senator Fox and didn’t want to miss you.”

Rodgers glanced at his watch. “The senator is up early. Any particular reason?”

“Not that I know of, though Paul didn’t look happy,” Herbert said. “Could be more fallout over the UN attack.”

If that were true then there was an advantage to being the number two man, Rodgers thought. He did not have to put up with that bullshit. They had absolutely done the right thing at the United Nations. They had saved the hostages and killed the bad guys.

“They’re probably going to beat us up until the secretary-general cries uncle,” Rodgers said.

“Senator Fox has gotten good at that,” Herbert said. “She slaps your back real hard and tells your enemies it’s a lashing. Tells your friends it’s a pat on the back. Only you know which it is. Anyway, Paul will deal with that,” Herbert went on. He extended his hand. “I just wanted to wish you well. That’s a remote, hostile region you’re heading into.”

Rodgers clasped Herbert’s hand and grinned. “I know. But I’m a remote, hostile guy. Kashmir and I will get along fine.”

Rodgers went to withdraw his hand. Herbert held it.

“There’s something else,” Herbert said.

“What?” Rodgers asked.

“I can’t find out who your contact man is over there,” Herbert said.

“We’re being met by an officer of the National Security Guard, Captain Prem Nazir,” Rodgers replied. “That’s not unusual.”

“It is for me,” Herbert insisted. “A few calls, some promises, a little intel exchange usually gets me what I want. It lets me check up on people, make sure there isn’t a double-cross on the other end. Not this time. I can’t even get anything on Captain Nazir.”

“To tell you the truth, I’m actually relieved that there’s tight security for once,” Rodgers laughed.

“Tight security is when the opposition doesn’t know what is going on,” Herbert said. “I get worried when our own people can’t tell me exactly what is going on.”

“Cannot or will not?” Rodgers asked.

“Cannot,” Herbert said.

“Why don’t you call Mala Chatterjee,” Rodgers suggested. “I bet she would be delighted to help.”

“That’s not funny,” Herbert said.

Chatterjee was the young Indian secretary-general of the United Nations. She was a career pacifist, the most vocal critic of Op-Center and the way they had taken over and resolved the crisis.

“I talked to my people at the CIA and at our embassies in Islamabad and New Delhi,” Herbert went on. “They don’t know anything about this operation. That’s unusual. And the National Security Agency does not exactly have things under control. The plan has not gone through the usual com-sim. Lewis is too busy housecleaning for that.”

“I know,” Rodgers said.

“The usual com-sim” was a computer simulation that was run on any plan that had been approved for the field. The sponsoring agency typically spent days running the simulations to find holes in the main blueprint and also to give backup options to the agents heading into the field. But the National Security Agency had recently been shaken up by the resignation of their director, Jack Fenwick. That occurred after Hood had identified Fenwick as one of the leaders of a conspiracy to help remove the president from office. His replacement, Hank Lewis, formerly assistant to the president, coordinator of strategic planning, was spending his time removing Fenwick loyalists.

“We’ll be okay,” Rodgers assured him. “Back in Vietnam my plans were always held together with spit.”

“Yeah, but there at least you knew who the enemy was,” Herbert pointed out. “All I want you to do is stay in touch. If something seems out of whack I want to be able to let you know.”

“I will,” Rodgers promised. They would be traveling with the TAC-SAT phone. The secure uplink would allow Striker to call Op-Center from virtually anywhere in the world.

Herbert left and General Rodgers picked up the files and diskettes he wanted to take. The hall outside the door was getting busier as Op-Center’s day crew arrived. It was nearly three times the size of the skeletal night crew. Yet Rodgers felt strangely cut off from the activity. It was not just the focused “mission mode” Rodgers went into before leaving the base. It was something else. A guardedness, as if he were already in the field. In and around Washington that was not far from the truth.

Despite Rodgers’s assurances, what Herbert said had resonated with him. Herbert was not an alarmist and his concerns did worry Rodgers a little. Not for himself or even his old friend Colonel Brett August. August would be commanding Op-Center’s elite Striker unit. Rodgers was worried about the young multiservice members of Striker who would be joining him in Kashmir. Especially the ones with families. That was never far from any commander’s mind. Herbert had helped to give it a little extra volume.

But risk came with the uniform and the generous pension. Rodgers would do everything he could to safeguard the personnel and the mission. Because, in the end, there was one inescapable truth about actions taken by men like Mike Rodgers and Brett August.

The goal was worth the risk.

TWO

Srinagar, India Wednesday, 3:51 P.M.

Five hours after giving a false name to officials at the Foreigners’ Regional Registration Office at Srinagar Airport, Ron Friday was walking the streets of what he hoped would be his home for the next year or two. He had checked into a small, cheap inn off Shervani Road. He’d first heard about Binoo’s Palace the last time he was here. There was a gaming parlor in the back, which meant that the local police had been paid to keep the place secure. There, Friday would be both anonymous and safe.

The National Security Agency officer was happy to have gotten out of Baku, Azerbaijan. He was happy not only to get out of the former Soviet Republic but to be here, in Srinagar, less than twenty-five miles from the line of control. He had been to the capital of the northern state before and found it invigorating. Distant artillery fire was constant. So were the muted pops of land mines in the hills. During early morning there was the scream of jets and the distinctive whumping sound of their cluster bombs and the louder crashes of their guided missiles.

Fear was also in the air day and night. The ancient resort city was governed and patrolled by Indian Hindu soldiers while commerce was controlled by Kashmiri Muslims. Not a week went by without four or five deaths due to terrorist bombings, shoot-outs, or hostage situations.

Friday loved it. Nothing made each breath sweeter than when you were walking through a minefield.

The forty-seven-year-old Michigan native walked through the largest open-air market in the city. It was located on the eastern end of the town, near hills that had once been fertile grazing areas. That was before the military had appropriated the hills as a staging area for helicopter flights and convoys headed out toward the line of control. A short walk to the north was the Centanr Lake View Hotel, which was where most foreign tourists stayed. It was located near the wellkept waterfront region known collectively as the Mughal Gardens. These gardens, which grow naturally, helped give the region its name Kashmir, which meant “Paradise” in the language of the Mughal settlers.

A cool, light rain was falling, though it did not keep away the regular crowds and foreigners. The market smelled like nowhere else Friday had ever been. It was a combination of musk—from the sheep and damp rattan roofs on the stalls—lavender incense, and diesel fuel. The fuel came from the taxis, minibuses, and scooter-rickshaws that serviced the area. There were women in saris and young students in western clothing. All of them were jockeying for position at the small wooden stands, looking for the freshest fruits or vegetables or baked goods. Merchants whipped small switches at sheep who had been driven from adjacent fields by depleted pasturage or by soldiers practicing their marksmanship. The strays tried to steal carrots or cabbage. Other customers, mostly Arab and Asian businessmen, shopped at a leisurely pace for shawls, papier-mâché trinket boxes, and leather purses. Because Srinagar and the rest of Kashmir were on the list of “no-go zones” at the State Department, British Foreign Office, and other European governments, very few Westerners were here.

A few merchants hawked rugs. There were farmers who had parked their trucks and carts at one end and were carrying baskets with fresh produce or bread to various stands. And there were soldiers. Except in Israel, Friday had never seen a public place where there were nearly as many soldiers as there were civilians. And those were only the obvious ones, the men in uniform. He was sure that there were members of the Special Frontier Force, which was a cocreation of the CIA and India’s Research and Analysis Wing, their foreign espionage service. The job of the SFF was to disrupt the flow of matériel and intelligence to and from enemy positions. Friday was equally sure the crowd included members of Pakistan’s Special Services Group. A division of the army’s Directorate for Inter-Services Intelligence, the group monitored actions behind enemy lines. They also worked with freelance operatives to commit acts of terrorism against the Indian people.

There was nothing like this in Baku, where the markets were quiet and organized and the local population was small and relatively well behaved. Friday liked this better. One had to watch for enemies while trying to feed one’s family.

Having a desk at the embassy in Baku had been interesting but not because of the work he was doing for Deputy Ambassador Dorothy Williamson. Friday had spent years working as an attorney for Mara Oil, which was why Williamson had welcomed him to her staff. Officially, he was there to help her draft position papers designed to moderate Azerbaijani claims on Caspian oil. What had really made Friday’s tenure exciting was the undercover work he had been doing for Jack Fenwick, the president’s former national security advisor.

The broad-shouldered man had been recruited by the NSA while he was still in law school. One of his professors, Vincent Van Heusen, had been an OSS operative during World War II. Professor Van Heusen saw in Friday some of the same qualities he himself had possessed as a young man. Among those was independence. Friday had learned that growing up in the Michigan woods where he went hunting with his father for food—not only with a rifle but with a longbow. After graduating from NYU Friday spent time at the NSA as a trainee. When he went to work for the oil industry a year later he was also working as a spy. In addition to making contacts in Europe, the Middle East, and the Caspian, Friday was given the names of CIA operatives working in those countries. From time to time he was asked to watch them. To spy on the spies, making certain that they were working only for the United States.

Friday finally left the private sector five years ago. He grew bored with working for the oil industry full-time and the NSA part-time. He had also grown frustrated, watching as intelligence operations went to hell overseas. Many of the field agents he met were inexperienced, fearful, or soft. This was especially true in the Third World and throughout Asia. They wanted creature comforts. Not Friday. He wanted to be uncomfortable, hot, cold, hurting, off balance.

Challenged. Alive.

The other problem was that increasingly electronic espionage had replaced hands-on human surveillance. The result was much less efficient mass-intelligence gathering. To Friday that was like getting meat from a slaughterhouse instead of hunting it down. The food didn’t taste as good when it was mass-produced. The experience was less satisfying. And over time the hunter grew soft.

Friday had no intention of ever growing soft. When Jack Fenwick had said he wanted to talk to him, Friday was eager to meet. Friday went to see him at the Off the Record bar at the Hay-Adams hotel. It was during the week of the president’s inauguration so the bar was jammed and the men were barely noticed. Fenwick recruited Friday to the “Undertaking,” as he had called it. An operation to overthrow the president and put a new, more proactive figure in the Oval Office. One of the gravest problems facing America was security from terrorists. Vice President Cotten would have dealt with the problem decisively. He would have informed terrorist nations that if they sponsored attacks on American interests their capital cities would be bombed flat. Removing fear from Americans abroad would have encouraged competitive trade and tourism, which would have helped covert agencies infiltrate nationalist organizations, religious groups, and other extremist bands.

But the plotters had been stopped. The world was once again safe for warlords, anarchists, and international muggers.

Fortunately, the resignations of the vice president, Fenwick, and the other high-profile conspirators were like cauterizing a wound. The administration had its main perpetrators. They stopped the bloodletting and for the time being seemed to turn attention away from others who may have assisted in the plan. Friday’s role in setting up the terrorist Harpooner and actually assassinating a CIA spoiler had not been uncovered. In fact, Hank Lewis was trying to get as much intel as possible as fast as possible so he could look ahead, not back. NSA operatives outside Washington were being called upon to visit high-intensity trouble spots and both assist in intelligence operations and report back firsthand. That was why Friday left Baker. Originally he tried to get transferred to Pakistan, but was moved to India by special request of the Indian government. He had spent time here for Mara Oil, helping them evaluate future productivity in this region as well as on the border between the Great Indian Desert in India’s Rajasthan Province and the Thar Desert in Pakistan. He knew the land, the Kashmiri language, and the people.

The irony, of course, was that his first assignment was to help a unit from Op-Center execute a mission of vital importance to peace in the region. Op-Center, the group that had stopped the Undertaking from succeeding.

If politics made strange bedfellows then covert actions made even stranger ones. There was one difference between the two groups, however. Diplomacy demanded that politicians bury their differences when they had to. Field agents did not. They nursed their grudges.

Forever.

THREE

Washington, D.C. Wednesday, 6:32 A.M.

Mike Rodgers strode down the corridor to the office of Paul Hood. His briefcase was packed and he was still humming “Witch Doctor.” He felt energized by the impending challenge, by the change of routine, and just by getting out of the windowless office.

Hood’s assistant, Stephen “Bugs” Benet, had not yet arrived. Rodgers walked through the small reception area to Hood’s office. He knocked on the door and opened it. Op-Center’s director was pacing and wearing headphones. He was just finishing up his phone conversation with Senator Fox. Hood motioned the general in. Rodgers made his way to a couch on the far end of the room. He set his briefcase down but did not sit. He would be sitting enough over the next day.

Though Hood was forty-five, nearly the same age as Rodgers, there was something much younger-looking about the man. Maybe it only seemed that way because he smiled a lot and was an optimist. Rodgers was a realist, a term he preferred to pessimist. And realists always seemed older, more mature. As an old friend of Rodgers’s, South Carolina Representative Layne Maly, once put it, “No one’s blowin’ sunshine up my ass so it ain’t showin’ up between my lips.” As far as Rodgers was concerned that pretty much said it all.

Not that Hood himself had a lot to smile about. His marriage had fallen apart and his daughter, Harleigh, was suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder, a result of having been taken hostage at the United Nations. Hood had also taken a bashing in the world press and in the liberal American media for his guns-blazing solution to the UN crisis. It would not surprise Rodgers to learn that Senator Fox was giving Hood an earful for that. The goddamn thing of it was nothing helped our rivals more than when we fought among ourselves. Rodgers could almost hear the cheering from the Japanese, from the Islamic Fundamentalists, and from the Germans, the French, and the rest of the Eurocentric bloc. And we were arguing after saving the lives of their ambassadors.

It was a twisted world. Which was probably why we needed a man like Paul Hood running Op-Center. If it were up to Rodgers he would have taken down a few of the ambassadors on his way out of the UN.

Hood slipped off the headphones and looked at Rodgers. There was a flat look of frustration in his dark hazel eyes. His wavy black hair was uncharacteristically unkempt. He was not smiling.

“How are you doing?” Hood asked Rodgers. “Everything set?”

Rodgers nodded.

“Good,” Hood said.

“How are things here?” Rodgers asked.

“Not so good,” Hood said. “Senator Fox thinks we’ve gotten too visible. She wants to do something about that.”

“What?” Rodgers asked.

“She wants to scale us back,” Hood said. “She’s going to propose to the other members of the COIC that they recharter Op-Center as a smaller, more covert organization.”

“I smell Kirk Pike’s hand in this,” Rodgers said.

Pike was the newly appointed head of the Central Intelligence Agency. The ambitious former chief of navy intelligence was extremely well liked on the Hill and had accepted the position with a self-prescribed goal: to consolidate as many of the nation’s intelligence needs as possible under one roof.

“I agree that Pike is probably involved, but I think it’s more than just him,” Hood said. “Fox said that Secretary-General Chatterjee is still grumbling about bringing us before the International Court of Justice. Have us tried for murder and trespassing.”

“Smart,” Rodgers said. “She’ll never get the one but the jurists may give her the other.”

“Exactly,” Hood said. “That makes her look strong and reaffirms the sovereign status of the United Nations. It also scores points with pacifists and with anti-American governments. Fox apparently thinks this will go away if our charter is revoked and quietly rewritten.”

“I see,” Rodgers said. “The CIOC acts preemptively to make Chatterjee’s action seem bullying and unnecessary.”

“Bingo,” Hood said.

“Is it going to happen?” Rodgers asked.

“I don’t know,” Hood admitted. “Fox hasn’t discussed this with the other members yet.”

“But she wants it to happen,” Rodgers said.

Hood nodded.

“Then it will,” Rodgers said.

“I’m not ready to concede that,” Hood said. “Look, I don’t want you to worry about the political stuff. I need you to get this job done in Kashmir. Chatterjee may be secretary-general but she’s still Indian. If you score one for her side she’ll have a tough time going after us.”

“Not if she passes the baton to Pike,” Rodgers said.

“Why would she?” Hood asked.

“Back-scratching and access,” Rodgers said. “A lot of the intel I have on Kashmir came from the CIA. The Company works very closely with the Indian Intelligence Bureau.”

“The domestic surveillance group,” Hood said.

“Right,” Rodgers said.

Under the Indian Telegraph Act, the Indian Intelligence Bureau has the legal authority to intercept all forms of electronic communication. That includes a lot of faxes and e-mail from Afghanistan and other Islamic states. It was IIB that blew the whistle on Iraq’s pharmaceutical drug scam back in 2000. Humanitarian medicines were excluded from the United Nations sanctions. Instead of going to Iraqi hospitals and clinics, however, the medicines were hoarded by the health minister. When shortages pushed up demand the drugs were sold to the black market for hard foreign currency that could be used to buy luxury goods for government officials, bypassing the sanctions.

“The IIB shares the information they collect with the CIA for analysis,” Rodgers went on. “If Director Pike helps Chatterjee, the Indians will continue to work exclusively with him.”

“Pike can have the trophy if he wants,” Hood said. “We still get the intelligence.”

“But that isn’t all Pike wants,” Rodgers said. “People aren’t satisfied just winning in Washington. They have to destroy the competition. And if that doesn’t work they go after his friends and family.”

“Yeah—well, he’ll have to get a task force for that one,” Hood said quietly. “We Hoods are kind of spread out now.”

Rodgers felt like an ass. Paul Hood was not living with his family anymore and his daughter, Harleigh, spent a lot of time in therapy. It was careless to have suggested that they might be at risk.

“Sorry, Paul. I didn’t mean that literally,” Rodgers said.

“It’s all right,” Hood replied. “I know what you meant. I don’t think Pike will cross that line, though. We’ve got pretty good muckrakers and a great press liaison. He won’t want to take any rivalry public.”

Rodgers was not convinced of that. Hood’s press liaison was Ann Farris. For the last few days the office was quietly buzzing with the rumor that the divorcée and Paul Hood were having an affair. Ann had been staying late and the two had been spotted leaving Hood’s hotel together one morning. Rodgers did not care one way or the other as long as their relationship did not impact the smooth operation of the NCMC.

“Speaking of family, how is Harleigh doing?” Rodgers asked. The general was eager to get off the subject of Pike before leaving for India. The idea of fighting his own people was loathsome to him. Though the men did not socialize very much, Rodgers was close enough to Hood to ask about his family.

“She’s struggling with what happened in New York and with me moving out,” Hood said. “But she’s got a good support system and her brother’s being a real trouper.”

“Alexander’s a good kid. Glad to hear he’s stepping up to the plate. What about Sharon?” Rodgers asked.

“She’s angry,” Hood said. “She has a right to be.”

“It will pass,” Rodgers said.

“Liz says it may not,” Hood replied.

Liz was Liz Gordon, Op-Center’s psychologist. Though she was not counseling Harleigh, she was advising Hood.

“Hopefully, the intensity of Sharon’s anger will diminish,” Hood went on. “I don’t think she and I will ever be friends again. But with any luck we’ll have a civil relationship.”

“You’ll get there,” Rodgers said. “Hell, that’s more than I’ve ever had with a woman.”

Hood thought for a moment then grinned. “That’s true, isn’t it? Goes all the way back to your friend Biscuit in the fifth grade.”

“Yeah,” Rodgers replied. “Look, you’re a diplomat. I’m a soldier. I’m a prisoner to my scorched earth nature.”

Hood’s grin became a smile. “I may need to borrow some of that fire for my dealings with Senator Fox.”

“Stall her till I get back,” Rodgers said. “And just keep an eye on Pike. I’ll work on him when I get back.”

“It’s a deal,” Hood said. “Stay safe, okay?”

Rodgers nodded and the men shook hands.

The general felt uneasy as he headed toward the elevator. Rodgers did not like leaving things unresolved—especially when the target was as vulnerable as Hood was. Rodgers could see it in his manner. He had seen it before, in combat. It was a strange calm, almost as if Hood were in denial that pressures were starting to build. But they were. Hood was already distracted by his impending divorce, by Harleigh’s condition, and by the day-to-day demands of his position. Rodgers had a feeling that the pressure from Senator Fox would become much more intense after the CIOC met. He would give Bob Herbert a call from the C-130 and ask him to keep an eye on Op-Center’s director.

A watcher watching the watcher, Rodgers thought. Op-Center’s intelligence chief looking after Op-Center’s director, who was tracking Kirk Pike. With all the human drama gusting around him the general almost felt as if it were routine to go into the field to search for nuclear missiles.

But Rodgers got his perspective back quickly. As he walked onto the tarmac he saw the Striker team beginning to assemble beside the Hercules transport. They were in uniform, at ease, their grips and weapons at their feet. Colonel August was reviewing a checklist with Lieutenant Orjuela, his new second-in-command.

Behind him, in the basement of the NCMC, there were careers at risk. Out here men and women were about to buy their way into India using their lives as collateral.

The day that became routine was the day Rodgers vowed to hang up his uniform.

Stepping briskly, proudly, Rodgers made his way toward the shadow of the plane and the sharp, bright salutes of his waiting team.

FOUR

Kargil, Kashmir Wednesday, 4:11 P.M.

Apu Kumar sat on the old, puffy featherbed that had once been used by his grandmother. He looked out at the four bare walls of his small bedroom. They had not always been bare. There used to be framed pictures of his late wife and his daughter and son-in-law, and a mirror. But their houseguests had removed them. Glass could be used as a weapon.

The bed was tucked in a corner of the room he shared with his twenty-two-year-old granddaughter Nanda. At the moment the young woman was outside cleaning the chicken coop. When she was finished she would shower in the small stall behind the house and then return to the room. She would unfold a small card table, set it beside her grandfather’s bed, and pull over a wooden chair. The bedroom door would be kept ajar and their vegetarian meals would be served to them in small wooden bowls. Then Apu and Nanda would listen to the radio, play chess, read, meditate, and pray. They would pray for enlightenment and also for Nanda’s mother and father, both of whom died in the roaring hell that was unleashed on Kargil just four years ago. Sometime around ten or eleven they would go to sleep. With any luck Apu would make it through the night. Sudden noises tended to wake him instantly and bring back the planes and the weeks of endless bombing raids.

In the morning, the Kargil-born farmer was permitted to go out and look after his chickens. One of his houseguests always went with him to make sure he did not try to leave. Apu’s truck was still parked beside the coop. Even though the Pakistanis had taken the keys Apu could easily splice the ignition wires and drive off. Of course, he would only do that if his granddaughter Nanda were with him. Which was why they were never allowed outside together.

The slender, silver-haired man would feed the chickens, talk to them, and look after any eggs they had left. Then he was taken back to the room. In the late afternoon it was Nanda’s turn to go out to do the more difficult work of cleaning the coop. Though Apu could do it, their guests insisted that Nanda go. It helped keep the headstrong young woman tired. When they had enough eggs to bring to market one of their houseguests always went to Srinagar for them. And they always gave the money to Apu. The Pakistanis were not here for financial profit. Though Apu tried hard to eavesdrop, he was still not sure why they were here. They did not do much except talk.

For five months, ever since the five Pakistanis arrived in the middle of the night, the physical life of the sixty-three-year-old farmer had been defined by this routine. Though daily visits to the coop had been the extent of the Kumars’ physical life, Apu had retained his wits, his spirit, and most importantly his dignity. He had done that by devoting himself to reading and meditating on his deep Hindu beliefs. He did that for himself and also to show his Islamic captors that his faith and resolve were as powerful as theirs.

Apu reached behind him. He raised his pillow a little higher. It was lumpy with age, having been through three generations of Kumars. A smile played on his grizzled, leathery face. The down had suffered enough. Perhaps the duck would find contentment in another incarnation.

The smile faded quickly. That was sacrilegious. It was something his granddaughter might have said. He should know better. Maybe the months of incarceration were affecting his reason. He looked around.

Nanda slept in a sleeping bag on the other side of the room. There were times when Apu would wake in the small hours of the night and hear her breathing. He enjoyed that. If nothing else their captivity had allowed them to get to know each other better. Even though her nontraditional religious views bothered him, he was glad to know what they were. One could not fight the enemy without knowing his face.

There were two other rooms in the small stone house. The door to the living room was open. The Pakistanis stayed there during the day. At night they moved to the room that used to be his. All save the one who took the watch. One of them was always awake. They had to be. Not just to make sure Apu and Nanda stayed inside the house but to watch for anyone who might approach the farm. Though no one lived close by, Indian army patrols occasionally came through these low-lying hills. When this group of Pakistanis first arrived they had promised their unwilling hosts that they would stay no more than six months. And if Apu and Nanda did what they were told they would not be harmed after that time. Apu was not sure he believed the four men and one woman but he was willing to give them the time they asked for. After all, what choice did he have?

Though he would not mind if the authorities came and shot them dead. As long as he did not cause harm to befall them it would not affect his future in this life or the next. The shame of it was that as people they would all get along fine. But politics and religion had stirred things up. That was the story of this entire region from the time Apu had been a young man. Neighbors were neighbors until outsiders turned them into enemies.

There was one small window in the room but the shutters had been nailed closed. The only light came from a small lamp on the nightstand. The glow illuminated a small, old, leatherbound copy of the Upanishads. Those were the mystical writings of Apu’s faith. The Upanishads comprised the final section of the Veda, the Hindu holy scriptures.

Apu turned his mind back to the text. He was reading the earliest of the Upanishads, the sections of verse that addressed the doctrine of Brahman, the universal self or soul. The goal of Hinduism, like other Eastern religions, was nirvana, the eventual freedom from the cycle of rebirth and the pain brought about by one’s own actions or karma. This could only be accomplished by following spiritual yoga, which led to a union with God. Apu was determined to pursue that goal, though actually achieving it was a dream. He was also devoted to the study of the post-Vedic Puranas, which address the structure of life in an individual and social sense and also take the reader through the repeating cycle of creation and end of the universe as represented by the divine trinity of Brahma, the creator; Vishnu, the preserver; and Shiva, the destroyer. He had had a hard life, as befitted his farmer caste. But he had to believe that it was just a blink in the cosmic cycle. Otherwise, there would be nothing to work toward, no ultimate end.

Nanda was different. She put more trust in the poet-saints who wrote religious songs and epics. The literature was essential to Hinduism but she responded to the outpourings of men more than the doctrines they were describing. Nanda had always liked heroes who spoke their minds. That had been her mother’s nature as well. To say what she believed. To fight. To resist.

That was what had helped cost Apu his daughter and son-in-law. When the Pakistani invaders first arrived, the two sheep farmers made Molotov cocktails for the hastily organized resistance fighters. After two weeks both Savitri and her husband, Manjay, were caught transporting them inside bags of wool. The bags were ignited with the couple bound in the cab of their truck. The next day Apu and Nanda found their bodies in the blackened ruins. To Nanda they were martyrs. To Apu they had been reckless. To Apu’s ailing wife, Pad, they were the final blow to a frail body. She died eight days later.

“All human errors are impatience,” it was written. If only Savitri and Manjay had asked, Apu would have told them to wait. Time brings balance.

The Indian military eventually pushed most of the Pakistanis out. There was no reason for his children to have acted violently. They hurt others and added that burden to their spiritual inventory.

Tears began to fill his eyes. It was all such a waste. Though, strangely, it made him cherish Nanda all the more. She was the only part of his wife and daughter that he had left.

There was a sudden commotion in the other room. Apu shut his book and set it on the rickety night table. He slid into his slippers and quietly crossed the wooden floor. He peeked out the door. Four of the Pakistanis were all there. The houseguests were working on something, arms and heads moving over something between them. The backs of three of the men were toward him so he could not see what they were doing. Only the woman was facing him. She was a slender, very swarthy woman with short black hair and a frowning, intense look. The others called her Sharab but Apu did not know if that was her real name.

Sharab waved a gun at him. “Go back!” she ordered.

Apu lingered a moment longer. His houseguests had never done anything like this before that he was aware of. They came and went and they talked. Occasionally they looked at maps. Something was happening. He edged forward a little more. There appeared to be a burlap sack on the floor between the men. One of the men was crouching beside it. He appeared to be working on something inside the bag.

“Get back!” the woman yelled again.

There was a tension in her voice that Apu had never heard before. He did as he was told.

Apu kicked off his slippers and lay back on the bed. As he did he heard the front door open. It was Nanda and presumably the fifth Pakistani. He could tell by how loud the door creaked. The young woman always opened it boldly, as if she wanted to hit whoever might be standing behind it.

Apu smiled. He always looked forward to seeing his granddaughter. Even if she had only been gone an hour or two.

This time, however, things were different. He did not hear her footsteps. Instead he heard quiet talking. Apu held his breath and tried to hear what was being said. But his heart was beating louder than usual and he could not hear. Quietly, he raised himself from the bed and eased toward the door. He leaned closer, careful not to show himself. He listened.

He heard nothing.

Slowly, he nudged the door open. One of the men was there, looking out the window. He was holding his silver handgun and smoking a cigarette. The Pakistani glanced back at Apu.

“Go back in the room,” the man said quietly.

“Where is my granddaughter?” Apu asked. He did not like this. Something felt wrong.

“She left with the others,” he said.

“Left? Where did they go?” Apu asked.

The man looked back out the window. He drew on his cigarette. “They went to market,” he replied.

FIVE

Washington, D.C. Wednesday, 7:00 A.M.

Colonel Brett August had lost track of the number of times he had ridden in the shaking, cavernous bellies of C-130 transports. But he remembered this much. He had hated each and every one of those damn flights.

This particular Hercules was one of the newer variants, a long-range SAR HC-130H designed for fuel economy. Colonel August had ridden in a number of customized C-130s: the C-130D with ski landing gear during an Arctic training mission, a KC-130R tanker, a C-130F assault transport, and many others. The amazing thing was that not one of those versions offered a comfortable ride. The fuselages were stripped down to lighten the aircraft and give it as much range as possible. That meant there was very little insulation against cold and noise. And the four powerful turboprops were deafening as they fought to lift the massive plane skyward. The vibrations were so strong that the chain around Colonel August’s dog tags actually did a dance around his neck.

Comfort was also not in the original design-lexicon. The seats in this particular aircraft were cushioned plastic buckets arranged side by side along the fuselage walls. They had high, thick padded backrests and headrests that were supposed to keep the passenger warm. Theoretically that would work if the air itself did not become so cold. There were no armrests and very little space between the chairs. Duffel bags were stowed under the seats. The guys who designed these were probably like the guys who drew up battle plans. It all looked great on paper.

Not that Colonel August was complaining. He remembered a story his father once told him about his own military days. Sid August was part of the U.S. 101st Airborne Division, which was trapped by the 15th Panzer Grenadier Division shortly before the Battle of the Bulge. The men had only K rations to eat. Invented by an apparently sadistic physiologist named Ancel Benjamin Keys, K rations were flat-tasting compressed biscuits, a sliver of dry meat, sugar cubes, bouillon powder, chewing gum, and compressed chocolate. The chocolate was code-named D ration. Why chocolate needed a code name no one knew but the men suspected the starving Germans would fight harder knowing there was more than just dry meat and cardboardlike biscuits in the enemy foxholes.

The airmen ate the K rations sparingly while lying low. After a few days the air force managed to night-drop several cases of C rations and extra munitions to the soldiers. The C rations contained dinner portions of meat and potatoes. But introducing real food to their systems made the men so sick and flatulent that the noise and smell actually gave their position away to a German patrol. The airmen were forced to fight their way out. The story always made Brett August uneasy with the idea of having too much comfort available to him.

Mike Rodgers was sitting to August’s right. August smiled to himself. Rodgers had a big, high-arched nose that had been broken four times playing college basketball. Mike Rodgers did not know any way but forward. They had just taken off and that nose was already hunkered into a briefcase thick with folders. August had flown with Rodgers long enough to know the drill. As soon as the pilot gave the okay to use electronic devices, Rodgers would pull some of those folders out. He would put them on his left knee and place his laptop on the right knee. Then, as Rodgers finished with material, he would pass it to August. About halfway over the Atlantic they would begin to talk openly and candidly about what they had read. That was how they had discussed everything for the forty-plus years they had known each other. More often than not it was unnecessary to say anything. Rodgers and August each knew what the other man was thinking.

Brett August and Mike Rodgers were childhood friends. The boys met in Hartford, Connecticut, when they were six. In addition to sharing a love of baseball they shared a passion for airplanes. On weekends, the two young boys used to bicycle five miles along Route 22 out to Bradley Field. They would just sit on an empty field and watch the planes take off and land. They were old enough to remember when prop planes gave way to the jet planes. Both of them used to go wild whenever one of the new 707s roared overhead. Prop planes had a familiar, reassuring hum. But those new babies—they made a boy’s insides rattle. August and Rodgers loved it.

After school each day the boys would do their homework together, each taking alternate math problems or science questions so they could finish faster. Then they would build plastic model airplanes, boats, tanks, and jeeps, taking care that the paint jobs were accurate and that the decals were put in exactly the right place.

When it came time to enlist—kids like the two of them didn’t wait to be drafted—Rodgers joined the army and August went into the air force. Both men ended up in Vietnam. While Rodgers did his tours of duty on the ground, August flew reconnaissance missions over North Vietnam. On one flight northwest of Hue, August’s plane was shot down. He mourned the loss of his aircraft, which had almost become a part of him. The flier was taken prisoner and spent over a year in a POW camp, finally escaping with another prisoner in 1970. August spent three months making his way to the south before finally being discovered by a patrol of U.S. Marines.

Except for the loss of his aircraft, August was not embittered by his experiences. To the contrary. He was heartened by the courage he had witnessed among American POWs. He returned to the United States, regained his strength, and went back to Vietnam to organize a spy network searching for other American POWs. August remained undercover for a year after the U.S. withdrawal. After he had exhausted his contacts trying to find MIAs, August was shifted to the Philippines. He spent three years training pilots to help President Ferdinand Marcos battle Moro secessionists. After that August worked briefly as an air force liaison with NASA, helping to organize security for spy satellite missions. But there was no flying involved and being with the astronauts now was different from being with the monkey Ham when he was a kid. It was frustrating working with men and women who were actually getting to travel in space. So August moved over to the air force’s Special Operations Command, where he stayed ten years before joining Striker.

Rodgers and August had seen one another only intermittently in the post-Vietnam years. But each time they talked or got together it was as if no time had passed. When Rodgers first signed on at Op-Center he had asked August to come aboard as the leader of the Striker force. August turned him down twice. He did not want to spend most of his time on a base, working with young specialists. Lt. Colonel Charlie Squires got the post. After Squires was killed on a mission in Russia, Rodgers came to his old friend again. Two years had passed since Rodgers had first made the offer. But things were different now. The team was shaken by the loss and he needed a commander who could get them back up to speed as fast as possible. This time August could not refuse. It was not only friendship. There were national security issues at stake.

The NCMC had become a vital force in crisis management and Op-Center needed Striker.

The colonel looked toward the back of the plane. He watched the group as they sat silently through the slow, thunderous ascent. The quick-response unit turned out to be more than August had expected. Individually, they were extraordinary. Before joining Striker, Sergeant Chick Grey had specialized in two things. One was HALO operations—high-altitude, low-opening parachute jumps. As his commander at Bragg had put it when recommending Grey for the post, “the man can fly.” Grey had the ability to pull his ripcord lower and land more accurately than any soldier in Delta history. He attributed this to having a rare sensitivity to air currents. Grey believed that also helped with his second skill—marksmanship. Not only could the sergeant hit whatever he said he could, he had trained himself to go without blinking for as long as necessary. He’d developed that ability when he realized that all it took was the blink of an eye to miss the “keyhole,” as he called it. The instant when the target was in perfect position for a takedown.

August felt a special kinship with Grey because the sergeant was at home in the air. But August was close to all his personnel. Privates David George, Jason Scott, Terrence Newmeyer, Walter Pupshaw, Matt Bud, and Sondra DeVonne. Medic William Musicant, Corporal Pat Prementine, and Lieutenant Orjuela. They were more than specialists. They were a team. And they had more courage, more heart than any unit August had ever worked with.

Newly promoted Corporal Ishi Honda was another marvel. The son of a Hawaiian mother and Japanese father, Honda was an electronics prodigy and the unit’s communications expert. He was never far from the TAC-SAT phone, which Colonel August and Rodgers used to stay in touch with Op-Center. The backpack containing the unit was lined with bullet-proof Kevlar so it would not be damaged in a firefight. Because it was so loud in the cabin Honda sat with the TAC-SAT in his lap. He did not want to miss hearing any calls. When he was in the field, Honda wore a Velcro collar and headphones of his own creation. They plugged directly into the pack. When the collar was jacked in, the “beep” was automatically disengaged; the collar simply vibrated when there was an incoming call. If Striker were on a surveillance mission there was no sound to give them away. Moreover, the collar was wired with small condensor microphones that allowed Honda to communicate subvocally. He could whisper and his voice would be transferred clearly to whoever was on the other end.

But Striker was more than just a group of military elite drawn from different services. Lt. Colonel Squires had done an extraordinary job turning them into a smart, disciplined fighting unit. They were certainly the most impressive team August had ever served with.

The plane banked to the south and August’s old leather portfolio slid from under his seat. He kicked it back with his heel. The bag contained maps and white papers about Kashmir. The colonel had already reviewed them with his team. He would look at them again in a few minutes. Right now August wanted to do what he did before beginning every mission. He wanted to try and figure out why he was here, why he was going. That was something he had done every day since he was first a prisoner of war: take stock of his motivations for doing what he was doing. That was true whether August was in a Vietcong stockade, getting up in the morning to go to the Striker base, or leaving on a mission. It was not enough to say he was serving his country or pursuing his chosen career. He needed something that would allow him to push himself to do better than he did the day before. Otherwise the quality of his work and his life would suffer.

What he had discovered was that he could not find another reason. When he was optimistic, pride and patriotism had been his biggest motivators. On darker days he decided that humans were all territorial carnivores and prisoners of their nature. Combat and survival were a genetic imperative. Yet these could not be the only things that drove us. There had to be something unique to everyone, something that transcended political or professional boundaries.

So what he searched for in these quiet times was the other missing motivation. The key that would make him a better soldier, a better leader, a stronger and better man.

Along the way, of course, he discovered many things, thought many interesting thoughts. And he began to wonder if the journey itself might be the answer. Given that he was heading to one of the birthplaces of Eastern religion, that would be a fitting revelation. Maybe that was all he would find. Unlike the mission, there were no maps to show him the terrain, no aircraft to take him there.

But for now he would keep looking.

SIX

Srinagar, India Wednesday, 4:22 P.M.

There was a two-and-one-half-hour time difference between Baku and Kashmir. Still on Azerbaijan time, Ron Friday bought several lamb skewers from one of the food merchants. Then he went to a crowded outdoor café and ordered tea to go with his dinner. He would have to eat quickly. There was a dusk-to-dawn curfew for foreigners. It was strictly enforced by soldiers who patrolled the streets wearing body armor and carrying automatic rifles.

Though the rain had stopped, the large umbrellas were still open over the tables. Friday had to duck to make his way through. He shared his table with a pair of Hindu pilgrims who were reading while they drank their tea. The two men were dressed in very long white cotton robes that were tied at the center with a brown belt. It was the wardrobe of holy men from the United Provinces near Nepal, at the foot of the Himalayas. There were heavy-looking satchels at their sides. The men were probably on their way to a religious shrine at Pahalgam, which was located fifty-five miles south of Srinagar. The presence of the satchels suggested that they were planning to spend some time at the shrine. The men did not acknowledge Friday as he sat, though they were not being rude. They did not want to interrupt his tranquillity. One of the men was looking over a copy of the International Herald Tribune. That struck Friday as odd, though he did not know why it should. Even holy men needed to keep up with world events. The other man, who was sitting right beside Friday, was reading a volume of poems in both Sanskrit and English. Friday glanced over the man’s forearm.

“Vishayairindriyagraamo na thrupthamadhigachathi ajasram pooryamaanoopi samudraha salilairiva,” it said in Sanskrit. The English translation read, “The senses can never be satisfied even after the continuous supply of sensory objects, as the ocean can never be filled with a continuous supply of water.”

Friday did not dispute that. People who were alive had to drink in everything around them. They consumed experiences and things and turned that fuel into something else. Into something that had their fingerprints on it. If you weren’t doing that you were living, but not alive.

While the pilgrims sat at the table they were approached by a Muslim. The man offered low-price shelter at his home if they wished to stay the night. Often, pilgrims had neither the time nor the money to stay at an inn. The men graciously declined, saying they were going to try and catch the next bus and would rest when they reached the shrine. The Muslim said that if they missed this bus or one of the later ones he could arrange for his brother-in-law to drive them to the shrine the next day. He gave them a card with his address handwritten on it. They thanked him for his offer. The man bowed and excused himself. It was all very civil. Contact between the Muslims and Hindus usually was cordial. It was the generals and the politicians who provoked the wars.

Behind Friday two men had stopped for tea. From their conversation he gathered that they were heading to the night shift at a nearby brick factory. To Friday’s left three men in the khaki uniforms of the Kashmir police force were standing and watching the crowd. Unlike in the Middle East, bazaars were not typically the scene of terrorist attacks in Kashmir. That was because as many Muslims as Hindus frequently mingled in marketplaces. Hindu-specific sites were usually targeted. Places such as homes of local officials, businesses, police stations, financial institutions, and military bases. Even militaristic, aggressive groups like the Hezb-ul Mujahedeen guerrillas did not typically attack civilian locales, especially during business hours. They did not want to turn the people against them. Their war was with the Hindu leaders and those who supported them.

The two pilgrims quickly finished their tea. Their bus was pulling up three hundred yards to the right. It braked noisily at a small, one-room bus stop at the far western side of the market. The bus was an old green vehicle, but clean. There were iron racks on the roof for luggage. The uniformed driver came out and helped passengers off while a luggage clerk brought a stepladder from inside the bus stop. While he began to unload the bags of riders who were disembarking, ticket-holders began queuing up beside him to board. For the most part the line was extremely orderly. When the two men were finished they both entered the small wooden structure.

The two pilgrims at Ron Friday’s table had put away their reading material and picked up their big lumpy bags. With effort, the men threw the satchels over their shoulders and made their way onto the crowded street. Watching them go, Friday wondered what the punishment was for stealing. With customers packed so closely together and focused on getting what they needed, the market would be a pickpocket’s heaven. Especially if they were going to get on a bus and leave the area quickly.

Friday continued to sip his tea as he ate the lamb from the wooden skewers. He watched as other pilgrims rushed by. Some of them were dressed in white or black robes, others were wearing Western street clothes. The men and women who were not wearing traditional robes would be permitted to worship at the shrine but not to enter the cave itself. A few people were pulling children behind them. Friday wondered if their hungry expressions were anxiety about getting onto the bus or a physical manifestation of the religious fervor they felt. Probably a little of both.

One of the police officers walked toward the bus stop to make sure the boarding process was orderly. He walked past the police station, which was to his left. It was a two-story wooden structure with white walls and green eaves. The two front windows were barred. Beyond the police station, practically abutting it, was a decades-old Hindu temple. Friday wondered if the local government had built the police station next to a temple in an effort to protect it from terrorists. Friday had been to the temple once before. It was a dvibheda—a bidivisional house of worship that honored both Shiva, the god of destruction, and Vishnu, the preserver. The main portal was fronted by the five-story-tall Rajagopuram, the Royal Tower. To the sides were smaller towers over the auxiliary entrances. These white-brick structures were trimmed with green and gold tile and honored the two different gods. The walls were decorated with canopies, roaring lions, humanlike gatekeepers in what appeared to be dancing poses, and other figures. Friday did not know a great deal about the iconography. However, he did recall that the interior of the temple was designed to symbolize a deity at rest. The first room was the crest, followed by the face, the abdomen, the knee, the leg, and the foot. The entire body was important to the Hindus, not just the soul or the heart. Any part of a human being without the other part was incomplete. And an incomplete individual could not manifest the ultimate perfection required by the faith.

However fast they were going, each pilgrim took a moment to turn to it and bow slightly before continuing on. As important as their individual goals were, the Hindus understood that there was something much greater than they were. Other pilgrims were exiting the temple to catch the bus. Still other Hindus, probably local citizens, as well as tourists were moving in and out of the arched portal.

A block past the temple was a movie theater with an old-style marquee. India made more motion pictures than any nation in the world. Friday had seen several of them on videotape, including Fit to Be a King and Flowers and Vermilion. Friday believed that the dreams of a people—hence, their weaknesses—could be found in the stories, themes, and characters of their most popular films. The Indians were especially drawn to the three-hour-long contemporary actionmusicals. These films always starred attractive leads who had no names other than “Hero” and “Heroine.” They were Everyman and Everywoman in epic struggles yet there was always music in their hearts. That was how the Indians viewed themselves. Reality was a disturbing inconvenience they did not choose to acknowledge. Like an oftentimes cruel caste system. Friday had a theory about that. He had always believed that castes were an embodiment of the Indians’ faith. In society as in the individual there was a head, feet, and all parts in between. All parts were necessary to create a whole.

Friday glanced back at the market proper. Movement continued unabated. If anything it was busier than before as people stopped by before dinner or on their way home from work. Customers on foot and on bicycles made their way to different stalls. Baskets, wheelbarrows, and occasionally truckloads of goods continued to arrive. The markets usually remained open until just after sunset. In Srinagar and its environs, workers tended to be very early risers. They were expected to arrive at the local factories, fields, and shops around seven in the morning.

Friday finished eating and looked over at the bus. The driver had returned and was helping people board. The bus stop employee was back on his stepladder loading bags onto the roof. What was amazing to Friday was that amid all the seeming chaos there was an internal order. Every individual system was functioning perfectly, from the booths to the shoppers, from the police to the bus. Even the supposedly antagonistic religious factions were doing just fine.

A fine drizzle started up again. Friday decided to head over to the bus station. It looked as if there were new construction there and he was curious to see what lay beyond. As Friday followed the last of the pilgrims he watched the bus driver take tickets and help people onboard.

Something was not the same.

It was the driver. He was not a heavyset man but a rather slender one. Maybe he was a new driver. It was possible; they all wore the same jackets. Then he noticed something else. The clerk who was loading bags into the rack was being very careful with them. Friday had not gotten a very good look at the clerk. The exiting passengers had blocked his view. He could not tell if this were the same man.

The bus was still two hundred yards away. The American quickened his pace.

Suddenly the world to Friday’s left vanished, swallowed in a flash of bright white light, infernal white heat, and deafening white noise.

SEVEN

Washington, D.C. Wednesday, 7:10 A.M.

Paul Hood sat alone in his office. Mike Rodgers and Striker were on their way and nothing else was pressing. Hood’s door was shut and a file labeled “Working OCIS” was open on his computer. The “working” part of the heading indicated that this was not the original draft but a copy. The OCIS was a clickable chart of Op-Center’s internal structure. Under each division was a list of the departments and personnel. Attached to each name was a subfile. These were logs that were filed each day by every employee. They outlined the activities of the individual. Only Hood, Rodgers, and Herbert had access to the files. They were maintained to allow the Op-Center directors to track and cross-reference personnel activities with phone records, e-mail lists, and other logs. If anyone were working at cross-purposes with the rest of the team—cooperating with another agency or even another government—this was the first line of security. The computer automatically flagged any activity that did not have a log entry ordering or corroborating it.

Right now Paul Hood was not looking for moles. He was looking for lambs. The sacrificial kind. If Senator Fox and the Congressional Intelligence Oversight Committee wanted cutbacks he had to be prepared to make them. The question was where?

Hood clicked on Bob Herbert’s intelligence department. He scrolled through the names. Could Herbert get by with just daytime surveillance of e-mail communications in Europe ? Not likely. Spies worked around the clock. What about a single liaison with the CIA and the FBI instead of one for each? Probably. He would ask Herbert which one he wanted to lose. Hood moved the cursor to the tech division. What about Matt Stoll? Could he survive without a satellite interface officer or a computer resources upgrade manager? Matt could outsource the work he needed whenever they had to eavesdrop on foreign communications satellites or change hardware or software. It would be inconvenient but it would not be debilitating. He double-clicked on the upgrade manager and the position disappeared.

Hood’s heart sped up as he checked the next department. It was the office of the press liaison. Did Op-Center really need someone to issue news releases and organize press conferences ? If Senator Fox were afraid that the National Crisis Management Center was too visible, then the press officer and her one assistant should be the first to go.

Hood stared at the computer. Never mind what Senator Fox thought. What did he think?

Hood did not see the list. He saw the face of Ann Farris. After years of flirting the two had finally spent a night together. It was at once the most wonderful and devastating encounter of Hood’s life. Wonderful because he and Ann cared about each other, deeply. Devastating because Hood had to acknowledge that a bond existed. It was even stronger than the one he had felt when he encountered his old lover Nancy Jo Bosworth in Germany. Yet he was still married to Sharon. He had his children’s well-being to consider, not to mention his own. And he would have to deal with Sharon’s feelings if she ever found out. Though Hood loved being close to Ann this was not the time for another relationship.

And what would Ann think? After a rough divorce of her own, Ann Farris was not a very secure woman. She was poised when meeting the press and she was a terrific single mother. But those were what psychologist Liz Gordon had once described at an employee “Job vs. Parenting” seminar as “reactionary qualities.” Ann responded to external stimuli with good, natural instincts. Inside, where she had allowed Paul to go, she was a scared little girl. If Hood let her go she would think he was doing it to keep her away. If he kept her she would think he was playing favorites, protecting her.

Personally and professionally it was a no-win situation. And Hood was not even considering how the rest of Op-Center would react. They had to know what was going on between him and Ann. They were a tight-knit office and an intelligence group. This had to be the worst-kept secret on the base.

Hood continued to stare at the screen. He no longer saw Ann Farris’s face. He saw only her name. The bottom line was that Hood had to do his job, whatever the consequences. He could not do that if he let personal feelings interfere.

Hood double-clicked the mouse. Not on a name but on an entire two-person department.

A moment later the press division was gone.

EIGHT

Srinagar, India Wednesday, 4:41 P.M.

Ron Friday felt as though someone had jabbed tuning forks in his ears. His ears and the inside of his skull seemed to be vibrating. There was a high-pitched ringing and he could not hear anything except for the ringing. His eyes were open but he could not tell what he was looking at. The world was a cottony haze, as though a still fog had moved in.

Friday blinked. White powder dropped into his eyes, causing them to burn. He blinked harder then pushed a palm into one eye, then the other. He opened them wide and looked out again. He still was not sure what he was looking at but he realized one thing. He was lying on his belly with his face turned to the side. He put his hands under him and pushed up. White powder fell from his arms, his hair, his sides. He blinked it away. He tasted something chalky and spit. His saliva was like paste. The chalky taste was still there. He spit again.

Friday got his knees under him. His body ached from the fall but his hearing was beginning to return. Or at least the ringing was going away; he did not hear anything else. He looked to his left. For a moment he felt as if he were inside a cloud that was inside a cloud. Then the dust that had been shaken from his body began to settle. He could see what he had been looking at a moment ago, what had made no sense to him.

It was wreckage. Where the temple and the police station had stood there was now a hodgepodge of rubble between jagged walls. Through the mist of the powder he could see the sky.

The ringing continued to subside. As it did, Friday heard moans. He put a hand on his knee, pushed down, and began to rise. His back ached and he was trembling. Then his head grew light and his vision darkened. He settled back down on his knees for a moment. He looked ahead and saw the bus through the hanging dust. He also saw people coming toward him.

Suddenly, behind the people, the area around the bus turned yellow-red. Time seemed to slow as the colors exploded in all directions. It was followed by another loud crack that quickly became a rumble. The bus seemed to jump apart. It looked like a balloon that someone had stepped on—stretched out at both ends and then gone. Most of the pieces flew out, away, or down. Some shards skidded along the ground, moving fast and straight like vermin. Larger chunks such as the seats and tires tumbled away, end over end. The people standing nearest the bus were swallowed whole by the fire. Those who were farther away were thrown left, right, and back like the bigger pieces of the bus.

He continued to watch as a charcoal-gray cloud surged forward. Like lightning, flashes of blood and flame punctuated the rolling darkness.

Friday removed his hands from his ears. He rose slowly. He looked down, checking his legs and torso to make sure he had not been hurt. The body had a way of shutting off pain in cases of extreme trauma. His side and right arm ached where he had hit the asphalt. His eyes were gummy from the dust and he had to keep blinking to clear them. Except for the coating of dust from the blasted temple he appeared to be intact.

Papers from books and offices had been lofted high by the blast. They were just now beginning to return to earth. Many of them were just fragments, most were singed, some were ash. A few of the more delicate pages looked like they had belonged to prayer books. Perhaps they had been part of the Sanskrit text the pilgrim had been studying just minutes before.

The gray cloud reached Friday and engulfed him. Nine or ten feet high, it carried the distinctive, noxious smell of burning rubber. Beneath that smell was a sweeter, less choking odor. The stench of charred human flesh and bone. Friday drew a handkerchief from his pocket and held it over his nose and mouth. Then he turned away from the stinging cloud. Behind him the bazaar was still. People had flung themselves to the ground not knowing what might explode next. They were lying under stalls or behind wheelbarrows and carts. As his ears began to clear Friday could hear sobbing, prayer, and moans.

Friday turned back toward the remains of the temple and the police station. The drizzle was helping to thin the cloud of smoke and douse the few fires that had been ignited. No longer light-headed, he began walking toward the rubble. He just now noticed that the police officers who had been standing outside were dead. The backs of their uniforms were bloodied, peppered with shrapnel. Whatever did this had been a concussive device rather than incendiary.

It was strange. Besides the bus, there appeared to be two blastways, the fanlike spray debris followed from the epicenter of an explosion. One line led from the front of the police station. The other led from deep inside the temple. Friday could not understand why there had been two separate explosions on this site. It was unusual enough for two religious targets to be bombed, a temple and a busload of pilgrims. Why was the police station attacked as well?

Sirens cut through the cottony quiet as police who had been on patrol began to arrive. Other officers, who had been out on foot, began to run toward the toppled buildings. People began to get up and leave the bazaar proper. They did not want to be here if there were more explosions. Only a few people headed toward the rubble to see if they might be able to help pull out any survivors.

Ron Friday was not one of those people.

He started walking back toward the inn where he was staying. He wanted to get in touch with his contacts in India and Washington. Learn if they had any intel on what had just happened.

There was a sound like bowling pins falling. Friday looked back just as one of the surviving back walls of the temple crashed onto the rubble. Thick balls of dust swirled from the new wreckage, causing people to step back. After the blocks stopped tumbling, people started moving forward again. Many of them had dustings of white on their faces and hands, like ghosts.

Friday continued walking. His mind was in overdrive.

A police station. A Hindu temple. A busload of pilgrims. Two religious targets and one secular site. Friday could imagine the temple being brought down by accident, collateral damage from an attack on the police station. A lot of terrorist bomb makers were not skilled enough to measure precise charges. A lot of terrorist bomb makers did not care if they took down half a city. But there were those two blast lines suggesting concurrent explosions. And the bus proved that this was a planned assault against Hindus, not just against Indians. Friday could not remember a time when that had happened. Certainly not on this scale.

Yet if Hindus were the target, why did the terrorists attack the police station as well? By striking two religious sites they were obviously not looking to disguise their intent.

Friday stopped walking.

Or were they? he thought suddenly. What if the attack on the temple and bus were distractions? Maybe something else was happening here.

Explosions drew crowds. What if that were the point? To get people to a place or away from one.

Friday wiped his eyes and continued ahead. He looked around as he walked. People were either hurrying toward the disaster site or away from it. Unlike before there were no eddies within eddies. That was because the choices were simple now. Help or flee. He peered down side streets, into windows. He was looking for people who did not appear to be panicked. Perhaps he would see someone, perhaps he would not. The bag on the bus could have been planted at a previous stop. Explosives could have been set to go off with a timer in a suitcase or backpack well padded to take the bumps of the road. Maybe the passenger who was carrying the luggage got off here, deposited additional explosives in the temple and police station, and walked on. Perhaps the bomber was someone who had been masquerading as a pilgrim or a police officer. Perhaps one of the men Friday had been sitting with or looked at had been involved. Perhaps one or more terrorists had been killed in the blast. Anything was possible.

Friday continued to look around. He was not going to see anyone. In terrorist terms, years had passed. Whoever did this was dead or long gone. And he could not see anyone watching from the street, a room, or a rooftop.

The best way to deal with this now was with intel. Collect data from outside the targets and use it to pinpoint possible perpetrators. Then move in on them. Because this much was clear: Now that Hindu targets had been attacked, unless the guilty parties were found and punished, the situation in Kashmir was going to deteriorate very, very quickly. With nuclear war not just an option but a real possibility.

NINE

Srinagar, India Wednesday, 4:55 P.M.

Sharab was sitting forward in the passenger’s seat of the old flatbed truck. To her left the driver sat with his hands tightly clutching the steering wheel. He was perspiring as he guided them north along Route 1A, the same road that had brought the bus to the bazaar. Between them sat Nanda, her right ankle cuffed to an iron spring under the seat. Two other men were seated in the open deck of the truck, leaning against the bulkhead amid bags of wool. They were huddled under a tarp to protect them from the increasingly heavy rain.

The windshield wipers were batting furiously in front of Sharab’s dark eyes and the air vent howled. The young woman was also howling. First she had been screaming orders at her team. Get the truck away from the market and stick to the plan, at least until they had additional information. Now she was screaming questions into her cell phone. The young woman was not screaming to be heard over the noise. She was screaming from frustration.

“Ishaq, did you already place the call?” Sharab demanded.

“Of course I placed the call, just as we always do,” the man on the other end informed her.

Sharab punched the padded dashboard with the heel of her left hand. The suddenness of the strike caused Nanda to jump. Sharab struck it again but she did not say a word, did not swear. Blaspheming was a sin.

“Is there a problem?” Ishaq asked.

Sharab did not answer.

“You were very specific about it,” Ishaq went on. “You wanted me to call at exactly forty minutes past four. I always do what you say.”

“I know,” the woman said in a low monotone.

“Something is wrong,” the man on the telephone said. “I know that tone of voice. What is it?”

“We’ll talk later,” the woman replied. “I need to think.”

Sharab sat back.

“Should I turn on the radio?” the driver asked sheepishly. “Maybe there is news, an explanation.”

“No,” Sharab told him. “I don’t need the radio. I know what the explanation is.”

The driver fell silent. Sharab shut her eyes. She was wheezing slightly. The truck’s vents had pulled in slightly acrid, smoky air from the bazaar blast. The woman could not tell whether it was the air or the screaming that had made her throat raw. Probably both. She shook her head. The urge to scream was still there, at the top of her throat. She wanted to vent her frustration.

Failure was not the worst of this. What bothered Sharab most was the idea that she and her team had been used. She had been warned about this five years ago when she was still in Pakistan, at the combat school in Sargodha. The Special Services Group agents who trained her said she had to be wary of success. When a cell succeeded over and over it might not be because they were good. It might be because the host was allowing them to succeed so they could be watched and used at some later date.

For years Sharab’s group, the Pakistan-financed Free Kashmir Militia, had been striking at select targets throughout the region. The modus operandi for each attack was always the same. They would take over a house, plan their assault, then strike the target. At the moment of each attack whichever cell member had remained behind would telephone a regional police or military headquarters. He would claim credit for the attack on behalf of the Free Kashmir Militia. After that the FKM would move to another home. In the end, the isolated farmers whose homes and lives they briefly borrowed cared more about survival than about politics. Many of them were Muslim anyway. Though they did not want to cooperate and risk arrest, they did not resist the FKM.

Sharab and her people only struck military, police, and government offices, never civilian or religious targets. They did not want to push or alienate the Hindu population of Kashmir or India, turn them into hawkish adversaries. They only wanted to deconstruct the resources and the resolve of the Indian leaders. Force them to go home and leave Kashmir.

That was what they were trying to do in the bazaar. Cripple the police but not harm the merchants. Scare people away and impact the local economy just enough so that farmers and shoppers would fight the inflammatory presence of Indian authorities.

They had been so careful to do just that. Over the past few nights one member of the party would go to the bazaar in Srinagar. He would enter the temple dressed in clerical robes, exit in back, and climb to the roof of the police station. There, he would systematically lift tiles and place plastique beneath them. Because it was in the middle of a night shift, when this section of the city was usually quiet, the police were not as alert as during the day. Besides, terrorist attacks did not typically occur at night. The idea of terrorism was to disrupt routine, to make ordinary people afraid to go out.

This morning, well before dawn, the last explosives were placed on the roof along with a timer. The timer had been set to detonate at exactly twenty minutes to five that afternoon. Sharab and the others returned at four thirty to watch from the side of the road to make sure the explosion went off.

It did. And it punched right through her.

When the first blast occurred Sharab knew something was wrong. The plastique they had put down was not strong enough to do the damage this explosion had done. When the second blast went off she knew they had been set up. Muslims had seemingly attacked a Hindu temple and a busload of pilgrims. The sentiments of nearly one billion people would turn against them and the Pakistan people.

But Muslims had not attacked Hindu targets, Sharab thought bitterly. The FKM had attacked a police station. Some other group had attacked the religious targets and timed it to coincide with the FKM attack.

She did not believe that a member of the cell had betrayed them. The men in the truck had been with her for years. She knew their families, their friends, their backgrounds. They were people of unshakable faith who would never have done anything to hurt the cause.

What about Apu and Nanda? Back at the house they had never been out of their sight except when they were asleep. Even then the door was always ajar and a guard was always awake. The man and his granddaughter did not own a transmitter or cell phone. The house had been searched. There were no neighbors who could have seen or heard them.

Sharab took a long breath and opened her eyes. For the moment, it did not matter. The question was what to do right now.

The truck sped past black-bearded pilgrims in white tunics and mountain men leading ponies from the marketplace. Distant rice paddies were visible at the misty foot of the Himalayas. Trucks bearing more soldiers sped past them, headed toward the bazaar. Maybe they did not know who was responsible for the attack. Or maybe they did not want to catch them right away. Perhaps whoever had framed them was waiting to see if they linked up with other terrorists in Kashmir before closing in.

If that was the case they were going to be disappointed.

Sharab opened the glove compartment and removed a map of the region. There were seventeen grids on the map, each one numbered and lettered. For the purposes of security the numbers and letters were reversed.

“All right, Ishaq,” she said into the phone, “I want you to leave the house now and go to position 5B.”

What Sharab really meant was that Ishaq should go to area 2E. The E came from the 5 and the 2 from the B. Anyone who might be listening to the conversation and who might have obtained a copy of their map would go to the wrong spot. “Can you meet us there at seven o’clock?”

“Yes,” he said. “What about the old man?”

“Leave him,” she said. She glanced at Nanda. The younger girl’s expression was defiant. “Remind him that we have his granddaughter. If the authorities ask him about us he is to say nothing. Tell him if we reach the border safely she will be set free.”

Ishaq said he would do that and meet the others later.

Sharab hung up. She folded the cell phone and slipped it in the pocket of her blue windbreaker.

There would be time enough for analysis and regrouping. Only one thing mattered right now.

Getting out of the country before the Indians had live scapegoats to parade before the world.

TEN

Siachin Base 3, Kashmir Wednesday, 5:42 P.M.

Major Dev Puri hung up the phone. A chill shook him from the shoulders to the small of his back.

Puri was sitting behind the small gunmetal desk in his underground command center. On the wall before him was a detailed map of the region. It was spotted with red flags showing Pakistan emplacements and green flags showing Indian bases. Behind him was a map of India and Pakistan. To his left was a bulletin board with orders, rosters, schedules, and reports tacked to it. To his right was a blank wall with a door.

Affectionately known as “the Pit,” the shelter was a twelve-by-fourteen-foot hole cut from hard earth and granite. Warping wood-panel walls backed with thick plastic sheets kept the moisture and dirt out but not the cold. How could it? the major wondered. The earth was always cool, like a grave, and the surrounding mountains prevented direct sunlight from ever hitting the Pit. There were no windows or skylights. The only ventilation came from the open door and a rapidly spinning ceiling fan.

Or at least the semblance of ventilation, Puri thought. It was fakery. Just like everything else about this day.

But the cool command center was not what gave Major Puri a chill. It was what the Special Frontier Force liaison had said over the phone. The man, who was stationed in Kargil, had spoken just one word. However, the significance of that word was profound.

“Proceed,” he had said.

Operation Earthworm was a go.

On the one hand, the major had to admire the nerve of the SFF. Puri did not know how high up in the government this plan had traveled or where it had originated. Probably with the SFF. Possibly in the Ministry of External Affairs or the Parliamentary Committee on Defence. Both had oversight powers regarding the activities of nonmilitary intelligence groups. Certainly the SFF would have needed their approval for something this big. But Puri did know that if the truth of this action were ever revealed, the SFF would be scapegoated and the overseers of the plot would be executed.

On the other hand, part of him felt that maybe the people behind this deserved to be punished.

A “vaccination.” That was how the SFF liaison officer had characterized Operation Earthworm when he first described it just three days before. They were giving the body of India a small taste of sickness to prevent a larger disease from ever taking hold. When the major was a child, smallpox and polio had been fearful diseases. His sister had survived smallpox and it left her scarred. Back then, vaccination was a wonderful word.

This was a corruption. However necessary and justifiable it might be, destroying the bus and temple had been vile, unholy acts.

Major Puri reached for the Marlboros on his desk. He shook a cigarette from the pack and lit it. He inhaled slowly and sat back. This was better than chewing the tobacco. It helped him to think clearly, less emotionally.

Less judgmentally.

Everything was relative, the officer told himself.

Back in the 1940s his parents were pacifists. They had not approved of him becoming a soldier. They would have been happy if he had joined them and other citizens of Haryana in the government’s fledgling caste advancement program. The Backward Classes list guaranteed a gift of low-paying government jobs for underprivileged natives of seventeen states. Dev Puri had not wanted that. He had wanted to make it on his own.

And he had.

Puri drew harder on the cigarette. He was suddenly disgusted with his own value judgments. The SFF had obviously viewed this action as a necessary extension of business as usual. Trained jointly by the American CIA and the Indian military’s RAW—Research and Analysis Wing—the SFF were masters of finding and spying on foreign agents and terrorists. For the most part, enemy operatives and suspected collaborators were eliminated without fanfare or heavy firepower. Occasionally, through a specially recruited unit, Civilian Network Operatives, the SFF also used foreign agents to send disinformation back to Pakistan. In the case of Sharab and her group, the SFF had spent months planning a more elaborate scheme. They felt it was necessary to frame Pakistan terrorists for the murder of dozens of innocent Hindus. Then, when the Pakistani cell members were captured—as they would be, thanks to the CNO operative who was traveling with them—documents and tools would be “found” on the terrorists. These would show that Sharab and her party had traveled the country planting targeting beacons for nuclear strikes against Indian cities. That would give the Indian military a moral imperative to make a preemptive strike against Pakistan’s missile silos.

Major Puri drew on the cigarette again. He looked at his watch. It was nearly time to go.

Over the past ten years more than a quarter of a million Hindus had left the Kashmir Valley to go to other parts of India. With a growing Muslim majority it was increasingly difficult for Indian authorities to secure this region from terrorism. Moreover, Pakistan had recently deployed nuclear weapons and was working to increase its nuclear arsenal as quickly as possible. Puri knew they had to be stopped. Not just to retain Kashmir but to keep hundreds of thousands more refugees from flooding the neighboring Indian provinces.

Maybe the SFF was right. Maybe this was the time and place to stop the Pakistani aggression. Major Puri only wished there had been some other way to trigger the event.

He drew long and hard on the cigarette and then crushed it in the ashtray beside the phone. The tin receptacle was filled with partly smoked cigarettes. They were the residue of three afternoons filled with anxiety, doubt, and the looming pressure of his role in the operation. His aide would have emptied it if a Pakistani artillery shell had not blown his right arm off during a Sunday night game of checkers.

The major rose. It was time for the late afternoon intelligence report from the other outposts on the base. Those were always held in the officers’ bunker further along the trench. This meeting would be different in just one respect. Puri would ask the other officers to be prepared to initiate a code yellow nighttime evacuation drill. If the Indian air force planned to “light up” the mountains with nuclear missiles, the front lines would have to be cleared of personnel well in advance of the attack. It would have to be done at night when there was less chance of the Pakistanis noticing. The enemy would also be given a warning, though a much shorter one. There would be no point in striking the sites if the missiles were mobile and Pakistan had time to move them.

Around seven o’clock, after the meeting was finished, the major would eat his dinner, go to sleep, and get up early to start the next phase of the top-secret operation. He was one of the few officers who knew about an American team that was coming to Kashmir to help the Indian military find the missile silos. The Directorate of Air Intelligence, which would be responsible for the strikes, knew generally where the silos were located. But they needed more specific information. Scatter-bombing the Himalaya Mountains was not an efficient use of military resources. And given the depth at which the silos were probably buried, it might be necessary to strike with more than conventional weapons. India needed to know that as well.

Of course, they had not shared this plan with their unwitting partners in this operation.

The United States wanted intelligence on Pakistan’s nuclear capacity as much as India did. The Americans needed to know who was helping to arm Islamabad and whether the missiles they had deployed could reach other non-Muslim nations. Both Washington and New Delhi knew that if an American unit were discovered in Kashmir it would cause a diplomatic row but not start a war. Thus, the U.S. government had offered to send over a team that was off the normal military radar. Anonymity was important since Russia, China, and other nations had moles at U.S. military installations. These spies kept an eye on the comings and goings of the U.S. Navy SEALs, the U.S. Army Delta Force 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment, and other elite forces. The information they gathered was used internally and also sold to other nations.

The team that was en route from Washington, the National Crisis Management Center’s Striker unit, had experience in mountain silo surveillance going back to a successful operation in the Diamond Mountains of North Korea years before. They were linking up with a NSA operative who had worked with the the Indian government and knew the area they would be searching.

Major Puri had to make certain that as soon as the American squad arrived the search-and-identify mission went smoothly and quickly. The Americans would not be told of the capture of the Pakistani cell. They would not know that a strike was actually in the offing. That information would only be revealed when it was necessary to blunt international condemnation of India’s actions. If necessary, the participation of the Striker unit would also be exposed. The United States would have no choice then but to back the Indian strike.

Puri tugged on the hem of his jacket to straighten it. He picked up his turban, placed it squarely on his head, and headed for the door. He was glad of one thing, at least. His name was not attached to the SFF action in any way. As far as any official communiqués were concerned, he had simply been told to help the Americans find the silos.

He was just doing his job.

He was just carrying out orders.

ELEVEN

Washington, D.C. Wednesday, 8:21 A.M.

“This is not good,” Bob Herbert said as he stared at the computer monitor. “This is not good at all.”

The intelligence chief had been reviewing the latest satellite images from the mountains bordering Kashmir. Suddenly, a State Department news update flashed across the screen. Herbert clicked on the headline and had just started reading when the desk phone beeped. He glanced with annoyance at the small black console. It was an outside line. Herbert jabbed the button and picked up the receiver. He continued reading.

“Herbert here,” he said.

“Bob, this is Hank Lewis,” said the caller.

The name was familiar but for some reason Herbert could not place it. Then again, he was not trying very hard. He was concentrating on the news brief. According to the update there had been two powerful explosions in Srinagar. Both of them were directed at Hindu targets. That was going to ratchet up tensions along the line of control. Herbert needed to get more information and brief Paul Hood and General Rodgers as soon as possible.

“I’ve been meaning to call since I took over at NSA,” Lewis said, “but it’s been brutal getting up to speed.”

Jesus, Herbert thought. That’s who Hank Lewis was. Jack Fenwick’s replacement at the National Security Agency. Lewis had just signed off on the NSA’s participation in the Striker mission. Herbert should have known the name right away. But he forgave himself. He had a mission headed into a hot zone that had just become hotter. His brain was on autopilot.

“You don’t have to explain. I know what the workload is like over there,” Herbert assured him. “I assume you’re calling about the State Department update on Kashmir?”

“I haven’t seen that report yet,” Lewis admitted. “But I did receive a call from Ron Friday, the man who’s supposed to meet your Striker team. He told me what you probably read. That an hour ago there were three powerful bomb blasts in a bazaar in Srinagar.”

“Three?” Herbert replied. “The State Department says there were two explosions.”

“Mr. Friday was within visual range of ground zero,” Lewis informed him. “He said there were simultaneous explosions in both the police station and in the Hindu temple. They were followed by a third blast onboard a bus full of Hindu pilgrims.”

Hearing the event described, Herbert flashed back to the embassy bombing in Beirut. The moment of the explosion was not what stayed with him. That was like running a car into a wall, a full-body hit. What he remembered, vividly, was the sickness of coming to beneath the rubble and realizing in a sickening instant exactly what had happened.

“Was your man hurt?” Herbert asked.

“Incredibly, no,” Lewis said. “Mr. Friday said the explosions would have been worse except that high-impact concussive devices were employed. That minimized the damage radius.”

“He was lucky,” Herbert said. HiCon explosives tended to produce a big percussive center, nominal shock waves, and very little collateral damage. “So why is Friday so sure the first two hits were separate blasts? The second one could have been an oil or propane tank exploding. There are often secondary pops in attacks of this kind.”

“Mr. Friday was very specific about the explosions being simultaneous, not successive,” Lewis replied. “After the attack he also found two very similar but separate debris trails leading from the buildings. That suggests identical devices in different locations.”

“Possibly,” Herbert said.

An expression from Herbert’s childhood came floating back: He who smelt it dealt it. Op-Center’s intelligence chief briefly wondered if Friday might have been responsible for the blasts. However, Herbert could not think of a reason for Friday to have done that. And he had not become cynical enough to look for a reason. Not yet, anyway.

“Let’s say there were three blasts,” Herbert said. “What do your nerve endings tell you about all this?”

“My immediate thought, of course, is that the Pakistans are turning up the heat by attacking religious targets,” Lewis replied. “But we don’t have enough intel to back that up.”

“And if the idea was to hit at the Hindus directly, why would they strike the police station as well?” Herbert asked.

“To cripple their pursuit capabilities, I would imagine,” Lewis suggested.

“Maybe,” Herbert replied.

Everything Lewis said made sense. Which meant one of two things. Either he was right or the obvious answer was what the perpetrators wanted investigators to believe.

“Your Strikers won’t be arriving for another twenty-two hours and change,” Lewis said. “I’m going to have Mr. Friday go back to the target area and see what he can learn. Are there any resources you can call on?”

“Yes,” Herbert said. “India’s Intelligence Bureau and the Defense Ministry helped us to organize the Striker mission. I’ll see what they know and get back to you.”

“Thanks,” Lewis said. “By the way, I’m looking forward to working with you. I’ve followed your career ever since you went over to Germany to take on those neo-Nazis. I trust men who get out from behind their desk. It means they put job and country before personal security.”

“Either that or it means they’re crazy,” Herbert said. “But thanks. Stay in touch.”

Lewis said he would. Herbert hung up.

It was refreshing to talk to someone in the covert community who was actually willing to share information. Intelligence chiefs were notoriously secretive. If they controlled information they could control people and institutions. Herbert refused to play that game. While it was good for job security it was bad for national security. And as Jack Fenwick had demonstrated, a secretive intelligence chief could also control a president.

But though Ron Friday was a seasoned field operative, Herbert was not quite as willing to bet the ranch on his report. Herbert only believed in people he had worked with himself.

Herbert phoned Paul Hood to brief him on the new development. Hood asked to be conferenced on the call to Mike Rodgers whenever that took place. Then Herbert put in a call to the Indian Intelligence Bureau. Sujit Rani, the deputy director of internal activities, told Herbert pretty much what he expected to hear: that the IIB was investigating the explosions but did not have any additional information. The notion that there had been three explosions, not two, was something the IIB had heard and was looking into. That information vindicated Ron Friday somewhat in Herbert’s eyes. Herbert’s contact at the Defense Ministry told him basically the same thing. Fortunately, there was time before Striker reached India. They would be able to abort the mission if necessary.

Herbert went into the Kashmir files. He wanted to check on other recent terrorist strikes in the region. Maybe he could find clues, a pattern, something that would help to explain this new attack. Something about it did not sit right. If Pakistan were really looking to turn up the heat in Kashmir they probably would have struck at a place that had intense religious meaning, like the shrine at Pahalgam. Not only was that the most revered site in the region but the terrorists would not have had to worry about security. The Hindus trusted completely in their sacred trinity. If it was the will of Vishnu the preserver then they would not be harmed. If they died violently then Shiva the destroyer would avenge them. And if they were worthy, Brahma the creator would reincarnate them.

No. Bob Herbert’s gut was telling him that the Hindu temple, the bus, and the police station were struck for some other reason. He just did not know what that reason was.

But he would.

TWELVE

C-130 Cabin Wednesday, 10:13 A.M.

When he first joined Striker, Corporal Ishi Honda discovered that there was not a lot of downtime on the ground. There was a great deal of drilling, especially for him. Honda had joined the team late, replacing Private Johnny Puckett who had been wounded on the mission to North Korea. It was necessary for Honda, then a twenty-two-year-old private, to get up to speed.

Once he got there Honda never let up. His mother used to tell him he was fated never to rest. She ascribed it to the different halves of his soul. Ishi’s maternal grandfather had been a civilian cook at Wheeler Field. He died trying to get home to his family during the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. Ishi’s paternal grandfather had been a high-ranking officer on the staff of Rear Admiral Takajiro Onishi, chief of staff of the Eleventh Air Fleet. Onishi was the architect of the Japanese attack. Ishi’s parents were actors who met and fell in love on a show tour without knowing anything about the other’s background. They often debated whether knowing that would have made a difference. His father said it absolutely would not have. With a little shake of her head, her eyes downturned, his mother said it might have made a difference.

Ishi had no answers and maybe that was why he could not stop pushing himself. Part of him believed that if he ever stopped moving he would inevitably look at that question, whether or not a piece of information would have kept him from being born. And he did not want to do that because the question had no answer. Honda did not like problems without solutions.

What he did like was living the life of a Striker. It not only taxed him mentally, it challenged him physically.

From the time he was recruited to join the elite unit there were long daily runs, obstacle courses, hand-to-hand combat, arms practice, survival training, and maneuvers. The field work was always tougher for Honda than for the others. In addition to his survival gear he had to carry the TAC-SAT equipment. There were also tactical and political sessions and language classes. Colonel August had insisted that the Strikers learn at least two languages each in the likely event that those skills would one day be required. At least Honda had an advantage there. Because his father was Japanese, Honda already had a leg up on one of the languages he had been assigned. He selected Mandarin Chinese as the other. Sondra DeVonne had chosen Cantonese as one of her languages. It was fascinating to Honda that the languages shared identical written characters. Yet the spoken languages were entirely different. While he and DeVonne could read the same texts they could not communicate verbally.

Though the time the Strikers spent on the ground was rewarding, Honda had learned that their time in the air was anything but. They rarely took short trips and the long journeys could be extremely dull. That was why he had come up with constructive ways of filling his time.

Wherever they were going, Honda arranged to patch his personal computer into the data files of both Stephen Viens at the National Reconnaissance Office and those of Op-Center’s computer chief, Matt Stoll. The NRO was the group that managed most of America’s spy satellites. Because Viens was an old college chum of Stoll’s, he had been extremely helpful in getting information for Op-Center when more established groups like military intelligence, the CIA, and the NSA were fighting for satellite time. Viens was later accused of forward-funding two billion dollars of NRO money into a variety of black ops projects. He was vindicated with Op-Center’s help and recently returned to duty.

Before Striker headed to any territory, Viens set aside satellite time to do all the photographic recon that Colonel August needed. That imaging was considered of primary importance and was sent on the mission in Colonel August’s files. Meanwhile, Stoll spent as much time as possible collecting electronic intelligence from the region. Police departments and the military did not share everything they knew, even with allies. In many foreign countries, especially Russia, China, and Israel, American operatives were often watched without their knowledge by foreign operatives. It was up to Op-Center to pick up whatever information they could and protect themselves accordingly. They did this by diverging from the agreed-upon routes and time schedules, using “dispensable” team members to mislead tails, or occasionally subduing whoever was following them. A host nation could not complain if the person they had sent to spy on an ally was later found bound and gagged in a hotel closet.

The ELINT Stoll had gathered was composed of everything from fax messages and e-mail to phone numbers and radio frequencies. Everything that came to or went from official sources or known resistance and opposition forces. These numbers, frequencies, and encryption codes were then run through programs. They were compared with those of known terrorists or foreign agents. If there were any possible “watchdogs or impediments” in the region, as mission planners referred to them, these scans helped to find and identify them. The last thing American intelligence chiefs wanted was to have undercover operatives photographed or their methods observed by foreign governments. Not only could that information be sold to a third party, but the United States never knew which friendly governments might one day be intelligence targets.

“Think Iran,” Colonel August reminded them whenever they went on a joint mission with allies.

Honda had brought along a Striker laptop. The computer was equipped with a wireless, high-speed modem to download data Stoll was still collecting. Honda would memorize any relevant data. When Striker reached India, the computer would be left on the transport and returned to the base. Colonel August would keep his laptop to download data. Where they were going, the less Corporal Honda had to carry the happier he would be.

As the new intelligence was dumped into Honda’s computer, an audio prompt pinged. It was alerting him to an anomaly that Stoll’s program had picked up at Op-Center. Honda accessed the flagged data.

The Bellhop program on the air force’s “Sanctity” satellite continually scanned the cell phones and radios that used police bands. Op-Center and the other U.S. intelligence agencies had these numbers for their own communications with foreign offices. It was a simple matter to hack the computers and look for other incoming calls.

The Bellhop had picked up a series of point-to-point calls made on a police-registered cell phone. It was coded “field phone” in the Bellhop lexicon. Most of the calls were placed over a five-month period from Kargil to the district police headquarters in Jammu, coded “home phone.” During that time there was only one call to that field phone from the home phone. Stoll’s program, which integrated Op-Center intel with NRO data, indicated that the call was placed less than one second before the Kashmir-focused ClusterStar3 satellite recorded an explosion in a bazaar in Srinagar.

“Damn,” Honda muttered.

Honda wondered if Colonel August or General Rodgers had been informed about a possible terrorist attack. The fact that a police cell phone made a call to the site an instant before the explosion could be a coincidence. Perhaps someone was phoning a security guard. On the other hand there might be a connection between the two. Honda unbuckled himself from the uncomfortable seat and went forward to inform his commanding officers. He had to walk slowly, carefully, to keep from being bucked against his teammates by the aircraft’s movements in the turbulent air.

August and Rodgers were huddled together over the general’s laptop when he arrived.

“Excuse me, sirs,” Honda said. He had to shout to be heard over the screaming engines.

August looked up. “What have you got, Corporal?”

Honda told the two officers about the explosion. August informed Honda that they were just reading an e-mail from Bob Herbert about the blast. It provided what few details anyone had about the attack. Then Honda informed his superiors about the phone calls. That seemed to grab General Rodgers’s interest.

“There were two calls a day for five months, always at the same time,” Honda said.

“Like a routine check-in,” Rodgers said.

“Exactly, sir,” Honda replied. “Except for today. There was just one call and it was made to the field phone. It was placed a moment before the explosion that took out the temple.”

Rodgers sat back. “Corporal, would you go through the data file and see if this calling pattern is repeated, probably from field phones with different code numbers? Outgoing calls to one home phone and one or none coming back?”

“Yes, sir,” Honda replied.

Honda crouched on the cold, rumbling floor and raised one knee. He put the laptop upon it. He was not sure what the officers were looking for exactly and it was not his place to ask. He input the code number of the home phone and asked for a Bellhop search. Colonel August’s hunch was correct. He told them that in addition to this series there were seven weeks of calls from another field phone in Kargil. They were made twice a day at the same times. Before that there were six weeks of calls from another field phone, also two times daily. Thirteen weeks was as far back as these Bellhop records went.

“New Delhi must have had civilian agents tracking a terrorist cell,” Rodgers said.

“How do you know that?” August asked. “The calls may just have been field ops reporting in.”

“I don’t think so,” Rodgers told him. “First of all, only one of the calls on Corporal Honda’s list was made from the home phone to the field phone.”

“That was the one made at the time of the explosion,” August said.

“Correct,” Rodgers replied. “That would suggest the officers in charge of the recon did not want field phones ringing at inopportune moments.”

“I’ll buy that,” August said.

“There’s more than that, though,” Rodgers said. “When Pakistan was knocked out of Kargil in 1999, the Indian Special Frontier Force knew that enemy cells would be left behind. They couldn’t hunt them down with soldiers. The locals would have known if strangers were moving through a village. And if the locals knew it members of the cell would have known it. So the SFF recruited a shitload of locals to serve in their Civilian Network Operatives unit.” The general tapped his laptop. “It’s all here in the intelligence overview. But they couldn’t give the recruits normal militia radios because, that close to Pakistan, those channels are routinely monitored by ELINT personnel. So the SFF gave their recruits cell phones. The agents call the regional office and complain about break-ins, missing children, stolen livestock, that sort of thing. What they’re really doing is using coded messages to keep the SFF informed about suspected terrorist movements and activities.”

“All right,” August said. “But what makes you think the calls on this list aren’t just routine field reports?”

“Because CNO personnel don’t make routine field reports,” Rodgers said. “They only report when they have something to say. There’s less chance of them being overheard that way. I’m willing to bet that there are terrorist strikes to coincide with the termination of each of those series of calls. A target was hit, the cell moved on, the calls stopped being placed.”

“Perhaps,” August said. “But that doesn’t explain the call to the temple right before the blast.”

“Actually, it might,” Rodgers told him.

“I don’t follow,” August said.

Rodgers looked up at Honda. “Corporal, would you please get the TAC-SAT?”

“Yes, sir.”

Rodgers turned back to August. “I’m going to ask Bob Herbert to check on the dates of terrorist strikes in the region,” he said. “I want to see if reports from field phones stopped coming in after terrorist strikes. I also want Bob to look into something else.”

“What’s that?” August asked.

Honda closed his laptop and stood. He lingered long enough to hear Rodgers’s reply.

“I want to know what kind of detonator caps the SFF uses for counterterrorist strikes,” the general replied.

“Why?” August asked.

“Because the Mossad, the Iraqi Al Amn al-Khas, Abu Nidal’s group, and the Spanish Grapo have all used PDEs on occasion,” Rodgers said. “Phone-detonated explosives.”

THIRTEEN

Srinagar, Kashmir Wednesday, 6:59 P.M.

It was nearly dark when Ron Friday returned to the bazaar. Though he was curious to see how the authorities here were handling the investigation he was more interested in what he might be able to find out about the attack. His life might depend on that information.

The rain had stopped and there was a cold wind rolling off the mountains. Friday was glad he had worn a baseball cap and a windbreaker, though the drop in temperature was not the reason he had put them on. Even from his room he could hear helicopters circling the area. When Friday arrived he found that the two police choppers were hovering low, less than two hundred feet up. In addition to looking for survivors, the noise echoing loudly through the square helped to keep onlookers from staying too long. But that was not the only reason the choppers were there. Friday guessed that they were also maintaining a low altitude to photograph the crowd in case the terrorist was still in the area. The cockpits were probably equipped with GRRs—geometric reconstructive recorders. These were digital cameras that could take photographs shot at an angle and reconfigure the geometry so they became accurate frontal images. Interpol and most national security agencies had a “face-print” file consisting of mug shots and police sketches of known and suspected terrorists. Like fingerprints, face-print photographs could be run through a computer and compared to images on file. The computer superimposed the likenesses. If the features were at least a 70 percent match, that was considered sufficient to go after the individual for interrogation.

Friday had worn the baseball cap because he did not want to be face-printed by the chopper. He did not know which governments might have his likeness on file or for what reason. He certainly did not want to give them a picture with which to start a file.

The blast sights had been roped off with red tape. Spotlights on ten-foot-tall tripods had been erected around the perimeters. Physically, the main market area reminded Friday of a gymnasium after a dance. The event was over, the place eerily lifeless, and the residue of activity was everywhere. Only here, instead of punch there were bloodstains. Instead of crepe there were shredded awnings. And instead of empty seats there were abandoned carts. Some of the vendors had taken their carts away, leaving dust-free spots on the ground in the shape of the stall. In the sharp light they resembled the black shadows of trees and people that had been burned on the walls of Hiroshima and Nagasaki by nuclear fire. Other carts had been simply abandoned. Perhaps the owners had not been there when the blast occurred and the hired help did not want to stick around. Maybe some of the sellers had been injured or killed.

Militiamen from the regular army were stationed around the perimeters. They were carrying MP5K submachine guns, very visible in the bright lights. Police were patrolling the square carrying their distinctive .455 Webley revolvers. Apart from discouraging looters—which did not really require exposed firearms—there was only one reason to haul out artillery after a strike. It was a means of restoring wounded pride and reassuring the public that the people in charge were still a potent force. It was all so sadly predictable.

Reporters were allowed to make their news broadcasts or take their pictures and then were asked to leave. An officer explained to a crew from CNN that it would be more difficult to watch for looters if a crowd gathered.

Or maybe they just did not want cameras recording their own thefts, Friday thought. He was willing to bet that many of the goods that had been left behind would be gone by morning.

A few people had come to the marketplace just to stare. Whatever they expected to see—broken bodies, the spectacle of destruction, news being made—it did not appear to fulfill them. Most left looking deflated. Bomb sites, combat zones, and car wrecks often did that to people. They were drawn to it and then repulsed. Maybe they were disappointed by a sudden awareness of their own bloodthirstiness. Some people came with flowers, which they laid on the ground beneath the tape. Others just left behind prayers for dead friends, relatives, or strangers.

At the destroyed police station and temple, building inspectors were moving through surrounding structures to determine whether they had been weakened or damaged in the blasts. Friday recognized them by their white hard hats and palm-sized echometers. These devices emitted either singleor multidirectional sound waves that could be adjusted to the composition of an object, from stone to concrete to wood. If the sound waves encountered anything that was inconsistent with the makeup of the material—which typically meant a breach—an alarm would sound and the officials would examine the site further.

Apart from the engineers there were the usual police recovery units and medical personnel working at all three sites. But Friday was surprised by one thing. Typically, terrorist attacks in India were investigated by the district police and the National Security Guard. The NSG was established in 1986 to act as a counterterrorist force. The so-called Black Cat Commandos handled situations ranging from in-progress hijackings and kidnappings to forensic activities at bomb sites. However, there was not a single black-uniformed NSG operative here. These sites were under the control of the brown-uniformed Special Frontier Force. Friday had never been to any bomb sites in Srinagar. Maybe this was the way responsibility for antiterrorist investigations had been parceled out, with the SFF getting the region nearest the line of control.

Friday was motioned along by one of the police officers. He would not be able to get into the rubble himself. But he could still come up with some sound ideas about how the attack was made. As he walked toward the place where the bus had exploded, Friday used his cell phone to call Samantha Mandor at the NSA’s photo archives. He asked her to search the AP, UPI, Reuters, and other digital photograph files for pictures of sites struck by terrorists in Kashmir. He also wanted her to pull together any analysis files that were attached to the photographs. He probably had some of those in his own computer files back in his room. But he wanted information that was incident-specific. Friday told her to phone back the minute she had the photo and text archives.

The American operative neared the roped-off bus site. Unlike the two buildings, where the walls had kept people and objects from the street, the bus debris had been strewn everywhere by the powerful explosion. The bodies had been cleared away but the street was covered with metal, leather, and glass from the bus itself. There were books and cameras that the passengers had been carrying and travel accessories, clothing, and religious icons that had been packed in luggage. Unlike the buildings, this scene was a snapshot of the moment of impact.

Friday’s cell phone beeped as he neared the red tape. He stopped walking and took the call.

“Yes?” he said.

“Mr. Friday? It’s Samantha Mandor. I have the photographs and information you asked for. Do you want me to send the images somewhere? There are about four dozen color pictures.”

“No,” Friday said. “When was the last attack in Srinagar?”

“Five months ago,” Samantha told him. “It was against a shipment of artillery shells that were en route to the line of control. The attack caused one hell of an explosion.”

“Was it a suicide bombing?” he asked.

“No,” Samantha said. “There’s a microscopic image of liquid crystal display fragments that were found near ground zero. The lab analysis says it was part of a timer. They also said a remote sensor was found in the debris but that it was apparently not detonated.”

That was probably part of a backup plan, Friday thought. Professionals often included a line-of-sight device to trigger the explosives in case the timer did not work or if the device were discovered before the timer could activate them. The presence of an LOS receiver meant that at least one of the terrorists was almost certainly in the area when the device exploded.

“What about the personnel at the bomb site?” Friday asked. “What kind of uniforms were they wearing?”

“There were National Security Guard officers as well as local police on the scene,” the woman informed him.

“Any members of the Special Frontier Force?” Friday asked.

“None,” she said. “There were additional assaults against military targets in Srinagar. They occurred six and seven weeks prior to that attack. National Security Guard officers were present there as well.”

“Did anyone claim responsibility for those attacks?” Friday asked.

“According to the data file those two and this one were claimed by the same group,” Samantha told him. “The Free Kashmir Militia.”

“Thank you,” Friday said. He had heard of them. Reportedly, they had the backing of the Pakistan government.

“Will you need anything else?” Samantha asked.

“Not right now,” he replied and clicked off.

Friday hooked the cell phone to his belt. He would call his new boss later, when he had something solid to report. He looked around. There were no Black Cat Commandos here. Maybe that was significant, maybe it was not. Their absence might have been a territorial issue. Or maybe the NSG had been unable to stop the terrorists and the problem had been turned over to the SFF. Perhaps a former SFF officer had been named to a high government post. Appointments like that routinely led to reorganizations.

Of course, there was always the possibility that this was not routine. What kind of exceptional circumstances would lead to a department being shut out of an investigation? That would certainly happen if security were an issue. Friday wondered if the NSG might have been compromised by Pakistani operatives. Or maybe the SFF had made it look as though the Black Cats had been penetrated. Because budgets were tighter there was even more interagency rivalry here than there was in the United States.

Friday turned around slowly. There were several two- and three-story-high buildings around the market. However, those would not have been good vantage points for the terrorists. If they had needed to use the remote detonators, the carts with their high banners, awnings, and umbrellas might have blocked the line of sight. If there had been any cookedfood stands in the way smoke might also have obscured their vision. Besides, the terrorists would also have had the problem of renting rooms. There was a danger in leaving a paper trail, like the terrorists who charged the van they used to attack the World Trade Center in New York. And only amateur terrorists paid cash for a room. That was a red flag that usually sent landlords right to the police. Not even the greediest landlord wanted someone who might be a bomb maker living in their building.

Besides, there was no need to hide here. It would have been easy for a terrorist to remain anonymous in this busy marketplace day after day to case the targets, plant the explosives, and watch the site today. But Friday did wonder one thing. Why did the police station and the temple blow up at the same time while the bus did not explode until several seconds later? It was extremely likely that they were related attacks. It could have been that the timers were slightly out-of-synch. Or maybe there was another reason.

Friday continued walking to where the bus had been parked. Traffic had been diverted from Route 1A to other streets. He was able to stand in the broad avenue and look back at the site. This road was the most direct way out of here. It fed any number of roads. Pursuit would have been extremely difficult even if the police knew the individual or kind of vehicle they were looking for. He found the line-of-sight spot that would have been the ideal place to stand in case the timer failed. It was on the curb, near where the bus was parked. It was about four hundred yards from the target, which was near the maximum range for most remote detonators. Obviously, if a terrorist were waiting there for the blast, he would not have wanted the bus to blow up yet. He would have waited until after the temple explosion then moved a safe distance away. The bus explosion would have been scheduled to give him time to get away. Or else he had triggered the blast himself using the same remote he would have used on the temple.

But that still did not tell him why there were two separate explosions for the police station and temple. One large explosion would have brought both structures down.

Friday started back toward the other end of the market. When he got back to his room he would call the NSA. The market attack itself did not bother him. He did not really give a damn who ended up being in charge here. What concerned him were the Black Cats. These people would have access to intelligence about him and Striker once they went into the mountains. If there was even a possibility that the NSG was leaking, he wanted to make sure they were kept out of the circuit.

FOURTEEN

Kargil, Kashmir Wednesday, 7:00 P.M.

As his motorcycle sped through the foothills of the Himalayas, Ishaq Fazeli wished he had one thing above all. He had left Apu’s farm without eating dinner and he was hungry. But he did not want food. He had been driving with his mouth open—a bad habit—and his tongue was dry. But he did not want water. What he wanted most was a helmet.

As the lightweight Royal Endfield Bullet sped through the mountain pass, small, flat rocks spit from under the slender wheels. Whenever the roadway narrowed, as it did now, and Ishaq passed too close to the mountainside, the sharp-edged pebbles came back at him like bullets. He would even settle for a turban if he had the material to make one and the time to stop. Instead, Ishaq adjusted to driving with his face turned slightly to the left. As long as the pebbles did not hit his eyes he would be all right. And if they did he would be philosophical about it. He would still have his left eye. Growing up in the west, near the Khyber Pass, he had learned long ago that the mountains of the subcontinent were not for the weak.

For one thing, even during a short two-hour ride like this, the weather changes quickly. Brutal sunshine can give way to a snow squall within minutes. Sleet can turn to thick fog even quicker. Travelers who are unprepared can freeze or dehydrate or lose their way before reaching safety. Sunshine, wind, precipitation, heat and cold from fissures, caverns, and lofty tors—all rush madly around the immutable peaks, clashing and warring in unpredictable ways. In that respect the mountains reminded Ishaq of the ancient caliphs. They too were towering and imperious, answering only to Allah.

For another thing, the foothills of the Himalayas are extremely difficult to negotiate on foot, let alone on a motorcycle. The mountain range is relatively young and the slopes are still sharp and steep. Here, in Kashmir, the few paths one finds were originally made by the British in 1845 at the onset of the Anglo-Sikh Wars. Queen Victoria’s elite mountain forces used the routes, known as “cuts,” to flank enemy troops that were encamped in lower elevations. Too narrow for trucks, cars, and artillery, and too precarious for horses and other pack animals, the cuts fell into disuse at the time of the First World War and remained largely untraveled until the Pakistanis rediscovered them in 1947. While the Indians used helicopters to move men and matériel through the region, the Pakistanis preferred these slower, more secretive paths. The cuts peaked at around eight thousand feet, where the temperatures were too low at night and the air too cold to support simple bedroll camps or sustained marches.

Not that the hazards or the discomfort mattered to Ishaq right now. He had a mission to accomplish and a leader to serve. Nothing would get in the way of that. Not precipitous falls, or the hornetlike pebbles that wanted to send him there, or the sudden drop in the temperature.

Fortunately, the motorcycle performed as heroically as its reputation. More than a year before, Ishaq had taken the Royal Endfield Bullet from behind an army barracks. It was a beautiful machine. It was not one of the prized vintage bikes from the 1950s, made when the British company first set up its factory in India. But the machine was standard equipment of local military and police units. As such, it did not attract undue attention. And there were tactical advantages as well. Like all the Royal Endfield Bullets, the distinctive red-and-black motorcycle got exceptional mileage and had a maximum speed of nearly eighty miles an hour. The bike was durable and the 22 bhp engine was relatively quiet. At just under four hundred pounds the bike also caused very little stress on the cliffside portions of the road. And the low noise output was important as he made his way up into the foothills, where loud sounds could cause rock slides.

Ishaq saw small numbers carved in the side of the mountain. They indicated that the elevation was four thousand feet. The Free Kashmir Militiaman was behind schedule. He pushed the bike a little faster. The wind rushed at him, causing his cheeks to flutter. The noise they made sounded almost like the motorcycle engine. By the grace of the Prophet he and the machine had become one. He smiled at the ways of Allah.

Section 2E was near the high midpoint of the cuts. Pakistani troops had spent years mapping this region. When they retreated from Kargil, the troops left a large cache of weapons, explosives, clothes, passports, and medical supplies in a cave at the high point of the sector. Sharab and her team frequently retreated to the spot to replenish their stores.

Ishaq had kept an eye on his watch as he pushed higher into the hills. He did not want to keep Sharab waiting. That was not because their leader was intolerant or impatient but because he wanted to be there for her—whenever, wherever, and for whatever reason she needed him. A political professor with no prior field experience, Sharab’s dedication and tactical ingenuity had quickly earned the respect and complete devotion of every member of the team. Ishaq was also a little bit in love with her, although he was careful not to let that show. He did not want her thinking that was the only reason he was with her. She liked to work with patriots, not admirers. Yet Ishaq often wondered if the leaders of the Free Kashmir Militia had asked her to lead this group because she was a woman. When ancient physicians used to cauterize the wounds of warriors it took five or more men to restrain the injured man—or one woman. For love of Sharab or fear of shaming their manhood, there was nothing the men in her cell would refuse to do.

A .38 Smith & Wesson was snug in a holster under his wool sweater. The handgun came to the FKM via the Karachi Airport security police, which had bought nearly one thousand of the weapons from the United States almost thirty years before. The weight of the loaded gun felt good against his ribs. Ishaq’s faith taught him that it was only through the Prophet and Allah that a man became strong. Ishaq believed that, passionately. Prayer and the Koran gave him strength. But there was also something empowering about having a weapon at your side. Religion was a satisfying meal that carried a man through the day. The Smith & Wesson was a snack that got him through the moment.

The road became bumpier due to recent rockfall from a cliff. The outside corners were also more precarious. To make things worse, a cool drizzle began. It nicked his face like windblown sand. But despite all this he pushed the motorcycle even harder. If the rain kept up and had a chance to freeze, the cut would become brutally slick. He also had to watch out for hares and other animals. Hitting one could cause him to skid. Still, he could not slow down. Not if he were going to reach the zone in time. They always met up here after a mission but never with such urgency. First, Sharab usually liked to go back to whatever house or hut or barn they had occupied in order to have a final talk with their host. She wanted to make sure that whoever she left behind understood that they would remain alive only as long as they remained silent. Some of the team members did not agree with her charity, especially when they were Hindus like Apu and his granddaughter. But Sharab did not want to turn the people against her. To her, whether they were Muslim or not, most of these farmers, shepherds, and factory workers were already Pakistani. She did not want to kill innocent countrymen, present or future.

The skies were dark and Ishaq flipped on his headlights. A powerful lamp illuminated the road almost two hundred yards ahead. That was barely enough visibility to allow him to keep moving at his current pace. Curves came up so suddenly that he nearly went off the cut twice. Every now and then he slowed for just a moment to keep from feeling like he could fly. That was a very real delusion at this height and these speeds. He also took that time to glance back. He wanted to make sure he was not being followed. With the hum of the engine echoing off the crags and valleys, the sputtering of his cheeks, and the knocking of the thrown pebbles, Ishaq would not necessarily hear the roar of a pursuing vehicle or helicopter. He had warned Apu to stay in the house and he had cut the telephone line. But still—one never knew how a man would react when a family member was in captivity.

Ishaq saw another roadside marker. He was at forty-five hundred feet now. He did not know exactly how far Sharab and the team would be able to go in the van. They were coming up another cut. Maybe they could get to five thousand feet before the road became too narrow to accommodate the truck. The roads joined a few hundred feet ahead. When he arrived, he would either see their tire treads or else wait for them at the cave. He hoped they were already there. He was anxious to know what had happened, what had gone wrong.

He prayed it was nothing that might keep them from him. If for some reason the others did not show up within twenty-four hours, Ishaq’s standing orders were to get to the cave and set up the radio he carried in his small equipment case. Then he was to call the FKM base in Abbottabad, across the border in Pakistan. They would tell him what to do. That meant either he would be advised to wait for replacements or attempt to return home for a debriefing.

If it came to that, Ishaq hoped they would tell him to wait. Going home would mean climbing the mountains to the Siachin Glacier. Or else he would have to attempt to make his way across the line of control. His chances of surviving the trip were not good. FKM command might just as well order him to shoot himself at the cave.

As Ishaq neared the point where the two cuts converged he saw the truck. It was parked in the middle of the road. The flatbed was covered with an earth-tone tarp they carried and the cab was hidden beneath scrub. A smile fought a losing battle against the wind. He was glad they had made it. But that changed when his headlights found the team about two hundred yards ahead. As one they turned and crouched, ready to fire.

“No, it’s Ishaq!” he cried. “It’s Ishaq!”

They lowered their weapons and continued ahead without waiting for their teammate. Sharab was in front with the girl. Nanda was being urged forward at gunpoint.

That was not like Sharab.

This was bad. This was very, very bad.

FIFTEEN

Washington, D.C. Wednesday, 10:51 A.M.

Bob Herbert was usually a pretty happy man.

To begin with, Herbert loved his work. He had a good team working beside him. He was able to give Op-Center personnel the kind of heads-up intelligence he and his wife never had in Lebanon. He was also happy with himself. He was not a Washington bureaucrat. He put truthfulness above diplomacy and the well-being of the NCMC above the advancement of Bob Herbert. That meant he could sleep at night. He had the respect of the people who mattered, like Paul Hood and Mike Rodgers.

But Bob Herbert was not happy right now.

Hank Lewis had phoned from the NSA to say that the latest information e-mailed from Ron Friday was being processed by decryption personnel. It would be forwarded to Herbert within minutes. While Herbert waited for the intel he did something he had been meaning to do since the Striker recon mission was okayed by the CIOC. He pulled up Ron Friday’s NSA file on his computer. Until now, Herbert and his team had been too busy helping Mike Rodgers and Striker prepare for the mission to do anything else.

Herbert did not like what he saw in Ron Friday’s dossier. Or rather, what he did not see there.

As a crisis management center, Op-Center did not keep a full range of military maps and intelligence in what they called their “hot box.” The only files that were reviewed and updated on a four-times-daily basis were situations and places where American personnel or interests were directly involved or affected. Kashmir was certainly a crisis zone. But if it exploded, it was not a spot with which Op-Center would automatically be involved. In fact, that was the reason Striker had been asked to go into the region and look for Pakistani nuclear weapons. Pakistani intelligence would not be expecting them.

Ron Friday was a very late addition to the mission. His participation had been requested over the weekend by Satya Shankar, minister of state, Department of Atomic Energy. Officially, one of Shankar’s duties was the sale of nuclear technology to developing nations. Unofficially, he was responsible for helping the military keep track of nuclear technology within enemy states. Shankar and Friday had worked together once before, when Shankar was joint secretary, Exploration, of the Ministry of Petroleum and Natural Gas. Friday had been called in by a European oil concern to assess legal issues involving drilling in disputed territory between Great Indian Desert in the Rajasthan Province of India and the Thar Desert in Pakistan. Shankar had obviously been impressed by the attorney.

Since Op-Center was stuck with Friday, reading his file had not been a high priority for Herbert. Especially since the CIOC had already okayed Friday based on his Blue Shield rating. That meant Ron Friday was cleared to take part in the most sensitive fieldwork in foreign countries. Red Shield meant that an agent was trusted by the foreign government. White Shield meant that he was trusted by his own government, that there was no evidence of double-agent activity. Yellow Shield meant that he had been revealed to be a double agent and was being used by his government to put out disinformation, often without his knowledge or occasionally with his cooperation in exchange for clemency. Blue Shield meant he was trusted by both nations.

What the Red, White, and Blue rankings really meant was that no data had ever come up to suggest the agent was corrupt. That was usually good enough for a project overseer to rubber-stamp an individual for a mission. Especially an overseer who was new on the job and overworked, like Hank Lewis at the National Security Agency. But the Shield system was not infallible. It could simply mean that the agent had been too careful to be caught. Or that he had someone on the inside who kept his file clean.

Friday’s file was extremely skimpy. It contained very few field reports from Azerbaijan, where he had most recently been stationed at the United States embassy in Baku as an aide to Deputy Ambassador Dorothy Williamson. There were zero communications at all from him during the recent crisis in the former Soviet Republic. That was unusual. Herbert had a look at the files of the two CIA operatives who had been stationed at the embassy. They were full of daily reports. Coincidentally, perhaps, both of those men were killed.

Friday’s thin file and his apparent silence during the crisis was troubling. One of his superiors at the NSA, Jack Fenwick, was the man who had hired the terrorist known as the Harpooner to precipitate the Caspian Sea confrontation between Azerbaijan, Iran, and Russia. Herbert had not read all the postmortems about the situation. There had not been time. But Friday’s silence before and during the showdown led Herbert to wonder: was he really inactive or were his reports made directly to someone who destroyed them?

Jack Fenwick, for example.

If that were true it could mean that Ron Friday had been working with Jack Fenwick and the Harpooner to start a war. Of course, there was always the possibility that Friday had been helping Fenwick without knowing what the NSA chief was up to. But that seemed unlikely. Ron Friday had been an attorney, a top-level oil rights negotiator, and a diplomatic advisor. He did not seem naive. And that scared the hell out of Herbert.

The decrypted NSA e-file arrived and Herbert opened it. The folder contained Friday’s observations as well as relevant data about the previous antiterrorist functions of both the National Security Guard and the Special Frontier Force. It did not seem strange to Herbert that SFF had replaced the Black Cats after this latest attack. Maybe the SFF had jurisdiction over strikes against religious sites. Or maybe the government had grown impatient with the ineffectiveness of the Black Cats. There was obviously a terrorist cell roaming Kashmir. Any security agency that failed to maintain security was not going to have that job for very long.

Either he or Paul Hood could call their partners in Indian intelligence and get an explanation for the change. Herbert’s concerns about Ron Friday would not be so easy to dispel.

Herbert entered the numbers 008 on his wheelchair phone. That was Paul Hood’s extension. Shortly before Op-Center opened its doors Matt Stoll had hacked the computer system to make sure he got the 007 extension. Herbert had not been happy about Stoll’s hacking but Hood had appreciated the man’s initiative. As long as Stoll limited his internal sabotage to a one-time hack of the phone directory Hood had decided to overlook it.

The phone beeped once. “Hood here.”

“Chief, it’s Bob. Got a minute?”

“Sure,” Hood said.

“I’ll be right there,” Herbert said. He typed an address in his computer and hit “enter.” “Meanwhile, I’d like you to have a quick look at the e-files I’m sending over. One’s a report from the NSA about this morning’s attack in Srinagar. Another is Ron Friday’s very thin dossier.”

“All right,” Hood said.

Herbert hung up and wheeled himself down the corridor to Hood’s office. As Herbert was en route he got a call from Matt Stoll.

“Make it quick,” Herbert said.

“I was just reviewing the latest number grabs from the Bellhop,” Stoll told him. “That telephone number we’ve been watching, the field phone in Srinagar? It’s making very strange calls.”

“What do you mean?” Herbert said.

“The field phone keeps calling the home phone in Jammu, the police station,” Stoll said. “But the calls last for only one second.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it,” Stoll told him. “We read a connect, a one-second gap, then a disconnect.”

“Is it happening regularly?” Herbert asked.

“There’s been a blip every minute since four P.M. local time, six thirty A.M. our time,” Stoll told him.

“That’s over four hours,” Herbert said. “Short, regular pulses over a long period. Sounds like a tracking beacon.”

“It could be that,” Stoll agreed, “or it could mean that someone hit the autoredial button by accident. Voice mail answers nonemergency calls at the police station. The field phone may have been programmed to read that as a disconnect so it hangs up and rings the number again.”

“That doesn’t sound likely,” Herbert said. “Is there any way to tell if the field phone is moving?”

“Not directly,” Stoll said.

“What about indirectly?” Herbert asked as he reached Paul Hood’s office. The door was open and he knocked on the jamb. Hood was studying his computer monitor. He motioned Herbert in.

“If the phone calls are a beacon, then the police in Kashmir are almost certainly following them, probably by groundbased triangulation,” Stoll told Herbert. “All of that would be run through their computers. It will take some time but we can try breaking into the system.”

“Do it,” Herbert said.

“Sure,” Stoll said. “But why don’t we just call over and ask them what’s going on? Aren’t they our allies? Aren’t we supposed to be running this operation with them?”

“Yes,” Herbert replied. “But if there’s some way we can accomplish this without them knowing I’d be happier. The police are going to want to know why we’re asking. The Black Cats and selected government officials are the only ones who are supposed to know that Striker is coming over.”

“I see,” Stoll said. “Okay. We’ll try hacking them.”

“Thanks,” Herbert said and hung up as he wheeled into Hood’s office. He locked his brakes and shut the door behind him.

“Busy morning?” Hood asked.

“Not until some lunatic decided to set off fireworks in Srinagar,” Herbert replied.

Hood nodded. “I haven’t finished these files,” he said, “but Ron Friday is obviously concerned about us having anything to do with the Black Cats. And you’re apparently worried about having anything to do with Ron Friday.”

Paul Hood had not spent a lot of time working in the intelligence community and he had a number of weaknesses. However, one of Hood’s greatest strengths was that his years in politics and finance had taught him to intuit the concerns of his associates, whatever the topic.

“That’s about the size of it,” Herbert admitted.

“Tell me about this police line blip,” Hood said, still reading.

“The last home phone-to-field phone communication came a moment before the explosion,” Herbert said. “But Matt just told me that the regular pulses from field to home started immediately after that. In ELINT we want three things to happen before we posit a possible connection to a terrorist attack: timing, proximity, and probable source. We’ve got those.”

“The probable source being a cell that’s apparently been working in Srinagar,” Hood said.

“Correct,” Herbert said. “I just asked Matt to try and get more intel on the continuing blips.”

Hood nodded and continued reading. “The problem you have with Friday is a little dicier.”

“Why?” Herbert asked.

“Because he’s there at the request of the Indian government,” Hood said.

“So is Striker,” Herbert pointed out.

“Yes, but they’ve worked with Friday,” Hood said. “They’ll give Striker more freedom because they trust Friday.”

“There’s an irony in there somewhere,” Herbert said.

“Look, I see where you’re coming from,” Hood acknowledged. “Friday worked for Fenwick. Fenwick betrayed his country. But we have to be careful about pushing guilt by association.”

“How about guilt by criminal activity?” Herbert said. “Whatever Friday was doing in Baku was removed from his file.”

“That’s assuming he was working for the NSA,” Hood said. “I just put in a call to Deputy Ambassador Williamson in Baku. Her personal file says that Friday worked as her aide. He was on loan from the NSA to collect intelligence on the oil situation. There’s no reason to assume the CIA involved him in the hunt for the Harpooner. And Jack Fenwick was playing with fire. He may not have told Friday what the NSA was really doing in the Caspian.”

“Or Fenwick may have sent him there,” Herbert pointed out. “Friday’s oil credentials made him the perfect inside man.”

“You’ll need to prove that one,” Hood said.

Herbert didn’t like that answer. When his gut told him something he listened to it. To him, Hood’s habit of being a devil’s advocate was one of his big weaknesses. Still, from the perspective of accountability Hood was doing the right thing. That was why Hood was in charge of Op-Center and Herbert was not. They could not go back to the CIOC and tell them they called off the mission or were concerned about Friday’s role in it because of Herbert’s intuition.

The phone beeped. It was Dorothy Williamson. Hood put the phone on speaker. He was busy typing something on his keyboard as he introduced himself and Herbert. Then he explained that they were involved in a joint operation with Ron Friday. Hood asked if she would mind sharing her impressions of the agent.

“He was very efficient, a good attorney and negotiator, and I was sorry to lose him,” she said.

“Did he interact much with the two Company men, the ones who were killed by the Harpooner’s man?” Hood asked.

“Mr. Friday spent a great deal of time with Mr. Moore and Mr. Thomas,” Williamson replied.

“I see,” Hood said.

Herbert felt vindicated. Friday’s interaction with the men should have shown up in his reports to the NSA. Now he knew the file had been sanitized.

“For the record, Mr. Hood, I do want to point out one thing,” Williamson said. “The Company agents were not killed by one assassin but by two.”

That caught Herbert by surprise.

“There were two assassins at the hospital,” the deputy ambassador went on. “One of them was killed. The other one got away. The Baku police department is still looking for him.”

“I did not know that,” Hood said. “Thank you.”

Herbert’s gut growled a little. The two CIA operatives were killed getting medical attention for a visiting agent who had been poisoned by the Harpooner. Fenwick’s plan to start a Caspian war had depended upon killing all three men at the hospital. Fenwick certainly would have asked Friday for information regarding the movements of the CIA operatives. And just as certainly that information would have been deleted from Friday’s files. But after the two men were killed, Friday had to have suspected that something was wrong. He should have confided in Williamson or made sure he had a better alibi.

Unless he was a willing part of Fenwick’s team.

“Bob Herbert here, Madam Deputy Ambassador,” Herbert said. “Can you tell me where Mr. Friday was on the night of the murders?”

“In his apartment, as I recall,” Williamson informed him.

“Did Mr. Friday have anything to say after he learned about the killings?” Herbert pressed.

“Not really,” she said.

“Was he concerned for his own safety?” Herbert asked.

“He never expressed any worries,” she said. “But there was not a lot of time for chat. We were working hard to put down a war.”

Hood shot Herbert a glance. The intelligence chief sat back, exasperated, as Hood complimented her on her efforts during the crisis.

That was Paul Hood. Whatever the situation he always had the presence of mind to play the diplomat. Not Herbert. If the Harpooner was killing U.S. agents, he wanted to know why it did not occur to Ms. Williamson to find out why Friday had not been hit.

The deputy ambassador had a few more things to say about Friday, especially praising his quick learning curve on the issues they had to deal with between Azerbaijan and its neighbors. Williamson asked Hood to give him her regards if he spoke with Friday.

Hood said he would and clicked off. He regarded Herbert. “You wouldn’t have gotten anywhere hammering her,” Hood said.

“How do you know?” Herbert asked.

“While we were talking I looked at her c.v.,” Hood said. “Williamson’s a political appointee. She ran the spindoctoring for Senator Thompson during his last Senate campaign.”

“Dirty tricks?” Herbert asked disgustedly. “That’s the whole of her intelligence experience?”

“Pretty much,” Hood said. “With two CIA agents on staff in Baku I guess the president thought he was safe scoring points with the majority whip. More to the point, I’m guessing this whole thing sounds too clean to you.”

“Like brass buttons on inspection day.”

“I don’t know, Bob,” Hood said. “It’s not just Williamson. Hank Lewis trusted Friday enough to send him to India.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Herbert said. “I spoke with Hank Lewis earlier this morning. He’s making decisions like a monkey in a space capsule.”

Hood made a face. “He’s a good man—”

“Maybe, Chief, but that’s the way it is,” Herbert insisted. “Lewis gets a jolt of electricity and pushes a button. He hasn’t had time to think about Ron Friday or anyone else. Look, Hank Lewis and Dorothy Williamson shouldn’t be the issues right now—”

“Agreed,” Hood said. “All right. Let’s assume Ron Friday may not be someone we want on our team. How do we vet him? Jack Fenwick’s not going to say anything to anyone.”

“Why not?” Herbert asked. “Maybe the rat-bastard will talk in exchange for immunity—”

“The president got what he wanted, the resignations of Fenwick and his coconspirators,” Hood said. “He doesn’t want a national trial that will question whether he was actually on the edge of a mental breakdown during the crisis, even if it means letting a few underlings remain in the system. Fenwick got off lucky. He’s not going to say anything that might change the president’s mind.”

“That’s great,” Herbert said. “The guilty go free and the president’s psyche doesn’t get the examination it may damn well need.”

“And the stock market doesn’t collapse and the military doesn’t lose faith in its commander-in-chief and a rash of Third World despots don’t start pushing their own agendas while the nation is distracted,” Hood said. “The systems are all too damn interconnected, Bob. Right and wrong don’t matter anymore. It’s all about equilibrium.”

“Is that so?” Herbert said. “Well, mine’s a little shaky right now. I don’t like risking my team, my friends, to keep some Indian nabob happy.”

“We aren’t going to,” Hood said. “We’re going to protect the part of the system we’ve been given.” He looked at his watch. “I don’t know if Ron Friday betrayed his country in Baku. Even if he did it doesn’t mean he’s got a side bet going in India. But we still have about eighteen hours before Striker reaches India. What can we do to get more intel on Friday?”

“I can have my team look into his cell phone records and e-mail,” Herbert said, “maybe get security videos from the embassy and see if anything suspicious turns up.”

“Do it,” Hood said.

“That may not tell us everything,” Herbert said.

“We don’t need everything,” Hood said. “We need probable cause, something other than the possibility that Friday may have helped Fenwick. If we get that then we can go to Senator Fox and the CIOC, tell them we don’t want Striker working with someone who was willing to start a war for personal gain.”

“All very polite,” Herbert grumped. “But we’re using kid gloves on a guy who may have been a goddamned traitor.”

“No,” Hood said. “We’re presuming he’s innocent until we’re sure he’s not. You get me the information. I’ll take care of delivering the message.”

Herbert agreed, reluctantly.

As he wheeled back to his office, the intelligence chief reflected on the fact that the only thing diplomacy ever accomplished was to postpone the inevitable. But Hood was the boss and Herbert would do what he wanted.

For now.

Because, more than loyalty to Paul Hood and Op-Center, more than watching out for his own future, Herbert felt responsible for the security of Striker and the lives of his friends. The day things became so interconnected that Herbert could not do that was the day he became a pretty unhappy man. And then he would have just one more thing to do.

Hang up his spurs.

SIXTEEN

Siachin Base 2E, Kashmir Wednesday, 9:02 P.M.

Sharab and her group left the camouflaged truck and spent the next two hours making their way to the cliff where the cave was located. Ishaq had raced ahead on his motorcycle. He went as far as he could go and then walked the rest of the way. Upon reaching the cave he collected the small, hooded lanterns they kept there and set them out for the others. The small, yellow lights helped Sharab, Samouel, Ali, and Hassan get Nanda up to the ledge below the site. The Kashmiri hostage did not try to get away but she was obviously not comfortable with the climb. The path leading to this point had been narrow with long, sheer drops. This last leg, though less than fifty feet, was almost vertical.

A fine mist drifted across the rock, hampering visibility as they made their way up. The men proceeded with Nanda between them. Sharab brought up the rear. Her right palm was badly bruised and it ached from when she had struck the dashboard earlier. Sharab rarely lost her temper but it was occasionally necessary. Like the War Steeds of the Koran, who struck fire with their hooves, she had to let her anger out in measured doses. Otherwise it would explode in its own time.

Nanda had to feel her way to the handholds that Sharab and the others had cut in the rock face over a year before. The men helped her as best they could.

Sharab had insisted on bringing the Kashmiri along, though not so they would have a hostage. Men who would blow up their own citizens would not hesitate to shoot one more if it suited them. Sharab had taken Nanda for one reason only. She had questions to ask her.

The other two blasts in the Srinagar marketplace had not been a coincidence. Someone had to have known what Sharab and her group were planning. Maybe it was a pro-Indian extremist group. More likely it was someone in the government, since it would have taken careful planning to coordinate the different explosions. Whoever it was, they had caused the additional explosions so that the Free Kashmir Militia would unwittingly take the blame for attacking Hindus.

It did not surprise Sharab that the Indians would kill their own people to turn the population against the FKM. Some governments build germ-war factories in schools and put military headquarters under hospitals. Others arrest dissidents by the wagonload or test toxins in the air and water of an unsuspecting public. Security of the many typically came before the well-being of the few. What upset Sharab was that the Indians had so effectively counterplotted against her group. The Indians had known where and when the FKM was attacking. They knew that the group always took credit for their attack within moments of the blast. The Indians made it impossible for the cell to continue. Even if the authorities did not know who the cell members were or where they lived, they had undermined the group’s credibility. They would no longer be perceived as an anti–New Delhi force. They would be seen as anti-Indian, anti-Hindu.

There was nothing Sharab could do about that now. For the moment she felt safe. If the authorities had known about the cave they would have been waiting here. Once the team was armed and had collected their cold weather gear she would decide whether to stay for the night or push on. Moving through the cold, dark mountains would be dangerous. But giving the Indians a chance to track them down would be just as risky. She could not allow her group to be taken alive or dead. Even possessing their bodies would give the Indian radicals a target with which to rally the mostly moderate population.

Sharab wanted to survive for another reason, also. For the sake of future cells Sharab had to try to figure out how the Indian authorities knew what she and her team had been doing. Someone could have seen them working on the roof of the police station. But that would have led to their arrest and interrogation, not this elaborate plot. She suspected that someone had been watching them for some time. Since virtually none of the FKM’s communications were by phone or computer, and no one in Pakistan knew their exact whereabouts, that someone had to have been spying from nearby.

She knew and trusted everyone on her team. Only two other people had been close to the cell: Nanda and her grandfather. Apu would have been too afraid to move against them and Sharab did not see how Nanda could have spoken with anyone else. They were watched virtually all day, every day. Still, somehow, one of them must have betrayed the group.

Ishaq was leaning from the cave about ten feet above. He reached down and helped everyone up in turn. Sharab waited while Ishaq and Ali literally hoisted Nanda inside. The rock was cool and she placed her cheek against it. She shut her eyes. Though the rock felt good, it was not home.

When she was a young girl, Sharab’s favorite tale in the Koran involved the seven Sleepers of the Cave. One line in particular came to her each time she visited this place: “We made them sleep in the cave for many years, and then awakened them to find out who could best tell the length of their stay.”

Sharab knew that feeling of disorientation. Cut off from all that she loved, separated from all that was familiar, time had lost its meaning. But the woman knew what the Sleepers of the Cave had learned. That the Lord God knew how long they had been at rest. If they trusted in Him they would never be lost.

Sharab had her god and she also had her country. Yet this was not how she had wanted to return to Pakistan. She had always imagined going home victorious rather than running from the enemy.

“Come on!” Samouel called down to her.

Sharab opened her eyes. She continued her climb toward the cave. The moment of peace had passed. She began getting angry again. She pulled herself inside the small cave and stood. The wind wailed around her going into the shallow cave, then whooshed past her as it circled back out. Two lanterns rocked on hooks in the low ceiling. Beneath them were stacked crates of guns, explosives, canned food, clothing, and other gear.

Except for Ishaq, the men were standing along the sides of the cave. Ishaq was reattaching a large tarp to the front of the cave. The outside was painted to resemble the rest of the mountainside. Not only did it help to camouflage the natural cave but it helped keep them warm whenever they were here.

Nanda was near the back of the cave. She was facing Sharab. The ceiling sloped severely and the Kashmiri woman’s back was bent slightly so she could remain standing. There was a band of blood staining the ankle of her pants. The cuff must have worn the flesh raw yet Nanda had not complained. The corners of her mouth trembled, her breath came in anxious little puffs, and her arms were folded across her chest. Sharab decided that was probably an attempt to keep warm and not a show of defiance. They were all perspiring from the climb and the cold air had turned their sweat-drenched clothes frigid.

Sharab walked slowly toward her prisoner.

“Innocent people died today,” Sharab said. “There will be no retribution, no more killing, but I must know. Did you or your grandfather tell anyone about our activities?”

Nanda said nothing.

“We did not destroy the temple and the bus, you know that,” Sharab added. “You’ve lived with us, you must have heard us making plans. You know we only attack government targets. Whoever attacked the Hindus is your enemy. They must be exposed and brought to justice.”

Nanda continued to stand where she was, her arms bundled around her. But there was a change in her posture, in her expression. She had drawn her shoulders back slightly and her eyes and mouth had hardened.

Now she was defiant.

Why? Sharab wondered. Because a Pakistani had dared to suggest that Indians could be enemies to Indians? Nanda could not be so naive. And if she did not agree, she did not want to defend her countrymen either.

“Samouel?” Sharab said.

The young bearded man stood. “Yes?”

“Please take care of dinner, including our guest,” Sharab said. “She’ll need her strength.”

Samouel opened a frost-covered cardboard box that contained military rations. He began passing out the pop-top tins. Each of the shallow, red, six-by-four-inch containers was packed with basmati rice, strips of precooked goat meat, and two cinnamon sticks. A second cardboard box contained cartons of powdered milk. While Samouel handed those to the men Ali got a jug of water from the back of the cave. He added it to the powdered milk, pouring in skillful little bursts that kept the ice that had formed in the jugs from clogging the neck.

Sharab continued to regard Nanda. “You’re coming with us to Pakistan,” Sharab informed her. “Once you’re there you will tell my colleagues what you refuse to tell me.”

Nanda still did not respond. That seemed strange to Sharab. The dark-eyed woman had been talkative enough during the months at the farm. She had complained about the intrusion, the restrictions that had been placed on her, the militaristic leaders of Pakistan, and the terrorist activities of the FKM. It seemed odd that she would not say anything now.

Perhaps the woman was just tired from the climb. Yet she had not said anything in the truck either. It could be that she was afraid for her life. But she had not tried to get away on the mountain path or to reach any of the weapons that were plainly in view.

And then it hit her. The reason Nanda did not want to talk to them. Sharab stopped a few feet in front of the Kashmiri woman.

“You’re working with them,” Sharab said suddenly. “Either you want us to take you to Pakistan or—” She stopped and called Hassan over. Standing nearly six-foot-five, the thirty-six-year-old former quarry worker was the largest man on her team. He had to duck just to stand in the cave.

“Hold her,” Sharab ordered.

Now Nanda moved. She tried to get around Sharab. She was apparently trying to reach one of the guns in the box. But Hassan moved behind Nanda. He grabbed her arms right below the shoulders and pinned them together with his massive hands. The Kashmiri woman moaned and tried to wriggle away. But the big man pushed harder. She arched her back and then stopped moving.

Hassan wrestled Nanda over to Sharab. The Pakistani woman felt the pockets of Nanda’s jeans and then reached under Nanda’s bulky wool sweater. She patted Nanda’s sides and back.

She found what she was looking for at once. It was on Nanda’s left side, just above her hip. As Nanda renewed her struggles, Sharab pulled up the sweater and exposed the woman’s waist.

There was a small leather pouch attached to a narrow elastic band. Inside the pouch was a cellular phone. Sharab removed it and walked closer to one of the hanging lanterns. She examined the palm-sized black phone closely. The liquid crystal display was blank. Though that function had been disengaged the phone itself was working. It vibrated faintly, pulsing for a second and then shutting down for a second. It did that repeatedly. There was also a dark, concave plastic bubble on the top edge. It looked like the eye of a television remote control.

“Ali, Samouel, gather up weapons and supplies,” Sharab ordered. “Do it quickly.”

The men put down their meals and did as they were told. Hassan continued to hold Nanda. Ishaq watched from the side of the cave. He was waiting for Sharab to tell him what to do.

Sharab regarded Nanda. “This is more than just a cell phone, isn’t it? It’s a tracking device.”

Nanda said nothing. Sharab nodded at Hassan and he squeezed her arms together. She gasped but did not answer. After a moment Sharab motioned for him to relax his grip.

“You could not have spoken to your collaborators without us hearing,” Sharab went on. “You must have used the keypad to type information. Now they’re probably tracking you to our base. Who are they?”

Nanda did not answer.

Sharab strode toward the woman and slapped her with a hard backhand across the ear. “Who is behind this?” the woman screamed. “The SFF? The military? The world needs to know that we did not do this!”

Nanda refused to say anything.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” Sharab said, stepping back.

“I do,” the Kashmiri woman said at last. “I stopped your people from committing genocide.”

“Genocide?”

“Against the Hindu population in Kashmir and the rest of India,” Nanda said. “For years we’ve listened to the promise of extermination on television, shouted outside the mosques.”

“You’ve been listening to the radicals, to Fundamentalist clerics who shout extremist views,” Sharab insisted. “All we wanted was freedom for the Muslims in Kashmir.”

“By killing—”

“We are at war!” Sharab declared. “But we only strike military or police targets.” She held up the cell phone and tapped the top with a finger. “Do you want to talk about extermination? This is a remote sensor, isn’t it? We put you close to the site and you used it to trigger explosives left by your partners.”

“What I did was an act of love to protect the rest of my people,” Nanda replied.

“It was an act of betrayal,” Sharab replied. “They moved freely because they knew we would not hurt them. You abused that trust.”

Sharab’s people took part in these acts primarily in the Middle East where they used their bodies as living bombs. The difference was that Nanda’s people had not chosen to make this sacrifice. Nanda and her partners had decided that for them.

But morality and blame did not matter to Sharab right now. Nanda did not have the experience to have originated this plan. Whoever was behind this was coming and undoubtedly they would be well armed. Sharab did not want to be here when they arrived.

She turned to Ishaq. The youngest member of the team was standing beside the cartons eating his goat meat and rice. His lips were pale from the cold and his face was leathery from the pounding the wind had given it during his motorcycle journey. But his soulful eyes were alert, expectant. Sharab tried not to think about what she was about to tell him. But it had to be done.

She handed Ishaq the cell phone. “I need you to stay here with this,” she told him.

The young man stopped chewing.

“You heard what is happening,” Sharab went on. “We’re leaving but her accomplices must think we’re still here.”

Ishaq put down the tin and took the phone. The other men stopped moving behind them.

“It’s very heavy,” Ishaq said softly. “You’re right. I think they’ve added things.” He regarded Sharab. “You don’t want the Indians to leave here, is that correct?”

“That is correct,” Sharab replied quietly. Her voice caught. She continued to look into Ishaq’s eyes.

“Then they won’t leave,” he promised her. “But you had better.”

“Thank you,” Sharab replied.

The woman turned to help the other men, not because they needed help but because she did not want Ishaq to see her weep. She wanted him to hold on to the image of her being strong. He would need that in order to get through this. Yet the tears came. They had been together every day for two years, both in Pakistan and in Kashmir. He was devoted to her and to the cause. But he did not have the climbing or survival skills the other men had. Without them they would not get across the mountains and the line of control and back to Pakistan.

The remaining members of the team pulled on the heavy coats they kept for extended stays in the cave. They threw automatic weapons over their right shoulders and ropes over their left. They put flashlights and matches in their pockets. Ali took the backpack he had loaded with food. Hassan grabbed Nanda after Samouel gave him the backpack with pitons, a hammer, extra flashlights, and maps.

Then, in turn, each member of the party hugged Ishaq. He smiled at them with tears in his eyes. Sharab was the last to embrace him.

“I pray that Allah will send to your aid five thousand angels,” Sharab whispered to him.

“I would sooner He send them to help you reach home,” Ishaq replied. “Then I would be sure that this has not been in vain.”

She hugged him even tighter then patted his back, turned, and stepped through the tarp.

SEVENTEEN

Srinagar, Kashmir Wednesday, 10:00 P.M.

Ron Friday was in his small room when the phone on the rickety night table rang. He opened his eyes and looked at his watch.

Right on time.

The phone was from the 1950s, a heavy black anvil of a thing with a thick brown cord. And it really rang rather than beeped. Friday was sitting on the bed; after sending the encoded message to Hank Lewis he had turned on the black-and-white TV. An old movie was on. Even with English subtitles Friday had trouble following the plot. The fact that he kept dozing off did not help.

Friday did not answer the phone on the first ring. Or the second. He did not pick up until the tenth ring. That was how he knew the caller was his Black Cat contact. Tenth ring at the tenth hour.

The caller, Captain Prem Nazir, said he would meet Friday outside in fifteen minutes.

Friday pulled on his shoes, grabbed his windbreaker, and headed down the single flight of stairs. There were only twelve rooms at Binoo’s Palace, most of them occupied by market workers, women of questionable provenance, and men who rarely emerged from their rooms. Obviously, the police turned a blind eye to more than just the gaming parlor.

The inn did not have much of a lobby. A reception desk was located to the left of the stairs. It was run by Binoo during the day and his sister at night. There was a Persian rug on a hardwood floor with battered sofas on either side. The windows looked out on the dark, narrow street. The smell of the potent, native-grown Juari cigarettes was thick here. The gaming parlor was located in a room behind the counter. A veil of smoke actually hung like a stage scrim behind Binoo’s oblivious sister.

The heavyset woman was leaning on the counter. She did not look up from her movie magazine as Friday came down. That was what he loved about this place. No one gave a damn.

The lobby was empty. So was the street. Friday leaned against the wall and waited.

Friday had never met the fifty-three-year-old Captain Nazir. Atomic Energy Minister Shankar knew him and put a lot of trust in him. Friday did not trust anyone, including Shankar. But Captain Nazir’s extensive background in espionage, first behind the lines in Pakistan in the 1960s, then with the Indian army, and now with the National Security Guard, suggested that the two men might enjoy a good working relationship.

Unless, that is, there were a problem between the NSG and the Special Frontier Force. That was the first order of business Friday intended to discuss with Nazir, even before they talked about the Striker mission to search for Pakistani nuclear missiles. Friday did not mind going on a sensitive mission for the Black Cats if they did not have the full trust and support of the government. Part of intelligence work was doing things without government approval. But he did mind going out if the Black Cats and the SFF were at war, if one group were looking to embarrass the other. A freeze-out of the NSG at the bomb site did not mean that was the case. But Friday wanted to be sure.

Captain Nazir arrived exactly on schedule. He was strolling in no particular hurry with no apparent destination, and he was smoking a Juari. That was smart. The officer was up from New Delhi but he was not smoking one of the milder brands that was popular in the capital. The local cigarette would help him blend in with the surroundings.

The officer was dressed in a plain gray sweatshirt, khaki slacks, and Nikes. He was about five-foot-seven with short black hair and a scar across his forehead. His skin was smooth and dark. He looked exactly like the photographs Friday had seen.

Ron Friday obviously looked like his photographs as well. Captain Nazir did not bother to introduce himself. They would not say one another’s names at all. There were still SFF personnel working in the bazaar. They might have set up electronic surveillance of the area to try to catch the bombers. If so, someone might overhear them.

The officer simply offered Friday his hand and said in a low, rough voice, “Walk with me.”

The two men continued in the direction Captain Nazir had been headed, away from the main street, Shervani Road. The narrow side street where the inn was located was little more than an alley. There were dark shops on either side of the road. They sold items that did not usually turn up in the bazaar, like bicycles, men’s suits, and small appliances. The street ended in a high brick wall about three hundred yards away.

Nazir drew on the nub of his cigarette. “The minister thinks very highly of you.”

“Thanks,” Friday said. He looked down and spoke very softly. “Tell me something. What happened today in the marketplace ?”

“I’m not sure,” Nazir replied.

“Would you tell me if you did?” Friday asked.

“I’m not sure,” Nazir admitted.

“Why was the SFF handling the investigation instead of your people?” Friday asked.

Nazir stopped walking. He retrieved a pack of cigarettes from under his sweatshirt and used one to light another. He looked at Friday in the glow of the newly lit cigarette.

“I do not know the answer to that,” the officer replied as he continued walking.

“Let me point you in a direction,” Friday said. “Does the SFF have special jurisdiction over Srinagar or religious targets ?”

“No,” Nazir replied.

“But their personnel were on the scene and your people were not,” Friday repeated.

“Yes,” Nazir said.

This was becoming frustrating. Friday stopped walking. He grabbed Nazir by the arm. The officer did not react.

“Before I head north and risk my life, I need to know if there’s a leak in your organization,” Friday said.

“Why would you think there is?” Nazir asked.

“Because there was not a single Black Cat Commando at the scene,” Friday told him. “Why else would you be shut out of the investigation except for security issues?”

“Humiliation,” Nazir suggested. “You have conflicts between your intelligence services. They go to great lengths to undermine one another even though you work toward the same goal.”

There was no disputing that, Friday thought. He had killed a CIA agent not long ago.

“The truth is, the SFF has been extremely quiet about their activities of late and we have been quiet about our operations, including this one,” Nazir went on. “Both groups have their allies in New Delhi and, eventually, all the intelligence we gather gets shuffled into the system and used.”

“Like a slaughterhouse,” Friday observed.

“A slaughterhouse,” Nazir said. He nodded appreciatively. “I like that. I like it very much.”

“I’m glad,” Friday replied. “Now tell me something I’m going to like. For example, why we should put ourselves into the hands of an intelligence agency that may be risking our lives to boost their own standing in New Delhi?”

“Is that what you think?” Nazir asked.

“I don’t know,” Friday replied. “Convince me otherwise.”

“Do you know anything about Hinduism?” Nazir asked Friday.

“I’m familiar with the basics,” Friday replied. He had no idea what that had to do with anything.

“Do you know that Hinduism is not the name we use for our faith. It’s something the West invented.”

“I didn’t know that,” Friday admitted.

“We are countless sects and castes, all of which have their own names and very different views of the Veda, the holy text,” Nazir said. “The greatest problem we have as a nation is that we carry our factionalism into government. Everyone defends his own unit or department or consulate as if it were his personal faith. We do this without considering how our actions affect the whole. I am guilty of that too. My ‘god,’ if you will, is the one who can help me get things done. Not necessarily the one who can do the best job for India.” He drew on his cigarette. “The tragedy is that the whole is now threatened with destruction and we are still not pulling together. We need more intelligence on Pakistan’s nuclear threat. We cannot go and get that information ourselves for fear of triggering the very thing we are trying to avoid—a nuclear exchange. You and your group are the only ones who can help us.” Nazir regarded Friday through the twisting smoke of his cigarette. “If you are still willing to undertake this mission I will be the point man for you. I will go as far into the field as I can with maps, clearances, and geographical reconnaissance. The minister and I will make certain that no one interferes with your activities. He does not know the men who are coming from Washington but he has enormous respect for you. He considers you a member of ‘his’ sect. That is more than simply an honor. It means that in future undertakings of your own you will be able to call on him. To him the members of his team come before anything. But we must secure the intelligence we need to ensure that the team continues. The American force is going in anyway. I am here to make sure that you are still willing to go with them. I hope to be able to report that back to the minister.”

Friday did not believe any man who claimed to put the good of the team before his own good. A minister who was running a secret operation with the Black Cats was looking to strengthen his ties to the intelligence community and build his power base. If he could spy on Pakistan today he might spy on the SFF or the prime minister tomorrow.

The fact that a politician might have personal ambition did not bother Friday. He had heard what Captain Nazir was really saying. Minister Shankar wanted Friday to go with Striker to make sure that the Americans were working for India and not just for Washington. And if Friday did undertake this mission he would have a highly placed ally in the Indian government.

The men reached the brick wall at the end of the street and Nazir lit another cigarette. Then they turned around and started walking back to the inn. Nazir was looking down. He had obviously said what he had come to say. Now it was up to Friday.

“You still haven’t convinced me that there isn’t a leak in your organization,” Friday said. “How do I know we won’t go out there and find ourselves ass-deep in Pakistanis?”

“You may,” Nazir granted. “That is why we cannot go ourselves. As for leaks, I know everyone in the Black Cats. We have not been betrayed in the past. Beyond that, I cannot give the assurances you ask for.” Nazir smiled for the first time. “It is even possible that someone in Washington has leaked this to the Pakistanis. There is always danger in our profession. The only question is whether the rewards are worth the risks. We believe they are, for us—and for you.”

That sounded very much like an introductory lecture from a guru at an ashram. But then, Friday should have expected that.

“All right,” Friday said. “I’m in—with one condition.”

“And that is?”

“I want to know more about today’s attack,” Friday said. “Something about it is not sitting right.”

“Can you tell me exactly what is bothering you?” Nazir asked.

“The fact that the attacker detonated two separate charges to bring down the police station and the temple,” Friday said. “There was no reason for that. One large explosion would have accomplished the same thing. And it would have been easier to set.”

Nazir nodded. “I’ve been wondering about that myself. All right. I’ll see what I can find out and I will let you know when we are together again—which will be tomorrow around noon. We can meet here and then go to lunch. I will bring the materials I’ll be turning over to your team.”

“Fair enough,” Friday said.

The men reached the inn. Friday regarded the captain.

“One more question,” Friday said.

“Of course.”

“Why didn’t you offer me a cigarette?” Friday asked.

“Because you don’t smoke,” Nazir replied.

“Did the minister tell you that?”

“No,” Nazir told him.

“You checked up on me, then,” Friday said. “Asked people I’ve worked with about my habits and potential weaknesses.”

“That’s right,” Nazir told him.

“So you didn’t entirely trust the minister’s judgment about bringing me onboard,” Friday pointed out.

Nazir smiled again. “I said I knew everyone in the Black Cats. The minister is not one of my commandoes.”

“I see,” Friday replied. “That was still sloppy. You told me something about yourself, your methods, who you trust. That’s something a professional shouldn’t do.”

“You’re right,” Nazir replied evenly. “But how do you know I wasn’t testing you to see if you’d notice what I did?” The captain offered his hand. “Good night.”

“Good night,” Friday said. He felt the flush of embarrassment and a trace of doubt as he shook Nazir’s hand.

The Black Cat Commando turned then and walked into the night, trailing a thick cloud of smoke behind him.

EIGHTEEN

Alconbury, Great Britain Wednesday, 7:10 P.M.

Mike Rodgers was looking at files Bob Herbert had e-mailed from Op-Center when the giant C-130 touched down at the Royal Air Force station in Alconbury. Though the slow takeoff had seemed like a strain for the aircraft, the landing was barely noticeable. Maybe that was because the plane shook so much during the trans-Atlantic flight that Rodgers did not realize it had finally touched down. He was very much aware when the engines shut down, however. The plane stopped vibrating but he did not. After over six hours he felt as if there were a small electric current running through his body from sole to scalp. He knew from experience that it would take about thirty to forty minutes for that sensation to stop. Then, of course, Striker would be airbound again and it would start once more. Somewhere in that process was a microcosm of the ups and downs and sensations of life but he was too distracted to look for it right now.

The team left the aircraft but only to stand on the field. They would only be on the ground for an hour or so, long enough for a waiting pair of hydraulic forklifts to off-load several crates of spare parts.

The officers of the RAF referred to Alconbury as the Really American Field. Since the end of World War II it had effectively been a hub of operations for the United States Air Force in Europe. It was a large, modern field with state-of-the-art communications, repair, and munitions facilities. Since every base, every field, every barracks needed a nickname, the Americans here had nicknamed the field “Al.” Many of the American servicemen went around humming the Paul Simon song, “You Can Call Me Al.” The Brits did not really get the eternal American fascination with sobriquets for everything from presidents to spacecraft to their weapons—Honest Abe, Friendship 7, Old Betsy. But Mike Rodgers understood. It made formidable tools and institutions seem a little less intimidating. And it implied a familiarity, a kinship with the thing or place, a sense that man, object, and organization were somehow equal.

It was very American.

The members of Striker walked down the cargo bay ramp and onto the tarmac. Two of the Strikers lit cigarettes and stood together near an eyewash stand. Other soldiers stretched, did jumping jacks, or just lay back on the field and looked up at the blue-black sky. Brett August used one of the field phones standing off by the warehouse. He was probably calling one of the girls he had in this port. Perhaps he would bail on the team and visit her on the way back. The colonel certainly had the personal time coming to him. They all did.

Mike Rodgers wandered off by himself. He headed toward the nose of the aircraft. The wind rushed across the wideopen field, carrying with it the familiar air base smells of diesel fuel, oil lubricant, and rubber from the friction-heated tires of aircraft. As the sun went down and the tarmac cooled and shrunk, the smells seemed to be squeezed out of them. Whatever airfield in the world Rodgers visited, those three smells were always present. They made him feel at home. The cool air and very solid ground felt great.

Rodgers had his hands in his pockets, his eyes on the oilstained field. He was thinking about the data Friday had sent to the NSA and the files Herbert had forwarded to him. He was also thinking about Ron Friday himself. And the many Ron Fridays he had worked with over the decades.

Rodgers always had a problem with missions that involved other governments and other agencies within his own government. Information given to a field operative was not always informative. Sometimes it was wrong, by either accident, inefficiency, or design. The only way to find out for sure was to be on the mission. By then, bad information or wrong conclusions drawn from incomplete data could kill you.

The other problem Rodgers had with multigroup missions was authority and accountability. Operatives were like kids in more ways than one. They enjoyed playing outside and they resented having to listen to someone else’s “parent.” Ron Friday might be a good and responsible man. But first and foremost, Friday had to answer to the head of the NSA and probably to his sponsor in the Indian government. Satisfying their needs, achieving their targets, took priority over helping Rodgers, the mission leader. Ideally, their goals would be exactly the same and there would be no conflict. But that rarely happened. And sometimes it was worse than that. Sometimes operatives or officers were attached to a mission to make sure that it failed, to embarrass a group that might be fighting for the attention of the president or the favor of a world leader or even the same limited funding.

In a situation where a team was already surrounded by adversaries Mike Rodgers did not want to feel as if he could not count on his own personnel. Especially when the lives of the Strikers were at risk.

Of course, Rodgers had never met Ron Friday or the Black Cat officer they were linking up with, Captain Nazir. He would do what he always did: size them up when he met them. He could usually tell right away whether he could or could not trust people.

Right now, though, the thing that troubled Rodgers most had nothing to do with Friday. It had to do with the explosion in Srinagar. In particular, with that last call from the home phone to the field phone.

Other nations routinely used cell phones as part of their intelligence-gathering and espionage efforts. Not just surveillance of the calls but the hardware itself. The electronics did not raise alarms at airport security; most government officials, military personnel, and businesspeople had them; and they already had some of the wiring and microchips that were necessary for saboteurs. Cell phones were also extremely well positioned to kill. It did not take more than a wedge of C-4, packed inside the workings of a cell phone, to blow the side of a target’s head off when he answered a call.

But Rodgers recalled one incident in particular, in the former Portuguese colony of Timor, that had parallels to this. He had read about it in an Australian military white paper while he was on Melville Island observing naval maneuvers in the Timor Sea in 1999. The invading Indonesian military had given cell phones to poor East Timorese civilians in what appeared to be a gesture of good will. The civilians were permitted to use the Indonesian military mobile communications service to make calls. The phones were not just phones but two-way radios. Civilians who had access to groups that were intensely loyal to imprisoned leader Xanana Gusmao were inadvertently used as spies to eavesdrop on nationalistic activities. Out of curiosity, Rodgers had asked a colleague in Australia’s Department of Defense Strategy and Intelligence if the Indonesians had developed that themselves. He said they had not. The technology had come from Moscow. The Russians were also big suppliers of Indian technology.

What was significant to Rodgers was that the radio function was activated by signals sent from the Indonesian military outpost in Baukau. The signals were sent after calls had indicated that one individual or another was going to be in a strategic location.

Rodgers could not help but wonder if the home phone had somehow signaled the field phone to detonate the secondary blasts. The timing was too uncomfortably close to be coincidence. And the continuation of the signal at such regular intervals suggested that the terrorists were being tracked.

Hell, it did more than suggest that, Rodgers told himself. And the more he thought about it, the more he began to realize that they might have a very nasty developing situation on their hands. The Pentagon’s elite think tank, with the innocuous name of the Department of Theoretical Effects, called this process “computing with vaporware.” Rodgers had always been good at that, back when the Pentagon still called it “domino thinking.”

He had to talk to Herbert about this.

Rodgers called over to Ishi Honda. The communications man was lying on the tarmac with the TAC-SAT beside him. He came running over with the secure phone. Rodgers thanked him then squatted on the field beside the oblong unit and phoned Bob Herbert. He used the earphones so he could hear over the roar of landing and departing jets.

Herbert picked up at once.

“Bob, it’s Mike Rodgers,” the general said.

“Glad to hear from you. Are you at Al?” Herbert asked.

“Just landed,” Rodgers said. “Listen, Bob. I’ve been thinking about this latest data you sent me. I’ve got a feeling that the Srinagar bombers have been tagged, maybe by someone on the inside.”

“I’ve got that same feeling,” Herbert admitted. “Especially since we’ve been able to place the calls from field to home before that. They originated at a farm in Kargil. We notified the SFF. They sent over a local constable to check the place out. The farmer refused to say anything and they could not find his granddaughter. Ron and the SFF guy are going over first thing in the morning, see if they can’t get more out of him.”

“None of this smells right,” Rodgers said.

“No, it doesn’t,” Herbert said. “And there’s something else. The farmer’s daughter and son-in-law were resistance fighters who died fighting the Pakistani invasion.”

“So the farmer certainly had a reason to be part of a conspiracy against the Free Kashmir Militia,” Rodgers said.

“In theory, yes,” Herbert said. “What we’re looking at now is whether there is a conspiracy and whether it could have involved the district police station that was home for the cell phone. Matt Stoll’s gotten into their personnel files and my team is looking at the backgrounds of each officer. We want to see if any of them have connections with antiterrorist groups.”

“You realize, Bob, that if you find a link between the police and the Pakistani cell, we may have an unprecedented international incident on our hands,” Rodgers said.

“I don’t follow,” Herbert replied. “Just because they might have known about the attack and decided not to prevent it—”

“I think it may have been more than that,” Rodgers said. “There were three separate attacks. Only one of them conformed to the established m.o. of the Free Kashmir Militia, the bombing of the police station.”

“Wait a minute,” Herbert said. “That’s a big leap. You’re saying the police could have planned this action themselves? That the Indians attacked their own temples—”

“To coincide with the FKM attack, yes,” Rodgers said.

“But an operation like that would have to involve more than just the police in Kashmir,” Herbert pointed out. “Especially if they’re tracking and going to attempt to capture the cell, which is apparently the case.”

“I know,” Rodgers replied. “Isn’t it possible they do have help? From a group that is a little more involved than usual?”

“The SFF,” Herbert said.

“Why not? That could be the reason they wanted the bazaar sealed and the Black Cats kept out,” Rodgers said.

Herbert thought for a moment. “It’s possible,” he agreed. “But it’s also possible we’re getting ahead of ourselves.”

“Better than being behind,” Rodgers pointed out.

“Touché,” Herbert said. “Look. Let’s see what Ron Friday and his partner turn up in the morning. I’ll bring Paul up to date and let you know when we have anything else.”

“Sure,” Rodgers said. “But while we’re getting ahead of ourselves let’s go one step further.”

“All right,” Herbert said tentatively.

“Striker is going in to Pakistan to look for nukes,” Rodgers said. “What if we don’t find very many or even none at all? Suppose the Indian government authorized the Srinagar attack just to rouse their population and pick a fight. A fight Pakistan cannot possibly win.”

“You think they’ll respond with a nuclear strike?” Herbert said.

“Why not?” Rodgers asked.

“The world wouldn’t stand for it!” Herbert replied.

“What would the world do?” Rodgers asked. “Go to war against India? Fire missiles on New Delhi? Would they impose sanctions? What kind? To what end? And what would happen when hundreds of thousands of Indians started to starve and die? Bob, we’re not talking about Iraq or North Korea. We’re talking about one billion people with the fourth largest military in the world. Nearly a billion Hindus who are afraid of becoming the victims of a Muslim holy war.”

“Mike, no nation on earth is going to condone a nuclear strike against Pakistan,” Herbert said. “Period.”

“The question is not condoning,” Rodgers said. “The question is how do you respond if it happens. What would we do alone?”

“Alone?”

“More or less,” Rodgers said. “I’m betting Moscow and Beijing wouldn’t complain too loud, for starters. India nuking Pakistan leaves Moscow free to slam whichever republics they want with a limited nuclear strike. No more long wars in Afghanistan or Chechnya. And China probably wouldn’t bitch too loud because it gives them a precedent to move on Taiwan.”

“They wouldn’t,” Herbert said. “It’s insane.”

“No, it’s survival,” Rodgers said. “Israel’s got a nuclear strike plan ready in case of a united Arab attack. And they’d use it, you know that. What if India has the same kind of plan? And with the same very powerful justification, I might add. Religious persecution.”

Herbert said nothing.

“Bob, all I’m saying is that it’s like the house that Jack built,” Rodgers said. “One little thing leads to another and then another. Maybe it’s not those things, but it’s nothing good.”

“No, it is nothing good,” Herbert agreed. “I still think we’re overreacting but I’ll get back to you as soon as we know anything. Meantime, I have just one suggestion.”

“What’s that?” Rodgers asked.

“Make sure you sleep on the flight to India,” Herbert said. “One way or another you’re going to need it.”

NINETEEN

Kargil, Kashmir Thursday, 6:45 A.M.

Ron Friday was annoyed that the call did not come from Hank Lewis. It came from Captain Nazir. To Friday, that meant on this leg of the mission Friday was reporting to New Delhi and not to Washington. That suggested the Black Cats would be watching him closely. Perhaps the Indian government did not want him talking to the NSA or anyone else about whatever they might find here. At least, not before they went on the mission.

They were to go to a chicken farm in the foothills of Kargil. Apparently, an intelligence officer at Op-Center found a possible link between that location and the bazaar bombing. Op-Center did not tell Hank Lewis or their Black Cat liaisons why they thought the farm might be significant or what they believed that significance to be. All they said was that the situation in the bazaar was “atypical” and that the terrorists had to be taken alive. To Friday that translated as, “We aren’t sure the terrorists did this and we need to talk to them.”

The pair flew to the farm in a fast, highly maneuverable Kamov Ka-25 helicopter. Captain Nazir was at the controls. The compact sky-blue chopper was one of more than two dozen Ka-25s India bought from Russia when the Soviet Union collapsed and the military began cutting costs. Friday was not surprised to be riding in a military bird. A black National Security Guard chopper would stand out. But the skies here were full of Indian military traffic. Ironically, taking an air force craft was the best way to be invisible on Pakistani radar.

The men flew north at approximately two hundred feet, following the increasingly jagged and sloping terrain. Though their unusually low passage caused some agitation among sheep and horses, and curses from their owners, Nazir explained over the headset that it was necessary. The air currents here were difficult to manage, especially early in the morning. As the sun rose the lower layers of air became heated. They mixed violently with the icy air flowing down from the mountains and created a particularly hazardous navigation zone between five hundred and two thousand feet up. It troubled Friday that a single Pakistani operative with a shoulder-mounted rocket launcher could take out the Ka-25 with no problem. He hoped that whatever information Op-Center had received was not what the intelligence community called a “TM,” a “tactical mislead,” a lie precipitated by the desire to slow down pursuit by smoking out and eliminating the pursuers.

The two men reached the farmhouse without incident. Before landing, Captain Nazir had buzzed the small barn and then the wood-and-stone farmhouse. An old farmer came out to see what was happening. He seemed surprised as he shielded his eyes to look up at the chopper. Nazir came in lower until he was just above the rooftop.

“What do you think?” Nazir asked. “Is the farmer alone?”

“Most likely,” Friday replied. Hostages who had been kept a short while tended to be highly agitated, even panicked. They wanted to get to someone who could protect them. Even if there were other hostages at risk, including close family members, self-preservation was their first, irrepressible instinct. Hostages who had been held a long while were usually just the opposite. They had already bonded with their captors and were very standoffish, frequently antagonistic. The man below them was neither.

Nazir hovered a moment longer and then set down on a nearby field. After the noisy forty-minute flight it was good to hear nothing but the wind. The cool breeze also felt good as they made their way to the farm. Nazir wore a .38 in a holster on his hip. Friday carried a derringer in the right pocket of his windbreaker and a switchblade in the left. The .22 gun did not pack much punch but he could palm it if necessary and easily use it to blind an assailant.

The farmer waited for the men to arrive. Friday made Apu Kumar out to be about sixty-five. He was a small, slopeshouldered man with slits for eyes. His features seemed to have a trace of Mongolian ancestry. That was not uncommon along the Himalayas. Nomads from many Asian races had roamed this region for tens of thousands of years, making it one of the world’s truest melting pots. One of the sad ironies of the conflict here was the fact that so many of the combatants had the same blood.

The men stopped a few feet from the farmer. The farmer’s dark, suspicious eyes looked them up and down. Beyond the house was the barn. The chickens were still squawking from the flyover.

“Good morning,” Nazir said.

The farmer nodded deeply, once.

“Are you Apu Kumar?” Nazir asked.

The farmer nodded again. This time the nod was a little less self-assured and his eyes shifted from Nazir to Friday.

“Does anyone else live here?” Nazir inquired.

“My granddaughter,” the farmer replied.

“Anyone else?”

Kumar shook his head.

“Is your granddaughter here now?” Nazir asked.

The farmer shook his head. He shifted a little now. His expression suggested fear for his safety but now his body language said he was also tense, anxious. He was hiding something. Possibly about his granddaughter.

“Where is she?” Nazir pressed.

“Out,” Apu replied. “She runs errands.”

“I see. Do you mind if we look around?” Nazir asked.

“May I ask what you are looking for?” the farmer asked.

“I don’t know,” Nazir admitted.

“Well, go ahead,” Apu said. “But be careful of my chickens. You’ve already frightened them once with your machine.” He made a disdainful gesture toward the helicopter.

Nazir nodded and turned. Friday hesitated.

“What’s wrong?” Nazir asked the American.

Friday continued to look at the farmer. “Your granddaughter is one of them, isn’t she?”

Apu did not move. He did not say, “My granddaughter is one of who?” He said nothing. That told Friday a lot.

Friday approached the farmer. Apu started backing away. Friday held up his hands, knuckles out. The derringer was in his right palm where the farmer could not see it. Friday watched both the farmer and the farmhouse door and window behind him. He could not be absolutely certain no was one inside or that Apu would not try to get a gun or ax or some other weapon just inside.

“Mr. Kumar, everything is all right,” Friday said slowly, softly. “I’m not going to do anything to you. Nothing at all.”

Apu slowed then stopped. Friday stopped as well.

“Good,” Friday said. He lowered his hands and put them back in his pockets. The derringer was pointed at Apu. “I want to ask you a question but it’s an important one. All right?”

Apu nodded once.

“I need to know if you do not want to talk to us because you and your granddaughter support the terrorists or because they are holding her hostage,” Friday said to him.

Apu hesitated.

“Mr. Kumar, people were killed yesterday when a bomb exploded in Srinagar,” Captain Nazir said. “Police officers, pilgrims on the way to Pahalgam, and worshipers in a temple. Did your granddaughter have a hand in that or did she not?”

“No!” Apu half-shouted, half-wept. “We do not support them. They forced her to go with them! They left yesterday. I was told to be silent or they said they would kill her. How is she? How is my granddaughter?”

“We don’t know,” Nazir told him. “But we want to find her and help her. Have they been back here since the explosion ?” Nazir asked.

“No,” Apu said. “One man stayed behind when the others left. He called and claimed responsibility for an attack. I heard him. But then he left suddenly at around five o’clock.”

“Suddenly?” Nazir asked.

“He seemed very upset after talking to someone else on the telephone,” Apu told him.

“As if something had gone wrong?” Friday asked. That would certainly confirm what Op-Center was thinking.

“I don’t know,” Apu said. “He was usually very calm. I even heard him make jokes sometimes. But not then. Maybe something did happen.”

“If you came to Srinagar with us, would you be able to tell us what these people look like?” Nazir asked.

Apu nodded.

Friday touched Nazir’s arm. “We may not have time for that,” the NSA operative said. Whatever is happening seems to be happening very quickly. “Mr. Kumar, were your visitors Pakistani?”

“Yes.”

“How many of them were there and how long did they stay with you?” Friday asked.

“There were five and they stayed for five months,” Apu told him.

“Did you hear any of their names?” Nazir asked.

“Yes,” Apu said. “I heard ‘Sharab’ but no last names.”

“Did they ever leave you alone?” Friday asked.

“Only in our bedroom,” Apu told him. “One of them was always on guard outside.”

“Did they ever mistreat you?” Friday asked.

Apu shook his head. He was like a prizefighter who kept getting peppered with jabs. But that was how interrogations needed to be conducted. Once the target opened up the interrogator had to keep him open. Friday looked over at the stone barn.

“Who took care of your chickens?” Friday asked.

“I did in the morning and Nanda—that’s my granddaughter—she took care of them in the late afternoon,” Apu replied.

“The Pakistanis were with you then?” Nazir said.

“Yes.”

“How did your eggs get to market?” Friday asked.

“The Pakistanis took them,” Apu replied.

That would explain how the terrorists had cased their target in Srinagar without being noticed. But it did not explain the field phone signal that came from here.

“Do you or your granddaughter own a cellular telephone, Mr. Kumar?” Friday asked.

Apu shook his head.

“What did she do in her free time?” Friday pressed.

“She read and she wrote poetry.”

“Did she always write poetry?” Friday asked.

Apu said she did not. Friday sensed that he was on to something.

“Do you have any of the poetry?” Friday asked.

“In the room,” Apu told him. “She used to recite it to herself while she worked.”

Friday was definitely on to something. He and Captain Nazir exchanged glances. They asked to see the poems.

Apu took them inside. Friday was alert as they walked into the two-bedroom house. There was no one inside or anywhere to hide. There was hardly any furniture, just a few chairs and a table. The place smelled of ash and musk. The ash was from the wood-burning stove on which they also did their cooking. The musk, Friday suspected, was from their guests.

Apu led them to the bedroom. He took a stack of papers from the drawer in the nightstand. He handed them to Captain Nazir. The poems were short and written in pencil. They were about everything from flowers to clouds to rain. Nazir read the earliest.

It rained five days and flowers grew.

And they stayed fresh and new.

In my cart I kept a few

To sell to all of you.

“Not very profound,” Nazir said.

Friday did not comment. He was not so sure of that.

The captain flipped through the others. The structure seemed to be the same in all of the poems, a “Mary Had a Little Lamb” cadence.

“Go back to the first,” Friday said.

Nazir flipped back to the top sheet.

“Mr. Kumar, you said Nanda recited these poems while she worked?” Friday asked.

“Yes.”

“Is she a political activist?”

“She is an outspoken patriot who was devoted to her parents,” Apu said. “My daughter and son-in-law were killed resisting the Pakistanis.”

“There it is,” Friday said.

“I don’t follow,” Captain Nazir said.

Friday asked Apu to stay in the bedroom. He led Nazir back outside.

“Captain, there were five Pakistanis,” Friday told him.

“The woman mentions the number five in the first line of the first poem. The Pakistanis stayed here—she mentions that word too. She says something about her cart going to market. The Pakistanis sold the eggs for her. Suppose someone got her a cell phone. Suppose the line was open and monitored twenty-four/seven. You said the poems don’t seem very profound. I disagree.”

“She could have emphasized words that gave information to someone,” Nazir said.

“Right,” Friday said. “Doesn’t the SFF maintain a group of volunteers from the general population? Civilian Network Operatives?”

“Yes.”

“How does that system work?” Friday asked.

“Operatives are recruited in sensitive regions or businesses and visited on a regular basis, either at their place of employment or at home,” Captain Nazir said. “They report unusual activities or provide other information they may have collected.”

“What if an operative were to miss an appointment?” Friday asked. “What if Nanda failed to show up at the marketplace ?”

Nazir nodded. “I see what you mean,” he said. “The SFF would come looking for her.”

“Exactly,” Friday said. “Suppose at some point this woman, Nanda, had been recruited by the SFF. Maybe when the Pakistanis held Kargil, maybe after. If someone showed up with her cart in the bazaar, her SFF contact would have known that something was wrong. They might have arranged to drop a field phone off in the barn where she was sure to find it.”

“Yes, it’s starting to come together,” Nazir said. “The SFF sponsors the woman. She feeds them information about the cell and they decide to let the terrorists make their attack on the police station. At the same time the SFF enlarges the scope of that attack so the Pakistanis will take the blame for striking at religious targets. The SFF also seals off the site to clean up any evidence that might connect them to the other two explosions.”

“But the job isn’t finished,” Friday said. “The terrorists realize they’ve been set up and are probably trying to get to Pakistan. They take Nanda with them in case they need a hostage.”

“More likely a witness,” Nazir pointed out. “The terrorists claimed responsibility for the explosion, probably before they knew the full extent of the damage. Nanda knows they were not responsible for the temple bombing. They need her to say that.”

“Good point,” Friday said. “Meanwhile, if she still has her cell phone with her, she may be signaling the SFF, telling them where to find them.”

Nazir was silent for a moment. “If that is true, they probably haven’t caught up with the terrorists yet,” he said. “I would have heard about it. Which means we’ve got to get to them first. If the SFF executes the terrorists before they can be heard it will turn nearly one billion Hindus against Pakistan. There will be a war and it will be an all-out war, a holy war, with flame from the nostrils of Shiva.”

“Shiva—the destroyer,” Friday said. “A nuclear war.”

“Provoked by the SFF and its radical allies in the cabinet and the military before Pakistan is equipped to respond,” Nazir said.

Friday started running toward the Kamov. “I’m going to get in touch with Op-Center and see if they know more than they’re telling,” he said. “You’d better grab Mr. Kumar and bring him to the chopper. We may need someone to help convince Nanda she’s on the wrong side of this thing.”

As Friday hurried across the field he realized one thing more. Something that gave him a little satisfaction, a little boost.

Captain Nazir was not as smart as he had pretended to be back at the inn.

TWENTY

Washington, D.C. Wednesday, 8:17 P.M.

For most of its history, the shadowy National Reconnaissance Office was the least known of all the government agencies. The spur for the formation of the NRO was the downing of Gary Powers’s U-2 spy plane over the Soviet Union in May of that year. President Eisenhower ordered Defense Secretary Thomas Gates to head a panel to look into the application of satellites to undertake photographic reconnaissance. That would minimize the likelihood that the United States would suffer another humiliation like the Powers affair.

From the start there was furious debate between the White House, the air force, the Department of Defense, and the CIA over who should be responsible for administering the agency. By the time the NRO was established on August 25, 1960, it was agreed that the air force would provide the launch capabilities for spy satellites, the Department of Defense would develop technology for spying from space, and the CIA would handle the interpretation of intelligence. Unfortunately, there were conflicts almost from the start. At stake were not just budgeting and manpower issues but the intelligence needs of the different military and civilian agencies. During the next five years relationships between the Pentagon and the CIA became so strained that they were actually sabotaging one another’s access to data from the nascent network of satellites. In 1965, the secretary of defense stepped in with a proposal that time and resources would be directed by a three-person executive committee. The EXCOM was composed of the director of the CIA, the assistant secretary of defense, and the president’s science advisor. The EXCOM reported to the secretary of defense, though he could not overrule decisions made by the EXCOM. The new arrangement relieved some of the fighting for satellite time though it did nothing to ease the fierce rivalry between the various groups for what was being called “intelligence product.” Eventually, the NRO had to be given more and more autonomy to determine the distribution of resources.

For most of its history NRO operations were spread across the United States. Management coordination was handled in the Air Force Office of Space Systems in the Pentagon. Technology issues were conducted from the Air Force Space and Missile Systems Center at Los Angeles Air Force Base in California. Intelligence studies were conducted from the CIA Office of Development and Engineering in Reston, Virginia. Orbital control of NRO spacecraft was initially handled by technicians at the Onizuka Air Force Base in Sunnyvale, California, and then moved to the Falcon Air Force Station in Colorado. Signals intelligence other than photographic reconnaissance was handled by the National Guard at the Defense Support Program Aerospace Data Facility at Buckley Air National Guard Base in Aurora, Colorado. The U.S. Navy’s NRO activities were centered primarily on technology upgrades and enhancement of existing hardware and software. These duties were shared by two competing naval groups: the Space and Naval Warfare Systems Command in Crystal City, Virginia, and SPAWAR’s Space Technology Directorate Division, SPAWAR-40, located at the Naval Research Laboratory across the Potomac River in the highly secure Building A59.

Though the NRO proved invaluable in bringing data back to earth, the management of the NRO itself became a nightmare of convolution and in-fighting. Though the government did not officially acknowledge the existence of the organization, its denials were a joke among the Washington press corps. No one would explain why so many people were obviously struggling with such rancor to control something that did not exist.

That changed in 1990 with the construction of a permanent NRO facility in Fairfax, Virginia. Yet even while the NRO’s existence was finally acknowledged, few people had firsthand knowledge about its day-to-day operations and the full breadth of its activities.

Photographic reconnaissance operations director Stephen Viens was one of those men.

The consolidation of NRO activities under one roof did not end the competition for satellite time. But Viens was loyal to his college friend Matt Stoll. And he would do anything for Paul Hood, who stood by him during some difficult CIOC hearings about the NRO’s black ops work. As a result, no group, military or civilian, got priority over Op-Center.

Bob Herbert had telephoned at four P.M. What he needed from Viens was visual surveillance of a specific site in the Himalayas. Viens had to wait two hours before he could free up the navy’s Asian OmniCom satellite, which was in a geosynchronous orbit over the Indian Ocean. Even though the navy was using it, Viens told them he had an LAD—life-and-death—situation and needed it at once. Typically, the OmniCom listened to sonar signals from Russian and Chinese submarines and backed them up with visual reconnaissance when the vessels surfaced. That allowed the navy to study displacement and hull features and even to get a look down the hatch when it was opened. The satellite image was sharp to within thirteen inches from the target and refreshed every .8 seconds. If the angle were right the OmniCom could get in close enough to lip-read.

Working at the OmniCom station in the level four basement of the NRO, it was relatively easy for Viens and his small team to use the repositioned satellite to ride the field phone signal to its source. They pinpointed it to a site above the foothills at 8,112 feet. When Viens and his group had repositioned the satellite to look down on the site, dawn was just breaking in Kashmir. The rising sun cleared the mountains to the east and struck an isolated structure. It resembled a slender travertine stalagmite more than it did a mountain peak. Whatever it was, something remarkable was happening on its face.

There were over a dozen figures in white parkas on the eastern side of the peak. They were armed with what looked like automatic weapons. Some were climbing up the peak, others were rappelling down. They were all converging on a small mouth located near the base of the tor.

Viens quickly refined the location of the audio signal. It was not coming from the people on the cliff but from a stationary target. Probably from an individual or individuals inside the cave.

Viens immediately phoned Bob Herbert and redirected the signal to Op-Center.

TWENTY-ONE

Siachin Base 2E, Kashmir Thursday, 7:01 A.M.

There is nothing like sunrise in the Himalayas.

The higher altitude and thinner, cleaner atmosphere allow a purer light to get through. Ishaq did not know how else to describe it. A photographer in Islamabad once told him that the atmosphere acted like a prism. The lower to the ground you were, the thicker the air blanket was and the more the sunlight was bent to the red. Ishaq was not a scientist. He did not know if that were true.

All the Pakistani knew was that the light up here was like he imagined the eye of Allah to be. It was white, warm, and intense. He wondered if the story of the mountain coming to Mohammad had originated in a peak like this one. For as the sun edged higher above the foothills below and the shadows shortened, the crags actually appeared to move. And as they moved their snow-covered sides glowed brighter and brighter. It was almost as though enlightenment were spreading throughout the land. Perhaps this was what the tale of the Prophet signified. The light of Allah and his Prophet was stronger than anything on this earth. And opening one’s heart and mind to them made us as strong and eternal.

That was a comforting thought to Ishaq. If this were to be his last dawn at least he would die satisfied and closer to God. In fact, as he looked back over his life he had just one regret: that he might have to die here and now. He had wanted to be with his comrades when they returned to their homeland. But they had intentionally selected for their armory a cave that had no other direct line of sight nearby. It would have been difficult for anyone to spot the small outpost or to watch them while they were here.

Ishaq had stayed up all night preparing. Then he had watched the sun rise as he ate breakfast. He had not wanted to sleep. There would be time enough for that. Now, as he sat in the dark in the back of the cave, Ishaq heard scraping noises outside.

Sharab was right. They had been tracked here.

The Indians had been quiet at first. Now they were no longer taking pains to conceal their approach. They were probably wearing crampons and they sounded like mice outside a wall, scratching their way in. The sounds grew from a few scrapes along the rear and sides of the cave to constant noise and motion. From the shifting location of the sounds he could tell that the Indians were already within range of the mouth of the cave. They would probably lob teargas before charging in. If the cell had been here there would have been no escape.

Ishaq decided that this would be a good time to put on his gas mask. He slipped the Iranian-made unit on, tightened the straps over his head, and snapped the mouthpiece in place. His breath was coming in little bursts. He was anxious, but not because of what was going to happen. He was worried because he hoped he had done everything right. The Pakistani looked at the wooden crates lined with plastic. He had gathered them nearby, like wives in a harem, ready for a final embrace. It had been a simple process to attach detonators to individual explosives, leave them on the top of the crates, and make sure the receivers were facing him. But he had not been able to examine all of the explosives. They had been stored up here for nearly two years. Though it was dry and cold and dampness should not be a problem, dynamite was temperamental. The sticks they had used in Srinagar had been showing signs of caking. Moisture had gotten inside.

Still, everything should be all right. Ishaq had rigged seven bundles of dynamite with C-4 and remote triggers. All he needed was for one of the bundles to blow. He pulled off his heavy gloves and took the detonator in his right hand. He leaned back against the stone wall.

Ishaq’s legs were spread straight out in front of him and his backside was cold. The folded canvas he was sitting on was a bad insulator. Not that it mattered. He would not be sitting on it much longer.

The scraping stopped. He watched the tarp through the greenish tint of his facemask. Curtains of sunlight hung along the side walls of the cave. They shifted and undulated as the wind pushed against the tarp. The covering itself rattled against the hooks that held it in place.

Suddenly, the tarp dropped. Particles of ice that had collected on the outside flew, glistening in the sunlight. The shimmering beads died as two large, cylindrical canisters were lobbed in. They clanked on the cave floor and rolled toward Ishaq. They were already hissing and jetting thick clouds of smoke into the air and across the ground. Some of the gas unfurled sideways, and some of it was sprayed in his direction.

The Pakistani sat there, waiting calmly. The rolling green gas was still about fifteen meters away. The view to the nearest of the detonators remained unobstructed. He had a few more moments.

He began to pray.

Ishaq listened for the scraping to resume. After a moment it did, moving rapidly toward the front of the cave. He watched as the clouds of gas began to billow and roll aside as though people were moving through it. The gas had nearly reached the explosives.

It was time.

The Muslim continued his silent prayer as he pressed the blue “engage” button. A light on top of the small controller came on. Ishaq quickly pressed the red “detonate” button below it.

For a blessed moment the sun shined all around Ishaq and he felt as if he had been embraced by Allah.

TWENTY-TWO

Washington, D.C. Wednesday, 9:36 P.M.

“What the hell just happened, Stephen?” Bob Herbert asked.

Op-Center’s intelligence chief had pulled his wheelchair deep under the desk. He was leaning over the speakerphone as he watched the OmniCom image on his computer. What he had said was not so much a question as an observation. Herbert knew exactly what had happened.

“The side of the mountain just exploded,” Viens said over the phone.

“It didn’t just explode, it evaporated,” Herbert pointed out. “That blast had to have been the equivalent of a thousand pounds of TNT.”

“At least,” Viens agreed.

Herbert was glad there was no sound with the image. Even just seeing the massive, unexpected explosion wakened his sensory memories. Tension and grief washed over him as he was reminded of the Beirut embassy bombing.

“What do you think, Bob? Was it set off by a sensor or motion detector?” Viens asked.

“I doubt it,” Herbert said. “There are a lot of avalanches in that part of the world. They could have triggered the explosion prematurely.”

“I didn’t think of that,” Viens admitted.

Herbert forced himself to focus on the present, not the past. Op-Center’s intelligence chief reloaded the pictures the satellite had sent moments before the blast. He asked the computer to enhance the images of the soldiers one at a time.

“It looked to me like the climbers tossed gas inside,” Herbert said. “They obviously believed that someone might be waiting for them.”

“They were right,” Viens said.

“The question is how many people were in there?” Herbert said. “Were the people who used that cave expecting the climbers? Or were they caught by surprise and decided they did not want to be captured alive?”

An image of the first soldier filled Herbert’s monitor. There was a clear shot of the man’s right arm. On top, just below the shoulder of the white camouflage snowsuit, was a circular red patch with a solid black insignia. The silhouette showed a horse running along the tail of a comet. That was the insignia of the Special Frontier Force.

“Well, one thing’s dead for sure,” Viens said.

“What’s that?” Herbert asked.

“Matt Stoll just phoned to say he’s not picking up the cell phone signal anymore,” Viens told Herbert. “He wanted to see if we’d lost it too. I just checked. We have.”

Herbert was still looking at the monitor. He saved the magnified image of the shoulder patch. “I wonder if the cell led the commandos there to throw them off the trail,” he said.

“Possibly,” Viens said. “Do we have any idea which way the Indian commandos would have come?”

“From the south,” Herbert replied. “How long would it take you to start searching through the mountains north of the site?”

“It will take about a half hour to move the satellite,” Viens said. “First, though, I want to make sure we’re not wasting our time. If anyone left the cave they would have had to go up before they could go down again. I want to get the OmniCom in for a closer look.”

“Footprints in the snow?” Herbert said as the secure phone on his wheelchair beeped.

“Exactly,” Viens replied.

“Go for it. I’ll wait,” Herbert told him as he backed away from the desk so he could reach the phone. He snapped up the receiver. “Herbert.”

“Bob, it’s Hank Lewis,” said the caller. “I’ve got Ron Friday on the line. He says it’s important. I’d like to conference him in.”

“Go ahead,” Herbert said. He had been wondering what Friday would find at the farmhouse. He was hoping it did not confirm their fears of police or government involvement in the Srinagar market attack. The implications were too grim to contemplate.

“Go ahead, Ron,” Lewis said. “I have Director of Intelligence Bob Herbert on the line with us.”

“Good,” Friday said. “Mr. Herbert, I’m at the Kumar farmhouse in Kargil with my Black Cat liaison. I need to know what other intel you have on the farmer and his granddaughter.”

“What have you found out there?” Herbert asked.

“What?” Friday said.

“What did you find at the farm?” Herbert asked.

“What is this, ‘I show you mine and you show me yours?’ ” Friday angrily demanded.

“No,” Herbert said. “It’s a field report. Tell me what you’ve got.”

“I’ve got my ass on the front frigging line and you’re sitting on your ass safe in Washington!” Friday said. “I need information !”

“I’m on my ass because my legs don’t work anymore,” Herbert responded calmly. “I lost them because too many people trusted the wrong people. Mr. Friday, I’ve got an entire team headed toward your position and they may be at considerable risk. You’re a piece in my puzzle, a field op for me. You tell me what you have and then I’ll tell you what you need to know.”

Friday said nothing. Herbert hoped he was considering exactly how to word his apology.

After a few moments Friday broke the silence. “I’m waiting for that information, Mr. Herbert,” he said.

That caught Herbert off guard. Okay. They were playing hardball with a hand grenade. He could do that.

“Mr. Lewis,” Herbert said, “please thank your field operative for reconnoitering the farmhouse. Inform him we will get our information directly from the Black Cat Commandos and that our joint operation is ended.”

“You bureaucratic asshole—!” Friday snapped.

“Friday, Mr. Herbert has the authority to terminate this alliance,” Lewis said. “And frankly, you’re not giving me a reason to fight for it.”

“We need each other out here!” Friday said. “We may be looking at an international catastrophe!”

“That’s the first useful insight you’ve given me,” Herbert said. “Would you care to continue?”

Friday swore. “I don’t have time for a pissing contest, Herbert. I’ll straighten you out later. We’ve learned that a Pakistani cell, part of the Free Kashmir Militia, stayed at the farm of Apu Kumar for about five months. The farmer’s granddaughter, Nanda, is the only child of a couple who died fighting the Pakistanis. The girl wrote poetry the whole time the cell was here. It appears to have contained coded elements reporting on the cell’s activities. She used to recite her poems aloud while she took care of the chickens. We suspect members of the Special Frontier Force heard what she was saying, probably by cell phone. She was with them when the bazaar attack in Srinagar took place and we believe the SFF was behind the temple bombing. We also believe that she is still with them, and might have the cell phone to signal SFF.”

“She was signaling the SFF,” Herbert replied.

“What happened?” Friday asked.

It was time to give Friday a little information, a little trust. “The Indian pursuit team was just taken out by a powerful explosion in the Himalayas,” Herbert informed him.

“How do you know that?” Lewis asked.

“We’ve got ELINT resources in the region,” Herbert said.

Herbert used the vague electronics intelligence reference because he did not want Lewis to know that he had satellite coverage of the region. The new NSA head might start pushing the NRO for off-the-books satellite time of his own.

“How many men were killed?” Lewis asked.

“About thirteen or fourteen,” Herbert replied. “They were closing in on what appeared to be an outpost about eight thousand feet up in the mountains. The men, the outpost, and the side of the mountain are all gone.”

“Were you able to ID the commandos?” Friday asked. “Were they wearing uniforms?”

“They were SFF,” Herbert replied.

“I knew it,” Friday said triumphantly. “What about the cell?”

“We don’t know,” Herbert admitted. “We’re trying to find out if they got away.”

Herbert looked at the computer monitor. Stephen Viens had just finished zooming in slowly on the northern side of the cliff. The resolution was three meters, sufficient to show footprints. The angle of the sun was still low. That would help by casting shadows off the side walls of any prints. Viens began panning the flattest, widest areas of the slopes. Those were the sections where people were likely to be walking in the darkness.

“If the cell did get away the SFF is not going to give up,” Friday continued. “There’s a possibility the SFF set them up to take the fall for the temple bombings in Srinagar.”

“Do you have proof of that?” Herbert asked. He was interested that Friday had come to the same conclusion as he and General Rodgers.

“No,” Friday admitted. “But the Black Cats would normally have handled the investigation and they were cut out of it by the SFF. They also obviously knew about the cell.”

“That doesn’t mean they were involved in the destruction of the temple,” Herbert said. “The Free Kashmir Militia are known terrorists. According to Indian radio they already took credit for the bombing—”

“Whoever made that call may not have known the extent of the attack,” Friday said.

“That could be,” Herbert agreed. “I’m still not ready to declare them innocent. Maybe someone in the group betrayed them and rigged the extra explosions. But let’s assume for the moment you’re right, that the SFF organized the bombing to advance an agenda. What is that agenda?”

“My Black Cat partner believes it’s a holy war,” Friday said. “Possibly a nuclear holy war.”

“A preemptive strike,” Hank Lewis said.

Again, Herbert was encouraged by the fact that Ron Friday and the Indian Black Cat officer reached the same conclusions that he and Rodgers had. It meant there might be some truth to their concerns. But he was also discouraged for the same reason.

“We think the SFF forces used gas against the Pakistani stronghold,” Herbert said. “Which would mean they wanted to try and capture them alive.”

“A perp walk and confessions,” Friday said.

“Probably. But I’ve got to believe the main reason the cell is running is not to save their own lives,” Herbert said. “Even if they get back to Pakistan no one in India is going to take their word that they’re innocent.”

“They need the girl,” Friday said.

“Exactly,” Herbert said. “If she worked with the SFF to stage the attack, they need to get a complete public statement from her. One that doesn’t look or sound like it’s a forced confession.”

“I’m missing something here,” Lewis said. “If we suspect that this is going on, why don’t we just confront the SFF or someone in the Indian government? Get them involved.”

“Because we don’t know who may already be involved in this operation and how high up it goes,” Herbert said. “Talking to New Delhi may just accelerate the process.”

“Accelerate it?” Lewis said. “How much faster can it possibly go?”

“In a crisis like this days can become hours if you’re not careful,” Herbert said. “We don’t want to panic the people in charge. If we’re right, the SFF will still try to capture the cell.”

“Or at least Nanda,” Friday said. “Maybe she’s the one they’re really after. Think about a teary-eyed Hindu woman going on television and telling the public how the FKM plotted to blow up the temple, not caring how many Hindu men, women, and children they killed.”

“Good point,” Herbert said. “What about the girl’s grandfather? If the cell is alive and we can find them before the SFF does, do you think he’d be willing to talk to her? To convince her to tell the public what she knows?”

“I’ll make sure he’s willing to talk to her,” Friday said.

As they spoke the satellite camera stopped on what looked like it might be several footprints. Viens began zooming in.

“What are you thinking of doing, Bob?” Hank Lewis asked.

“We’ve already got two men on the ground and a field force on the way,” Herbert said. “If I can get Paul to sign off on it, I’m going to ask General Rodgers to try and intercept the cell.”

“And do what?” Lewis demanded. “Help avowed terrorists make it home safely?”

“Why not?” Friday said. “That might win us allies in the Muslim world. We can use them.”

“America doesn’t ‘win’ allies in the Muslim world. If we’re lucky we earn their forbearance,” Herbert said.

“A smart man knows how to work that too,” Friday said.

“Maybe you’ll get to show us how it’s done,” Herbert replied.

“Maybe,” Friday replied.

The intelligence chief had worked with hundreds of field ops over the years. He had been one himself. They were a tough, thorny, independent breed. But this man was more than that. Herbert could hear it in his voice, the edge to his words and the confidence of his statements. Usually, men who sounded like Friday were what spy leaders called HOWs—hungry old wolves. Working on their own year after year they began to feel invisible to the host government and beyond the reach of their own government. They’d been out in the cold so long that they tended to bite anyone who came near them.

But Friday had not spent a lot of time on his own. He had come from an embassy post. That suggested something else to Herbert: an I-spy. The espionage game’s equivalent of a bad cop, someone who was in this for themselves. Whatever Striker ended up doing in the field, if it involved Ron Friday Herbert would tell Mike Rodgers to watch him very, very closely.

“Bob?” Viens said on the speakerphone. “You still there?”

“I’m here,” Herbert said. He told Lewis and Friday to hold the line.

“Are you looking at the monitor?” Viens asked.

“I am,” Herbert said.

“You see that?” Viens asked.

“I do,” Herbert replied.

There were footprints. And they were made during the previous night. The sun had not had a chance to melt and refreeze them. The cell had definitely left the cave and was heading north, toward Pakistan. Unfortunately, they could not tell from the jumble of footprints how many people were in the party.

“Good work, Stephen,” Herbert said. He archived the image with the rest of them. “Have you got time to follow them?”

“I can track them for a bit but that won’t tell you much,” Viens said. “I looked at one of the overviews. We’re going to lose the trail behind the peak about a quarter of a kilometer to the northwest. After that all we’ve got is a shitload of mountain to examine.”

“I see,” Herbert said. “Well, at least let’s make sure they went as far as the turn. And see if we can get a better idea of how many people there were and maybe what they were carrying.”

“I’m guessing they weren’t carrying much,” Viens said. “Three inches or so of snow cover, two inches of print. They look about the right depth for an average hundred-and-sixty-pound individual. Besides, I can’t imagine they’d be carrying much more than ropes and pitons trekking through that region.”

“You’re probably right,” Herbert said.

“But I’ll see if we can’t get a head count for the group,” Viens said.

“Thanks, Stephen,” Herbert said.

“Anytime,” Viens replied.

Herbert clicked off the speakerphone and got back on with Hank Lewis and Ron Friday. “Gentlemen, we’ve definitely got the cell heading north,” he said. “I suggest we table the political debate and concentrate on managing the crisis. I’ll have a talk with Paul. See if he wants to get involved with this or whether we should abort the Striker mission altogether and turn the problem over to the State Department. Hank, I suggest you and Mr. Friday talk this over and see what you want your own involvement to be. Whether we stick to the original mission or work out a new one, it could get ugly out there.”

“We’ll also have to talk about what to tell the president and the CIOC,” Lewis said.

“I have a suggestion about that,” Herbert told him. “If you tag Mr. Friday as a loan-out to Striker as of right now, the NSA doesn’t have to be involved in making that decision.”

“That’s a negative,” Lewis told him. “I’m new on the job, Bob, but I’m not a novice. You let me know what Paul’s thinking is and I’ll make the call on our end.”

“Fair enough,” Herbert said. He smiled. He respected a man who did not pass the buck. Especially a buck this big.

“Ron,” Lewis said, “I’d like you to talk to the farmer and to Captain Nazir. See if they’re with you on a possible search-and-capture. I agree with Bob. Mr. Kumar can be very useful if we’re able to locate his granddaughter.”

“I’ll do it,” Friday said.

“Good,” Herbert said. “Hank, you and I will talk after I’ve discussed this with Paul and General Rodgers. Mr. Friday—thank you for your help.”

Friday said nothing.

Herbert hung up. He swore at the very thought of Ron Friday and then put him from his mind—for now. There were larger issues to deal with.

He made an appointment to see Paul Hood at once.

TWENTY-THREE

Kargil, Kashmir Thursday, 7:43 A.M.

Before leaving the helicopter Ron Friday opened a compartment between the seats. He found an old backup book of charts in there. The chopper’s flight plan was dictated by computer-generated maps. These animated landscapes and grid overlays were presented on a monitor located above the primary flight display screen between the pilot and copilot stations. A keypad beneath the monitor was used to punch in coordinates. Friday tore out the maps he wanted and shoved them in the pocket of his windbreaker.

As he headed back to the farm, Friday punched the air. He unleashed a flurry of strong, angry uppercuts that did not just hit the imaginary chin of Bob Herbert. The punches went through his new nemesis as he struck at the sky. Who the hell did Bob Herbert think he was? The man had been wounded in the line of duty. That entitled him to disability compensation, not respect.

The pismire, Friday thought. Bob Herbert was just a wageslave drone in the hive.

Friday finished his flurry of blows. His heart was ramming his chest, his arms perspiring. Breathing heavily, he flexed his fingers as he stalked across the rocky, uneven terrain.

It’s all right, Friday told himself. He was here, at the heart of the action, in control of his destiny. Bob Herbert was back in Washington barking orders. Orders that could easily be ignored since Lewis had not allowed him to be seconded to Op-Center. Friday put the self-pitying bureaucrat from his mind and concentrated on the work at hand.

Captain Nazir had gone inside with Apu Kumar. The Black Cat officer was looking around the house while Kumar sat quietly on the tattered couch. Both men turned as Friday entered.

“What did they say?” Nazir asked.

“The Pakistani cell is alive and well and apparently moving north through the Himalayas,” Friday told Nazir. “Op-Center and the NSA are considering a joint mission to try and apprehend the cell along with Mr. Kumar’s granddaughter. They want to keep them all out of the hands of the SFF. Would the Black Cat Commandos and their allies in the government have a problem with an American-run search-and-recover mission?”

“Does your government believe there is a chance for a nuclear exchange?” Nazir asked.

“If they didn’t think so, they would not even be considering a covert action,” Friday replied. “It looks like your friends from the Special Frontier Force wanted that cell bad enough. Our ELINT resources caught a squad of them chasing the Pakistanis through the mountains.”

“Where is the SFF squad?” Nazir asked.

“Waiting in line for reincarnation,” Friday replied.

“Excuse me?”

“From what I gathered the commandos were caught by a Pakistani suicide bomber,” Friday told him.

“I see,” Nazir said. He thought for a moment. “The SFF presence supports what we were thinking, that they set this up.”

“It sure looks that way,” Friday said.

“Then yes,” Nazir said. “The Black Cat Commandos would help you in any way we can.”

“Good,” Friday said. He walked over to Kumar. “We’re going to need your help, too,” he told the farmer. “Your granddaughter was apparently working for the SFF. Her testimony is the key to war and peace. If we catch up to them she must be made to tell the truth.”

Apu Kumar rolled a slumped shoulder. “She is an honest girl. She would not lie.”

“She’s also a patriot, isn’t she?” Friday asked.

“Of course,” Apu agreed.

“Patriotism has a way of dulling the senses,” Friday told him. “That’s why soldiers sometimes throw themselves on hand grenades. If your granddaughter helped the SFF frame the Pakistanis for the destruction of a Hindu temple, she has to tell that to the Indian people.”

Apu seemed surprised and gravely concerned. “Do you think that is what she’s done?” he asked.

“We do,” Friday told him.

“Poor Nanda,” Apu said.

“We’re not just talking about Nanda,” Captain Nazir said.

“If she does not tell what she knows then millions of people may die.”

Apu rose. “Nanda could not have known what she was doing. She would never have agreed to such an outcome. But I will help you,” he said. “What do you want me to do?”

“For now, get some warm clothes together and wait,” Friday said. “If you have extra gloves and long johns, bring them too.”

Apu said he would and then hurried to the bedroom. Friday walked over to a small table and pulled the maps from his pocket.

“Captain?” he said. It was a command, not a question.

“Yes?” Nazir replied.

“We need to make plans,” Friday said.

“Flight plans?” Nazir said, noticing the charts.

“Yes,” Friday replied.

But that was just the start. Whatever the mission and however it turned out, Friday would be in good stead with the Black Cat Commandos and his own friends and advocates in the Indian government. He was sure Hank Lewis would allow him to remain here when this was all over. And then Ron Friday would be free to nurture his ties to the nuclear and oil industries. That was where the nation’s future lay.

That was where his own future lay.

TWENTY-FOUR

Siachin Base 3, Kashmir Thursday, 9:16 A.M.

The call from Commander San Hussain did not surprise Major Dev Puri. Ever since he was informed of the top-secret plan to use the Pakistani cell, the major had been expecting to hear from the Special Frontier Force director at about this time. However, what Commander Hussain had to say was a complete surprise. Major Puri sat in his bunker for several moments after hanging up. For weeks, he had been expecting to play an important part in this operation: the quick and quiet evacuation of the line of control.

But Puri had not anticipated playing this role. The role that was supposed to have been played by the SFF’s MEAN—Mountain Elite Attack Nation. That was the name of the original resistance force that worked to overthrow British imperial rule on the subcontinent.

The most important role.

Puri reached into a tin box on the desk. He plucked out a wad of chewing tobacco and placed it beside his gum. He began to chew slowly. Puri had been expecting to hear that the Pakistani cell had been captured in their mountain headquarters. After that, Puri’s units were supposed to begin preparing for retreat. The preparations were supposed to be made quietly and unhurriedly, without the use of cell phones or radios. As much as possible should be done underground in the shelters and low in the trenches. The Pakistanis would notice nothing unusual going on. Devi’s four hundred soldiers were supposed to be finished by eleven A.M. but they were not to move out until they received word directly from Hussain.

Instead, Commander Hussain had called with a much different project. Major Puri was to take half the four hundred soldiers in his command and move south, into the mountains. They were to carry full survival packs and dress in thermal camouflage clothes. Hussain wanted them to proceed in a wide sweep formation toward the Siachin Glacier, closing in as the glacier narrowed and they neared the summit. “Wide sweep” meant that the militia would consist of a line of men who came no closer than eyesight. That meant the force could be stretched across approximately two miles. Since radio channels might be monitored, Hussain wanted them to communicate using field signals. Those were a standardized series of gestures developed by MEAN in the 1930s. The Indian army adopted them in 1947. The signals told them little more than to advance, retreat, wait, proceed, slow down, speed up, and attack. Directions for attacks were indicated by finger signals: the index finger was north, middle finger south, ring finger west, and pinky east. The thumb was the indication to “go.” Those hand signals were usually enough. The commands were issued by noncommissioned officers stationed in the center of each platoon. They could be overruled by the company lieutenants and by Puri himself, who would be leading the operation from the center of the wide sweep. In the event of an emergency, the men had radios they could use.

Puri picked up the phone. He ordered his aide to assemble his lieutenants in the briefing room. The major said he would be there in five minutes. He wanted top-level security for the meeting: no phones or radios present, no laptop computers, no notepads.

Puri chewed his tobacco a moment more before rising. Hussain had told him that the Pakistani cell had evaded capture and was thought to be heading to Pakistan. Four other bases along the line of control were activating units in an effort to intercept the terrorists. Each of the base leaders had been given the same order: to take the cell, dead or alive.

That option did not include their lone hostage, an Indian woman from Kashmir. Commander Hussain said that the SFF did not expect the woman to survive her ordeal. He did not say that she had been mistreated. His tone said something else altogether.

He wanted her not to survive.

Major Puri turned toward the door and left the shelter. The morning light was cold and hazy. He had checked the weather report earlier. It was snowing up in the mountains. That always produced haze here in the lower elevations. Nothing was clear, not even the walls of the trench itself.

Nor his own vision.

Major Puri had not expected to play that part either. The role of assassin. As he headed for the meeting it struck him as odd that a single life should matter. What he did here would contribute to the deaths of millions of people in just a day or two. What did one more mean?

Was he upset because she was Indian? No. Indians would die in the conflagration as well. Was he upset because she was a woman? No. Women would certainly die.

He was upset because he would probably be there when she died. He might even be the one to execute the commander’s order.

He would have to look into her eyes. He would be watching the woman as she realized that she was about to die.

In 1984, when India was rocked by intercaste violence, Prime Minister Indira Gandhi ordered a series of attacks on armed Sikh separatists in Amritsar. Over a thousand people were killed. Those deaths were unfortunate, the inevitable result of armed conflict. Several months later, Mrs. Gandhi was assassinated by Sikhs who were members of her own bodyguard. Her murder was a cold-blooded act and a tragedy.

It had a face.

Major Puri knew that this had to be done. But he also knew that he wished someone else would do it. Soldiering was a career he could leave behind. The job of combatant was temporary. But once he killed, even in the name of patriotism, that act would stay with him for the rest of his life.

And the next.

TWENTY-FIVE

Washington, D.C. Wednesday, 11:45 P.M.

Paul Hood was glad when Bob Herbert came to see him.

Hood had shut his office door, opened a box of Wheat Thins, and worked on the Op-Center budget cuts for the better part of the evening. He had left word with Bugs Benet that he was not to be disturbed unless it were urgent. Hood did not feel like end-of-the-day chitchat. He did not want to have to put on a public face. He wanted to hide, to lose himself in a project—any project.

Most of all Hood did not feel like going home. Or what passed for home these days, an undistinguished fifth-floor suite at the Days Inn on Mercedes Boulevard. Hood had a feeling that it would be a long time, if ever, before he regarded anything but the Hood house in Chevy Chase, Maryland, as home. But he and his wife, Sharon, were separated and his presence at the house created strife for her. She said he was a reminder of their failed marriage, of facing a future without a companion. Their two children did not need that tension, especially Harleigh. Hood had spent time with Harleigh and her younger brother, Alexander, over the weekend. They did things that Washingtonians rarely did: they toured the monuments. Hood had also arranged for them to get a personal tour of the Pentagon. Alexander was impressed by all the saluting that went on. It made him feel important not to have to do it. He also liked the kick-ass intensity of all the guards.

Harleigh said she enjoyed the outing but that was pretty much all she said. Hood did not know whether it was post-traumatic stress, the separation, or both that were on her mind. Psychologist Liz Gordon had advised him not to talk about any of that unless Harleigh brought it up. His job was to be upbeat and supportive. That was difficult without any input from Harleigh. But he did the best he could.

For Harleigh.

What he had been neglecting in all of this were his needs. Home was the biggest and most immediate hole. The hotel room did not have the familiar creaking and pipe sounds and outside noises he had come to know. There was no oil burner clicking on and off. The hotel room smelled unfamiliar, shared, transient. The water pressure was weaker, the soap and shampoo small and impersonal. The nighttime lighting on the ceiling was different. Even the coffeemaker didn’t pop and burble the same as the one at home. He missed the comfort of the familiar. He hated the changes.

Especially the biggest one. The huge hole he had dug for himself with Ann Farris, Op-Center’s thirty-four-year-old press liaison. She had pursued him virtually from the day she arrived. He had found the pursuit both flattering and uncomfortable. Flattering because Paul Hood and his wife had not been connecting for years. Uncomfortable because Ann Farris was not subtle. Whatever poker face Ann put on during press briefings she did not wear around Hood. Maybe it was a question of balance, of yin and yang, of being passive in public and aggressive in private. Regardless, her open attention was a distraction for Hood and for the people closest to him, like Mike Rodgers and Bob Herbert.

So of course Hood made the desperate mistake of actually making love to Ann. That had ratcheted up the tension level by making her feel closer and him feel even guiltier. He did not want to make love to her again. At least, not until he was divorced. Ann said she understood but she still took it as a personal rejection. It had affected their working relationship. Now she was cool to him in private and hot with the press in public.

How had Paul Hood gone from someone who reached the top of several professions at a relatively young age to someone who had messed up his own life and the lives of those around him? How the hell had that happened?

Ann was really the one that Hood did not want to see tonight. But he could not tell Bugs to keep only her out. Even if she did figure out that was what Hood was doing he did not want to insult her directly.

Ironically, the work Hood was doing involved cutting Ann and her entire division.

Hood was not surprised that Herbert was working this late. The intelligence chief preferred work to socializing. It was not politically correct but it was pure Herbert: he said that it was more of a challenge trying to get inside a spy’s head than into a woman’s pants. The rewards were also greater, Herbert insisted. The spy ended up dead, in prison, or incapacitated. It was a lesson Hood should have learned from his friend.

Hood was glad when Herbert came to see him. He needed a crisis to deal with, one that was not of his own making. The briefing that Bob Herbert gave Hood was not the lowintensity distraction he had been hoping for. However, the prospect of nuclear war between India and Pakistan did chase all other thoughts from Hood’s mind.

Herbert brought Hood up to speed on the conversations he’d had with Mike Rodgers and Ron Friday. When Herbert was finished, Hood felt energized. His own problems had not gone away. But part of him, at least, was out of hiding. The part that had a responsibility to others.

“This is a sticky one,” Hood said.

“Yeah,” Herbert agreed. “What’s your gut say?”

“It says to take this situation to the president and drop it square in his lap,” Hood replied.

Herbert regarded Hood for a moment. “There’s a ‘but’ in your voice,” Herbert said.

“Actually, there are three ‘buts’ in my voice,” Hood told him. “First, we’re only guessing about what’s going on. They’re educated guesses, but we still don’t have proof. Second, let’s assume your intel is right. That there is a plot to start a war. If we tell the president, the president will tell State. Once you tell State, the world will know about it through leaks, moles, or electronic surveillance. That could scare the perpetrators off—or it could accelerate whatever timetable they have.”

“I agree,” Herbert said. “The SFF and their allies would have insecurity issues instead of security issues. Typical when you’re keeping information from your own countrymen.”

“Exactly,” Hood said.

“All right. So what’s the third ‘but’?” Herbert asked.

“The fact that we may prove a nuclear attack plan is in place,” Hood said. “If the United States exposes it we may actually give it impetus.”

“I don’t understand,” Herbert said.

“In terms of military support and intelligence assistance, India has always leaned toward Russia,” Hood said. “An entire generation of Indians considers the United States the opposition. Suppose we expose a patriotic plan. Do you think that will cause the Indians to kill it?”

“If it involves a nuclear exchange, yes,” Herbert said. “Russia would come down on our side. So would China.”

“I don’t know if I agree,” Hood said. “Russia is facing an Islamic threat along several of its borders. Op-Center just defused a crisis where the Russians were scared about Iran’s access to Caspian oil. Moscow fought the mujahedin in Afghanistan. They’re afraid of aggressive fifth-column activities in their own cities, in allied republics. We can’t be sure they would back a Muslim nation against their old friend India. As for China, they’re looking for allies in a move against Taiwan. Suppose India provided them with that, a kind of quid pro quo.”

Herbert shook his head slowly. “Paul, I’ve been in this game a long time. I’ve seen videos of Saddam using gas and gunships against his own people. I’ve been to a Chinese execution where five men were shot in the head because they expressed dissenting political beliefs. But I can’t believe that sane individuals would make a deal about nuclear strikes that will kill millions of people.”

“Why not?” Hood asked.

“Because a nuclear exchange raises the bar for all of human conflict,” Herbert insisted. “It says that anything goes. No one gains by that.”

“Fair enough,” Hood said.

“I still believe that we may have a radical group of Indian officials who may want to nuke Pakistan,” Herbert said.

“Then valid or not, all three of my concerns point to the same thing,” Hood said.

“We need more intel before we go to the president,” Herbert said.

“Right,” Hood said. “Is there any way of getting that electronically or from sources in the government?”

“There might be, if we had the time,” Herbert said. “But we’ve got the Pakistani cell on the run in the mountains and the dead SFF commandos behind them. The Indians are not going to wait.”

“Has anything been on DD-1 yet?” Hood asked. DD-1 National was the flagship station of Doordarshan, the Indian national television network. The broadcaster was also closely affiliated with Prasar Bharati, All India Radio, which was run and maintained by the Ministry of Information and Broadcasting.

“One of Matt’s people is taping the newscasts,” Herbert replied. “He’s going to give me an assessment of how riled up people are and at what rate the media are adding to the whipping-up process.”

“Can we go in and bust up their satellite?” Hood asked.

Herbert grinned. “They use five,” he said. “INSAT-2E, 2DT, 2B, PAS-4, and ThaiCom. We can scramble them all if we have to.”

“Good,” Hood said. He regarded Herbert. “You’re pushing for Striker to go in and grab the Pakistanis, aren’t you?”

“Hell,” Herbert said, “I don’t want to just drop Mike and his people into the Himalayas—”

“I know that,” Hood assured him.

“But I don’t know if we have any other options, Paul,” Herbert continued. “Whatever we think of what the Pakistanis have done, they have to get out to tell what they did not do.”

“What would we do if Striker weren’t headed toward the region?” Hood asked.

Herbert thought for a moment then shrugged. “What we did in Korea, Russia, and Spain,” Herbert said. “We’d send’em.”

Hood nodded thoughtfully. “We probably would,” he agreed. “Have you run this past Mike?”

“Not in so many words,” Herbert said. “But I did tell him to sleep on the flight from Alconbury to Chushul. Just in case.”

“How long is that leg of the trip?” Hood asked.

Herbert looked at his watch. “They’ve got another six hours or so to go,” he said. “Four and change with a good tailwind and if we don’t keep them on the ground in Turkey for more than a few minutes.”

Hood clicked on the Op-Center personnel roster. He opened the file. “Matt is still here,” he said, looking at the log-in time.

“He’s going over the surveillance photos with Stephen Viens,” Herbert said. “He hasn’t left his desk since this started.”

“He should,” Hood said. “We’ll need him to work on any ELINT that we need in the region.”

“I’ll have Gloria Gold spot him for a while,” Herbert said. Gold was the nighttime director of technical affairs. She was qualified to run tech operations though she did not have the same background in analysis that Stoll had.

“We also better get Lowell and Liz Gordon in on this,” Hood said. Lowell Coffey was Op-Center’s international legal expert. “We need to be up on Pakistani and Indian law in case they get caught. Psych profiles of the Pakistanis would also help. Did we get a detailed jurisdictional map of the region for Striker’s missile search?”

“No,” Herbert said. “That was going to be pretty tightly localized in Pakistani territory.”

“We’ll definitely need that, then,” Hood said. “We’re screwed if Striker stumbles into Chinese spheres of influence and gets caught.”

“If Al George doesn’t have those maps in archives I’ll get them from State,” Herbert said. “I’ve got a friend there who can keep his mouth shut.”

“You’ve got friends everywhere.” Hood grinned. It felt good to be part of a team that included people like Bob Herbert. People who were professional and thorough and there to support the team and its leader. It also felt good to smile. “What about Viens? How many satellites are there in the region?”

“Three,” Herbert said.

“Will he be able to hold on to them?” Hood asked.

“That shouldn’t be a problem,” Herbert told Hood. “No one else is asking for intel from that region right now. Viens also has his entire team on rotation, so the satellite monitoring stations will always be manned. They can run three separate recons at once.”

“Good,” Hood said. He continued to look at the computer screen. There were other people he could call on if needed. Right now, though, he thought it was best to keep the number of people involved to a minimum. He would call Hank Lewis at the NSA and recommend that he do the same. He hoped that the new appointee would be content to let Op-Center run this as a “silent operation”—one in which the chain of command stopped short of involving the president.

Herbert left to get his personnel set up and to obtain the map. Hood called Coffey and tore him away from Politically Incorrect. Since Coffey’s home phone line was not secure, Hood could not tell him what the late-night meeting was about. All he said was that the title of the TV show pretty well summed it up. Coffey said he would be there as soon as possible.

Hood thanked Coffey. He fished a few more Wheat Thins from the box and sat back. There was still a lot to do before he would authorize this mission. For one thing, Stephen Viens had to find the cell. Without that information they had nothing. Then Hood and Herbert would have to decide whether to land Striker as planned and then chopper them near the cell or try to jump them in. Parachuting would be extremely dangerous in the mountains due to the cold, wind, and visibility. Perhaps they could get Ron Friday out there first to plant flares. But landing would also present a problem since Striker was expected in Srinagar for an entirely different mission. It might be difficult to break away from their hosts as quickly as Op-Center needed them to.

Besides, Hood thought, the fewer people who came into contact with Striker the better it would be for security. Lowell or Herbert could come up with a reason for them to have parachuted in. The Indian air force would have to go along with that or face the mission being scrubbed.

Hood thought about Rodgers and his team. He was proud to be working with them too. Regardless of how this unfolded it would be brutally difficult for Striker if they went forward. Thinking about it did not make Hood’s own problems seem less immediate or important. Relativity never worked like that. Harleigh was traumatized by what had happened at the United Nations. Knowing that other people had lost their lives there did not make it any easier to deal with her condition.

But it did do one thing. It reminded Hood what courage was. He would not forget that in the hours and days ahead.

TWENTY-SIX

Washington, D.C. Thursday, 1:12 A.M.

“We may have something!” Stephen Viens declared.

Gloria Gold was leaning forward in her chair. The excitement in Stephen Viens’s voice came through clearly on the computer audio link. He was right. After methodically scanning the terrain for hours the cameras had detected a promising image.

“Hold on,” Viens said. “Bernardo is switching us to infrared. The changeover will take about three minutes.”

“I’m holding,” said Gloria Gold. “Nice work,” she added.

“Hold the back-patting,” Viens said. “It still could be just a row of rocks or a herd of mountain goats.”

“That would be a flock of mountain goats,” the fifty-seven-year-old woman pointed out.

“Excuse me?” Viens said.

“Herds are domesticated animals,” she said. “Flocks live in the wild.”

“I see. Once a professor, always a professor,” Viens teased. “But who will have the last laugh if we find out it’s goats being led around by a Sherpa with a crook?”

Gloria smiled. “You will.”

“Maybe we should bet on it,” Viens said. “Your microcam against my lapel pin.”

“No go,” Gloria said.

“Why not?” Viens asked. “Mine has the range.”

“And mine has the substance,” she replied.

The NRO recon expert had once showed her the MIT lapel pin he had customized. It contained a dot-sized microphone made of molecules that resonated one against the other. It could broadcast sound to his computer audio recorder up to two hundred miles away. Her microcam was better than that. It broadcast million-pixel images to her computer from up to ten miles away. It was better and it was much more useful.

“Okay,” Viens said. “Then let’s bet dinner? The loser cooks? It’s a fitting deal. Infrared image, microwave meals—”

“I’m a lousy cook,” said Gloria.

“I’m not.”

“Thanks, but no,” said the thrice-divorced woman. For some reason Viens had always had a crush on her. She liked him too but he was young enough to be her son. “We’ll make it a gentleperson’s bet,” she said. “If you found the Pakistanis, we both win.”

Viens sighed. “A diplomat’s deal. I accept, but under protest.”

Tall, slender Gloria Gold smiled and leaned back in her chair. She was sitting at her glass-topped desk in Op-Center’s technical sector. The lights of her office were off. The only glow came from the twenty-one-inch computer monitor. The halls were silent. She took a swig from the bottle of Evian water she kept on the floor. After knocking over a bottle and shorting her computer the night after she first came to work here, Gloria had learned not to keep anything liquid on her desk. Luckily her boss, Assistant Director Curt Hardaway—“the Night Commander,” as they called him—admitted that he had once done that as well. Whether he had done that or not it was a nice thing to say.

The levity about the bet had been welcome. She had only been at this an hour but Viens had been working all day. And the elements in the image-feed from the NRO did look very promising. They were at five-meter resolution, meaning that anything down to five meters long was visible. The computer’s simultaneous PAP—photographic analysis profile—had identified what it thought could be human shadows. Distorted by the terrain and angle of the sun, they were coming from under an intervening ledge. Infrared would ascertain whether the shadows were being generated by living things or rock formations. The fact that the shadows had shifted between two images did not tell them much. That could simply be an illusion of the moving sun.

The Op-Center veteran watched and waited. The quiet of night shift made the delay somehow seem longer.

The tech-sec was a row of three offices set farthest from the busy front-end of the executive level. The stations were so thoroughly linked by computer, webcam, and wireless technology that the occupants wondered why they did not just tear down the walls and shout to each other, just to make human contact now and then. But Matt Stoll had always been against that. That was probably because Matt did things in private he did not want the rest of the world to know about. But Gloria Gold knew his dark secret. She had spied on him one night using her digital microcam hidden on the door handle of his minirefrigerator.

Four or five times a day, Matt Stoll washed down a pair of Twinkies with Gatorade.

That helped to explain the boundless energy and increasing girth of Op-Center’s favorite egghead. It also explained the occasional yellowish stains on his shirt. He chugged the Gatorade straight from the bottle. Even now, while Stoll was supposed to be resting on his sofa, he was probably reading the latest issue of NuTech or playing a hand-held video game. Unlike his former classmate Viens, Matt Stoll, with his sugar and Gatorade rush, defined the word wired.

Gloria’s mind was back on the screen as the feed from the National Reconnaissance Office was refreshed. The mostly white image was now the color of fire. There were a series of yellow-white atmospheric distortions radiating from hot red objects along the bottom of the monitor.

“Looking good,” Viens said. “Whatever is making the shadows is definitely alive.”

“Definitely,” Gloria said. They watched as the image refreshed again. The red spot got even hotter as it moved out from under the ledge. The bloblike shape was vaguely human.

“Shit!” Viens said. “Bernardo, go back to natural light.”

“That’s no mountain goat,” Gloria said.

“I’m betting it isn’t a Sherpa either,” Viens added.

Gloria continued to watch as the satellite switched oculars. This changeover seemed to take much longer than the last. The delay was not in the mechanical switch itself but in the optics diagnostics the satellite ran each time it changed lenses. It was important to make certain the focus and alignment were correct. Wrong data—off-center imaging, improper focus, a misplaced decimal point in resolution—was as useless as no data.

The image came on-screen in visible light. There was a field of white with the gray ledge slashing diagonally across the screen. Gloria could see a figure standing half beneath it. The figure was not a goat or a Sherpa. It was a woman. Behind her was what looked like the head of another person.

“I think we’ve got them!” Viens said excitedly.

“Sure looks like it,” Gloria agreed as she reached for the phone. “I’ll let Bob Herbert know.”

Bob Herbert was there before the next image appeared.

The image that clearly showed five people making their way along the narrow ledge.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Kargil, Kashmir Thursday, 12:01 P.M.

Ron Friday liked to be prepared.

If he were going into a building he liked to have at least two exit strategies. If he were going into a country he always had his eye on the next place he would go to out of choice or necessity. If he had a mission in mind he always checked on the availability of the equipment, clearances, and allies he might need. For him, there was no such thing as downtime.

After talking with Bob Herbert, Friday realized that it might be necessary for him and Captain Nazir to move into the mountains. He knew that the helicopter was good for travel at heights up to twelve thousand feet and temperatures down to twelve degrees Fahrenheit. They had enough fuel left for a seven-hundred-mile flight. That meant they could go into the mountains about four hundred miles and still get back. Of course, there was also the problem of having to set the chopper down at too high an altitude and having liquidbearing components freeze. Depending on where they had to fly, it could be a long and unpleasant walk back.

Friday removed the detachable phone and kept it with him. Then he checked the gear they had onboard. There was basic climbing equipment but no cold-weather clothing. That might not be a problem, however. He had gone through Apu Kumar’s things. There were some heavy coats. There were hats and gloves so those would not be a problem. His biggest concern was oxygen. If he and Captain Nazir had to do a lot of climbing at higher altitudes exhaustion would be a factor.

Perhaps Striker was bringing some of that gear with them. Friday would not know that or the location of the target area itself until he talked to Bob Herbert or Hank Lewis.

In the meantime, Friday reviewed maps with Captain Nazir to familiarize himself with the region. Apu was with them in the small kitchen area of his farmhouse, adding what firsthand knowledge he had of the region. He used to climb the foothills when he was younger.

Friday plotted a course from the Srinagar bazaar to the explosion in the mountains. He also mapped a route from the farm to the Himalayan blast site. There had been more than enough time for both the cell and the man from this farm to have reached the mountain site before the detonation. The question was where they would move from there. The cell only had to cover roughly twenty miles to go from the mountains to the Pakistani border. But they were a mountainous twenty miles that included both the line of control and the brutal Siachin Glacier. Reaching up to some eighteen thousand feet, the glacier would be difficult to climb under the best of circumstances. Tired and presumably pursued from the ground and possibly the air, the Pakistanis would need a miracle to get across.

The helicopter phone beeped while Friday was looking at topographic charts of the region. Nazir answered. It was Bob Herbert and Hank Lewis. He passed the phone to Friday.

“We’ve found the cell,” Herbert said.

“Where are they?” Friday asked eagerly. He bent over the charts that were spread on the table. “I have seven to ten tactical pilotage charts each of the Muzaffarabad border region, the Srinagar border region, and the area from Srinagar to Kargil.”

“They’re in the Srinagar border region,” Herbert said. “Just outside of Jaudar.”

“What are the coordinates?” Friday asked as he went to that set and began flipping through the charts, looking for the village.

“Ron, we want you to go at once to thirty-four degrees, thirty minutes north, seventy-five degrees east,” Lewis said.

“That’s Jaudar,” Friday said, looking at the map. “Is that where the cell is? In the village?”

“No,” Lewis said. “That’s where you’ll rendezvous with Striker.”

Friday stood up. “Gentlemen, I have a chopper here. I can be there in under an hour. Striker won’t be landing for at least four hours. I might be able to get to the cell by then.”

“So would your partner,” Lewis reminded him.

“And?” Friday pressed.

“We haven’t finished our security check on the Black Cat,” Lewis said. “We can’t take the risk that he’ll turn the Pakistanis over to his people.”

“That won’t happen,” Friday assured the new NSA chief. “I’ll make sure of it.”

“You can’t guarantee that,” Lewis said. “We also agree that Mr. Kumar should go with you and we can’t be certain of his actions either. Mr. Herbert and I have discussed this and we’re in agreement. You will meet Striker in Jaudar. They will have up-to-the-minute coordinates of the cell and the resources to get you and your companions into the mountains. If anything changes, we’ll let you know.”

“We’re wasting time,” Friday protested. “I could probably be in and out by the time Striker arrives.”

“I admire your enthusiasm,” Herbert said. “But the leader of the cell is cagey. They’ve been moving in shadows and beneath overhangs wherever possible. We don’t know for certain what weapons they’re carrying. They may have a rocket launcher. If you come after them in an Indian chopper they will probably shoot you down.”

“If you tell us where they are we can circle wide and intercept them,” Friday pointed out.

“There’s also a chance that a Pakistani aircraft might try to slip in and rescue the cell,” Herbert said. “We don’t want to precipitate a firefight with an Indian aircraft. That could give the Indians even more ammunition to launch a major offensive.”

Friday squeezed the phone. He wished he could strangle the deskbound bureaucrat. He did not understand field personnel. None of them did. The best field ops did not like sitting still. And the best of the best were able to improvise their way in and out of most things. Friday could do this. More than that, he wanted it. If he could grab the cell and bring them home he would have a chance to get in with their Pakistani controllers. Having strong ties to New Delhi, Islamabad, and Washington would be invaluable to an operative in this region.

“Are we on the same page?” Herbert asked.

Friday looked down at the map. “Yes,” he said. And as he looked he remembered something that Herbert had told him about the explosion. It had occurred at approximately eight thousand feet. That would put the cell on the southwest side of the range. Everything north of that, up through the glacier and the line of control, was at a higher elevation. Friday’s grip relaxed. To hell with desk jockeys in general and Bob Herbert in particular.

“We’ll brief you again when we have Striker’s precise ETA and location,” Herbert said. “Do you have any questions?”

“No,” Friday replied calmly.

“Is there anything you wanted to add, Hank?” Herbert asked.

Lewis said there was nothing else. The NSA head thanked Friday and the men hung up. Friday returned the phone to its cradle.

“What is it?” Captain Nazir asked.

“What we’ve been waiting for,” Friday said.

“They found the cell?” Nazir asked.

Friday nodded.

“And my granddaughter?” Apu asked.

“She’s with them,” Friday said. He did not know if she was or not, of course. But he wanted Apu with them. The farmer had harbored the enemy cell. If they needed to forestall any action by India, Apu’s confession would play very well on Pakistani TV.

Friday looked at the map. Herbert had told him that the cell was sticking to the mountain ledges. That meant that if the chopper started following the line of the range at eight thousand feet and flew up one side and then down the other they were sure to encounter the cell. Friday glanced down at the inset conic projection and smiled. The round-trip was less than two hundred miles.

He would have them. And he would have that do-nothing Herbert.

“Come on,” Friday said to Nazir.

“Where are we going?” the officer asked.

“To catch a terrorist cell,” Friday replied.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Washington, D.C. Thursday, 4:02 A.M.

Paul Hood’s office was just a few steps away from Op-Center’s high-security conference room. Known as the Tank, the conference room was surrounded by walls of electronic waves that generated static for anyone trying to listen in with bugs or external dishes.

Hood entered after everyone was already there. The heavy door was operated by a button at the side of the large oval conference table. Hood pushed it when he sat down at the head of the table.

The small room was lit by fluorescent lights hung in banks over the conference table. On the wall across from Hood’s chair the countdown clock was dark. When they had a crisis and a deadline, the clock flashed its ever-changing array of digital numbers.

The walls, floor, door, and ceiling of the Tank were all covered with sound-absorbing Acoustix. The mottled grayand-black strips were each three inches wide and overlapped one another to make sure there were no gaps. Beneath them were two layers of cork, a foot of concrete, and then another layer of Acoustix. In the midst of the concrete, on all six sides of the room, was a pair of wire grids that generated vacillating audio waves. Electronically, nothing left the room without being utterly distorted. If any listening device did somehow manage to pick up a conversation from inside, the randomness of the changing modulation made reassembling the conversations impossible.

“Thank you all for coming,” Hood said. He turned down the brightness on the computer monitor that was set in the table and began bringing up the files from his office. At the same time, Bugs Benet was busy raising Colonel August on the TAC-SAT. In order to make sure Striker stayed in the loop, August and Rodgers were taking turns sleeping en route to Turkey.

“No problem,” Lowell Coffey said. He had been pouring water from a pitcher into a coffee machine on a table in the far corner. The percolator began to bubble and pop. “The roads were empty. I managed to sleep on the way. Anybody think to get doughnuts?”

“That was your job,” Herbert pointed out. “You were the only one who wasn’t here.” He maneuvered his wheelchair into his place at Hood’s right.

“I’ve got mid rats in my office if you’re hungry,” said Liz Gordon as she settled in to Hood’s left.

“No, thanks.” Coffey shuddered as he sat across from Hood. “I’ll stick to the coffee.”

“You’ve got official military midnight rations?” Herbert asked.

“A three-course packet,” Liz said. “Dried apricots and pineapple, jerky, and cookies. A friend of mine at Langley gave them to me. I think you’ve worked with her. Captain McIver?”

“We worked on some black ops stuff together,” Herbert said. He smiled. “Man, mid rats. I haven’t had them in years. They always hit the spot in the wee small hours.”

“That’s because you were tired and not selective,” said the admittedly dilettantish Coffey.

Hood’s data finished loading a moment before Bugs Benet called. Hood sent the files to the other computer stations around the table. Liz and Coffey scanned the files as Hood’s assistant informed him that he had Colonel Brett August ready to be patched through from the C-130 Hercules. Hood put the telephone on speaker and looked across the table.

“We’re ready to go,” Hood said to the others.

Everyone came to attention quickly.

“Colonel August, can you hear me?” Hood asked.

“As clear as if you were in the cabin with us, sir,” the Striker commander replied.

“Good,” Hood replied. “Bob, you’ve been talking to New Delhi. Would you please bring everyone up to speed?”

Herbert looked at his wheelchair computer monitor. “Twenty-one hours ago there was an attack on a market in Srinagar, Kashmir,” Herbert said. He spoke loud enough for the speakerphone to pick up his voice. “A police station, a Hindu temple, and a busload of Hindu pilgrims were destroyed. With intel from the NRO and from your NSA contact who happened to be on-site, we have reason to believe that the attack on the station was the work of the Free Kashmir Militia, a militant organization based in Pakistan. However, we suspect that the attacks against the Hindu sites may have been organized by India itself. We believe that elements in the Special Frontier Force, the cabinet, and the military may be trying to win public support for a quick, decisive nuclear strike against Pakistan.”

No one moved. The only sounds were the hum of the forced air coming through the overhead vents and the crackling of the coffee machine as it finished brewing.

“What about the Pakistani terrorists?” Coffey asked.

“At this moment the cell is desperately trying to cross the Himalayan foothills—we believe to Pakistan,” Herbert replied. “They have a prisoner. She’s an Indian woman who apparently coordinated SFF actions to make the attack on the Hindu sites look like the work of the Pakistani Muslims. It is imperative that they reach Pakistan and that their hostage be made to tell what she knows.”

“To defuse the outraged Indian populace that will otherwise be screaming for Pakistani blood,” Liz said.

“Correct,” Herbert said. “So far, the first attempt to capture the Pakistanis failed. SFF commandos were sent into the mountains. They were all killed. We do not know what other pursuit options are being considered or whether the cell has contacted Pakistan. We don’t know what rescue efforts Islamabad may be attempting to mount.”

“They’d probably be chopper HAP searches,” August said.

“Explain,” Hood said.

“Hunt and peck,” August told him. “The cell would not risk sending a radio beacon to Pakistan or suggesting a rendezvous point. That would be too easy for an Indian listening post at the line of control to pick off. Pakistan doesn’t have the satellite resources to spot the cell so they would have to fly in and crisscross suspected routes of egress. And they’d use helicopters instead of jets, to stay below Indian radar.”

“Good ‘gets,’ ” Herbert said.

“Paul, there’s something that’s bothering me,” Coffey said. “Do we know for certain that the NSA operative was an observer and not a participant? This action may have been planned a couple of weeks ago, timed to draw attention from their attempted coup in Washington.”

Coffey had a point. The former head of the NSA, Jack Fenwick, had been working to replace President of the United States Michael Lawrence with the more militant Vice President Cotten. It was conceivable that Fenwick may have helped to orchestrate this crisis as a distraction from the anticipated resignation of President Lawrence.

“We believe that Friday is clean, though right now we have him quarantined with an Indian officer,” Hood replied. “I suspect that if Friday were involved with this he would be trying to get out of the region and keep us out as well.”

“Which could also mean he is involved,” Liz pointed out.

“In what way?” Hood asked.

“If you’re suggesting, as I think you are, that Striker try to help the cell get home, it would be in Mr. Friday’s interest to stay close to them and make sure they do not succeed.”

“That could work both ways,” Herbert said. “If Striker goes in after the cell we can also keep an eye on Friday.”

“I want to emphasize here that we have not yet made a final determination on the mission, Colonel,” Hood said. “But if we do try to help the Pakistanis the key to success is a timely intervention. Bob, you’ve been in contact with HQ Central Air Command.”

“Yes,” Herbert said. “We’re dealing directly with Air Chief Marshal Chowdhury and his senior aide. I told the ACM that we may want to change the way we insert Striker.”

“You’re thinking about an airdrop,” August said.

“Correct,” replied Herbert. “I asked the ACM for jump gear. He said it will definitely be on the Himalayan Eagles squadron AN-12. But I did not tell him what we may be asking you to do in the region. The good news is, whatever you do will be well shielded. The Indian military continues to be ultrasecretive about your involvement. The SFF and the other people behind the Srinagar attacks do not even know that Striker is en route to the region.”

“What about the Indian officer who is with Mr. Friday?” Colonel August asked. “Are we sure we can trust him?”

“Well, nothing is guaranteed,” Herbert said. “But according to Friday, Captain Nazir is not looking forward to the prospect of a nuclear attack. Especially when he and Friday are headed toward Pakistan.”

“I was just thinking about that,” August said. “Do you think you can include lead-lined long johns in the Indian requisition form?”

“Just get behind Mike,” Herbert said. “Nothing gets past that sumbitch. Not even high-intensity rads.”

There was anxious chuckling about that. The laughter was a good tension breaker.

“We’ve got Friday and Nazir en route by chopper to a town called Jaudar,” Herbert said.

“I know where that is,” Colonel August said. “It’s southeast of the region we were supposed to be investigating.”

“If we decide to move forward with a search and rescue, you’ll be hooking up in the mountains north of there,” Herbert said. “That’s where we’ve pinpointed the cell.”

“Colonel August, if we decide to go ahead with this mission you’ll have to jump your people into the Himalayas near the Siachin Glacier, link up with the cell, and get them through the line of control,” Hood said. “This is an extremely high-risk operation. I need an honest answer. Is Striker up for it?”

“The stakes are also high,” August said. “We have to be up for it.”

“Good man,” Herbert muttered. “Damn good man.”

“People, one thing I have to point out is that the Indians are not going to be your only potential enemies,” Liz said. “You also have to worry about the psychological state of the Pakistani cell. They’re under extreme physical and psychological duress. They may not believe that you’re allies. The nature of people in this situation is to trust no one outside the group.”

“Those are very good points and we’ll have to talk about them,” Hood told her.

“There’s something else we’ll have to talk about, Paul,” Coffey said. “According to your file, the Free Kashmir Militia has acknowledged its involvement with at least part of this attack and with all of the previous attacks in Kashmir. Striker will be helping self-professed terrorists. To say that leaves us vulnerable legally is an understatement.”

“That’s absolute horseshit,” Herbert said. “The guys who blew my wife up are still hanging out in a rat hole in Syria somewhere. Terrorists of warring nations don’t get extradited. And the guys who help terrorists don’t even get their names in the papers.”

“That only happens to guerrillas who are sponsored by terrorist nations,” Coffey replied. “The United States has a different form and level of accountability. Even if Striker succeeds in getting the cell to Pakistan, India will be within its rights to demand the extradition of everyone who had a hand in the attack on the bazaar, on the SFF commandos, and in the escape. If New Delhi can’t get the FKM they will go after Striker.”

“Lowell, India doesn’t have any kind of moral high ground here,” Herbert said. “They’re planning a goddamn nuclear strike!”

“No, a rogue element in the government is apparently planning that,” Coffey said. “The lawful Indian government will have to disown them and prosecute them as well.”

The attorney rose angrily and got himself a cup of coffee. He was a little calmer as he sat back down and took a sip. Hood was silent. He looked at Herbert. The intelligence chief did not like Lowell Coffey and his disgust with legal technicalities was well known. Unfortunately, Hood could not afford to ignore what the attorney had just said.

“Gentlemen?” August said.

“Go ahead, Colonel,” Hood said.

“We are talking about a possible nuclear conflagration here,” August said. “The normal rules do not seem to apply. I’ll poll the team if you’d like, but I’m willing to bet they say the same thing I’m about to. Given the stakes, the downside is worth risking.”

Hood was about to thank him but the words snagged in his throat. Bob Herbert did not have that problem.

“God bless you, Colonel August,” Herbert said loudly as he glared across the table at Coffey.

“Thank you, Bob,” August said. “Mr. Coffey? If it’s any help, Striker can always pull a Lone Ranger on the Pakistanis.”

“Meaning what, Colonel?” Coffey asked.

“We can drop them off then ride into the sunset before they can even thank or ID us,” August said.

Herbert smiled. Hood did, too, but inside. His face was frozen by the weight of the decision he would have to make.

“We’ll get back to you later on all of this,” Hood said. “Colonel, I want to thank you.”

“For what? Doing my job?”

“For your enthusiasm and courage,” Hood said. “They raise the bar for all of us.”

“Thank you, sir,” August said.

“Get some rest,” Hood said. He clicked off the phone and looked across the table. “Bob, I want you to make sure we’ve got someone at the NRO watching the Pakistani border. If a chopper does come looking for the cell we have to be able to give Striker advance warning. I don’t want them to be mistaken for a hostile force and cut down.”

Herbert nodded.

“Lowell, find me some legal grounds for doing this,” Hood went on.

The attorney shook his head. “There isn’t anything,” Coffey said. “At least, nothing that will hold up in an international court.”

“I don’t need anything that will work in court,” Hood said.

“I need a reason to keep Striker from being extradited if it comes to that.”

“Like claiming they were on a mission of mercy,” Coffey said.

“Yeah,” Herbert interjected. “I’ll bet we can find some UN peacekeeping status bullshit that would qualify.”

“Without informing the United Nations?” Coffey said.

“You know, Lowell, Bob may have something,” Hood said. “The secretary-general has emergency trusteeship powers that allow her to declare a region ‘at risk’ in the event of an apparent and overwhelming military threat. That gives her the right to send a Security Council team to the region to investigate.”

“I’m missing how that helps us,” Coffey said.

“The team does not have to consist of sitting Security Council personnel,” Hood said. “Just agents of Security Council nations.”

“Maybe,” Coffey said. “But no one will accept the presence of a team consisting solely of Americans.”

“It won’t,” Hood said. “India’s a member of the Security Council. And there are Indians out there.”

“Captain Nazir and Nanda Kumar,” Herbert said. “Her own countrymen.”

“Exactly,” Hood replied. “Even if she’s a hostile observer, at least she’s present.”

“Yeah. Since when does the Security Council agree on anything?” Liz pointed out.

“We may have to bring Secretary-General Chatterjee in on this once Striker is on the ground,” Hood said. “Then we’ll tell her what we know.”

“And what if she refuses to invoke her trusteeship powers?” Coffey asked.

“She won’t,” Hood said.

“How can you be sure?” Coffey asked.

“Because we still have a press department,” Hood said. “And while we do, I’ll make sure that every paper on earth knows that Secretary-General Chatterjee did nothing while India prepared to launch nuclear missiles at Pakistan. We’ll see whose blood the world wants then. Hers or Striker’s.”

I wouldn’t bet the farm on that plan,” Coffey warned.

Give me an option,” Hood countered.

Coffey and Herbert agreed to have a look at the United Nations charter and brief Hood. Hood agreed to hold off contacting Chatterjee. Herbert left to follow up on the intel reports. Only Liz stayed behind with Hood. Her hands were folded on the table and she was staring hard at them.

“Problem, Liz?” Hood asked.

She looked at him. “You’ve had some run-ins with Mala Chatterjee.”

“True,” Hood said. “But forcing her hand or embarrassing her is not on the agenda. I’m only interested in protecting Striker.”

“That isn’t where I was going with this,” she said. “You fought with Chatterjee, you fought with Sharon, and you’ve shut Ann Farris out.” Her expression softened. “She told me about what happened between you.”

“Okay,” Hood said with a trace of annoyance. “What’s your point?”

“I know what you think about psychobabble, Paul, but I want you to make sure you keep all of this on an issues level,” Liz said. “You’re under a lot of pressure from women. Don’t let that frustration get transferred from one woman to another to another.”

Hood rose. “I won’t. I promise.”

“I want to believe that,” Liz said. She smiled. “But right now you’re pissed at me, too.”

Hood stood there. Liz was right. His back was ramrod straight, his mouth was a tight line, and his fingers were curled into fists. He let his shoulders relax. He opened his hands. He looked down.

“Paul, it’s my job to watch the people here and point out possible problem spots,” Liz said. “That’s all I’m doing. I’m not judging you. But you have been under a lot of pressure since the UN situation. You’re also tired. All I’m trying to do is keep you the fair, even-handed guy I just saw working things out between Bob Herbert and Lowell Coffey.”

Hood smiled slightly. “Thanks, Liz. I don’t believe the secretary-general was in danger, but I appreciate the heads-up.”

Liz gave him a reassuring pat on the arm and left the room. Hood looked across the room at the crisis clock.

It was still blank. But inside, his own clock was ticking. And the mainspring was wound every bit as tight as Liz had said.

Even so, he reminded himself that he was safe in Washington while Mike Rodgers and Striker were heading into a region where their actions could save or doom millions of lives—including their own.

Next to that, whatever pressure he was feeling was nothing.

Nothing at all.

TWENTY-NINE

New Delhi, India Thursday, 2:06 P.M.

Sixty-nine-year-old Minister of Defense John Kabir sat in his white-walled office. The two corridors of the Ministry of Defence offices were part of the cabinet complex housed in the eighty-year-old Parliament House Estate at 36 Gurdwara Rakabganj Road in New Delhi. Outside a wall-length bank of open windows the bright afternoon sun shone down on the extensive lawns, small artificial ponds, and decorative stone fountains. The sounds of traffic were barely audible beyond the high, ornamental red sandstone wall that enclosed the sprawling complex. On the right side of the grounds Kabir could just see the edge of one of the two houses of Parliament, the Lok Sabha, the House of the People. On the other side of this ministry annex was the Rajya Sabha, the Council of States. Unlike the representatives in the Lok Sabha, which were elected by the people, the members of the Rajya Sabha were either chosen by the president or selected by the legislative assemblies of the nation’s states.

Minister Kabir loved his nation and its government. But he no longer had patience for it. The system had lost its way.

The white-haired official had just finished reading a secure e-mail dispatch from Major Dev Puri on his army’s movements into the mountains. Puri and his people were frontline veterans. They would succeed where the SFF commandos had failed.

Kabir deleted the computer file then sat there reflecting on the crossroads to which he had brought his nation. It would be either the triumph or the downfall of his long career. It was a career that began with his rise through the military to captain by the age of thirty-seven. However, Kabir was frustrated by the weak social and military programs of Prime Minister Indira Gandhi. He was particularly upset when India defeated Pakistan in the 1971 war and failed to absolutely solidify their hold on Kashmir by creating a demilitarized zone beyond the line of control. He drew up a plan calling for a “zone of security.” He wanted to use the villages on the Pakistani side for routine artillery, gunship, and bombing practice. He wanted to keep them unoccupied. What was the purpose of winning a war if the victor could not maintain security along its borders?

Not only was his plan rejected, but Captain Kabir was reprimanded by the minister of defence. Kabir resigned and wrote a book, What Ails the Irresolute Nation, which became a controversial best-seller. It was followed by A Plan for Our Secure Future. Within three months of the publication of the second book he was asked to become general secretary of the Samyukta Socialist Party. Within three years he was chairman of the national Socialist Party. At the same time he was appointed president of the All India Truckers’ Federation. He led a strike in 1974 that crippled the highways and even railroad crossings, where trucks “broke down.” That helped to trigger the establishment of Prime Minister Gandhi’s “Emergency” in June 1975. That declaration enabled her to suspend civil liberties and incarcerate her foes. Kabir was arrested and held in prison for over a year. That did not stop him from campaigning for reform from his jail cell. Supported by union members and by Russian-backed socialist groups, Kabir was pardoned. The Russians in particular liked Kabir’s advocacy of a stronger border presence against China. Kabir drew on his widespread grassroots support to have himself named deputy minister of industry. He used that post to strengthen his support among the working castes while restoring his ties to the military. That led to his appointment as minister of Kashmir affairs and his membership on the Committee on External Affairs. That was where he became good friends with Dilip Sahani. Sahani was the officer in charge of the Special Frontier Force in Kashmir. The men discovered they had the same concerns regarding the threat posed by both Islamic Fundamentalists and the nuclear research being conducted by Pakistan.

Two years ago, high-ranking officers and government officials who respected Kabir’s Zone of Security plan got together and pressed the prime minister to name him minister of defence. Kabir asked the national commander of the SFF to come and work for him and then arranged for Dilip Sahani to take over that post. Together, the men plotted in secret. New Delhi was content to build its own nuclear arsenal as a deterrent and collect intelligence to assess the across-the-border threat. Kabir and Sahani were not. They wanted to make certain that Islamabad never had the opportunity to mount the very real threat of a jihad of mass destruction. With the unwitting help of the FKM cell and a young member of the SFF’s Civilian Network Operatives, they were on the verge of realizing their dream. If the field commandos had succeeded in their efforts to capture and destroy the FKM, the goal would be just days if not hours away. Now they had to wait.

Major Puri would not fail them. He would close in on the terrorist cell and then kill them in a firefight. The CNO operative who was with them would tell the story as she saw it from the inside. Even if she died in the fight, she would reveal to Major Puri with her dying breath how the FKM attacked the temple and the bus. How the lives of those Hindus were the first sacrifices of the new jihad. The people of India would believe her because in their hearts they knew she was telling the truth. Her grieving grandfather would back up everything that she said. And then the Indian government would respond.

Of course, the president and prime minister would attack Pakistan as they usually did. With words. That was how nuclear powers were supposed to act. If they replied with weapons the results would be unthinkable. Or so the common wisdom went.

What the rest of the world did not realize was that Pakistan’s leaders were willing to endure annihilation. They would sacrifice their nation if it meant the utter destruction of India and the Hindu people. Islam would still have tens of millions of adherents. Their faith would survive. And the dead of Pakistan would live on in Paradise.

Kabir was not going to give Pakistan the chance to attack India. He was, however, perfectly willing to send them to Paradise. He intended to do that with a preemptive strike.

The team that was in charge of the Underground Nuclear Command Center was loyal to Minister Kabir. The key personnel had been carefully selected from among the military and SFF ranks. They would respond to dual commands issued by Minister Kabir and Commander Sahani. When those orders came, nothing on earth could turn them back.

Kabir’s plan was to hit Pakistan before they had fully deployed their nuclear arsenal. He would use a total of seventynine Indian SRBMs. The short-range ballistic missiles each had a range of eight hundred kilometers. They constituted one-half of India’s nuclear arsenal and were housed in silos located just behind the line of control. Eleven of those would hit Islamabad alone, removing it from the map and killing nearly 20 percent of the nation’s 130 million people. In the days and weeks to come, radiation from the explosions would kill another 40 million Pakistanis. The rest of the SRBMs would strike at Pakistani military facilities. That included seven suspected silo locations in the Himalayas. Maybe the American team coming into the country would have found them. Maybe they would not. Regardless, their presence would be a powerful public relations tool for Kabir. It would show the world that India had reason to fear Pakistan’s nuclear proliferation. The deaths of the Americans would be unfortunate but unavoidable.

Minister Kabir brought the remaining targets up on his computer. In addition to the mountains, SRBMs would be launched at each of Pakistan’s air bases. Ten Pakistan Air Force bases were operational full-time. These were the “major operational bases” PAF Sargodha, PAF Mianwali, PAF Kamra, PAF Rafiqui, PAF Masroor, PAF Faisal, PAF Chaklala, PAF Risalpur, PAF Peshawar, and PAF Samungli. They would all be hit with two missiles each. Then there were eleven “forward operational bases” that became fully operational only during wartime. All of these would be struck as well. They were PAF Sukkur, PAF Shahbaz, PAF Multan, PAF Vihari, PAF Risalewala, PAF Lahore, PAF Nawabshah, PAF Mirpur Khas, PAF Murid, PAF Pasni, and PAF Talhar. Finally, there were the nine satellite bases used for emergency landings: PAF Rahim Yar Khan, PAF Chander, PAF Bhagtanwala, PAF Chuk Jhumra, PAF Ormara, PAF Rajanpur, PAF Sindhri, PAF Gwadar, and PAF Kohat. These were little more than landing strips without personnel to man them. Still, they would all be razed. With luck, the PAF would not be able to launch a single missile or bomber. Even if Pakistan did manage to land a few nuclear blows, India could absorb the loss. The leaders would have been moved to the underground bunkers. They would manage the brief conflagration and recovery from the UNCC.

When it was all over, Kabir would take the blame or praise for what happened. But however the world responded, Kabir was certain of one thing.

He will have done the right thing.

THIRTY

Ankara, Turkey Thursday, 11:47 A.M.

The Indian air force AN-12 transport is a cousin of the world’s largest aircraft, the Russian Antonov AN-225 Mriya. The AN-12 is half the size of that six-engine brute. A long-range transport, it is also one-third smaller than the C-130 that had brought Striker as far as Ankara. With the cargo section in the rear and an enclosed, insulated passenger cabin toward the front, the IAF aircraft is also much quieter. For that Mike Rodgers was grateful.

Rodgers had caught five solid hours of sleep on the final leg of the C-130 flight. He did that with the help of wax earplugs he carried expressly for that purpose. Still, the small downclick in sound and vibration was welcome. Especially when Corporal Ishi Honda left his seat in the rear of the small, cramped crew compartment. He ducked as he made his way through the single narrow aisle that ran through the center of the cabin. The team’s grips, cold-weather gear, and parachutes were strapped in bulging mesh nets on the ceiling over the aisle.

The communications expert handed the TAC-SAT to General Rodgers. “It’s Mr. Herbert,” Honda said.

Colonel August was sitting beside Rodgers in the forwardfacing seats. The men exchanged glances.

“Thank you,” Rodgers said to Honda.

The corporal returned to his seat. Rodgers picked up the receiver.

“There are parachutes onboard, Bob,” Rodgers said. “For us?”

“Paul’s given the go-ahead for an expedited search-and-recover of the cell,” Herbert said.

“Expedited” was spy-speak for “illegal.” It meant that an operation was being rushed before anyone could learn about it and block it. It also meant something else. They were probably going to be jumping into the Himalayas. Rodgers knew what that meant.

“We have the target spotted,” Herbert went on. “Viens is following them through the mountains. They’re at approximately nine thousand feet and heading northwest toward the line of control. They’re currently located thirty-two miles due north of the village of Jaudar.”

Rodgers removed one of the three “playbooks” from under the seat. It was a fat black spiral-bound notebook containing all the maps of the regions. He found the town and moved his finger up. He turned to the previous page where the map was continued. Instead of just brown mountains there was a big dagger-shaped slash of white pointing to the lower left.

“That puts them on direct course for the Siachin Glacier,” Rodgers said.

“That’s how our people read it,” Herbert said. “They can’t be carrying a lot of artillery. It would make sense for them to head somewhere the elements might help them. Cold, blizzards, avalanches, crevasses—it’s a fortress or stealth environment if they need it.”

“Assuming it doesn’t kill them,” Rodgers pointed out.

“Trying to go through any lower would definitely kill them,” Herbert replied. “The NSA intercepted a SIG-INT report from a Russian satellite listening in on the line of control. Several divisions have apparently moved out and are headed toward the glacier.”

“Estimated time of encounter?” Rodgers asked.

“We don’t have one,” Herbert said. “We don’t know if the divisions are airborne, motorized, or on foot. We’ll see what else comes through the Russian satellite.”

“Can General Orlov help us with this?” Rodgers asked.

Sergei Orlov was head of the Russian Op-Center based in St. Petersburg. General Orlov and Hood had a close personal and professional relationship. Striker leader Lt. Colonel Charles Squires died during a previous joint undertaking, helping to prevent a coup in Russia.

“I asked Paul about that,” Herbert said. “He doesn’t want to involve them. Russian technology helps drive the Indian war machine. Indian payoffs drive Russian generals. Orlov won’t be able to guarantee that anyone he contacts will maintain the highest-level security status.”

“I’m not convinced we can guarantee HLS status from the NSA,” Rodgers replied.

“I’m with you on that,” Herbert said. “I’m not sure Hank Lewis patched up all the holes Jack Fenwick drilled over there. That’s why I’m giving information to Ron Friday on a need-to-know basis. He’s moving up to Jaudar with a Black Cat officer and the grandfather of the CNO informant who’s traveling with the cell.”

“Good move,” Rodgers said.

“We’re also trying to get regular weather updates from the Himalayan Eagles,” Herbert said. “But that could all change before you arrive. By the way, how are your new hosts treating you?”

“Fine,” Rodgers said. “They gave us rations, the gear is all here, and we’re on schedule.”

“All right,” Herbert said. “I’ll give you the drop coordinates at H-hour minus fifteen.”

“Confirmed,” Rodgers said.

The general looked at his watch. They had three hours to go. That left them just enough time to pass out the gear, check it out, suit up, and review the maps with the team.

“I’ll check back in when I have more intel for you,” Herbert said. “Is there anything else you need?”

“I can’t think of anything, Bob,” Rodgers said.

There was a short silence. Mike Rodgers knew what was coming. He had heard the change in Herbert’s voice during that last question. It had gone from determined to wistfulness.

“Mike, I know I don’t have to tell you that this is a shitty assignment,” Herbert said.

“No, you don’t,” Rodgers agreed. He was flipping through the magnified views of the region of the drop. Never mind the terrain itself. The wind-flow charts were savage. The currents tore through the mountains at fifty to sixty-one miles an hour. Those were gale-force winds.

“But I do have to point out that you aren’t a part of Striker,” Herbert went on. “You’re a senior officer of the

NCMC.”

“Cut to the chase,” Rodgers told him. “Is Paul going to order me to stay behind?”

“I haven’t discussed this with him,” Herbert said. “What’s the point? You’ve disobeyed his orders before.”

“I have,” Rodgers said. “Kept Tokyo from getting nuked, if I remember correctly at my advanced age.”

“You did do that,” Herbert said. “But I was thinking that it might help if we had someone on-site to liaise with the Indian government.”

“Send one of the guys the FBI tucked into the embassy,” Rodgers said. “I know they’re there and so do the Indians.”

“I don’t think so,” Herbert replied.

“Look, I’ll be happy to talk to whatever officials I have to from the field,” Rodgers said. The general leaned forward. He huddled low over the microphone. “Bob, you know damn well what we’re facing here. I’ve been looking at the charts. When we drop into the mountains the wind alone is going to hammer us. We stand a good chance of losing people just getting onto the ground.”

“I know,” Herbert said.

“Hell, if they didn’t need to fly the plane I’d bring the Indian crew down with me. Let them help save their own country,” Rodgers continued. “So don’t even try to tell me that I shouldn’t do what we’re asking Striker to do. Especially not with what’s at stake.”

“Mike, I wasn’t thinking about Striker or the rest of the world,” Herbert replied. “I was thinking about an old friend with football-damaged, forty-seven-year-old knees. A friend who could hurt Striker more than help them if he got injured on an ice-landing.”

“If that happens I’ll order them to leave me where I land,” Rodgers assured him.

“They won’t.”

“They will,” Rodgers said. “We’ll have to do that with anyone who’s hurt.” He hung up the receiver and motioned for Corporal Honda to come back and reclaim the TAC-SAT. Then he rose.

“I’ll be right back,” Rodgers said to August.

“Is there anything we need to do?” August asked.

Rodgers looked down at him. August was in an uncomfortable spot. Rodgers was one of the colonel’s oldest and closest friends. He was also a superior officer. That was one of the reasons August had turned down this job when it was first offered to him. It was often difficult for the colonel to find a proper balance between those two relationships. This was one of those times. August also knew what was at risk for his friend and the team.

“I’ll let you know in a few minutes,” Rodgers said as he walked toward the cockpit.

Walked on rickety knees that were ready to kick some ass.

THIRTY-ONE

Jaudar, Kashmir Thursday, 3:33 P.M.

The problem with flying an LAHR—low-altitude helicopter reconnaissance—in a region like the Himalayas is that there is no room for error.

From the pilot’s perspective, keeping the aircraft steady is practically impossible. The aircraft shakes along the x- and y-axes, the horizontal and vertical, with occasional bumps in the diagonal. Keeping the chopper within visual range of the target area is also problematic. It’s often necessary for the pilot to move suddenly and over considerable distances to get around violent air pockets, clouds that blow in and impede the view, or snow and ice squalls. Just keeping the bird aloft is the best that can be hoped for. Whatever intel the observer can grab is considered a gift, not a guarantee.

Wearing sunglasses to cut down on the glare, and a helmet headset to communicate with Captain Nazir in the noisy cabin, Ron Friday alternately peered through the front and side windows of the cockpit. The American operative cradled an MP5K in his lap. If they spotted the terrorists there might be a gunfight. Hopefully, a few bursts in the air from the submachine gun would get them to stop shooting and listen. If not, he was prepared to back off and snipe one or two of them with the 1ASL in the gun rack behind him. If Captain Nazir could keep the chopper steady, the large sharpshooter rifle had greater range than the small arms the terrorists were probably carrying. With a few of them wounded, the others might be more inclined to let Friday land and approach them. Especially if he promised to airlift them to medical assistance in Pakistan.

Apu was seated on a fold-down chair in the spacious cargo area. It wasn’t so much a chair as a hinged plastic square with a down cushion on top. The farmer was leaning forward, peering through a hatchway that separated the cargo section from the cockpit. Apu wore an anxious look as he gazed out through the window. Friday was good at reading people’s expressions. He was not just concerned about finding his granddaughter. There was a sense of despair in his eyes, in the sad downturn of his mouth. Perhaps Apu had been in the mountains as a young man. He had had some idea what was beyond the foothills. But Apu had certainly never gone this far, never this high. He had never gazed down at the barren peaks. He had never heard the constant roar of the wind over powerful 671 kW rotors, or felt that wind batter an aircraft, or experienced the cold that blasted through the canvas-lined metal walls. The farmer knew that unless they found Nanda the chances were not good that she would survive.

The chopper continued toward the line of control without any of the occupants spotting the terrorists. Friday was not overly concerned. They still had the southward trip along the other side of the range to go.

Suddenly, something happened that Friday was not expecting. He heard a voice in his helmet. A voice that did not belong to Captain Nazir.

“Negative zone three,” said the very faint, crackling voice. “Repeat: negative zone three.” A moment later the voice was gone.

Friday made sure the headset switch on the communications panel was set on “internal” rather than “external.” That meant they were communicating only with the cockpit instead of an outside receiver.

“Who is that?” Friday asked.

Nazir shook his head slowly. “It’s not control tower communication.” The wheel was shaking violently. He did not want to release his two-handed grip. “Do you see that yellow button below the com-panel?” he asked.

“Yes,” Friday said.

“That’s the nosedome antenna,” Nazir said. “Push it once then push on the external signal again.”

Friday did. As soon as the button was depressed the voices began to come in more clearly. Other zones were checking in. There was also a blip on the small green directional map. The signal was coming from the northwest. Friday switched back to internal communications.

“We’d better check it out,” Friday said.

“It cannot be a Pakistani search party,” Nazir said. “They would not communicate on this frequency.”

“I know,” Friday replied. “The line of control isn’t far from here. I’m worried that it could be an Indian unit moving in.”

“A sweep coming down through different zones,” Nazir said. “That would be a standard search-and-rescue maneuver. Should we do a flyover?”

“Why?” Friday asked.

“They may have intelligence on the cell’s location that we do not,” Nazir said. “The direction they are headed may tell us something.”

“No,” Friday said. He continued to look out the window. “I don’t want to waste the time or fuel.”

“What do we do if they contact us?” Nazir asked. “Radar at the line of control may pick us up as we near the end of the range. They may ask us to help with the search.”

“We’ll tell them we’re on routine reconnaissance and were about to turn back to Kargil,” Friday said.

Apu stuck his small, strong hand through the opening. He tapped Friday on the shoulder. “Is everything all right?” he yelled.

Friday nodded. Just then, about one hundred feet below, he saw snow billowing from under an overhang.

“Hold!” Friday barked at Nazir.

The helicopter slowed and hovered. Ron Friday leaned toward the side. The puffs of snow were concentrated in a small area and inching toward the north. They could be caused by an animal picking its way across the cliff or they could be the result of a wind funnel. It was impossible to tell because of the overhang. The sun was behind the top of the peak and unable to throw shadows behind or in front of the region.

“Do you see that?” Friday asked.

Nazir nodded.

“Take her down and away slowly,” Friday said.

The chopper simultaneously began to descend and angle away from the cliff. As the target peak filled less and less of the window, the vastness of the range loomed behind it. The layers upon layers of brownish-purple mountains were a spectacular sight. Snow covered the peaks and Friday could actually see it falling on some of the nearer mountains, off-white sheets like stage scrims. The sun cut a rainbow through one of the storm centers. It was a massive arc, more brilliant than any Friday had ever seen. Though Friday did not have time to enjoy the view, it made him feel for a moment like a god.

They dropped nearly one hundred feet. As they did, three people came into view. They were slightly more than two hundred feet away. The three were walking close together. Each one was wearing dark, heavy clothing and carrying a backpack and weapon. They did not stop or look over at the helicopter until the rotor wash stirred the snow on the ledge beneath their feet. Given the parka tops they were wearing and the low rumble of the wind, Friday was not surprised they did not hear the chopper.

“Is Nanda there?” Apu asked.

Friday could not tell who the three people were. He was disappointed to see that only three of them had gotten this far. Unless—

“Take us back up and head north!” he shouted.

Captain Nazir pulled the U-shaped wheel toward him and the chopper rose. As it did, the tail rotor and starboard side of the cargo area were struck by short, hard blows. Friday could not hear them but he could feel the craft shudder. He could also see the thin shafts of white daylight appear suddenly in the bottom half of the cargo bay.

“What is it?” Nazir yelled.

“They think we are the enemy!” Apu shouted.

“It’s a setup!” Friday snarled. “They broke into two groups!”

The chopper wobbled and Friday could hear the portside tail rotor clanging. The weapon fire from the stern had obviously damaged the blades. If they had not pulled up when they did the chopper would probably be plunging tail first into the rocky, mist-shrouded valleys below. As it was, Captain Nazir was having trouble keeping the Ka-25 steady and moving forward, much less gaining altitude. A moment later the chopper stopped climbing altogether.

“I’m losing her!” Nazir said. “And we’re leaking fuel.”

Friday looked at the gauge and swore. They had already off-loaded whatever gear they were carrying in the back. The only thing left was the fixed-winch. There was no extra weight they could push out. There probably was not time to get rid of it in any case.

Friday looked out the window as the chopper began to shudder violently. The rainbow vanished as the sun’s angle changed. He no longer felt like a god but like a grade-A sucker. Of all the damn tricks to fall for. A freaking sleight of hand, a sucker punch. The operative studies the unthreatening team while a backup unit, either hidden or on another side, tears you a new exit.

“You’re going to have to set us down anywhere you can!” Friday said urgently.

“I’m looking for a spot,” Nazir said. “I don’t see one.”

A sudden fist of wind turned them nearly forty-five degrees so they were facing the cliff. A second burst of gunfire, this time from the group in front, tore at the undercarriage. The chopper lurched and dropped. They were at the top of a valley. Friday could not see what was below them because of a thick mist. But he did not want to go down there. He did not want to lose the cell and he did not want to be here when the nukes went off.

“I’ve got to go down while we still have power for a controlled landing,” Nazir said.

“Not yet,” Friday said. He unbuckled his seatbelt. “Apu, back up.”

“What are you going to do?” Nazir asked.

“I’m going to crawl into the back,” Friday said. “Do you have forward and aft mobility?”

“Limited,” he said. “One of the tail rotors is still working.”

“All right,” Friday said. “If you can turn the stern toward the peak, Apu and I might be able to use the winch line to rappel to one of the ledges.”

“In this wind?” Nazir exclaimed. “You’ll be blown off!”

“The wind is blowing southeast, toward the cliff.” Friday said. “That should help us.”

“It could also smash you into the rocks—”

“We’ll have to risk that!” Friday told Nazir. “I’ve got to reach the cell and tell them about the soldiers ahead.”

“Even if you can get to the ledge, they’ll gun you down,” Nazir said.

“I’ll send the old man out first,” Friday said. “Nanda may recognize her grandfather’s coat. Or they may see us as potential hostages. In any case, that might get them to hold their fire.” Friday pulled out his switchblade and cut out the seatbelt. When the strap was free, Friday detached the radio and handed it to Apu. “With luck I’ll be able to raise Striker. I’ll tell them where we are and approximately where you set down. Striker will help us get to Pakistan and the Himalayan patrol can come and get you. You can tell them you were running independent recon but didn’t find the cell.”

Nazir did not look convinced. But there was no time to debate the plan and he did as Ron Friday asked. With his feet braced against the floor, his hands tight around the controls, Nazir carefully turned the chopper around and began edging it toward the cliff. As he did, Friday disconnected the communications jack but kept his helmet on. Then he swung through the hatchway between the seats.

“What is happening?” Apu asked. His flesh was paler than usual. Unlike the heated cockpit the cargo bay was damn cold.

“We’re bailing,” Friday said as he used the seatbelt to create a bandolierlike harness for Apu.

“I don’t understand,” Apu said.

“Just hang on,” Friday said as he fastened the belt in front and then led the farmer to the winch. It was difficult to stand in the bumping cargo bay so they crawled to the rear of the hold. The line was quarter-inch-diameter nylon wound around an aluminum spool. They remained on their knees as Friday unfastened the hook end from the eyelet on the floor.

“You’re going to go out first,” Friday said as he ran the line through the harness he had created.

“Go out?” Apu said.

“Yes. To your granddaughter,” Friday told him. The American tugged on the line. It seemed secure. Then he motioned Apu back until the farmer was crouching on the hatch. “It’s going to be a rough ride,” Friday warned him. “Just grab the line, huddle down, and hold on until they get you.”

“Wait!” Apu said. “How do you know that they will?”

“I don’t, but I’ll pray for you!” Friday said as he reached for the long lever that controlled the floor hatch. He pulled it. There was a jolt as the hatch began to open. Quickly, he grabbed the remote control that operated the winch. The line began unspooling as frigid air slipped over the doorway and slammed into the hold. “Tell them I’m coming next!” Friday shouted as Apu slid back.

Apu grabbed the line as Friday had said, hugging it to him as he slipped from the hold. With his free hand, Friday held the line himself and edged toward the open hatch. The wind was like a block of ice, solid and biting. He turned his helmet partway into the gale and watched through squinting eyes. As he expected, the wind lofted Apu up and out. It was a surreal vision, a man being hoisted like a kite. The chopper was about twenty-five feet from the cliff. It was listing to the starboard, where the rear rotor was out, and being buffeted up and down by the wind. But Nazir was able to hold it in place as Apu was swept toward the ledge. As Friday had hoped, the forward group went to retrieve him as the rear guard kept their weapons on the helicopter. The closer he got to the cliff, the more Apu was banged around by the wind as crosscurrents whipped down and across the rock face. But one of the cell members was able to grab him, while another cell member held on to his comrade. When everyone was safe, the cell member removed the winch line. Friday reeled it back in. He watched as the farmer spoke with the others. One of the cell members raised and crossed his arms to the group in the rear. They did not fire at the chopper.

When the line came back in, Friday quickly ran it through the handle of the radio then strung it under his armpits and around his waist. He kept the radio against his belly and lay on his back. He wanted to go out feet first to protect the radio. He crab-walked down the open hatch, then pressed the button to send the winch line back out. He grabbed the line, straightened his legs, and began to slide down. The brutally cold air tore along his pants legs. It felt as if his skin were being peeled back. And then, a moment later, he was suddenly on a rocket sled. Because he was not onboard to control it, the line was going out faster than before and the wind was pushing even faster. The cliff came up so fast that he barely had time to meet it with his feet. Friday hit hard with his soles. He felt the smack all the way to the top of his skull. He bounced back then felt a sickening yank, then a drop, as the chopper lurched behind him.

“Shit!” he cried. He felt as if he had been slammed in the chest with a log. The line grew steel-taut as the chopper began to drop.

Hands reached for him from the ledge. The wind kept him buoyed. Someone held the radio while someone else tried to undo the line.

Suddenly, someone in front of him raised an AK-47 and fired a burst above his head. The nylon line snapped and the wind bumped Friday forward. More hands grabbed his jacket and pulled him onto the ledge. Because the wind was still battering him he did not feel as if he were on solid ground. He lay there for a moment as he sucked air into his wounded lungs. He was facing the valley and he watched as the helicopter descended in a slow, lazy spiral.

Then, a moment later, it stopped spiraling. The chopper fell tail first, straight and purposeful, like a metal shuttlecock. It picked up speed as it descended, finally vanishing into the low-lying clouds.

A moment later he heard a bang that echoed hollow through the valley. It was accompanied by a burst of orange-red that seemed to spread through the clouds like dye.

However, Ron Friday did not have time to contemplate the death of Captain Nazir. The hands that had saved him hoisted him up and put him against the wall of the cliff.

A woman put a gun under his chin and forced him to look at her. Her face was frostbitten and her eyes manic. Ice clung to the hair that showed beneath her hood.

“Who are you?” she demanded, screaming to be heard over the wind.

“I’m Ron Friday with American intelligence,” he shouted back. “Are you the FKM leader?”

“I am!” she replied.

“Good,” he said. “You’re the one I’m looking for. You and Nanda. Is she with you?”

“Why?” she shouted.

Friday replied, “Because she may be the only one who can stop the nuclear destruction of your country.”

THIRTY-TWO

Washington, D.C. Thursday, 6:25 A.M.

“What the hell just happened?” Bob Herbert asked Viens.

Op-Center’s intelligence chief was sitting at his desk in his darkened office. He had been watching the computer monitor with half-shut eyes until the image suddenly woke him up. He immediately hit autodial on his telephone and raised Stephen Viens at the NRO.

“It looks like a chopper went down,” Viens said.

“Chopper,” Herbert said. It was more a question than a statement.

“You were dozing,” Viens said.

“Yes, I had my eyes closed,” Herbert said. “What happened ?”

“All we saw was the tail end of a chopper approach the cliff and lower a line with two men on it,” Viens told him. “It looks like the cell took the men in and the chopper went down. We did not have a wide enough viewing area to be certain of that.”

“Friday had a copter,” Herbert said. “Could it have been him?”

“We don’t know who was on the end of the line,” Viens replied. “One of them looked like he might have been carrying a radio. It was an electronic box of some kind. It did not look like U.S. intelligence issue.”

“I’ll call you back,” Herbert said.

“Bob?” Viens said. “If that was an Indian air force chopper they’re going to know where it went down. Even if it wasn’t, the explosion is going to register on their satellite monitors or seismic equipment.”

“I know,” Herbert said. The intelligence head put Stephen Viens on hold and called Hank Lewis’s office. The NSA officer was not in yet. Herbert tried Lewis’s cell phone but the voice mail picked up. He was either on that line or out of range. Herbert swore. He finally tried Lewis at home. He caught Lewis in the middle of shaving.

Herbert told the NSA chief what had happened and asked if he knew for certain whether Ron Friday was in Jaudar.

“I assume so,” Lewis said. “I haven’t spoken with him since our conference call.”

“Do you have any way of reaching him?” Herbert asked.

“Only if he’s in the helicopter,” Lewis said.

“What about his cell phone?” Herbert pressed.

“We haven’t tried that,” Lewis said. “But on the move, in the mountains, it may be difficult.”

“True,” Herbert agreed. “And the radio?”

“We used a NATO frequency to contact him, but I don’t have that info at home,” Lewis said.

“Well, we can backtrack and raise him,” Herbert said.

“Thanks. I’ll let you know when we have him.”

Herbert ended the call and glanced at the computer clock. It was six thirty. Kevin Custer, Op-Center’s director of electronic communications, would be in his office by now. Herbert called over.

Custer was a thirty-two-year-old MIT graduate and a distant relative of General George Armstrong Custer through the general’s brother Nevin. Military service was expected in the Custer family and Kevin had spent two years in the army before taking a job at the CIA. He had been there three years when he was snatched up by Bob Herbert. Custer was the most chronically optimistic, upbeat, can-do person Herbert had ever met.

Custer told Herbert that he would get the information for him if he would hold the line. It wasn’t even, “I’ll get it and call you back.” It was, “Don’t go away. I’ll have it in a second.” And he did.

“Let’s see,” Custer said. “NSA log has the call coming through with input 101.763, PL 123.0 Hz, 855 inversion scrambling. I can contact the source of the call if you like.”

“Put it through,” Herbert said.

A moment later Herbert heard a beep.

“I’ll get off now,” Custer said. “Let me know if there’s anything else.”

“Actually, there is,” Herbert said. “Would you ring Paul Hood and patch this call through?”

Custer said he would. The radio beeped again. Then a third time. Then a fourth.

“Bob, what is it?” Hood asked when he got on. He sounded groggy. He had probably been napping too.

“Viens and I just watched the Pakistani cell haul two people in from what looked like a downed chopper,” Herbert said. The radio beeped a fifth time. “We’re trying to ascertain if one of them was Ron Friday.”

“I thought he was going to Jaudar,” Hood said.

“Exactly,” Herbert replied.

The radio beeped two more times before someone answered. It definitely was not Ron Friday.

“Yes?” said a woman’s voice.

“This is 855 base,” Herbert said, using the coded identification number. “Who is this?”

“Someone who has your radio and its operator,” the woman replied. “I just saved him from death. But the reprieve may only be temporary.”

The woman’s accent definitely belonged to that region. Herbert would be able to place it better were it not for the screaming wind behind her. The woman was also smart. She had said only that she saved Friday’s life. There was no reference to the rest of the cell or the other man they were holding. She had given Herbert as little information as possible.

Herbert hit the mute button. “Paul—I say we talk to her,” he said quickly, urgently. “We need to let her know that Striker is on the way.”

“This channel isn’t secure, is it?” Hood asked.

“No,” Herbert admitted.

“Friday will probably tell her that.”

“He got there in an Indian chopper. They may not believe him,” Herbert said. “Let me give her the overview.”

“Be careful, Bob,” Hood warned. “I don’t want you telling her who we are, exactly.”

Herbert killed the mute. “Listen to me,” he said. “We are with American intelligence. The man you have works with us.”

“He told me that his last name is Friday,” the woman said. “What is his first name?”

“Ron,” Herbert replied.

“All right,” the woman said. “What do you want with us?”

“We want to get you home alive,” Herbert said. He weighed his next words with care in case anyone was listening. “We know what happened in Srinagar. We know what your group did and did not do.”

He did not have to say more. She would know the rest. There was a short silence.

“Why do you want to help us?” the woman finally asked.

“Because we believe there will be extreme retaliation,” Herbert informed her. “Not against you but against your nation.”

“Does your person Friday know about this?” she asked.

“He knows about that and more,” Herbert informed the woman. “And he is not alone.”

“Yes,” the woman said. “We rescued an old farmer—”

“That is not what I mean,” Herbert said.

There was another brief silence. Herbert could imagine the woman scanning the skies for other choppers.

“I see,” said the woman. “I will talk to him. American intelligence, I do not know if I can take this radio with me,” the woman went on. “If there is anything else I need to know, tell me now.”

Herbert thought for a moment. “There is one more thing,” he informed her. He spoke clearly and strongly so she would not miss a word. “We are helping you because inaction would result in unprecedented human disaster. I have no respect for terrorists.”

“American intelligence,” she said, using that as if it were Herbert’s name. “I have lost nothing. If the world respected us before now, there would be no need for terrorism.”

With that, the line went dead.

THIRTY-THREE

Mt. Kanzalwan Thursday, 4:16 P.M.

Sharab could barely feel her fingers as she put the receiver back inside the radio. Despite the heavy gloves and the constant movement, the cold was beyond anything she had ever experienced. Her hands were numb when they were still, like dead weight. They burned when she moved them and blood was forced to circulate. It was the same with her feet. Her eyes were wind-blasted dry. Each blink of her icy lashes was agony.

But the worst pain was still the one inside. It had been strongest in those moments when the powerful winds slowed and the overhanging rock receded and the sun burned through the murderous cold. When survival was not a moment-to-moment concern and she had time to think.

Sharab had let herself be outsmarted by Indian security forces. She had let her nation, her people, and her fellow patriots down. That failure had cost brave Ishaq his life. And it had brought her and her small loyal militia to this precipice, to this flight. Her failure had made it unlikely that they would escape these mountains and tell the world the truth, that India and not Pakistan had been responsible for attacking the Hindu sites.

And yet, as it said in the Koran, “the wrongdoers shall never prosper.” Perhaps Allah forgave her. It seemed as though He was looking out for her when this man dropped from the sky. Sharab did not like or trust Americans. They made war on Muslims around the world and they had traditionally curried favor with New Delhi instead of Islamabad. But she would not question the will of God. It would be ironic if this man were to provide them with salvation.

Ron Friday was still lying on his stomach. To the right, Nanda was huddled with her grandfather. Sharab would deal with them in a moment. She told Samouel to help pick the American up. Together, they pushed him back under the ledge, against the wall. It was even colder here because the sun was not on them. But there was less chance of them slipping off the ledge. Until Sharab heard what this man had to say, she did not want him falling to his death.

The man groaned as she pinned her forearm against his shoulder to help him stand.

“All right,” Sharab said to him. “Tell me what you know.”

“What I know?” Friday said. Puffy white breath and gasps of pain emerged from his mouth with each syllable. “To start with, you shot down our ticket out of here.”

“You should not have come unannounced in an Indian helicopter,” Sharab replied. “That was stupid.”

“Unavoidable,” Friday protested loudly.

The exclamation was followed by a painful wince. Sharab had to lean into the man to keep him from doubling over. She wondered if he had broken some ribs in the hard landing. But that was all right. Pain could be useful. It would keep him alert and moving.

“Never mind now,” Friday said. “The main thing is that the Indian SFF set you up. They set Nanda up. She helped them blow up the temple and the bus. According to our intelligence, the SFF thought that would help solidify the Indian people behind the military. Nanda probably did not know that the Indian military intends to respond to the attack with a nuclear strike.”

“For destroying the temple?” Sharab said. She was stunned.

“Yes,” Friday said. “We believe certain militants will tell the populace that it’s the first shot of an Islamic jihad against the Hindu people. Moderate government ministers and military officials may have no choice but to go along.”

“You said you have intelligence,” Sharab said. “What intelligence ? American?”

“American and Indian,” Friday said. “The pilot who brought me here was a Black Cat Commando. He had special information about SFF activities. Our people in Washington arrived at the same conclusion independently. That’s why they’re diverting the American strike force from their original mission.”

“Which was?”

“To help the Indian military scout for possible Pakistani nuclear emplacements,” Friday replied.

“They came to help India and now I’m supposed to trust them?” Sharab declared.

“You may not have a choice,” Friday said. “There’s something else. While we were searching for you we saw a force of Indian soldiers headed this way. They’re moving in a wide sweep down from the line of control. You’ll never get through them.”

“I expected that after we killed their commandos in the mountains,” Sharab said. “How many are there?”

“I could only see about one hundred soldiers,” Friday told her. “There may be more.”

“How many American soldiers are there and how will they find us?” Sharab asked.

“There are about a dozen elite soldiers and they’ve been watching you by satellite,” Friday said.

“They can see us now?” Sharab asked.

Friday nodded.

“Then why did you have to search for us?” the woman pressed.

“Because they didn’t want to tell me where you were,” Friday said. “I’m with a different agency. There’s mistrust, rivalry.”

“Stupidity,” she snarled. She shook her head. “Less than twenty soldiers against one hundred. When will the Americans be here?”

“Very soon,” Friday said.

“How are they arriving?”

“By Indian transport, Himalayan Eagles squadron,” Friday replied.

Sharab thought for a moment. Militarily, the American unit would not be much assistance. However, there might be another way that she could use them. “Can you contact the American unit?” she asked Friday.

“Through Washington, yes,” he replied.

“Good. Samouel?”

“Yes, Sharab?” said the big man.

“I want you to wait here with Nanda,” Sharab said. “I will lead the others down to the valley. A half hour after we leave you continue along the route we planned.”

“Yes, Sharab,” he replied.

Sharab turned to go over to where Nanda and Apu were speaking.

“Wait!” Friday said. “We’re already outnumbered. Why do you want to split up?”

“If we contact the Americans by radio we can make sure the Indian ground troops also pick up the message,” Sharab said. “That will draw them to us.”

“What makes you think they’ll be taking prisoners?” Friday asked.

“It does not matter, as long as we hold them there as long as we can,” Sharab said. “It will leave the path clear for Samouel’s group to get through. You said yourself that Nanda is the key to stopping the nuclear attack. She must reach Pakistan. Her people will listen to her confession, her testimony.”

“How do you know she won’t betray you?” Friday asked.

“Because I know something you don’t,” Sharab said. “The missiles your team is looking for? They are already in place. Dozens of them. They are in the mountains, pointed at New Delhi, Calcutta, Bombay. A strike against Pakistan will turn the entire subcontinent into a wasteland.”

“Let me tell my superiors,” Friday said. “They will warn the Indians not to strike—”

“Warn them how?” Sharab asked. “I have no proof! I don’t know where the missiles are and my government won’t reveal that information. I only know that missiles have been deployed. We staged attacks to distract the Indian military when elements were being moved into place.” The woman took a breath, calmed herself. If she grew angry and began to perspire the sweat would freeze. “Unless Nanda wishes to see her nation ravaged, she will have to cooperate with us. But that means getting her to Pakistan without the Indians killing her!”

“All right,” Friday agreed. “But I’m going with her. She’ll need protection. She’ll also need international credibility. I was a witness to the blasts. I can make certain that officials from our embassy support her claims.”

“How do I know you won’t kill her?” Sharab cried. The winds had picked up and she had to shout to be heard over them. “You arrived in an Indian helicopter. How do I know you didn’t want to take us back to Kargil? I only have your promises and a radio communication that could have come from anyone! These do not make you an ally!”

“I could have shot at you from the helicopter!” Friday yelled. “That makes me not your enemy.”

Sharab had to admit that the American had a point. Still, she was not ready to believe him entirely. Not yet.

“You’re wasting what little time we have,” the man went on. “Unless you plan on killing me, I’m going with Nanda.”

Sharab continued to hold Friday against the wall. His hot breath warmed her nose as she looked at him. His eyes were tearing from the cold but that was the only life in them. Sharab could not find anything else there. Not truth, not conviction, not selflessness. But she also did not see fear or hostility. And at the moment, that would have to be good enough.

“Samouel will run the operation,” Sharab told Friday.

Friday nodded vigorously. Sharab released him. Samouel held Friday up until he was sure the American had his feet under him.

“Wait here,” Sharab said, then turned.

With her back to the cliff wall Sharab edged toward Nanda. The Indian woman was crouched in a small fissure with her grandfather. She rose when Sharab arrived. She was wearing a heavy scarf across her face. Only her eyes were visible.

Sharab told Nanda that she would be traveling in one group, with Samoeul, the American, and her grandfather.

“Why are you doing that?” Nanda asked.

When Sharab finished telling her everything Friday had said, she saw doubt and concern in Nanda’s eyes. Perhaps the Indian woman did not know what the SFF and members of the military had been doing.

Unfortunately, Nanda’s reaction told Sharab what she needed to know.

That the American’s story could be true.

Nuclear war could indeed be just hours away.

THIRTY-FOUR

Washington, D.C. Thursday, 6:51 A.M.

Paul Hood was not surprised that Bob Herbert had been blunt with the woman on the radio. Herbert’s wife had been killed by Islamic terrorists. Working with the Pakistani cell had to be ripping him apart.

But what Herbert had told the woman, that he opposed her and her profession, was also a smart and responsible alliance tactic. Strangers tend to be suspicious of indulgence and flattery. But tell someone that you don’t like them and are only working with them out of necessity and they tend to trust whatever information you give them.

“You okay, Bob?” Hood asked.

“Sure,” he replied. “She got in a good one, though.”

“So did you.”

“She never felt it,” Herbert said. “Zealots have skin like a tank. But it’s all right,” he went on. “I’m a big boy. I know how this works.”

“Sometimes it just strikes a little close to the heart,” Hood said.

“Yes, it does,” Herbert agreed.

Hood had been through situations like this before with Herbert. The intelligence chief just had to work through it.

“We’ll talk more about this later, Bob,” Hood said. “Right now, I’ve got to brief the president. He’ll need to know what we’re planning.”

The intelligence chief was silent for a moment. “I guess that’s also bothering me, though. Whether we should really be doing this.”

“What?” Hood asked. “Letting Striker go in?”

“Yeah.”

“Give me an option,” Hood said.

“Dump the problem in the president’s lap,” Herbert said. “Let him slug it out with the Indian government.”

“He won’t do that without proof,” Hood said. “I’ll tell him what our concerns are and what we’re going to do about it. I know what he’s going to say. He will okay having Striker on the ground for on-site intel, especially since the Indian government has authorized their being there. He’s going to give us his blessings to go that far. The rest will be Mike’s call.”

Herbert was silent.

“But you’re still uneasy,” Hood said.

“Yeah,” Herbert told him. “Let’s just go over our command tent options again.”

“All right,” Hood said patiently.

“We’ve decided that the Indian government is probably out of the loop on this nuclear option,” Herbert said. “So unless we get that Kargil woman, Nanda, in front of a TV camera to explain this was an inside job we have no proof to offer the president or the Indian people.”

“That’s it,” Hood said. “We’ve also got Indian troops moving in to cut Nanda and the Pakistanis down.”

“We assume,” Herbert said.

“We have to assume it’s search and destroy,” Hood pointed out. “The SFF gains nothing by capturing the Pakistanis and letting the truth come out. We need to give the cell a chance to get home.”

“God help us,” Herbert said.

“Bob, there’s a bigger picture than aiding terrorists,” Hood said. “You know that.”

“I know,” Herbert said. “I just don’t like it.”

“The time it would take us to move this through diplomatic channels could cost the Pakistanis their lives,” Hood said.

“And going ahead with this operation can cost Striker their lives,” Herbert said.

“That’s been true every time they’ve gone into the field,” Hood reminded Herbert. “If Mike or Colonel August has any doubts about this action they can call it off at any time.”

“They won’t,” Herbert assured him. “Not with what’s at stake.”

“That’s probably true,” Hood agreed.

“And not with the balls Mike’s got,” Herbert went on.

“It’s more than that,” Hood said. “He knows his people. Did he ever run that quote past you, the one from the duke of Wellington?”

“I don’t think so,” Herbert said.

“I was watching Striker drill one morning and I asked Mike how he could tell when he had pushed his people as far as they could go,” Hood said. “He told me that Wellington had a simple way to determine when he had created the best fighting unit possible. ‘I don’t know what effect these men will have upon the enemy,’ Wellington wrote, ‘but, by God, they terrify me.’ Mike said that when he felt his people were tough enough to scare him, that was when he stopped.”

“Paul, I don’t need to be reminded that Striker is the best,” Herbert said. “But I’m worried about the jump into the Himalayas. I’m worried about the odds and having to trust terrorists. I’m worried about having no backup for them and, worse than that, no exit strategy.”

“I’m worried about all that too,” Hood replied. “I’m also aware that we have no other options.”

The intelligence chief was quiet for a moment. The silence was uncomfortable. Hood felt as if Herbert were judging him.

Herbert must have felt that too. “I know we’re doing what we have to do,” he said. “It doesn’t mean I have to like it.” Herbert’s voice was no longer angry or searching. It was resigned.

Herbert said that he would call the NRO to get the exact location of the cell and then give Striker a final update before H-hour. Hood thanked him and hung up.

Op-Center’s director rubbed his eyes. Herbert had his personal demons but so did Hood.

Unlike the intelligence chief, Hood had never put his life on the line. He had been a mayor and a financial officer before taking this job. He had sent Striker into danger before but never into an armed conflict. To do that seemed cavalier, hypocritical, cowardly.

But, as Hood had told Herbert, it was also necessary. Paul Hood’s personal issues could not affect his professional decisions. He had to be dispassionate. He owed the president and the nation that much.

Hood stopped rubbing his eyes. He was tired inside and out. It did not help that when this was over he had to deal with the closing of the press office. Fortunately, he would be able to minimize his contact with Ann Farris until then. Because this was a military action Hood would instruct her to institute a total press blackout on any Op-Center activities until noon. She would have to shut down the phones and computers. No press department staff would be permitted to answer their cell phones. Queries to the automated main number would go unreturned. As for Hood, he would go into the Tank with Bob Herbert, Liz Gordon, and Lowell Coffey until the crisis had passed.

Then Hood would give Ann Farris the bad news along with his complete attention.

He owed her that much.

THIRTY-FIVE

The Great Himalaya Range Thursday, 4:19 P.M.

The parachutes were zero-porosity mixed-fabric PF 3000s “Merits.” They had been selected for the Indian military in this region because they gave jumpers maximum control over their descent. If there were a sudden current in any direction the fabric would retain its shape and buoyancy. The canopies themselves were slightly elliptical with a tapered wing. That shape provided for the softest landings. First used militarily by the French air force, the Merits also provided the safest jump for novice parachutists.

The parachutes were stowed in slender Atom Millennium containers. They had classic plastic handle ripcords and narrow chest straps along with lightweight Cordura fabric exteriors. The thin straps and light weight would be relatively unrestrictive if Striker were forced to engage the enemy or the elements before doffing the backpacks. There was also an instant-collapse system operated by a rubber pull-string. That would allow the chute to be deflated immediately upon landing in the event of strong ground winds.

Rodgers and his team had unpacked and repacked the parachutes. They examined the fabric as well as the shroud lines and ring attachments. With elements of the Indian military apparently working at cross-purposes, Rodgers wanted to make certain the equipment had not been sabotaged.

Suited in the white Nomex winter gear they had brought with them, the Strikers were huddled next to the hatch before lining up. The team members were crouched to keep their balance in the bumping aircraft. In addition to their parachutes, each commando wore a hip holster with a Browning 9mm high-power Mark 2 pistol, a Kevlar bullet-proof vest, leather gloves, and climbing boots. The vests had side pockets for flashlights, flares, hand grenades, additional pistol magazines, and maps. Before jumping into the subzero environment the commandos would don the Leyland and Birmingham respirator masks they carried. These full-face masks included large, shatterproof, tinted eyepieces for wide visibility. Medic William Musicant had the added burden of a medical belt. This remarkably compact unit, devised by the Navy SEALs for use in Desert Storm, allowed him to treat a wide range of both fall- and combat-related injuries.

Rodgers reviewed photographs of the terrain with Striker. Viens had transmitted these images from the NRO computer directly to the Striker laptop. Rodgers had printed out two copies to pass around. The general had also printed out a second set of photographs that had just come in.

The team was going into what was referred to as a “high-contrast” terrain. That meant the landing would be problematic. The target area was a large, flat ledge approximately seventy meters by ninety meters. It was the only relatively large horizontal site in the region. The drawbacks were several large outcroppings of rock as well as steep drops on the northern and western sides. Sheer cliffs bounded the area on the south and east. Colonel August was also concerned about the winds. He pointed to the color photograph.

“Depending upon the strength of the winds in the area, this concave southeastern wall could create powerful outdraft,” he said. “That could keep us from landing in the target zone.”

“Unfortunately, the cell is moving along very narrow ledges,” Rodgers said. “That’s the only area where we can intercept them.”

“Why do we have to catch them in the mountains?” Ishi Honda asked. In addition to his parachute the young corporal was carrying the TAC-SAT in a pouch on his chest.

Rodgers showed them the second photograph Viens had sent. It showed a line of dark shapes moving across a dreary terrain of wheat-colored scrub and patches of snow.

“These are Indian soldiers moving toward the target area,” Rodgers said. “The NRO and Bob Herbert both put them at less than five miles from contact. There are up to two hundred of them, though we can’t be sure. They obtained these pictures by hacking a Chinese satellite that watches the line of control. We can’t pull back for a wider view.”

“Which means that if we can’t smuggle the cell through we will have to repel a much larger force,” August told the group.

“For various reasons negotiation is not an option,” Rodgers added. “We have to get past them one way or the other.”

The general looked at the faces of his troops. With the exception of the medic, all of these soldiers had been in battle. Most of them had killed. They had shed the blood of others, usually at a distance. They had seen the blood of their teammates, which typically fanned their rage and made the blood of the enemy invisible. They had also faced superior odds. Rodgers was confident that they would give this effort everything they had.

Rodgers listened as Colonel August talked about the strategy they would employ upon landing. Typically, they would go behind enemy lines carrying mines. Two or three operatives would form a subgroup. They would go ahead and plant the mines along the team’s route to protect them from enemies. They would also throw out substances such as powdered onion or raw meat to confuse and mislead attack dogs. They did not see dogs in the photographs and hoped that the animals were not part of the army units.

Since there were apparently four members of the cell, plus Friday and the two Indians, August had decided to go forward in an ABBA formation. There would be a Striker in front and behind each group of two Pakistanis. That would enable Striker to control the rate of progress and to watch the personnel they were escorting. Neither Herbert nor Rodgers expected any resistance from the cell, From everything they had been told, both groups wanted the same thing. To reach Pakistan alive. As for the Indian force, the American team was prepared to move at nightfall, wage a guerrilla campaign, or simply dig in, wait them out, and execute an end run when possible. They would do whatever it took to survive.

Striker had drilled for this maneuver high in the Rockies. They called it their red, white, and blue exercise. During the course of two hours their fingers had gone from red to white to blue. At least they knew what they would be facing. Once they reached the ground they would know how to pace themselves. The only uncertainty was what might happen on the way down. That was still what concerned Rodgers the most. They were approximately ten thousand feet up. That was not as long as most high-altitude, low-opening jumps. Those operations typically began at thirty-two-thousand feet. The HALO teams would go out with oxygen-heavy breathing apparatus to keep from suffering hypoxemia. They would also use barometric triggers to activate their chutes at an altitude of roughly two thousand feet above the target. They did that in case the jumper suffered one of two possible ailments. The first was barometric trauma, the result of air being trapped in the intestines, ears, and sinuses and causing them to expand painfully. The other was stress-induced hyperventilation, common in combat situations. Especially when jumpers could be aloft for as long as seventy or eighty minutes. That gave them a lot of alone-time to think, particularly about missing the target. At an average drift rate of ten feet for every hundred feet of fall, that was a concern for every jumper. Breathing bottled oxygen at a rapid pace due to stress could cause a lowering of blood carbon dioxide and result in unconsciousness.

Though neither of those would be a problem at this lower height, it was two thousand feet higher than they had practiced in the Rocky Mountains. And even there, then-Striker Bass Moore had broken his left leg.

Lean Sergeant Chick Grey was chewing gum, unflustered as always. There was a bit more iron determination and aggression in the eyes of waspish privates David George, Jason Scott, and Terrence Newmeyer. Corporal Pat Prementine and Private Matt Bud were popping gloved knuckles and shifting in place, as full of rough-and-tumble energy as always. And the excitable Private Walter Pupshaw looked as if he wanted to tear off someone’s head and spit down the windpipe. That was normal for Striker’s resident wild man. The other team members were calm with the exception of Sondra DeVonne and the green medic, William Musicant. Both Strikers seemed a little anxious. Musicant had limited combat experience and Sondra still blamed herself for events that led to the death of Lt. Colonel Charlie Squires. She had spent many months being counseled by Liz Gordon. But she had gone on other assignments with the team since then. While the young African-American woman was not as relaxed or goget-’em as the others, Rodgers was certain he could count on her. She would not be here otherwise.

When they were ready, Rodgers picked up the phone beside the hatch. The copilot informed him that the plane would reach the target in less than five minutes. August lined up his team and stood at their head. After everyone had jumped, Rodgers would follow.

Since the aircraft was not typically used for jumping, there was no chute line or lights to indicate that they had reached the drop zone. August and Pupshaw opened the hatch while Rodgers remained on the phone with the cockpit. The air that surged in was like nothing the general had ever felt. It was a fist of ice, punching them back and then holding them there. Rodgers was glad they had the masks and breathing apparatus. Otherwise they would not be able to draw a breath from the unyielding wall of wind. As it was, August and Pupshaw were knocked away from the opening. The colonel and the burly private had to be helped back into position by the next Strikers in line.

Rodgers moved sternward along the fuselage, away from the hatch. The howl of the wind was deafening, bordering on painful. It would be impossible to hear the command to jump. The general went back three meters, as far as the phone cord would reach. He used his free hand to cover the left ear of his hood. He pressed down hard. That was the only way he could hear the copilot. Meanwhile, August motioned for each Striker to determine individual jump times by using the “blackout” system. That was the method employed for secret nighttime jumps. It meant putting the right hand on the shoulder of the jumper in front of them. When the shoulder moved out from under someone’s hand it was time for that person to go.

The wind pressed the Strikers’ white uniforms toward the front of the plane. The soldiers looked like action figures to Rodgers. Every crease and fold seemed molded in place like plastic. The soldiers were leaning forward slightly to let the wind slide around them, though not so much as to allow it to batter the person behind them.

Seconds moved at a glacial pace. Then the word came that they were less than a half mile from their target. Then a quarter mile. Then an eighth of a mile.

Rodgers looked at the Strikers one more time. If they knew how difficult this jump was going to be they were not showing it. The team was still outwardly game and disciplined. He was beyond proud of the unit. Rodgers did not believe in prayer, though he hoped that even if some of the Strikers missed the target they would all survive.

August glanced at Rodgers and gave him a thumbs-up. Obviously the colonel could see the small plateau. That was good. It meant there was no snowfall in the drop zone. They would not be jumping directly over it but to the northwest. The copilot had calculated that the wind was blowing to the southeast at an average of sixty-three miles an hour. They would have to compensate so the wind would carry them toward rather than away from the target.

They passed over the plateau. August held up both thumbs. He had spotted the cell. Rodgers nodded.

A moment later Rodgers got the word from the cockpit.

“Go!”

Rodgers motioned to August. As the team started moving through the hatch Rodgers shifted to the back of the line. The copilot emerged from the cockpit. He literally had to hug the port-side wall to get past the hatch before cutting to the starboard side to shut it.

Rodgers hoped he made it. The last thing the general saw before jumping was the small-built Indian flyboy tying a cargo strap to his waist before even attempting to crawl toward the sliding door.

Rodgers held his legs together and pressed his arms straight along his sides as he hit the icy mountain air. That gave him a knife-edged dive to get him away from the plane so he would not be sucked into the engine. He immediately reconfigured himself into an aerofoil position. He arched his body to allow the air to flow along his underside. At the same time he thrust his arms back and dipped his head to increase his rate of descent.

The general was now looking almost straight down. Almost at once he knew he was in trouble.

They all were.

THIRTY-SIX

The Great Himalaya Range Thursday, 4:42 P.M.

At 4:31, Major Dev Puri’s spotter, Corporal Sivagi Saigal, saw something that concerned him. He reported it to Major Puri. The officer was deeply troubled by what he heard.

Prior to leaving, he had been assured by the office of Minister of Defense John Kabir that reconnaissance flights in the region had been suspended. Neither Kabir nor Puri wanted independent witnesses or photographic evidence of what they expected to transpire in the mountains: the capture and execution of the Pakistani terrorists and their prisoner from Kargil.

The flyover of the Himalayan Eagle AN-12 transport was not only unexpected, it was unprecedented. The transport was over a dozen miles from the secure flight lanes protected by Indian artillery. As the spotter continued to watch the plane, Puri used the secure field phone to radio Minister Kabir’s office. The major asked the minister’s first deputy what the aircraft was doing there. Neither Kabir nor any of his aides had any idea. The minister himself got on the line. He suspected that the flyover was an independent air force action designed to locate and then help capture the Pakistani cell. He could not, however, explain why that mission would be undertaken by a transport. Kabir told Puri to keep the channel open while he accessed the transport’s flight plan.

As he waited, Puri did not believe that the presence of a recon flight would complicate matters. Even if the cell were spotted, his unit would probably reach them first. Puri and his men would explain how the cell resisted capture and had to be neutralized. No one would dispute their story.

Kabir came back on in less than a minute. The minister was not happy. The AN-12 had gone to Ankara and had been scheduled to fly directly to Chushul. Obviously the aircraft had been diverted. The transport’s manifest had also been changed to include parachutes in its gear.

A few moments later, Puri understood why.

“Jumpers!” he said into the radio.

“Where?” Kabir demanded.

“They’re about one mile distant,” the spotter told Puri. “They’re using Eagle chutes,” he said when the shrouds began to open, “but they are not in uniform.”

Puri reported the information to Kabir.

“The Eagles must have spotted the cell,” the minister said.

“Very possibly,” Major Puri replied. “But they’re not wearing Eagle mountain gear.”

“They might have picked up an outside team in Ankara,” Kabir replied. “We may have been compromised.”

“What do we do?” Puri asked.

“Protect the mission,” Kabir replied.

“Understood,” Puri replied.

The major signed off and told his unit commanders to move their personnel forward. They were all to converge on the site where the parachutists were descending. Puri’s orders were direct and simple.

The troops were to fire at will.

THIRTY-SEVEN

The Great Himalaya Range Thursday, 4:46 P.M.

Ever since they competed on the baseball diamond back in elementary school, Colonel Brett August always knew that he would rise above his longtime friend Mike Rodgers. August just never expected it would happen quite this way and in a place like this.

Striker’s delicately ribbed, white-and-red parachutes opened in quick succession. Each commando was jerked upward as the canopies broke their rapid descent. Some of the Strikers were hoisted higher than the others, depending on the air currents they caught. The wind was running like ribbons among them. Separate streams had been sent upward by the many peaks and ledges below. Though Mike Rodgers had been the last man out of the aircraft the general was in the middle of the group when the canopies had fully unfurled. Brett August ended up being the man on top.

Unfortunately, the view from that height was not what Colonel August had expected.

Almost at once, visibility proved to be a challenge. When the parachute tugged Colonel August up, perspiration from his eyebrows was flung onto the tops of his eyepieces. The sweat froze there. That was a high-altitude problem neither he nor General Rodgers had anticipated when they planned the jump. August assumed that frost was hampering the other Strikers as well. But that was not their greatest problem.

Shortly after jumping, Colonel August had seen the line of Indian soldiers converging in their direction. They were clearly visible, black dots moving rapidly on the nearly white background. He was sure that Rodgers and the others could see them too.

The Strikers knew enough to defend the perimeter once they landed. With the stakes as high as they were the Americans would not surrender. What concerned August was what might happen before they landed. Striker was out of range of ordinary gunfire. But the Indian soldiers had probably left the line of control well prepared. They were expecting to fight an enemy that might be positioned hundreds of meters away, on high ledges or remote cliffs. The Indian infantrymen would be armed accordingly.

There was no way for the colonel to communicate with the other members of the team. He hoped that they saw the potential threat and were prepared for action when they landed.

Assuming they did land.

As the seconds passed the descent proved more brutal than August had expected.

Seen from the belly of a relatively warm aircraft, the mountains had been awe-inspiring. Brown, white, and pale blue, the peaks glided slowly by like a caravan of great, lumbering beasts. But seen from beneath a bucking parachute shroud those same mountains rose and swelled like breaching sea giants, frightening in their size and rapid approach. The formations practically doubled in size every few seconds. Then there was the deafening sound. The mountains bellowed at the intruders, roaring with mighty winds that they snatched from the sky and redirected with ease. August did not just hear every blast of air, he felt it. The wind rose from the peaks two thousand feet below and rumbled past him. The gales kicked the shroud up and back, to the north or east, to the south or west, constantly spinning the parachute around. The only way to maintain his bearings was to try and keep his eyes on the target whichever way he was twisted. He hoped the winds would abate at the lower altitudes so that he and the other Strikers could guide their chutes to a landing. Hopefully, the peaks would shield them from the Indian soldiers long enough to touch down and regroup.

The mountains rushed toward them relentlessly. The lower the Strikers went the faster the sharp-edged peaks came toward them. The colors sharpened as the team penetrated the thin haze. The swaying of the chutes seemed to intensify as the details of the peaks became sharper. That was an illusion but the speed with which the crags were approaching was not. Three of the soldiers around him were on-course and had a good chance of reaching the plateau. The others would have to do some careful maneuvering to make it. Two were in danger of missing the mountain altogether and continuing into the valley below. August could not tell which Strikers were in danger since the winds had lifted some of the chutes more than others and thrown them out of jump order. Whoever they were they would have to contact the rest of the team by radio and link up as soon as possible.

As they neared to within one thousand feet of the target, August heard a faint popping sound under the screaming wind. His back was facing the Indian infantry so he could not be certain the sound came from them.

A moment later August was sure.

The air around them filled with black-and-white cloudbursts. They were flak rockets used against low-flying aircraft. The shells were fired from shoulder-mounted launchers like the Blowpipe, the standard one-man portable system of the Indian army. They fired metal pellets in all directions around them. Within a range of twenty-five meters, the fifty-seven shots in each shell hit with the force of .38-caliber bullets.

August had never been so helpless in his life. He watched as the first shell popped among the parachutists. It was followed moments later by another, then by one more. The canopies obscured his view of the Strikers themselves. But he saw how close the bursts came. There was no way his people were not being peppered with the hollow steel shells.

It did not occur to August that the shrapnel could take him down. Or that he could miss the plateau.

He forgot the cold and the wind and even the mission.

All that mattered was the well-being of his team. And there was nothing he could do to ensure their safety right now. August’s eyes had darted from canopy to canopy as the rockets burst around them. Five of the lowest shrouds were heavily perforated within seconds. They folded into their own centers and dropped straight down. A moment later the chutes turned up, like inverted umbrellas, as the Strikers below dragged them through free fall.

Two parachutes in the middle of the group were also damaged. They dropped with their cargo onto another two canopies directly below. The shrouds became tangled in the swirling winds. The lines knit and the jumpers spun with increasing speed toward the valley below.

Even if the soldiers themselves had not been hit by shrapnel there was no way for them to survive the fall. August screamed in frustration. His cry merged with the wailing wind and filled the sky above him.

The attack left just himself and three Strikers still aloft. August did not know who they were. He did not know if they had been struck or if they were even alive. At least now they were below the line of the intervening mountains. They were safe from additional ground fire.

There was a fourth burst. It exploded white-and-black above and in front of August. He felt two punches, one in the chest and another in his left arm. He looked down at his chest. There was dull pain but no blood. Perhaps the vest had protected him. Or perhaps the colonel was bleeding underneath the fabric. He did not feel anything after the initial hit and his heart rate seemed the same. Both good signs. In his heart he was too sick over the Strikers he had just lost to care. But he knew he had to care. He had to survive to complete this mission. Not just for his country and the millions of lives in the balance, but for the soldiers and friends whose lives had just been sacrificed.

There were only a few hundred feet to the plateau. He watched as two of the Strikers landed there. The third missed by several meters, despite the efforts of one of the commandos to grab him. August used the guidelines to maneuver toward the cliff wall. He was descending rapidly but he would still rather hit the peak than miss the ledge.

August’s left arm began to sting but he kept his attention on the cliff. He had dropped below the mountaintops. The tors were no longer hazards. They were once again towering, stationary peaks that surrounded and protected him from Indian fire. The enemy now was the valley on two sides of the plateau and the outcroppings of rock that could snap his back if he hit one. The updraft from the cliff slowed August, allowing him to guide the parachute down. He decided to stick close to the steep cliff and literally follow it down, thus avoiding the sharp outcroppings toward the center. Every time the wind would brush him toward the valley he would swing himself against the rock wall. The air rushing up the cliff gave him extra buoyancy. August hit the plateau hard and immediately jettisoned the chute. The shroud crumpled and scooted across the ledge, catching on a three-meter-tall boulder and just hanging there.

Before examining himself for injuries, Brett August stripped off his mask and mouthpiece. The air was thin but breathable. August looked across the plateau for the other Strikers. Medic William Musicant and Corporal Ishi Honda were the two who had made it. Both men were near the edge of the plateau. Musicant was on his knees beside the radio operator. The medic had removed the compact medical belt he wore. Honda was not moving.

The colonel got to his feet and made his way over. As he did he felt his chest under his vest. It was dry. The pellet had not gone through the garment. His arm was bleeding but the freezing air had slowed the flow considerably. He ignored the wound for now. Try as he might he could not clear his mind of the other Strikers. Sondra DeVonne. Walter Pupshaw. Mike. The others.

He concentrated on the Strikers who were just a few meters away. And he forced himself to think about what was next. He still had his weapons and he had his assignment. He had to link up with the Pakistani cell.

As August reached the men he did not have to ask how Honda was. The radio operator was panting hard as blood pumped from beneath his vest. The medic was trying to clean two small, raw wounds on Honda’s left side. August could not see Honda’s dark eyes behind his tinted eyepieces. The frost had evaporated and misted them over.

“Is there anything I can do?” August asked Musicant.

“Yeah,” the medic said urgently. “There’s a portable intravenous kit in compartment seven and a vial of atropine sulfate in twelve. Get them. Also the plasma in eight. He’s got two more holes in his back. I’ve got to get him plugged and stabilized.”

The colonel removed the items. He began setting up the IV. From triage classes he remembered that the atropine sulfate was used to diminish secretions, including blood loss. That would help stabilize the patient if there were internal bleeding.

“Is your arm all right, sir?” Musicant asked.

“Sure,” August said. “Who was that you tried to reach at the ledge?”

“General Rodgers,” the medic replied.

August perked. “Was the general wounded?”

“He appeared to be okay,” Musicant replied. “He was reaching out, trying to get over a few feet more. The goddamn current grabbed his chute. I couldn’t get to him.”

Then it was possible that Rodgers had survived. August would try and contact him by point-to-point radio.

“After the IV is ready you’d better try and get in touch with those Indian soldiers,” Musicant suggested. “If I can stabilize Ishi we’ll need to get him to a hospital.”

August finished setting up the small IV tripod beside Honda. Then he uncapped the needle. He would use Honda’s radio to contact Op-Center and brief them. He would give Herbert their position and ask him to relay a call for medical assistance. But that was all he would do. He and Musicant could not wait here, however. They still had a mission to complete.

When the IV setup was finished August reached for Honda’s TAC-SAT. Musicant had already removed the pack and set it aside. The reinforced backpack had taken some hits along one side but the telephone itself appeared to be undamaged. August wondered if Honda had taken pains to protect it, even at the cost of his own life.

Just then, Corporal Honda began to convulse.

“Shit!” Musicant said.

August watched as the radio operator coughed. Flecks of blood spattered his cheek.

“Ishi, hang on,” Musicant yelled. “You can do it. Give me another minute, that’s all I’m asking.”

Honda stopped panting and coughing. His entire body relaxed.

“Take off his vest!” Musicant yelled. Then the medic grabbed for his medical belt and reached into one of the pockets. He withdrew a hypodermic and a vial of epinephrine.

Colonel August began unfastening Honda’s vest. As he bent over the stricken soldier he noticed a stream of red seeping out from between the noncom’s spread legs. Honda had to have been losing blood at an incredibly fast pace for it to pool that far down.

August watched as the blood crept to below Honda’s knees. When the colonel pulled the vest away he found the front underside to be sticky with blood. The pellets from the Indian projectiles had gone up the corporal’s torso through his lower back and emerged through his chest. Honda must have been near ground zero of one of the blasts.

Musicant knelt beside Ishi Honda. The medic spread his knees wide so he was steady beside the patient. Then he pulled aside Honda’s bloody shirt and injected the stimulant directly into Honda’s heart. August held the radio operator’s hand. It was cold and still. Blood continued to pool on the ledge. Musicant leaned back on his heels and waited. Honda did not respond. His face was ashen from more than just the cold. The colonel and the medic watched for a moment longer.

“I’m sorry,” Musicant said softly to the dead man.

“He was a good soldier and a brave ally,” August said.

“Amen,” Musicant replied.

August realized how tightly he was holding Honda’s hand. He gently released it. August had lost friends in Vietnam. The emotional territory was bitterly familiar. But he had never lost nearly an entire squad before. For August, that loss was all there in the still, young face before him.

Musicant rose and had a look at August’s arm. August was surprised how warm the last few minutes had left him. Now that the drama had ended his heart was slowing and blood flow was severely reduced. The cold would set in quickly. They had to move out soon.

While Musicant cleaned and bandaged the wound the colonel turned to the TAC-SAT. He entered his personal access code and the unit came on. Then he entered Bob Herbert’s number. As August waited to be connected he removed the radio from his equipment vest.

He placed another call.

One that he prayed would be received.

THIRTY-EIGHT

Washington, D.C. Thursday, 7:24 A.M.

“Have we heard anything yet?” Paul Hood asked as he swung into Bob Herbert’s office.

The intelligence chief was drinking coffee and looking at his computer monitor. “No, and the NRO hasn’t seen them yet either,” Herbert said. “Still just the Pakistanis.”

Hood looked at his watch. “They should be down by now. Has the transport landed yet?”

“No,” Herbert replied. “The pilot radioed the tower in Chushul. He said that the cargo had been delivered but nothing more.”

“I don’t expect they stuck around to verify that our guys touched down,” Hood said.

“Probably not,” Herbert agreed. “That close to the Pakistani border I’m guessing the plane just turned south and ran.”

“Hell, why not,” Hood said. “We’re only trying to stop their country from being involved in a nuclear war.”

“You’re stealing my cynicism,” Herbert pointed out. “Anyway, they probably don’t know what’s at stake.”

As Herbert was speaking the phone beeped. It was the secure line. He put it on speaker.

“Herbert here.”

“Bob, it’s August,” said the caller. It was difficult to hear him.

“Colonel, you’ve got a lot of wind there,” Herbert said. “You’ll have to speak up.”

“Bob, we’ve had a major setback here,” August said loudly and slowly. “Indian troops from the LOC peppered us with flak on the way down. Most of our personnel were neutralized. Musicant and I are the only ones on the plateau. Rodgers missed but he may have reached the valley. We don’t know if he’s hurt. I’m trying to reach him by radio.”

“Say again,” Herbert asked. “Two safe, one MIA, rest dead.”

“That’s correct,” August told him.

The intelligence chief looked up at Hood, who was still standing in the doorway. Herbert’s face looked drawn. He muttered something in a taut, dry whisper. Hood could not make out what Herbert was saying. Perhaps it was not meant to be heard.

But Hood had heard what August said.

“Colonel, are you all right?” Hood asked.

“Mr. Musicant and I are fine, sir,” August replied. “I’m sorry we let you down.”

“You didn’t,” Hood assured him. “We knew this wasn’t going to be an easy one.”

August’s words were still working their way into Hood’s sleep-deprived brain. He was struggling for some kind of perspective. Those lives could not simply have ended. So many of them had only just begun. Sondra DeVonne, Ishi Honda, Pat Prementine, Walter Pupshaw, Terrence Newmeyer, and the rest. Hood’s mind flashed on their faces. Dossier photos gave way to memories of drilling sessions he had watched, memorial services, barbecues, tackle football games. It was not the same as the death of one man. Hood had been able to focus on the specifics of losing Charlie Squires or Bass Moore. He had concentrated on helping their families get through the ordeal. The scope of this tragedy and of the personal loss was both overwhelming and numbing.

“What’s your assessment, Colonel?” Hood asked. His voice sounded strong, confident. It had to for August’s sake.

“We’d still like to try and intercept the cell,” August went on. “Two extra guns may help them punch through somewhere along the line.”

“We’re behind you on that,” Hood said.

“But there are a lot of infantrymen headed our way,” August went on. “Can you contact the Pakistanis and let them know what happened?”

“We’ll try,” Hood said. “The Pakistani leader has Friday’s phone. She is not the most cooperative person we’ve dealt with.”

“Does she know we’re coming?” August asked.

“Affirmative,” Hood told him.

“Has there been any arrangement with her?” August asked.

The colonel was asking who would be calling the shots once they linked up. “The cell commander and I did not have that conversation,” Hood told him. “Use your own initiative.”

“Thank you,” August said. “One more thing, sir. We’re looking at darkness and some heavy winds and cold coming in. I hope you have a contingency plan in place.”

“We were just working on that,” Hood lied. “But we’re still counting on you and Corporal Musicant to pull this one through.”

“We’ll do our best,” August assured him.

“I know that. We also need you two to stay safe,” Hood said.

August said he would. He also said he would inform Op-Center if he managed to raise Mike Rodgers. Then he signed off. Hood disengaged the speakerphone. There was a long moment of silence.

“You all right?” Hood asked Herbert.

Herbert shook his head slowly. “We had thirteen people out there,” he said flatly.

“I know,” Hood said.

“Kids, mostly.”

“This was my call,” Hood reminded the intelligence chief.

“I gave the operation the go-ahead.”

“I backed you up,” Herbert replied. “Hell, we had no choice. But this is a price they should not have had to pay.”

Hood agreed but to say so seemed pathetic somehow. They were crisis management professionals. Sometimes the only barrier between control and chaos was a human shield. As iron-willed as that barricade could be, it was still just sinew and bone.

Hood moved behind the desk. He looked down at the computer. Logic aside, he still felt hollow. Hood and the others had known going in that there were risks involved with this mission. What galled him was that an attack from allied ground forces was not supposed to be one of those risks. No one imagined that the Indian military would shoot at personnel jumping from one of their own aircraft, suspended from the parachutes clearly identified as those belonging to the Indian air force. This phase of the operation was only supposed to pit trained professionals against severe elements. There was going to be a chance for most if not all the Strikers to survive. How did it go so wrong?

“Colonel August was right about us needing a backup plan,” Herbert said. “We went off the playbook. We’ve got to get to work and give him—”

“Hold on,” Hood said. “Something’s not right.”

“Excuse me?” Herbert replied.

“Look at this satellite image,” Hood said.

Herbert did.

“The terrorist cell is still moving beneath the overhanging ledges, just as they’ve done since sunup,” Hood said. “But they’ve also got a little elbow room now. They have these shadows to move in.” Hood pointed at the jagged areas of blackness on the monitor. “See how the shadows are lengthening as the sun sets behind the Himalayas?”

“I see,” Herbert said. “But I don’t get your point.”

“Look at the direction of the shadows relative to the sun,” Hood told him. “The cell is moving in a westerly direction. Not northwesterly. That’s different from before.”

Herbert stared for a moment. “You’re right,” he said. “Why the hell would they be doing that?”

“Maybe there’s a shortcut?” Hood suggested. “A secret path through the glacier?”

Herbert brought up the detailed photographic overviews from NASA’s Defense Mapping Agency. These photographic maps were marked with coordinates and were used to target satellites. Herbert asked the computer to mark the area that Viens was studying now. Hood leaned over Herbert’s wheelchair and looked closely at the monitor as a faint red cursor began to pulse on the region the cell was crossing.

“There’s no shortcut,” Herbert said. “What the hell are they doing? They’re actually taking a longer route to the line of control.”

“Will August still intercept them?” Hood asked.

“Yes,” Herbert said. The intelligence chief pointed to a region slightly north of where the cell was. “Brett came down here. He’s heading southeast. He’ll just be meeting them a lot sooner than we expected.” Herbert studied the map. “But this still doesn’t make sense. This route isn’t going to take the Pakistanis through more accessible terrain. It’s farther from the LOC, it’s not at a lower altitude, and it doesn’t look easier to negotiate.”

“Maybe they’ve got a weapons cache or another hideout along the way,” Hood suggested.

“Possibly,” Herbert said. He went back to the live NRO image. “But they were relatively close to the border where they were. Why would they want to give the Indians more time to catch them?”

The interagency phone line beeped. Herbert punched it on speakerphone. “Yes?” Herbert said.

“Bob, it’s Viens,” said the caller. “It’s getting dark in the target area. The light is now down enough for us to switch to heat-scan without being blinded. We’ll be able to track the cell easier.”

“Go ahead,” Herbert said. He hit the mute button on the phone.

Herbert and Hood continued to look at the overhead map. Hood was studying the area at the foot of the plateau.

“Bob, if we move the satellite will we be able to look into this valley?” Hood asked, pointing at a grid marked “77.”

“I don’t know,” Herbert told him. He glanced over at his boss. “Paul, I want to find Mike too. But we only have the one satellite in the region. Do we want to tie it up looking for him?”

“Mike could have lost or damaged his radio in the fall,” Hood said. “If he’s alive there might be something he can do for Brett. We need every resource we can get over there.”

“Even if they’re two thousand vertical miles and God knows how many as-the-crow-flies miles away?” Herbert asked.

“We don’t know for certain where Mike is,” Hood pointed out. “We need to find out.”

Before the intelligence chief could consider what Paul Hood had said, Viens came back on the line.

“Bob, are you looking at the new satellite photos?” Viens asked.

Herbert killed the mute function. “No,” he replied and immediately jumped back to the feed from the OmniCom. “Is there a problem?”

“Maybe,” Viens said. “Even when the cell was under the ledge we always caught a glimpse of a head or arm so we knew we still had them. What do you see now?”

Herbert and Hood both leaned closer to the monitor as the image formed. The picture looked psychedelic, like something from the sixties. Hot, red shadows were spilling out along a field of green-colored rocks and snow.

The shadows of only three people.

“What the hell’s going on there?” Herbert asked.

“I don’t know,” Viens admitted. “Some of the terrorists could have been lost along the way.”

“It’s also possible they turned on Friday and the Indian officer,” Herbert thought aloud. “Maybe there were casualties. We should try and get them on the radio.”

“No,” Hood said. “Contact August and let him know there are three individuals ahead. Tell him they may be hostile and that he is to use discretion whether to shadow rather than engage. Stephen, can you get me a look at grid 77 on file map OP-1017.63?”

“I’ll bring that map up, see if it’s in the OmniCom’s focal range,” Viens replied. “It’ll only take a minute.”

“Thank you,” Hood said.

Herbert shook his head. “What reason would the cell have for attacking Friday?” he asked.

“Maybe it was Friday who turned against the cell,” Hood said. Then he straightened. “Wait a minute,” he said. “It could be possible that none of the above happened.”

“What do you mean?” Herbert asked.

“Ron Friday must have told the cell that the Indian soldiers were coming toward them,” Hood said.

“Right,” Herbert said.

“The Pakistanis could not know there was a threat until Friday joined them,” Hood went on. “They did not know that getting Nanda to Pakistan was the only way they might be able to stop a nuclear exchange. What would you do with that knowledge, especially if you were also told that an American strike force was coming to link up with you?” Hood said. “If you were smart and bold and probably a little desperate you would try something unexpected.”

“Like splitting your forces and using one group to draw the Indian soldiers away,” Herbert said.

“Right. Which means that the other four people may be somewhere else, probably holding to the original course,” Hood said.

“If that’s true, it means we don’t want August and Musicant linking up with the splinter group, since they’re probably going to want to draw fire from the Indians,” Herbert said.

“Correct. Bob, let August know what we’re thinking,” Hood said. He leaned back over the computer and returned to the NASA map. “Stephen, I need to see into that valley.”

“I’ve got your map up now,” Viens said. “I’m looking to see if the coordinates are in the OmniCom computer.”

Meanwhile, Herbert punched in Striker’s TAC-SAT number. “Paul, you can’t be thinking what I think you are,” Herbert said.

“I’m sure I am,” Hood informed him.

“Assuming he’s all right, you don’t even know if you can talk to him,” Herbert said.

“One thing at a time,” Hood said.

“I can do it!” Viens shouted. “I’m sending up the order now. No guarantees about cloud cover and visibility, Paul, but I’ll have you in the valley in ninety seconds.”

“Thank you,” Hood said.

“What are we looking for?” Viens asked.

“A parachute,” Hood said. “One that may have Mike Rodgers on the end of it.”

THIRTY-NINE

The Mangala Valley Thursday, 5:30 P.M.

During the Strikers’ descent, the AN-12 had made a quick turn to the south. A powerful downdraft from the fastdeparting transport had driven Mike Rodgers toward the center of the parachutists. As a result, he was protected from the main thrust of the flak attack. But Rodgers had heard the explosions. He had seen the results as his teammates fell around him. By the time the general had guided himself toward the target, only he and one other striker were still aloft. Despite the heroic efforts of one of the strikers on the ledge, Rodgers had failed to reach the plateau. He had struck his shins and then his right hip and torso on the ledge. Fortunately, his equipment vest took the brunt of the chest hit. But Rodgers was dropping too fast and was not able to hold on. He was also unable to see what happened to the last aloft teammate. At least that chute was on the correct side of the plateau. If he or she were able to disengage from the chute it would probably be all right.

As the rock target disappeared from view, Rodgers studied the terrain immediately below. He had not given up trying to join the others and looked for a ledge he could reach. Unfortunately, Rodgers could not stay as close to the mountain as he would have liked. There were so many rough outcroppings that he ran the risk of snagging and ripping the parachute. Reluctantly, he made the decision to ride the chute to the valley.

While Rodgers descended, he looked for signs of other parachutes below. He had seen the Strikers fall and did not think any of them could have survived the plunge. If he were able to land near them he could be certain. Rodgers refused to think about the soldiers who were almost certainly lost. There would be time to grieve later. All that mattered now was the mission and Rodgers had to find a way of getting back into it.

The currents diminished the lower Rodgers dropped. As he descended into the valley the shroud stopped its side-toside swaying. The officer hung as straight as a plumb line, protected by the mountains from the fierce winds that raced through the outer range. He floated down through the wispy clouds.

Rodgers glanced at his large, luminous watch. He had been aloft for nearly fifty minutes. He was at a low enough altitude to remove his breathing apparatus and goggles. He strapped them to his belt. The water vapor in the clouds condensed on Rodgers’s exposed face. It cooled the hot perspiration on his forehead and cheeks, invigorating him. Below him the clouds began to thin. He could see the terrain rushing up.

This was not going to be easy.

Technically, the formation below was a valley. It was an elongated lowland between two mountain ranges. A shallow, fast-running river cut through the center. To Mike Rodgers, however, the small, barren formation was just a rocky depression in the rugged foothills. The sloping, sharp-edged terrain made a soft landing impossible and a safe landing problematic at best. At least the air was calm. He could work the chute to try to avoid the most precarious spots.

As he dropped under the last level of clouds he saw the first of the Striker parachutes. It was bunched like an orchid in the middle of the river. The Striker was apparently below it. A moment later Rodgers saw the other chutes. Two of them were tangled together at the foot of one of the mountains. The Strikers were sprawled beside them. Their cold-weather outfits were smeared with blood. He saw the fourth Striker beyond and above them. The canopy was caught on a small outcropping about thirty feet up. Sondra DeVonne was suspended close beneath it. She was rocking gently at the end of the shroud lines.

Don’t think about this now, Rodgers warned himself. He had to look ahead, at the cause for which these soldiers had sacrificed their lives. Otherwise there would be many more casualties.

Further beyond, to the south, he saw smoke curling up from behind a turn in the valley. Something had either exploded or crashed there. He did not think it was the AN-12. If the aircraft had been hit, the Strikers probably would have heard and certainly would have seen it go down. He glanced briefly to the north. He could see the foot of the glacier ahead. That was why this valley was so damned cold. The glacier had probably cracked this place from the mountains eons ago.

The ground was coming up quickly. As much as he did not want to hit the slopes, Rodgers did not want to land in the water. With the sun setting, his suit would freeze in a matter of minutes. He also did not want to hit one of the ragged slopes bordering the river. That was a good way to rip his cold-weather uniform or break some bones. Unfortunately, the cliffs tapered so sharply toward the river there was not much of a bank to land on.

That left him one other option. It was one that Rodgers did not want to take. But the choices in war were never easy. The general made his decision and forced it to go down.

Rodgers guided himself toward the downed parachute that had blossomed in the lake. The fabric straddled the shore on the eastern side. There were glints of ice around the edges still in the water. The shroud looked as though it would be stiff enough to take his fall without dumping him into the river. Hopefully, Rodgers would be able to stay on his feet and jump to the narrow shore before the canopy folded altogether.

With just seconds to impact, Rodgers positioned himself over the chute. On one side he could see an arm lying underwater. The flesh was blue-white. Rodgers did not want to land on the Striker’s body. He kept his eyes on the other side of the canopy.

The target site loomed larger and larger. Its rapid approach created the distinct sensation that gravity had really grabbed Rodgers. Now he felt as if he were falling, not floating.

Rodgers landed lightly on the canopy. The rigid fabric gave in the middle where he landed, but the fringes remained flat. Rodgers managed to remain on his feet. He immediately popped his chute and let it blow away. He turned to the side nearest the shore. It took just over a second for the canopy to sink enough for water to begin flowing over the sides. By that time Rodgers had stridden several steps and leaped over the water to solid ground. The foot of the brownish-white granite cliff was less than four feet away. Rodgers walked toward it so that he could see further along the valley.

Landing on the shroud had caused it to drift slightly downriver. As Rodgers looked back he saw a body lying facedown underwater. The dead Striker’s clothing was bloated by the water. The shroud lines were the only things moving.

Rodgers did not move him. He did not have time. He reached into his equipment vest and opened a flap to retrieve his radio.

At least, what was left of it.

Mike Rodgers looked at the unit in his gloved hand. The faceplate was shattered. Yellow and green wires were sticking up from the cracked plastic. Several shards of black casing along with broken chips were rattling in the bottom of the radio. The unit must have been damaged when Rodgers’s right side collided with the ledge.

Rodgers glanced at the dead striker’s equipment vest. The radio pouch was underwater. Even if he took off his uniform to keep it dry and retrieved the radio, it was not likely to work. He looked downriver at the tangled parachutes of the other two Strikers. The partly inflated canopies were rolling back and forth in the brisk wind. The bodies beyond were on the narrow, rocky stretch of dry land on his side of the river. Rodgers jogged toward them. His right side and his leg hurt but he refused to let that slow him down.

Private Terry Newmeyer and Corporal Pat Prementine lay inert at the other end of the chutes. Newmeyer was on his right side. Rodgers gently rolled him to his back. His uniform and cheek were soaked with thick, nearly frozen blood. Like his body, Newmeyer’s radio was crushed. It looked as if it had caught a piece of shrapnel. The general gave the dead man’s shoulder a gentle pat then moved over to Prementine. The corporal was sprawled on his back. One eye was shut, the other was half-open. Prementine’s left arm was lying across his chest, the right was twisted beneath him. But his radio seemed intact. Removing it from the pouch, Rodgers turned toward the valley wall. As he walked toward the cliff, the general switched the radio on. The red light on the top right corner glowed. At least something else in this goddamn valley was still alive, Rodgers thought bitterly.

The general raised the radio to his lips. He pressed “speak.”

And he hoped the Indian army was not monitoring this frequency.

FORTY

The Great Himalaya Range Thursday, 5:41 P.M.

Brett August and William Musicant had begun moving southward along the plateau. A fierce, cold wind was blowing toward them as the air cooled and the thermal currents stopped rising. The men had to put their goggles back on to keep their eyes from tearing as they worked their way toward the ledge some four hundred meters ahead. According to the NRO, that was the northern artery of the same ledge the Pakistani cell was traveling on.

The colonel halted when the TAC-SAT beeped. He crouched and picked up the receiver. It was Bob Herbert. The intelligence chief instructed the men to wait where they were.

“What’s going on?” August asked.

“There’s a chance the cell may have divided,” Herbert informed him. “The group that’s coming toward you may be bait to draw the Indian soldiers to the northwest.”

“That would make sense,” August said.

“Yes, but we don’t want you to be caught in the middle of that,” Herbert said. “There’s also a chance that there may have been a struggle of some kind. We just don’t know. We want you to proceed to a forward point that you can defend and then wait there.”

“Understood,” August said. The point where the plateau narrowed would be ideal for that.

“Paul has asked Stephen Viens to have a look around the area northeast of the plateau,” Herbert went on. “We have reason to believe the rest of the cell may be headed that way.”

“That’s where Mike went down,” August said.

“I know,” Herbert said. “Paul’s thinking is if we can locate Mike he can help us find the branch cell—”

A firm, low, intermittent beep began to sound in a pocket of August’s equipment vest.

“Bob, hold on!” August interrupted. “I’ve got an incoming point-to-point radio transmission.”

“Careful, Brett,” Herbert said.

The colonel set the phone down. He plucked his radio from the equipment vest and punched it on. He would not let himself hope that it was a Striker. More likely it was someone who’d found one of the radios or an Indian army communications officer cutting into their frequency.

“Atom,” August said. That was the code name he had selected. It was derived from the first initial of his last name. The Strikers used code names when they were uncertain about the origin of a call. If any of them were taken prisoner and forced to communicate they would use a backup code name based on the initial of their first name.

“Atom, it’s Reptile,” the caller said.

August did not feel the wind or the cold. The world that had felt so dead suddenly had a faint pulse.

“Are you okay?” August asked.

“Yeah,” Rodgers replied. “But I’m the only one. You?”

“Midnight and I are fine,” he replied. As he was speaking, August pulled the area map from a vest pocket. These were specially marked with coded grids. He laid it on the ground and stepped on one end while he held the other. “Do you have your map?” August asked.

“Getting it now,” Rodgers said. “I’m at 37–49.”

“Three-seven-four-nine,” August repeated. “I copy that. Are you secure at that location?”

“I seem to be,” Rodgers replied.

“Very good,” August said. “I’m going to relay that information home. We may have new instructions.”

“Understood,” Rodgers said.

Colonel August set the radio on the map and picked up the TAC-SAT receiver. As he did he gave Musicant a thumbs-up. The medic smiled tightly. But at least it was a smile.

“Bob, it was Mike,” August said. “He’s safe in the valley, about three miles from the foot of the glacier.”

“Thank you, Lord,” Herbert said. “Other survivors?”

“Negative,” August told him.

“I see. All right, Colonel,” Herbert said. “Set up your perimeter, hang tight, and tell Mike to do the same. I’ll pass the update to Paul.”

“Bob, keep in mind that there is some very rough terrain out here and it’s going to get dark and cold pretty fast,” August said. “If we’re going to send Mike on any search-and-recon missions, he’s only got another forty minutes or so of visibility.”

“I’m aware of the situation,” Herbert said. “Tell him to get a good look at the landscape. We’ll get back to you

ASAP.”

August hung up the TAC-SAT and briefed Rodgers. The general was his usual stoic self.

“I’ll be okay down here,” Rodgers replied. “If I have to move north it’s a pretty straight shot to the glacier. I’ll just follow the river.”

“Good. Is your suit intact?” August asked.

“Yes,” Rodgers replied. “There’s only one thing I need. It’s probably the same thing you need.”

“What’s that?” August asked.

Rodgers replied, “To find whoever sold us out and make them regret it.”

FORTY-ONE

Washington, D.C. Thursday, 8:30 A.M.

Paul Hood was on the phone with Senator Barbara Fox when the interoffice line beeped.

Now that the mission was beyond the point of recall, and politics would not get in the way of international security, Hood briefed the senator on the status of Striker and its mission. Several years before, the senator had lost her own teenage daughter in a brutal murder in Paris. Hood had expected her to respond with compassion and to give her support to the personnel who were still in the field.

She did not. The senator was furious.

“Op-Center took too much responsibility in this operation,” the woman charged. “The other intelligence agencies should have been involved to a much greater extent.”

“Senator, I told the CIOC that we have a crisis requiring immediate attention,” Hood said. “I said we were involving the NRO and the NSA to the extent that time and on-site manpower permitted. You did not object to our handling of this at that time.”

“You did not outline the specifics of the danger,” she replied, “only the gravity of the threat.”

“We did not know the specifics until we were in the middle of this,” Hood pointed out.

“Which is exactly my point,” she replied. “You sent resources into this situation without adequate intelligence. And I mean that in every sense of the word, Mr. Hood.”

The interoffice line beeped again.

“Do you want me to pull the remaining assets out?” Hood asked the senator. Hell, he thought. If she was going to criticize his judgment he might as well leave the rest of the mission in her hands.

“Is there another way of resolving the crisis?” she asked.

“Not that we’ve come up with,” Hood replied.

“Then unfortunately we are married to the scenario you’ve mapped out,” the senator said.

Of course, Hood thought. It was now a no-lose situation for the politician. If it worked she would grab the credit for involving the CIOC at this juncture, for saving the lives of the rest of the Strikers as well as countless Indians and Pakistanis. If the mission failed Hood would take the full hit. This was not the first crisis the two had been through together. But it was the first one of this magnitude and with this high a price tag. Hood was disappointed that she was looking for a scapegoat instead of a solution.

Or maybe he was the one looking for someone to blame, he thought. What if the senator was right? What if he had fast-tracked this operation simply because Striker was en route and it seemed relatively risk-free at the onset? Maybe Hood should have pulled the plug when he learned how risky the jump itself would be. Maybe he had let himself become a prisoner to the ticking clock he feared instead of the things he knew for certain.

The interoffice line beeped a third time.

Years before, Chad Malcolm, the retiring mayor of Los Angeles, gave Hood some of the best advice he had ever received. Malcolm had said that what any good leader did was take information in, process it, and still react with his gut. “Just like the human body,” the mayor had said. “Goes in through the top and out through the bottom. Any other way just isn’t natural.”

Senator Fox informed Hood that the CIOC would take up this “fiasco” in an emergency session. Hood did not have anything else to say. He clicked the senator off and took the call.

“Yes?” Hood said.

“Paul, we’ve got him,” Herbert said. “Brett spoke with Mike.”

“Is he okay?” Hood asked.

“He’s fine,” Herbert replied. “He landed in the valley at the foot of the plateau.”

“Bob, thank you.” Hood wanted to shout or weep or possibly both. He settled for a deep sigh and a grateful smile.

“While I was waiting for you to pick up the phone I called Viens,” Herbert told him. “Instead of searching for Mike I’ve got him looking to see if the cell broke off. The way I read my map, there’s a point between where Ron Friday joined the cell and where Colonel August is now that would have been perfect for the Pakistani group to split. If one team headed straight toward Pakistan, they would have had a relatively short distance of about nine or ten miles to cross. The two barriers they would face there were the line of control and the Siachin Glacier. But if Indian soldiers have been moved from the LOC to this new forward line, that would leave the border relatively clear.”

“Which makes the glacier the big impediment,” Hood said.

“Right. But that makes stamina instead of greater numbers the big obstacle,” Herbert pointed out. “Under the circumstances, that’s the challenge I’d choose to face.”

“I agree,” Hood said.

“The good news is, Mike is at the foot of the glacier,” Herbert went on. “If we find a second group of Pakistanis, he has a good shot at intercepting them.”

Hood brought up the map on his computer. He studied it for a moment. “Who’s in touch with Mike?”

“Brett is,” Herbert said.

“Bob, we’re going to have to have Mike move out of the valley now,” Hood said.

“Whoa,” Herbert said. “You want him on the glacier before we know for sure that the Pakistanis are even there?”

“We don’t have a choice,” Hood replied.

“We do,” Herbert protested. “First, we find the cell. Second, if they exist, we see which way they’re going. If they’re coming toward the valley, and we’ve sent him up the glacier, we’d be committing him to some pretty unfriendly terrain for nothing.”

“I’m looking at the relief map of the region,” Hood said. “They have to take the glacier. The valley route adds another twelve miles or so to the trek.”

“Twelve relatively flat, easy miles,” Herbert added. “Listen to me, Paul. That glacier is over eighteen thousand feet high.”

“I see that.”

“The cell was seven thousand, three hundred feet up in the mountains when Friday caught up with them,” Herbert went on. “They would have to be out of their minds to go up when they could go down to a valley that’s just two thousand feet above sea level.”

“Certainly the Indian army would assume that,” Hood said.

“Maybe,” Herbert said.

“No, they’d have to,” Hood insisted. “Think about it. If your manpower were depleted at the LOC would you reinforce the valley exit or the glacier? Especially if you thought the cell was moving in another direction altogether?”

“I just think it’s premature to send Mike up there,” Herbert said. “Especially if he just ends up walking back down with the cell. What we need to do is have Viens find the cell and see which way they’re going. Then we can decide.”

“If Viens finds them and if there’s time to get Mike up there,” Hood said. “The satellite has a lot of terrain to cover.”

“Then here’s an alternate plan,” Herbert said angrily. “Why don’t we just have August hold an AK-47 on the group that’s heading his way and make them tell him what their plans are?”

“Would you trust what they tell you?” Hood asked.

That obviously caught Herbert by surprise. He was silent.

“Think about it logically, Bob,” Hood continued. “If the cell divided they won’t want to run into a sizable Indian force. That means taking the glacier route, which is where they would need Mike’s help the most. If he doesn’t start out now there’s a chance he may not catch them.”

“ ‘If,’ ” Herbert said. “ ‘Would.’ ‘May.’ There’s a lot of conjecture there, Paul. An awful lot.”

“Yeah,” Hood agreed. “And Barbara Fox just ripped me a new one for letting this mission out of the gate without sufficient intel. Maybe I did. Nuclear war is pretty serious stuff. But right now the goal is very clear. The key person isn’t Mike, it’s that girl from Kargil. And the mission is to get her safely to Pakistan. If there is a second group of Pakistanis and they go over the glacier, we can’t afford to have Mike stuck in the valley or racing to catch them. He’s our strongest, maybe our only asset. We need him in play.”

“All right, Paul,” Herbert said. “It’s your call. I’ll have Brett relay your orders to Mike.”

“Thank you,” Hood said.

“But I’m not with you on this one,” Herbert added sharply.

“My gut isn’t telling me much because it can’t. It’s tied in a big goddamn knot. But my brain is telling me that before we send Mike up that glacier we need more time and intel to properly assess the situation.”

Herbert hung up.

Slowly, Paul Hood replaced the receiver. Then he turned to his computer and diminished the map of the Himalayas. He switched programs to receive the direct feed from the NRO.

The OmniCom was just completing its retargeting and a barren, brown-and-white image began to fill the screen. Hood watched through tired eyes as the pixels filled in. Right now he wished that he were there, in the field with Mike Rodgers. The general had an organization solidly behind him, people praying for him, honor and pride at the end of the day, whichever way events took him.

But no sooner did Paul Hood stumble onto that thought than two others bumped it aside. First, that he had no right to be thinking about himself. Not after the sacrifice Striker had made or the risks Mike Rodgers, Brett August, and the others were taking.

Second, that he had to finish the operation he had started. And there was only one way to do that.

With resolve greater than that of the people who had started it.

FORTY-TWO

The Great Himalaya Range Thursday, 6:42 P.M.

Brett August had become a soldier for two very different reasons.

One was to help keep his country strong. When August was in the sixth grade he read about countries like England and Italy that had lost wars. The young New Englander could not imagine how he would feel saying the Pledge of Allegiance each morning, knowing that the United States had ever been defeated or was under the heel of a conquering nation.

The other reason Brett August became a soldier was that he loved adventure. As a kid he grew up on cowboy and war shows on television, and comic books like GI War Tales and 4-Star Battle Tales. His favorite activities were to build snow forts in the winter and tree forts in the summer. The latter were carefully woven together from the limbs shorn from poplar trees in the backyard. He and Mike Rodgers took turns being Colonel Thaddeus Gearhart at Fort Russell or William Barrett Travis at the Alamo, respectively. Rodgers liked the idea of acting a young officer dying dramatically as he battled vastly superior numbers.

The reality of everything August had anticipated was different from the way he had always imagined them.

The greatest threats against the United States were not from forces outside our borders but from those within. He had seen that when he returned from captivity in Vietnam. There were no honors awaiting him. There was condemnation from many of August’s old acquaintances for having fought in an immoral war. There was condemnation from some corners of the military because August wanted to go back and finish the job he had started. They wanted to bomb the Cong into submission. The melting pot of America had become the melting point. People fighting rather than learning from their differences.

As for adventure, there was valor but little drama or glory in slaughter and captivity. Death was not big and flamboyant, it was ugly and lonely. The dying did not pause to salute the proud flag of Colorado or Texas but screamed about his wound or cried for a loved one a world away. Fear for himself and his friends made it impossible for August ever to feel anything but unadorned gratification whenever his patrol returned to base.

At the moment, August was driven by just one force: the battle-seasoned resolve of a professional soldier. Even his survival instinct was not that strong. Most of his unit were dead. Living with that loss was going to be difficult. He wondered, unhappily, if that was why William Barrett Travis had reportedly charged the Mexican army single-handedly at the onset of the battle for the Alamo. Not due to courage but to spare himself the pain of having to watch his command fall.

August decided this was not the time to think of hopeless charges. He needed to be in the here-and-now and he needed to win.

Poised behind a jagged-edged boulder twice his size, August watched the narrow, curving ledge just ahead. His visibility was only about fifty yards due to the sharp turn in the ledge. Soon darkness would be a problem. The sun was nearly down and he would have to put on his night-vision goggles. He wanted to wait in order to save the batteries. They might be forced to fight the Indian skirmish line before night’s end.

Musicant was behind an even larger boulder. It was situated twenty-odd yards to August’s left. Between them the Strikers could set up a crossfire between the end of the ledge and the plateau. No one would be able to get through without identifying themselves and being disarmed, if necessary.

To August’s right was the TAC-SAT. He had switched the phone from audio to visual signal in order to maintain a position of silent-standing. The visual signal was on dim. If it shined, the light would not be seen from the other side of the boulder.

A steady wind blew from behind the men. It raised fine particles of ice from the plateau and swept them from the peaks. The icy mist rose in sharp arcs and wide circles, flying high enough to glimmer in the last light of the sun before dropping back to the dark stone. August was glad to see the airborne eddies. They would limit the visibility of anyone coming along the ledge.

August was crouched against the cold stone when the TAC-SAT flashed. He snatched the receiver without taking his eyes from the ledge.

“Yes!” he shouted. He had to press a hand against his hood to shut his open ear.

“Brett, it’s Bob. Anything?”

“Not yet,” August replied. “What about with you?”

“We need you to radio Mike,” Herbert said. “We think a splinter cell might be headed toward the Siachin Glacier. Viens is looking for them. In the meantime, Paul wants Mike to head up there.”

“That’s a helluva trek,” August said.

“Tell me about it,” Herbert replied. “If there is a separate group, Paul’s afraid Mike will miss them unless he leaves now. Tell Mike that if Viens spots them we’ll pass along their location.”

“Very good,” August replied. “And if this cell knows anything I’ll let you and Mike know.”

“Fine,” Herbert said. “I’ve tried to raise them on the radio but they’re not answering. Listen, Brett. If Mike doesn’t think he can do this I want to hear about it.”

“Do you really think Mike Rodgers would turn down an assignment?” August asked.

“Never,” Herbert said. “That’s why I need you to listen between the lines. If there’s a problem, tell me.”

“Sure,” August said.

August hung up and slipped the radio from the belt. Mike had the best “poker voice” in the United States armed forces. The only way August might find out if he had a problem with a mission was to ask him outright. Even then, Rodgers might not give him an answer.

Rodgers answered and August gave him Hood’s instructions.

“Thank you,” Rodgers replied. “I’m on it.”

“Mike, is it doable without more gear? Herbert wants to know.”

“If I don’t answer the radio again, it wasn’t,” the general replied.

“Don’t be an ass-pain,” August warned.

“If you can feel your ass you’re doing a lot better than I am,” Rodgers replied.

“Point, Rodgers,” August told him. “Stay in touch.”

“You, too,” Rodgers replied.

August switched the radio to vibrate rather than beep. Then he slipped it back into his belt. He was still watching the ledge. The wind had grown stronger over the past few minutes. The ice crystals were no longer blowing in gentle patterns. They were charging past the boulder in sharp diagonal sheets. The fine particles struck the cliff and bounced off hard at a right angle. They created the illusion of a scrim hanging in front of the ledge.

Suddenly, a dark shape appeared behind the driving ice. It was blacker than the surrounding amber-black of sunset. It did not appear to be holding a weapon, though it was too dark to be certain.

August motioned to Musicant, who nodded that he saw it.

For the colonel the rest of the world, the future, and philosophy vanished. He had only one concern.

Surviving the moment.

FORTY-THREE

The Great Himalaya Range Thursday, 6:57 P.M.

Sharab had lost all sense of time. She knew that they had been walking for hours but she had no idea how many. The woman’s thighs burned from the struggle of the upward and then downward trek, and her feet were blistered front and back. Every step generated hot, abrasive pain. Sharab did not know how much longer she could continue. Certainly getting down to where she believed the Indian army was situated would be virtually impossible. She would have to find some way of slowing the enemy down from up here.

The men behind her were not faring any better. They had discarded their flashlights and heavier shoulder-mounted weapons. They had also left behind all but a few of the explosives they planned to use to attract the attention of the Indian soldiers. They’d eaten the food so they would not have to carry it. The water had frozen in their canteens and they had left those behind as well. When they were thirsty they simply broke off the icicles they found in small hollows. All they carried were a rifle with a pocketful of shells as well as a handgun apiece and two extra clips. If there were an army coming toward them, Sharab knew she would not be able to overcome them. All she could hope to do now was draw them off and delay them long enough to give the American, Nanda, and the others a chance to get to Pakistan.

Surviving was also increasingly unlikely. If the Indians did not kill them the elements would.

Sharab even had some question now whether they would even find this elusive Indian army. They had heard some kind of artillery fire earlier. She wondered if the elite American unit had landed and engaged the enemy. She hoped not. The last thing she wanted was to send the Indians back to the line of control. That would only cause the military to bring in reinforcements. On the other hand, if any of the Americans had managed to land, that was good. They could certainly use the help fighting the Indians.

Unfortunately, Sharab could not find out what had happened. The radio she had used to communicate with Washington had become such a burden that she had left it behind.

Particles of wind-blown ice coated her wool hood and clung there. The cold had already numbed her scalp and frozen her sweat-soaked hair. The weight of the hood was such that it kept her head bent forward. That was good. It protected her eyes and cheeks from the sting of the ice pellets.

Sharab was feeling her way along the cliff and also using it for support. Ali was behind her, holding the hem of her parka. Every now and then she felt a tug as he halted or stumbled. Hassan was behind Ali. Sharab knew he was still there because she could hear him praying.

As the ledge widened, Sharab heard another sound. At first it sounded like a sudden, sharp quickening of the wind. But then she heard it again, louder. It was not the wind. Someone was shouting.

Sharab stopped and raised her eyes. She shielded them with her hand and peered ahead.

The young woman saw a cottage-sized boulder with something large moving behind the right side. Sharab could not make out what it was. She replayed the howl in her mind. Asian black bears and deer did not live this high. Perhaps it was a wild pig or goat.

It could also be a man.

It howled again. Sharab pulled off her hood and turned her right ear toward the boulder. She also removed her glove, tucked it in her left pocket, and drew the handgun from her right pocket.

“Who are you?” the figure shouted.

Sharab backed away. “Who wants to know?” she shouted back. The woman was surprised at the effort it took to yell. It actually caused her heart to race. Her voice sounded flat in the close, cold air.

“We are with the man who joined you before,” the other man said. “Where is he?”

“Which man?” Sharab asked. “There were two.” The man was speaking in English with an American-sounding accent. That was encouraging.

“We only know about one of them,” the speaker said.

“What was his name?”

The man hesitated. Obviously, someone was going to have to make the first move to prove who they were. It was not going to be Sharab.

“Friday,” the man said.

Sharab stepped forward again very tentatively. “He is not with us!”

“What happened to him?”

“He left,” she replied. “Let’s talk face-to-face.”

“Come closer with your hands raised,” the American said. The speaker did not step from behind the boulder. It was the woman’s turn to trust him.

Sharab protected her eyes again and tried to look past the boulder. She saw a second, smaller boulder off to the right but no sign of any other men. There could not be that many soldiers behind the two rocks. But the two boulders would provide good cover for a crossfire.

Sharab told Hassan and Ali to stay where they were. They nodded. Both men had drawn their weapons and were huddled close to the rock. Ali had moved out slightly to provide her some backup.

“If anything happens to me, fight your way out of this,” she added. “You must keep the Indian army occupied.”

The men nodded again.

The speaker was a few hundred yards away. Sharab did not put her gun away. She raised her hands shoulder-high and began moving toward the nearest boulder. It was difficult to see because of the blowing ice and she had to turn her face toward the side. Her scarf had fallen away and was whipping behind her. The ice particles lashed her flesh. Her cheek felt as if it were on fire. Sharab finally had to lower her left arm to protect it. There was no mountainside to lean against so her sore feet were taking all of her weight. She shambled from side to side to keep from putting all of her weight straight down. At least the terrain was level. That made it easier on her leg muscles.

Her eyes tearing from wind and pain, Sharab staggered the last few yards to the boulder. She fell against it and her knees just shivered and unlocked. She began to slide down the side. Strong, gloved hands reached around and helped to hold her up. She was still holding the gun. But even if Sharab had wanted to defend herself, her finger was too cold to pull the trigger.

A man in white winter gear pulled her behind the boulder. He sat her down and used his body to protect her from the wind. He bent close to her ear.

“Are you the leader?” he asked.

“First tell me who you are,” Sharab said. She was barely able to say the words. Her lips were trembling.

“I am Colonel August of the U.S. Striker team,” he said.

“I am the leader of these FKM fighters,” Sharab replied weakly. She squinted across the dark plateau. She saw another man crouched there.

“That’s Mr. Musicant, my medic,” August said. “If any of your people need attention, I’ll send him over.”

“I think we’re all right, except for the cold,” the woman said. “Fingers, feet, mouth.”

The man leaned nearer. He exhaled hotly on her lips. It felt good. He did it again.

“How many men have you?” Sharab asked.

“Three,” he replied.

She fired him a look. “Just three?”

He nodded.

“The sounds we heard—?” she asked.

“Indian ground fire,” he said. “It took out most of my team. Where is Mr. Friday?”

“We split the group,” Sharab told him. “He is with the other half. They went in another direction.”

“Over the glacier?” the colonel asked.

Sharab nodded.

“Is that how they’re getting back to Pakistan?” August pressed.

The woman did not answer immediately. She looked up into his face. He was wearing goggles and she could not see his eyes. His mouth was straight, unemotional. His skin was pale but rough. He was definitely an American and he had seen some hardship.

“What will you do with the information?” she asked him.

“The third survivor of our drop landed in the valley,” August replied. “He’ll try and link up with your teammates.”

“I see,” she said. “Yes. The others are going to try and stay on the glacier until they are home.”

“Do you have any way of contacting them?” August asked.

She shook her head.

“And what were you trying to do?” he asked. “Draw the Indian soldiers away from the other group, toward the northwest ?”

“Yes,” Sharab said. “We’re carrying explosives. We thought we could attract their attention, maybe cause some rock slides.”

“That won’t be necessary,” August informed her. “The Indian force is heading toward us. It’ll be pretty tough for them to get up here so we’ll be able to keep them busy while they bring in choppers from the LOC.” August reached for his radio. “Do you and your men need food or water?”

“Food would be nice,” she admitted.

August left the radio in his belt. He opened a vest pocket and removed several sticks of jerky. “Give some to your teammates and ask them to join us,” he said as he handed her the flat, wrapped servings. “We should set up a defensive perimeter on this plateau. The Indians saw us come down here. I’m pretty sure that if we wait they’ll come to us. That will give us a chance to rest, especially if they wait until morning to come after us.”

“All right,” Sharab said.

She started to stand. August helped her up. As he did, she looked up at him. “I’m sorry about your people.”

“Thank you,” he replied.

“But be consoled,” she said. “Their death in the service of our people will earn them a place in Paradise. ‘The steadfast who do good works, forgiveness and a rich reward await them,’ ” Sharab assured him.

The American smiled tightly. He left the woman supporting herself against the rock while he retrieved his radio.

Sharab winced as she put weight back on her swollen feet. She began hobbling back toward the ledge. But at least now she knew one thing that she did not know a few minutes ago.

The pain would end very soon.

FORTY-FOUR

Washington, D.C. Thursday, 10:30 A.M.

It had been a grueling ninety minutes for Paul Hood. But then, suffering was relative, he told himself. He was in no physical danger. His children were safe. That helped him to keep his situation in perspective.

After his disagreement with Bob Herbert, Paul Hood had asked Liz Gordon, Lowell Coffey, Ann Farris, and political liaison Ron Plummer to come to his office. Hood had wanted to tell them what had happened to Striker. He also needed to mobilize them at once. Liz would have to put together grief counselors for Op-Center personnel as well as family members of the fallen Strikers. Coffey would have to be prepared to deal with any legal ramifications that might arise from recovering the bodies. And for the first time in years Ann would have to do nothing. As far as domestic officials and foreign governments were concerned, Op-Center would stand by the original mission profile. The team had been sent into Kashmir at the request of the Indian government to search for nuclear missile sites. Striker had been shot accidentally by Indian soldiers who were looking for the Pakistani terrorists. If Ann owed anyone at one of the major news outlets any favors she could tell them what Op-Center was saying to government officials. That, and nothing more. Ann was thoroughly professional and supportive. If she suspected there was anything wrong between her and Hood she did not show it.

Only the president had been told the truth. Lawrence and Hood had spoken briefly before the others had come to Hood’s office. The president seemed neither shaken nor pleased by what Hood told him. Lawrence said only that he supported the plan from this point forward. The president’s “no comment” did not surprise Hood. It would give him the room to praise or lambaste the NCMC at the end of the day, depending upon how things went.

President Lawrence did suggest, however, that the Pakistani ambassador to Washington be told the truth at once. He did not want Islamabad or Ambassador Simathna issuing statements about America’s anti-Muslim activities or pro-India bias. If Mike were to show up with the cell after that it would taint the validity of the operation. It would seem as if America had forced Nanda to lie to repair bridges with Pakistan and the Muslim world.

Hood gave that job to Ron Plummer. He also wanted Plummer to stay with the ambassador, ostensibly to brief him on all the latest developments. In fact, Hood wanted to make certain the truth did not leak out prematurely. He was afraid that India might respond with a massive strike in the region. Since the terrorists were still on the run, and still being blamed for all the bombings, New Delhi would have the moral high road and world opinion on their side.

As the meeting was ending Hood received a call from Bob Herbert.

“I just spoke with Brett August and I’ve got some good news,” Herbert informed him. “He’s linked up with the cell.”

Hood motioned for Ron Plummer not to leave and to shut the door. The small, slender political liaison closed the door behind Lowell Coffey. Plummer remained standing.

“Thank God for that,” Hood said. “Bob, Ron’s in here with me. I’m putting you on speakerphone.”

“Okay,” Herbert said. “Anyway, we were right,” he went on. “The Pakistanis did spin off another group. Nanda Kumar and her grandfather are part of it, along with Ron Friday and one Pakistani. And you were correct, Paul. They’re headed across the Siachin Glacier.”

“Did Brett talk to Mike?” Hood asked.

“Not yet,” Herbert replied. “They’ve got electrostatic interference from an ice storm on the plateau. Brett says the ice comes in waves. He’s going to keep trying for a window.”

Hood suddenly felt very guilty about his warm office and fully functional telephone.

“Paul, I have a suggestion,” Herbert said. “I think we should ask the Pakistanis for help in extracting the teams. After all, it’s their butts we’re hauling out of the fire.”

“We can’t do that,” Plummer told him.

“Why not?” Herbert asked.

“If the situation is as tense as Paul’s described, an incursion by the Pakistani air force would only make it worse. It would give the Indian military more incentive to attack.”

“At least then it would be a conventional fight,” Herbert said.

“Not necessarily,” Plummer said, “especially if there are Pakistani silos somewhere in the mountains. Also, we’d be giving Pakistan foreknowledge of a possible nuclear strike. That might encourage Islamabad to hit first.”

“A jihad,” Hood said.

“The clerics might call it that,” Plummer said. “For the generals it would simply be a responsible tactical maneuver. The situation is hair-trigger enough without throwing more partisan armies into the fray.”

“What about the United States sending additional forces into the mountains?” Hood suggested.

“That’s not going to happen,” Herbert said gravely. “Even if the Joint Chiefs and the president okayed a strike force out of Turkey or the Middle East, it would take hours for them to get there.”

“There’s one thing I’m missing here,” Plummer said. “Why do we need a military response? Can’t we let India know what their Special Frontier Force unit did? I’m sure that very few government officials knew about the plot to frame the terrorists.”

“I’m sure it was a very tight conspiracy,” Hood agreed. “The problem is we have no idea who was in it.”

“Someone is obviously tapped into the Op-Center–New Delhi pipeline,” Herbert said. “How else could they have known about Striker’s mission? Anyway, before the bombing the moderate Indians might have done something. But Kev Custer has been monitoring the TV and radio broadcasts over there. There’s a fast-growing grassroots movement in support of the militants.”

“Meaning that moderates may be afraid to speak out,” Hood said.

“Exactly,” Herbert said.

“What about the United Nations secretary-general?” Plummer said. “You know her, Paul. Forget the bad blood between you. She’s Indian. She’ll have a very good reason to get out the facts about the attack.”

“Mala Chatterjee?” Herbert said. “She’s so soft on terrorism her speeches turn even bleeding hearts into a lynch mob. She flapped her lips while hostages were being assassinated in the Security Council.”

“Chatterjee has far too many enemies of her own,” Hood agreed. “At this point her involvement would only make things worse.”

“I’ll say it again, Paul. Maybe the Russians would be willing to help rein India in,” Herbert said. “They want to be seen as serious peacemakers.”

“Possibly,” Hood said. “But even if we went to them, wouldn’t time be a problem?”

“Time and recent history,” Plummer said. “Pakistan has very close ties with Afghanistan. There are still a lot of Russian leaders who would like to see both countries pounded flat.”

“But a continued stalemate between India and Pakistan means a continued weapons buildup,” Herbert said. “Money talks. New Delhi would still have to buy weapons and matériel from Moscow.”

“True, but then there’s the point that Paul raised,” Plummer said. “The same debate that we’re having would keep the Kremlin busy for days if not longer. We don’t have that kind of time.”

“Well, Ron, I’m kind of running dry and getting a little frustrated,” Herbert snapped.

“And I’m just doing the devil’s advocate thing, Bob,” Plummer replied defensively. “We can run some of these proposals up the flagpole in Moscow and at the Pentagon, but I don’t see any of them getting the kind of support we need.”

“Unfortunately, that’s the problem with crisis management instead of crisis prevention,” Hood said sadly. “Once you’re in it there are not a lot of options.”

“I count exactly one,” Herbert said.

The intelligence chief was right, of course. With all the resources the United States had at its disposal, there was only one asset standing between India, Pakistan, and a possible nuclear exchange. One asset currently out of touch, underequipped, and on his own.

General Mike Rodgers.

FORTY-FIVE

The Siachin Glacier Thursday, 9:11 P.M.

During the flight from Washington, Mike Rodgers had read a number of white papers on the Siachin Glacier. The most interesting was written by a Pakistani intelligence officer.

Dubbed “the world’s highest battleground” by both the Indian and the Pakistani press, the Siachin Glacier has no strategic value. Long claimed by Pakistan, the glacier reaches nearly eighteen thousand feet in height, the temperatures drop below minus thirty-five degrees Celsius, and the nearconstant blizzards and lack of oxygen make the region “subhuman,” as one Indian report put it. No one lives there and no one crosses it on foot.

The glacier became a war zone in 1984 when Indian intelligence officers began showing up in the region. Their thinking, apparently, was to force Pakistan to assign human resources to the region, thus making them unavailable for war in habitable Kashmir and along the line of control. However, Pakistan discovered the presence of the Indian reconnaissance teams early in the process thanks to a mountaineering advertisement that appeared in an Indian magazine. The full-page ad showed recent photographs of the region without naming it. The text offered experienced climbers excellent compensation and the adventure of a lifetime to help lead tours through “uncharted territories.” Pakistani counterespionage operatives began tracking and capturing the Indian recon teams. The conflict escalated and soon the region was drawing resources from both sides of the dispute. Nearly twenty years later, thousands of troops and aircraft from both sides were assigned to patrol the massive formation.

If they were out there now, Rodgers could neither see nor hear them. He had been in many isolated places during his long military career but he had never experienced anything like this. Standing at the foot of the glacier he was not just alone, surrounded by mountain and ice, but he could only see as far as his flashlight let him. And he was unable to get anything but static on his radio. He shined the light up the sloping white ice. The foot of the glacier reminded him of a lion’s paw. There were long, large lumps of dirty white ice about ten feet high with crevasses between them. They led to a gently sloping area that rose higher and higher into the darkness. The formation made him feel fragile and insignificant. The glacier had probably looked exactly like this when the first humans were tossing sticks and berries at each other from trees in the valley.

Suddenly, Rodgers’s radio beeped. He grabbed it quickly.

“Yes?”

“The target is up there,” said the caller.

The transmission was broken and the voice was barely recognizable. But Rodgers had no doubt that it was Brett August. The colonel did not know how long he would be able to transmit. So he got right to the heart of the communication without wasting words.

“Copy that,” Rodgers said.

“Team of four,” August said. “Girl and grandfather, Friday, and one cell member.”

“I copy,” Rodgers said again. “I’m at the foot of the zone. Should I go up now?”

“If you wait till sunup you may miss them,” August said. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Rodgers said.

“Will try and keep enemy busy,” August went on. His voice began to break up. “Storming here—cell exhausted. Ammo low.”

“Then bail out,” Rodgers said. “I’ll be okay.”

August’s response was lost in static.

“I’ve got a good head start,” Rodgers went on. He was shouting each syllable, hoping he would be heard. “Even if they enter the valley now they won’t catch up to me. I’m ordering you to pull back. Do you read? Pull back!”

There was no response. Just a loud, frustrating crackle.

Rodgers turned down the volume and kept the channel open for another few moments. Then he shut the radio off to conserve the batteries and slipped the unit back in his belt.

Rodgers hoped that August would not try to stick this one out. Going back down the mountain might not be an option for August and the others. But finding a cave and building a fire would be a better use of their energies than hanging on to a slope and trying to draw the Indian army toward them. Unfortunately, Rodgers knew the colonel too well. August would probably regard retreat as abandonment of a friend as well as a strategic position. Neither of those was acceptable to August.

The plateau was also the place where the Strikers had died. That made it sacred ground to August. There was no way he would simply turn and walk away from it. Rodgers understood that because he felt the same way. It made no sense to fight for geography without strategic value. But once blood had been spilled there, one fought for the memory of fallen comrades. It validated the original sacrifice in a way that only combat soldiers could understand.

Rodgers took a moment to walk along the bottom of the glacier. It did not seem to matter where he started. He had to pull himself up one of the “toes” and start walking.

There were collapsible steel bipoint ice crampons in his vest. Rodgers removed them and slipped them over his rigid boots. The two-pronged claws on the bottoms would allow for a surer grip on the ice.

He strapped them on and removed the pitons from another pocket. He would hold them in his fists and use them to assist his climb. He would not take the time to hammer them in unless he had to.

Before he left, Rodgers secured the flashlight in his lefthand shoulder strap. There were powerful cadmium batteries in the specially made lights. The bulb itself was a lowintensity scatter-beam in front of a highly polished mirror. They would definitely last through the night. As he rested the toe of his left boot on the “toe” of the glacier, he took one last look up the mountain of ice.

“I’m going to beat you,” he muttered. “I’m going to get up there and finish the job my team started.”

Rodgers’s eyes continued up through the darkness. He saw the stars, which were dimly visible through the wispy clouds. Time seemed to vanish and Rodgers suddenly felt as if he were every warrior who had ever undertaken a journey, from the Vikings to the present. And as he jabbed the base of one crampon into the ice and reached up with a piton, Mike Rodgers no longer saw stars. He saw the eyes of those warriors looking down on him.

And among them the eyes of the Strikers looking after him.

FORTY-SIX

Washington, D.C. Thursday, 12:00 P.M.

The embassy of the Islamic Republic of Pakistan is located in a small, high-gated estate on Massachusetts Avenue in northwest D.C.

Ron Plummer drove his Saab to the gate, where a voice on the other end of the intercom buzzed him through. He headed up the curving concrete driveway to a second security checkpoint at the back of the mansion.

Plummer pulled up to the white double doors and was greeted by a security guard. The man was dressed in a black business suit. He wore sunglasses, a headset, and a bullet-proof vest under his white shirt. He carried a handgun in a shoulder holster. The man checked Plummer’s ID then directed him to a visitor’s spot in the small lot. The guard waited while Plummer parked.

As he hurried back to the mansion, Ron Plummer ran a hand through his untamed, thinning brown hair and adjusted his thick, black-framed glasses. The thirty-nine-year-old former CIA intelligence analyst for Western Europe was not just feeling the pressure of his own part in this drama. The political and economics officer was also aware of how many things had to go right or the Indian subcontinent would explode.

The National Crisis Management Center had not had a lot of dealings with the Pakistani embassy. The only reason the ambassador, Dr. Ismail Simathna, personally knew them was because of Paul Hood and Mike Rodgers. After the men had ended the hostage stalemate at the United Nations, Simathna asked them to visit the embassy. Plummer was invited to join them. The ambassador claimed to be paying his respects to a brave and brilliant American intelligence unit. Among the many lives they had saved were those of the Pakistani ambassador to the United Nations and his wife. But Hood and Plummer both suspected that Simathna simply wanted to meet the men who had embarrassed the Indian secretary-general. That feeling was reinforced when the visit received considerable coverage in the Islamabad media. Hood was glad, then, that Plummer had come along. Op-Center’s PEO gave the appearance of substance to a meeting that was conceived to make a statement about India’s ineffective contribution to world peace.

The security officer turned Plummer over to the ambassador’s executive secretary. The young man smiled pleasantly and led Plummer to Simathna’s office. The white-haired ambassador came out from behind his glass-topped desk. He was wearing a brown suit and a muted yellow tie. The sixty-three-year-old ambassador had been a frontline soldier and bore a scar on both cheeks where a bullet had passed through his jaw. He had also been an intelligence expert and a professor of politics and political sociology at Quaid-E-Azam University in Islamabad before being tapped to represent his nation in Washington, D.C. He greeted Op-Center’s political officer warmly.

Plummer had not told Ambassador Simathna why he needed to see him, only that it was urgent.

The men sat in modern armchairs on the window side of the office. The thick bullet-proof glass muted their voices. As Plummer spoke he sounded almost conspiratorial.

The ambassador’s lean face was serious but unemotional as Plummer spoke. He leaned forward, listening quietly, as Plummer told him about the Striker operation from conception to present, and Hood’s fears about the actions of India’s SFF. When Plummer was finished, the ambassador sat back.

“I am disappointed that you did not come to me for intelligence on the nuclear situation in Kashmir,” the ambassador said.

“We did not want to impose on your friendship,” Plummer replied. “It means a great deal to us.”

“That was thoughtful of you,” he replied with a little smile. “But you have come to me now.”

“Yes,” Plummer replied. “For your advice, your confidence, your patience, and most of all your trust. We believe we have a good chance to keep this under control but the hours ahead will be extremely difficult.”

“One could describe nuclear brinkmanship in those terms,” the ambassador said softly. “Your Strikers were quite brave, going into the mountains the way they did. And the surviving members give me hope. Nations are not monolithic, not even India and Pakistan. When people care enough about one another great things can be accomplished.”

“Paul Hood and I share your optimism,” Plummer said.

“Even at this moment?”

“Especially at this moment,” Plummer replied.

Throughout the exchange Plummer had watched the ambassador’s dark eyes. Simathna’s mind was elsewhere. Plummer feared that the ambassador was thinking of alerting his government.

The ambassador rose. “Mr. Plummer, would you excuse me for a few minutes?”

Plummer also stood. “Mr. Ambassador, one more thing.”

“Yes?”

“I don’t wish to push you, sir, but I want to make certain I’ve made the situation clear,” Plummer said. “It is vital that your government take no action until our people in the field have had a chance to extract the Indian operative.”

“You have made that quite clear,” the ambassador replied.

“There is the very real danger that even a leaked word could turn this into a self-fulfilling nightmare,” Plummer added.

“I agree,” Simathna assured him. The tall Pakistani smiled slightly and started toward the door.

“Mr. Ambassador, please tell me what you’re going to do,” Plummer implored. The American was going to feel very foolish if Simathna were going to get an aspirin or visit the lavatory. But Plummer had to know.

“I am going to do something that will require your assistance,” Simathna replied.

“Anything,” Plummer said. “What can I do?”

The ambassador opened the door and looked back. “You must give me something that you just requested of me.”

“Of course,” Plummer told him. “Name it.” While the PEO waited he replayed the conversation in his mind on fastforward, trying to remember what the hell he had asked the ambassador for.

“I need your trust,” Simathna said.

“You have it, sir. That’s why I came here,” Plummer insisted. “What I need to know is if we’re on the same tactical page.”

“We are,” Simathna replied. “However, I have access to footnotes that you do not.”

With that, the Pakistani ambassador left his office and quietly shut the door behind him.

FORTY-SEVEN

The Siachin Glacier Thursday, 10:57 P.M.

Ron Friday’s anger kept him from freezing.

The NSA operative was not angry when he started this leg of the mission. He had been optimistic. He had effectively taken charge of the mission from Sharab. Even if the woman survived her encounter with the Indian army, Friday would be the one who led the cell into Pakistan. The triumph would be his. And the journey appeared feasible, at least according to the Indian military reconnaissance maps he had taken from the helicopter. The line of control did not appear to be heavily guarded at the Bellpora Pass. The region was extremely wide and open and easy to monitor from the air. Captain Nazir had told Friday that anyone passing through the jagged, icy region risked being spotted and picked off. So Friday and his group would have to remain alert. If the cell was still in the pass during a flyover, they would find a place to hide until it was finished.

However, Friday became less enthusiastic about the operation as the hours passed. He was accustomed to working alone. That had always given him a psychological advantage. Not having to worry about or rely on someone else enabled him to make fast tactical turns, both mentally and physically. It had been the same with his romantic relationships. They were paid for by the hour. That made them easy, to the point, and, most importantly, over.

Samouel was holding up well enough. He was in the lead. The Pakistani was deftly poking the ground with a long stick he had picked up, making sure there were no pockets of thin ice. Friday was directly behind him. There were two unlit torches tucked under his right arm. They were made with sturdy branches the men had picked up before the tree line ended. They were capped by tightly wound strangler vines. The thick vines glowed rather than burned. Friday had stuffed very dry ryegrass between the vines to serve as primers. The torches would only be used in an emergency. Friday had five matches in his pocket and he did not want to waste them.

Nanda and her grandfather were at the rear of the line. Nanda herself was doing all right. She was a slight woman and she lost body heat quickly. But she had a fighting spirit and would have kept up the pace if not for Apu. The elderly farmer was simply exhausted. If not for his granddaughter the Indian probably would have lain down and died.

As darkness had descended over the ice and the temperature had fallen, Friday had become increasingly disgusted with the Kumars. He had no tolerance for Apu’s infirmity. And Nanda’s devotion frustrated him. She had a responsibility to end the crisis she had helped cause. Every minute they spent nursing Apu across the glacier slowed their progress and drained the energies of Nanda, Friday, and the other man.

The farmer’s life just did not matter that much.

Friday had taken a last look around before night finally engulfed them. The group was on a flat, barren expanse. To the right, about a half mile distant, the blue-white glacier rose thousands of feet nearly straight up. The surface appeared to be rough and jagged, as though a mountain-sized section had been ripped away. To the left the terrain was much smoother, probably worn down by ages of rain and runoff from the mountains. It sloped downward into what looked like a distant valley. Friday could not be certain because a mist was rising from the lower, warmer levels of the glacier.

Not that it mattered. Pakistan was ahead, due north. And unless Ron Friday did something to speed up this group’s progress they would not get there in time, if at all.

Friday took out his small flashlight and handed it to Samouel. The batteries would probably not last until sunrise. Friday told the Pakistani to get a good look at the terrain and then shut the light off until he absolutely needed it again. Then the American dropped to the left side of the loose formation. The air was still and the night was quiet. The glacier was protecting them from the fierce mountain winds. Friday waited for Nanda and her grandfather to catch up. Then he fell in beside the woman. She was holding Apu’s hand close to her waist and walking slightly ahead of him. With each step Nanda stopped and literally gave her grandfather a firm but gentle tug across the ice. She was breathing heavily and Apu was bent deeply at the waist.

“We’re not going to make it at this rate,” Friday said.

“We’ll make it,” she replied.

“Not in time,” Friday insisted. He did not know that for a fact. But saying it emphatically would make it sound true to Nanda.

Nanda did not respond.

“If either side drops a nuclear missile anywhere in the mountains, this glacier will become a freshwater lake,” Friday pointed out. “Let me leave Samouel with your grandfather. You come with me. When we reach Pakistan we can send help.”

“Leave my grandfather with one of the men who held us captive?” she said. “I can’t trust a man like that.”

“Circumstances have changed,” Friday said. “Samouel wants to save his people. That means protecting your grandfather.”

The young woman continued to help her grandfather along. Friday could not see her expression in the dark. But he could hear the farmer’s feet drag along the ice. Just the sound had an enraging quality.

“Nanda, I need your cooperation on this,” Friday pressed.

“I am cooperating,” she replied evenly.

“You don’t understand,” Friday said. “We have no idea what’s happening in the outside world. We need to get you across the line of control as quickly as possible.”

Nanda stopped. She told her grandfather to rest for a moment. The farmer gratefully lowered himself to his knees while the woman took Friday aside. The American told Samouel to keep moving. Friday would find him by the bursts from the flashlight.

“If we leave the terrorist and my grandfather here, no one will come back,” Nanda said. “I know this border region. There will be a great deal of tension on both sides of the glacier. No one will want to make any unnecessary or provocative military moves. Samouel will leave without him.”

“We’ll send a civilian helicopter back here,” Friday said. “The American embassy can arrange it quickly.”

“They’ll be dead by then,” Nanda told him. “My grandfather is pushing himself as it is. If I leave he’ll give up.”

“Nanda, if you don’t leave, two nations may cease to exist,” Friday pointed out. “You played a key role in this. You have to set it right.”

The young woman was silent. Friday could not see her in the blackness but he could hear her breathing. It had slowed somewhat. Nanda was thinking. She was softening.

She was going to agree.

“All right,” she said. “I’ll do what you ask but only if you stay and help my grandfather.”

That caught Friday by surprise. “Why?”

“You know how to survive out here,” Nanda replied. She placed her hand on the unlit torches for emphasis. “I think I saw a valley to the west. You will be able to get him down there in the dark, find shelter, warmth, and water. Promise me you’ll take care of him and I’ll go ahead with Samouel.”

The perspiration on the American’s face was beginning to freeze. It was a strange feeling, like candle wax hardening. The insides of his thighs were badly chafed and his lungs hurt from the cold air they had been breathing. The longer he stood here the more aware he became of how vulnerable they were. It would be easy to stand still a moment too long and die.

Friday set the two torches down and removed the glove from his right hand. He scratched the frozen sweat from his cheeks and forehead. Then he slipped his hand into his coat pocket. Nanda was Friday’s trophy. He had no intention of staying behind or being dictated to.

He removed the pistol from his pocket. Nanda could not see it or know what he was going to do. If he put a bullet in the farmer’s head Nanda would have no choice but to press on, even if only to bring Friday to justice. Friday, of course, would argue that Apu was distraught about holding the others back. He had tried to reach the gun to end his own life. There was a fight. It went off.

Friday hesitated. He considered the possibility that a shot might attract the attention of the Indian soldiers from the line of control. But he realized that the many peaks and winding ice valleys would make the sound impossible to pinpoint. And those ice peaks were far enough away so that a shot would probably not bring loose sections crashing down. Especially if the blast were muffled by the parka of the dead man.

Friday walked around Nanda. “All right,” he said with finality. “I will take care of your grandfather.”

FORTY-EIGHT

Washington, D.C. Thursday, 1:28 P.M.

Ron Plummer was not a patient man. And that had been a great help to him throughout his career.

Intelligence officers and government liaisons could not afford patience. They had to have restless minds and curious imaginations. Otherwise they could not motivate their people or themselves to look past the obvious or accept impasses. However, they also needed to possess control. The ability to appear calm even when they were not.

Ordinarily, Ron Plummer was also a calm man. At the moment his self-control was being tested. Not by the crisis but by the one thing a former intelligence operative hated most.

Ignorance.

It had been nearly forty-five minutes since Ambassador Simathna left the office. Plummer had sat for a few minutes, paced slowly, sat some more, then stood and walked in circles around the large office. He looked at the bookcases filled with histories and biographies. Most were in English, some were in Urdu. The wood-paneled walls were decorated with plaques, citations, and photographs of the ambassador with various world leaders. There was even one of Simathna with United Nations Secretary-General Chatterjee. Neither of them was smiling. The PEO hoped that was not an omen. He stopped in front of a framed document that hung near the ambassador’s desk. It was signed in 1906 by Aga Khan III, an Indian Muslim. The paper was an articulate statement of objectives for the All-India Muslim League, an organization that the sultan’s son had founded to oversee the establishment of a Muslim state in the region. Plummer wondered if that was the last time Indian and Muslim interests had coincided.

Plummer saw his own reflection in the UV glass. The image was translucent, which was fitting. A political liaison had to have enough substance to know what he stood for but enough flexibility to consider the needs of others. He also had to have the skill to intermediate between the different parties. Even good, sensible, well-intentioned men like Hood and Simathna could disagree strongly.

Plummer glanced at his watch. Paul Hood would be waiting for an update. But Plummer did not want to call Op-Center. For one thing, the political liaison had nothing to report. For another, the embassy was certainly wired with eavesdropping devices. The office and phones were surely bugged. And any number Plummer punched into his cell phone would be picked up by electronic pulse interceptors. These devices were about the size and shape of a pocket watch. They were designed to recognize and record only cell phone pulses. Thereafter, whenever that number was used within the listening range of the embassy’s antennae, Pakistani intelligence—or whomever Islamabad sold the data to—could hack and listen in on the call. It was one thing when cell phone users accidentally intercepted someone else’s conversation. It was different when those calls were routinely monitored.

Plummer considered what Ambassador Simathna might be up to. Plummer decided on three possibilities. He certainly would have reported the intelligence to the chief executive of the republic, General Abdul Qureshi. Either Islamabad or the embassy might then draft a press release condemning New Delhi for their duplicity. The Indians would vehemently deny the charges, of course. That would rally the people around their respective leaders and ratchet tensions even higher. Especially at Op-Center, which would surely be cited by Islamabad for having provided them with the information.

The second possibility was that there would be no press release. Not yet. Instead, Qureshi and the generals of Pakistan’s National Security Council would plan a swift, merciless nuclear strike against India. They would attempt to destroy as many missile installations as possible before releasing the intelligence Op-Center had provided. That would drag the United States into the conflict as a de facto ally of Pakistan.

Hood and Plummer had known that those were both possibilities. They simply hoped that reason would triumph. On the whole, Ambassador Simathna was a reasonable man.

That allowed Plummer to hold out hope for a third possibility, what he called “the one-eighty.” It was an option the experts never considered, a development that popped up one hundred and eighty degrees from where the common wisdom had staked its tent. It was the Allies invading Normandy beach instead of Calais during World War II, it was Harry Truman beating Thomas Dewey for the presidency in 1948.

Simathna’s parting words, about there being a footnote that only he could access, gave Plummer hope for a one-eighty.

The door opened while Plummer was reading the ninetyyear-old paper signed by Khan.

“I often stand where you are and gaze at that document,” the ambassador declared as he entered the room. “It reminds me of the dream for which I am an honored caretaker.”

The Pakistani shut the heavy door and walked toward his desk. The ambassador seemed to be a little more distracted than before. That could be a good thing or a bad thing for Plummer. Either diplomacy had triumphed and Islamabad would give Mike Rodgers time to try to finish the mission. That meant the ambassador would be the hero or the scapegoat. Or else the children of Aga Khan III were about to write a new Muslim League document. One that would be blasted into the history books by plutonium 239.

Simathna walked quickly behind his desk. He gestured toward a chair on the other side. Plummer sat after the ambassador did. Simathna then turned a telephone toward the American political liaison.

“Would you please call Mr. Hood and ask him to connect you to General Rodgers,” Simathna said. “I must speak with them both.”

Plummer sat forward in the armchair. “What are you going to tell them?” he asked.

“I spoke with General Qureshi and the members of the National Security Council,” the ambassador told him. “There was deep concern but no panic. Preparations are quietly being made to activate defense systems and policies already in place. If what you say about the Indian woman is true, we believe the situation need not escalate.”

“How can Op-Center help?” Plummer pressed.

Ambassador Simathna told Plummer what the Pakistani leaders had discussed. Their plan was more than a one-eighty. It was an option that Plummer never could have thought of.

Plummer also realized that the plan carried an enormous risk. The Pakistanis could be looking for an ally in the war against India. If the ambassador were misleading Plummer about their intent, the Pakistani proposal would put the United States at the epicenter of the conflagration.

Literally.

Fortunately or unfortunately, all Ron Plummer had to do was make the call.

Paul Hood was the one who had to make the decision.

FORTY-NINE

Washington, D.C. Thursday, 1:36 P.M.

Paul Hood was stealing a slice of pizza from his assistant’s desk when the call came from Ron Plummer. Hood asked Bugs to have Bob Herbert join him. Then he hurried back to his desk to take the call.

“What have you got?” Hood said as he picked up. He heard the slight reverberation sound that indicated he was on speaker. Hood engaged his own speaker option.

“Paul, I’m here with Ambassador Simathna,” Plummer said. “He has a proposal.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Ambassador,” Hood said. “Tell me how we can help you.”

Herbert wheeled in then and shut the door behind him.

“First, Director Hood, I want to offer my condolences on the tragic loss of your Striker unit, and my government’s appreciation for what they were attempting to accomplish,” Simathna said.

“Thank you,” Hood replied. The ambassador sounded a little too compassionate. He had obviously figured out that the team had not been in the region to help stop Indian aggression.

Herbert was a little more blunt. The intelligence chief made an up-and-down motion with his fist.

“Second, my government has a plan that may assist General Rodgers and his personnel,” Simathna went on. “As I have already explained to Mr. Plummer, it will require an understanding with your government that details of the operation must remain confidential.”

“I am not in a position to speak for the government, only my small corner of it,” Hood said. “If you tell me your idea I will immediately confer with people who are in a position to offer those assurances.”

Paul Hood was dying inside. Vital seconds and quite possibly lives were slipping away while he and Ambassador Simathna postured. But this was how the dance was done.

“The plan we propose is that your group proceed to a nuclear missile site that our military has erected in the glacier,” Simathna said. “It is a remotely operated site with video cameras monitoring the interior. The Indian woman can make her broadcast from inside the silo.”

Hood stared at Bob Herbert. Mike Rodgers was being invited to visit one of the silos Striker had originally been sent to find. The irony of the proposal was almost painful. What was difficult to process, however, was the dangers inherent in the plan.

“Mr. Ambassador, would you excuse me a minute?” Hood asked.

“Given the situation I would not take much longer than that,” Simathna replied.

“I understand, sir, but I need to confer with one of my associates,” Hood replied.

“Of course,” Simathna said.

Hood punched the mute button. “What do your instincts tell you, Bob? Are they using us?”

“Man, I just don’t know,” Herbert admitted. “My gut says that the team needs to get to the nearest, warmest refuge as soon as possible. The more I looked at photographs of the glacier the more I started thinking they’ll never be able to cross it without more gear and supplies than they’re carrying. And the weather reports for the region suck. It’s going to be around ten below zero before midnight. But I have to tell you, of all the places they could go, a Pakistani nuclear silo would be my absolute last choice.”

“I agree with all of that,” Hood replied. “The problem is we also have to get Nanda Kumar on-camera as fast as possible.”

“Nanda, yes,” Herbert said. “The problem is Mike and Ron Friday. If the Pakistanis get them on video there’s no telling what bullshit story Islamabad might concoct. They could kill the audio, release the video to the news media, and say that Mike and Friday are there as technical advisors. How’s that going to play in India, Russia, China, and God knows where else? An American general and intelligence officer working closely with Pakistani nuclear missiles?”

“They’d say we were in on the Pakistani operation from the start,” Hood said. “I’m just not seeing any other viable options.”

Herbert shook his head. “Nothing’s jumping out at me either.”

“Then let’s move this along and just watch our step,” Hood told him. “The first thing we have to do is try to get Brett on the line. Let’s see if he can even contact Mike.”

“I’m on it,” Herbert said.

“I’ll get the coordinates of the missile silo from Simathna,” Hood told him. “Then I’ll call Hank Lewis, Senator Fox, and the president and let them know what we want to do.”

“You won’t get support from Fox or the president,” Herbert said.

“I know, but I don’t think they’ll shut the operation down,” Hood replied. “We’re already in this too deep. If Mike and Friday cross the line of control with the Pakistani cell, Islamabad will say the United States was helping them escape. That would be nearly as damaging.”

Herbert agreed. He turned and wheeled himself into a corner of the office and punched the TAC-SAT number into his wheelchair phone.

Meanwhile, Paul Hood got back on the line with Ambassador Simathna. Hood turned off the speakerphone so his conversation would not interfere with Herbert’s call.

“Mr. Ambassador?” Hood said.

“I am here,” Simathna replied.

“Thank you for holding, sir,” Hood said. “We agree that your proposal should be pursued.”

“ ‘Pursued,’ ” the ambassador replied. “Does that mean you are also considering other courses of action?”

“Not at the moment,” Hood said.

“But you might,” the ambassador pressed.

“It’s possible,” Hood agreed. “Right now we’re not even certain we can contact General Rodgers, let alone get him to the silo. We also don’t know the condition of his party.”

“I appreciate your uncertainty but you must understand my concern,” the ambassador said. “We do not wish to give out the location of our defensive silo unless your officer is going to use it.”

The conversation was becoming an exercise in hedging, not cooperation. Hood needed to change that, especially if he were going to trust Mike Rodgers’s fate to this man.

“I do understand, Mr. Ambassador,” Hood said.

Suddenly, Herbert turned. He shook his head.

“Hold on, Mr. Ambassador,” Hood said urgently. He jabbed the mute button. “What is it, Bob?”

“Brett can’t raise Mike,” Herbert told him.

Hood swore.

“All he gets on the radio is heavy static,” Herbert went on. “Sharab tells him the winds won’t cut out for another five or six hours.”

“That doesn’t help us,” Hood said.

Hood thought for a moment. They had thousands of satellites in the air and outposts throughout the region. There had to be some way to get a message to Mike Rodgers.

Or someone with him, Hood thought suddenly.

“Bob, we may be able to do something,” Hood said. “Tell Brett we’ll get back to him in a few minutes. Then put in a call to Hank Lewis.”

“Will do,” Herbert said.

Hood deactivated the mute. “Mr. Ambassador, can you stay on the line?”

“The security of my nation is at risk,” Simathna said.

“Is that a ‘yes,’ sir?” Hood pressed. He did not have time for speeches.

“It was an emphatic yes, Mr. Hood.”

“Is Mr. Plummer still with you?” Hood asked.

“I’m here, Paul,” Plummer said.

“Good. I may need your help,” Hood said.

“I understand,” Plummer replied.

“I’m putting you on speaker so you can both be a part of what’s going on,” Hood said.

The ambassador thanked him.

Simathna sounded sincere. Hood hoped he was. Because if Simathna did anything to jeopardize Rodgers or the mission, Hood would know about it immediately.

Ron Plummer would make sure of that.

FIFTY

The Siachin Glacier Thursday, 11:40 P.M.

It was the last thing Ron Friday expected to feel.

As he neared the kneeling body of Apu Kumar, Friday felt the cell phone begin to vibrate in his vest pocket. It could only be a call from someone at the National Security Agency. But the signal absolutely should not be able to reach him out here. Not with the mountains surrounding the glacier, the distance from the radio towers in Kashmir, and the ice storms that whipped around the peaks in the dark. The friction of the ice particles produced electrostatic charges that made even point-to-point radio communications difficult.

Yet the phone line was definitely active. Absurdly so, as if he were riding the Metro in Washington instead of standing on a glacier in the middle of the Himalayas. Friday stopped and let the gun slip back into his pocket. He reached inside his coat, withdrew the phone, and hit the talk button.

“Yes?” Friday said.

“Is this Ron Friday?” the caller asked in a clear, loud voice.

“Who wants to know?” Friday asked incredulously.

“Colonel Brett August of Striker,” said the caller.

“Striker?” Friday said. “Where are you? When did you land?”

“I’m with Sharab in the mountains overlooking your position,” August said. “I’m calling on our TAC-SAT. Director Lewis gave us your number and the call code 1272000.”

That was the correct ID number for the NSA director in coded communications. Still, Friday was suspicious.

“How many of you are there?”

“Only three of us,” August informed him.

“Three? What happened?” Friday asked.

“We were caught in fire from the Indian army,” August told him. “Is General Rodgers with you?”

“No,” Friday replied.

“It’s important that you watch for him and link up,” August said.

“Where is he?” Friday asked.

“The general reached the Mangala Valley and is headed east,” August said. “Satellite recon gave him your general position.”

“The valley,” Friday said. His eyes drifted to where Samouel was moving through the darkness. “That’s just ahead.”

“Good. When you link up you are to proceed to these coordinates on the pilot’s map you’re carrying,” August went on.

“Hold on while I get it,” Friday said.

The American crouched and set the phone on the ice. He pulled the map and a pen from his pocket. Friday tried to read the map by the green glow of the cell phone but that was not possible. He was forced to light one of his torches. The sudden brightness caused him to wince. He tried jamming the branch into the glacier but the surface was too solid. Apu reached over and held it for him. Friday remained crouching with the map spread before him.

“I’m set,” Friday said as his eyes adjusted to the light.

“Go to seventeen-point-three degrees north, twenty-one-point-three degrees east,” August told him.

Friday looked at the coordinates. He saw absolutely nothing on the map but ice.

“What’s there?” Friday asked.

“I don’t know,” August told him.

“Excuse me?”

“I don’t know,” August repeated.

“Then who does?” Friday demanded.

“I don’t know that either,” August admitted. “I’m just relaying orders from our superiors at Op-Center and the NSA.”

“Well, I don’t go on blind missions,” Friday complained as he continued to study the map. “And I see that following the coordinates you gave me will take us away from the line of control.”

“Look,” August said. “You know what’s at stake in the region. So does Washington. They wouldn’t ask you to go if it weren’t important. Now I’m sitting up here with my forces depleted and the Indian army at my feet. I’ve got to deal with that. Either I or William Musicant will call back in two hours with more information. That’s about how long it should take you to reach the coordinates from the mouth of the valley.”

“Assuming we go,” Friday said.

“I assume you’ll follow orders the same way my Strikers did,” the colonel said. “August out.”

The line went dead. Friday shut his phone off and put it away. Arrogant son of a bitch.

Nanda’s voice rose from the darkness. “What is it?” she asked.

Friday continued to squat where he was. The heat of the torch was melting the ice beside him but the warmth felt good. The woman obviously had not seen what he was about to do before the telephone vibrated.

“The know-it-alls in Washington have a new plan for us but they won’t tell us what it is,” Friday said. “They want us to go to a spot on the map and wait for instructions.”

Nanda walked over. “What spot?” she asked.

Friday showed her.

“The middle of the glacier,” she said.

“Do you know what might be out there?” Friday asked.

“No,” she replied.

“I don’t like it,” Friday said. “I don’t even know if that was Colonel August on the line. The Indian army might have captured him, made him give them the code number.”

“They didn’t,” a voice said from the darkness.

Friday and Nanda both started. The American grabbed the torch and held it to his left. That was the direction from which the voice had come.

A man was walking toward them. He was dressed in a white high altitude jumpsuit and U.S. Army equipment vest, and he was carrying a flashlight. Samouel was trailing slightly behind him. Friday shifted the torch to his left hand. He slipped his right hand back into the pocket with the gun. He rose.

“I’m General Mike Rodgers of Striker,” said the new arrival. “I assume you’re Friday and Ms. Kumar.”

“Yes,” the woman replied.

Friday was not happy to have company. First, he wanted to be sure the man was who he claimed to be. Friday studied the man as he approached. He did not appear to be Indian. Also, his cheeks and the area around his eyes were wind-blasted red and raw. He looked like he could be someone who walked a long way to get here.

“How do you know that it was actually August who called me?” Friday demanded.

“Colonel August spent several years as a guest of the North Vietnamese,” Rodgers said. “He didn’t tell them anything they wanted to know. Nothing’s changed. Why did he contact you?”

“Washington wants us to go to a point northeast of here, away from the line of control,” Friday replied. “But they didn’t tell us why.”

“Of course not,” Rodgers said. “If we’re captured by the enemy we can’t tell them where we’re headed.” He removed his radio and tried it. There was only static. “How did Colonel August contact you?”

“TAC-SAT to cell phone,” Friday replied.

“Clever,” Rodgers said. “Is he holding up all right?”

Friday nodded. As long as August kept the Indians off their trail, he did not care how the pack animal was holding up.

Rodgers walked over to Apu and offered him a hand. Water had begun to pool around the Indian’s feet.

“I suggest we start walking before we freeze here,” Rodgers said.

“That’s it, then?” Friday said. “You’ve decided that we should go deeper into the glacier?”

“No. Washington decided that,” Rodgers replied. He helped Apu to his feet but his eyes remained on Friday.

“Even though we don’t know where we’re going,” Friday repeated.

“Especially because of that,” Rodgers said. “If they want to keep the target a secret it must be important.”

Friday did not disagree. He simply did not trust the people in Washington to do what was best for him. On top of that, Friday loathed Rodgers. He had never liked military people. They were pack animals who expected everyone else to obey the pack leader’s commands and conform to the pack agenda, even if that meant dying for the pack. Standing up to captors instead of cooperating for the good of all. That was not his way. It was the reason he worked alone. One man could always find a way to survive, to prosper.

Nanda and Samouel both moved to where Rodgers was standing with Apu. If the Indian woman had decided to continue on to the line of control, Friday would have gone with her. But if she was joining Rodgers, Friday had no choice but to go along with them.

For now.

Friday extinguished the torch by touching it to the melted ice. The water would freeze in seconds and he could knock the ice off if they needed the torch again.

The group continued its trek across the ice with Samouel in the lead and Rodgers and Nanda helping Apu. Friday kept his right hand in his pocket, on the gun. If at any point he did not like how things were going he would put them back on their original course.

With or without General Rodgers.

FIFTY-ONE

The Himachal Peaks Thursday, 11:41 P.M.

It had been an arduous day for Major Dev Puri and the two hundred men of his elite frontline regiment. This was supposed to be a straightforward sweep of the foothills of the Great Himalaya Range. Instead, it had become a forced march sparked by surprising intelligence reports, unexpected enemies, evolving strategies, and constantly changing objectives.

The most recent shift was the riskiest. It carried the danger of drawing the attention of Pakistani border forces. Because of Puri’s mission, it would be much easier for the enemy to cross the line of control at Base 3.

The Indian soldiers had been marching virtually without rest since they left the trenches. The terrain was merely rugged to start. Then the higher elevations brought cold and walls of wind. The successful attack on the paratroopers had given the force a much-needed morale boost as they continued to search for the Pakistani cell. But darkness and sleet had battered them as they ascended. Now they were looking at a climb that was going to tax their energies to the limit. Then there was the unknown factor: the strength and exact location of the enemy. It was not the way Major Puri liked to run a campaign.

Nearly eight hours before, the Indian soldiers had begun closing ranks at the base of the Gompa Tower in the Himachal cluster of peaks. The latest intelligence Puri had received was that American soldiers were jumping in to help the terrorists get through the line of control to Pakistan. That was where the parachutists had been headed. The Pakistani cell was almost certainly there as well. There was no way forward except through the Indian soldiers. The Pakistanis were undoubtedly exhausted and relatively underarmed now that the Americans had been stopped. Still, Major Puri did not underestimate them. He never took an enemy for granted when they had the high ground. The plan he and his lieutenants had worked out was to have twenty-five men ascend the peak while the rest covered them from the ground with highpowered rifles and telescopic sights. Twenty-five more would be ready to ascend as backup if needed. One or another of the teams was bound to take the cell. One or another of the teams was also likely to take casualties. Unfortunately, Defense Minister Kabir did not want to wait for the Pakistanis to come down. Now that Americans had been killed there would be hard questions from Washington and New Delhi about what had happened to the paratroopers. The minister was doing his best to stall air reconnaissance from moving in to locate and collect the American remains. He had already informed the prime minister that Major Puri’s team was in the region and would pinpoint them for the Himalayan Eagles. What Kabir feared was that air reconnaissance might locate the Pakistanis as well as the paratroopers. The defense minister did not want the cell to be taken alive.

Using night glasses and shielded flashlights, the Indian troops had been deploying their climbing gear. They had detected faint heat signatures above and knew the enemy was up there waiting. Unfortunately, flyovers would not help them now. The fierce ice storms above made visibility and navigation difficult. And blind scatter-bombing of the region was not guaranteed to stop the cell. There were caves they could hide in. Besides, there were very holy, anchoritic religious sects and cliff-dwelling tribes living in the foothills and in some of the higher caves. The last thing either side wanted was to collaterally destroy the homes or temples of these neutral peoples. That would force them or their international supporters into political or military activism.

The Indian soldiers were nearly halfway into the preparations to scale the cliff when Major Puri received a surprising radio communiqué. Earlier in the day a helicopter on routine patrol had reported what looked like the wreckage of an aircraft in the Mangala Valley. However, there was no room for the chopper to descend and search for possible survivors. Major Puri had dispatched a four-soldier unit to investigate. Two hours before, the men had reported the discovery of a downed helicopter. It looked like a Ka-25. But the aircraft was so badly burned they could not be certain. Puri called the Base 3 communications center. They checked with the air ministry. There were no choppers on special assignment in the region.

Because the chopper went down in the narrow valley, rescue personnel would not be dispatched until the following day. A parachute drop at night was too risky and, in any case, there were no survivors.

An hour later, Puri’s group found the remains of ten American paratroopers. Major Puri relayed that information to the defense minister. The minister said he would sit on that information until after the cell had been taken. He had already come up with a scenario in which, regrettably, Puri’s soldiers had mistaken the Americans for Pakistanis and had shot the team down.

What surprised the Indian reconnaissance team was what they discovered on the body of one of the Americans. The soldier, a black woman, was hanging from a ledge by her parachute. There was a point-to-point radio in her equipment belt. Occasionally, the red “contact” light flashed. Someone in the communications link was trying to contact her or someone else in the link. That meant not all the soldiers had been killed. Unfortunately, the Indian soldiers could not confirm that. All they got on the radio was static.

Puri expected that he would find those soldiers in the cliffs above, with the Pakistanis. But the Mangala Valley unit had employed infrared glasses in a scan of the region. They had come up with a different scenario.

“We’re detecting a very strong heat source several miles to the northeast,” Sergeant Baliah, the leader of the reconnaissance unit, had reported. “There is a singular heat source on the glacier.”

“It could be some of the native people,” Puri said.

Several groups of mountain dwellers lived in the upper foothills of the ranges that surrounded the glacier. They often hunted at night after small game and the larger gazelles had returned to their dens and warrens. They also used the darkness to set traps for predators that hunted in the early morning. The Tarari did not eat the wolves and foxes but used their fur for clothing. The traps also kept the animals from becoming so numerous that they depopulated the region of prey.

“It’s a little far west for them,” Baliah remarked. “The heat signature is also less than we would get from a string of torches. I’m wondering if it might be some of the Americans. If their equipment was damaged in the jump, they might have built a campfire.”

“How far is ‘several miles’?” Puri asked.

“Approximately four,” Baliah responded. “What I don’t understand is why the Americans would have left the valley. The weather is much more temperate there. They could not have failed to see the ice.”

“The survivors might have found the wreckage of the helicopter and anticipated a recon team. They moved on,” Puri suggested.

“But then why would they have left the radio?” the sergeant wondered aloud. “They could easily have gotten it down. Then no one would know there were survivors.”

“Maybe we were meant to find it,” Puri said. “That way they could feed us miscommunications.” Yet even as the major said that, he knew it did not make sense. The Americans could not have known that a reconnaissance unit was en route to the site.

Puri began to consider likely scenarios. The helicopter was probably in the valley to support the clandestine American operation. Perhaps it was there to extract the soldiers when their mission was completed. That was why there was no immediate flight profile. Perhaps the Americans were only supposed to link up with the Pakistanis and see them as far as the border.

And then it hit him. Maybe that was still the objective.

“Sergeant, can you make your way to that heat source double-time?” Major Puri asked.

“Of course,” Baliah replied. “What do you think is going on, sir?”

“I’m not sure,” Major Puri told him. “It’s possible that some of the Americans survived the drop and joined the Pakistani cell on our plateau. But other paratroopers may have been blown clear of the valley.”

“And you think the two may be trying to stay in touch point-to-point in order to find each other?” Sergeant Baliah asked.

“That’s possible,” Puri replied.

The major looked up at the plateau his men were getting ready to climb. The peak was dark but he could see the outline by the way it blocked the clouds above. Except for the presence of the American paratroopers he did not know for certain that the cell was up there. What if they were not? What if the American drop had been a feint? The shortest way to Pakistan from this region was across the Siachin Glacier, Base 3 sector.

Right through his command.

“Sergeant, pursue the Siachin element,” Puri decided. “I’m going to request immediate air support in that region.”

“At night?”

“At night,” Puri said. “Captain Anand knows the region. He can get a gunship to the target. I want you there in case an enemy is present and he digs in where the rockets can’t get him.”

“We’re on our way, sir,” the sergeant replied. “We’ll have a report in two hours or so.”

“That should be about the time the chopper arrives,” Puri said. “Good luck, Sergeant.”

Baliah thanked him and clicked off.

The major walked over to his communications officer and asked him to put in a call to the base. Puri would brief Captain Anand and get the air reconnaissance underway. Puri would make certain that the operation be as low-key as possible. Anand was to take just one chopper into the field and there would be no unnecessary communications with the base. Even if the Pakistanis could not interpret the coded messages, a sudden increase in radio traffic might alert them that something was going on.

While the major waited for Captain Anand he told the lieutenant in charge of the ascent to finish the preparations but to put the operation itself on hold. They could afford to wait two hours more before risking the climb. The Pakistanis on the plateau were not going anywhere.

If there really were Pakistanis on the ledge.

FIFTY-TWO

The Siachin Glacier Friday, 12:00 A.M.

When Mike Rodgers was in boot camp, his drill instructor had told him something that he absolutely did not believe.

The DI’s name was Glen “the Hammer” Sheehy. And the Hammer said that when an opponent was punched during an attack, the odds were good that he would not feel it.

“The body ignores a nonlethal assault,” the Hammer told them. “Whatever juices we’ve got pour in like reserves, numbing the pain of a punch or a stab or even a gunshot and empowering the need to strike back.”

Rodgers did not believe that until the first time he was in a hand-to-hand combat situation in Vietnam. U.S. and Vietcong recon units literally stumbled upon each other during a patrol north of Bo Duc near the Cambodian border. Rodgers had suffered a knife wound high in the left arm. But he was not aware of it until after the battle. One of his friends had been shot in the butt and kept going. When the unit returned to camp and the medics had put the survivors back together, one of Rodgers’s buddies gave him a black bandanna with a slogan written in red grease pencil. It said, “It only hurts when I stop fighting.”

It was true. Moreover, there was no time to hurt. Not with more lives depending upon you.

The reality of losing the Strikers was with Rodgers every moment. But the pain had not yet sunk in. He was too busy staying fixed on the goal that had brought them here.

Rodgers was leg-weary as his group made its way across some of the starkest landscape Rodgers had ever encountered. The ice was glass-smooth and difficult to navigate. Nanda and Samouel slipped with increasing regularity. Rodgers was glad he still had his crampons, heavy though they were. Rodgers continued to help Apu Kumar along. The farmer’s left arm was slung across Rodgers’s neck and they were on a gradual incline. Apu’s feet had to be dragged more than they moved. Rodgers suspected the only thing that kept the elderly man moving at all was a desire to see his granddaughter reach safety. The American officer would have helped the farmer regardless, but he was touched by that thought.

That was not a sentiment Ron Friday seemed to share.

Friday had stayed several paces behind Rodgers, Apu, and Nanda. Samouel continued to hold the point position, turning the flashlight on at regular intervals. At just under an hour into the trek, Friday stepped beside Rodgers. He was panting, his breath coming in wispy white bursts.

“You realize you’re risking the rest of this mission by dragging him along,” Friday said.

Though the NSA operative spoke softly, his voice carried in the still, cold air. Rodgers was certain that Nanda had heard.

“I don’t see it that way,” Rodgers replied.

“The delay is exponential,” Friday continued. “The longer it takes the weaker we become, slowing us down even more.”

“Then you go ahead,” Rodgers said.

“I will,” he said. “With Nanda. Across the border.”

“No,” she said emphatically.

“I don’t know why you’re both so willing to trust those bastards in Washington,” Friday went on. “We’re at our closest approach to the border. It’s just about twenty or thirty minutes north of here. Troops have probably been pulled out to man the incursion line.”

“Some,” Rodgers agreed. “Not all.”

“Enough,” Friday replied. “Heading there makes more sense than going another hour northeast to God-knows-where.”

“Not to the guys we report to,” Rodgers reminded him.

“They’re not here,” Friday shot back. “They don’t have on-site intelligence. They aren’t in our shoes.”

“They’re not field personnel,” Rodgers pointed out. “This is one of the things we trained for.”

“Blind, stupid loyalty?” Friday asked. “Was that also part of your training, General?”

“No. Trust,” Rodgers replied. “I respect the judgment of the men I work with.”

“Maybe that’s why you ended up with a valley full of dead soldiers,” Friday said.

Mike Rodgers let the remark go. He had to. He did not have the time or extra energy to break Friday’s jaw.

Friday continued to pace Rodgers. The NSA agent shook his head. “How many disasters have to bite a military guy in the ass before he takes independent action?” he asked. “Hell, Herbert isn’t even a superior officer. You’re taking orders from a civilian.”

“And you’re pushing it,” Rodgers said.

“Let me ask you something,” Friday went on. “If you knew you could cross the line of control and get Nanda to a place where she could broadcast her story, would you disobey your instructions?”

“No,” Rodgers replied.

“Why?”

“Because there may be a component to this we’re not aware of,” Rodgers replied.

“Like what?” Friday asked.

“A ‘for instance’?” Rodgers said. “You flew out here with an Indian officer instead of waiting for us to join the cell, against instructions. Well, you hate taking orders. Maybe you were being headstrong. Or maybe you’re working with the SFF. It could be that if we follow your short hop toward the border we’ll end up not reaching Pakistan at all.”

“That’s possible,” Friday admitted. “So why didn’t I cut you down back at the valley? That would have made certain I get things my way.”

“Because then Nanda would have known she’s a dead woman,” Rodgers told him.

“Can you guarantee that won’t happen if she crawls across a glacier with you?”

Rodgers did not answer. Friday had a sharp, surgical mind. Anything the general said would be sculpted to support Friday’s point of view. Then it would be fired back at him. Rodgers did not want to do anything that might fuel doubts in Nanda’s mind.

“Think about this,” Friday continued. “We’re following the directions of Washington bureaucrats without knowing where we’re going or why. We’ve been running across the mountains for hours without food or rest. We may not even reach the target, especially if we carry each other around. Have you considered the possibility that’s the plan?”

“Mr. Friday, if you want to cross the line of control you go ahead,” Rodgers told him.

“I do,” Friday said. He leaned in front of Rodgers. He looked at Nanda. “If she goes with me, I’ll get her to Pakistan and safety.”

“I’m staying with my grandfather,” the woman said.

“You were ready to leave him before,” Friday reminded her.

“That was before,” she said.

“What changed your mind?”

“You,” she replied. “When my grandfather was kneeling and you walked over to him.”

“I was going to help him,” Friday said.

“I don’t think so,” she said. “You were angry.”

“How do you know?” he asked. “You couldn’t see me—”

“I could hear your footsteps on the ice,” she said.

“My footsteps?” Friday said disdainfully.

“We used to sit in the bedroom and listen to the Pakistanis on the other side of the door,” Nanda told him. “We couldn’t hear what they were saying but I always knew what they were feeling by how they walked across the wooden floor. Slow, fast, light, heavy, stop and start. Every pattern told us something about each individual’s mood.”

“I was going to help him,” Friday repeated.

“You wanted to hurt my grandfather,” Nanda said. “I know that.”

“I don’t believe this,” Friday said. “Never mind your grandfather. Millions of people may go to hell because of something you did and we’re talking about footsteps.”

Mike Rodgers did not want to become involved in the debate. But he did not want it to escalate. He also was not sure, at this point, whether he even wanted Ron Friday to stay. Rodgers had worked with dozens of intelligence operatives during his career. They were lone wolves by nature but they rarely if ever disregarded instructions from superiors. And never as flagrantly as this. One of the reasons they became field operatives was the challenge of executing orders in the face of tremendous odds.

Ron Friday was more than just a loner. He was distracted. Rodgers suspected that he was driven by a different agenda. Like it or not, that might be something he would have to try to figure out.

“We’re going to save Nanda’s grandfather as well as those millions of people you’re concerned about,” Rodgers said firmly. “We’ll do that by going northeast from here.”

“Damn it, you’re blind!” Friday shouted. “I’ve been in this thing from the start. I was in the square when it blew up. I had a feeling about the dual bombers, about the involvement of the SFF, about the double-dealing of this woman.” He gestured angrily at Nanda. “It’s the people who pull the strings you should doubt, not a guy who’s been at ground zero from the start.”

Friday was losing it. Rodgers did not want to waste the energy to try to stop him. He also wanted to see where the rant would lead. Angry men often said too much.

Friday fired up his torch again. Rodgers squinted in the light. He slowed as Friday got in front of them and faced them.

“So that’s it, then?” Friday said.

“Get out of the way,” Rodgers ordered.

“Bob Herbert barks, Mike Rodgers obeys, and Op-Center takes over the mission,” Friday said.

“Is that what this is about?” Rodgers asked. “Your résumé?”

“I’m not talking about credit,” Friday said. “I’m talking about what we do for a living. We collect and use information.”

“You do,” Rodgers said.

“Fine, yes. I do,” Friday agreed. “I put myself in places where I can learn things, where I can meet people. But we, our nation, need allies in Pakistan, in the Muslim world. If we stay on this glacier we are still behind Indian lines. That buys us nothing.”

“You don’t know that,” Rodgers said.

“Correct,” Friday said. “But I do know that if we go to Islamabad, as Americans who saved Pakistan from nuclear annihilation, we create new avenues of intelligence and cooperation in that world.”

“Mr. Friday, that’s a political issue, not a tactical military concern,” Rodgers said. “If we’re successful then Washington can make some of those inroads you mention.”

With Apu still clinging to him, Rodgers started moving around Friday. The NSA operative put out a hand and stopped him.

“Washington is helpless,” Friday said. “Politicians live on the surface. They are actors. They engage in public squabbles and posturing where the populace can watch and boo or cheer. We are the people who matter. We burrow inside. We make the tunnels. We control the conduits.”

“Mr. Friday, move,” Rodgers said.

This was about personal power. Rodgers had no time for that.

“I will move,” Friday said. “With Nanda, to the line of control. Two people can make it across.”

Rodgers was about to push past him when he felt something. A faint, rapid vibration in the bottoms of his feet. A moment later it grew more pronounced. He felt it crawl up his ankles.

“Give me the torch!” he said suddenly.

“What?” Friday said.

Rodgers leaned around Friday. “Samouel—don’t turn on the light!”

“I won’t,” he said. “I feel it!”

“Feel what?” Nanda said.

“Shit,” Friday said suddenly. He obviously felt it too and knew what it meant. “Shit.”

Rodgers pulled the torch from Friday. The NSA agent was surprised and did not struggle to keep it. Rodgers held the torch above his head and cast the light around him. There was a mountain of ice to the right, about four hundred yards away. It stretched for miles in both directions. The top of the formation was lost in the darkness.

Rodgers handed the torch to Nanda.

“Go to that peak,” he said. “Samouel! Follow Nanda!”

Samouel was already running toward them. “I will!” he shouted.

“My grandfather—!” Nanda said.

“I’ll take him,” Rodgers assured her. He looked at Friday.

“You wanted power? You’ve got it. Protect her, you son of a bitch.”

Friday turned and half-ran, half-skated across the ice after Nanda.

Rodgers leaned close to Apu’s ear. “We’re going to have to move as fast as possible,” he said. “Hold tight.”

“I will,” Apu replied.

The men began shuffling as quickly as possible toward the peak. The vibrations were now strong enough to shake Rodgers’s entire body. A moment later, the beat of the rotors was audible as the Indian helicopter rolled in low over the horizon.

FIFTY-THREE

The Siachin Glacier Friday, 12:53 A.M.

The powerful Russian-made Mikoyan Mi-35 helicopter soared swift and low over the glacier. Its two-airman crew kept a careful watch on the ice one hundred and fifty feet beneath them. They were flying at low light so the chopper could not be easily seen and targeted from the ground. Radar would keep them from plowing into the towers of ice. Helmets with night-vision goggles as well as the low altitude would allow them to search for their quarry.

The Mi-35 is the leading attack helicopter of the Indian air force. Equipped with under-nose, four-barrel large-caliber machine guns and six antitank missiles, it is tasked with stopping all surface force operations, from full-scale attacks to infiltration.

The aircrew was pushing the chopper to move as quickly as possible. The men did not want to stay out any longer than necessary. Even at this relatively low level the cold on the glacier was severe. Strong, sudden winds whipping from the mountains could hasten the freezing of hoses and equipment. Ground forces were able to stop and thaw clogged lines or icy gears. Helicopter pilots did not have that luxury. They tended to find out about a problem when it was too late, when either the main or the tail rotor suddenly stopped turning.

Fortunately, the crew was able to spot “the likely target” just seventy minutes after taking off. The copilot reported the find to Major Puri.

“There are five persons running across the ice,” the airman said.

“Running?” Major Puri said.

“Yes,” reported the airman. “They do not appear to be locals. One of them is wearing a high-altitude jump outfit.”

“White?” Puri asked.

“Yes.”

“That’s one of the American paratroopers,” Puri said. “Can you tell who is with him?”

“He is helping someone across the ice,” the airman said. “That person is wearing a parka. There are three people ahead. One is in a parka, two are wearing mountaineering gear. I can’t tell the color because of the night-vision lenses. But it appears dark.”

“The terrorist who was killed in the mountain cave was wearing a dark blue outfit,” Puri said. “I have to know the color.”

“Hold on,” the airman replied.

The crew member reached for the exterior light controls on the panel between the seats. He told the pilot to shut down his night-vision glasses for a moment. Otherwise the light would blind him. The pilot and copilot disengaged their goggles and raised them. The copilot turned the light on. The windshield was filled with a blinding white glow reflected from the ice. The airman retrieved his binoculars from a storage compartment in the door. His eyes shrunk to slits as he picked out one of the figures and looked at his clothing.

It was dark blue. The airman reported the information to Major Puri.

“That’s one of the terrorists,” the major said. “Neutralize them all and report back.”

“Repeat, sir?” the airman said.

“You have found the terrorist cell,” Major Puri said. “You are ordered to use lethal force to neutralize them—”

“Major,” the pilot interrupted. “Will there be a confirming order from base headquarters?”

“I am transmitting an emergency command Gamma-Zero-Red-Eight,” Puri said. “That is your authorization.”

The pilot glanced at his heads-up display while the copilot input the code on a keyboard located on the control panel. The onboard computer took a moment to process the data. Gamma-Zero-Red-Eight was the authorization code of Defense Minister John Kabir.

“Acknowledge Gamma-Zero-Red-Eight authorization,” the pilot replied. “We are proceeding with the mission.”

A moment later the pilot slid his goggles back into place. The copilot switched the exterior lights off and replaced his own night-vision optics. Then he descended through one hundred feet to an altitude of fifty feet. He flipped the helmet-attached gunsights over his night-vision glasses, slipped his left hand onto the joystick that controlled the machine gun, and bore down on the fleeing figures.

FIFTY-FOUR

The Siachin Glacier Friday, 12:55 A.M.

Mike Rodgers’s arm was hooked tightly around Apu’s back as he looked out on terrain that was lit by the glow of the helicopter’s light. The American watched helplessly as Nanda fell, slid, and then struggled to get up.

“Keep moving!” Rodgers yelled. “Even if you have to crawl, just get closer to the peaks!”

That was probably the last thing Rodgers would get to say to Nanda. The rotor of the approaching chopper was getting louder every instant. The heavy drone drummed from behind and also bounced back at them from the deeply curved slope of ice ahead.

Ron Friday was several paces ahead of Nanda and Samouel was in front of him. Before the lights from the helicopter were turned off, Rodgers saw both men look back then turn and help the young woman. Friday was probably helping her to further his own cause of intelligence control or whatever he had been raving about. Right now, however, Mike Rodgers did not care what Ron Friday’s reasons were. At least the man was helping her.

Friday was wearing treaded boots that gave him somewhat better footing than Nanda. As the lights went out, Friday scooped the woman up, tugged her to her feet, and pulled her toward the peak.

Though the ice was dark again Rodgers knew they were not invisible. The aircrew was certainly equipped with infrared equipment. That meant the nose gun would be coming to life very soon. Rodgers had one hope to keep them alive. The plan required them to keep going.

An instant later the nose gun began to hammer. The air seemed to become a solid mass as the sound closed in on all sides. Rodgers felt the first bullets strike the ice behind him. He pulled Apu down and they began to roll and slide down the incline, parallel to the icy wall.

Hard chips of ice were dislodged by bullets hitting the ice. Rodgers heard the “chick” of the strikes then felt hot pain as the small, sharp shards stung his face and neck. Time slowed as it always did in combat. Rodgers was aware of everything. The cold air in his nose and on the nape of his neck. The warm perspiration along the back of his thermal T-shirt. The smell and texture of Apu’s wool parka as Rodgers gripped him tightly, pulling him along. The fine mist of surface ice kicked up as he and Apu rolled over it. That was to be the means of their salvation. Perhaps it would still help Nanda and Ron Friday. Rodgers stepped out of himself to savor all the sensations of his eyes, his ears, his flesh. For in these drawn-out moments the general had a sense that they would be his last.

The two men hit a flat section of ice and stopped skidding. The fusillade stopped.

“On your knees!” Rodgers shouted.

The men were going to have to crawl in another direction. It would take the gunner an instant to resight the weapon. Rodgers pulled Apu onto his knees. The two men had to be somewhere else when fire resumed.

The men were crouching and facing one another in the dark. Apu was kneeling and half-leaning against Rodgers’s chest. Suddenly, the farmer clutched the general’s shoulders. He pushed forward. With nothing behind him, Rodgers fell back with Apu on top of him.

“Save Nanda,” Apu implored.

The gunning restarted. It chewed up the ice and then drilled into the back of the farmer. Apu hugged Rodgers as the bullets dug into the older man’s flesh. The wounds sent damp splashes onto Rodgers’s face. He could feel the thud of each bullet right through the man’s body. Rodgers reflexively tucked his chin into his chest, bringing his head under Apu’s face. He could hear the man grunt as the bullets struck. They were not cries of pain but the forced exhalation of air as his lungs were punctured from behind. Apu was already beyond pain.

Rodgers brought in his knees slightly and kept himself buried beneath Apu’s body. He was thinking now and not simply reacting. And Rodgers realized that this was what Apu had wanted. The farmer had sacrificed himself so Rodgers could stay alive and protect Nanda. The devotion and trust inherent in that gesture made them as pure as anything Rodgers had ever experienced.

Rodgers heard several bullets whistle by his head. He felt a burning in his right shoulder. One of the shots must have grazed him. His arm and back warmed as blood covered his cold flesh.

Rodgers lay still. Their flight and Apu’s sacrifice had kept the helicopter occupied for a short time. Hopefully, it had been long enough for Nanda, Friday, and Samouel to reach the peak.

The gunfire stopped. After a few moments the sound of the helicopter moved over Rodgers’s head. The chopper was heading toward the icy slopes. It was time for Rodgers to move.

Apu was still holding him. Rodgers grasped the elbows of the man’s parka and gently pulled them away. Then he slid to the right, out from under the dead man. Blood from Apu’s neck trickled onto Rodgers’s left cheek. It left a streak, like warpaint. The elderly man had not given his life in vain.

Rodgers got to his feet. He paused to remove the dead man’s parka then ran toward the slope. The helicopter was moving slowly and the American paced it. He stayed behind the cockpit and out of view. He was waiting for the Mi-35 to get a little closer. That was when things should start to happen.

The nose gun began to spit fire again. The red-yellow flashes lit the slope like tiny strobes. Rodgers could see Nanda and the two men running along the curving base, away from the aircraft. The gentle turn in the slope kept the chopper from having a clear shot.

The chopper slowed as it moved closer to the slope. The guns fell silent as the chopper tracked its prey. Flying this close the pilots had to consider rotor clearance, winds, and propwash. Rodgers hoped those were the only things the pilots were worried about. That would be their undoing.

Rodgers reached the base of the ragged slope. He felt his way along. The winds from the tail rotor were savage, like waves of ice water. Rodgers shielded his eyes as best he could. He would be able to see as soon as the guns resumed firing. He was going to have to move quickly when they did.

The chopper continued to creep along the glacier. The throaty sound from the rotors knocked loose powder from the crags. Rodgers could feel it hitting his bare cheeks.

That was good. The plan might work.

A few moments later the guns came to life. Rodgers saw the cliff light up and started running toward the others. As he expected, this close to the slope, the sound of the guns and the rotor shook particles of ice from the wall. The area around the helicopter quickly became a sheet of white. And the flakes did not fall. The winds kept them whipping around in the air, adding layer upon layer. Within moments visibility had diminished to zero.

The guns shut down just as Rodgers raced around the front of the helicopter. Even with their night-vision goggles, the crew would not be able to see him or their quarry.

Rodgers had judged the distance between himself and the others. He guided himself toward them by running a hand along the slope. Though his legs were cramping he refused to stop.

“We’ve got to move!” Rodgers shouted as he neared the spot where he had seen the group.

“What’s happening?” Nanda cried.

“Keep going!” Rodgers yelled.

“Is my grandfather all right?” she demanded.

From the sound of her voice Rodgers judged the woman to be about thirty yards away. He continued running hard. A few seconds later he bumped up against one of the refugees. Judging from the height of the individual it was Friday. They had stopped. Rodgers made his way around him. The general reached for Nanda, who was next in the line. The woman was facing him.

“Grandfather?” Nanda shouted.

“Everyone move!” Rodgers screamed.

In a crisis situation, an individual’s fight-or-flight mechanisms are in conflict. When that happens, the shout of an authority figure typically shuts down the combative side. A harsh command usually closes it just enough to let the survival instinct prevail by following the order. In this case, however, Rodgers’s cry killed Nanda’s flight response. Friday stopped moving altogether as Nanda became as combative as Rodgers.

“Where is he?” the woman screamed.

“Your grandfather didn’t make it,” Rodgers said.

She screamed for the old man again and started to go back. Rodgers stuffed Apu’s parka under his arm then grabbed Nanda’s shoulders. He held them tight and wrestled her in the opposite direction.

“I won’t leave him!” she cried.

“Nanda, he shielded me with his body!” Rodgers shouted. “He begged me to save you!”

The young woman still grappled with him as she attempted to go back. Rodgers did not have time to reason with her. He literally hoisted Nanda off her feet, turned her around, and pulled her forward. She fought to keep her feet beneath her, but at least those struggles kept her from fighting with him.

Rodgers half-carried, half-dragged the woman as he ran forward. She managed to get her balance back and Rodgers took her hand. He continued to pull her ahead. She went with him, though Rodgers heard her sobbing under the drone of the oncoming chopper. That was fine, as long as she kept moving.

The slope circled sharply toward the northeast. Samouel was still in the lead as they rushed to stay out of the helicopter’s line of sight. But without the added drumming of the guns to dislodge fresh ice particles, the pilot would soon be able to see them. Rodgers was going to have to do something about that.

“Samouel, take Nanda’s hand and keep going!” Rodgers said.

“Yes, sir,” Samouel said.

The American held the woman’s arm straight ahead as the Pakistani reached behind him. He found Nanda’s hand and Rodgers released her. The two continued ahead. Rodgers stopped and Friday ran into him.

“What are you doing?” Friday asked.

“Give me the torches and the matches. Then go with them,” Rodgers said as he took Apu’s parka from under his arm.

The NSA operative did as he was instructed. When Friday was gone, Rodgers took one of the torches, lit it, and jammed it into a small crack in the slope. Then he hung Apu’s coat on a crag just behind it. Removing his gun from his equipment vest, Rodgers moved away from the ice wall. He got down on one knee, laid the torch across his boot to keep it dry, then pointed his automatic up at a sixty-degree angle. That would put his fire about sixty feet up the cliff. He could not see anything above twenty feet or so but he did not have to.

Not yet.

Within moments the helicopter crept around the curve in the glacier. The pilots stopped to kill their night-vision goggles. Otherwise, the fire would have blinded them. They switched on their exterior light, illuminating the side of the cliff. As soon as the chopper opened fire on what they thought was one of the terrorists, Rodgers also began to shoot. His target were bulges of ice nearest the top of the chopper. The nose gun ripped up the torch, dousing the flame. The roar also tore away more surface ice. At the same time Rodgers’s barrage sent larger ice chips flying into the rotor. The blades sliced the ice into a runny sleet that rained down on the cockpit. The slush landed on the windshield and froze instantly.

The chopper stopped firing.

So did Rodgers.

While the chopper still had its lights on, Rodgers briefly considered taking a shot at the cockpit. However, since Afghanistan and Chechnya, the Russians had equipped many of the newer Mikoyan assault choppers with bullet-proof glass to protect them from snipers. Rodgers did not want the flashes from his muzzle to reveal his position.

The general crouched in the open, waiting to see what the helicopter would do. He calculated that it had been in the air at least ninety minutes. The pilot had to allow for at least another ninety minutes of flying time to return to base. That would strain the Mi-35’s fuel supply. It would also put extreme stress on the chopper’s thermal tolerance, especially if the crew had to fight an ice storm each time they fired their nose gun. Even though the windshield would defrost in a minute or two, the ice would chill the external rotor casing.

Rodgers watched as the chopper hovered. His heart was thumping double-time due to anticipation and cold. Except for being a hell of a lot warmer, Rodgers wondered if the young shepherd David felt the same after letting his small pebble fly against the Philistine champion Goliath. If successful, David’s gamble could result in victory for his people. If it failed, the boy faced an ugly, obscure death in the dusty Vale of Elah.

The chopper’s exterior lights snapped off. The glacier was once again in darkness. All Rodgers could do now was wait and listen. It took exactly fifteen heartbeats for him to hear what he had been waiting for. With a sudden surge of power, the Mi-35 turned and swung back along the glacier. The beat of the rotor retreated quickly behind the wall of ice.

Rodgers waited to make certain that the helicopter was really gone. After another minute or so the glacier was silent. Slipping his gun into his vest, he took the matches from his jacket pocket and lit the torch. He held it ahead of him. The flame cast a flickering orange teardrop across the ice. It dimly illuminated the ice wall. And with it, the fallen torch and the shredded parka.

“Thank you, Apu, for saving me a second time,” Rodgers said. Throwing off a small salute, he turned and followed the others to the northeast.

FIFTY-FIVE

Washington, D.C. Thursday, 4:30 P.M.

Paul Hood watched the clock turn on his computer. “Make the call, Bob,” he said.

Bob Herbert and Lowell Coffey III were both in the office with Hood. The door was closed and Bugs Benet had been told not to interrupt the men unless the president or Senator Fox was calling. Herbert picked up the wheelchair phone to call Brett August. Coffey was seated beside Herbert in a leather armchair. The attorney would be present for the remainder of the mission. His job was to counsel Hood regarding international legal matters that might come up. Coffey had already strongly informed Hood that he was very unhappy with the idea on the table. That an American military officer was leading a team consisting of a Pakistani terrorist, an NSA agent, and what amounted to two Indian hostages. And he was taking them into what was apparently a Pakistani nuclear missile site that had been erected in disputed territory. The idea that this constituted an ad hoc United Nations security council team still wasn’t working for him.

Hood agreed that Ambassador Simathna’s plan was not a great idea. Unfortunately, it was the only idea. Bob Herbert and Ron Plummer both backed Hood up on that.

The TAC-SAT number Herbert had to input included not just the number of the unit but a code to access the satellite. This made it extremely difficult for someone to reach the TAC-SAT or use it if they found it. Hood waited while Herbert finished punching in the lengthy number.

As Hood had expected, he had not heard from the president and the members of the Congressional Intelligence Oversight Committee. Over ninety minutes ago, Hood had e-mailed them a summary of the Pakistani plan. According to executive assistants to both President Lawrence and Senator Fox, they were still “studying” Op-Center’s proposal. After a short, angry debate with Coffey, Hood decided not to tell the president or Fox what kind of Pakistani military facility Rodgers was visiting. He did not want the CIA crawling all over sources in the region to try to find out what was out there. Coffey argued that with events moving beyond their direct control, Hood had a responsibility to give the president all the facts and hearsay at his disposal. And then it was up to the president, not Hood, to decide whether to call in the CIA. Hood disagreed. He had only Simathna’s say-so that there was a nuclear site out there. Hood did not want to legitimize a possible Pakistani ploy by routing it through the White House and thus making it seem valid. Moreover, news of a possible nuclear silo might trigger an Indian strike while Rodgers was out there. That, too, could serve Pakistani purposes by forcing the United States into a confrontation with India.

Even with the edited report he had presented, Hood did not expect to hear from the president or Fox before H-hour. If the operation failed, they would say that Hood had been acting on his own. It would be Oliver North redux. If the Striker mission succeeded they would quickly jump onboard, like the Soviets declaring war on Japan in the waning hours of the Second World War.

After all that Paul Hood had done to help President Lawrence, he would have liked more support. Then again, when Hood saved the administration from a coup attempt he was doing his job. Now the president was performing his own duties. He was stalling. President Lawrence was using the delay to create a buffer of plausible deniability. That would protect the United States from possible international backlash if the Kashmir situation exploded. The abandonment was not personal. It only felt that way.

Hood did not have the luxury of time. He had told Mike Rodgers that he would hear from Brett August in two hours. Two hours had passed. It was time to place the call.

Op-Center’s director had rarely felt this isolated. There were usually other field personnel or international organizations backing them up, whether it was Interpol or the Russian Op-Center. Even when he was dealing with the terrorists at the United Nations, Hood had the backing of the State Department. Except for the nominal support of the new head of the NSA, and the help of Stephen Viens at the NRO, they were alone. Alone and trying to stop a nuclear war, a world away, with a cell phone. Even the National Reconnaissance Office was not able to help much now. The towering peaks of the glacier blocked the satellite’s view of much of the “playing field,” as intelligence experts called any active region. Ice storms blocked the rest. Viens had not even been able to verify there was anything but ice at the coordinates the Pakistani ambassador had provided.

Herbert and August had not spoken for nearly an hour. Herbert had not wanted to distract him. Hood hoped there was someone at the other end of the TAC-SAT to take the call.

Colonel August answered quickly. Herbert put the conversation on the speakerphone. Except for the shrieking winds behind him, the colonel’s voice was strong and clear.

Ron Plummer and the Pakistani ambassador were still on Hood’s line. As Hood had promised, he left that speakerphone on as well.

“Colonel, I’m with Paul and Lowell Coffey,” Herbert told him. “We also have the Pakistani ambassador and Ron Plummer on the other line. You are all on speaker.”

“I copy that,” August said.

August would know, now, not to say anything that might compromise American security objectives or operations.

“What’s been happening there?” Herbert asked.

“Apparently, nothing,” August said.

“Nothing at all?” Herbert asked.

“We can’t see much now because of the ice storm and darkness,” August told him. “But the Indians turn on lights occasionally and as far as we can tell there are still roughly two hundred soldiers at the foot of the plateau. We saw them making preparations for an ascent and then they just stopped about ninety minutes ago. They seem to be waiting.”

“For backup?” Herbert asked.

“Possibly, sir,” August said. “The delay could also be weather related. We’ve got a nasty ice storm kicking around us. It would not be a fun climb. Sharab says the winds usually subside just after dawn. The Indians could be waiting for that. With diminished winds they could also bring in lowaltitude air support. Or the Indians could just be waiting for us to freeze.”

“You feel you’re in no immediate danger?” Hood asked.

“No, sir, we don’t appear to be,” August informed him. “Except for the cold we’re all right.”

“Hopefully, we’ll be able to move you out before too long,” Herbert said. “Colonel, we’d like you to raise Mike and his team. If they’ve arrived at the coordinates, and only if they are at the coordinates, tell them that they have reached an underground Pakistani nuclear missile site. The site is unmanned and operated remotely. Tell them to stand by and then call me back. The ambassador will provide us with passwords that will enable the team to enter the silo. Once inside they will receive instructions on how to access video equipment that the Pakistani military uses to monitor the facility.”

“I understand,” August said. “I’ll contact General Rodgers now.”

“Let us know if he has not reached the coordinates and also report back on the condition of his team,” Herbert added.

August said he would, then signed off.

Hood did not know whether anything Ambassador Simathna had said to this point was true. But after Herbert hung up, the Pakistani said something on which they both agreed.

“The colonel,” Simathna said, “is a courageous man.”

FIFTY-SIX

The Siachin Glacier Friday, 2:07 A.M.

Exhausted and freezing, Rodgers and his team reached the coordinates Brett August had provided.

Rodgers had half-expected to find a field with a temporary Pakistani outpost. Perhaps a few mobile missile launchers, landing lights for helicopters, and a camouflaged shed or two. He was wrong. They found some of the most inhospitable terrain they had yet encountered. Rodgers felt as though he had stepped into some Ice Age environment.

A circle of surrounding peaks enclosed an area of about ten acres. The team had walked through a large, circular, apparently artificial tunnel to get through the wall. Starting very close to the ground, the slopes jutted out at steep angles. At some time in the past slabs of ice must have broken from the facades and covered the ground. Or perhaps this was an ice cave and the roof had simply collapsed. The field itself was extremely rough and uneven, covered with rough-edged lumps of ice and slashed with narrow, jagged fissures. The harshness of the terrain suggested it did not get much sun. There did not appear to be the kind of smoothness that came with melting and refreezing. They were also at a much higher altitude than they were at the mouth of the valley. He doubted that temperatures here got much above zero degrees Fahrenheit.

Samouel and Friday were still relatively alert but Nanda was numb. Shortly after the Mi-35 turned and left, the woman had fallen quiet. Her muscles and expression had relaxed and she seemed almost in a trance. She moved along as he tugged her hand. But she had a rubbery, unfocused gait. Rodgers had seen this kind of emotional shutdown in Vietnam. It usually occurred after a GI had lost a good buddy in combat. Clinically speaking, Rodgers did not know how long the effects lasted. But he did know that he could not count on afflicted soldiers for days thereafter. After everything that had happened, it would be tragic if they could not even get Nanda to tell her story.

Samouel and Friday had been walking a few paces ahead of Rodgers and Nanda. After the men had a chance to light their torches and flashlights and shine them along the walls and ground, they walked over to the general. Friday handed Rodgers the cell phone.

“Here we are,” Friday said angrily. “Now the question is where the hell are we?”

Rodgers released Nanda’s hand. She stared into the darkness as Rodgers went to check the time on the cell phone. The cold was so intense that the liquid crystal screen cracked. The digital numbers vanished instantly.

“Well done,” Friday said.

Rodgers did not respond. He was angry at himself too. The cell phone was their only link to the outside world. He should have foreseen what the intense cold would do. He closed the phone and put it in his pocket, where it would be relatively warm. Then he turned to Nanda. He warmed her exposed cheeks with his breath and was heartened when she looked at him.

“Look around, try and find out why we’ve been sent here,” Rodgers said to the men.

“Probably to die,” Friday said. “I don’t trust any of these bastards, not the Indians or the Pakistanis.”

“Or even your own government,” Samouel said.

“Oh, you heard?” Friday said. “Well, you’re right. I don’t trust the politicians in Washington either. They’re all using us for something.”

“For peace,” Samouel insisted.

“Is that what you were doing in Kashmir?” Friday demanded.

“We were trying to weaken an enemy that has oppressed us for centuries,” Samouel told him. “The stronger we are the greater our capacity to maintain the peace.”

“Fighting for peace, the great oxymoron,” Friday said. “What a crock. You want power just like everyone else.”

Rodgers had let the discussion go on because anger generated body heat. Now it was time to stop. He moved between the men.

“I need you to check the perimeter,” Rodgers said. “Now.”

“For what?” Friday asked. “A secret, open sesame passage ? Superman’s Fortress of Solitude?”

“Mr. Friday, you’re pushing me,” Rodgers said.

“We’re in a big, cold shooting gallery thanks to the bureaucrats but I’m pushing you?” Friday said. “This is a freakin’ joke!”

The cell phone buzzed in Rodgers’s pocket. The general was grateful for the interruption. He had been getting ready to end the conversation by knocking Friday on his ass. It was not a logical Hegelian solution but it would have worked for Rodgers. Big time.

The general pulled the phone out and shielded it with his high collar.

“Rodgers here!”

“Mike, it’s Brett,” August said. “Have you reached the coordinates?”

“Just got here,” he said. “Are you okay?”

“So far,” August replied. “You?”

“Surviving.”

“Stay warm,” August replied.

“Thanks,” Rodgers said.

The general closed up the phone and put it back in his left pocket. His fingers were numb and he kept his hand there. Friday and Samouel had stuck the torches in a narrow fissure and were warming themselves around it. Both men looked up when the phone call ended.

“That was short,” Friday said.

“Op-Center needed to confirm that we’re here,” Rodgers said. “We’ll get the rest of the plan ASAP.”

“Does Op-Center already have the plan or are they getting it from somewhere in Pakistan?” Friday asked.

“I don’t know,” Rodgers admitted.

“We’re being set up,” Friday said. “I can feel it.”

“Talk to me about it,” Rodgers said. The man might not be likable but that did not mean he was wrong.

“Jack Fenwick used to have a word for operatives who accepted partial codes or portions of maps,” Friday said. “The word was ‘dead.’ If you can’t control your own time, your own movements, it means that someone else is.”

“In this case there’s a reason for that,” Rodgers reminded him. “Security issues.”

“That reason serves Islamabad and Washington, not us,” Friday said. “Fenwick would never have cut this kind of deal with a hostile government.”

All covert operatives were cautious. But there was something about this man that seemed paranoid. Maybe the strain of the trek had worn them both thin. Or maybe Rodgers’s earlier impression was right. The son of a bitch was distracted. Maybe his distrust of Washington went further than he had admitted.

Fenwick was like that too.

“Did you have a lot of contact with Director Fenwick?” Rodgers asked.

The question seemed to surprise Friday. It took him a moment to answer.

“I didn’t work closely with Jack Fenwick, no,” Friday said. “He was the director of the NSA. I’m a field operator. There is not a lot of overlap in our job descriptions.”

“But you obviously had some contact with him,” Rodgers said. “You were stationed in Azerbaijan. That was where he worked his last operation. He had some personal, hands-on involvement with that.”

“We talked a few times,” Friday acknowledged. “He asked for intelligence, I got it for him. There was nothing unusual about that. Why do you ask?”

“You put a lot of faith in your instincts,” Rodgers said. “We all do when we’re in the field. I was just wondering if your instincts ever told you that Fenwick was a traitor.”

“No,” Friday said.

“So they were wrong,” Rodgers pressed.

Friday made a strange face, as though he were repulsed by the thought of having been wrong.

Or maybe Friday was disturbed by something else, Rodgers thought suddenly. Maybe the man could not admit his instincts were wrong because they had not been wrong. Maybe Friday had known that Jack Fenwick was attempting to overthrow the government of the United States. Yet Friday certainly could not admit he knew that either.

The implications of Ron Friday’s silence were disturbing. One of the keys to Fenwick’s plan had been starting an oil war between Azerbaijan, Iran, and Russia. To help that along, CIA operatives based in the U.S. embassy had to be murdered. The killer of one of those agents was never found.

The phone beeped again. Rodgers and Friday continued to look at one another. Friday’s hands were still warming over the fire. Rodgers had his right hand in his pocket. As they stood there they shared a subtle alpha male exchange. Friday started to withdraw his right hand from the fire. He apparently wanted to put it in the pocket where he kept his gun. Rodgers poked his right hand further into his own pocket so it bulged. Friday did not know where the general kept his weapon. It happened to be in his equipment vest but Friday apparently did not realize that. Friday’s right hand remained exposed.

In the meantime, Rodgers answered the phone. “Yes?”

“Mike, are you in a clearing hedged by ice?” August asked.

“Yes,” Rodgers replied.

“All right,” August said. “Look to the northwest side of the clearing. At the base of one of the slopes you should see a perfectly flat, white slab of ice about two yards by two yards.”

Rodgers told Friday to pick up one of the torches. Then he told Samouel to sit with Nanda. Together, Rodgers and Friday walked toward the northwest side of the clearing.

“We’re on our way over,” Rodgers said. “Brett, any idea what the shape is of the chunk we’re looking for?”

“Bob didn’t say,” August replied. “I guess ‘slab’ means flat.”

The men continued walking across the uneven terrain. It was difficult to keep their footing because of all the small pits, cracks, and occasional patches of smooth ice. Rodgers remained several steps behind Friday. Even if Rodgers did not stumble, a man with a lit torch could be a formidable opponent.

Suddenly, Rodgers saw a piece of ice that fit the dimensions August provided. They walked toward it.

“I think we have it!” Rodgers said.

“Good,” August told him. “You’re going to have to move that and then wait for me to call back.”

“For what?” Rodgers asked.

“For the code that will open the hatch underneath,” August said.

“A hatch to what?” Rodgers asked.

“To an unmanned Pakistani nuclear missile facility,” August told him. “Apparently the Pakistanis use a video setup to monitor the place. You’re going to use that equipment to make your broadcast.”

“I see,” Rodgers said. “Hold on.”

Mike Rodgers felt a chill from inside. The setting no longer appeared prehistoric. It suddenly seemed calculated, like a theme park attraction. The ice was real but it had probably been arranged to look uninviting and confusing, to discourage ground traffic or overhead surveillance. Pakistani soldiers must have camped here in camouflage tents for months, possibly years, working on the silo and the setting. The Pakistani air force would have flown in parts and supplies, probably solo excursions at night to lessen the chance of discovery. If they were telling the truth, it was an impressive achievement.

Rodgers kicked the edge of the slab with his toe. It was heavy. They were going to need help. The general turned. He motioned for Samouel to bring Nanda and join them.

Just then, Rodgers noticed movement along the dimly lit wall behind Samouel. Shadows were shifting on the ice near the northeast slope. The movement was being caused by the torchlight. But the shadows were not being cast by the mounds of ice. The shadows of the ice piled near the walls were moving up and down. These shadows were creeping from side to side.

Right beside the entrance to the enclosure.

“Friday,” Rodgers said quietly but firmly, “kill the light and move away from me fast.”

The urgency in Mike Rodgers’s voice must have impressed Ron Friday. The NSA operative shoved the torch into a fissure headfirst and jumped to his left, away from Rodgers.

“Samouel, get behind something!” Rodgers shouted.

The general’s voice was still echoing through the enclosure as he ran forward. Rodgers was afraid the phone would fall from his pocket so he tucked it into his equipment vest. A moment later he tripped on a small pit and banged his left shoulder on a chunk of ice. Instead of getting up again he moved ahead on all fours, crablike. It was the only way to negotiate the uneven terrain without falling. He kept moving toward where he had last seen Samouel and Nanda. He did not feel pain. The only thing that mattered was getting to Nanda. And hoping that he was wrong about what he saw.

He was not.

A moment later the fire of automatic weapons sent deep pops and dull sparks bouncing from the icy walls.

FIFTY-SEVEN

Washington, D.C. Thursday, 5:00 P.M.

Hood’s office was supernaturally silent when Herbert’s phone beeped. His heart had begun to race just moments before, as though he knew the call was coming. Or maybe he was just getting more anxious as the minutes crept by. Even if nothing was happening, Herbert did not like being out of touch.

The intelligence chief jabbed the audio button. Wind screamed from the tiny speaker. It seemed to draw Herbert into the Himalayas. Or maybe he was feeling something else. A sense of exposure. The sound was being sucked from Herbert’s armrest to the speakerphone on Hood’s desk. The intelligence officer was unaccustomed to working with an audience. He did not like it.

“Go ahead,” Herbert shouted.

“Bob, I think something just happened at the missile site,” Colonel August informed him.

Herbert fired a glance at Hood’s phone. Then he looked at Hood. Herbert wanted his boss to mute the damn thing.

“Mike’s ass is on the line,” Herbert said through his teeth.

“The damage is already done,” Hood said softly as he nodded toward the speakerphone on his desk where the Pakistani ambassador was still on the line. He raised his voice. “Colonel, what’s the situation?” Hood asked.

“I’m not certain, sir,” August said. “I heard gunfire and shouting. Then there was nothing. I hung on for a few minutes before deciding to call. I thought I could use the downtime to get the codes in case Mike came back on.”

“Colonel, was there any indication who might be firing at who?” Herbert asked.

“No,” August replied. “Before it started, all I heard was someone shouting for the others to duck and take cover. I assume it was General Rodgers.”

“Are you still secure?” Herbert asked.

“Nothing has changed here,” August replied.

“All right,” Herbert said. “Hold on.”

Hood turned to the speakerphone. “Mr. Ambassador, did you hear the colonel’s report?”

“Every word,” Ambassador Simathna replied. “It does not sound like a happy situation.”

“We don’t know enough to say what the situation is exactly,” Hood pointed out. “I do agree with Colonel August about having the codes ready to give to Mike Rodgers. Perhaps if he can get inside the silo—”

“I cannot agree,” Simathna interrupted.

“Why is that, sir?” Hood asked.

“Almost certainly those are Indian troops attacking the general’s group,” Simathna said.

“How do we know they aren’t Pakistani troops protecting the site?” Herbert asked.

“Because the mountain troops that monitor the glacier have remained on our side of the line of control,” Simathna informed him. “They were told of your incursion.”

“ ‘Our’ incursion,” Herbert said. He did not even attempt to conceal his disgust. “There’s a Pakistani on the team.”

“He is under the command of an American military officer,” Simathna reminded him.

“How do we know your mountain troops obeyed their instructions ?” Herbert pressed.

“I am telling you they have,” Simathna replied.

Hood scowled and dragged the back of his thumb across his throat. He was telling Herbert to kill the discussion he had opened. Herbert would rather kill the ambassador. They were trying to save this man’s country from vaporization and he would not do a thing to help Mike Rodgers.

“Mr. Ambassador,” Hood said, “we have to assume that General Rodgers and his people will prevail. When they do they’ll need to get into the silo as quickly as possible. It would be prudent to give Colonel August the codes.”

“Again, I cannot allow that,” Simathna replied. “It is unfortunate enough that our enemies may learn of this strategic site. But at least the safeguards are still in place.”

“What safeguards?” Hood asked.

“Removing the ice block on top of the silo will trigger a timed explosive within the hatch,” the ambassador told him. “Unless the proper code is entered within sixty minutes the bomb will detonate. It will trigger a series of conventional explosions that will destroy the surface area.”

“Killing the enemy but leaving the silo intact,” Herbert said.

“That is correct,” the ambassador told him.

“Mr. Ambassador, we are still facing a nuclear attack on Pakistan,” Hood pressed.

“We understand that, which is why we must protect our silos from discovery,” Simathna told him.

That remark got Herbert’s attention. It got Hood’s attention, too, judging from his expression. The ambassador had just revealed that there were other silos, probably in other remote areas. That was not an accident. He had wanted Op-Center to know that, and to know it now.

Herbert knew it would be pointless to ask how many silos there were or where they were located. The question was whether revealing that information to New Delhi would trigger an immediate nuclear strike against the region or whether it would force India to stand down. Probably the latter. If Indian intelligence did not already know about the silos they would not know where to strike. Perhaps that was why Simathna had mentioned it. The information would sound more authentic if it were leaked to New Delhi from a branch of U.S. intelligence.

Of course, as with everything else Simathna told them, Herbert had no way of knowing if this were true. For all they knew, there was only the one silo. And there was no way of knowing if there were even a missile inside. Perhaps it was still in the process of being built.

“Ambassador Simathna, I’m going to ask Colonel August to free up his telephone line now,” Hood said. “He’ll let us know as soon as he hears from General Rodgers.”

Hood looked at Herbert. Herbert nodded and told August to sign off until he had reestablished communication with Rodgers. Then Herbert punched off the telephone and sat back.

“Thank you,” Simathna said. “Please try to understand our position.”

“I do,” Hood insisted.

So did Herbert. He understood that Rodgers and August were risking their lives for people who weren’t going to do anything to help. He had been in this business long enough to know that covert operatives were considered expendable. They were at the front line of disposable assets.

Except when you knew them.

When they had names and faces and lives that touched yours every day.

Like Rodgers and August.

Like Striker.

The room was silent again, and still.

Except for the desperate racing of Herbert’s heart.

FIFTY-EIGHT

The Siachin Glacier Friday, 2:35 A.M.

White and red flares exploded in the skies above the clearing. Rodgers could now see the soldiers who were firing at them. They were a handful of Indian regulars, probably out from the line of control. The four or five men took up positions behind ice formations near the entrance.

Rodgers immediately dropped to his belly and began wriggling through the broken terrain. Friday was behind the slab at the entrance to the missile silo. He was firing at the Indians to keep them down. Rodgers watched the entrance for signs of additional troops. There were none.

The flares also enabled Rodgers to see Samouel and Nanda. The two were about thirty feet away. They were lying on their sides behind a thick chunk of ice. The barricade was roughly three feet tall and fifteen feet wide. The Pakistani was stretched out behind the woman. He was pushing her face-first against the ice, his arm around her, protecting her on all sides. Rodgers did not have the time to contemplate it, but the irony of a Pakistani terrorist protecting an Indian civilian operative did not escape him.

Bullets pinged furiously from the top of the formation. The onslaught showered the two with ice. As the barrier was whittled down Samouel looked around. Mike Rodgers was behind and slightly to the right of the two. The Pakistani did not appear to notice him.

“Samouel!” Rodgers yelled.

The Pakistani looked over. Rodgers sidled to his right, behind a boulder-shaped formation. He wanted Nanda as close as possible, in case they managed to get inside the silo.

“Come back here!” Rodgers shouted. “I’ll cover you!”

Samouel nodded. The Pakistani pulled Nanda away from the ice and bundled her in his arms. Crouching as low as possible, Samouel ran toward Rodgers. The general rose and fired several rounds at the Indians. But as the light of the flares began to fade, and the last streaming embers fell to earth, the soldiers stopped shooting. Obviously, they wanted to conserve both their flares and their ammunition. Though Rodgers kept his automatic trained on the entrance there was no further exchange of gunfire. The ice walls kept even the wind outside. An eerie stillness settled on the enclosure. There was only the crunch of Samouel’s boots on the ice and a deep, deep freeze that caused the exposed flesh around Rodgers’s eyes to burn.

Samouel and Nanda reached the ice boulder. The Pakistani slid to his knees beside Rodgers. He was breathing heavily as he sat Nanda with her back to the ice. The young woman was no longer in the near-catatonic state she had been in earlier. Her eyes were red and tearing, though Rodgers did not know whether it was from sadness or the cold. Still, they were moving from side to side and she seemed to be registering some awareness of her surroundings.

Samouel moved toward Rodgers. “General, I saw something when the flares went off,” Samouel panted.

“What did you see?” Rodgers asked.

“It was directly behind the place where you and Mr. Friday were,” the Pakistani said. “On one of the lower ledges of the slopes, about nine or ten feet up. It looked like a satellite dish.”

An uplink, Rodgers thought. Of course.

“Maybe that has something to do with why we were sent to this place,” Samouel continued.

“I’m pretty sure it does,” Rodgers said. “Was the dish out in the open?”

“Not really,” Samouel said. “It was set back, in a little cave. About five or six feet it seemed.” The Pakistani shook his head. He sighed. “I can’t say for sure that it was a dish. There was white lattice, but it could have been icicles and a trick of the light.”

“Would the site have been visible from the air?” Rodgers asked.

“Not from directly overhead,” Samouel told him.

Rodgers glanced back. It was too dark to see the ice wall now. But what Samouel just said made sense. If there were a video setup somewhere inside the Pakistani missile silo, then there had to be an uplink somewhere on the outside. The dish or antenna did not have to be on the top of a peak. All the dish needed was an unobstructed view of one area in the sky. A single spot where a communications satellite, possibly Russian or Chinese built-and-launched, was in geosynchronous orbit. The cables connecting the relay to the silo would probably be relatively deep inside the ice wall. Whoever designed an uplink for this area would not want the wiring too close to the surface. Melting ice might expose the cables to wind, sleet, or other corrosive forces, not to mention leaving it visible to passing recon aircraft.

“Tell me something, Samouel,” Rodgers said. “You wired some of the bombs and remote detonators for Sharab, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” Samouel said softly.

“Do you have experience with radios?” Rodgers asked.

“I have worked with all kinds of electronics,” the Pakistani told him. “I did repair work for the Islamabad militia and—”

“On handsets too?” Rodgers interrupted.

“Walkie-talkies?” Samouel asked.

“Not just walkie-talkies,” Rodgers said. He stopped for a moment to gather his thoughts. His questions and plans were racing ahead of the answers. “What I mean is this. If there is a satellite dish on the ledge would you be able to hook a cell phone to it?”

“I see,” Samouel replied. “Is it a government cell phone with safeguards of any kind?”

“I don’t think so,” Rodgers said.

“Then I can probably rig something as long as you can expose the satellite cable,” Samouel told him.

“What kind of tools would you need?” Rodgers asked.

“Not more than my pocket knife, I would imagine,” Samouel said.

“Very good,” Rodgers said. “Now tell me more about the ledge. Was there any way to get to the dish? Ledges, projections, handholds.”

“I don’t think so,” Samouel told him. “It looked like a straight climb up a smooth wall.”

“I see,” Rodgers said.

The general had become slightly disoriented in the dash to save Nanda. He needed to get his bearings again. He turned himself completely around so he was facing what he believed was the back of the enclosure. He crouched on the balls of his feet.

“Friday, are you still at the slab?” Rodgers yelled. Friday was silent.

“Say something!” Rodgers screamed.

“I’m here!” Friday said.

Rodgers pinpointed Friday’s voice. He kept his eyes on the dark spot. At the same time, he reached into his vest and removed the cell phone. He gave the unit to Samouel.

“If Colonel August calls, tell him to keep the line open,” Rodgers told Samouel.

“What are you going to do?” the Pakistani asked.

“Try and get to that dish,” Rodgers replied. “How are you set for ammunition?”

“I have a few rounds and one extra clip,” Samouel told him.

“Use them sparingly,” Rodgers said. “I may need the cover when I start up the slope.”

“I will be very careful,” Samouel promised.

Mike Rodgers flexed his cold, gloved fingers then put his hands on the ground. He was anxious. A lot was riding on what he knew to be a long shot. He was also concerned about Ron Friday, about something the NSA operative had said earlier. Even if they got through this impasse Rodgers wondered if a deadlier one lay ahead. But that was not something he could afford to worry about now. One battle at a time.

After pausing to take a long, calming breath, the general once again began moving crablike across the rugged terrain.

FIFTY-NINE

The Siachin Glacier Friday, 2:42 A.M.

Ron Friday listened as someone approached. He assumed it was either Rodgers or Samouel.

Probably Rodgers, the NSA operative decided. The go-get’em warrior. The general would have a plan to salvage this mission. Which was fine with Friday. No one wanted a nuclear war. But barring such a plan, Friday also cared about getting the hell off this glacier and into Pakistan. And then from Pakistan to somewhere else. Anywhere that was upwind from the fallout that would blanket the Indian subcontinent.

Friday wanted out of here not because he was afraid to die. What scared him was dying stupidly. Not for a trophy or a jewel but because of a screwup. And right now they were in the middle of a massive screwup. A side trip that should never have happened. All because they had trusted the bureaucrats in Washington and Islamabad.

Friday waited behind the slab. The Indians must have heard the movement too because fresh gunfire pinged around the perimeter. There was not a lot of it. They were obviously conserving ammunition. They fired just enough to keep the person low and on the move.

Friday peered out at the blackness. His own weapon was drawn. His nostrils and lungs hurt from the knife-edged cold. His toes and fingertips were numb, despite the heavy boots and gloves. If he were shot, he wondered how long it would take the blood to freeze.

But most of all Friday was angry. It would not take much for him to point the gun at Rodgers and pull the trigger. The NSA operative was trying to figure out if anything could be gained by surrendering to the Indians. Assuming the Indians would not shoot the group out of hand, they might appreciate the American bringing them one of the terrorists who had attacked the marketplace. Surrender might well trigger the feared Indian nuclear strike against Pakistan. It might also save him from dying here.

The figure arrived. It was Rodgers. He crawled behind the slab and knelt beside Friday.

“What’s going on?” Friday asked.

“There might be a way to get Nanda’s confession on the air without entering the silo,” Rodgers said.

“A silo. Is that what this place is?” Friday asked.

Rodgers ignored the question. “Samouel thinks he saw a satellite dish about ten feet up the slope,” Rodgers continued.

“That would make sense,” Friday replied.

“Explain,” Rodgers said.

“When the flares came on I got a good look at the wall over the entrance,” Friday said. “From about ten feet up on this side they’d have a clear shot across the opposite slope.”

“That’s what I was hoping,” Rodgers said. “If there is a dish there, and we can get to the satellite cable, Samouel might be able to splice a connection to the cell phone.”

The men heard movement from the other side of the clearing. Friday did not think the Indians would move against them. They would wait for the helicopter to return. But they might try to position themselves to set up a cross fire. If the Indians got Nanda the game was over. So were their own lives.

“We’re going to have to get a good look at the dish before we do anything,” Friday said.

“Why?” Rodgers asked.

“We need to see where the power source is,” Friday said. “This is a good spot for a battery-driven dish. Oil companies use them in icy areas. The power source doubles as a heater to keep the gears from freezing. If that’s the case, we don’t have to go up to the ledge. We can expose the line anywhere and know it’s the communications cable.”

“But if the power source is inside the silo we have to get to the dish and figure out which cable it is,” Rodgers said.

“Bingo,” said Friday.

“I’ll tell you what,” Rodgers said. “You stay down and keep your eyes on the ledge.”

“What are you going to do?”

Rodgers replied, “Get you some light.”

SIXTY

The Siachin Glacier Friday, 2:51 A.M.

Mike Rodgers moved to the far end of the clearing. He stopped when he reached the slope. Crouching and moving as quietly as possible he made his way along the wall. He wanted to be far enough from the slab so that Friday was protected. He did not need to be protected from what Rodgers was planning but from how the Indians might respond.

Rodgers hoped that Friday got a good look at the dish. Chances were good that Rodgers himself would not be seeing much. He would be busy looking for a place to hide.

The general stopped about twenty yards from Friday. That was a safe distance. He opened his jacket and removed one of the two flash-bang grenades he carried. The weapon was about the size and configuration of a can of shaving cream. He removed his gloves and held them in his teeth. Then he put his right hand across the safety spoon and slipped his left index finger through the pull-ring. He placed the canister on the ground and squatted beside it. Rodgers moved his right foot along the ground to make sure where the ice cliff was. He would need that to guide him. Then he pulled the ring, released the spoon, and rose. He turned and put his bare left hand against the slope. He felt his way around the thick bulges and barren stretches. He wanted to move quickly. But if he fell over something he might be exposed when the grenade went off.

Rodgers counted as he moved. When the general reached ten, the nonlethal grenade went off.

The nonlethal flash-bang grenade was designed to roll in a confined area, distracting and disorienting the occupants with a series of magnesium-bright explosions and deafening bangs. In this case, Rodgers was hoping the grenade would brighten the perimeter just enough for two things. For Friday to see the dish and Rodgers to find a place to duck.

There was a series of round-topped ice formations three feet ahead. They were about waist high and as thick as a highway pylon. They had probably once been much taller but looked as if they melted and refroze daily, gaining in girth what they lost in height. Rodgers did not run for them. He dove.

Rodgers hit the ground hard. He lost his breath, his gloves fell from his teeth, and he did not quite reach the barricade. But he got close enough so that he was able to scramble across the ice in a heartbeat. Fortunately, the heartbeat was still a measure of time he could use as bullets from Indian rifles chewed up the ice where he had been standing. As soon as he was down and safe he looked over at Ron Friday. Crouched behind the slab, the operative gave him a thumbs-up. Rodgers glanced at the ledge. There was a large black casing behind the base of the dish. Rodgers was glad Friday knew what it was. He himself would have had to go up and pry the cover off to try to read the cables.

As the light of the grenade died Rodgers looked over at Samouel and Nanda. The Pakistani was still lying down. But he had turned to look back at the other men. Rodgers needed to get him over with Nanda and the cell phone. This was probably the best time to do it.

Rodgers took out his weapon and indicated to Friday to do the same. Then he moved to the far side of the ice barricade. That gave him the clearest line of sight to Samouel. He held up three fingers. The Pakistani understood. He was to move out on a count of three. Rodgers gave the man a moment to prepare.

Samouel moved Nanda away from the boulder where they were lying. The Pakistani helped her to her knees and then to a crouching position. She seemed to be cooperating, aware of what she must do. Samouel looked toward Rodgers. The general quickly extended his fingers one at a time. At three, Samouel got up and pulled Nanda with him. She was in front, the Pakistani shielding her with his body. As the two ran forward, Rodgers and Friday immediately stood and began firing toward the Indians. The infantrymen were out of range but obviously did not know that. They ducked down immediately, giving Samouel time to cover most of the distance to the silo entrance.

As darkness enveloped the clearing a few more shots were fired from the Indian side.

“Don’t return fire!” Rodgers shouted to Friday.

The general was afraid of hitting Samouel and Nanda in the dark.

The men listened to the crunch of the approaching boots. The gait was near but uneven. That was due, possibly, to the icy, unknown terrain. The sound skewed toward Rodgers’s right, away from the silo. He crept to that side of his position and waited.

A few seconds later someone dropped beside Rodgers. The general reached out to pull whoever it was to safety. It was Nanda. Still on his knees, Rodgers wrapped his arms around her. He literally hauled her in and around him. Then Rodgers turned back to his right. He heard grunting a few feet away. The general crept over. He found Samouel near the front of the barricade. The Pakistani was on his belly. Rodgers grabbed the man under his arms. His bare right hand felt a thick dampness. The general pulled Samouel back behind the stumps of ice.

“Samouel, can you hear me?” Rodgers said.

“Yes,” the Pakistani replied.

Rodgers felt around the man’s left side. The dampness was spreading. It was definitely blood.

“Samouel, you’re wounded,” Rodgers said.

“I know,” Samouel said, “General, I’ve ‘screwed up.’ ”

“No,” Rodgers said. “You did fine. We’ll fix this—”

“I don’t mean that,” Samouel said. “I . . . lost the telephone.”

The words hit Rodgers like a bullet.

Suddenly, gunfire erupted from the left. The short burst had come from Ron Friday.

“Our buddies are on the move again!” Friday said.

“Get down!” the general shouted.

Rodgers had no time for them. He reached into his vest and removed one of the two cylindrical “eight ball” grenades he carried. Those were the ones no one wanted to find themselves behind, the shrapnel-producing grenades. Without hesitation the general yanked the pin, let the no-snag cap pop off, and stiff-armed the explosive across the clearing. He did not want to kill the Indians but he could not afford to waste time. Not with Samouel injured.

Rodgers ducked and pulled Nanda down. Several seconds later the eight ball exploded, echoing off the walls and shaking the ground. Even before the reverberations stopped, Rodgers had pulled the nine-inch knife from his equipment vest. He had immediately begun prioritizing. Stop the Indians. Stop Samouel’s bleeding. Then he would worry about the phone.

“Don’t bother with me,” Samouel said. “I’m all right.”

“You’re hit,” Rodgers said.

The general cut into the man’s coat. He put his right hand through the opening. He felt for a wound.

Rodgers found it. A bullet hole just below the left shoulder blade. He reached out to the right and felt for his gloves. He found them, cut out the soft interior linings, and placed them on the wound. He pressed down hard. He could not think of anything else to do.

The clearing was silent as the reverberation of the grenade subsided. There were no moans from the other side, no shouting. There was just deadly silence as time and options slipped away. Without the cell phone they could not communicate with August or hook up to the dish. Finding the unit in the dark would be time consuming, if it was even possible. Going out with a torch was suicide. And if they lost Samouel, none of it even mattered.

It had been a good plan. Ironically, they would have been better off following the instincts of a man who might well be a traitor.

Mike Rodgers crouched there, his arms held low. He continued to press on the makeshift bandage, hoping the blood on the underside would freeze. When that happened he would have to try to recover the phone, even if it cost him his life.

As Rodgers waited, his right elbow knocked into something in his belt.

He realized at once what it was.

Possible salvation.

SIXTY-ONE

Siachin Base 3, Kashmir Friday, 3:22 A.M.

The Mikoyan Mi-35 helicopter set down on its small, dark pad. The square landing area was composed of a layer of asphalt covered with cotton and then another layer of asphalt. The fabric helped keep the ice from the lower layer from reaching the upper layer.

No sooner had the pilot cut the twin rotors than he received a message over his headset.

“Captain, we just received a message from Major Puri,” the base communications director informed him. “You’re to refuel, deice, and go back out.”

The captain exchanged a disgruntled look with the copilot. The cockpit was poorly heated and they were both tired from the difficult flight. They did not feel like undertaking a new mission.

As the pilot looked over, he glanced past his companion. Through the starboard window of the cockpit he could already see ground crews approaching. There were two trucks crossing the landing area. One was a fuel tank, the other a truck loaded with high-volume hoses and drums of a solution of sodium chloride–ferric ferrocyanide.

“What is the objective?” the captain asked.

“The cell you were tracking before,” the BCD replied. “One of Major Puri’s units has them cornered. The unit estimates that there are four individuals but they do not know how heavily armed they are.”

The captain felt a flush of satisfaction at the news. Although he had admired the way one man, armed with a pistol, had driven them back, he did not like being outsmarted.

“Where are they?” the captain asked. At the same time he punched up the topographical map on the computer.

“The Upper Chittisin Plateau,” the officer replied, and provided the coordinates.

The pilot entered the figures. The criminals had simply followed the mountain. It was a particularly high, cold, inhospitable section of the glacier. He wondered if they had gone there intentionally or ended up there by accident. If intentionally, he could not imagine what was there. Perhaps a safe house of some kind, or a weapons cache.

Whatever it was, he could take the chopper around the glacier on the southwest side and be there in forty-five minutes.

“When we find them, what are our orders?” the captain asked.

“You are to retrieve Major Puri’s team and then complete your previous mission,” the BCD informed him.

The captain acknowledged the order.

Ten minutes later he was in the air heading toward the target. This time, he would not fail to exterminate the terrorists.

SIXTY-TWO

The Siachin Glacier Friday, 3:23 A.M.

Samouel’s blood was beginning to freeze. Rodgers felt it in his fingertips. They were the only part of his hands that had stayed warm.

As soon as that happened he picked up his knife and leaned close to Nanda. “I want you to come with me,” he said.

“All right,” she replied.

Together, they crept across the area between the ice barricade and the entrance to the silo.

“I’m coming in with Nanda,” Rodgers said in a loud whisper. He did not want Friday thinking it was the Indians circling around.

“Is everything all right?” Friday asked.

“Samouel’s been hit,” Rodgers told him.

“How bad?”

“Bad,” Rodgers said.

“You dumb bastard,” Friday said. “And I’m even dumber for following you assholes.”

“I guess so,” Rodgers replied. He sidled next to Friday and handed him the knife. “If we’re through with your debriefing, I’m going back to get Samouel. Meantime, I need you to start digging me a hole in the ice along the side of the silo entrance.”

“That’s how you’re planning to get to the cable?” Friday asked.

“That’s how,” Rodgers admitted.

“It could be ten feet down!” Friday exclaimed.

“It won’t be,” Rodgers said. “The ice melts and refreezes out here. The conduit probably cracks a lot. They would not put it so far down that they couldn’t reach it for repairs.”

“Maybe,” Friday said. “Even so, digging through three or four feet of ice is going to take—”

“Just do it,” Rodgers told him.

“Up yours,” Friday replied. “If Sammy boy croaks we’re dead anyway. I think I’m going to have a talk with our Indian neighbors. See if we can’t work something out.”

Rodgers heard the knife clunk on the ice.

A moment later he heard the blade scrape the ice.

“I’ll do it,” Nanda said as she began chopping.

That caught Rodgers by surprise. Her voice sounded strong. It was the first indication he had that she was “back.” It was their first bit of luck and the timing could not have been better.

Rodgers could not see Friday but he could hear his harsh breathing. The general had his right hand in his coat pocket. He was prepared to shoot Friday if he had to. Not for leaving them. He had that right. But he was afraid of what a cold, tired, and hungry man might say about their situation.

Ron Friday’s breathing stayed in the same place. Nanda’s action must have shamed him. Or maybe Friday had been testing Rodgers. Sometimes, what a man did not say in response to a threat said more, and was more dangerous, than a saber-rattling reply.

“I’ll be right back with Samouel,” Rodgers said evenly.

The general turned and recrossed the small area between the two positions. The Indians maintained their silence. Rodgers was now thinking they had been advance scouts for another party. Their orders were obviously to keep the enemy pinned until backup could arrive. Hopefully, that would not be for another half hour or so. If everything else went right in his improvisation, that was all the time Rodgers would need.

Samouel was breathing rapidly when Rodgers reached him. The general was not a doctor. He did not know whether that was a good thing or a bad thing. Under the circumstances, breathing at all was good.

“How’re you doing?” Rodgers asked.

“Not very well,” Samouel said. He was wheezing. It sounded as if there were blood in his throat.

“You’re just disoriented by the trauma,” Rodgers lied. “We’ll fix you up as soon as we’re done here.”

“What can we do without the cell phone?” Samouel asked.

Rodgers slipped his arms under the Pakistani. “We still have my point-to-point radio,” the general told him. “Will that work?”

“It should,” Samouel replied. “The wiring is basically the same.”

“That’s what I thought,” Rodgers said. “I’m going to get us to the cable and pry the back from the radio. Then you’re going to tell me how to hook it to the satellite dish.”

“Wait,” Samouel said.

Rodgers hesitated before lifting him.

“Listen,” Samouel said. “Look for the red line underground. Red is always the audio. Inside the radio, find the largest chip. There will be two lines attached. One leads to the microphone. The other to the antenna. Cut the wire leading to the antenna. Splice the red wire from the dish to that one.”

“All right,” Rodgers replied.

“You understand all that?” Samouel asked.

“I do,” Rodgers assured him.

“Then go,” Samouel said.

The Pakistani’s voice had become weaker as he spoke. Rodgers did not argue with him. Pausing only long enough to squeeze Samouel’s hand, Rodgers turned and hurried back to the slab.

SIXTY-THREE

The Siachin Glacier Friday, 3:25 A.M.

Nanda did not remember much of what had happened since the helicopter had attacked them. She knew that her grandfather had died. But it seemed as if after that her mind had drifted. She was awake but her spirit had been elsewhere. The shock of her grandfather’s death must have dulled her kundalini, her life force. That forced the Shakti to take over. Those were the female deities that protected true believers in times of strife. Using their own secret mantras and mandalas, the mystical words and diagrams, the Shakti had guarded her life force until Nanda’s own depleted natural energies could revive it.

The shock of the latest explosions and the rattling gunfire had accelerated the process. General Rodgers’s high-intensity activities of the last few minutes had finished it. Whatever alertness Nanda had always felt when she was dealing with the SFF had come back to her. And she was glad it had. The young woman’s return seemed to have defused whatever tensions had been building between Rodgers and his fellow American.

Nanda continued to chisel, hack, and pry at the ice. She worked from left to right, cutting new inroads with her right hand while scooping out ice chips with her left. At the same time she felt for anything that might be a cable or a conduit. With their luck they would find one and it would be made of steel or some compound they could not break through.

Whatever the outcome, the activity of chopping the hard ice felt good for the moment. It helped keep her blood flowing and kept her torso and arms relatively warm.

Rodgers had only been gone a minute or two before returning. He came back alone.

“Where’s your boy?” Friday asked.

“He’s not doing too well,” Rodgers admitted. “But he told me what to do.” The general moved close to Nanda. “Hold on a second,” he said. “I want to check the dig.”

Nanda stopped. She could hear General Rodgers feeling along the perimeter of the slab.

“This is good,” he said. “Thanks. Now I need you both to move back, over by the slope. Lie there with your feet to your chin, arms tucked in, hands over your ears. Leave as little of yourself exposed as possible.”

“What are you going to do?” Nanda asked.

“I have one more of those flash-bang grenades I used earlier,” Rodgers said. “I’m going to put it in here. Enough of the force will go downward. The heat of the explosion should melt the ice for several feet in all directions.”

“Did our terrorist friend tell you what to do if the cable is inside two-inch-thick piping?” Friday asked.

“In that case we bury the hand grenade I have,” Rodgers said. “That should put a good-sized dent in any casing. Now go back,” he went on. “I’m ready to let this go.”

Her hands stretched in front of her, Nanda knee-walked toward the slope. The ground was sharp and lumpy and it hurt. But she was glad to feel the pain. Years before, a potter, an artisan of the menial Sudra caste in Srinagar, had told her that it is better to feel something, even if it is hunger, than to feel nothing at all. Thinking of her own suffering and her dead grandfather, Nanda finally understood what the man had meant.

When she reached the wall, Nanda curled up on the ice the way Rodgers had instructed.

It did not escape Nanda’s notice that the American had taken a moment to thank her for the work she had done. In the midst of all the turmoil and doubt, the horror of what had been and what might lie ahead, his word smelled like a single, beautiful rose.

That was the pretty image in the young woman’s mind as the ground heaved and her back grew hot beneath her clothes and the roar blew through her hands, ringing her skull from back to jaw.

SIXTY-FOUR

The Siachin Glacier Friday, 3:27 A.M.

Rodgers did not go as far from ground zero as the others. He knew that the explosion would not hurt him, though it would be hot. But he was counting on that. His exposed fingers were numb and he was going to need them warmed to work. He went as far as the edge of the slab and sat there with his knees upraised and his face buried between them. He used the insides of his knees to cover his ears. His arms were folded across his knees. He was braced for quite a bump when the grenade went off.

Rodgers made certain that the knife was back in his equipment vest and the radio was secure in his belt before he sat down. And he leaned to his left side as much as possible. Hopefully, if the blast knocked Rodgers over, he would not fall on the radio.

The in-ground explosion was even more potent than Rodgers had imagined. The ice beneath him rolled but did not knock Rodgers over. But the blast did take an edge of the slab off. Rodgers could hear the chunk as it whistled upward. The sound was shrill enough to cut through the surf-loud roar of the detonation itself. It came down somewhere to the left. Rodgers imagined the Indians initially thinking they had been attacked by a mortar shell. After a moment they would probably realize that the enemy had detonated another flash-bang grenade.

There were a series of lesser flashes and whiplike cracks as the grenade continued to fire. Before they died, Rodgers made his way over to the site. The explosion had cut a hole in the ice roughly four feet by four feet. Melted ice filled the excavation. Near the center was a severed cable.

While the last embers of the grenade still burned on the edge of the hole, Rodgers flopped on his belly and grabbed the dish-side end of cable. There were three wires bundled together inside a half-inch-thick plastic cover. One of the wires was red, another was yellow, and the third was blue. Rodgers removed his knife and pried the red one from the others. He cut the wet edge off and quickly scored the rubber sides of the wire with the tip of the knife. As he was finishing, the light from the last embers was fading.

“Friday, matches!” he said.

There was no answer.

“Friday!” he repeated.

“He’s not here!” Nanda said.

Rodgers looked back. It was too dark to see that far. Either the NSA operative was hiding until he saw which way this went or, anticipating failure, he was making his way to the Indian side of the clearing. Whichever it was, Rodgers could not afford to worry about him. He laid the cable down so the exposed end was out of the melted ice. Then, moving quickly but economically, with a level of anxiety he had never before felt, Rodgers removed the map from his vest pocket. He unfolded the sheet away from the dying ember so it did not create a local breeze. Then he held his breath, leaned forward, and touched the edge of the map to the barely glowing thread of magnesium. He was afraid that if he touched the ember too hard it would be extinguished. Too light and the map would not feel it.

The fate of two nations had been reduced to this. One man’s handling of the first and most primitive form of technology human beings had embraced. It put forty thousand years of human development into perspective. We were still territorial carnivores huddling in dark caves.

The paper smoked and then reddened around the edges. A moment later a small orange flame jumped triumphantly across the printed image of Kashmir. That seemed fitting.

“Nanda, come here!” Rodgers said.

The woman hurried over. Assuming the Indians did not move on them, the duo was safe for now. The remaining section of slab would afford them enough protection as long as they did not move from here.

Rodgers handed Nanda the paper when she arrived. He removed his coat, set it on the ice beside the hole, and told Nanda to put the map on it. He said the coat would not burn but he needed to find something else that would.

“Very quickly,” he added.

“Hold on,” Nanda said.

The young woman reached into her coat pocket and removed the small volume of Upanishads she always carried. She also removed the documents she was supposed to plant on the terrorists to help implicate them when they were captured.

“These devotionals will save more souls than the Brahmans ever imagined,” she said.

Obviously, Nanda was experiencing some of the same spiritual and atavistic feelings Rodgers was. Or maybe they were both just exhausted.

As the papers burned, the general withdrew the radio from the belt loop and laid it on the coat. He bent low over it.

The radio was made of one vacuum-formed casing. Rodgers knew he would not be able to break that without risk of damaging the components he needed. Instead, he stuck the knife into the area around the recessed mouthpiece. Rodgers carefully pried that loose. The wire behind it, and the chip to which it was attached, were what he needed to access.

Still listening for activity from across the clearing, Rodgers used the knife to fish out the chip that was attached to the mouthpiece. He could not afford to sever the chip from the unit. If he did that, the chip itself would have no power source. That power came from the battery in the radio, not from the battery behind the satellite dish. He had to make sure he cut the right one to splice. He pulled the mouthpiece out as far as it could go and tilted the opening toward the light. Twenty years ago, this would have been a hopeless task. Radios then were crammed with transistors and wires that were impossible to read. The inside of this radio was relatively clean and open, just a few chips and wires.

Rodgers saw the battery and the wire that hooked the microchip and mouthpiece to it. The other wire, the one that led to the radio antenna, was the one he needed to cut.

Carefully placing the radio back on the coat, Rodgers used the knife to slice that wire as close to the radio antenna as possible. That would give him about two inches of wire to work with.

Crouching and using the tip of his boot as a cutting surface, Rodgers scored and stripped that remaining piece of wire. Then he picked up the scored cable from the satellite dish. He used his fingernails to chip the plastic casing away. When a half inch of wire was exposed, he twisted the two pieces of copper together and turned the unit on. Then he backed away from the radio and gently urged Nanda toward it.

It was the unlikeliest, most Frankenstein monster–looking, jury-rigged device that Mike Rodgers had seen in all his years of service. But that did not matter. Only one thing did.

That it worked.

SIXTY-FIVE

Washington, D.C. Thursday, 6:21 P.M.

It was something Ron Plummer had never experienced. A moment of profound euphoria followed by a moment so sickening that the drop was physically disorienting.

When the call came from Islamabad, Ambassador Simathna listened for a moment then smiled broadly. Plummer did not have to wait for the call to be put on speakerphone to know what it was.

Mike Rodgers had succeeded. Somehow, the general had gotten the message to the Pakistani base that monitored the silo. They had forwarded the message to the Pakistani Ministry of Defense. From there, the tape was given to CNN and sent out to the world.

“My name is Nanda Kumar,” said the high, scratchy voice on the recording. “I am an Indian citizen of Kashmir and a civilian network operative. For several months I have worked with India’s Special Frontier Force to undermine a group of Pakistani terrorists. The Special Frontier Force told me that my actions would result in the arrest of the terrorists. Instead, the intelligence I provided allowed the Special Frontier Force to frame the Pakistanis. The terrorists have been responsible for many terrible acts. But they were not responsible for Wednesday’s bomb attack on the pilgrim bus and Hindu temple in the Srinagar market. That was the work of the Special Frontier Force.”

Ambassador Simathna was still beaming as he shut the phone off and leaned toward a second speakerphone. This was the open line to Paul Hood’s office at Op-Center.

“Director Hood, did you hear that?” the ambassador asked.

“I did,” Hood replied. “It’s also running on CNN now.”

“That is very gratifying,” Simathna said. “I congratulate you and your General Rodgers. I do not know how he got the woman’s message through but it is quite impressive.”

“General Rodgers is a very impressive man,” Hood agreed. “We’d like to know how he got the message through ourselves. Bob Herbert tells me that Colonel August is unable to raise him. The cell phone must have died.”

“As long as it is just the cell phone,” Simathna joked. “Of course, the Indians will certainly claim that Ms. Kumar was brainwashed by the Pakistanis. But General Rodgers will help to dispel that propaganda.”

“General Rodgers will tell the truth, whatever that turns out to be,” Hood said diplomatically.

As Hood was speaking the other phone beeped. Simathna excused himself and answered it.

The ambassador’s smile trembled a moment before collapsing. His thin face lost most of its color. Ron Plummer did not dare imagine what the ambassador had just been told. Thoughts of a Pakistani nuclear strike flashed through his desperate mind.

Simathna said nothing. He just listened. After several seconds he hung up the phone and regarded Plummer. The sadness in his eyes was profound.

“Mr. Hood, I’m afraid I have bad news for you,” the ambassador said.

“What kind of bad news?” Hood asked.

“Apparently, the slab on top of the silo was removed or significantly damaged during General Rodgers’s actions,” Simathna said.

“Don’t say it,” Hood warned. “Don’t you frigging say it.”

Simathna did not have to. They all knew what that meant.

The defensive explosives around the silo had been automatically activated. Without someone inside the silo to countermand them, they would detonate in just a few minutes.

SIXTY-SIX

Washington, D.C. Thursday, 6:24 P.M.

Paul Hood could not believe that Mike Rodgers had gone this far, worked whatever miracle he had conceived, only to be blown up for something that could be prevented. But to prevent it they would have to reach him. Though Hood, Herbert, and Coffey sat in silence, frustration under the surface was intense. Despite the technology at their disposal, the men were as helpless as if they were living in the Stone Age.

Hood was slumped in his leather seat. He was looking down, humbled by this uncharacteristic sense of helplessness. In the past there had always been another play in the book. Someone they could call for assistance, time to move resources into position, at the very least a means of communication. Not now. And he suspected that Mike or Nanda or the others had used up their guardian spirit quota stopping a nuclear war. Hood did not think it would help to pray for their salvation now. Maybe their lives and the lives of the Strikers were the price they had to pay. Still, Hood did ask quietly that whatever Christian, Hindu, or Muslim entities had gotten them this far would see them a little further. Paul Hood was not ready to lose Mike Rodgers. Not yet.

“Maybe Mike and the girl did their business and left the area,” Coffey suggested.

“It’s possible,” Herbert said. “Knowing Mike, though, he would continue to broadcast for a while. They may have no way of knowing that their message got through.”

Coffey scowled.

“Even if they did leave, I’m not sure they would have gone far enough,” Herbert went on.

“What do you mean?” Coffey asked.

“It’s dark, dead-of-night where they are,” Herbert said. “My guess is that after all they’ve been through, Mike would have wanted to find a place to bunk down until well after sunrise. Let the area warm a little. If anyone was wounded, in whatever went on out there, Mike might have wanted to take time to perform first aid. The bug in the juice is we don’t know exactly how much time is left before the blast. Obviously, Mike accessed the silo somehow to make the transmission. The explosives were armed when he moved the slab. That means we’re well into the countdown.”

“I can’t believe those bastards in Pakistan can’t shut the process down,” Coffey said.

“I do,” Herbert replied. “And I’ll tell you what’s happening right now. I’ve been thinking about this. I’ll bet they put together a network of underground silos out there, all linked by tunnel. Right now the missile is automatically shifting to another site.”

“You mean like an underground Scud,” Coffey said.

“Exactly like that,” Herbert replied. “As soon as it’s out of range the silo and whoever found it go kablooey. No evidence of a missile is found among the residue. They can claim it was some kind of shelter for scientists studying the glacier, or soldiers patrolling the region, or whatever they like.”

“None of which helps us get Mike out of there,” Coffey said gravely.

The phone beeped as Herbert was talking. Hood picked it up. It was Stephen Viens at the National Reconnaissance Office.

“Paul, if Mike is still out in the Chittisin Plateau, we’ve got something on the wide-range camera he should know about,” Viens said.

Hood punched on the speakerphone and sat up. “Talk to me, Stephen,” he said.

“A couple of minutes ago we saw a blip moving back into the area,” Viens said. “We believe it’s an Indian Mi-35, possibly the same one they tangled with before. Refueled and back for another round.”

While Viens had been speaking, Hood and Herbert swapped quick, hopeful looks. The men did not have to say anything. There was suddenly an option. The question was whether there was time to use it.

“Stephen, stay on the line,” Hood said. “And thank you. Thank you very much.”

Moving with barely controlled urgency, Herbert scooped up his wheelchair phone and speed-dialed his Indian military liaison.

Hood also did something. Inside, in private.

He speed-dialed a silent word of thanks to whoever was looking after Mike.

SIXTY-SEVEN

The Siachin Glacier Friday, 4:00 A.M.

Rodgers was crouched behind the slab, his gun drawn as he looked across the clearing. He had allowed the fire to die while Nanda continued to make her broadcast. Although the Indians had not moved on them, he did not want to give them a target if they changed their minds. He could think of several reasons they might.

If Nanda’s message had gotten through, the soldiers certainly would have let Rodgers know by now. The Indians would not want to risk being shot any more than he did. Their silence seemed to indicate that either the Indians were waiting for Rodgers to slip up or for reinforcements to arrive. Possibly they were waiting for dawn to attack. They had the longer-range weapons. All they needed was light to climb the slopes and spot the targets. It could also be that the Indians were already moving on them, slowly and cautiously. Ron Friday may have gone over to rat out their position in exchange for sanctuary. That would not surprise Rodgers at all. The man had given himself away when he registered no surprise about why Fenwick had resigned. Only Hood, the president, the vice president, the First Lady, and Fenwick’s assistant had known he was a traitor.

But Friday knew. Friday knew because he may have been the son of a bitch’s point man in Baku, Azerbaijan. For all Rodgers knew, Friday may have had a hand in the attacks on the CIA operatives who had been stationed there. One way or another, Ron Friday would answer for that. Either he’d hunt him down here or end their broadcast with a message for Hood.

With the fire gone, however, Mike Rodgers had another concern. He had sacrificed his gloves and jacket for the cause. His hands were numb and his chest and arms were freezing. If he did not do something about that soon he would perish from hypothermia.

He took a moment to make sure that Nanda was protected from gunfire by what remained of the slab. Then he crept back to where he had left Samouel behind the ice barricade.

The Pakistani was dead.

That did not surprise Rodgers. What did surprise him was the sadness he felt upon finding the lifeless body.

There was something about Samouel that did not fit the template of an objective-blinded terrorist. In the Pakistani’s final moments, while he should have been praying for Allah to accept his soul, Samouel was telling Rodgers how to splice the dish to his radio. Along with Samouel’s dogged trek alongside two historic enemies, that had touched Rodgers.

Now, in death, Samouel was even responsible for saving Rodgers’s life. The general felt grateful as he removed the dead man’s coat and gloves. Stripping the bodies of enemies had always been a part of warfare. But soldiers did not typically take even things they needed from fallen allies. Somehow, though, this felt like a gift rather than looting.

Rodgers knelt beside the body as he dressed. As the general finished, his knees began to tickle. At first he thought it was a result of the cold. Then he realized that the ground was vibrating slightly. A moment later he heard a low, low roar.

It felt and sounded like the beginnings of an avalanche. He wondered if the explosions had weakened the slopes and they were coming down on them. If that were the case the safest place would not be at the foot of the slopes.

Rising, Rodgers ran back toward Nanda. As he did, he felt a rumbling in his gut. He had felt it before. He recognized it.

It was not an avalanche. It was worse. It was the reason the Indians had been waiting to attack.

A moment later the tops of the surrounding ice peaks were silhouetted by light rising from the north. The rumbling and roar were now distinctive beats as the Indian helicopter neared. He should have expected this. The soldiers had radioed their position to the Mi-35 that had tried to kill them earlier.

Rodgers slid to Nanda’s side and knelt facing her. He felt for her cheeks in the dark and held them in his hands. He used them to guide his mouth close to her ear, so she could hear over the roar.

“I want you to try and get to the entrance while I keep the helicopter busy,” Rodgers said. “It’s not going to be easy getting past the soldiers but it may be your only hope.”

“How do we know they’ll kill us?” she asked.

“We don’t,” Rodgers admitted. “But let’s find out by trying to escape instead of by surrendering.”

“I like that,” Nanda replied.

Rodgers could hear the smile in her voice.

“Start making your way around the wall behind me,” he said. “With luck, the chopper will cause an avalanche on their side.”

“I hope not,” she replied. “They’re my people.”

Touche’, Rodgers thought.

“But thank you,” she added. “Thank you for making this fight your fight. Good luck.”

The general patted her cheek and she left. He continued to watch as the chopper descended. Suddenly, the Russian bird stopped moving. It hovered above the center of the clearing, equidistant to Rodgers and the Indians. Maybe twenty seconds passed and then the chopper suddenly swept upward and to the south. It disappeared behind one of the peaks near the entrance. The glow of its lights poured through the narrow cavern.

Rodgers peeked over the slab. The chopper had landed. Maybe they were worried about causing an avalanche and had decided to deploy ground troops. That would make getting through the entrance virtually impossible. He immediately got up and ran after Nanda. He would have to pull her back, think of another strategy. Maybe negotiate something with these people to get her out. As she had said, they were her people.

But as Rodgers ran he saw something that surprised him. Up ahead. Three of the Indian soldiers were rushing from the clearing. They were not going to attack. They were being evacuated.

What happened next surprised him even more.

“General Rodgers!” someone shouted.

Rodgers looked to the west of the entrance. Someone was standing there, half-hidden by an ice formation.

All right, Rodgers thought. He’d bite. “Yes?” the general shouted back.

“Your message got through!” said the Indian. “We must leave this place at once!”

Everything from Rodgers’s legs to his spirit to his brain felt as though they had been given a shot of adrenaline. He kept running, leaping cracks and dodging mounds of ice. Either Ron Friday had gotten to him with a hell of a sell job or the man was telling the truth. Whichever it was, Rodgers was going with it. There did not seem to be another option.

Looking ahead, Rodgers watched as Nanda reached the entrance. She continued on toward the light. Rodgers arrived several moments later. The Indian soldier, a sergeant, got there at the same time he did. His rifle was slung over his back. There were no weapons in his gloved hands.

“We must hurry,” the Indian said as they ran into the entrance. “This area is a Pakistani time bomb. An arsenal of some kind. You triggered the defenses somehow.”

Possibly by tinkering with the uplink, Rodgers thought. Or more likely, the Pakistani military wanted to destroy them all to keep the secret of their nuclear missile silo.

“I can’t believe there were just two of you,” the sergeant said as they raced through the narrow tunnel. “We thought there were more.”

“There were,” Rodgers said. He looked at the chopper ahead. He watched as soldiers helped Nanda inside and he realized Friday had deserted them. “They’re dead now.”

The men left the entrance and ran the last twenty-five yards to the chopper. Rodgers and the sergeant jumped into the open door of the Mi-35. The aircraft rose quickly, simultaneously angling from the hot Pakistani base.

As the helicopter door was slid shut behind him, Rodgers staggered toward the side of the crowded cargo compartment. There were no seats, just the outlines of cold, tired bodies. The general felt the adrenaline kick leave as his legs gave out and he dropped to the floor. He was not surprised to find Nanda already there, slumped against an ammunition crate. Rodgers slid toward her as the helicopter leveled out and sped to the north. He took her hand and snuggled beside her, the two of them propping each other up. The Indians sat around them, lighting cigarettes and blowing warmth on their hands.

The cabin temperature inside the helicopter was little higher than freezing, but the relative warmth felt blissful. Rodgers’s skin crackled warmly. His eyelids shut. He could not help it. His mind started to shut down as well.

Before it did, the American felt a flash of satisfaction that Samouel had died on something that was nominally his homeland. Silo, arsenal, whatever Islamabad called it, at least it was built by Pakistanis.

As for Friday, Rodgers was also glad. Glad that the man was about to die on the opposite side of the world from the country he had betrayed.

Joy for a terrorist. Hate for an American.

Rodgers was happy to leave those thoughts for another time.

SIXTY-EIGHT

The Siachin Glacier Friday, 4:07 A.M.

Ron Friday had been confused, at first, when he saw the chopper leave the clearing.

His plan had been simple. If Eagle Scout Rodgers had managed to come out on top of this, Friday would have told him that he had gone off to the side to watch for an Indian assault. If the Indians had won, as Friday expected, he would have said he had been trying to reach them to help end the standoff.

Friday had not expected both sides to reach some kind of sudden détente and leave together. He did not expect to be stranded on the far side of the clearing where the drumming of the chopper drowned out his shouts to the men. He did not expect to be stranded here.

But as Ron Friday watched the chopper depart he did not feel cheated or angry. He felt alone, but that was nothing new. His immediate concern was getting rest and surviving what remained of the cold night. Having done both, he could make his way back to the line of control the next day.

Where he had wanted to go in the first place.

Accomplishing that, Friday would find a way to work this to his advantage. He had still been a key participant in an operation that had prevented a nuclear incident over Kashmir. Along the way he had learned things that would be valuable to both sides.

Friday was slightly northeast of the center of the clearing when the light of the rising chopper disappeared behind the peaks. He had only seen two people join the Indians. That meant one of them, probably Samouel, was dead near the entrance to the silo. The Pakistani would no longer need his clothing. If Friday could find a little niche somewhere, he could use the clothes to set up a flap to keep out the cold. And he still had the matches. Maybe he could find something to make a little campfire. As long as life remained, there was always hope.

A moment later, in a chaotic upheaval of ice and fire, hope ended for Ron Friday.

SIXTY-NINE

The Himachal Peaks Friday, 4:12 A.M.

Crouched against the boulders on the edge of the plateau, Brett August and William Musicant were able to see and then hear a distant explosion. It shook the ledge and threw a deep red flush against the peaks and sky to the northeast. The light reminded August of the kind of glow that emerged from a barbecue pit when you stirred the dying coals with a stick. It was a wispy, blood-colored light that was the same intensity on all sides.

August watched to see if a contrail rose from the fires. He did not see one. That meant it was not a missile being launched. The blast came from the direction in which Mike Rodgers had been headed. August hoped his old friend was behind whatever it was rather than a victim of it.

The inferno remained for a few moments and then rapidly subsided. August did not imagine that there was a great deal of combustible material out there on the glacier. He turned his stinging, tired eyes back to the valley below. Down there were the men who had killed his soldiers. Shot them from the sky without their even drawing their weapons. As much as the colonel did not want the situation to escalate, part of him wanted the Indians to charge up the peak. He ached for the chance to avenge his team.

The ice storm had stopped, though not the winds. It would take the heat of the sun to warm and divert them. The wind still swept down with punishing cold and force and a terrible sameness. The relentless whistling was the worst of it. August wondered if it were winds that inspired the legends of the Sirens. In some tales, the song of the sea nymphs drove sailors mad. August understood now how that could happen.

The colonel’s hearing was so badly impaired that he did not even hear the TAC-SAT when it beeped. Fortunately, August noticed the red light flashing. He unbuttoned the collar that covered his face to the bridge of his nose. Then he turned up the volume on the TAC-SAT before answering. He would need every bit of it to hear Bob Herbert.

“Yes?” August shouted into the mouthpiece.

“Colonel, it’s over,” Herbert said.

“Repeat, please?” August yelled. The colonel thought he heard Herbert say this was over.

“Mike got the message through,” Herbert said, louder and more articulately. “The Indian LOC troops are being recalled. You will be picked up by chopper at sunrise.”

“I copy that,” August said. “We saw an explosion to the northeast a minute ago. Did Mike do that?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Herbert said. “We’ll brief you after you’ve been airlifted.”

“What about the Strikers?” August asked.

“We’ll have to work on that,” Herbert said.

“I’m not leaving without them,” August said.

“Colonel, this is Paul,” Hood said. “We have to determine whose jurisdiction the valley—”

“I’m not leaving without them,” August repeated.

There was a long silence. “I understand,” Hood replied.

“Brett, can you hold out there until around midmorning?” Herbert asked.

“I will do whatever it takes,” August said.

“All right,” Herbert told him. “The chopper can pick up Corporal Musicant. I promise we’ll have the situation worked as quickly as possible.”

“Thank you, sir,” August said. “What are my orders regarding the three Pakistanis?”

“You know me,” Herbert said. “Now that they’ve served their purpose I’d just as soon you put a bullet in each of their murderous little heads. I’m sure my wife has the road upstairs covered. She’ll make sure the bus to Paradise gets turned back.”

“Morality aside, there are legal and political considerations as well as the possibility of armed resistance,” Hood cut in. “Op-Center has no jurisdiction over the FKM, and India has made no official inquiries regarding the rest of the cell. They are free to do whatever they want. If the Pakistanis wish to surrender, I’m sure they will be arrested and tried by the Indians. If they turn on you, you must respond however you see fit.”

“Paul’s right,” Herbert said. “The most important thing is to get you and Corporal Musicant home safely.”

August said he understood. He told Hood and Herbert that he would accept whatever food and water the chopper brought. After that, he said he would make his way to the Mangala Valley to find the rest of the Strikers.

Hanging up the TAC-SAT, August rose slowly on coldstiffened legs. He switched on his flashlight and made his way across the ice-covered ledge to where Musicant was stationed. August gave the medic the good news then went back to where Sharab and her two associates were huddled. Unlike the Strikers, they had not undergone cold-weather training. Nor were they dressed as warmly as August and Musicant.

August squatted beside them. They winced as the light struck them. They reminded the colonel of lepers cowering from the sun. Sharab was trembling. Her eyes were red and glazed. There was ice in her hair and eyebrows. Her lips were broken and her cheeks were bright red. August could not help but feel sorry for her. Her two comrades looked even worse. Their noses were raw and bleeding and they would probably lose their ears to frostbite. Their gloves were so thick with ice that August did not even think they could move their fingers.

Looking at them, the colonel realized that Sharab and her countrymen were not going to fight them or run anywhere. August leaned close to them.

“General Rodgers and Nanda completed their mission,” August said.

Sharab was staring ahead. Her red eyes began to tear. Her exposed mouth moved silently. In prayer, August suspected. The other men hugged her arms weakly and also spoke silent words.

“An Indian helicopter will arrive at sunup,” August went on. “Corporal Musicant will be leaving on it. I’m going to make my way back to the valley to find the rest of my team. What do you want to do?”

Sharab turned her tearing eyes toward August. There was deep despair in her gaze. Her voice was gravelly and tremulous when she spoke. “Will America . . . help us . . . to make the case . . . for a Pakistani Kashmir?” she asked.

“I think things will change because of what happened over the last few days,” August admitted. “But I don’t know what my nation will say or do.”

Sharab laid an icy glove on August’s forearm. “Will . . . you help us?” she pressed. “They . . . killed . . . your team.”

“The madness between your countries killed my team,” August said.

“No,” she said. She gestured violently toward the edge of the plateau. “The men . . . down there . . . killed them. They are godless . . . evil.”

This was not a discussion August wanted to have. Not with someone who blew up public buildings and peace officers for a living.

“Sharab, I’ve worked with you to this point,” August said. “I can’t do any more. There will be a trial and hearings. If you surrender, you will have the opportunity to make a strong case for your people.”

“That will not . . . help,” she insisted.

“It will be a start,” August countered.

“And if . . . we go back . . . down the mountain?” the woman asked. “What will you do?”

“I guess I’ll say good-bye,” he replied.

“You won’t try . . . to stop us?” Sharab pressed.

“No,” August assured her. “Excuse me, now. I’m going back to join the rest of my unit.”

August looked at the defiant Pakistani for a moment longer. The woman’s hate and rage were burning through the cold and physical exhaustion. He had seen determined fighters during his life. The Vietcong. Kurdish resistance fighters. People who were fighting for their homes and families. But this furnace was a terrifying thing to witness.

Colonel August turned and walked back across the slippery, windswept ridge. Tribunals would be a good start. But it would take more than that to eradicate what existed between the Indians and the Pakistanis. It would take a war like the one they had barely managed to avoid. Or it would take an unparalleled and sustained international effort lasting generations.

For a sad, transient moment August shared something with Sharab.

A profound sense of despair.

SEVENTY

Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 7:10 A.M.

Paul Hood sat alone in his office. He was looking at his computer, reviewing the comments he planned to make at the ten A.M. Striker memorial.

As promised, Herbert had persuaded the Indians to bring choppers from the line of control to collect the bodies of the Strikers. The leverage he used was simple. The Pakistanis agreed to stay out of the region, even though they claimed the valley for their own. Herbert convinced New Delhi that it would be a bad idea for Pakistanis to collect the bodies of Americans who had been killed by Indians. It would have made a political statement that neither India nor the United States wished to make.

Colonel August was in the valley to meet the two Mi-35s when they arrived late Friday afternoon. The bodies had already been collected and lined up beneath their canopies. August stayed with the bodies until they had been flown back to Quantico on Sunday. Then and only then did the colonel agree to go to a hospital. Mike Rodgers was there to meet him.

Hood and Rodgers had performed too many of these services since Op-Center had first been chartered. Mike Rodgers inevitably spoke eloquently of duty and soldiering. Heroism and tradition. Hood always tried to find a perspective in which to place the sacrifice. The salvation of a country, the saving of lives, or the prevention of war. The men invariably left the mourners feeling hope instead of futility, pride to temper the sense of loss.

But this was different. More than the lives of the Strikers was being memorialized today.

New Delhi had publicly thanked Op-Center for uncovering a Pakistani cell. The bodies of three terrorists had been found at the foot of the Himachal Peaks in the Himalayas. They appeared to have slipped from a ledge and plummeted to their deaths. They were identified by records on file at the offices of the Special Frontier Force.

Islamabad had also publicly thanked Op-Center for helping deter a nuclear strike against Pakistan. Though Indian Defense Minister John Kabir had been named by Major Dev Puri and others as the man behind the plot, Kabir denied the allegations. He vowed to fight any indictments the government might consider handing down. Hood suspected that the minister and others would resign, and that would be the end of it. New Delhi would rather bury the reality of any wrongdoing than give Pakistan a more credible voice in the court of world opinion.

Hood even got a thank-you call from Nanda Kumar. The young woman called from New Delhi to say that General Rodgers had been a hero and a gentleman. Although he had not been able to save her grandfather, she realized that Rodgers had done everything he could to make the trek easier for him. She said she hoped to visit Hood and Rodgers in Washington when she got out of the hospital. Even though she was technically an Indian intelligence operative, Hood had no doubt that she would get a visa. Nanda’s broadcast had made her an international celebrity. She would spend the rest of her life speaking and writing about her experience. Hood hoped that the twenty-two-year-old was wise beyond her years. He hoped she would use the media access to promote tolerance and peace in Kashmir, and not the agendas of India or Nanda Kumar.

The praise from abroad was unique. Even when Op-Center succeeded in averting disaster, Hood and his team were typically slammed for their involvement in the internal affairs of another nation—Spain or the Koreas or the Middle East or anywhere else they handled a crisis.

Despite the praise coming from abroad, Op-Center took several unprecedented hits on the home front. Most of those came from Hank Lewis and the Congressional Intelligence Oversight Committee. They wanted to know why General Rodgers had left the Siachin Glacier without Ron Friday. Why Striker had jumped into a military hot zone during the day instead of at night. Why the NRO was involved in the operation but not the CIA or the full resources of the NSA, which had an operative on-site. Hood and Rodgers had gone over to Capitol Hill to explain everything to Lewis and to Fox and her fellow CIOC members.

They might just as well have been speaking Urdu. The CIOC had already decided that in addition to the previously discussed downsizing, Op-Center would no longer be maintaining a military wing. Striker would be officially disbanded. Colonel August and Corporal Musicant would be reassigned and General Rodgers’s role would be “reevaluated.”

Hood was also informed that he would be filing daily rather than semiweekly reports with CIOC. They wanted to know everything that the agency was involved with, from situation analyses to photographic reconnaissance.

Hood suspected the only thing that protected Op-Center at all was the loyalty of the president of the United States. President Lawrence and United Nations Secretary-General Mala Chatterjee had issued a joint statement congratulating Paul Hood for his group’s nonpartisan efforts on behalf of humanitarianism and world peace. It was not a document the CIOC could ignore, especially after Chatterjee’s bitter denunciation of the way Hood had handled the Security Council crisis. Hood could not imagine the kind of pressure Lawrence must have applied to get that statement. He also wondered how Chatterjee really felt. She was a pacifistic Indian whose nation had tried to start a nuclear war against its neighbor. Unless she was steeped in denial, that had to be difficult for her to reconcile. Hood would not be surprised to hear that she was resigning her post to run for political office at home. That would certainly be a good step toward peace in the region.

All of which served to make this a very different time, a very different memorial service. It was the last time Paul Hood and the original Op-Center would do anything as teammates. The rest of them would not know that yet.

But Paul Hood would. He wanted to say something that addressed a new loss they would all soon be feeling.

He reread the opening line of his testimonial.

“This is the second family I have lost in as many months . . .”

He deleted it. The statement was too much about him. Too much about his loss.

But it did start him thinking. Although he was no longer living with Sharon and the kids, he still felt as though they were together in some way. If not physically then spiritually.

And then it came to him. Hood knew the line was right because it caught in his throat as he tried to say it.

Hood typed with two trembling index fingers as he tried to see the computer monitor. It was blurry because he was blinking out tears over what was supposed to be just a job.

“This I have learned,” he wrote with confidence. “Wherever fate takes any of us, we will always be family. . . .”

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

ONE - Maun, Botswana Monday, 4:53 A.M.

TWO - Maun, Botswana Monday, 5:19 A.M.

THREE - Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 7:54 A.M.

FOUR - Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 8:33 A.M.

FIVE - Okavango Swamp, Botswana Tuesday, 4:35 P.M.

SIX - Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 10:18 A.M.

SEVEN - Okavango Swamp, Botswana Tuesday, 5:36 P.M.

EIGHT - Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 5:55 P.M.

NINE - Okavango Swamp, Botswana Wednesday, 1:40 A.M.

TEN - Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 8:00 P.M.

ELEVEN - Paris, France Wednesday, 3:35 A.M.

TWELVE - Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 9:49 P.M.

THIRTEEN - Okavango Swamp, Botswana Wednesday, 5:58 A.M.

FOURTEEN - Washington, D.C. Wednesday, 6:00 A.M.

FIFTEEN - Washington, D.C. Thursday, 8:00 A.M.

SIXTEEN - Washington, D.C. Thursday, 8:12 A.M.

SEVENTEEN - Maun, Botswana Thursday, 4:30 P.M.

EIGHTEEN - Washington, D.C. Thursday, 9:55 A.M.

NINETEEN - Okavango Swamp, Botswana Thursday, 6:00 P.M.

TWENTY - Maun, Botswana Thursday, 6:46 P.M.

TWENTY-ONE - Washington, D.C. Thursday, 11:47 A.M.

TWENTY-TWO - Maun, Botswana Thursday, 11:01 P.M.

TWENTY-THREE - Maun, Botswana Thursday, 11:30 P.M.

TWENTY-FOUR - Washington, D.C. Thursday, 4:35 P.M.

TWENTY-FIVE - Okavango Swamp, Botswana Friday, 12:05 A.M.

TWENTY-SIX - Washington, D.C. Thursday, 4:47 P.M.

TWENTY-SEVEN - Maun, Botswana Friday, 8:00 A.M.

TWENTY-EIGHT - Washington, D.C. Thursday, 5:30 P.M.

TWENTY-NINE - Maun, Botswana Friday, 8:21 A.M.

THIRTY - Washington, D.C. Friday, 5:03 A.M.

THIRTY-ONE - Maun, Botswana Friday, 1:30 P.M.

THIRTY-TWO - South African Airways Flight 7003 Friday, 12:03 P.M.

THIRTY-THREE - Maun, Botswana Friday, 3:00 P.M.

THIRTY-FOUR - Maun, Botswana Friday, 3:07 P.M.

THIRTY-FIVE - Maun, Botswana Friday, 3:18 P.M.

THIRTY-SIX - Washington, D.C. Friday, 8:40 A.M.

THIRTY-SEVEN - Maun, Botswana Friday, 3:44 P.M.

THIRTY-EIGHT - Washington, D.C. Friday, 9:00 A.M.

THIRTY-NINE - Washington, D.C. Friday, 9:00 A.M.

FORTY - Okavango Swamp, Botswana Friday, 4:39 P.M.

FORTY-ONE - Gaborone, Botswana Friday, 4:40 P.M.

FORTY-TWO - Maun, Botswana Friday, 5:22 P.M.

FORTY-THREE - Maun, Botswana Friday, 5:31 P.M.

FORTY-FOUR - Washington, D.C. Friday, 11:18 A.M.

FORTY-FIVE - Okavango Swamp, Botswana Friday, 6:20 P.M.

FORTY-SIX - Okavango Swamp, Botswana Friday, 6:42 P.M.

FORTY-SEVEN - Washington, D.C. Friday, 12:00 P.M.

FORTY-EIGHT - Maun, Botswana Friday, 7:00 P.M.

FORTY-NINE - Washington, D.C. Friday, 12:05 P.M.

FIFTY - The Trans-Kalahari Highway, Botswana Friday, 8:07 P.M.

FIFTY-ONE - Washington, D.C. Friday, 1: 08 P.M.

FIFTY-TWO - Maun, Botswana Friday, 10:09 P.M.

FIFTY-THREE - Washington, D.C. Friday, 3:10 P.M.

FIFTY-FOUR - Maun, Botswana Friday, 10:31 P.M.

FIFTY-FIVE - Washington, D.C. Friday, 3:13 P.M.

FIFTY-SIX - Okavango Swamp, Botswana Friday, 11:19 P.M.

FIFTY-SEVEN - Makgadikgadi Pan, Botswana Friday, 11: 40 P.M.

FIFTY-EIGHT - Washington, D.C. Friday, 4: 41 P.M.

FIFTY-NINE - Makgadikgadi Pan, Botswana Saturday, 12:30 A.M.

SIXTY - Makgadikgadi Pan, Botswana Saturday, 12:45 A.M.

SIXTY-ONE - Washington, D.C. Friday, 6:19 P.M.

SIXTY-TWO - Makgadikgadi Pan, Botswana Saturday, 1:56 A.M.

SIXTY-THREE - Makgadikgadi Pan, Botswana Saturday, 3:19 A.M.

SIXTY-FOUR - Gaborone, Botswana Saturday, 6:09 A.M.

SIXTY-FIVE - Washington, D.C. Saturday, 12:52 A.M.

SIXTY-SIX - Tokyo, Japan Monday, 3:18 P.M.

NOVELS BY TOM CLANCY

The Hunt for Red October

Red Storm Rising

Patriot Games

The Cardinal of the Kremlin

Clear and Present Danger

The Sum of All Fears

Without Remorse

Debt of Honor

Executive Orders

Rainbow Six

The Bear and the Dragon

Red Rabbit

The Teeth of the Tiger

SSN: Strategies of Submarine Warfare

NONFICTION

Submarine: A Guided Tour Inside a Nuclear Warship

Armored Cav: A Guided Tour of an Armored Cavalry Regiment

Fighter Wing: A Guided Tour of an Air Force Combat Wing

Marine: A Guided Tour of a Marine Expeditionary Unit

Airborne: A Guided Tour of an Airborne Task Force

Carrier: A Guided Tour of an Aircraft Carrier

Special Forces: A Guided Tour of U.S. Army Special Forces

Into the Storm: A Study in Command

(written with General Fred Franks, Jr., Ret.)

Every Man a Tiger

(written with General Charles Horner, Ret.)

Shadow Warriors: Inside the Special Forces

(written with General Carl Stiner, Ret., and Tony Koltz)

CREATED BY TOM CLANCY

Splinter Cell

CREATED BY TOM CLANCY AND STEVE PIECZENIK

Tom Clancy’s Op-Center

Tom Clancy’s Op-Center: Mirror Image

Tom Clancy’s Op-Center: Games of State

Tom Clancy’s Op-Center: Acts of War

Tom Clancy’s Op-Center: Balance of Power

Tom Clancy’s Op-Center: State of Siege

Tom Clancy’s Op-Center: Divide and Conquer

Tom Clancy’s Op-Center: Line of Control

Tom Clancy’s Op-Center: Mission of Honor

Tom Clancy’s Op-Center: Sea of Fire

Tom Clancy’s Op-Center: Call to Treason

Tom Clancy’s Net Force

Tom Clancy’s Net Force: Hidden Agendas

Tom Clancy’s Net Force: Night Moves

Tom Clancy’s Net Force: Breaking Point

Tom Clancy’s Net Force: Point of Impact

Tom Clancy’s Net Force: CyberNation

Tom Clancy’s Net Force: State of War

Tom Clancy’s Net Force: Changing of the Guard

Tom Clancy’s Net Force: Springboard

CREATED BY TOM CLANCY AND MARTIN GREENBERG

Tom Clancy’s Power Plays: Politika

Tom Clancy’s Power Plays: ruthless.com

Tom Clancy’s Power Plays: Shadow Watch

Tom Clancy’s Power Plays: Bio-Strike

Tom Clancy’s Power Plays: Cold War

Tom Clancy’s Power Plays: Cutting Edge

Tom Clancy’s Power Plays: Zero Hour

Tom Clancy’s Power Plays: Wild Card

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA) Inc. 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

Penguin Group (Canada), 10 Alcorn Avenue, Toronto, Ontario M4V 3B2, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England

Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)

Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)

Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India

Penguin Group (NZ), Cnr. Airborne and Rosedale Roads, Albany, Auckland 1310, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: MISSION OF HONOR

A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with Jack Ryan Limited Partnership andS & R Literary, Inc.

PRINTING HISTORY

Berkley edition / June 2002

Copyright © 2002 by Jack Ryan Limited Partnership and S & R Literary, Inc.

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

eISBN : 978-1-101-00368-8

BERKLEY®

Berkley Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

BERKLEY is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

The “B” design is a trademark belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

http://us.penguingroup.com

ONE

Maun, Botswana Monday, 4:53 A.M.

The sun rose swiftly over the flat, seemingly endless plain.

The landmarks had changed in the decades since “Prince” Leon Seronga had first come here. Behind them, the Khwai River was not as deep as it had been. The grasses of the plain were shorter but more plentiful, covering familiar boulders and ravines. But the former army officer had no trouble recognizing the place or reconnecting with the transformations that had started here.

One was his personal growth.

The second was a result of that growth, the birth of a new nation.

And the third? He hoped that his visit today would begin the greatest change yet.

Walking into the new dawn, the six-foot-three Seronga watched as the deep black sky seemed to catch fire. It started at a point and spilled all along the horizon, like liquid flame. Stars that had been so bright just moments before quickly dimmed and faded like the last of fireworks. Within seconds, the sharp, crescent moon dimmed from sickle-edged brilliance to cloudlike. All around him, the sleeping earth became active. The wind began to move. High-flying hawks and tiny kinglets took flight. Fleas started to creep along Leon’s army boots. Field mice dashed through the grasses to the north.

That is power, thought the lean, dreadlocked man.

Simply by waking, by opening a blind eye, the sun caused heaven’s other lights to flee and the earth itself to stir. The retired Democratic Army soldier wondered if Dhamballa felt a hint of that same prepotency when he woke each morning. It was still too early in his ministry. Yet if a leader is a leader born, he must feel something of that flame, that heat, that strength.

The temperature climbed rapidly as daybreak spread along the plain and into the sky. The red softened to orange, then yellow, and the deep blue of dawn became the soft blue of day. Perspiration began to run down Leon’s sides, down the small of his back, and along his lower legs. It collected on his high cheekbones, under his nose, and along his hairline. Leon welcomed the slick moisture. It kept his flesh from burning under the sun’s merciless glare. It also prevented his jeans and high boots from chafing his thighs and ankles. It was amazing. The body knew how to take care of itself.

While nature unfolded as it always did, with both grandeur and detail, there was also something special about this morning. It was more than what Leon was about to do, though that was extraordinary enough. Without realizing it, he had been waiting over forty years for this moment. There were fifty-two men marching behind the former Botswana army colonel in two tight columns. He had trained them himself in secret, and he was confident of their abilities. They had parked their trucks by the river, over a quarter mile from the distribution compound, so they would not be seen or heard.

But for a brief time, the sights and sensations took the fifty-six-year-old Botswana native back to when he had first witnessed dawn on the majestic floodplain.

It was on a savagely muggy August morning in 1958. Leon was eleven years old, the age of passage for men of the small Batawana tribe. But while Leon was told he was a man, he did not yet feel like one.

He clearly remembered walking between his father and his uncle, both of whom were big and powerful. They were followed by two other village men who were equally strong of back and stamina. In Leon’s mind, they were what a man was supposed to be: tall and upright. He did not yet understand the concepts of confidence and pride, loyalty and love, bravery and patriotism. Those qualities came later, the qualities that made the inner man.

Back then, he found that he had the will and ability to slaughter animals for food, but he did not yet understand that it was a man’s prerogative—and often his responsibility—to kill other men for honor or country.

Leon’s father and his uncle were both seasoned hunters and trackers. Until that morning, Leon had never caught anything more ferocious than hares and field mice. While Leon walked alongside the men, he knew that he did not truly walk among them.

Not yet.

On that morning nearly a half century before, the five men had gathered outside the Serongas’ thatched hut. It was well before sunrise, when only the newborns and chickens were awake. Before leaving, the men ate a breakfast of sliced apples and mint leaves in warm honey, unleavened bread, and fresh goat’s milk. Even though her son was going on his first hunt, Leon’s mother did not see them off. This was a man’s day. A day, as his father had said, for men who were among the oldest hunters in the human race.

That morning, the men were not armed with anything like the Fusil Automatique assault rifle Leon Seronga carried now. They were armed with nine-inch knives tucked in giraffe-skin sheaths, iron-tipped spears, and a coil of rope carried around the left shoulder. That left the right arm unencumbered. Bare-chested, dressed only in sandals and loincloths, the men made their way unhurriedly along the eastern edge of the flat Khwai River floodplain. Eleven miles to the north and thirteen miles to the south were the villages of Calasara and Tamindar. Straight ahead, to the east, was game.

The men walked slowly to conserve their energy. Leon had never been so far from the village. The farthest he had ever gone was the Khwai River, and they had crossed that after an hour. They stayed wide of the grass, which stood nearly as tall as his lanky shoulders. It hid burrowing adders and brush vipers. Both snakes were poisonous and active in the early morning hours. But to this day, Leon still vividly remembered the sound of the grass bending gently in the early morning breeze. It reminded him of the way rain sounded when it slashed through the trees on its way to the village. It was not a sound that came from a single place. It seemed to come from everywhere.

Leon also vividly remembered the faint musky scent that rode the early morning breeze from the southeast. His father Maurice told him that was the smell of sleeping zebras. The men would not be hunting zebras because they had very sensitive ears. They would hear the men coming, and they would panic. Their hoofbeats and braying brought lions.

“And lions bring fleas,” the older man had added quickly. Even then, Leon knew that his father was trying to take some of the scare from what he was about to say.

The elder Seronga told him that as kings of the plain, lions were privileged to sleep late every morning. When the cats woke, when they had yawned and preened, they would hunt zebra or antelope. Those were animals with meat on them, enough food to make a difficult chase worthwhile. Maurice assured Leon that lions ignored men unless they got in their way. Then the great cats would not hesitate to attack.

“For a snack,” Leon’s father had said with a grin. “Something to give to the cubs.”

Leon took the warning very, very seriously. The boy had once dangled a piece of hemp over the head of a small dog. It jumped up and bit Leon instead. The bite had hurt him terribly, burning and stinging at the same time. Even Leon’s toes had tingled with pain. He could not imagine the agony of being dragged down by lions and bitten all over. But he had faith that would not happen. His father or the other men would protect him. That was what adults and leaders did. They protected the smaller members of the family or tribe.

Even the smaller men, like Leon.

On that great and majestic morning, the hunters from Moremi were after giant forest hogs. The brown-and-black bristled herbivores inhabited the intermediate zones between forest and grassland. That was where hog ponds and the reeds they liked could be found. A family of the animals had been spotted the day before by one of the men. The pigs moved in small groups and tended to become active not long after dawn, before predators were up and about. Leon’s father had told him that it was important to catch the hogs when they were just beginning to forage. They knew the lions were not awake yet. That was when their attention was primarily on food and not on potential predators.

The men were successful that morning. They killed a fat old hog that had wandered from the group. Or maybe the group had wandered from the hog. Perhaps they had left it out there as sacrificial prey. The knee-high pig was speared by Leon’s uncle, who had crept close from behind and then launched himself at the beast. Leon could still hear the animal’s squeals of pain and confusion. He could still see that initial jet of blood from behind the pig’s shoulder. It was the most exciting thing he had ever experienced.

Leon’s father had rushed forward. The dying animal was flipped onto its side before the other hogs were even aware that anything had happened. The beasts did not scatter until Maurice had already knelt on the beast’s shoulder, pinning it, and slashed its throat. The animal was quickly noosed with one of the ropes. That would prevent it from bleeding and attracting carrion feeders like silverbacked jackals. The blood would also keep the meat moist as they transported the heavy carcass under the searing sun.

While Maurice and his brother stanched the bleeding, the young boy and the other men found two long branches. These were quickly stripped with the knives and used as carrying poles. Before the pig was trussed, Maurice paused to slip a bloody finger between his son’s lips. Then he bent very close to his son. He wanted the boy to see the conviction in his eyes.

“Remember this moment, my son,” the elder man said softly. “Remember this taste. Our people cannot survive without shedding blood. We cannot exist without risk.”

Less than four hours after the men had set out, the animal had been slung loosely between the poles and was being carried home on the shoulders of the men. Leon walked to the side. His job was to hold the end of the noose and keep it tight. Leon was never so proud as when they walked into the village with his kill on the end of a leash.

The hog was a good-sized animal that fed the village for two days. After the meat was finished, its bones already carved into trinkets for sale to occasional tourists, another group of men went out to hunt. Leon was sorry not to be going with them. He was already thinking of tackling a zebra or gazelle and maybe even a lion. Leon even told his mother of his dream to kill a great cat. That was when he got his nickname. Bertrice Seronga told her son that only a prince could get close enough to kill a king.

“Are you a prince?” she asked.

Leon said that maybe he was. The woman smiled and began calling him Prince Leon.

Leon went on nearly 300 hunts during the next five years. By the time he was thirteen years old, Prince Leon was already leading his own parties. Since a son could not command his father, Maurice proudly withdrew from those hunts so that his son could learn about leadership. During that time, most of the kills were also his, though Leon never did slay a lion. But that was not his fault, he decided. It was the lions’ doing. The king of beasts was much too smart to come within range of his spear.

Seronga wondered, then, if the lion is so powerful and so clever, who could kill it? The answer, of course, was death. Death killed the lion just as death must kill the most powerful of men. Leon wondered, though, if the lion was strong enough to hold death back. He had once watched a lioness die after making a rare solo kill of an antelope. He wondered if the lioness had expended herself in the chase. Or, knowing that she was soon to die, had she held off death long enough to enjoy this one, last chase.

In 1963, the world changed. Leon’s thoughts turned from the habits of animals to the habits of men.

Hunting became more difficult as the men of the Batawana tribe had to go farther and farther to find game. At first, they thought the ranging habits of the animals had changed. Seasonal lightning strikes had caused fires that changed the landscape. Herbivores had to follow the grasses, and meat eaters had to follow their prey. But in 1962, men from the capital city of Gaborone and from London arrived in the small village by airplane.

At the time, Botswana was known as Bechuanaland. It was a British protectorate and had been so since 1885. It was being protected, Leon had been taught, from South African Boers and other aggressors. The white men from Gaborone and London told the Batawanans that the animals were being hunted out of existence. The men said that the tribespeople had to change the way they lived or eventually they would perish.

The men from Gaborone and London had a plan.

With the blessings of the elders of all the local tribes, the government transformed the entire floodplain and vast, surrounding areas into the Moremi Wildlife Reserve. Tourism rather than hunting would become the mainstay of the people of the region.

A good deal of money was paid to every family. Construction teams arrived by truck and airplane three weeks later. They razed the old village and built houses of wood and tin. Farther out, where there were no signs of civilization, they also built the Khwai River Lodge. They made that of stone and tile. Each week, the trucks that brought food to the lodge also brought food that the villagers could buy. Schools were established. Missions that had been responsible for education and medical care took a more active role in the running of the local villages. The old gods, gods of the hunt and of thunder, were displaced and forgotten. Radios and then television replaced storytelling. European-style clothes and jewelry and housing were coveted. Life became less arduous.

Less exciting.

The animals of the floodplain were saved. So too, the Batawanans were told, were their lives and their immortal souls.

Leon had never been convinced of that. What his people had gained in security they had lost in independence. They had been given knowledge at the expense of wisdom; faith had taken the place of religion. They had secured life and surrendered living.

When he was eighteen, Leon left the village. He had read about a man in Gaborone, Sir Seretse Khama, whose Democratic Party was working to free his nation from British control. Leon enlisted in Khama’s Democratic Army. It was a peaceful group of nearly three thousand men. Their job was to hand out leaflets and ensure the security of their leader. Leon did not enjoy that work. He was a hunter. Together with five men who felt the same way he did, Leon formed the Brush Vipers. They worked in secret to collect intelligence on key British officials. Among their discoveries was a plot to frame Sir Khama for embezzling funds from his Democratic Party.

Within days, the chief plotter vanished. Sir Khama never learned of the plan against him or of the counterstrike. But the English knew. Leon had made very certain of that. Despite the quiet demands of the foreign office, the Englishman was never located. Few outsiders who went into the Okavango Swamp alive were ever seen again. Men who went into the swamp and had their throats slashed from ear to ear were never found. Leon did, however, give the chief foreign officer the man’s watch. The Batawanan told him he had no desire to start a collection of British timepieces.

The CFO got the message.

A year later, the British ceded control of the country. Bechuanaland became the Republic of Botswana, with Khama as its first president. The changes that had started were not undone. People liked the goods from Europe and America. But President Khama made it difficult for other groups to enter his country with new distractions and foreign ideas.

It was only then that Leon and his young colleagues realized what a huge responsibility they had won for themselves. They were no longer protecting one man.

Like Khama himself, they were looking after a nation. In a continent buffeted by ancient tribal rivalries and wars of land, water, and precious minerals, they were suddenly responsible for the security of nearly half a million people. Their own families depended upon their vigilance.

Leon was given a commission as second lieutenant and joined the Botswana Defense Forces. He served in the army’s elite Northern Division. Among other regions, Batawana and the floodplains of Maun were under their jurisdiction. Seronga helped to organize security along the border with war-ravaged Angola. He also instructed native Angolans on intelligence-gathering techniques to use against the Portuguese. Like his brothers in Botswana and South Africa, he wanted to see the Europeans driven from Africa.

Despite the efforts of Leon and the president, the nation continued to change. Leon watched as his people became fat and eviscerated. Like the hogs Seronga and his father had hunted so long ago, the Botswanans were prey for hunters: men from Europe who came back with money. Botswanans sold the hard-won coal mines, the copper mines, the diamond mines. They had thrown off political control only to surrender to economic control. The revolution had been for nothing.

During this time, his greatest comfort was his own family. Lieutenant Seronga married when he returned to the north. He and his wife had four sons. In time, they began bearing him grandchildren.

It was for their sake, finally, that he left the Defense Forces. He retired on a pension for a time. But then something happened. He found a new cause, a new army to lead.

Leon and his men rounded a clump of high grasses. Some of his old soldiers had returned. They had done the legwork for this crusade. They had found and watched the deacon missionaries. They were supported by new and idealistic fighters such as Donald Pavant, his right-hand officer. Pavant was a little extreme, but that was all right. His youth and impulsiveness were balanced by Leon Seronga’s age and wisdom. Other men had joined them, including a handful of white warriors Gaborone, men who believed in their cause. Or perhaps in the money to be made by driving the foreigners out. Regardless, they were here.

Seronga and his unit came upon a familiar pond. The watering hole was smaller than it used to be. Irrigation had changed the floodplains, and the pigs had been relocated. Only the field mice and a few flightless birds came here to drink. But it was still unmistakably the pond where he had begun his road to manhood. In the rising sun, Leon imagined he could still see the long shadows of his father and the other men. He could still taste the blood of the pig on his lips.

And one thing more. Leon could still see his father’s dark eyes, hear his father’s words: “Our people cannot survive without shedding blood. We cannot exist without risk.”

Fortunately, the other members of Leon’s old Brush Viper unit felt the same as their former leader did. The men had remained in contact over the years. When one of the Brush Vipers heard Dhamballa speak, an opportunity presented itself to undo the mistakes that had been made. Leon went to hear the man in Machaneng, a village to the east. He was captivated by what he heard. He was even more impressed with what he saw: a leader.

They had to work with Europeans again, only this time they would do it right. They would take back what had been lost.

Distant structures appeared on the horizon, beyond the waving grasses. There were six of them built of logs with ceramic tile roofs. The sun glinted on the white satellite dish in a clearing. It played on the chrome of the cars and vans parked in the dirt lot.

Leon motioned for his men to stay low behind the grass. He knew that they should have come here in the dark, but it was important that he see the sun rise. Besides, the tourists inside the compound would not be up yet. Scouts had reported that the shutters remained closed until nearly eight A.M. The foreigners liked their sleep.

Saving the nation would not be easy. And it would not be bloodless. But that was to be expected.

Revolutions seldom were.

TWO

Maun, Botswana Monday, 5:19 A.M.

Father Powys Bradbury opened his eyes a moment before the sun peeked over the windowsill. He smiled as he watched the white walls and ceiling brighten. It was good to be back.

The South African native usually rose at first light. Throughout his forty-three years as a priest, Bradbury had made it a habit of saying his morning offering at the break of day. The prayer was about dedicating one’s day to the Sacred Heart of Jesus. It seemed only right to do that when the day began, not when it was convenient.

The short, wispy man continued to smile as he lay in his small twin bed. The bed was tucked in a corner of the white-walled room. The only other pieces of furniture were a night table, a wardrobe at the foot of the bed, and a desk across the room. There was a simple laptop computer on the desk. Father Bradbury used that primarily for E-mail. The computer was surrounded by stacks of books and periodicals, which were also piled on the floor of the small room. The priest subscribed to newspapers from across the continent. He enjoyed finding out what other Africans were thinking.

The wardrobe contained two sets of his priestly vestments, a white bathrobe, a windbreaker for cool winter nights, and one pair of jeans and a Cape Town sweatshirt. Father Bradbury wore the jeans and sweatshirt whenever he played soccer with his more sports-minded congregants. Apart from the short pajamas he had on now, these were the only clothes the priest owned. He believed wholeheartedly in Psalm 119:37 which said, “Turn away mine eyes from beholding vanity; by Your way give me life.”

Father Bradbury’s only indulgence was a compact disc player that he kept on a shelf above the desk. He enjoyed listening to Gregorian chants while he wrote or read.

Father Bradbury stretched soundlessly. There was no one in the adjoining room. The seven deacon missionaries who were attached to the Church of the Holy Cross were in the field. But silence was a way of life for Father Bradbury. He had first developed a fondness for it at the Seminary of Saint Ignatius in Cape Town, where silence was mandatory for all but prayer. He felt there was something civilized about quiet. It was something that separated humans from the braying, roaring animals of Africa. He had never agreed with the notion that noisy, crowded cities were the hubs of civilization. To him, civilization was a place where sophistication was not as important as loving cooperation.

In just a few moments, the energies of the white-haired priest would be turned to the service of God. His attention would go to the people of the surrounding villages. Father Bradbury took a minute to enjoy one of the few times of the day that were truly his.

The night before, Father Bradbury had returned from a five-day visit to the archdiocese in Cape Town. He always enjoyed his meetings with Archbishop Patrick and other mission priests. The cathedral itself was made of shining white stone, an inspiration to see and to work in. There were two bell towers framing the main portal, each of them five stories high. Their ringing could be heard all over the city. Archbishop Patrick himself was also an inspiration. He always had stimulating ideas about how to bring the word of Christ to people who had little familiarity with the Church and its teachings. The seven men actually had a great deal of fun as they went to the Veritas Production House to make audiotapes. Using simple readings and commentary, the clergymen outlined gospel values. These audiotapes would help the deacon missionaries of southern Africa bring new believers to the fold. Unlike Father Bradbury, who remained in his own parish, the deacon missionaries were the men who worked in the field, who went to the isolated villages and regions shaken by poverty, disease, and hunger.

Father Bradbury drew a deep breath of the dry, hot air. He exhaled slowly, then listened to the wonderful silence. Once in a while it was broken by chacma baboons that approached the compound in search of a handout. Though the grasses, insects, and fruits they ate were plentiful, the dog-nosed primates were among God’s laziest creations.

There were no apes today. Nothing stirred but the wind. And it was absolutely delicious.

The air in Father Bradbury’s native city was dusty and humid, and the streets were loud, even at night. The clergyman had been in Botswana for eleven years. He had spent seven of those years as a deacon missionary. He still had the rough feet and sunburned face to prove it. He had spent the last four years as parish priest at the forty-seven-year-old Church of the Holy Cross, which ministered to the neighboring villages of Maun and Moremi. Bradbury missed the church terribly whenever he was away. He missed the calm, he missed his ministry, and most of all, he missed the individual congregants. So many of them had given their time and their energy to make the church an extended family. The priest loved being a daily part of their lives, their thoughts, their faith.

Whenever Father Bradbury was gone, he also missed the tourists. For purely proselytical reasons, Archbishop Patrick had supported the construction of the tourist center adjoining the church. Each week, over four dozen tourists came from Europe, North America, the Middle East, and Asia. They enjoyed great comfort. Porcelain bathtubs, teak floors, mahogany sleigh beds, wicker chairs with thick cushions, and sumptuous native rugs. They ate from bone-handled silveware and copper plates. There were unfinished oak beams all around them. Guests had rich cotton sheets on the beds and elegant damask tablecloths in the dining area. Tourists used the walled compound as a staging area for tours and photo safaris. Many of the visitors were young. Religion did not play a large part in their lives. Archbishop Patrick thought that an inspirational place like the reserve might bring them nearer the creator. For Father Bradbury, the tourists also brought something, something more secular but no less important. Their wide-eyed awe at the countryside reaffirmed his own sense of wonder and pride in the region.

The priest threw off the lightweight top sheet. Even this far from the river, Father Bradbury needed a mosquito net. He was grateful for it. The priest had what his mother used to call “candy-sweet veins.” Mosquitoes loved him. In addition to sore feet, he did not miss the mosquitoes, gnats, and parasitic warble flies that were part of his years of carrying the word of God from village to village. There were fleas here, but at least they could not fly. A shower a day with medicated soap, and they showed no interest in him.

Father Bradbury rose. He knelt briefly beside the cross that hung above the bed. Then he headed for the tiny washroom built between his room and the deacons’ quarters. Along with the tourists, plumbing had come to the compound. It was a welcome addition to the rectory.

After showering in the tiny washroom, Father Bradbury dressed. Then he stepped outside into the warm morning. A small flagstone walk led from the rectory to the small church. Beyond that, only partly visible behind the sanctuary, was the tourist center. The government-licensed enterprise consisted of an office, bungalows, the lobby and dining room, and a parking area. Father Bradbury took a moment to look across the six-foot-high wall at the rising sun. The wall had been built to keep out animals that strayed from their usual terrain. That usually occurred twice each year during a period of drought or flood. When that happened, wildlife officials always came to take the animals to a safe haven closer to Maun. They did so quickly, since lost herbivores tended to draw predators. And hungry predators drew tourists with cameras.

The sky was shading from deep blue to cerulean. There were no clouds, just the fair, faint crescent moon high on the northern horizon. It was a good morning and a good life.

A few seconds later, both the morning and Father Bradbury’s life were changed.

There were a series of loud pops from inside the compound. At first, the priest thought some of the hanging ceramic flowerpots had dropped from the tile eaves of the tourist center. Then he heard shouting. It was not shattering pots that had disrupted the peaceful morning.

The priest ran around the church. His sandals clopped on the stones of the walk. At the front of the church was a rose garden that he had planted himself. He had put them there so they would have the early morning sun. The church protected them from the late morning on. Father Bradbury reached the courtyard that fronted the tourist center.

The sixty-three-year-old director of the center was already standing outside. Native Maunan Tswana Ndebele was still dressed in his underwear. He was also wearing a look of tempered rage. His bare arms were raised ear high. About ten feet behind him, one of the tour guides and several tourists were grouped together just outside the door of the main office. They were all facing the open gate. Their hands were also lifted. None of them moved.

The priest noticed several bullet holes in the oak door frame. He turned toward the gate.

The gate was made of iron bars that resembled Batawana spears. The door had been swung inside, and over four dozen men were assuming positions along the inside wall of the courtyard. They were dressed in camouflage uniforms with black berets. Each man carried a firearm. They did not wear insignias or chevrons of rank. They were not government soldiers.

“No,” Father Bradbury muttered. “Not here.”

The group looked like any of the small, organized militias he had read about in his newspapers. During the past decade, they had caused revolutions in Somalia, Nigeria, Ethiopia, the Sudan, and other African nations. But there had been no rebels in this land since the 1960s. There was no need. The government was democratically elected, and people were generally content.

The soldiers were approximately two hundred feet away. The priest walked toward them.

“Father, don’t!” Ndebele warned.

The priest ignored him. This was an outrage. The nation was run by a lawfully elected government. And this reserve was holy ground, not just the home of a church but a place of peace.

The militiamen finished filing into the courtyard. They stretched from the parked vehicles on the west side of the entranceway to the satellite dish on the east. One of the men walked forward. He was a tall, lean man with long dreadlocks and a resolute expression. His rifle was slung over his right shoulder. He wore a belt with extra rounds, a hunting knife, and a radio. He was obviously the leader of the unit. Not because of what he carried but because of how he carried himself. His dark eyes glistened even brighter than the sunlit sweat that covered his forehead and cheeks. He walked on the balls of his feet with his knees slightly bent. He did not make a sound as he crossed the coarse dirt of the parking area.

“I am Father Powys Bradbury,” the priest said. His voice was soft but firm. The two men continued to approach one another. “Why have armed men come to our compound?”

“To take you with us,” the leader replied.

“Me?” Bradbury demanded. The priest stopped just a few feet from the taller man. “Why? What have I done?”

“You are an invader,” the man told him. “You and your kind will be driven out.”

“My kind?” Father Bradbury said. “I am no invader. I have been living here for eleven years—”

The leader interrupted with a sharp gesture to the men behind him. Three of the soldiers jogged forward. Two of them seized Father Bradbury by his forearms. Tswana Ndebele made a move as if to protest. The motion was met by the distinctive click of a rifle bolt.

Ndebele stopped.

“Everyone stay where you are, and there will be no casualties,” the leader declared.

“Do what he says,” Father Bradbury shouted. He did not struggle, but he did look toward the leader. “I tell you, you have the wrong man.”

The leader did not respond. The two men continued to hold the priest in his place.

“At least tell me where you’re taking me,” the white-haired clergyman implored.

The third militiaman went behind the priest. He pulled a black hood over Father Bradbury’s head. He tied it tightly around the clergyman’s throat. Father Bradbury gagged.

“Please don’t hurt him!” Ndebele cried.

Father Bradbury wanted to reassure the director that he would be all right, but he could neither turn nor yell. It was all he could do to breathe in the tight, stifling mask.

“You don’t have to do this!” the priest gasped. “I’ll go peaceably.”

Hands pushed roughly against Father Bradbury’s shoulder blades. He stumbled forward. Only the men holding his arms kept him from falling. They tugged him up and ahead. The priest went with them.

Father Bradbury said nothing more. It was all he could do to breathe. The heat was terrible, and the darkness was unnerving. He also did not want to show fear to these men.

But Father Powys Bradbury could not hide his fear from God. And it was to God whom he spoke silently as the militiamen led him from the compound. The priest silently recited his morning prayers and then prayed for himself. He did not ask God for salvation but for strength. He also prayed for the safety of the friends he left behind and for the souls of those who had abducted him. Then he prayed for one thing more.

He prayed for the future of the land he had come to love.

THREE

Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 7:54 A.M.

It was a dark, rainy morning and DiMaggio’s Joe was not as jammed as usual. That was fine with General Mike Rodgers. He had been able to find a parking spot directly outside the coffee bar. And he spotted a small, clean corner table on the inside. He walked to the back of the room, slapped his damp cap and his copy of the Washington Post on the empty table, then got in line.

The line at the counter moved quickly, and to Rodgers’s amazement, the display case actually had what he wanted. He paid for his oversized corn muffin and an ultratall cup of coffee. Then he returned to the table and sat on the stool, facing the back wall. He gazed into the past. He had to remind himself why he had become a soldier in the first place. And this was certainly the place to do it.

The legendary DiMaggio’s Joe was located in Georgetown on the corner of M Street and Wisconsin Avenue. The coffee shop had been established in 1966 by a transplanted New Yorker named Bronx Taylor. Taylor was a New York Yankees fan back when the Washington Senators were their rivals and people could still smoke in coffee shops. The widower had retired and moved to Washington to be close to his daughter and son-in-law. He needed something to do, and he decided to be provocative. Taylor succeeded. Fans of the baseball Senators used to come in to yell at Taylor. They were all blue-collar workers back then. Janitors from Georgetown University, bus drivers, barbers, and butlers and gardeners from the tony old houses. The men would come in and deride the Yankees over juice, sausage, and watery eggs. And pie. And coffee. And a smoke or two. And more coffee. Taylor made a fortune at this little place.

When Bronx died four years ago, his daughter Alexandra took over. The diner was gentrified. The woman replaced the catsup-stained white tile walls with wood paneling. Instead of a counter and booths with large, solid Formica tables, there were now wood stools with stands that had wobbly metal lattice tops. And Alexandra no longer served just one kind of coffee. For that matter, she no longer served just coffee. There were flavors and fragrances and blends that ended in an é. Rodgers still ordered plain and black coffee, even though it tasted as if it were brewed with potpourri.

Apart from the name of the place, Alexandra had left one thing more or less intact. Taylor had covered all four walls with framed photographs and faded newspaper front pages. The pictures were of Yankee Stadium and the star players of the 1940s and 1950s. The yellowing headlines in coffee-stained frames boasted of winning plays, pennants, and world championships. Alexandra had collected them all on the back wall, and they were the only reason Rodgers still came. The mementos took him back to the summers of his youth.

Rodgers grew up in Hartford, Connecticut, which was closer to Boston than to New York. But he was still a Yankees fan. The Bronx Bombers had flash, confidence, and poise. They were also largely responsible for his becoming a soldier. Mike Rodgers could not hit a baseball worth a damn, as his lifelong friend and former Little League teammate Colonel Brett August often reminded him. Rodgers had the eye, but he did not have the power in his arms. Rodgers sure could shoot, though. He started by building orange-crate pistols. They used tightly stretched rubber bands to fire squares of cardboard with surprising accuracy and force. Then he graduated to Daisy BB guns. The sleek Model 26 Spittin’ Image was his first. Then his father bought him a Remington Fieldmaster .22 caliber pump to hunt small game. Rodgers shot the squirrels, birds, and rabbits that fellow students used for dissection in biology class. What he did would not be fashionable today. But in the early 1960s, it earned Rodgers a commendation from the school principal. The teenager’s interest in firearms led him to study history. To this day, weapons and history remained his greatest passions.

Those and the New York Yankees, he thought as he looked up at a sun-browned photograph of Mickey Mantle and Roger Maris with their bats slung casually across their shoulders.

Thanks to the Yankees, Rodgers associated the idea of wearing a uniform with belonging to an elite team. Since the Yankees did not need a sharpshooter—except when Boston fans came to town—Rodgers turned his sights on that other great team with uniforms, the United States military. Rodgers’s extended tours of Vietnam and his devotion to the service had kept him from having any long-term relationships. Except for that, the forty-seven-year-old general never regretted a day of the life he had chosen.

Until four months ago.

Rodgers finished his coffee. He looked at his watch. There was plenty of time before he had to be at Op-Center. He went to the counter to order another ultratall cup.

As Rodgers waited patiently in the short line, he looked around at the young faces. They were mostly college faces with journalists and members of Congress here and there. He could tell them all at a glance. The politicians were the ones lost in newspapers, looking for their names. The reporters were the ones watching the politicians to see who they sat with or who they ignored. The students were the ones who were actually discussing world events.

Rodgers did not see any future soldiers among the many students. Their eyes were too lively, too full of questions or answers. A soldier needed to be committed to just one thing: following orders. The way Striker had done.

Striker was the elite rapid response military arm of the National Crisis Management Center. Rodgers was the deputy director of the NCMC, familiarly known as Op-Center. Upon joining Op-Center shortly after its inception, Rodgers had formed and trained the unit.

A little over four months ago, while parachuting into the Himalayan mountains, General Rodgers and Colonel August had watched as all but one other member of Striker was shot from the sky. In Vietnam, Rodgers had lost close friends and fellow soldiers. On Striker’s first foreign mission, he had helped them through the death of Private Bass Moore. Shortly after that, he had seen them through the loss of their original field commander, Lieutenant Colonel Charlie Squires. But Rodgers had never experienced anything like this.

Even worse than the scope of the slaughter was the helplessness Rodgers felt watching it happen. These young soldiers had trusted his judgment and his leadership. They had followed him without hesitation out the hatch of the Indian Air Force AN-12. And he had led them into an ambush. Rodgers was seasoned enough to know that nothing was guaranteed in life and war. But that did not stop him from feeling as if he had let the Strikers down.

Op-Center’s staff psychologist Liz Gordon told Rodgers that he was suffering from trauma survivors’ syndrome, a form of post-traumatic stress disorder. The condition manifested itself as lethargy and depression resulting from escaping death that took others.

Clinically, that might be true. What Rodgers really suffered from was a crisis of faith. He had screwed up. Being a soldier was about risking your life. But Rodgers had gone into a situation without being aware of an obvious potential danger. In so doing, he had disgraced the qualities his uniform meant to him.

But Liz Gordon had told him one thing that was certainly true. If Rodgers continued to dwell on what had gone wrong, he would be no good to Op-Center or its director, Paul Hood. And both needed him now. Striker had to be rebuilt, and Hood had to deal with ongoing budget cuts.

Enough, thought the general. It was time to get out of the past.

Mike Rodgers turned from the back wall. He sat down, unfolded the newspaper, and scanned the front page. Rodgers was one of the few people at Op-Center who still read a printed newspaper. Paul Hood, intelligence chief Bob Herbert, FBI liaison Darrell McCaskey, and attorney Lowell Coffey III all got their news on-line. To Rodgers, that was like engaging in cybersex. It was a result without an interactive process. He would rather have the real thing.

Ironically, the New York Yankees were mentioned in an article below the fold. The piece described some megatrade with the Baltimore Orioles. It sounded to Rodgers as if the Birds were getting the better end of the deal. Even the Yankees were not as sharp as they used to be.

Of course, no one dies when the Yankees make a bad call, Rodgers reflected. He looked at the other headlines.

The one that caught his attention was beside the baseball article. It was about an apparent paramilitary action in Botswana. The nation rarely showed up on the morning intelligence reports. The government in Gaborone was stable, and the people were relatively content.

What was most surprising were the eyewitness accounts of the action. At least four dozen armed men entered a tourist compound. After firing a few warning shots, they abducted a Catholic priest who ministered at the adjoining church. The priest was well liked and had no known enemies. The kidnappers had not demanded a ransom.

Rodgers’s immediate thought was that the priest had heard someone’s confession, and the men wanted the information. But why send a small army to grab a single individual? And why attack in daylight instead of at night? To make sure the army was seen?

Rodgers would have to see if Bob Herbert had any information about the kidnapping. Even when he was down on his abilities, Mike Rodgers could not help but ruminate about military issues. The army was not just his profession but his avocation.

He read the rest of the front page while he finished his coffee. Then he refolded the newspaper and slid it protectively under his arm. Rodgers made his way through the pinball array of tables to the front door. He pulled on his hat and stepped onto the slick pavement.

The rain was heavy, but Rodgers did not mind. The gray tones of the morning suited his mood. And though the dampness did not feel comfortable, he was surprised to find that it made him feel good. The pictures reminded him of what he had dreamed. Each droplet reminded him of what he had. Something that his former teammates did not possess: life.

As long as Mike Rodgers had that, he would continue to do the one thing that had ever really mattered.

He would strive to be worthy of his uniform.

FOUR

Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 8:33 A.M.

The National Crisis Management Center was housed in a two-story building at Andrews Air Force Base. During the Cold War, this nondescript, ivory-colored structure was one of two staging areas for flight crews known as NuRRDs—Nuclear Rapid-Response Divisions. In the event of a nuclear attack on the nation’s capital, their job would have been to evacuate key officials. Ranking members of Congress, the entire cabinet, and both officers and logistics experts from the Pentagon would have been flown to secret bunkers built deep in Maryland’s Blue Ridge Mountains. Their task would be to keep food and supplies flowing to soldiers, police officers, and civilians, in that order. They would also have worked to keep open as many routes of communication as possible. Other leaders, including the president, vice-president, their top military advisers, and medical personnel, would have been kept aloft aboard Air Force One and Air Force Two. Both planes would have flown at least five hundred miles apart. They would have been refueled in-flight and protected by an escort of NuRRD fighter jets. This would have allowed the commander in chief and his successor to remain separate moving targets.

With the fall of the Soviet Union and the downsizing of the Air Force’s NuRRDs, evacuation operations were consolidated at Langley Air Force Base in Virginia. The newly vacated building at Andrews was given over to the newly chartered National Crisis Management Center.

The two floors of upstairs offices were for nonclassified operations such as finance, human resources, and monitoring the mainstream press for possible hot buttons. These were seemingly innocent events that could trigger potential crises. They included the failure of Third World governments to pay their troops, accidents such as a U.S. submarine ramming a foreign fishing vessel or yacht, the seizure of a large cache of drugs, and other seemingly isolated activities. But nothing was ever isolated. A disgruntled military could stage a coup. A sunken ship may have been an attack on intelligence-gathering capabilities. And the drug bust might lead to violent clashes as other dealers moved in to fill a void. All of these were events that fell within Op-Center’s sphere of activity.

The basement of the former NuRRD building had been entirely refurbished. It no longer housed living quarters for flight crews. It was where the tactical decisions and intelligence crunching of Op-Center took place. The executive level was accessible by a single elevator that was guarded on top 24/7. Paul Hood, Mike Rodgers, Bob Herbert, and the rest of the executives had their offices down here. The small offices were arranged in a ring along the outer wall of the basement. Inside the circle were cubicles that housed the executive assistants as well as Op-Center’s intelligence gathering and processing personnel. On the opposite side of the room from the elevator was a conference room known as the Tank. The conference room was surrounded by walls of electronic waves that generated static to anyone trying to listen in with bugs or external dishes.

Bob Herbert pushed his wheelchair down the oval corridor. His coat was damp, and his ears were cold, but he was glad to be here. This was an important day.

Herbert had nicknamed this hallway the Indy 600. According to his wheelchair odometer, it was exactly 600 yards around. There were no windows down here, and the rooms were not spacious. The facility reminded Herbert more of a submarine than the headquarters of an agency. But the building was secure. Anyway, Herbert never believed all that crap about people needing sunshine to brighten their mood. The thirty-nine-year-old intelligence head only needed two things to make him happy. One was his motorized wheelchair. The balding intelligence expert had lost the use of his legs in the Beirut embassy bombing in 1983. Only the quick work of physician Dr. Alison Carter, a visiting foreign service officer, had prevented him from losing his life. The wheelchair did not just keep Herbert mobile. It had a foldaway arm, like an airplane seat, that housed his computer with a wireless modem. Everything Herbert needed, including E-mail addresses to order pizza, were literally in his lap. Op-Center’s technical expert, Matt Stoll, had even installed a jack for a satellite dish. At times, Herbert felt like the Bionic Man.

The other thing that made Herbert happy was when outsiders left him and his coworkers alone to do their jobs. When Op-Center first began operations, no one paid them much attention. Whether they were saving the space shuttle from saboteurs or Japan from nuclear annihilation, everything they did was covert. It passed under the radar of the press and most foreign intelligence services. The relationships they established were ones they chose to establish. They did so quietly with Interpol, the Russian Op-Center, and other groups.

Unfortunately, the dynamics changed drastically after Paul Hood personally resolved a highly public hostage standoff at the United Nations. Foreign governments complained to the White House about Hood’s unsanctioned military activity on international territory. The Central Intelligence Agency, the National Security Agency, and even the State Department complained to the Congressional Intelligence Oversight Committee. They accused Paul Hood of usurping personnel and chartered responsibilities from both agencies. The Pentagon said that Op-Center had monopolized the spy satellite capabilities of the National Reconnaissance Office.

All of that was true. But the truth did not always tell the whole story. None of these activities were done for the aggrandizement of Paul Hood or the NCMC. Under Hood, Op-Center functioned without the bureaucracy, infighting, and egos that undermined the effectiveness of those other agencies. That helped Op-Center to achieve its chartered goal: to save lives and protect American interests.

Because of politics, not effectiveness or cost-efficiency, the CIOC had ordered Paul Hood to cut his operating budget. He had done so. This morning, Hood was supposed to learn the results of the quarterly follow-up conducted by the CIOC finance subcommittee. Hood, Rodgers, and Herbert hoped that tempers had cooled somewhat in four months. The previous day, the men had submitted their written petition to get some of the cuts rescinded. Among other things, training a new Striker team was going to take additional funds. Hood had been optimistic. Rodgers had been pessimistic. Herbert had declared himself neutral.

“Neutral like Sweden,” Alison Carter had joked. The night before, Dr. Carter and her former patient had gone to dinner. Carter had just completed a secret assignment for the State Department. Though she did not say so, Herbert took that to mean she had participated in an assassination. Officially, the United States government did not sanction such killings. Unofficially, with the help of medical specialists, they executed them brilliantly.

During the course of the mission, Carter had exposed extensive collaboration between supposedly neutral Sweden and Nazi Germany during World War II. She was proud of that fact. She said that she had never believed any nation or individual could be completely impartial about anything.

Herbert disagreed. He insisted he had to be neutral. As he pointed out to Dr. Carter after one glass of wine too many, “It takes an Optimist, Pessimist, and Centrist to spell Op-Center.”

She had groaned and made him pay for dinner. Then she left him with this thought: “Tell me,” Carter asked. “Do you ever use the neutral gear on your wheelchair?”

Herbert informed her that there was no neutral gear on his chair. Just forward and backward.

“Exactly,” she replied.

Herbert passed Paul Hood’s office. The door was open. Since Hood’s separation from his wife Sharon, he had been getting to the office earlier and earlier. For all Herbert knew, his boss had slept here instead of going back to his new apartment.

Not that it mattered. Staying busy had helped keep Hood’s spirits from sinking. The intelligence chief certainly understood that. His own wife was killed in the blast that had cost him the use of his legs. After her death, all Herbert wanted to do was work. He needed to keep his mind moving forward, engaged in something constructive. If he had dwelt on the loss, his mind would have stayed in place, idling angrily, digging downward.

That was probably why psychologists called the result the pits of depression, now that Herbert thought about it.

Hood was gazing at his computer monitor. Herbert rapped lightly on the doorjamb.

“Good morning,” Herbert said.

Hood glanced toward the door. He looked tired. “Good morning, Bob,” Hood replied.

The director’s voice was low and flat. The day had just begun, and already something was not right.

“Is Mike in yet?” Hood asked.

“I haven’t seen him,” Herbert replied. He swung into the doorway. “What’s up?”

Hood hesitated. “The usual,” he said quietly.

That told Herbert a lot.

“Well, let me know if there’s anything I can do,” Herbert said.

“There will be,” Hood assured him. He did not elaborate.

Herbert smiled tightly. He lingered a moment. He thought about trying to get Hood to talk but decided against it.

Herbert backed his wheelchair from the doorway and continued down the hallway. Psychologist Liz Gordon was already at work. So was Director of Electronic Communications Kevin Custer. Herbert waved good morning to each of them as he passed. They waved back. It was a welcome touch of normalcy.

He did not bother trying to guess what Hood had to say to Rodgers. Herbert was an intelligence man. And right now, he had very little intelligence to go on.

But he did know two things. One was that the news was grave.

Paul Hood had been mayor of Los Angeles before coming to Op-Center. He was a politician. Hood’s silence a moment ago was not about keeping secrets. It was about protocol. His tone had told Herbert that the news was bad. The fact that Hood did not want to tell Herbert, his trusted number-three man, meant that Mike Rodgers was entitled to hear it first. That told Herbert it was personal.

The other thing Herbert knew was that Alison Carter was right: Neutrality was a myth.

Herbert was an optimist. Whatever this was and whatever it took, he would help his teammates beat it.

FIVE

Okavango Swamp, Botswana Tuesday, 4:35 P.M.

The Okavango River is the fourth longest river system in southern Africa. The wide river runs southeasterly for over 1,000 miles, from central Angola to northern Botswana. There, it ends in a vast delta known as the Okavango Swamp. In 1849, the Scottish explorer David Livingstone was the first European to visit the region. He described the swamp as “vast, humid, and unpleasant with all manner of biting insects.”

“Vast” is an understatement.

The great, triangular delta covers an area of some 6,500 miles. Much of the region is under three feet of water during the rainy season. For the rest of the year, just over half the swamp is as dry as the surrounding plains. Amphibians such as frogs and salamanders breed in cycles that produce offspring who are air breathers by the time the rains stop. Other animals, such as lungfish and tortoises, burrow into the mud and estivate to survive.

The Moremi Wildlife Reserve is located beyond the northeastern corner of the Okavango Swamp. The reserve’s 1,500 square miles are a strikingly different world from the marshland, a self-sustaining ecosystem of lions and cheetahs, wild pigs and wildebeests, hippopotamuses and crocodiles, storks and egrets, geese and quail, and rivers filled with pike and tiger fish.

There is only one animal that dwells in both regions. And right now, a force of them was making its way from one area to the other.

After leaving the Maun tourist center, Leon Seronga had led his four-vehicle caravan north through the reserve. The unit was riding Mercedes Sprinters that had been given to them by the Belgian. “The Necessary Evil,” as Seronga referred to him in private, among his men. Each van held fourteen passengers. The vehicles had been flown to the Belgian’s private airfield in Lehutu in the Kalahari. That was where they had been painted the green and khaki of Moremi Ranger Patrol vans. Before crossing the reserve with their prisoner, the men had all donned the olive-green uniforms of rangers. If any real rangers or army patrols stopped the RPVs, or if they were spotted by tour groups or Botswana field forces, they would claim to be searching for the paramilitary unit that had kidnapped the priest. Depending upon who approached, Leon’s team was equipped with the proper documentation. The Belgian had provided that as well.

Dhamballa saw to the spirits, but the Necessary Evil and his people saw to everything else. They said they supported the cause and hoped to benefit by having the mines returned to Botswana ownership. Leon Seronga did not trust the Europeans. But if anything went wrong, he could always kill them. And that made him a little more comfortable.

Leon was sitting in the rearmost seat of the second van. His prisoner lay on his side in the small storage section of the van. The men had tied his hands behind him and bound his feet before laying him inside. He was still wearing the hood and was wheezing audibly. The van was hot. Inside the mask, it was even hotter. Leon had kept the mask on for two reasons. First, to dehydrate the priest and keep him weak. Second, to force him to draw some of his own exhaled carbon dioxide with each breath. That would keep the priest lightheaded. Both would make Father Bradbury more cooperative when they reached their destination.

The priest was nestled among stacks of thigh-high wading boots and several cans of petrol. The other vans were packed with food, water, weapons, blankets, and the nine-by-nine-foot cotton canvas military tents the group would be using when they stopped for the night.

After more than twelve hours driving through the reserve, the group reached the southernmost edge of the Okavango Swamp. Their arrival was marked by a dramatic increase in humidity. The climate was one of the reasons the swamp had been selected. It was hospitable to insects. In particular, the mosquitoes at the perimeter of the water provided more security than a battery of soldiers. And those sentries did not have to be provisioned.

The drivers parked the vans on the south side of a grove of high, thick date palms. The vehicles would be needed for a mission three days from now. Leon and his team would be driving to the Church of Loyola in Shakawe, which was to the north. That would begin the second phase of the program.

The thick trunks and long leaves of the trees would keep the vans from being baked by the sun. Six- and seven-foottall batches of feathery papyrus plants would provide cover from any passersby.

Because it was well after dark, the militiamen made camp. Four guards were posted around the perimeter. They would serve shifts of one hour each. The trip would resume at daybreak.

The night was noisier at the water’s edge than it was in the reserve the evening before. Insects, birds, and toads hummed, barked, clicked, and wailed continuously. Because of the thick foliage, the sounds did not penetrate into the swamp. Even the breathing of the sleeping militiamen seemed loud and very, very close to Leon. They remained trapped in the immediate vicinity, as if the noise were coming from headphones. But it was like white noise. Within minutes after curling up on his blanket, the exhausted but satisfied Leon Seronga was asleep.

The symphony ended shortly before dawn. When the men woke, Leon selected six men to continue the journey with him. He left Donald Pavant in charge of the bivouac.

It was just after the rainy season, and the dark waters still stretched to the outer boundaries of the swamp. While the other six men pulled on their hip boots, Leon untied the priest’s hands and legs. Father Bradbury was cautioned not to remove his hood, or he would be dragged through the water. He was also warned not to speak. Leon did not want his men or himself distracted by chatter or prayer. Then the priest was hefted onto the back of one of the men. He was weak, and Leon did not have time to walk him through the swamp.

The militiamen set out, wading through the sloshy waters. They had tied a pair of motorboats to a tree on a small island 400 yards offshore. The boats were hidden among high reeds where they would not be seen. Seronga had not been worried about rangers spotting them as much as poachers. The islands of the swamp were an ideal hiding place.

The men moved as they had on land, in two tight, parallel columns. Seronga liked to keep his men organized and disciplined at all times.

The mosquitoes were relentless for about 250 yards from the shore. After that, the only real threat the men faced were burrowing asps. The snakes typically stretched their yard-long bodies on the silty marsh bottom. Meanwhile, their flat heads rested on the shore, on raised roots, or on floating branches. Though they could not bite through the vinyl of a boot, the snakes could be stirred up and washed over the top in deep water.

The militiamen continued to walk toward the northeast. They made their way slowly through thickets of high cattails and around stocky bald cypress trees. The bald cypresses literally sat on the soft marsh bottom like bowling pins. They passed mounds of dry land as well as swamp knots. These were raised masses of tangled tree roots. Small lizards actually made permanent homes on the swamp knots. Countless generations of amphibians were born, fed on insects and rainwater, mated, and died without ever leaving the knot.

Upon reaching the two boats, the men were divided. Seronga and the priest got into one with two guards. The remainder of the men climbed into the second boat. They fired up the engines and sped into the brightening morning.

The journey northward lasted nearly ten hours. Seronga and Dhamballa had selected a base that was close to the northeastern edge of the swamp. If it became necessary for Dhamballa to escape, the Barani salt pan and the rugged Tsodilo Hills lay to the west. The relatively unguarded border with Namibia was just a short, fifty-five-mile trip to the north.

By the time the men reached their destination, the sun was low on the horizon. It shone in long, tawny red streaks beyond the rich green of the plants and trees. The swamp itself was already dark, its surface like an oily mirror. But there was something different about this section from anything the men had encountered before. A low, symmetrical, treeless hill rose from the water. It was approximately twelve acres of black earth, soil topped with a layer of fertile, gray brown humus. Built on the low-lying hill were five thatched huts. The walls were made of thick, slab-cut pieces of baobab tree. The rooftops were interwoven roots sealed with mud. Battery-powered lights were visible through the thatching of the central residence, which was also the largest of the huts. The other, smaller huts contained cots for the soldiers that were stationed here, supplies, additional weapons, communication and video gear, and other equipment that had been brought in by the Belgian.

Only one structure was radically different from the others on the island. It was an oblong shack about the size of two coffins set back-to-back. Except for the floor, which was made of wood, it was built entirely from corrugated tin. There were iron bars in front and a tin door behind them. The door was open. There was nothing and no one inside.

The waters to the north and east of the small island had been completely cleared of trees, plants, underwater roots and logs, and other debris. The roof thatching used to complete the huts had come from this effort. The work had been necessary in order to create a 150-foot flight strip for the Belgian’s Aventura II 912 ultralight. The small, white, two-seat amphibious aircraft could set down on water or on land. Right now, the needle-nosed airplane sat perfectly still in the lengthening blackness. Beside the plane was the seventeen-and-a-half-foot red cedar canoe that Dhamballa used to leave the swamp. It was covered with a fiberglass tarpaulin to protect it from animals looking for a home. Like the airplane, it sat motionless on the flat surface of the swamp. The sixty-pound vessel was tied to a post that had been driven into the shore of the island. The pole was actually a small totem of a loa or god. The threefoot-high mooring was made of bald cypress that had been carved in the shape of a tornado. The image personified the mighty loa Agwe, the divine force of the sea.

Two armed guards patroled the island at all times. As Seronga and his team neared the southern shore, the sentries turned bright flashlights on them. Seronga and his men stopped.

“Bon Dieu,” Seronga said.

“Pass,” said a voice as one of the flashlights snapped off.

Seronga had uttered their password, the name of their guardian deity. One of the guards left to inform Dhamballa that the team had returned.

The men walked ashore. Seronga quickly removed his boots, watching as the soldier carrying Father Bradbury set him on the shore. The priest fell back, wheezing through the mask, unable to move. The militiaman stood over the prisoner, while another soldier bound his hands. When they were finished, Seronga walked over. He grabbed Father Bradbury under an arm and hoisted him to his feet. The priest’s robes were thick with sweat.

“Let’s go,” Seronga said.

“I know your voice,” the priest gasped.

Seronga tugged on the priest’s slender arm.

“You are the leader,” the priest continued.

“I said let’s go,” Seronga replied.

Father Bradbury stumbled forward, and Seronga had to hold him up. When the clergyman regained his footing, the men started walking slowly through the warm, soft soil. Seronga directed the priest toward the main hut.

“I still do not understand,” Father Bradbury went on. “Why are you doing this?”

Seronga did not answer.

“The mask,” Father Bradbury implored. His voice was breathy and weak. “At least won’t you remove it?”

“When I have been instructed to do so,” Seronga replied.

“Instructed by whom?” the priest persisted. “I thought you were the leader.”

“Of these men,” Seronga said. He should never have answered the man. Additional information gave him new avenues to poke and prod.

“Then who are we going to see?” Father Bradbury asked.

Seronga was too tired to tell the priest to stop talking. They were almost at the hut. Though the Batawana native was leg weary, seeing the hut gave him strength. It was more than just the soft, welcoming glow through the wood slats. He was renewed by the knowledge of who was inside.

“Forget about me,” the priest said. “Have you no fear of God’s judgment? At least let me save your soul.”

His soul. What did this man know? Only what he had been taught. Seronga had seen life and death. He had seen Vodun power. He had no doubt about what he was doing.

“Look to your own soul and your own life,” Seronga advised.

“I have done that tonight,” Father Bradbury replied. “I am saved.”

“Good,” Seronga told him as they reached the hut. “Now you will have a chance to save the lives of others.”

SIX

Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 10:18 A.M.

For most of his career, Mike Rodgers had gotten up with the sun. There were soldiers to drill, battles to fight, crises to settle. Lately, however, Rodgers’s world had been quiet. There were reports to file about the mission to Kashmir, dossiers to review for possible new Strikers, and endless sessions with Liz Gordon. There was no reason to be in early.

Also, it was difficult to sleep. That made it damned difficult to get up as early as he once had. Fortunately, the decor and the caffeine at DiMaggio’s Joe brought him up to something resembling full speed.

Rodgers parked and walked toward the building. The rain had stopped. He carried his rolled-up newspaper, whacking it in his open hand. The blows smarted. The general was reminded of basic training, when he was taught how to roll newspaper tightly to form a knife. Another time, the DI showed them how to use a crumpled piece of newspaper or napkin to disable someone. If hand-to-hand combat were inevitable, all a soldier had to do was toss the scrap to one side. An opponent would always be distracted. During that moment—and a moment was all it took—the soldier could punch, stab, or shoot an adversary.

Rodgers entered the small, brightly lit reception area. A young female guard stood in a bulletproof glass booth just inside the door. She saluted smartly as Rodgers entered.

“Good morning, General,” the sentry said.

“Good morning,” Rodgers replied. He stopped. “Valentine,” he said.

“Go right in, sir,” the guard replied. She pressed a button that opened the elevator door.

Valentine was Rodgers’s personal password for the day. It was left on his secure GovNet E-mail pager the night before. Even if the guard had recognized Rodgers, he would not have been allowed to enter if his password did not match what was on her computer.

Rodgers rode the elevator to the basement. As he stepped out, he bumped into Bob Herbert.

“Robert!” Rodgers said.

“Morning, Mike,” Herbert said quietly.

“I was just coming to see you,” Rodgers said.

“To return some of the DVDs you borrowed?” Herbert asked.

“No. I haven’t been in the mood for Frank Capra,” Rodgers said. He handed Herbert the Washington Post. “Did you see the article about the kidnapping in Botswana?”

“Yes. They caught that item upstairs,” Herbert told him, refolding the newspaper.

“What do you make of it?” Rodgers asked.

“Too early to say,” Herbert answered truthfully.

“The uniforms don’t sound like the men were Botswana army regulars,” Rodgers went on.

“No,” Herbert agreed. “We haven’t had any reports of paramilitary activity in Botswana, but it could be a new group. Some idiot warlord who’s going to turn Botswana into the next Somalia. Or the soldiers could be expatriates from Angola, Namibia, any of the countries in the region.”

“Then why take a priest?” Rodgers asked. He was uncharacteristically anxious, tapping a foot and toying with a button on his uniform.

“Maybe they needed a chaplain,” Herbert said. “Or maybe the priest heard someone’s confession, and they want to know what was said. Why are you all over this, Mike?”

“There’s something about the size of the group and the timing of the attack that bothers me,” Rodgers said. “Why send so many soldiers to kidnap a single, unarmed man? And in daylight, no less. A small squad could have picked him up in the middle of the night.”

“That’s true,” Herbert agreed. “But you still haven’t told me why this is important. Do you know anyone over there? Do you recognize something about the abduction scenario?”

“No,” Rodgers admitted. “There’s just something about it—” He did not finish the thought.

Herbert’s eyes were on the general. Rodgers was restless. His eyes were searching, not steady as they usually were. There was an unhappy turn to his mouth. He looked like a man who had put something down and couldn’t remember where.

Herbert flipped over the newspaper and glanced at it. “You know, now you’ve got me thinking,” the intelligence chief said. “If this is a paramilitary unit that’s been dormant somewhere, maybe they chose this target as a way of announcing themselves without having to face a firefight. If it’s a new group, maybe they wanted to give their people some field experience. Or maybe they just miscalculated how long it would take to get to the church. Didn’t that happen to George Washington during the Revolution?”

“Yes,” Rodgers said. “It took him longer to cross the Delaware River than he had expected. Fortunately, the Brits were all asleep.”

“That was it,” Herbert said. “So there could be trouble percolating somewhere in southern Africa,” Herbert said. He slid the newspaper into the leather pocket on the side of his wheelchair. “I’ll make calls to our embassies, see if this smells dangerous to anyone. Find out if there’s any additional intel. Meanwhile, Paul was asking if you were in yet.”

Rodgers’s expression perked. “Did he hear from the CIOC?” the general asked.

“I don’t know,” Herbert said.

“He would have told you if he had,” Rodgers said.

“Not necessarily,” Herbert said. “He’s supposed to brief his number-two man first.”

“That’s according to the Good Book,” Rodgers said. The Good Book was what they called the National Crisis Management Center Operations Book of Codes, Conduct, and Procedure. The CCP was as thick as the Bible and almost as idealized. It explained how life should be lived in a perfect world.

“Maybe Pope Paul’s found religion after all these years,” Herbert said.

“There’s one way to find out,” Rodgers said.

“Go get ’em,” Herbert said.

“I will.” The general stepped around the wheelchair. “And thanks for checking out that priest for me.”

“My pleasure,” Herbert replied.

Rodgers threw him a casual salute and started down the hall. It was strange to hear Hood’s old nickname after all these years. Press liaison Ann Farris had given it to Hood because of his strict selflessness. Ironically, the name didn’t really apply. Early in his tenure, Hood had discontinued adherence to the CCP. He tossed the rule book when he realized that it was the antithesis to intelligence work. All an adversary needed to do was get a copy of the CCP from the government printing office to know exactly what Op-Center was going to do in a given situation. That included enemies outside the country as well as rivals inside the U.S. intelligence community itself. When Hood retired the CCP, his nickname went with it.

Hood’s door was closed when Rodgers arrived. The director’s assistant, Bugs Benet, was sitting in a cubicle directly across from the door. Bugs told Rodgers that Hood was on a personal call.

“I don’t expect it to be a long conversation,” Benet said.

“Thanks,” Rodgers said. The door was soundproof. Rodgers stood beside it and waited.

Hood was probably talking to his wife, Sharon. The two had recently reached an agreement on terms for their divorce. From what little Hood had confided to Rodgers, their primary goal now was the rehabilitation of their daughter, Harleigh. The young girl was one of the hostages taken by terrorists at the United Nations. After nearly a half year of intensive therapy, Harleigh was at last beginning to recover from the trauma she had suffered. For weeks after the crisis, she had done little more than cry or stare.

Rodgers understood what Harleigh was feeling. The general was luckier than the young woman. The difference between an adult and an adolescent was a lifetime of anger. “Impotent rage” was what Liz Gordon had called it. When a kid took an emotional beating, he tended to feel victimized. He shut down the way Harleigh had done. When an adult took a hit, it often tapped into buried resentment. He let it out. That aggressiveness did not heal the trauma, but it did provide fuel to keep the individual going.

“He’s off now, General,” Bugs said.

The general nodded. He did not have to knock. There was a small security camera in the upper left corner. Hood already knew Rodgers was there.

“Good morning, Mike,” Hood said.

“Morning.”

“Sit down,” Hood said. He did not say anything else.

The general lowered himself into one of the room’s two armchairs. He knew then that Hood was troubled. Whenever Paul Hood had bad news, he did not engage in top-of-the-morning chat. The only thing Mike Rodgers did not know was whether this was personal or professional. And if it was professional, which one of them it was about.

Hood did not waste time getting to the point.

“Mike, I received an E-mailed letter of resolution from Senator Fox early this morning,” Hood told him. He regarded the general. “The CIOC has voted unanimously not to allow the NCMC to rebuild its military capacity.”

Rodgers felt as if someone had driven a baseball bat into his gut. “That’s knee-jerk bullshit.”

“Whatever it is, the decision is final,” Hood said.

“We can’t restaff Striker?” Rodgers said, still in disbelief.

Hood looked down. “No.”

“But they can’t order that,” Rodgers protested.

“They have—”

“No!” Rodgers said. “Striker is mandated by charter. Fox would need an act of Congress to change it. Even if we sent Striker on an unauthorized mission, the CCP very clearly states that disciplinary actions are to be directed against the commanders in the field and at HQ, and not against the unit individually or in total. I’ll send her the chapter and verse.”

“They took pains to point out that this is not a disciplinary action,” Hood told him.

“Like hell it isn’t!” Rodgers snapped. Senator Fox had poked a hole in his rage. He was fighting to control it. “Fox and the CIOC doesn’t want one, because if they investigate us under DA charges, the hearing has to be public. The press would put her against a wall and pull the trigger. We stopped a goddamn war. They know it. She has no reason other than pressure from other agencies to shut us down. Hell, even Mala Chatterjee had good things to say about us.”

Mala Chatterjee was the Indian-born secretary-general of the United Nations. Before the Striker action in Kashmir, she had been fiercely critical of Paul Hood’s handling of the United Nations situation.

“Mike, we stepped on the toes of the military and made things rough for the embassy in New Delhi,” Hood said.

“Aw, I’m bleeding for them,” Rodgers said. “Would they have preferred dealing with a nuclear attack?”

“Mike, what was going on between Pakistan and India was not our official business,” Hood said. “We went in to reconnoiter, not intervene. Yes, you have humanitarian rights on your side. They have political ramifications on their side. That’s why the CIOC is hitting us so hard.”

“No, they’re just hitting us low,” Rodgers shot back. “They don’t have the balls to hit hard. They’re like my friggin’ Uncle Johnny who didn’t have a car but liked to take drives. He called realtors and asked them to show him houses. The CIOC doesn’t have a car, or money, but they’re working us.”

“Yes, the CIOC is working us,” Hood said. “And yes, they’re doing it very quietly and very effectively.”

“I hope you told them to stuff their little letter,” Rodgers said.

“I did not,” Hood replied.

“What?” Rodgers said. That felt like the small end of the baseball bat.

“I informed Senator Fox that the NCMC would comply with the resolution,” Hood said.

“But they’re cowards, Paul!” Rodgers yelled. “You kowtowed to a bunch of sheep.”

Hood said nothing. Rodgers took a long breath. He had to reel it in. He was not going to get anywhere beating up on Paul Hood.

“Fine,” Hood agreed at last. “They’re cowards. They’re sheep. But you’ve got to give them credit for one thing.”

“What’s that?” Rodgers asked.

“They did something that we did not,” Hood replied. “They did this thing legally.” Hood opened a file on the computer and swung the monitor toward Rodgers. “Have a look.”

Reluctantly, the general leaned forward. He needed a minute to calm down. He looked at the monitor. Hood had brought up section 24-4 of the CCP manual. Paragraph 8 was highlighted. Rodgers read the passage. Even as he focused on the text, Rodgers could not believe this was happening. What had happened to Striker in the field was crushing enough. But at least they died in action. To be shut down and humiliated by a clutch of soft, self-serving politicians like this. It was almost unbearable.

“Seconding fresh troops from other military forces falls under the heading of ‘Domestic military activity and procurement,’ ” Hood continued. “That is something the CIOC can and has preemptively denied. They’ve also blocked the hiring of retired military personnel for other than advisory activities. They used section 90-9, paragraph 5, to do that.”

Hood jumped to that part of the CCP. It outlined the need for all recommissioned personnel to undergo field examinations at Quantico, which was where Striker had been stationed. The manual defined that as military activity that had to be approved by the CIOC.

Mike Rodgers sat back. Hood was right. He almost had to admire Senator Fox and her backstabbing colleagues. They had not only stopped Hood and Rodgers by the book, but they had done it without kicking up any dust. He wondered if they were also hoping to get his own resignation.

Maybe they would. He did not want to give them the satisfaction, but he also did not have the patience for this kind of bureaucracy anymore.

Hood turned the computer screen around and leaned forward in his chair. He folded his hands.

“Sorry I got a little hot,” Rodgers said.

“You don’t have to apologize to me,” Hood said.

“Yes, I do,” Rodgers replied.

“Mike, I know this is a tough blow,” Hood went on. “But I’ve also been reading the CCP. This does not have to be a terminal blow.”

Now Rodgers leaned forward. “What do you mean?”

Hood typed something on the keyboard. “I’m going to throw some names at you.”

“Okay,” Rodgers said.

“Maria Corneja, Aideen Marley, Falah Shibli, David Battat, Harold Moore, and Zack Bemler,” Hood said. “What do those people have in common?”

“They’re agents we’ve worked with over the years,” Rodgers said.

“There’s something else most of them share,” Hood said.

“I’m missing whatever it is,” Rodgers admitted.

“Except for Aideen, none of them ever served in the military,” Hood said. “And none of them is in it now.”

“I’m still not following you,” Rodgers said apologetically.

“These people are not governed by the CIOC resolution or by CCP restrictions,” Hood said. “What I’m saying is that we get back in the field, but we don’t do it with a military team. We don’t replace Striker.”

“Infiltration,” Rodgers said. Now he got it. “We defuse situations from the inside rather than the outside.”

“Exactly,” Hood replied.

Rodgers sat back. He was ashamed that he had been so slow on the uptake. “Damn, that’s good,” Rodgers said.

“Thanks,” Hood said. “We have an absolute mandate to collect intelligence. The CIOC doesn’t control that,” he went on. “So we run this as a black ops unit. Only you, Bob Herbert, and one or two others know about it. Our people fly commercial airlines, work with cover profiles, move around in daylight, in public.”

“They hide in plain sight,” Rodgers said.

“Right,” Hood said. “We run an old-fashioned HUMINT operation.”

Rodgers nodded. He was annoyed that he had sold his boss short. Yet this was a side of Paul Hood he had never seen. The lone wolf in sheepish team player’s clothes.

Rodgers liked it.

“Any thoughts?” Hood asked.

“Not at the moment,” Rodgers said.

“Any questions?” Hood asked.

“Just one,” Rodgers replied.

“I already have the answer to that,” Hood said. He smiled. “You start right now.”

SEVEN

Okavango Swamp, Botswana Tuesday, 5:36 P.M.

It felt good to breathe again.

For the first part of his ordeal, Father Bradbury was on the edge of panic. The man of the cloth could not draw breath easily nor could he see through the hood. Except for his own strained breathing, sounds were muffled by the mask. Sweat and the condensation from his breath made the fabric clammy. Only his sense of touch was intact, and he was forced to focus on that. The priest was hyperaware of the heat of the plain and the ovenlike convection inside the vehicle. Every bump, dip, or turn seemed exaggerated.

After lying in the vehicle for a long while, Father Bradbury forced himself to look past his fear and discomfort. He concentrated on drawing the air that was available, even if it was less than he was accustomed to. More relaxed, his oxygen-deprived mind began to drift. The priest went into an almost dreamlike reverie. His spirit seemed to have become detached from his weakened body. He felt as if he were floating in a great, unlit void.

Father Bradbury wondered if he were dying.

The priest also wondered if the Christian martyrs had experienced something similar, a tangible salvation of the soul as the flesh was consumed. Though Father Bradbury did not want to give up his body, the thought of being in the company of saints gave him comfort.

The priest was torn from his reflection when the vehicle stopped. He heard people exit. He waited to be pulled out. It never happened. Someone climbed into the vehicle. Father Bradbury’s hood was lifted at the bottom and he was given scraps of bread and water. Then the hood was retied and was left there for the night. Though the priest kept drifting into sleep, he would invariably suck the cloth of the hood into his mouth, begin to choke, and wake himself. Or his perspiration would cool just enough to give him a chill.

In the morning, the priest was hauled from the vehicle and placed face forward on someone’s back. As the men entered what was almost certainly a marsh, Father Bradbury’s body returned, vividly alive. For a time, his shoulders, arms, and legs were hounded by mosquitoes and other biting insects. The humidity was greater here than on the plain. Breathing was even more difficult than the previous day. Perspiration dripped into his dry mouth, turning it gummy and thick. The paste caused his throat to swell, and swallowing became a chore. The clergyman once again succumbed to mortal despair. But he was too weak to struggle. Father Bradbury went where he was taken.

Whenever he opened his eyes, the priest saw dark orange instead of black. The sun was up. As the humidity increased, the priest became dehydrated. He found himself fighting to stay awake. He feared that if he lost consciousness, he would never regain it. Yet he must have passed out. When they stopped, the sun appeared to be much lower in the sky.

But he could not be sure. Even as he was walked across thick, almost muddy soil, his captor would not remove his hood. Once again, he would not tell the priest why he was brought here. It was not until Father Bradbury had been taken into a structure of some kind that he was given any information at all.

Unfortunately, not all of the communication was verbal. And none of it was encouraging.

Father Bradbury was led onto a rug and was ordered to stand there. The man who had brought the priest in released him. Through the hood, he saw a gauzy spot of light directly ahead.

“May I have a drink?” Father Bradbury rasped.

The priest heard a high whistling sound from behind. A moment later, there was a sharp snapping sound followed by a blaze of intense heat behind both knees. The fire jumped up through Father Bradbury’s thighs and down to his ankles like an electric shock. He sucked a deep, involuntary breath. At the same time, his legs folded, and he dropped to his knees. When he was finally able to let the air from his lungs, he moaned miserably.

The burning grew worse as he lay there. He knew at once that he had been struck with a switch.

After several moments, he was hoisted roughly back to his feet and cuffed on the side of the head to get his attention.

“Do not speak,” someone ordered.

The speaker was standing a few feet in front of the priest. His voice was soft but commanding. Father Bradbury’s ear was ringing from the blow. He turned the side of his head toward the man who had just spoken. There was something compelling about his voice.

“This island has been sanctified with blood of fowl and day dancing,” the man continued. “The voice of a reverend from outside the circle can only be used to advance or accept our faith.”

The words made sense, but Father Bradbury was having difficulty concentrating on them. His legs were weak and trembling violently. He fell again.

“Help him,” the voice from in front said.

Strong hands moved under the priest’s arms. He was raised from the rug. This time the hands held him upright. The priest’s breath was tremulous. The pain behind his knees settled into a regular, forceful throbbing. His head, overheated and aching for water, sagged forward. The hands released him after a moment. The priest wobbled but forced himself to remain standing.

The only sound the priest heard was his own breathing. And then, after a minute or two, the man in front spoke again. He was nearer now. Though the voice was barely more than a whisper, it was deep and compelling.

“Now that you understand my position, I want you to do something,” said the speaker in front.

“Who . . . who are you?” Father Bradbury implored. The words were cracked. It did not sound like his own voice.

A moment later, he heard the terrible whistle. He cried out as he felt the bite of the switch. This time, it struck a little higher, along the backs of his thighs. The pain was so great that he actually danced forward several steps before collapsing. He fell on the dirt floor, panting and whimpering. He had a flashback to when he was a boy and had been hit with a strap by his father. This was how he sounded then. The priest lay writhing on his belly, hooting pain into the hood. He could not control what came from his mouth. His bound hands pulled against the ropes. But Father Bradbury was not trying to get free. His body had to move, to keep from letting the pain be his only stimulus.

“You were told not to speak!” someone yelled from behind. It did not sound like the man who had brought him here. This was some other tormentor. Perhaps they had brought in someone who was proficient with a switch. Many villages had people like that, men who were skilled at corporal punishment. “Nod if you understand the instructions.”

Father Bradbury was curled on his side. He nodded. He barely knew what he was doing anymore. His body was in agony, yet his mind was numb. His mouth was dry, but his hair and face were greasy with sweat. He was struggling mightily with his bonds yet he had never felt so weak.

Only the priest’s spirit was intact. It had been shaped and reinforced by over two score years of reflection, reading, and prayer. He needed that part of him to stay strong.

The switch nipped the backs of his bound hands. Father Bradbury yelped and stopped moving them. He thought of restless young boys whose knuckles he had rapped in catechism class and apologized to God. He was pulled back onto his feet. His knees folded inward, but the priest did not fall. The powerful hands continued to hold him.

“You must believe me,” said the gentle man in front. He was leaning close again, his voice even more compassionate now. “I do not wish to hurt you. On my soul, I do not. The creation of pain is a black deed. It hurts you, and it attracts the attention of evil spirits. They watch us. They feed on evil, and they grow stronger. Then they attempt to influence us. That is not what I wish. But for the sake of my people, I must have your cooperation. There is no time to debate this.”

Father Bradbury had no idea what this man was saying. Everything around him was confusion.

“Now,” the voice said as the man stepped away. “You will be taken to a telephone. We have been watching your seven deacon missionaries. We have the numbers of their cellular telephones. You will call them and tell these men to leave my country. When their departure has been confirmed, you will be permitted to leave our camp. Then you, too, will leave our Botswana. You and the other priests of a false divinity.”

“He is not false,” Father Bradbury said.

The clergyman braced for a blow that did not come. Then it came, just as he was relaxing. It struck his lower back. He felt the shock of the blow race up his back to his neck, and he whimpered loudly. No one said anything. There was no need. He knew the rules.

The hands holding Father Bradbury were joined by another set of hands. They pulled the priest forward. He could not keep his wounded legs under him. He did not even try.

The priest was dragged across the room. His legs were screaming, but he could do nothing to quiet them. His head was throbbing as well, not just from the blows but from thirst and hunger. One set of hands pushed him onto a stool. The edge of the seat brushed his leg where he had been hit. It burned terribly, and he jerked away. The men settled him back down. Another man untied the bottom of the hood. It was lifted to just above the priest’s mouth. As warm as the evening was, the air felt wonderfully cool on his face.

“There is a speakerphone in front of you,” said someone close to Father Bradbury. This was the man who had originally captured him. “The first person we are calling is Deacon Jones.”

No one was holding the priest now. He slumped forward slightly, but he did not slip from the stool. His feet were spread wide, and his hands were still bound behind him. His arms served as a counterbalance to keep him from falling. His legs and hands burned furiously where he had been struck. His arms shook. Tears slipped from the edges of his eyes. His parched lips were trembling. He felt violated and forsaken. But Father Bradbury still had one thing neither pain nor promises could take from him.

“You will tell him to return to the church, collect his belongings, and go home,” his captor told him. “If you say anything else, we will end the call, and you will be beaten.”

“Sir,” Father Bradbury croaked. “I am . . . Botswanan. So is . . . Deacon Jones. I will not tell him . . . to leave.”

The switch came down across his slender shoulders. The heavy blow snapped the priest erect and bent him backward. His mouth flew open, but he made no sound. The pain paralyzed his vocal cords and his lungs. He sat there frozen, arched away from the telephone. After a few seconds, the little air that was left in his lungs wheezed out. His shoulders relaxed slowly. His head fell forward. The pain of the blow settled in as a now-familiar heat.

“Do you need me to repeat the instructions?” the man asked.

Father Bradbury shook his head vigorously. Shaking it helped him to work through the aftershocks of the blow.

“I am going to punch in the number,” the man went on. “If you do not speak to the deacon, then we will have no choice but to go after him and kill him. Do you understand?”

Father Bradbury nodded. “I still . . . will not say . . . what you want,” he informed the man.

The priest expected another blow. He was trembling uncontrollably, too unsettled now to even try to prepare for it. He waited. Instead of striking him, someone retied the hood under his chin. Then he lifted the prisoner to his feet. His legs seemed to be disconnected, and the priest began to drop. The man grabbed the meat of his upper arms and held him tightly. It hurt, but not as much as the rest of him.

The priest was dragged back outside. He was taken to another structure and tossed roughly inside. His hands were still tied behind him, so he tucked his head into his chest to protect it from a fall to the floor. The fall never came. Father Bradbury struck a corrugated metal wall and bounced back toward the door. He landed against metal bars that had been shut so quickly they literally pinned him to the wall. His legs were still wobbly, but that did not matter. His body sagged but did not drop. There was no room. He tried to wriggle to the left and right, but that was not possible. The side walls were as far apart as his aching shoulders.

“Lord God,” he murmured when he realized he was in a cell, a cell so small that he would not be able to sit, let alone sleep.

Father Bradbury began to hyperventilate through the hood. He was frightened and rested his cheek against the metal. He had to calm himself, get his mind off his predicament, off his pain. He told himself that the man who had been leading this action, the man in the hut, was not an evil man. He could feel that. He had heard it in his voice. But Father Bradbury had also heard strong determination. That would cloud reason.

The priest folded the fingers of his bound hands. He squeezed them together tightly.

“Hail Mary full of grace the Lord is with Thee,” he muttered through the damp cloth.

In the end, only the body dies. Father Bradbury would not stain his soul to save it. But that did not stop him from fearing for the lives of his friends the deacons, from acknowledging that he had no right to sacrifice them.

Yet he also feared for his adoptive home. Only one group spoke of white and black magic. A group as old as civilization and terrifying to those who knew of the pain black magic could cause. Not just supernatural magic, but dark deeds such as drugging, torture, and murder.

A group that had the power to subvert the nation and the continent. And then, possibly, the world.

EIGHT

Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 5:55 P.M.

It was Mike Rodgers who informed Bob Herbert of Paul Hood’s proposed new intelligence unit. The general had come to Herbert’s office and briefed him about the meeting with Hood. Then he went off to contact the personnel he hoped would join his new unit.

Bob Herbert was not happy when he heard about it. He was pretty sure he understood why Hood did this the way he had. Rodgers had lost Striker twice. First in Kashmir, then in a wood-paneled office on Capitol Hill. The general needed something to get him back on his feet. The combination of briefing, pep talk, and eye on the prize seemed to have done that. Rodgers had been upbeat when he came in to talk to Herbert.

But Herbert was the intelligence chief. Hood should have consulted him. Herbert should have been briefed about this new unit at the same time that Mike Rodgers became involved.

Hood did not speak to Herbert about the new undertaking until after the routine five P.M. intelligence briefing. The briefings were held at both nine in the morning and again at five P.M. The first briefing was to keep Hood abreast of activities in Europe and the Middle East. Those regions had already been active for hours. The second meeting was to cover the day’s intelligence activities involving Op-Center as well as events in the Far East.

After the fifteen-minute update, Hood regarded the Mississippi-born intelligence chief.

“You’re upset, aren’t you?” Hood asked.

“Yeah,” Herbert said.

“About Mike’s new operation.”

“That’s right,” Herbert replied. “Since when is my input a threat?”

“It isn’t,” Hood told him.

“For that matter, since when is Mike’s ego so delicate?” Herbert asked.

“Bob, this had nothing to do with letting Mike ramp this thing up on his own,” Hood assured him.

“What then?” Herbert asked indignantly.

“I wanted to keep you clean,” Hood said.

“From what?” Herbert asked. That caught him off guard.

“From the CIOC,” Hood said. “My sense of what they decided last night was to try to push Mike to resign. Senator Fox and her allies can’t afford public hearings, and they don’t want Mike around. He’s a loose cannon who gets things done. That doesn’t work in their bureaucratic worldview. The solution? Terminate his primary responsibility. That gives him a disciplinary kick in the ass, and it leaves him without much to do.”

“Okay. I’ll buy that,” Herbert said.

“So I had to give Mike something else to do,” Hood said. “If I had made it part of your intelligence operation, that would have given the CIOC a new avenue to attack us. They could have gone after your budget, your personnel. What I did was give Mike responsibilities that fulfill both the CIOC action and his own job description. If Senator Fox decides she isn’t happy with what I’ve done, and they question you about it, you can honestly tell them you had nothing to do with it. Your job or your assets can’t be attacked.”

Herbert was still pissed. Only now he was angry at himself. He should have known that Hood had a reason for doing what he did. He should never have taken it personally.

He thanked Hood for the explanation. Then Herbert returned to his office to do something constructive rather than brood. Emotion was a quality intelligence operatives were trained to avoid. It fogged the brain and impeded efficiency. Since he had taken an office job, Herbert often forgot that. One of the first questions Hood had asked Herbert before hiring him was a good one. Herbert and his wife had been working for the CIA when they were caught in the Beirut embassy blast. Hood wanted to know whether Herbert would trade information with the terrorists who had destroyed his legs and killed his wife.

Herbert said that yes, he would. Then he had added, “If I hadn’t already killed them.”

If Herbert had thought this through, he would have realized that Hood was trying to insulate him. That was what the professionals did. They looked out for their people.

Herbert had just returned to his office when the desk phone beeped. His assistant, Stacey, told him that Edgar Kline was calling. Herbert was surprised to hear the name. The men had worked together in the early 1980s. That was when the Johannesburg native first joined the South African Secret Service. They shared information about terrorist training grounds on the African coast along the Indian Ocean. The SASS was responsible for gathering, correlating, and evaluating foreign intelligence with the exception of military data. Kline resigned from the group in 1987, when he discovered that SASS resources were being used to spy on antiapartheid advocates working abroad. The operative was a devout Catholic who did not approve of apartheid or any exclusionary form of government. Kline moved to Rome and joined the Vatican Security Organization, where Herbert lost touch with him. He was a good man and a solid professional. But he had also been a very difficult man to read. He told you only what he wanted you to know. As long as you were on his side, that was fine. He never left your ass exposed.

Herbert wheeled himself behind the desk and grabbed the phone. “Gunther Center for World Studies,” Herbert said.

“Robert?” said the caller.

“Yeah, this is Robert,” Herbert replied. “Is this really the Master of Ceremonies?”

“It is,” said the caller.

MC had been Edgar Kline’s code name. The CIA had assigned it to him when the then-twenty-three-year-old operative worked the coast along the Mozambique Channel. Kline used it whenever he called the Gunther Center for World Studies. That was a small office Herbert had set up to process intelligence information. Herbert had named it after John Gunther, the author of Inside Africa and other books that Herbert had read as a young man.

“You know, I’ve always said the best way to start a day is saying good-bye to a new friend,” Herbert said. “Preferably of the opposite sex. But the best way to end a day is definitely saying hello to an old one. How the hell are you?”

“Very well,” Kline told him. “What about you?”

There was no mistaking Edgar Kline for anyone else working in intelligence. His voice was still thick with its Afrikaans inflection. It was a unique accent, a hybrid of the English and Dutch that comprised Kline’s Afrikaner heritage.

“I’m still cleaning up after the yakety-yak diplomats,” Herbert replied. “Where are you calling from?”

“At the moment, from a commercial airliner en route to Washington,” Kline told him.

“No shit!” Herbert said. “Does that mean I’m going to get to see you?”

“Actually, while I realize this is rather short notice, I was wondering if you might be free for supper.”

“Tonight?”

“Yes,” Kline said.

“If I weren’t, I would make myself free,” Herbert said.

“Excellent,” Kline said. “I’m sorry about this being so last minute, but it’s been difficult to make plans.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Herbert assured him. “Tell me. Are you still with the same group?”

Herbert had to be careful what he said. Kline had made a point of informing him that he was on board a commercial aircraft. That meant the phone line was not secure.

“Very much so,” Kline answered. “And obviously, so are you.”

“Yeah, I love it here,” Herbert informed him. “They’ll have to blast me out of this place, too.”

There was a short, pained moan on the other end. “I can’t believe you said that, Robert,” Kline told him.

“Why not?” Herbert asked. “That’s how they got me out of the Central Intelligence Agency.”

“I know. But still,” Kline replied.

“MC, you’ve spent too much time with the wrong people,” Herbert teased. “If you don’t laugh at yourself, the only option is to cry. So where do you want to meet?”

“I’m staying at the Watergate,” Kline told him. “I should be there about eight o’clock.”

“Fine. I’ll meet you at the bar,” Herbert said. “Sounds like we need to put some hair back on your cheek.”

“Would you mind meeting me in my room?” Kline asked. The South African’s tone was suddenly more serious.

“Okay, sure,” Herbert said.

“I’ll be in the same room I had back on February 22 of’84,” Kline told him. “You remember which one that was?”

“I do,” Herbert told him. “You’re getting nostalgic.”

“Very,” Kline said. “We’ll order room service.”

“Fine, as long as you’re picking up the check,” Herbert said.

“Of course. The Lord provides,” Kline said.

“I’ll be there,” Herbert told him. “And don’t worry, MC. Whatever it is, we’ll fix it.”

“I’m counting on that,” Kline told him.

Herbert hung up. He glanced at his watch out of habit and immediately forgot what time it was. He was thinking about Kline.

Kline had not stayed at the Watergate in 1984. That was how they used to communicate room numbers or house addresses of terrorists. The date signified the number. In this case, February 22 meant that Kline was staying in room 222. Obviously, the VSO operative did not want Herbert asking for him. That meant he was not traveling under his real name.

Edgar Kline did not want a record of his being in Washington, D.C. That was also why he was not staying in the permanent rooms the Vatican kept at Georgetown University. If he did, he would be photographed by the campus security cameras. There was also a chance he might be recognized by someone he had worked with.

Herbert wondered what kind of crisis could require such precautions. He brought up the White House database on the travels of world leaders. The Pope was not planning any trips abroad in the near future. Perhaps there was a plot against the Vatican itself.

Whatever it was must have come up suddenly. Otherwise, Kline would at least have let Herbert know he was coming.

In any case, Herbert could use a good scrap right now. The CIOC action had left him frustrated. And it would be nice if he could help an old friend and colleague in the process.

While Herbert pondered the problem, he happened to glance down to his right to the pocket in his wheelchair, to something he had forgotten because he had been distracted and annoyed for most of the day.

To a possible answer to his question.

NINE

Okavango Swamp, Botswana Wednesday, 1:40 A.M.

The hut was bank-vault dark, and the air was as stuffy and still. The swamp gave up the heat it had accumulated during the day. It was no longer as open-oven hot as it was under the sun. But it was still humid, especially inside the small hut. However hot he was, though, Henry Genet was certain of one thing. The stubborn Father Bradbury was warmer.

Dressed only in briefs, the bald, five-foot-nine-inch Genet sat down on the forty-eight-inch canvas cot. The bed was surrounded by a heavy white nylon lace mosquito net that hung from a bamboo umbrella and reached to the wooden floor. Genet pulled it shut. Then he eased onto his sunburned back. It had been too hot to keep his shirt on, and the sun had managed to find him, even through the thick jungle canopy. Beneath him was a foam mattress and pillow. They were not the king-size bed and down pillow to which he was accustomed, but both were surprisingly comfortable. Or maybe he was just tired.

The trappings were completely alien to the Belgian native. So was this remote swamp, this distant nation, this vast continent. But the fifty-three-year-old was thrilled to be here.

He was also thrilled to be doing what he was doing.

The son of a diamond merchant, Genet had lived in and around Antwerp most of his life. Situated on the busy Scheldt River, Antwerp was Europe’s chief commercial city by the mid–sixteenth century. The importance of the Belgian city declined after its sacking by the Spanish in 1576 and the subsequent closing of the Scheldt to navigation. Its significance to modern times dates from 1863. Kings Leopold I and Leopold II undertook a massive industrialization program and a modernization of Antwerp’s port. Today, it is a very modern city and a major center of finance, industry, and the diamond trade.

For all of that, Henry Genet did not miss it.

Despite the history, the culture, and the conveniences, Antwerp existed for finance. So did most of Europe these days. So did Genet. Though he loved acquisition, it had ceased to become a challenge. That was why he had put together the Group. The others were as bored as he was. And boredom was one of the reasons they had come here.

In Botswana, the mentality was far different than it was in Antwerp. For one thing, the age of things in Africa was measured in eons, not in centuries. The sun witnessed the rise and fall of mountains and plains, not improvements in buildings and streets. The stars looked down on the slow workings of evolution, not the life span of civilizations. The people had a monolithic patience that was unheard of in Europe.

Here, Genet had found himself thinking bigger thoughts but with European impatience.

As ancient as this world was, it was also fresh and uncomplicated. There was a clarity of purpose. For the inhabitants it was dance or die. The predators had to kill their prey. The prey had to elude the predators. That simplicity also suited Genet’s partner Beaudin. Unlike Europe, where there were attorneys and financial institutions to protect him, the risks here were intense and exciting.

It had been two days since Genet first arrived to oversee the expansion of the ministry. What he had discovered was that even sleeping here was a challenge. The noises, the heat, the mosquitoes that lived in the shallow waters on the shore of their little island. Genet loved being challenged like this.

Especially when the Belgian diamond merchant knew that, if he needed it, escape was just a few dozen yards away. Genet could always use the Aventura II to fly back to his private airstrip and then to civilization. He wanted excitement, but he was not delusional.

Not like Dhamballa. He was an idealist. And idealists, by their nature, were not realists.

Genet used the edges of his pillow to wipe sweat from his eyes. He turned gently onto his belly so the perspiration would run out on its own. Then he thought about Dhamballa, and he had to smile. This operation could not have been easier from conception to launch. And for all Dhamballa’s ideas, for all his insights about faith and human nature, he had no idea what any of it was really about.

Eight months before, Dhamballa had been associated with Genet in a much different capacity. Then, the thirty-three-year-old Botswanan was known as Thomas Burton. He was a sifter in a mine Genet visited each month to do some of his buying. Sifters were men who stood beside the mining flumes—long wooden troughs with running water. These troughs were located inside the mines where the lighting could be kept constant. There were screens at different intervals. The water went through without a problem. Small rocks and dirt were trapped by the screen. If the sifters did not see any diamonds, they moved the screen so the detritus could be washed along. Each successive screen had a finer mesh than the one before. And each successive sifter was trained to spot diamonds of decreasing size. Even diamond dust had value to scientists and industrialists. Those people used the dust in microtechnology as prisms, cutting surfaces, or nano-thin switches. The diamond dust was removed from the sand by a fan operator, who blew the fine powder away from the significantly heavier grains.

Thomas had worked at the very end of the trough line. And he had a voice that could be heard over the rushing water and the hum of the fan. Genet knew this because every day, promptly at two o’clock, Thomas would speak about the ages-old teachings of Vous Deux or “You Two.” While continuing to sift, the young man would extemporize on the beauty of life and death and their relation to the universe.

He would talk about the greatness of the snake, which cast off its skin and died without dying. He would explain how men could cast off death if they took the time to find their own “second skin.”

The mine operators allowed Thomas to speak. The other sifters enjoyed hearing him, and they always worked more energetically after his ten- or fifteen-minute inspirational talks. During one visit, Genet listened to what Thomas had to say. He spoke about the gods and how they favored the industrious. He talked about “the white arts,” the doing of good deeds, and how it spread light on those whom the practitioner loved. And Thomas spoke of the strength and character that was indigenous to the people of Botswana. It was all very general and very uplifting. It sounded to Genet as if Thomas’s words could have come from any faith—Christian, Hindu, Islam.

It was only upon his return to Antwerp that Henry Genet discovered what Thomas Burton was talking about. Who and what he really was. As Genet drifted into sleep, he recalled how, over dinner, he had been discussing the speeches with five other businessmen. When Genet was finished, one of the men, Albert Beaudin, sat back and smiled. Beaudin was a seventy-year-old French industrialist who had his hand in a variety of businesses. Genet’s father had invested heavily in several of his enterprises.

“Do you have any idea what you witnessed?” Beaudin asked.

“I don’t understand,” Genet told him.

“Do you know what you saw in Botswana, Henry? You saw a papa giving a sermon about Bon Dieu,” the elderly industrialist explained.

“Who was doing what about whom?” asked Richard Bequette, one of the other merchants.

“A papa is a priest, and Bon Dieu is his supreme deity,” Beaudin said.

“I still don’t follow,” Genet said.

“What you heard were lectures in Vodunism, the religion of white and black arts,” Beaudin said. “Of good magic and evil magic. I read about it in National Geographic.”

And suddenly Genet understood. Vous Deux was better known by its Anglicized name, voodoo.

Henry Genet and the other men at that meeting also understood something else. That what the Belgian had witnessed was like the mines he visited. The voodoo faith was deeper, older, and richer than most people knew. All it needed was for someone to tap its wealth. To speak directly to its traditional adherents and potential converts.

To unleash its power.

TEN

Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 8:00 P.M.

The Watergate was Bob Herbert’s favorite hotel. And not just his favorite in Washington. His favorite in the world.

It was not only because of the history of the hotel. The infamy attached to Richard Nixon and the break-in. Herbert actually felt sorry for the man. Virtually every candidate did what Nixon’s staff had done. Fortunately or unfortunately, he got caught. That was bad enough. What affected Herbert was this smart man’s too-slow uptake in the nascent art of spin control.

No, Herbert had a more personal connection with the hotel. It happened in 1983. He was still getting accustomed to life in a wheelchair, to life without his wife. His rehabilitation facility was several doors down from the hotel. After one frustrating session, Herbert decided to go to dinner at the Watergate. It was his first time out alone.

The hotel, the world, were not yet wheelchair-accessible. Herbert had a difficult time getting around. It was made more difficult by the fact that he was convinced everyone was giving him the “you poor man” look. Herbert was a CIA agent. He was accustomed to being invisible.

Herbert finally made it into the hotel and to a table. Almost at once, the diners at the next table engaged him in conversation. After a few minutes, they invited Herbert to sit with them.

The diners were Bob and Elizabeth Dole.

They did not talk about disabilities. They discussed the value of growing up in a rural area. They talked about food. They compared notes on TV shows, movies, and novels. It was one of those moments of kismet that transcended the practical value of what had transpired. The act of being asked to join the Doles made Herbert feel whole.

Herbert had come back often after that. The Watergate became a touchstone for him, a place that reminded him that a man’s value was not in his mode of mobility but what was inside.

Of course, it did not hurt that they had installed ramps since then.

Herbert did not go directly to the elevators. He went to the house phones. There, he swung his laptop from the arm of the wheelchair and accessed the wireless Internet. As soon as he was on-line, he rang room 222. Intelligence people made enemies. Some of those enemies went to elaborate extremes to get revenge. Herbert wanted to make certain that it was Edgar Kline who had called and not someone trying to set Herbert up.

Kline picked up. “Hello?”

“Just making sure you’re in,” Herbert said.

“I got here five minutes ago,” Kline replied.

“On what airline and flight?” Herbert asked.

If Kline were being held against his will, he might give Herbert misinformation to keep him from coming up.

“Lufthansa 418,” Kline said.

Herbert did an Internet search for Lufthansa schedules. While he waited he asked, “What make of aircraft?”

“Boeing 747,” Kline replied. “I was in seat 1B, and I had the filet.”

Herbert smiled. A moment later, the Lufthansa web site confirmed the flight. It was supposed to land at 3:45 P.M., but it had been delayed. “I’ll be right up,” Herbert said.

Three minutes later, Bob Herbert was rapping on the door of room 222. A tall man with a lantern jaw and short blond hair answered. It was Edgar Kline all right. A little more rotund and leathery around the eyes than Herbert remembered him, but then who wasn’t?

Kline smiled and offered his hand. Herbert rolled into the foyer and shut the door before accepting it. He glanced quickly around the room. There was an open suitcase on the bed. Nothing had been removed from it yet. A tweed sports jacket was draped over the back of the desk chair, and a necktie was slung over that. Kline’s shoes were at the foot of the bed. Those were the first things a man would have removed after a long flight. The arrival looked legitimate. Kline did not appear to be trying to put something over on him.

Now Herbert turned toward Kline and shook his hand.

“It’s good to see you, Robert,” Kline said.

Kline spoke with the same reserve Herbert remembered so well. And though he was smiling, it was the kind of smile a professional gambler gave to a newcomer or to a flip comment during a poker game: polite, practiced, not insincere but not very expressive.

“I’m glad to see you, too,” Herbert replied. “We haven’t been together since I left for Beirut, have we?”

“No,” Kline said.

“So what do you think of the new me?” Herbert asked.

“You obviously haven’t let what happened over there stop you,” Kline observed.

“Did you think it would?” Herbert asked.

“No,” Kline replied. He nodded toward the wheelchair. “Does that thing have afterburners?”

“Yeah, these,” he said, holding up his powerful hands.

Kline smiled his polite smile and gestured toward the main room. It bothered Herbert more than it used to. Maybe it was just because the intelligence chief was older and more cynical. Or maybe it was something else. Maybe his veteran spy antennae were picking something up.

Or maybe you’re just flat out paranoid, Herbert told himself.

“Would you like a drink?” Kline asked.

“A Coke would be nice,” Herbert said as he wheeled himself in. This was the first time he had been to one of the rooms. He stopped by the bed and watched as Kline went to the minibar. The South African turned the key and removed a can of soda.

“Would you like anything else?” Kline asked.

“Nope,” Herbert said. “Just the Coke and an update.”

“I promised you dinner,” Kline said. “Shall I call for it?”

“I’m okay for now, and we know you just ate,” Herbert said.

“Touché,” Kline said.

“So,” Herbert said. “Why are you here?”

“To talk to Cardinal Zavala here in Washington and Cardinal Murrieta in New York,” he replied as he handed the Coke to Herbert. “We need to get more American missionaries into the field in southern Africa.”

“Quickly, I assume?” Herbert said.

Kline nodded. Then his mood changed. The bright blue eyes lost a little of their light. The thin mouth tightened. He began to pace the room. “We’re facing a potentially explosive situation in Africa, Robert,” Kline said slowly. “And I do not mean just the Vatican.”

“You’re talking about the incident yesterday with Father Bradbury,” Herbert said.

“Yes,” Kline said. A hint of surprise crossed the poker face. “What do you know about that?”

“You first,” Herbert said. He held up the can. “My mouth is dry.”

“Fair enough,” Kline said knowingly.

Bob Herbert never went first. Having more information than someone else, even an ally, was always a good thing. Today’s allies could be tomorrow’s adversaries.

“Father Powys Bradbury was abducted by a militia that was led by someone who we believe is Leon Seronga,” Kline said. “Do you know that name?”

“Doesn’t spark anything,” Herbert said.

“Seronga is a former Botswana soldier who helped to organize the Brush Vipers,” Kline said. “They were a very effective intelligence unit that helped Botswana break away from Great Britain.”

“I know about the Brush Vipers,” Herbert said. This was not what he had wanted to hear. If the Brush Vipers were back, in more than just name, it meant that what happened was probably not a small, isolated action.

“Seronga was spotted two weeks ago at the Botswana village of Machaneng,” Kline went on. “He was attending a rally held by a religious leader named Dhamballa.”

“Is that his real name?” Herbert asked as he unfolded his computer. “I mean is that a surname or a tribal name or an honorary title?”

“It’s a variant spelling of the name of a god of the Vodun faith,” Kline said. “We do not know more than that. And we do not have direct access to him. Nor is his image in our file.”

“At least, not under that name,” Herbert said.

“Correct.”

“But this Dhamballa is the reason you had someone watching the rally,” Herbert said.

“Yes,” Kline admitted.

Herbert asked Kline for the spelling of the name. He made a note of it in a new computer file.

“We routinely watch all religious movements in Africa,” Kline added. “It’s part of the apostolic tool kit.”

“Collecting intel about rivals,” Herbert said.

“You never really know who your rivals are—”

“Or who they might be fronting for,” Herbert said. Political activism often hid behind a new religious idea. That made it easier to sell to the masses.

“Exactly,” Kline agreed. “We take digital pictures of events like these and load them into a master file. We like to know whether they originate at a grassroots level or elsewhere. Real religious movements tend to peak at a certain point and return to the underground. Sects concealing a political agenda tend to be well financed, often from abroad. They don’t usually fade away.”

“Making them more of a threat,” Herbert pointed out.

“Yes, but not just to the Church’s goals,” Kline said. “They’re a danger to the political stability of the continent. We take a very real interest in the lives, health, and well-being of the people to whom we minister. This is not just about the state of their immortal souls.”

“I understand,” Herbert assured him.

“After we ID’ed Seronga, we went back and checked photographs from previous Dhamballa rallies,” Kline went on.

“Were these large rallies or small ones?” Herbert interrupted.

“Small at first, just about a dozen people at the mine,” Kline said. “Then they began to grow as family members attended. He began holding them in village squares and in fields.”

“Talking about?”

“The same things he discussed in the mines,” Kline said.

“Gotcha,” Herbert told him. “Sorry to interrupt. You were saying about Leon Seronga—?”

“That he was not the only member of the former Brush Vipers to have been present,” Kline said.

“I see,” Herbert said. “Which is really why you came to Washington. If this is the start of a new political action in southern Africa, you want Americans to help contain it.”

“Let’s just say I’d like you to participate in the process of containment,” Kline said. “That can take many forms, though right now I need intelligence.”

Kline seemed somewhat embarrassed by that. He should not have been. Herbert welcomed honesty. Everyone wanted America to become involved in international scuffles. The United States gave backbone to friends and took the heat from enemies.

“Edgar, do you have any idea why Father Bradbury was targeted?” Herbert asked.

“Not really,” Kline said. “As I said, we lack information.”

“Was there something special about his ministry?” Herbert asked.

“Father Bradbury presided over—forgive me. I mean, he presides over the largest number of deacon missionaries in the nation,” Kline said. He shook his head and tightened his lips. “I can’t believe I said that.”

“It’s a natural mistake,” Herbert said. “I’ve probably done it a million times without being smart enough to catch it.” He paused. “Unless you know something you’re not saying.”

“No,” Kline said. “If we thought something else had happened, I would tell you.”

“Sure,” Herbert said. “Okay, then. Back to the still-presiding Father Bradbury. Who has the next-largest number of deacon missionaries?”

“There are ten other parish priests, each with three or four deacon missionaries,” Kline said. “They are all being watched.”

“By?”

“Local Botswana constables and by undercover elements of the Botswana military,” Kline said.

“Good,” Herbert said. “And I assume no one at the Vatican has received a ransom demand?”

Kline shook his head.

“That means the kidnappers need him,” Herbert said. “If kidnappers don’t want money, they want the victim to do something for them. To sign a document, make a radio or TV broadcast, renounce a policy or idea. They may even want his dead body to scare converts or other priests. Do you have any idea where they’ve taken Father Bradbury?”

“No,” Kline said. “And it wasn’t for lack of trying. Within one hour, the Moremi Wildlife rangers were looking for the militia on the ground. The military was up in two hours doing an aerial search. They didn’t find anything. Unfortunately, there’s a lot of ground to cover. The kidnappers could have dispersed, hidden, or disguised themselves as a safari group. There are hundreds of those in the area at any given time.”

“Did anyone talk to truck drivers, check with amateur radio operators?” Herbert asked.

“Both,” Kline said. “The police are still talking to CB operators. It was silent running all the way. This was a well-planned operation, but we have no idea to what end.” The VSO officer stopped pacing and regarded Herbert. “That’s everything I know.”

“Pretty much in line with other neopolitical grab-and-runs I’ve encountered,” Herbert said.

“I agree,” Kline said. “This is more like the act of rebels than religious acolytes.”

“One thing I don’t see is Botswana complicity with this militia,” Herbert said. “The economy is strong, and the government is stable. They would have nothing to gain by this.”

“I agree again,” Kline said. “So what does that leave us with? Are we facing some kind of religious-military hybrid? The Brush Vipers fought to obtain the independence Botswana now enjoys. Why would they want to be involved with a potentially destabilizing force?”

“I’m not sure,” Herbert said. “But I agree with what one of my coworkers said. General Mike Rodgers was the one who called the incident to my attention this morning. I believe a message was being sent. That’s why this Leon Seronga moved against the tourist office in daylight. They had the weapons and personnel to have massacred everyone. But they did not.”

“What kind of message do you think he was sending?” Kline asked.

Now it was Kline who was fishing. Since this part was speculative, Herbert did not mind going first.

“It could be any number of things,” Herbert said. “They may have done it this way to assuage the government. To show them that while they had weapons, they did not use them. That will probably encourage a more moderate response from Gaborone.”

“A wait-and-see approach,” Kline thought out loud.

“Exactly.”

“Even though a Botswana citizen was kidnapped,” Kline said.

“The term citizen is a legal one,” Herbert pointed out. “To most Botswanans, a citizen is probably someone who can trace his ancestry back hundreds, maybe thousands of years.”

“All right,” Kline said. “That’s reasonable. What else could the form of this kidnapping signify?”

“Well, it can also simply mean that Dhamballa is not strong enough to engage in military action but will if they’re forced,” Herbert said. “That might also soften the government’s response. They pride themselves on being one of the most stable regimes on the continent. Gaborone will probably try to present this as an aberration. Something that can be handled. Maybe they’ll want to wait and see what, if anything, happens next before stirring things up.”

“But at some point, the Botswana military must move against them,” Kline said.

“Not if Dhamballa’s end game is a modest one,” Herbert said. “And we don’t even know that this is Dhamballa. We also don’t know what the master plan may look like, but I researched some of our databases before coming here. The Brush Vipers were one of four paramilitary groups that used to operate in that region of Botswana. Do you know where they got their weapons from?”

“Not from the Botswana military, I hope,” Kline replied.

“No,” Herbert replied. “Worse. They came from someone we dealt with years ago.”

“Who?” Kline pressed.

“The Musketeer,” Herbert replied. “Albert Beaudin.”

ELEVEN

Paris, France Wednesday, 3:35 A.M.

He had always worked late. Ever since he was a young man in occupied France.

Albert Beaudin sat on the terrace of his apartment overlooking Champ de Mars. The night was cool but pleasant. Low, thin clouds were colored a murky orange black by the nighttime lights of Paris. To his left, the aircraft warning lights of the Eiffel Tower winked on and off. The top of the tower flirted with the passing clouds.

Beaudin’s earliest memory of the monument was also at night. It was after the Allies had come through Paris. That was when it was finally safe for his father and him to come to the city. What a night that had been. They had ridden for nearly twenty hours straight with little Albert sprawled in the sidecar of a stolen German staff motorcycle. Albert was used to being up at night. Much of the work he had done was in the dark. But that night was special. He could still smell the diesel fuel. He could still hear his father and himself singing French folk songs as they sped through the countryside. By the time they reached Paris, they had no voices left. Albert had no derriere left either, after bumping around in the sidecar.

But it did not matter. What a journey it had been. What a childhood he had lived.

What a victory they had won.

Maurice Beaudin had worked with Jean LeBeques, the legendary Le Conducteur de Train de la Résistance, the “Train Conductor of the Resistance.” LeBeques ran a locomotive between Paris and Lyons. Lyons was where spare parts for the railroad were manufactured. Because of the city’s central location and relative proximity to Switzerland, the French Resistance was also based in Lyons. Personnel could be dispatched quickly to other parts of the nation or smuggled to safety in a neutral country.

The Germans always sent a substantial military force with LeBeques. They wanted to make certain he was not bringing supplies to the Die Schlammgleisketten, as the Germans derisively referred to them. “The Mud Crawlers.” The Germans were derisive, but they were not dismissive. From the time France surrendered in June of 1940 until the end of the war, the French Resistance was relentless. They sabotaged the German war effort and forced the enemy to keep much-needed resources in France.

Albert and his father were among the earliest members of the resistance. Maurice Beaudin was a widower. He had a small plant that manufactured the fishplates used to join sections of rail. Maurice had known LeBeques for nearly thirty years. Both men happened to share a birthday, March 8, 1883. One evening, shortly after arriving, LeBeques presented Maurice with a cake. Written on the paper doily underneath was a message asking le réceptif, the recipient, if he would be willing to fight for a free France. If so, he was to cut an X-shaped notch on the top left corner of the first crate he put on the train. Maurice did so. From that point forward, the men found ways to smuggle ammunition, spare parts for radios, and personnel on LeBeques’s trains. By some miracle, both men managed to survive the war. Tragically, if ironically, LeBeques died in a train wreck late in 1945. He was busy transporting former resistance fighters home after the war.

Albert was just six years old at the time. He attended school until two in the afternoon then went to the small factory to sweep. It was important to collect metal filings every day. Iron was scarce, and the scraps were melted down and reused. To this day, in his own munitions factories, the pungent smell of oiled metal, fresh from the lathe, brought Albert back to his youth.

So did the idea of working with other dedicated individuals on a paramilitary undertaking.

Maurice had never hesitated to involve his young son in resistance operations.

If France remained enslaved, Maurice reasoned, what was the point of growing older?

Sometimes Albert had to distract soldiers by fighting with another boy or picking on a young girl. At other times he had to slip things onto the train while the adults created distractions. Throughout the rest of his life, Albert was never able to communicate to others the excitement of risking death. He had seen others, including his fourteen-year-old cousin Samuel, murdered for suspected acts of sabotage. He had watched men and women dragged in front of stone walls and shot, hanged from trees and streetlights, and even lashed to tractors or bales of hay and used for bayonet practice. Any of those things could have happened to Albert. He learned to accept danger as a part of life, risk as a part of reward. Those sensibilities remained with Albert after the war. Fearlessness enabled him to expand his father’s business into aircraft in the 1950s and munitions in the early 1960s.

By the time he was in his midthirties, Albert Beaudin was a very wealthy man. But he had two regrets. The first was that his father died before he saw how vast the Beaudin empire had become. And the second was that France had failed to become a military and political force in the postwar world. The strongest free nation on the European continent, France was weakened militarily and politically by the defeat of its troops in Indochina in 1954 and then in Algeria in 1962. Hoping to restore French prestige in world affairs, France elected resistance leader Charles de Gaulle as president. De Gaulle made military independence from the United States and NATO one of his priorities. Unfortunately, that left France a virtual nonplayer in the Cold War. Instead of being embraced by the Soviet Union and the United States, France wanted to be independent. That left the nation mistrusted by both. The emergence of Germany and Japan as financial powers in the 1960s and 1970s was also something the French had not anticipated. That left France with wine, films, and posters of the Eiffel Tower as their legacy for the latter twentieth century.

But while the century was finished, Albert Beaudin was not. Growing up as a resistance fighter had taught Albert never to be afraid of anything. It taught him never to accept defeat. And it taught him how to organize a small but devoted band into a powerful force.

Albert heard a jet. He looked up. He watched as a lowflying aircraft threw cones of white light above the clouds. There must be severe storms to the south. Aircraft usually did not fly directly over the city this late.

Albert listened until the roar of the jet engines had faded. Then he let his green eyes move across the rest of the dark Parisian skyline.

There were indeed storms to the south. Storms that were going to sweep the world. Albert found himself staying up at night, recapturing the drama, risk, and excitement of the last great war he fought for his homeland.

However, the results of this war would be different. It would be fought without the loss of French lives. It would be fought in a foreign land. And it would show the world what ingenuity and stealth could accomplish.

It would also do one thing more. It would shift the center of world power from a handful of bellicose nations to a handful of men. Men who were impervious to bombs and sanctions.

Men who would restore their homeland to a prominence it had not known for over two centuries.

TWELVE

Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 9:49 P.M.

After meeting with Paul Hood and briefing Bob Herbert, Mike Rodgers went to his office. For the first time in weeks, he was energized.

Over a year before, General Rodgers had talked to Hood about establishing a HUMINT team for Op-Center, one that would not only gather information but have the ability to infiltrate enemy units if necessary. Events had forced them to put the idea on hold. Rodgers was glad to be bringing it back. He knew that spearheading a new HUMINT team would not ease the loss of the Strikers. It would not change the general’s perception that he had mismanaged aspects of the Himalayan operation. It would not accomplish that any more than remanning Striker would have done. But Hood’s aggressive step reminded Rodgers that command was not a profession for the timid.

Or the self-pitying.

The first thing Rodgers did was to access the computer files of the agents he and Hood had discussed. Op-Center kept track of all the operatives who had worked with them. The “cooperatives,” as Bob Herbert called them. The COs were not aware of the electronic surveillance. Senior Computer Specialist Patricia Arroyo in Matt Stoll’s office hacked everything from credit card transactions to phone bills. They did this for two reasons. First, Op-Center needed to be able to contact freelance agents quickly, if necessary. Covert operatives often resigned. They frequently dropped out of sight, changed addresses, and occasionally changed identities. But even if credit card numbers were different, purchase preferences and phone contacts were the same. Those patterns were easy to locate and track to new credit cards or telephone numbers.

The second reason Op-Center continued to watch former COs was to make certain that potential partners were not spending time with potential adversaries. Calls placed to cell phones were very closely monitored. Patricia had developed software to cross-reference these numbers with phones registered to embassy employees. Nearly 40 percent of all foreign service workers were intelligence gatherers. Tax documents and bank accounts were watched to make sure the sums matched. The records of family members were also collected. Wherever possible, computer passwords were broken and E-mails read.

Even experienced, well-intentioned intelligence workers could be tricked, seduced, bribed, or blackmailed.

Locating Maria Corneja, David Battat, and Aideen Marley was not a problem.

The thirty-eight-year-old Corneja, a Spanish Interpol agent, had recently married Darrell McCaskey. McCaskey was Op-Center’s NAFIL—National and Foreign Intelligence Liaison. He had returned to Washington while Maria settled her affairs in Madrid. She would be joining her husband in a week.

Forty-three-year-old David Battat was the former director of a CIA field office in New York City. Battat had recently returned to Manhattan after helping Op-Center stop a terrorist from sabotaging oil supplies in Azerbaijan. Thirty-four-year-old Aideen Marley was still in Washington. The former foreign service officer had worked with Maria Corneja, averting a Spanish civil war two years before. Now she was working as a political consultant for both Op-Center and the State Department.

The other operatives were living in different parts of the world. Twenty-eight-year-old Falah Shibli was still working as a police officer in Kiryat Shmona in northern Israel. A veteran of seven years in the Sayeret Ha’Druzim—Israel’s elite Druze Reconnaissance unit—the Lebanon-born Israeli had assisted Op-Center in their Bekaa Valley operation.

Forty-nine-year-old Harold Moore divided his time between London and Tokyo. Moore was a former G-man who had been recruited by McCaskey to help Op-Center with its first crisis, finding and defusing a terrorist bomb on board the space shuttle Atlantis. Feeling underappreciated, Moore had elected to take early retirement. He was now working as a consultant to both Scotland Yard’s Specialist Operations Anti-Terrorist Branch and the Intelligence and Analysis Bureau of Japan’s Ministry of Foreign Affairs.

Twenty-nine-year-old Zack Bemler was based in New York. Bemler was a magna cum laude Ph.D. graduate in international security from Princeton University’s Woodrow Wilson School of Public and International Affairs. The young man had been courted by the CIA and the FBI but ended up working for World Financial Consultants, an international investment group. After rogue generals were prevented from overthrowing the legitimate government in Russia, then–political liaison Martha Mackall contacted Bemler. Bemler had dated Martha’s kid sister Christine at Princeton. Together, Martha and Bemler worked to clean out the generals’ bank accounts in Switzerland and the Cayman Islands. The twenty-five million dollars was used to fund joint intelligence ventures between Paul Hood and Sergei Orlov’s Russian Op-Center.

Rodgers knew how to contact the personnel he wanted. He had the money to hire them. But numerous questions remained. Should he mix veterans with new personnel, combine new ideas with the old? Would these people consider working for Op-Center full-time, if at all? If so, where would they be based? Would it be practical to run an entirely freelance operation? Then there were logistic issues. They could not travel as a unit in a military transport, since those aircraft were routinely watched by satellite and on the ground. Upon arriving at an air base, they might be spotted and followed. But it was also unwise to put them on a single commercial flight. If one were identified, they might all be exposed.

Rodgers also had to figure out how to run the unit. Covert operatives were more like artists than soldiers. They were creative individuals. They did not enjoy working in groups or doing things by the book.

The general wanted input from Herbert. He also wanted to talk to the spy chief about the way the team had come about. After the meeting with Hood, Mike Rodgers could think of nothing but the new team. It did not occur to him until hours later that it probably upset Herbert to be excluded from this process. As a former spy himself, Herbert had a great poker face. He might not have let his displeasure show to Rodgers. Herbert was also a team player. He would not want to dull Rodgers’s enthusiasm.

Unfortunately, Herbert had been busy for most of the day. Rodgers busied himself with the personnel files and other Op-Center business. That included daily military reports from around the world. Rodgers liked to keep track of former allies as well as potential enemies. A crisis management officer never knew when he would have to call on one group for assistance or fight the other.

The night team came on at six P.M. That left Rodgers free to concentrate on the team and possible sites for a shakedown operation. He did not want to talk to any potential agents until he had something concrete to propose to them.

It was shortly before ten P.M. when Bob Herbert finally returned Rodgers’s call.

“You were right,” Herbert said.

“Glad to hear it,” Rodgers said. “About what?”

“Something is going on in Botswana,” Herbert said.

It felt like it had been ages since Rodgers gave Herbert the newspaper. This had been a long day.

Rodgers listened as Herbert told him about the meeting with Edgar Kline. It sounded like a regional scuffle until he mentioned the name Albert Beaudin. In intelligence circles, Beaudin was known as the Musketeer.

“What does he have to do with this?” Rodgers asked.

“I’m not sure he does,” Herbert said. “But there is a connection between him and the Brush Vipers of thirty-odd years ago.”

Rodgers was concerned about that. He was also intrigued. Beaudin was a powerful but elusive figure. Since the early 1960s, the industrialist was suspected of using a worldwide network to provide arms to rebels, rogue nations, and both sides of Third World conflicts. His agents at customs checkpoints, in police stations, in shipping offices, and in factories enabled him to sidestep embargoes and arms bans. He provided arms to Central and South American rebels, to African warlords, and to Middle Eastern nations. His willingness to sell low-priced weapons to both Iran and Iraq was one of the reasons their war lasted for eight years in the 1980s. Even if he just broke even on the initial gun sales, Beaudin made money on the steady demand for ammunition and spare parts. Because rebel factions and smaller countries needed his weapons, they were never willing to help the United Nations, Interpol, or other international organizations investigate his activities. Because of Beaudin’s influence among French politicians and military officials, they were also unwilling to cooperate. Op-Center had always suspected that Beaudin was one of the financial forces behind the New Jacobins, xenophobic terrorists they had fought in Toulouse several years before.

“If Beaudin is involved, chances are we’re probably not looking at a small event,” Herbert said.

“Or a short one,” Rodgers added. “Whoever is behind this had to know the Vatican would get involved.”

“They were obviously counting on that,” Herbert said. “The Church won’t surrender its ministries. Kline is afraid that if this isn’t an isolated attack, someone may be trying to create a schism.”

“Between?”

“Catholics and people of indigenous faiths,” Herbert said. “If someone pits religion against religion, you have a hot-button issue that can blow up throughout the western world. It could fuel arms consumption all over Africa, the Middle East, Central Asia—”

“Giving Beaudin a damn near bottomless market for his product,” Rodgers said.

“Right,” Herbert said. “That’s assuming Beaudin’s involved in this, of course. There could be other people behind the abduction, international players we haven’t even considered.”

“I’m also not ready to make the leap from the abduction of Father Bradbury to a regional war,” Rodgers said. “These things take time to develop.”

“True.”

“And a short-term conflict would be chump change to a guy like Beaudin,” Rodgers said.

“That said, all the war simulations in the regions show the potential for widespread pocket conflagrations,” Herbert reminded him. “We might not see a pattern until local governments start falling. A religious war in Botswana would be the perfect trigger to start uprisings of all kinds among the disenfranchised.”

“The war sims also show the major powers being forced to contain those struggles, the way we did in Kashmir,” Rodgers noted. “Too many nations have big, blow-down-the-door weapons. None of us can afford to let those come into play.”

“The good thing is, if Beaudin is involved, he can’t afford that, either,” Herbert said. “There’s no profit for him. That’s why we have to see if there are some major pieces still missing.”

“What does Kline want to do?” Rodgers asked.

“I spoke to him again, told him there was no point trying to check up on Beaudin’s activities through France,” Herbert said. “They shut me down when I tried to link him to those nutcases in Toulouse.”

“The Church might find a few more allies than we did,” Rodgers pointed out. “There are more Roman Catholics in France than any other denomination. About ninety percent, I think.”

“You’re right, but they’re also fiercely nationalistic,” Herbert said. “Kline doesn’t want to suggest that a Frenchman committed an anti-Catholic act.”

“Even if he may have,” Rodgers said.

“If he did, we’ll have to find out through other means,” Herbert said. “If that ever got out and we were wrong, the Vatican would have forty-five million very unhappy worshipers.”

While Herbert was speaking, Rodgers reaccessed Patricia Arroyo’s personnel database. He entered the name Ballon, Colonel Bernard Benjamin. The forty-something Colonel Ballon was a tough veteran officer with France’s Groupe d’Intervention de la Gendarmerie Nationale. The Frenchman’s anti–hate crime unit had worked with Op-Center to stop the New Jacobins from murdering Algerian and Moroccan immigrants in France. If they could bring in Ballon, maybe this would not have to become a national hot potato.

“My feeling is we’re going to have to try to kite-tail Beaudin from the other end,” Herbert went on. “We or the Vatican Security Organization should get someone close to the religion or cult or whatever it is as soon as possible. While we’re watching them, we can also look for signs of Beaudin.”

“Do you think Paul will go along with that?” Rodgers asked. “Not the idea but the haste.”

“I think so,” Herbert said. “If not for humanitarian reasons, then for simple intel. No one else is onto this yet, and it could be explosive.”

“Paul may not want to take that heat,” Rodgers said. “Not with the shit we’re getting from the CIOC and Senator Fox.”

“We may not have a choice,” Herbert replied. “It’s happening, and we’ve been asked to help. The VSO may not want the CIA or National Security Council involved. Our government doesn’t like religious wars. Minority wars. Paul’s answer has to be yes or no.”

Given that choice, Rodgers knew what Pope Paul would say. He always put people ahead of politics. But Rodgers had been in this game long enough to know that even a successful mission could hurt. Instead of proving how invaluable Op-Center was, they could piss off all the intelligence units that did not have a Vatican contact, or had missed the significance of the Washington Post article, or who just didn’t want Op-Center to succeed at any damn thing they did.

“If nothing else,” Herbert said, “getting involved with the kidnapping will let your new team hit the ground running.”

“That’s true,” Rodgers said. “Bob, I’ve been wanting to talk to you about the team—”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Herbert interrupted.

“I think there is,” Rodgers shot back. “Paul sprang the HUMINT idea on me this morning, and I ran with it.”

“That’s what you were supposed to do,” Herbert assured him.

“Not over your still-breathing body,” Rodgers said.

Herbert laughed. “Mike, I don’t have the time, temperament, or experience to run a field force,” the intelligence chief assured him. “You do. Now we’ve got more important things to deal with than protocol between coworkers who also happen to be good friends.”

Rodgers did not believe that Herbert was as indifferent as he made it sound. But Rodgers thanked him just the same.

Herbert was about to call Hood and update him when the file on Colonel Ballon opened.

“Hold on,” Rodgers said. “I just brought up the file of someone I thought might be able to help us.”

“Who?”

“Colonel Ballon,” Rodgers told him.

“Good idea,” Herbert observed. “He’s a tough nut.”

“That’s why I wanted to call on him,” Rodgers said. “Unfortunately, he’s MIA.”

“You mean Patricia lost him?” Herbert asked.

“No,” Rodgers said. He was sickened as he read the file. “I mean Ballon is gone. According to the GIGN payroll files, he stopped showing up for work nearly two years ago. There’s been no trace of him since.”

“He may have gone undercover,” Herbert suggested.

“Possibly,” Rodgers agreed.

It was also possible that Colonel Ballon ran afoul of someone he had crossed. The officer’s disappearance occurred not long after the struggle with the New Jacobins. Rodgers was not ready to make that leap, either. But he could not ignore the possibility.

“I’ll have Darrell check on this,” Rodgers said as he composed an E-mail for the former FBI agent. “Maybe he can get an update from some of his European contacts.”

Herbert said he would let Rodgers know what Hood had to say. Then he hung up. Rodgers returned to his list of operatives. He did not imagine that Hood would keep Op-Center out of this. American officials did not turn down requests from the Vatican. Not even unofficial requests. That meant that Rodgers might have to field a team sooner than he expected.

Rodgers had a sudden flashback to the moment he learned he had to take his green Striker team out to save the space shuttle Atlantis. The general had been sitting at this same desk, at about the same time, when the call came from Hood.

“Can you be ready to go at twenty-three hundred hours?”

Of course he could, he had replied. And Striker performed brilliantly that night.

They always performed brilliantly.

His eyes moistened, not with sorrow but with pride. Smiling for the first time in weeks, Rodgers went back to his files and to the job at hand.

THIRTEEN

Okavango Swamp, Botswana Wednesday, 5:58 A.M.

For the first few hours, Father Bradbury had fought temptation. He refused to lick the damp interior of his hood.

During the trek to the islet, the priest’s hair, hood, and clothing had become saturated with the swamp water. The temperature dropped during the night, causing the thicker grime to separate from the water. The remaining paste hardened, and the water dribbled down the inside of the hood.

At first, the priest refused to taste the water. But as thirst and exhaustion worked on him, his head grew light. It became difficult to focus on prayer or anything but his aching legs and his thirst. Reason was nudged aside. Finally, he used his tongue and lips to work the hood into the side of his mouth. He bit on the fabric and sucked out the water. The liquid was greasy and tart. Most of it was probably his own perspiration. It did not satisfy his thirst, but it made his body happy to swallow something.

The effort probably cost him more energy than it was worth. But he began to understand the desperation that drove shipwrecked men to drink seawater. Though it did more damage than good, the body gave you no choice. It craved something, anything. The need to survive transcended logic.

Because there was no room for Father Bradbury to sit, he leaned against the side of his prison all night. Sometimes he kept his cheek against the wall, sometimes his forehead. His tired eyes burned, and he kept them shut. He tried to imagine that he was somewhere else. His legs began to hurt, and he realized that he really did not walk enough. One had to drive on the floodplain to get anywhere. He would have to change that if he returned. Maybe he would get a bicycle instead of the motor scooter he used to go to shops in Maun. He thought about the multidenominational church in Maun and how nice it would be to talk to the priests who came in to conduct services. To discuss the Bible and faith and dogma.

For a moment, the priest smiled. Then he began to sob. He wanted to return to his parish. Thinking back on his life, he was not certain he had done everything he could to show his loyalty to God. He had never shirked a task, that he could remember, or doubted his faith. But was that enough? Were there ways in which he could have pushed himself harder?

Even in this matter, the recalling of deacon missionaries, Father Bradbury did not know what was the right thing to do. Protect the spreading of the word, or protect the bearers of the word?

Father Bradbury decided that this was not the time to contemplate his shortcomings. That would undermine whatever strength and resolve he had left. Obviously, that was the point of his being locked up here. They wanted him to make those calls to the deacon missionaries.

Now and then, the priest tried to work his hands free. Because they were behind him, he did not have much room to move in any direction. When the rope began to rub the flesh of his wrists raw, he stopped. He prayed in silence. The proximity of the walls prevented Father Bradbury from sinking to the floor, and he was not able to sleep. Irregular streams of perspiration tickled him with annoying regularity. After what felt like several hours, his legs began to cramp. The lack of air in the cell, inside the hood, also prevented him from relaxing.

His mind grew increasingly tired, and the anxiety returned. He could not help but think of cool water, fruit, food, sleep. The more he thought about it, the more he missed it. When he managed to pray it distracted him less and less.

By morning, when people came to get him, Father Bradbury was dizzy. He felt as if someone had stuffed cotton in his ears, in his cheeks, and behind his eyelids. He also had to be ripped from the wall of his prison. The muck from the swamp had solidified. The priest’s hair stuck to the hood. Along with his clothes, the hood stuck to the wall. As he was led outside, the priest tried to stand, but his knees felt as if someone had hammered nails into the sides. The pain was intense when they tried to support his full weight. His legs folded, and Father Bradbury had to be held up by four hands. Two held him around the waist and two gripped his upper arms. He was pulled to wherever it was they wanted him. The hint of rich sunlight and sweet air that came through the hood was a tease. The priest inhaled deeply but got only a frustrating taste of morning.

Once again, Father Bradbury was brought to a structure of some kind. Maybe it was the same one he had been in the night before. He had no way of knowing. When they arrived, he was not permitted to sit. The men who had brought him here continued to hold him. One of them grabbed his bound wrists and pulled upward. Father Bradbury felt the tug in his upper back. It reminded the priest of reading he had done about strappado, a form of torture used during the Inquisition. The victim was bound in this fashion, lifted by rope, then dropped partway with a jerk. The action would dislocate the prisoner’s shoulders.

Though he was warm and perspiring again, Father Bradbury began to tremble.

The idea of having his body broken was frightening. But the idea that he would be tortured for the wrong ideal was even more terrifying. He did not have the certainty of a martyr.

“Bring him closer,” someone said from in front of him. It was the man who had spoken to him the night before. The man with the gentle voice. It sounded even calmer now. The priest wondered if it were the voice of a man who had just finished morning prayer.

Father Bradbury was urged forward. He tried hard to keep his legs under him. At the very least, he wanted to be standing on his own when he faced his own inquisitor. He failed. Sweat was collecting in the bottom of the hood. It was pooling faster than the fabric could absorb it. The priest wished they would at least take the hood off.

“Have you changed your mind?” the voice asked.

Father Bradbury stopped thinking. He answered from the gut. “No,” the priest replied. His voice was a rough whisper.

There were sounds from ahead. Someone was coming toward him. Father Bradbury did not know whether to expect words or blows. Once again, he prayed silently for strength.

“You may relax,” the speaker said. “I am not going to let anyone strike you. Not today. There must be a balance. Wrath and mercy. Otherwise, neither has any meaning.”

“Thank you,” the priest said.

“Besides, some men refuse anything they are forced to do,” the voice said. “Even when these are things they would do willingly at another time.”

The speaker was very close to him now. Even more than the previous night, his voice had a soothing, oddly comforting quality. It also sounded young. For the first time, he heard a hint of innocence.

“I would never recall missionaries who are doing God’s work,” Father Bradbury rasped.

“Never?” the voice asked.

Father Bradbury was too tired, too distracted to think back. Had he ever done that? He did not think so. Would he ever do it? He did not know. He could not answer the question.

“I am certain you would warn your people of an impending flood or hurricane,” said the voice.

“Yes,” Father Bradbury agreed. “But so they could help others, not save themselves.”

“But you would not want them to stay and perish,” said the man.

“No.”

“You would tell the missionaries to leave because life is dear,” said the speaker. “Well, your people are in danger. The gods want this land restored to them and their people returned to the olden temples. I am going to give the gods what they want.”

“What about the wishes of the people?” Bradbury asked.

“You hear their confessions,” said the speaker. “You know what many wish. They wish to sin. They wish to have an easy life. It is for the heralds of the gods to teach them a better way.”

“Not everyone wants those things,” the priest wheezed.

“You are in no position to say that,” the speaker said.

“I know my parish—”

“You do not know my parish,” the man shot back. “It is also for you to decide only whether you and your missionaries will be alive to preach elsewhere. Do not act from pride but with wisdom. But act quickly.”

Father Bradbury could not help but think of Proverbs 16: 18. “Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall.”

Perhaps it was the speaker’s intention to remind Father Bradbury of that passage from the Bible. To make him doubt himself. Since the priest had been abducted, everything seemed designed to disorient him. But knowing that did not make it any less effective. Nor did it change the truth of what the man was saying. Father Bradbury did not have the right to keep anyone in danger’s way. And what of his own soul, let alone his life? The priest asked himself the same question he had asked the night before. What would God think of a man who knew that others were at risk and did nothing to save them? The answer seemed clearer now. Or maybe his resistance had diminished. But he was not being asked to disavow his faith. He was being asked to help save lives.

A sudden sense of outrage flooded the priest. Who were these people to insist that he and the other clergymen leave their adopted home? Who were they to demand that the word of God Almighty be silenced? But the indignation faded quickly as the priest asked himself whether he had the right to make these decisions for the missionaries or for God.

He needed time that he did not have. Father Bradbury wished he could remove the hood and have a drink. Taste clean air. He yearned to sit down, to lie down, to sleep. He wanted the time to think this through. He wondered if he should ask for these things.

“I can’t think,” he muttered.

“You’re not being asked to think,” the speaker replied coldly. “Make the telephone calls, and then you will be fed and permitted to rest. When you are refreshed, you will understand that you acted wisely. You will save lives.”

“My job is to save souls,” the priest replied.

“Then live, and save them—somewhere else,” the man replied.

Even if Father Bradbury had the will to fight, he was not sure exactly what he was fighting for. Or against. Or if he was even fighting for the right cause. It was all too confusing. The man was right about one thing. He needed a clearer head. He needed time. And there was only one way to get that.

“All right,” Father Bradbury said. “I will do as you ask. I will make your calls.”

The priest felt hands working around his neck. He eagerly anticipated the removal of the hood. It only came up partway. The men tugged the front only as high as the top of his mouth. They lifted the right side above his ear. The cool air felt like a breath from Heaven. He was walked forward and gently lowered to his knees. It was a little kindness that he appreciated. He was given a short sip of warm water from a canteen. That, too, was a gift from God.

“The first call is to Deacon Jones,” another man told him. Father Bradbury recognized the voice. It was the gruff-throated man who had brought him to this room the previous night.

Strong hands continued to hold his shoulders as numbers were punched. The clergyman remembered someone saying the night before that there was a speakerphone.

The priest was told to say that he was being well cared for. Then he was to give the deacon missionaries their instructions. He was to tell each missionary that he would join them soon at the diocese in Cape Town. He was to reveal absolutely nothing more.

Deacon Jones answered the phone. The young man was excited and relieved to hear from the priest. In as clear and firm a voice as he could generate, Father Bradbury instructed the missionary to return immediately to the compound, pack, and go to Cape Town.

“What is it?” Deacon Jones asked. “What is happening?”

“I will explain when I see you,” the priest replied. He felt a reassuring squeeze on his shoulders.

“As you wish,” Jones replied.

The deacon had never disputed the priest’s judgment. Nor did Deacon March. Nor did any of the other deacon missionaries.

When Father Bradbury was finished making the calls, he was taken to a wicker chair. His legs were stiff, and his lower back was tight. It was difficult to sit. He jumped as the edge of the seat scraped behind his knees. That was where he had been struck the day before. The priest waited for the mask to be removed and his hands to be untied. Instead, he heard another chair moved beside him.

“You will be given water and food now,” said the man who had done most of the talking. “Then you will be allowed to sleep.”

“Wait!” said the priest. “You told me I would be released—”

“You will be set free when your work is finished,” the man assured Father Bradbury.

“But I did as you asked!” the priest protested.

“For now,” the man said. “You will be asked to do more.”

Father Bradbury heard a door shut. He wanted to scream, but he did not have the energy or the voice. He felt betrayed, foolish.

A canteen was once again pressed to the priest’s lips.

“Drink it or else I will,” the gruff-voiced man said from beside him. “I have things to do.”

Father Bradbury put his mouth around the warm metal. He drank as slowly as a thirsty man could. Then he sat while the man fed him pieces of banana, papaya, and melon. He sat and he thought.

Reason returned along with some of his strength. As Father Bradbury began to think back through the events of this morning, he began to feel extremely uneasy. He realized that he may have made the greatest mistake of his life.

He may have just been used to start the flood that was going to wash over Botswana.

FOURTEEN

Washington, D.C. Wednesday, 6:00 A.M.

Paul Hood was shaving when Bob Herbert called. The intelligence chief was already at Op-Center. They had spoken about Edgar Kline just a few hours before. Hood told Herbert that they should give the Vatican representative any support he required.

“What did I interrupt?” Herbert asked.

“Just scraping my face,” Hood replied as he finished up. “What’s up?”

Op-Center’s director pulled the hand towel from his bare shoulder. He wiped his cheeks and chin. He felt a sad pang as he thought back to when his young son Alexander used to watch him do this. He would not be there the day Alexander started shaving. How the hell did that happen?

Herbert’s soft, Southern accent brought Hood back to the moment.

“I just got a call from Ed Kline,” Herbert said. “Powys Bradbury has been working the phones.”

“The priest?” Hood said.

“Father Bradbury, yes,” Herbert replied.

“Is he all right?”

“They don’t know,” Herbert told him. “He telephoned each of his deacon missionaries, the guys in the field, and told them to pack up and go back to the diocese in Cape Town.”

“Are they sure it was him?” Hood asked.

“Yeah,” Herbert said. “One of the deacons asked him something about a conversation they had a few weeks ago. The caller knew what the two of them had spoken about.”

“Did Father Bradbury give a reason for recalling the missionaries?” Hood asked.

“None,” Herbert said. “Apart from saying he was okay and would catch up with them in Cape Town, the preacher didn’t tell them anything else. Nothing about where he was, where he would be, or what comes next. Kline got the records of calls that were placed to the missionaries’ cell phones.”

“And?”

“Nada,” Herbert said. “The number was blocked. Stoll says someone probably hacked the local computers to erase the number as soon as it appeared. Or maybe it was blocked on the caller’s end. Our own TAC-SATs do that.”

“Which means these people have some technological talent either in the group or available to them,” Hood said.

“Right,” Herbert said. “We’ll have to wait for this Dhamballa guy to surface again before proceeding. In the meantime, I want to do two things. First, we should get people into Botswana. We will need intelligence resources on the ground. Second, assuming Beaudin is part of this, I want to try to get a look at his possible end game.”

“How?” Hood asked.

“Revolutions need two things,” Herbert said.

“Guns and money,” Hood said.

“Exactly,” Herbert went on. “We need to try to find out if any of Beaudin’s companies are funneling money to Botswana.”

“Absolutely,” Hood said. He thought for a moment.

“There’s someone I used to work with on Wall Street who might be able to help with that,” he said. “Let me give her a call.”

“I knew those years you spent in the exciting world of finance would come in handy,” Herbert teased.

“It hasn’t helped my stock portfolio,” Hood said as he walked into the bedroom. He looked at the clock. When Emmy Feroche worked with Hood at Silber Sacks, she used to be in the office at four A.M. to check the Tokyo and Hong Kong exchanges. Now she worked for the FBI’s Finance Division investigating white-collar crime. Hood had not spoken to Emmy in over a year, but he bet that she was still an early riser.

“Do me a favor?” Hood said.

“Sure,” Herbert said.

“Give Darrell a call,” Hood said. “Tell him I’m contacting a friend at the Bureau. I don’t want him upset because I’m playing in his sandbox.”

“You’ve got to stop doing that,” Herbert joked.

“Yeah,” Hood replied.

Hood said he would call back as soon as he had spoken to Emmy. However, before he hung up, Herbert had one thing to add.

“When I came in this morning, there was a voice mail message from Shigeo Fujima.”

“I know that name,” Hood said.

“He’s the head of the Intelligence and Analysis Bureau of Gaimusho, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs,” Herbert said. “Fujima did the Japanese security follow-up on our North Korea operation.”

“That’s right,” Hood said.

“Fujima wanted to know if we had any information on a guy named Henry Genet,” Herbert said.

“Who is?”

“A member of the board of directors of Beaudin International Industries,” Herbert said. “But that’s not all he does. Genet spends a lot of time in Africa pursuing his main business.”

“Which is?” Hood asked.

Herbert replied, “Diamonds.”

FIFTEEN

Washington, D.C. Thursday, 8:00 A.M.

DiMaggio’s Joe was not the kind of place where spies did business. It was public, brightly lit, watched by security cameras, heavily trafficked, and generally loud.

That was precisely why Mike Rodgers asked Aideen Marley, David Battat, and Darrell McCaskey to meet him there. Any young job seekers or political junkies would be watching and listening for members of Congress, the State Department, or something high profile. Spies looking for intelligence typically went to bars. Not only was it dark, but people drank. Caution fell away. Information was often revealed, especially if free drinks or sex was used as bait. No one sold out their government for a mochachino.

Battat was the only out of towner who said he could come down immediately. The former CIA officer promised to take the first shuttle down from La Guardia and cab right over Thursday morning.

Rodgers was the first to arrive. He ordered coffee and a Danish and grabbed a corner table. He sat facing the front door. Darrell got there a few minutes later. The short, wiry, prematurely gray ex-FBI man looked tired. His leathery face was pale, and his blue eyes were bloodshot.

“You look like you haven’t slept,” Rodgers said.

McCaskey sat down with two double espressos and two raisin biscottis. “Not much,” he admitted. “I was up most of the night seeing what I could find out about the disappearance of your friend.”

“Ballon?” Rodgers said quietly.

McCaskey nodded. He leaned closer. “I called my contacts in France and at Interpol,” he said. “They swear that the colonel is not undercover. A couple of months ago, he went out to return a library book and never came back.”

“You believe that?” Rodgers asked.

“These guys have never lied to me before,” McCaskey said.

Rodgers nodded. He felt very sad about that. A man like Ballon made a lot of enemies during the course of his work. A man like Beaudin had the clout to mount a counterattack like this.

“So that’s the story about Colonel Ballon,” McCaskey said. “I had Interpol look for bank transactions, credit card purchases, phone calls to relatives and friends—nothing.”

“Shit,” Rodgers said.

“Yeah,” McCaskey agreed.

“Well, thanks, Darrell,” Rodgers said.

McCaskey took a sip of his first double espresso. “Then there’s stuff with Maria,” he said.

“What kind of stuff?” Rodgers asked.

“She’s worried,” McCaskey said.

“About being married, or coming to the U.S.?” Rodgers asked.

“I don’t know. Everything, I guess,” McCaskey grumbled.

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Rodgers said. “Newlyweds always have a bout of PHSD.”

“PHSD?” McCaskey asked.

“Post-honeymoon stress disorder,” Rodgers replied.

“You’re pulling my leg,” McCaskey said.

“Partly,” Rodgers said. “It’s not a real syndrome. But I swear, Darrell, I’ve seen this in family members, friends, servicemen. It’s when you get back from the Bahamas or Tahiti or wherever and realize, ‘Holy shit. My dating days are over. I’ve enlisted for the duration.’ ”

“I see.” McCaskey bit one of the biscottis, then took another short swig of double espresso. “Well, there’s probably some of that. But I think it’s more,” he said. “Maria’s afraid that when she’s finished psychologically disengaging from Interpol, she’ll have a really tough time getting adjusted to suburban D.C. and then finding something interesting to do.”

“I thought she was ready for a break,” Rodgers said.

“So did she,” McCaskey replied.

“Did something change her mind?” Rodgers asked.

“Yeah. Bob called her early this morning,” McCaskey told him.

“Bob called Maria?” Rodgers asked.

McCaskey nodded.

Rodgers was not happy. Maria Corneja was on his own short list of operatives to call on, and Herbert knew that. But Bob Herbert was a team player. Something must have happened over there, or he would not have contacted her. Because Rodgers’s cell phone was not secure, he would have to wait until he got to Op-Center to find out what it was.

“What did he want?” Rodgers asked.

“He needed Maria to check on something at the Ministry of Defense,” McCaskey said.

“Do you have any idea what it was?”

“Haven’t a clue. But it didn’t matter to Maria,” McCaskey went on. “She got all juiced up having something to do, something that was important. She called me from her old office. She was psyched because she knew which people to talk to at the Ministry, she knew the area, and she knew exactly where to look. She felt plugged in.”

“She’s spent her life there,” Rodgers said. “And going back home, right before you leave somewhere—that’s rough.”

“I know,” McCaskey said. “But she also isn’t a kid. We went through all this. She knew that moving here would be like anyone going to a new job, a new house in a new neighborhood, a new anything. There’s a lot you think you’re going to like about it. Then, like you said, after you make the commitment, you start to think about all the things it doesn’t have.”

“You go through withdrawal,” Rodgers said.

“You got it,” McCaskey replied. “That’s what Maria had been going through. Or at least, that’s what she was going through until four-thirty this morning, our time. She wakes me up with a call that goes something like, ‘Darrell, I may have made a mistake. I don’t know if I can give this up.’ ”

“I’m sorry, Darrell,” Rodgers said.

“Thanks. I appreciate that,” McCaskey said.

Rodgers took a swallow of coffee. He was not certain whether this was a good time or a terrible time to broach the subject of Maria becoming a part of the new unit.

Given the situation in Botswana, he decided he did not have a choice. He also thought of something that might appeal to McCaskey.

“So what are you going to do if she does want to go back into the field?” Rodgers asked.

“I don’t know,” McCaskey said. “I guess the question is: Where does she get that opportunity?” He leaned in closer again. “There was a rumor going around the clubhouse yesterday that you’re going to spearhead a new HUMINT operation. Is that true?”

Rodgers nodded. Herbert must have slipped McCaskey the word. The intelligence chief hated keeping a brother at arms in the dark.

McCaskey sat back. “Damn, Mike. I would have appreciated some kind of heads-up.”

“You would have gotten that today, right now,” Rodgers said. “That’s why I asked to see you this morning. Christ, Paul just hit me with this new operation. ”

McCaskey scowled.

“As for Maria, I don’t know why Bob called her,” Rodgers said. “The new group is my operation, not his. And I won’t ask Maria to be involved with my team if it’ll make things tough for you.”

Even as he said that, Rodgers knew he should not have. He might not have anyone else he could call on in Europe. However, there might be a solution.

“I don’t know, Mike,” McCaskey admitted. “I love the woman. I always have. I gave Maria up once rather than worry about losing her in the field, if that makes any sense.”

“It does,” Rodgers said.

“But after talking to her this morning, I know she’s not going to be happy working as a nine-to-fiver again, even for us,” he said.

“How ya gonna keep ’em down on the farm after they’ve seen Paree,” Rodgers said.

“Something like that,” McCaskey replied.

“Maybe she won’t have to,” Rodgers said.

“What do you mean?”

“We might be able to work something out where Maria is in the field part-time,” Rodgers said. “And when she does go out, we wouldn’t send her into red zones.”

Red zones were high-risk areas, such as going behind the lines in combat situations. A white zone action was the infiltration of an adversary’s nonmilitary group. A green zone operation was the kind Maria was doing now, going into an allied area for information.

“That could work,” McCaskey said. “Hell, I don’t want to try to control Maria.”

“As if you could,” Rodgers said.

“Exactly. I just don’t want her dead.”

Rodgers glanced at the wall clock.

“Listen, Darrell, we can talk about this later,” Rodgers said. “Having Maria work with me is not why I wanted to see you. I asked you here to tell you about the HUMINT group because I may need help from some of your people in D.C. and abroad.”

“Then why did you want to meet at this place instead of the office?” McCaskey asked.

“Because two other people are joining us,” Rodgers said. “I want to see how they conduct themselves in public.”

“You mean how well they blend in,” McCaskey said.

“Exactly,” Rodgers said.

Just then, as if on cue, Rodgers saw Aideen Marley enter the shop. Actually, the first thing he saw was the young woman’s brilliant red hair. It was longer than he remembered, framing a face that was not as full as he remembered. She was wearing a smart fawn-colored pantsuit and seemed taller somehow. Maybe working in the corridors of power had changed her. Either it gave a person new self-confidence, or it crushed them. He liked the fact that working as a political consultant clearly had enhanced the thirty-six-year-old’s poise.

Rodgers waved to her, and both men stood. Aideen weaved through the crowd. The smile she wore was genuine. That, too, was a rarity in Washington.

When Aideen arrived, she gave the general a warm hug. “How are you?” she asked.

“Not bad,” Rodgers said. “You look terrific.”

“Thanks,” she said. She turned to McCaskey and offered her hand. “I hear you got married. Congratulations. Maria is a great, great lady.”

“That she is,” McCaskey said.

Aideen had worked closely with Maria and McCaskey averting a new, wide-ranging Spanish civil war.

McCaskey asked Aideen if he could get anything for her. She asked if he would mind getting a regular decaf and a croissant. He took one of his espressos with him and went back to the counter.

Rodgers regarded Aideen. “Decaf?” he remarked.

“I had three cups of coffee before I left home and another on the way,” she said as she slid onto a stool. She put her shoulder bag on the floor, between her feet. “I get up and do most of my work when it’s still dark out. Better for the concentration. I research and write my Moore-Cook Journal articles when my brain is still fresh, then cram for the day’s meetings.”

The Moore-Cook Journal was a quarterly about the impact of international affairs on domestic policy. It was published by a small, conservative isolationist think tank and was widely read in the intelligence industry.

“How’s the consulting work going?” Rodgers asked.

“It’s long hours, okay money, and crappy health coverage,” she said. “But I like seeing new faces each day, and I love the learning curve. The trick is knowing things other people don’t, then scaring them into hiring you.”

“Information insurance,” Rodgers said.

“Something like that,” Aideen replied. “It would be nice to have a steady gig again, but I got out of line when I left Op-Center. I don’t want to start over somewhere else.”

There was a hint of bitterness in her voice. After the assassination of her mentor, Martha Mackall, Aideen needed time off—more than Op-Center could afford to give her.

Aideen went on quickly. “I was thinking on the way over, we haven’t seen each other in over a year. How are you?”

“Okay,” he said. “I assume you heard about the trouble in Kashmir.”

The woman nodded once. “I was sorry to hear about that. How’s Colonel August?”

“He’s fine,” Rodgers said. “That mission was my call, my black mark. Besides, he’s always been able to look ahead.”

“While you look back,” she said.

“What can I say? I’m a history buff,” he said.

“You can say that you apply what you learn to the future,” Aideen answered. “Otherwise, what’s the point of learning it?”

“I agree.”

“What about Paul and Bob?” Aideen asked.

She is good at this, Rodgers thought. Aideen did not let a sore subject sit. She got in, made her point, and kept things moving.

“Paul and Bob are the same,” Rodgers told her. “I suppose you heard that Ann Farris is no longer at Op-Center.”

“Yes. I’m hoping she left due to natural causes,” Aideen said. That was a euphemism for attrition or a change to a better job. What she was really saying was that she hoped Ann had left for professional reasons and not because of her relationship with Paul.

“It was not exactly that,” Rodgers told her. “There were budget cuts. That’s how I lost Striker, too.”

“Not just the personnel? You mean the group?” she asked.

Rodgers nodded.

That surprised the woman. Obviously, there had not been time for that one to hit the Washington grapevine.

“Mike, I’m so sorry,” she said.

“It’s okay. It was a kick in the pants,” he admitted, “but we move on. Which is one of the reasons I asked you to come down here today.”

McCaskey returned with Aideen’s decaf. She thanked him without taking her eyes off Rodgers.

“I’m putting together a new group,” he said quietly. “Very low profile, doing the same kind of work you did with Maria. I was wondering if you’d consider being part of it.”

She looked from Rodgers to McCaskey. “Will Maria be working with us?” she asked.

“We don’t know yet,” Rodgers said.

“I do,” McCaskey replied. “When Mike asks that question, Maria won’t hesitate. Not like she did when I popped mine.”

“We haven’t decided if Mike is even going to ask that question,” Rodgers clarified.

Before they could discuss the team further, David Battat entered the café. Rodgers recognized him from his file photo and motioned him over. The general did not know what to expect from the man. He only knew what he had read in the dossier, that Battat had been a CIA liaison with the Mujahideen guerrilla fighters in Afghanistan. He worked his way up to running a field office in New York. He was sent back in the field when one of his operatives, Annabelle Hampton, helped the terrorists who attacked the United Nations Security Council. Stationed in Baku, Azerbaijan, he had recently worked with Op-Center to prevent war in the Caspian Sea.

The former CIA agent was short and scrappy, with none of the boot camp polish to which Rodgers was accustomed. But the general was not dealing with the military any longer. He felt like South Carolina’s Edward Rutledge and the other Southern delegates to the Continental Congress must have felt when they first met their Yankee counterparts. No veneer, no respect for class or finery. Yet Rodgers reminded himself that they all managed to work together to gain American independence.

Battat reached the table. He was wearing a New York University sweatshirt and had the New York Times under his arm. He carried nothing else. Rodgers liked a man who traveled light.

Battat brushed back his short, thinning black hair. He introduced himself to Rodgers and McCaskey.

Rodgers introduced Aideen. Battat’s heavy eyebrows rose behind his sunglasses.

“You must be the Aideen Marley who writes for the MCJ,” Battat said.

“That’s me,” she said.

“I read your article on the impact of media hysteria on civic antiterrorist preparedness,” Battat said. “We’ll have to discuss it.”

“You don’t agree with my findings?” she asked.

“I do, as far as they go,” he said. He pulled a stool underneath him and sat down. “You can’t anticipate and preempt assaults. All you do is panic people, which can be worse than an attack itself. Hell, it is an attack itself.”

“A mock attack,” she said.

“Psychological assaults are not pretend assaults,” Battat replied.

“No, but they are easier to defend against,” she suggested. “Education always goes down harder than ignorance.”

“Education is totally beside the point,” Battat said dismissively. “Fear is the key. A dictator has to be afraid that he will lose his small kingdom if he attempts to expand it. Khrushchev didn’t pull his missiles from Cuba because he suddenly thought, ‘Hey, wait a minute! What am I doing?’ ” Battat said. “He was scared of mutual assured destruction. So forget that. You also can’t just manage crises after the fact, which is what Aideen’s article really suggests.”

“What’s your solution?” Aideen asked.

Rodgers was enjoying this. The great thing about pundits is that they were always right and wrong. There was no universal solution. But the debates were always fascinating.

“My solution is an aggressive offense,” Battat replied. “An enemy hits a building, you knock out a city block. They hit a city block, you wipe out an entire town or city. They hit a city, you turn the country to landfill.”

“What’s wrong with the legal system handling the aftermath of an attack?” Aideen asked.

“Because that gives them a podium from which to spout their BS,” Battat replied. “Who needs that?”

“It also lets people know that they are twisted individuals who need to be watched,” Aideen said.

“You know what?” Battat replied. “TV is something you watch. I prefer our enemies dead.”

“We will have to discuss this,” Aideen said.

There was an edge in Aideen’s voice. But again, the woman had been savvy enough to table the discussion before it became overly emotional. As for Battat, he sounded like any passionate Washingtonian with an opinion. That would not make him stand out. Just the opposite in fact. These two looked and sounded like ordinary citizens.

“David, can I get you anything?” McCaskey asked. “I mean, apart from a tactical nuclear weapon?”

“I’m good,” Battat said. “They gave out cookies on the plane.” He looked at Rodgers. “How have you been?”

“I’m alive,” Rodgers replied.

“I read about what happened overseas,” Battat said. “You did us proud. Americans and everyone in the business.”

“Thanks,” Rodgers said. “I was just telling Ms. Marley that because of what happened, we’ve been forced to make a few changes.”

“Nothing the unappreciative, buck-passing bureaucrats do surprises me,” Battat said. “How can I help?”

“We’re putting together a different kind of sports team, and I’m sounding out possible players.”

“I’m in,” Battat told him.

“That’s it?” McCaskey said.

“That’s it,” Battat replied.

“Great,” Rodgers said. He looked at Aideen. “What about you?”

She hesitated before replying. “I’m very interested,” she said. “I’d like to discuss this some more.”

“Sure,” Rodgers said.

Rodgers did not know whether her hesitation was bitterness toward Op-Center, a desire to run her own life, or maybe even impatience with Battat. Possibly a little of everything.

“What I suggest is that we go back to the office and have a real chat,” Rodgers said.

Aideen nodded.

“Question,” Battat said. “When were you thinking of fielding this team? Just so I can work things out schedule-wise.”

Rodgers finished his coffee and looked at his watch. He replied, “In about six hours.”

SIXTEEN

Washington, D.C. Thursday, 8:12 A.M.

The list of people who Bob Herbert trusted was short. The list of people he trusted absolutely was shorter still.

Edgar Kline was never on the very short list. Now, Herbert was not sure he was on the short list. Kline also had self-interests to protect. The well-being of the Vatican and its inner circle was his top priority. Herbert understood and respected that. But Herbert also had interests to look after. That was why he called one of his freelancers, April Wright.

April was a professional watcher, one of the hundreds who walked the streets of the nation’s capital every day. Some were hired by American agencies to spy on rival agencies. Others were hired by Americans to spy on foreigners and vice versa. They were dressed as delivery people, tourists, souvenir salesmen, or joggers. A few watchers worked in teams and pretended to be TV reporters or college kids making a student film. Some carried handbags that contained changes of clothes. If the watchers had to watch an area with a security camera, they did not want to stay in the same outfit all day.

April used to be an actress. She worked mostly in regional theater, so her face was not well known. She had been a close friend of Herbert’s wife. Now the woman was married to a pilot and had a young daughter. During the course of a day, she went from posing as a nanny to being a mother out for a walk to being a homeless woman with a child. In all of her disguises, she carried a digital camera. When she was “homeless,” she kept it hidden in the bottom of a brown paper bag. Whenever she needed to take a picture, she took a drink. April was good at what she did, and she loved it. It was also a secret only Herbert shared. April was only available when her husband was out of town.

Herbert asked April to keep an eye on the Watergate. He wanted to know where Kline went and who came to see him. She signed in at ten P.M. then came downstairs in her nanny guise and found a spot near the house phones. She rocked her baby until two A.M. and then became homeless, watching Kline’s window from the outside. Shortly after dawn, she was an early-rising mom out for a few turns around the lobby. She always made sure she was near the phone when anyone used it. If Kline had left the hotel, she would have followed him. The driver that had brought her there waited for that purpose.

Herbert had arranged for Kline to come to Op-Center at eight A.M. and brief Hood. At two A.M., April made an interim report. At seven forty-five, she made her final report. Herbert thanked her and told her to go home. In the meantime, he had asked Matt Stoll’s computer group to check the flights from Spain to Botswana. There was something he needed to know.

Kline arrived in a taxi. Herbert greeted his old friend at the main level and took him directly to Hood’s office. Kline sat in the armchair in front of Hood’s desk. Herbert parked his wheelchair inside the door. Hood had also asked his political liaison, Ron Plummer, to attend the meeting. The former CIA intelligence analyst for Western Europe arrived just a minute after Herbert. He shut the door and leaned against it, crossing his arms tightly. Plummer was a short man with thinning brown hair and wide eyes. He wore thick, black-framed glasses atop a large, hooked nose. He was an intensely focused man, which was fortunate. His work on the delicate situation in Kashmir had been the key to keeping it from exploding.

Herbert asked how Kline’s evening had gone. The Vatican security officer said that it went well. He had met with Cardinal Zavala before Mass this morning. Kline said that when he was finished here, he was going directly to New York to meet with Cardinal Murrieta.

“Did you get what you wanted from the cardinal?” Herbert asked.

“I did,” Kline told him. “We arranged to have Bishop Victor Max go to Botswana. He’s flying to New York to meet me.”

“Max is a big human rights advocate, isn’t he?” Herbert asked.

“He is,” Kline said. “The bishop is going to take Father Bradbury’s place in a show of support. He will fly to Gaborone and then take a shuttle to Maun. We have asked two of the deacons not to leave but to meet him there.”

“That could be dangerous for the bishop and the deacons, you understand that,” Herbert said. “They understand that.”

“Of course.”

“Is there going to be press coverage?” Hood asked.

“We absolutely will not solicit coverage, but we will make an announcement,” Kline said. “We want Dhamballa to know he cannot scare us away. We’re sure some press will be in Gaborone, but there will be no additional statements, no press conferences. The Church has a narrow line to walk between supporting its mission and defying the will of a native faction.”

“What kind of precautions are you arranging for the bishop’s security?” Hood asked.

“We’re working with local authorities,” Kline said.

“Is that all?” Herbert asked.

Kline regarded the intelligence chief. “We have other options open to us,” he replied. “The bishop will be safe.”

“I have no doubt,” Herbert said.

“Why is that?” Kline asked.

“Because, Edgar, I’m betting you’ve invoked the Madrid Accords,” Herbert replied.

It was the first time Herbert had ever seen Edgar Kline seem surprised. “You’ve been busy,” Kline said.

“We both have,” Herbert replied.

“Back up,” Hood said. “I’m not familiar with the accords.”

“Three years ago, the Vatican signed a secret agreement with the Ministerio de Defensa de España,” Herbert said. “In exchange for aggressive support from the Vatican, the prince promised to provide ground troops in the event of action undertaken against the Church in any developing country.”

Kline waved his hand dismissively. “The Madrid Accords are not a secret,” he said.

“Not if you happen to read the Fraternal Vatican Minutes, which is not available on-line or outside the Hall of Records in Rome. Or you might have read about it if you had access to the Spanish Alliance file at the Defense Ministry in Madrid,” Herbert pointed out. “I only know about the arrangement because at two-fifteen this morning, I called one of our people in Spain. I asked her to look into the existence of any such agreements.”

“What prompted you to do that?” Kline asked.

“A visit you had from Deputy Chief of Ministry Rodriguez very early this morning,” Herbert replied.

Kline’s pleasant features darkened. “You had me watched.”

“That’s right.”

“I’m very disappointed, Bob.”

“So am I,” Herbert replied evenly. “You asked for my help, but you didn’t tell me everything.”

“There wasn’t much to tell,” Kline replied.

“There was enough for you to withhold it,” Herbert pointed out.

“We have security issues that I did not wish to discuss or disclose,” Kline replied. “The ramifications of another nation lending that kind of support go beyond the current crisis.”

“Gentlemen, now I’m the only one who’s confused,” Hood said. “Bob, would you tell me what’s going on?”

“I’ve pretty much told you all I know for certain, Paul,” Herbert said. “Edgar wanted our help locating Father Bradbury. I brought Mike aboard, set things in motion, then found out that there are other players. That this situation may be bigger than we were led to believe.”

Herbert did not want to say anything to Kline about the call from Shigeo Fujima. For all he knew, there might not be a connection. If there were a connection, he wanted to keep that contact to himself.

Hood looked over at Kline. “Mr. Kline?”

“The involvement of the Spanish military is a very delicate aspect of this ‘situation,’ as Bob describes it,” Kline said. “The Vatican does have a defense arrangement with the Spanish military. The agreement does not affect the main body of the military. It is only with the Grupo del Cuartel General, Unidad Especial del Despliegue.”

“That’s the Spanish military’s equivalent to Striker,” Herbert said. “A rapid deployment unit about two hundred commandos strong. They’re based in Valencia, on the Mediterranean.”

“Correct,” Kline replied. “The only time we ever expected to call on them is if there were an imminent threat against His Holiness or the Vatican itself. I didn’t tell you about their involvement because they’re not going into Botswana in an official capacity.”

“They’re going to Father Bradbury’s parish in Maun as tourists,” Herbert replied.

Kline seemed even more surprised than he had been a minute before. “What makes you think that?” he asked.

“It makes a whole lot of sense,” Herbert told him. “I knew you’d want the soldiers in place before the bishop arrives tomorrow. But you don’t know who may be helping the Brush Vipers, so you couldn’t risk sending in a Spanish military aircraft. I had our computer group check flights from Spain to Botswana. Reservations for several Spanish men came up on the hop from Valencia to Madrid and then to Gaborone. The names were aliases, but they used their personal telephone numbers for E-ticket security. That data was in the Pentagon’s files from last year’s war-sim exercises on the Mediterranean. They don’t share tactical information with people they can’t find again. The name that stood out was Major Jose Sanjulian. He’s an antiterrorist specialist with the Grupo del Cuartel General, Unidad Especial del Despliegue.”

“Now you know everything I did,” Kline remarked. “In fact, you knew more than I did.”

There was resentment in his voice. Herbert was sorry to hear it. But this was not a profession where friendship could come before national security or the lives of one’s coworkers. Kline was a professional. He would think about what Herbert had done, and he would recover. Especially if he wanted Op-Center to help in the search for Father Bradbury.

“Now that everything is on the table, Mr. Kline, what would you like from us?” Hood asked.

Kline regarded Herbert. “Is everything on the table, Bob?”

“You mean, have I done any other snooping?” he asked.

“No,” Kline replied. “Is there anything else I should know to protect lives in Botswana?”

“Not at the moment,” Herbert said.

Kline did not look as though he believed him. Herbert did not care.

“Edgar, what do you want from us?” Hood asked.

“Broadly, we would like any quiet intelligence assistance you can provide,” Kline told Hood.

“That’s a pretty big canvas to work on,” Hood said. “We have the present activities of the perpetrators and whoever might be backing them, as well as the history of Mr. Seronga and his own associates.”

“It’s extremely big and volatile,” Kline agreed. “We are dealing with what we see as a three-part problem. One is the situation involving Father Bradbury. That’s the one we’re most concerned with. Getting him back. But his abduction is obviously not an isolated action. Father Bradbury was provoked into asking his missionaries to leave Botswana. That seems to be a very clear prelude to an anti-Catholic movement relating to the activities of this Dhamballa individual.”

“The cult leader,” Hood said.

“Correct,” Kline replied. “The second part of the problem is, if we cannot quickly secure the safe release of Father Bradbury, we need to know what Dhamballa’s plans for him are.”

“I assume there’s been no contact between the cult and the Vatican?” Hood said.

“None at all,” Kline told him. “Dhamballa does not have any kind of office or even a physical church that we are aware of. We don’t even know what the man’s name was before he founded this cult.”

“What’s the third problem, Mr. Kline?” Hood asked.

“That one is not so much a Vatican issue but a potential problem for Botswana and the rest of the region,” Kline replied. “That’s the problem you pointed out earlier, that of who may be backing Dhamballa. We do not know whether Albert Beaudin is involved in this movement. If he is, it’s extremely doubtful he is there for religious enlightenment.”

“He would want to stir things up for his own reasons,” Hood said.

Kline nodded.

“Bob, do we know whether Beaudin has access to the same NATO files we used?” Hood asked.

“He probably does,” Herbert said. “At the very least, whoever is behind this would probably assume that the bishop will not be unprotected.”

“Mr. Kline, what does the Vatican risk by letting this play out a little longer?” Hood asked.

“A great deal. If this were simply about the return of Father Bradbury, I would agree to let the church go untenanted for a time,” Kline replied. “But it isn’t. It’s about the credibility of the Vatican and its commitment to those who have literally put their faith in us, not just in Botswana but around the world. These are volatile, militant times. The Church cannot afford to be as passive as it has been in the past.”

“Flip the question,” Hood said. “Can Dhamballa afford to let Bishop Max take up where Father Bradbury left off?”

“We don’t know,” Kline admitted. “We’re hoping the Vatican’s resolve will discourage him from ratcheting this higher.”

“You mean by attacking a bishop,” Hood said.

Kline nodded.

“What if that’s what Dhamballa wants?” Herbert asked. “What if he’s looking to prove how bold he is by taking on the Church? How outsiders return to his land without hesitation.”

“Then we will have an extremely grave situation on our hands,” Kline admitted. “The Church is not willing to give up its missionary activities in Botswana or anywhere else.”

Hood turned to his political adviser. “Ron, what kind of ramifications are we looking at if there’s a civil war in Botswana?” Hood asked.

“A politically based war would be bad enough,” Plummer said. “With that alone, you would run the risk of having tens of thousands of refugees clawing into South Africa and starting border violence there. But if we have a religious uprising, a situation where non-Christians are turning on Catholics, the Hindu and Islamic minorities in South Africa could be inspired—or encouraged—into doing the same thing.”

“And make no mistake,” Kline added, “if there is a conflict in the region, Johannesburg would have to move very quickly to shut the border and protect its people, its workforce. They cannot afford to lose the income from exports. Turmoil in South African industry would affect regional supplies of steel, corn, wool, metals, and the international market for diamonds.”

Hood and Herbert exchanged glances at the mention of diamonds. Kline did not appear to notice.

“In the case of a religious war, you’ve also potentially got serious problems to the west, east, and north of Botswana,” Plummer went on. “To the west, you’ve got Namibians, half of whom are Christian. The other half practice ancient, traditional beliefs.”

“Those are the people who would be drawn to Dhamballa, whose cult draws from a variety of old sources,” Kline pointed out. “It would be worse to the east, in Zimbabwe, where followers of traditional faiths outnumber Christians two to one. And we could well see open persecution in the north, in Angola. The majority of the Christians there are Roman Catholic, but they are still outnumbered nearly four to one by traditionalists. That could fuel tribal disputes that have nothing to do with religion.”

“One well-placed flame, and the entire region could blow up,” Plummer said. “And it will not just explode. It will be pulled in so many directions—political, religious, economic, and social—that it will be impossible to find the original pieces, let alone reassemble them.”

“All right. Let’s back up,” Hood said. “What is the government of Botswana doing and likely to do to deal with this situation?”

“At the moment, they’re doing nothing beyond a search,” Kline said. “They interviewed the people at the lodge and are tracking the movements of the kidnappers. But until they know more about Dhamballa and where his cult is headed, they don’t want to aggravate the situation by overreacting.”

“Religious radicals and would-be rebels are not unknown outside the cities,” Plummer remarked. “They have undoubtedly had to deal with things like this before, events that pass under the international radar.”

“And if the struggle between the Vatican and Dhamballa escalates?” Hood asked. “What then, Ron?”

“If Gaborone feels that Dhamballa has built any kind of power base, they will probably negotiate with him,” Plummer said. “As I said, cults are not uncommon over there. The big difference is that this one may have snatched a priest.”

“The risk you run is giving Dhamballa added legitimacy by fighting him,” Herbert said to Kline.

“Or negotiating with him,” Kline replied.

“There are different levels of negotiation, Edgar,” Hood pointed out. “Gaborone can open a dialogue without legitimizing his actions. Does the Botswana president—what’s his name?”

“Butere,” Kline said. “Michael Butere.”

“Does President Butere know about the possible involvement of the Brush Vipers and foreign interests in Dhamballa’s activities?” Hood asked.

“We have told him about the possible involvement of former Brush Vipers,” Kline acknowledged. “But since they helped eject the British and remain heroes to an older segment of the population, he is not prepared to pronounce them rebels. We have not said anything to the president about Albert Beaudin.”

“Why not?” Herbert asked. “The Botswana government might be the ultimate target. He should have that intelligence.”

“We’re more concerned about the Vatican’s relations with France,” Kline said. “We absolutely do not want to implicate a leading French industrialist until we’re convinced that he’s involved.”

“Then let the French government know,” Herbert said. “At least tell them your suspicions.”

“That’s a bad idea, Bob,” Plummer said. “For all we know, there are people in power who are supporting Beaudin.”

“That was our conclusion,” Kline said, “and we don’t want to risk turning key members of the government against our people in France. As I said, at the moment, our only concern is for the safety of our priests and missionaries.”

“Which is as it should be,” Hood said firmly.

Hood’s remark was meant more to rein Herbert in than to support Edgar Kline. Hood was right to take the shot at him. He had to have noticed that Herbert was a little less controlled than he should be. The intelligence chief had been fidgeting and scowling and looking in all different directions. It was more than Herbert simply being annoyed at Kline for not having told him about the Spanish military unit. Herbert also wished that he were running the HUMINT aspect of this operation. With all of the countries and all the hot potatoes involved, there would be enough work to go around. Still, Herbert envied Mike Rodgers being able to field the team on this one.

Hood looked over at Plummer. “Suggestions, Ron?”

“I have two,” Plummer replied. “First, Op-Center should move with considerable caution. We have domestic as well as international issues to consider. Anything we do has to be extremely low profile, invisible if possible.”

“I agree,” Herbert said.

“Having said that,” Plummer went on, “we can’t afford to let this blow up. As long as we have an exit strategy for our personnel and our involvement, we should give Mr. Kline any and all the intelligence support he requires.”

“If we get involved, give me your nightmare meltdown scenario on the international side,” Hood said.

“That’s easy,” Plummer said. “Someone who reports directly to us is apprehended in Botswana spying on the activities of a Botswana citizen. There’s no way the United States can pick on a religious movement in a small African nation and come out of it looking good.”

“If the French are involved with Dhamballa, you can be certain we’ll get all the attention we don’t want,” Herbert said.

Hood’s gaze shifted to Herbert. “Bob, how do we prep for that?”

“That depends on Mr. Kline,” Herbert said. He looked at the Vatican security officer. “Ideally, we would send someone in with the bishop. Possibly disguised as a cleric. But I have a feeling his credentials would be checked by someone in the media.”

“That’s correct,” Kline said.

“But there is another way in,” Herbert said.

“How?” Kline asked.

“We can put someone in with the Spanish ‘tourists,’ ” Herbert said. “Edgar, do you think there would be a problem with that?”

“There could be,” Kline admitted. “I’m told that Major Jose Sanjulian doesn’t work with outsiders.”

“Brett August might be able to help us there,” Hood told him. “The colonel has maintained a very good relationship with officers from most of the NATO countries.”

“If the UED commander doesn’t protest, I’m certain the Vatican will have no objections,” Kline told him. “Who did you have in mind for the undercover operation?”

“A woman who just retired from Interpol and is probably entitled to a few weeks of vacation,” Herbert replied. “Maria Corneja-McCaskey.”

SEVENTEEN

Maun, Botswana Thursday, 4:30 P.M.

The bus to Maun Center arrived at four o’clock. It had dropped off forty-two tourists and would wait for an hour before returning. Anyone who missed this bus would have to wait until eleven A.M. the following morning to leave the tourist center. Taxicabs were expensive, and there were very few of them after dark. Outside the city or off the highway, the uncertain terrain was not conducive to nighttime driving. Car rentals were mostly for foreigners who were driving the highways directly to Gaborone or the other major city, Francistown.

Thirty-eight-year-old Deacon Eliot Jones had arrived at the Church of the Holy Cross shortly after two P.M. It had taken him more than a day to make his way northwest from Tonota on the Zimbabwe border. It was necessary to ride his bicycle to Francistown and catch a tour bus that went west, around the Makgadikgadi Pan. Then he had to wait at the salt pan tourist center for another bus that took passengers to Maun. From Maun, he had to catch the bus to the tourist center, where the church was located. There, he and Deacon Canon would link up. They would make preparations to leave Botswana.

That order did not sit well with him. He did not like the idea of being bullied from his flock. Souls mattered more than his flesh. His work was to help save souls, not his own skin.

Several times during his trip, he had tried to phone Father Bradbury. The calls were not answered. Deacon Jones was deeply worried about his old friend and mentor.

Just minutes after he finally reached the church, he received a call from the archdiocese in Cape Town. There was a change of plans. Jones was to go to Maun the following afternoon. Only he would not be flying to South Africa. He was to wait for the arrival of Bishop Victor Max from Washington, D.C., and bring him back to the church. The personal secretary of Archbishop Patrick in Cape Town also instructed Jones to bring one other deacon with him. Patrick did not want the thirty-five-year-old bishop left alone when the deacon had to buy tickets, food, or collect his luggage.

Jones was delighted to hear that the church would not be abandoned. Perhaps the new bishop would allow Jones to stay. The deacon was also excited because he had never met an American bishop. Though the men would only be together for a few hours, Jones was looking forward to it. Foreign clergy often had different perspectives, different ideas. Americans on the whole were always more direct and often better informed. Perhaps the bishop would have news about Father Bradbury or comforting insights about what was happening in Botswana. If the archdiocese in Cape Town knew any more about the crisis than Deacon Jones did, they were not saying anything.

Apart from Deacon Jones, Deacon Samuel Holden Canon had made the longest journey. His ministry encompassed a string of villages on the 6,000-foot-high Tsodilo Hill, which stood where Botswana, Namibia, and Angola all met in the northwest. He had taken a mule, jeep, and bus to get to Maun. Because of his late arrival, the Johannesburg-born Sam Canon was the only other deacon who had not taken the morning bus for Cape Town. Jones relayed the archbishop’s instructions to the twenty-four-year-old deacon. Canon said he would be honored to accompany Deacon Jones to Maun.

The men went to the quarters the deacons used whenever they came in from the field. After removing their dirty soutanes and showering away the dust of the journey, the men put on fresh cassocks. In the absence of Father Bradbury, they would be responsible for ministering to any tourists who might need them. Deacon Jones made tea in the small kitchen area and then took it onto the veranda. The two men sat in wicker chairs and looked out at the flat, sprawling floodplain. The afternoon was as dry, warm, and windless as usual for this time of year. The sky was cloudless, and the amber sun was low.

“Do you have any idea at all what’s behind this?” Canon asked.

Eliot Jones had never been an especially political man. He had been raised in an upper-middle-class household in the Kensington section of London. Political history interested Jones only when it impacted on his two loves. Those were art and religion.

“I’m not sure,” Jones said. “Have you ever read anything about the Mahdi of the Sudan?”

“Are you talking about the one who fought the British in the 1880s?” Canon asked.

“That’s right,” Jones said. “The British were under the command of General Gordon.”

“I saw the movie Khartoum with Charlton Heston,” Canon said, somewhat embarrassed.

Jones smiled. “In the video library at the archdiocese?”

Canon nodded.

“I saw it, too.” Jones smiled. “I first became interested in the conflict between the two men when I was thirteen. Gordon was a very religious Christian who fought in the Crimean War, put down the Taiping Rebellion, and then went searching for Noah’s Ark. That was something I always wished I could do. Read the Bible and other texts, look for clues, then search through the mountains. I found a copy of General Gordon’s published journals and was fascinated by the quest. He finally had to give it up to undertake the defense of the loyal British subjects of Khartoum.

The Mahdi was Muhammad Ahmad, a forty-year-old Muslim religious leader. For years, Ahmad would preach to whomever would listen. Typically, they were the hungry, the homeless, people without hope. In 1881, Ahmad became convinced that he was God’s vice-regent on earth. He was equally convinced that the ills of his people were due to the presence of infidels. He declared a jihad, a holy war, and from that point forth, he would go anywhere, slay or torture anyone who disagreed with his worldview. Only General Charles Gordon and a few hundred Sudanese soldiers were on hand in Khartoum to oppose him. The Mahdi slaughtered them and thousands of citizens who were loyal to him.”

“The first radical Islamic fundamentalist,” Canon said.

“Not really,” Jones replied. “But he was the first one who made all the newspapers in England.”

“So are you saying that you see parallels between that conflict and this one?” Canon asked.

“I do,” Jones replied. “I don’t believe Father Bradbury’s kidnapping or the deacon missionaries being asked to leave has to do with national origin. It’s clearly a religious issue.”

“A Mahdi in the making,” Canon said.

“That’s what I believe,” Jones told him.

“How do you know the government is not behind this for some reason?” Canon asked.

“The Church brings food, education, and health care to the villages,” Jones said. “That encourages peace. The government of Botswana gains nothing by casting us out.”

“Then how do you explain what Director Ndebele told me when I arrived?” Canon said. “He said that Father Bradbury was taken away by soldiers.”

“Soldiers can be hired,” Jones pointed out.

“But what kind of loyalty do they give you?” Canon asked. “What kind of courage?”

“Enough, if it gets the job done,” Jones replied. “Especially if you hire enough of them. I also spoke with Director Ndebele. He said that forty or fifty men came to take Father Bradbury. That tells me the kidnappers were looking to make some kind of statement.”

Canon shook his head slowly. “I really don’t know about these things. My parents were always talking about politics, but I didn’t get involved. It seemed to me that all the answers we needed were in the Bible. That was my guide. The word of God.”

Jones smiled. “That’s exactly how General Gordon felt. In the end, he could have used a few more bullets.”

“What happened to the Mahdi?” Canon asked.

“His own success killed him,” Jones replied.

“How do you mean?” Canon asked.

“His holy warriors slaughtered the defenders of Khartoum and left their bodies in the streets for weeks,” Jones told him. “As a result, there was an epidemic of typhus. The Mahdi succumbed to the disease just a few months after securing Khartoum.”

“ ‘Let evil hunt down the violent man speedily,’ ” Canon said.

“Psalms 140:11,” Deacon Jones said.

“Yes,” said Canon. “The Mahdi was doomed the moment he raised a sword against others. But it did not need to be that way; 1 Corinthians 2:15 says, ‘The spiritual man judges all things, but is himself to be judged by no one.’ If the Mahdi had been a truly spiritual man, devoted to God and not to glory, he would have preached instead of making war. He would not have been destroyed.”

“To the contrary,” Jones agreed. “He might have had a more lasting impact. Working among the people here, I have seen deep spirituality,” he said. “Many of those who have not been persuaded by the teachings of Christ have held tightly to their own faith. I admire their conviction. Faith and truth must be the vehicles of change,” he insisted. “Otherwise, the result is never permanent.”

Canon grinned. “Have their beliefs ever made you doubt your own?” the deacon asked.

“No,” he replied. “But they have made me reexamine it. And every time I do, I come away stronger.”

The men sat in silence then, as they sipped their tea. The sun dropped, and the air cooled quickly. The chill felt good. The silence, settled upon such vastness, was humbling.

Deacon Jones’s cell phone beeped. He jumped from the sound and quickly pulled the phone from the pocket of his cassock. He expected it to be the archbishop’s secretary.

It was not.

It was Father Bradbury with a surprising request.

EIGHTEEN

Washington, D.C. Thursday, 9:55 A.M.

The meeting with Bob Herbert, Ron Plummer, and Edgar Kline ended with Herbert going off to call Maria and Kline chatting with Hood for several minutes longer. Their conversation ranged from the financial and political health of Botswana to Hood soothing the lingering indignation Kline felt at having been put under surveillance. Hood behaved sympathetically because that was his job. The truth was, he felt a lot like he did when he was mayor of Los Angeles. City officials often expected to be exempted from tasks such as jury duty or waiting in line at amusement parks and crowded restaurants because of who they were. Kline expected to be above suspicion because of who he worked for. Hood rejected both attitudes. The only thing that mattered to him was his responsibility to the rights and security of his constituents. When Kline left to go to New York City, he seemed satisfied, though perhaps not entirely convinced, that Bob Herbert simply had been following Op-Center protocol.

As for Maria, Herbert came back into Hood’s office to assure him that she would be ready for the challenge.

Hood had offered to brief Darrell McCaskey as soon as he arrived. Herbert asked to handle that.

“Darrell was not happy to hear that you were contacting a friend at the FBI,” Herbert said. “But he’s going to be a lot less happy when he hears what I’m going to do.”

“I would agree with that,” Hood said dryly.

“If he blows up at me, he can always complain to you. If he blows up at you, he may walk out on us. We don’t want him to do that.”

“But he is going to blow up,” Hood thought aloud.

“Oh yeah,” Herbert said. “It could be one big blast or a lot of small ones. I’m guessing small ones. He will want to do what’s right for Op-Center, so that will stuff the big one down.”

Hood gave him the go-ahead. Besides, there were other things Hood needed to do. His old financial colleague Emmy Feroche had been in a meeting. He left word on her voice mail to call him back. In the meantime, Hood wanted to talk to Shigeo Fujima.

As soon as Herbert left, Hood brought up Fujima’s file. He scanned it quickly. The man was thirty-five, married, two children. He held an advanced degree in political science from Tokyo University and another in criminology from the Osaka School of Law. He had been with the Intelligence and Analysis Bureau for seven years. The man obviously had intelligence chops and political savvy. The Japanese were a hierarchical society. To be the head of the IAB at such a young age was very impressive.

After checking Fujima’s file, Hood brought up the dossier on Henry Genet. The fifty-three-year-old Antwerp native was a diamond merchant. He was on the board of directors of Beaudin International Industries along with several other movers and shakers of French business and finance.

Hood punched in the telephone number Fujima had left on Herbert’s voice mail. The head of the Japanese Intelligence and Analysis Bureau was in a meeting. He left it to take Hood’s call.

“Thank you for calling back, Mr. Hood,” Fujima said. “I’m honored the director of Op-Center would call personally.”

The intelligence officer’s voice was calm and respectful, and his manner was unhurried. But that did not mean anything. Japanese officials were always calm and unhurried.

Hood decided to get right to the matter at hand. He did not have time to get into what Martha Mackall used to call the “plastic bouquet liturgy,” the back-and-forth exchange of insincerely sweet compliments that typified initial conversations with most Japanese officials.

“Your call interested me personally,” Hood replied. “You had questions about Henry Genet?”

“Yes,” Fujima replied.

“Let’s see if I can help you,” Hood prompted.

Fujima was silent for a moment. Within seconds the men had gone from empty, free-flowing compliments to the taciturn dance of intelligence personnel. This business was unlike any other Paul Hood had ever encountered. When the Japanese intelligence officer spoke, it was with care and precision.

“We have been watching Mr. Henry Genet because of several recent investment and business undertakings,” Fujima began. “Over the past few months, he has increased the hiring of personnel in Botswana. At least, that is what it says on the tax forms filed in Gaborone.”

“But you don’t believe it,” Hood said.

“I do not,” Fujima said.

“What kind of personnel is he supposed to have hired?” Hood asked.

“Diamond buyers, security personnel for his purchases, scouts for new purchases—”

“In other words, the kind of employees that would not raise any flags,” Hood said.

“Yes,” Fujima agreed. “Yet we saw no evidence of such personnel in our surveillance.”

Hood was curious what kind of surveillance the Japanese were using. HUMINT resources might be helpful to Op-Center. Yet even if Hood had asked, Fujima would not have told him. Putting the man on the spot would have served no purpose. Sometimes a man gained respect by not asking things he wanted to know. That was certainly true when dealing with the Japanese.

“During that same period, Genet has also withdrawn nearly one hundred million dollars from banks in Japan, Taiwan, and the United States,” Fujima went on. “Genet has used some of that money to lease large tracts of land and invest in factories in both China and North Korea.”

“That could simply be an investment decision,” Hood said. “The Chinese economy is expected to grow exponentially over the next twenty years.”

“A reasonable assumption,” Fujima agreed. “Except that Mr. Genet established several international holding companies to share the ownership of the property and apparently to conceal his involvement.”

“What are the names of the companies?” Hood asked.

“The only one we know is called Eye At Sea,” he replied. “It’s incorporated in Holland and lists its business as venture capital. We believe that Mr. Albert Beaudin is part of that investment group. He should not have to conceal his participation. It is not illegal for Frenchmen to invest in China.”

“Where in China has Genet leased land?” Hood asked.

“The property is in Shenyang in the Liaoning province,” Fujima replied. “Are you familiar with that region of China, Mr. Hood?”

“I am,” Hood said. “That’s where the Chinese manufacture their advanced J-8 II fighter jets.”

“That’s right,” Fujima said. “And that is why the purchase concerns us. They have a highly skilled, relatively inexpensive labor pool there. An international munitions manufacturer could make a great deal of money using that talent. Obviously, it’s an area of enterprise that Japan must watch closely.”

“Of course,” Hood said. “Do you have any indication that Albert Beaudin himself was involved in the purchase or that he is looking to expand his operations into China?”

“None, Mr. Hood,” Fujima admitted. “But we cannot ignore those possibilities.”

“Of course not,” Hood said.

Hood went back to the computer file on the Beaudin corporate structure. He reviewed the biographies of each individual. The entries were short and did not show the common origins, traumas, national agenda, or even ages that typically formed the basis for what was classified as PIGs—political intervention groups. Hood had always felt that was a fitting acronym for groups that backed terrorists, rebels, and coups.

“Have the other members of Beaudin’s team made any significant financial transactions?” Hood asked.

“To date, we have only been watching Mr. Genet and Mr. Beaudin,” the intelligence officer replied. “But you were in finance, Mr. Hood. Consider some of the names on Beaudin’s board. Richard Bequette. Robert Stiele. Gurney de Sylva. Peter Diffring. Are any of them familiar to you?”

“They weren’t until now,” Hood admitted.

“You have files on them?” Fujima asked.

“I have very thin files,” Hood said. “I’ll forward them when we’re done. They all appear to be low-profile French, Belgian, and German financiers.”

“These are extremely low-profile gentlemen,” Fujima agreed. “But directly they control nearly one billion dollars. Indirectly, through partnerships and through individuals who follow their investment leads, they control four to five billion dollars.”

That sum was greater than the gross domestic product of Botswana.

“I am not convinced that we’re witnessing the unfolding of a master plan,” Fujima went on. “Nonetheless, I was hoping you might have some information on Genet, Beaudin, or their colleagues. We cannot ignore the potential for at least a financial assault on international economies.”

Fujima’s use of the term “at least” suggested his greater worry: that the European money, along with Beaudin technology, would be used to enhance the already formidable Chinese military machine. It was a justifiable concern.

What troubled Hood more was whether the events in Botswana were connected to the activities of Genet. Shaking up the flow of diamonds from the south of Africa would be significant to a portion of the world economy, but it would not be enough to help wage a “financial assault.”

Hood received an instant message from Bugs Benet. Emmy Feroche was on the line. Hood wrote back and asked him to have her hold on.

“Mr. Fujima, I’m going to look into these developments for you,” Hood said. “Bob Herbert or I will keep you informed. I hope you will do the same.”

“I will,” Fujima promised.

The Japanese intelligence officer thanked him. Hood told Bugs to forward the personnel files of the Beaudin board to Mr. Fujima. Then he grabbed the call from Emmy.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Emmy,” Hood said.

“Not a problem, Paul,” she said. “It’s great to hear from you! How has life been?”

“Eventful,” he replied.

“I can’t wait to catch up,” she said. “God, it’s amazing how ‘Let’s stay in touch’ can turn into ‘Has it really been that long?’ ”

“I know,” Hood said. “How is the world of white-collar crime?”

“Overall, it’s very busy,” Emmy told him. “At the moment, it’s completely insane.”

“Why?” Hood asked.

“We’re checking to see if there were any improprieties in several major stock deals,” Emmy told him. “Have you ever heard of a German stockbroker named Robert Stiele?”

Hood felt a chill. “It so happens I have,” he replied. “What did he do?”

“Stiele quietly pulled the trigger on some major deals early this morning, Euro time,” she said. “He dumped one hundred and fourteen million dollars in blue-chip stock holdings, companies that were doing well, and put the money into three separate, privately held operations.”

“Do you have their names?” Hood asked.

“Yes,” she replied. “The first one is VeeBee Ltd., the second one is Les Jambes de Venus—”

“And the third is Eye At Sea,” Hood said.

“Yes!” Emmy replied. She was obviously impressed. “How do you know that?”

“I can’t tell you,” Hood said.

“Well, Mr. Wizard, what can you tell me?” she asked.

“Look into Albert Beaudin,” he said.

“Why?”

“Can’t tell you that either,” Hood said. “what are you doing about Stiele?”

“We’re trying to find out if Mr. Stiele knows something about the blue chips that we don’t.”

“I wouldn’t worry about the blue chips,” Hood said. “This is about Stiele. He needed to get liquid.”

“Why?” she pressed.

“That,” Hood replied, “is a damn good question.”

NINETEEN

Okavango Swamp, Botswana Thursday, 6:00 P.M.

It was ironic. After being given food and rest, Father Bradbury’s own tactics were used against him.

The priest had recalled the missionaries, as instructed. Then he was taken outside. He was not bound or hooded, and it felt strange to see the morning light, to feel fresh air on his face. He was allowed to use the little island’s outhouse. After that, he was not returned to “the cage,” as his captors called it. He was taken to a small hut. The window was shuttered, the walls were made of logs, and the roof was corrugated tin. Near the ceiling, a series of four small holes had been cut two feet apart in the walls on every side. They provided the small room’s only light and ventilation. The door was bolted from the outside, and the floor was concrete. But there was a cot against the back wall, and Bradbury was given bread and water. After saying grace, he ate and drank greedily.

The air was humid and extremely hot. Following his modest meal, Father Bradbury stood on the cot and sucked the relatively cool morning air through one of the openings. Then, his eyes heavy, he lay down on his belly. He put his head on the towel that passed for a pillow. He reeked of dried perspiration and the smells of the swamp. Marsh flies scouted his sticky hands and cheeks. But the heat, the stench, the bugs, all of that vanished when the priest shut his eyes. He was asleep within moments.

The next thing Father Bradbury knew, he was being awakened by a firm tap on the shoulder and a gruff, unfamiliar voice.

“Get up!”

It was now very dark in the room and he had no idea how long he’d been asleep. The voice seemed to be coming from far away. The priest felt incredibly groggy. He was not even certain he was awake. He did not want to move, let alone stand.

Someone tapped him again. “Come on!” the voice said.

Father Bradbury tried to face the speaker. His arms were asleep, and it was a moment before he could move. He finally looked over at a shadowy figure. It was someone he did not know.

The man reached down and grabbed Father Bradbury’s upper arm. He gave it a sharp tug. Obviously, the priest was not moving swiftly enough. Father Bradbury pushed himself off the cot and stood unsteadily, and his vision swirled from having gotten up too quickly. Still holding him, the man led the clergyman through the open door. The skies were blue black as they walked across the warm soil toward a hut. The structure was about thirty yards away. Father Bradbury had not seen Dhamballa’s hut from the outside. The last time he was pulled in this direction, he had been wearing a hood. But he saw half-dragged footprints in the soil. They were probably his. And they led to this structure.

The island seemed deserted. There was only the one soldier to escort the priest. That did not surprise Father Bradbury. Even if he had the strength, where would an unarmed man go? Especially with predators hiding in the murky waters and along the moss-shrouded shoreline.

But flight was not what Father Bradbury had in mind. Sometimes the best escape was to change the prison itself.

“Whom do I thank for giving me food and allowing me to rest?” the priest pressed.

The man responded with silence. The priest was undeterred.

“May I know your name?” Father Bradbury asked.

The man still did not answer him.

“I am Powys Sebastian Bradbury—”

“Quiet!”

“I’m sorry,” Father Bradbury replied.

The priest had not really expected the man to say anything. Nonetheless, now that he had the strength, the clergyman wanted to try to engage these people in conversation. When talking to parishioners or taking confession, Father Bradbury found that trust often grew from the most banal or innocent exchanges. It was easy to evolve a conversation. To progress from learning a person’s name to discussing the weather to asking how they’re feeling. Now that the priest was rested and thinking more clearly, establishing a personal connection with his captors was a priority. It might not guarantee his safety or gain his release, but it might give Father Bradbury a clue as to what the Botswanans were planning. It might also tell him whether he should continue to participate.

But conversation was like a spear with two heads. If a man pushed too hard, he could impale himself on the backside.

The priest was taken inside the hut. Dhamballa was there. He was sitting on a wicker mat by the far wall. His back was to the door. There was a candle in front of him. It gave off a tart smell, like burning rubber. It was the only light in the room. There was a wooden bucket behind the man. Father Bradbury could not see what was inside.

The soldier sat the priest in a folding chair in the center of the room. Then the young man closed the door and stood beside it. There was a tray on the dirt floor to Father Bradbury’s right. On it were a cell phone, a plate of fruit, a pitcher of water, and a glass.

“You may drink or eat, if you wish,” Dhamballa said. He spoke without turning around.

“Thank you,” Father Bradbury said. He filled the water glass and took a banana.

“You did both,” Dhamballa remarked.

“Yes.”

“But I gave you a choice,” Dhamballa pointed out.

The priest apologized. He put the banana back.

“You kept the water,” Dhamballa said.

“Yes.”

“People will always choose drink over food,” Dhamballa said. “Do you know why?”

“Thirst is a more commanding need, I would say,” the priest replied.

“No,” Dhamballa told him. “Water is the companion to air, earth, and fire. Men always return to the four elemental forces to nurture life, to find the truth, to understand themselves.”

“Is that what you are doing out here?” Father Bradbury asked. “Searching for truth?”

“I am not,” Dhamballa said. He looked back. His face was dark, but his head was haloed by the candle’s orange glow. He looked very young, very innocent. “I have found the truth. I am preparing to bring it to others.”

“Does that include me?” Father Bradbury asked.

Dhamballa now turned around fully. He stood. Dhamballa was a tall man, well over six feet. He was barefoot and dressed in a brown, sleeveless robe that reached to his ankles. “What do you know of Vodunism?”

The word itself made Father Bradbury feel unclean. He looked down at the cup of water. It reminded him of the Baptist. What is elemental to one is holy to another. That made him feel a little better. Besides, the Vatican had established guidelines that enabled missions to exist harmoniously with indigenous faiths. The most important was to open a dialogue with the leaders of those faiths. Not to remain a mysterious, threatening secret.

“I know nothing about Vodunism,” Father Bradbury replied. He did not want to tell what little he knew about voodoo or the black arts. He could not risk misspeaking and insulting his host. As long as they kept talking, as long as they opened up to one another, the priest had hope.

“But you are acquainted with the term,” Dhamballa continued.

“Yes,” the priest admitted.

“What is your perception of Vodunism?” Dhamballa asked.

The priest considered his words carefully. “It is an ancient set of practices. I have read that your beliefs are rooted in nature. In the elementals, if you will. Your rites are said to employ herbal mixtures that can control the will, raise the dead, and perform other acts of the supernatural.”

“That is part of it. Some of our ‘practices,’ as you describe them, are at least eight thousand years old,” Dhamballa said.

“Your history is great,” Father Bradbury agreed.

“Our history?” Dhamballa said. “We are more than an accumulation of years and events.”

“Forgive me,” Father Bradbury said immediately. “I did not mean any disrespect.”

“In truth, priest, you know nothing about the heart of my faith,” Dhamballa went on.

“No,” Father Bradbury admitted.

“How can you know anything?” Dhamballa asked. “In the fifteenth century, your priests came to Africa, and later to the West Indies. They baptized my people to save us from a ‘profound evil.’ Growing up in Machaneng, I knew priests. I watched them. I saw how they promised the poor riches in the next life.”

“They are there,” Father Bradbury assured him.

“No,” Dhamballa replied. “The riches are here. I saw them when I worked in the diamond mines. I watched as good Christians took our wealth from us, and the priests did nothing to stop them.”

“It is not our job to restrict the actions of others,” Father Bradbury said.

“You did not speak against it.”

“Why would we? They broke no laws,” the priest observed.

“They did not break your laws,” Dhamballa said. “The laws that the British brought here and that subsequent governments retained. I do not recognize those laws.”

Father Bradbury wanted to say, Clearly you do not. But that would not have helped him.

“I judge all men by one measure, and that is truth,” Dhamballa said. “When I worked in the mines, I also saw the living faith of Vodunism. I saw men who could cure the hurt, the weary, the despairing with a touch, a prayer, a potion.” He pointed a finger at Father Bradbury. “They explained to me that they practiced in secret because those whom you have converted also regard them as evil. And yet these are arts my ancestors took with them when they migrated to the Middle East. They are skills that could very well have been used by your own Savior, Jesus Christ. White arts to heal, not black arts that hurt.”

“The powers of our Savior belonged to Him because He is the Son of God,” Father Bradbury said.

“We are all sons of God,” Dhamballa replied. “The question is, which god? Jehovah or Olorun?”

The cult leader moved forward slowly. Father Bradbury noticed there were snakes tattooed on the backs of his wrists.

“My faith is as old as civilization itself,” Dhamballa said. “It was ancient when your religion was not yet conceived. Our rites and our prayers have passed unchanged since the earliest days of man. Not just the black magic but the white magic, the arts your priests ignored as they had us flogged and hanged. We used mandrake to kill pain, rattles and drums to stimulate blood flow and cure illness, stimulated human glands by the consumption of animal meat and blood. Our priests do not just talk about miracles. They work miracles, every day, guided by Agwe, the essence of the sea; by Aida Wedo, the rainbow spirit; by Baron Samedi, the guardian of the grave; by Erinle, the heart of the forest; and by hundreds of others. The fortunate ones are taught in dreams and visions. These spirits give us the power and the wisdom to generate, to regenerate, or to destroy.”

“Are you one of the fortunate ones?” Father Bradbury asked.

“I am among the blessed,” the leader said with humility. “I am the priest of the serpent spirit Damballah. I have adopted a form of his name in tribute. My sacred task is to clean the nation of disbelievers. I must do that or else I must prepare the way for Ogu Bodagris, the great spirit of war. He wishes to reclaim the home that was once his.”

Just a few minutes before, the idea of John the Baptist had brought Father Bradbury a feeling of peace. It was frightening to think that Dhamballa saw himself in that same way. John was a bringer of light and eternal salvation. Dhamballa was a harbinger of darkness and damnation. Even if it cost Father Bradbury his life, the priest could not allow this war to happen.

Words, he reminded himself. Use them as you have in the past. Get him to open up.

“There must be a way to resolve our differences without bloodshed,” Father Bradbury said.

“There is, most definitely,” Dhamballa replied. “Withdraw your people. Return our nation to us.”

“But Botswana is home to many of us,” Father Bradbury replied. “I am a citizen. So is Deacon Jones and many others. We have spent much of our lives in Maun.”

“It cannot be your home because you came uninvited,” Dhamballa replied. “You came here for one reason. To try to conquer the native faith of Botswana. Your people are the ones who have made war on us.” Dhamballa pointed to Father Bradbury’s forehead. “A war of ideas. They will be crushed.”

“You speak of a different time, a different church,” Father Bradbury assured him. “We respect other religions, other religious leaders. We wish to coexist with you.”

“That is not true,” Dhamballa replied.

“I tell you it is,” Father Bradbury replied.

“Pick up the telephone,” Dhamballa told him.

Father Bradbury was caught off guard. He walked to the table and lifted the cordless receiver. It was larger than any telephone he had ever seen. It looked more like a walkie-talkie.

“Call your parish,” Dhamballa said. “Speak with your deacon. Ask who is coming to the church.”

The priest did so. Deacon Jones answered. The missionary was surprised and excited to hear from Father Bradbury.

“God is merciful! How are you, Father?” Jones asked.

The deacon’s voice was coming from the back of the receiver as well as the front. This was a portable speakerphone.

“I’m well,” the priest replied. “Deacon, tell me. Is someone coming to Holy Cross?”

“Yes,” the deacon replied. “A bishop is arriving tomorrow from Washington, D.C., to minister in your absence.”

“A bishop?” Bradbury said.

“Yes, Bishop Victor Max,” Jones said. “Deacon Canon and I are going to Maun to meet his plane when it arrives. Father, talk to me—where are you? Are they treating you well?”

“I am fine,” the priest said. “Is anyone else coming to the church?” Father Bradbury asked.

“No,” the deacon replied.

“Are you certain?” the priest asked.

“This is what I’ve been told,” Deacon Jones informed him.

Dhamballa held out his hand. Father Bradbury handed him the telephone. The Vodun leader punched it off.

“You see?” Dhamballa said.

“A bishop is coming,” Father Bradbury said. “A single clergyman. I’m certain he has been sent to tend to the needs of the people I left behind. My flock. My followers. He is no threat to you.”

The priest spoke softly and with great compassion. But as he awaited Dhamballa’s reply, Father Bradbury had an uneasy feeling, a sense that he had just made a terrible mistake.

“He is no threat,” the voodoo priest repeated disdainfully. His dark eyes glared at the priest. “As I suspected, they will replace one with another.”

“As you suspected?”

“They send one mightier in rank and from another nation, daring us to defend ourselves,” Dhamballa said.

“You used me,” the priest said angrily. “You didn’t know anyone was coming—”

“They are daring me to go after him,” Dhamballa said more to himself than to Father Bradbury. “But Leon expected this. We will postpone visiting the other churches to deal with this great man from America.” His eyes shifted to the soldier. “Grinnell, return the priest to the hut.”

The soldier took Father Bradbury by the arm. The priest tried to wrench it free.

“Wait!” the priest said. “What is going to happen now?”

Dhamballa turned back toward his mat. He did not answer.

Of all the hapless, trusting fools, Father Bradbury thought. The voodoo priest had done exactly what the priest himself had been trying to do. To engage his opponent and find out what he was thinking. Only Dhamballa had done it better. He had gotten the priest to open up, to hope, to trust. In so doing, Father Bradbury had told Dhamballa where and how to seize his next hostage.

As he was led from the hut, the priest wailed in despair.

TWENTY

Maun, Botswana Thursday, 6:46 P.M.

It was as if no time had passed.

Most human bodies have a better memory than the mind. Skills once learned do not go away, whether it is assembling a rifle or holding a pencil. Reflexes and instincts work faster than thought. Even when the limbs age, they have the capacity to recall their abilities and execute many of them. The mind? Leon Seronga could not tell someone how to tie a shoe. But he could show them. He could not remember what he had for dinner two nights ago. But his fingertips could remember the weight of a switchblade he had learned to use when he was a boy. Whenever Seronga took the old knife from his pocket, his hand and arm could run a slash attack on their own.

Seronga sat on his motor scooter looking out at the tourist center. His body told him it was 1966. His senses were finely tuned. His muscles, only slightly impaired by age, were still at hair-trigger readiness. He and his companion, Donald Pavant, had driven to Maun and rented Malaguti Firefox F15 RR scooters. Dressed in white and blue Dainese scooter jackets, the men had pretended to be recreational bikers as they made their way across the floodplain. They raced through gullies and jumped small hills as they headed away from the city. Now that it was nearly dark, the men had stopped to keep an eye on the tourist center. If everything was all right, they would contact the men at the edge of the swamp. They would proceed to the Church of Loyola in Shakawe to kidnap the priest there. Seronga expected that he would be guarded now, probably by local police. The military would not want to give this a high profile. Not yet. But whoever was there, it would not matter. There was always a way in.

Seronga and Pavant had come here to keep an eye on any surreptitious developments at this church. The Brush Vipers wondered if the archdiocese in Cape Town, perhaps the Vatican itself, would let the violation of this place go unanswered. Would the Church respond with calm or would they send a battery of priests? Perhaps they would send nuns to see if women were vulnerable.

The secure phone provided by Genet beeped. The call from the Belgian gave Seronga his answer.

“Dhamballa just spoke with our guest,” Genet informed the leader of the Brush Vipers. “As we anticipated, there is a new one coming over. We were told that a bishop is due in Maun tomorrow afternoon. Two individuals from your locale will be meeting him at the airfield.”

“Is this new arrival traveling alone?” Seronga asked.

“That’s what we were told,” Genet informed him.

“Where is he coming from?” Seronga asked.

“The United States,” Genet replied.

“Interesting.”

“Very,” Genet said. “That automatically makes it a global affair and guarantees the interest of international press if something happens.”

Any move against him could draw America into this conflict in some capacity. Probably in a démarche, intense diplomatic activity. Possibly even a military one. There was a zero-tolerance policy for terrorism. A limited search-and-rescue operation could be called for. On the other hand, the clergyman might simply be bait to capture the abductors. The government in Gaborone might dispatch troops to protect him. Or perhaps the Vatican had made its own security arrangements.

Seronga thanked Genet for the update and hung up. The Belgian did not have to tell him what to do. That had been decided ahead of time. If a replacement were sent for Father Bradbury, he was to be taken. But not with a show of force this time. The abduction of Father Bradbury had been done that way to show the world that Dhamballa had soldiers to use if he wished. If Seronga had come back with his army, the Botswana president might begin to fear a brewing civil war. He would have no choice but to call on his own military. Dhamballa did not want that. This time, the kidnapping must be different. It must be very subtle. To slip the priest’s replacement away would show Gaborone that this was not a war. It was a dispute. And the dispute was not with Botswana or its people. It was with the Roman Catholic Church. Only later, when Dhamballa had established a strong religious base among the general population, would he use his ministry to impact nationalism and politics.

Seronga briefed Pavant. The thirty-three-year-old was the youngest of the Brush Vipers. He was also one of the most militant. Born and raised in Lobatse on the South African border, Pavant was exposed to refugees from apartheid. Pavant believed that Africa was for native Africans and their descendants. He was one of the first men to discover Dhamballa and his ministry.

The men waited a quarter of a mile from the tourist center. They sat on their bikes, shielded by the darkness. They ate chicken sandwiches they had picked up in Maun and watched the dirt road for headlights. They did not speak. After five hours on the bikes, the silence felt good.

At a few minutes before nine o’clock, the evening bus from Maun pulled up to the front gate of the tourist center. Seronga asked for the binoculars. Pavant reached into the small equipment locker on the back of his bike. He removed the case and handed the binoculars to Seronga. The leader of the Brush Vipers peered across the dark, still floodplain.

There were several things odd about the group. The size, for one. There were about twenty-five new arrivals. That was a large number for this time of year. Most of the large tour groups came when the weather was cooler. Seronga watched carefully. They were all carrying duffel bags as well as having suitcases stored below. The bags had a sameness to them, as if the tourists had packed an identical amount of clothes, the same number of personal items. Individuals on a trip did not do that. Seronga also noticed that no one had plastic bags or souvenir caps, the kinds of things one typically picked up in airports or local gift shops.

And one thing more struck Seronga as very unusual. Most of the tourists were men.

“It looks as if a lot of people came in,” Pavant remarked.

“Too many,” Seronga remarked.

As Seronga watched, there were other things that made him uneasy.

Genet and Dhamballa had set out very strict guidelines for Seronga and his Brush Vipers to follow. Clergymen were to be captured as nonviolently as possible. None was to be martyred, even if it meant aborting a mission. Care was to be taken so that parishioners were never harmed.

Military or police action taken against Dhamballa or the Brush Vipers was to be met with deadly force. Dhamballa did not like killing. It angered the gods. But Seronga did not have enough soldiers that he could afford to lose any of them. He argued that self-defense was not an evil act. He also did not want his people captured. A prisoner who had been tortured, his brain rewired, could be made to say just about anything. A show trial could be used to discredit Dhamballa.

Reluctantly, Dhamballa had agreed to killing under those conditions. But neither man had expected things to reach that stage this early.

Seronga continued to study the group. The truth was, he had no way of knowing whether these were tourists or soldiers traveling incognito. He could not see if they were black or white. They might have come from Gaborone. Perhaps the United States sent them from the embassy to look after their cleric. The Americans had soldiers stationed there. These could have been selected from their ranks. Perhaps they would go touring when the deacons went to Maun to meet the American cleric. Perhaps the tourists would be watching for any attempts to abduct the new arrival. The bishop could not be allowed to reach the church and resume Father Bradbury’s work. If he did, priests and field missionaries might be encouraged to stay. Dhamballa could not afford to let that happen.

“How is their posture?” Pavant asked.

“Excellent,” Seronga said.

“Then they can’t be tourists,” Pavant said. “They always slump.”

“Yes, and when these people got out, several did stretches,” Seronga said. “They seem accustomed to traveling great distances.” He handed his companion the binoculars. “And look at how they’re moving.”

Pavant studied the group for a moment. “They’re passing each other bags as they unload them.”

“Like troops,” Seronga said. “Let’s give them a while to settle in, and then we’ll go over.”

Seronga took the binoculars back. He continued to watch the bus until it pulled away. The more he saw of the dark figures, the more convinced he became that something was afoot.

He would soon know if that were true. And if it was, he would know what to do about it.

TWENTY-ONE

Washington, D.C. Thursday, 11:47 A.M.

Darrell McCaskey left Mike Rodgers chatting with David Battat and Aideen Marley at DiMaggio’s Joe. Within a half hour, the general had the two operatives revved up and ready to die for him. Rodgers’s sense of purpose, and the quiet intensity with which he stated it, made people want to work with him. The genius of Mike Rodgers was that he was standoffish without being cold. He did not welcome new friendships. If others wanted to be with him, service was all they could give him. Colonel Brett August was the only one who had ever gotten close to Rodgers. And that had taken him a lifetime.

Darrell McCaskey was not like that. When he was with the FBI and out in the field, he had been ice. That was the only way to deal with the terrorists and drug dealers and kidnappers. He had to forget they were people with parents and siblings and children. His job was to uphold the law. If that meant arresting a single mother who was pushing heroin to support her kids, he did it.

When he was at the office or went home, McCaskey always did a one eighty. He let himself get close to people. He had to. He needed to keep his armor from becoming permanent. He opened himself up to superiors, subordinates, custodians, neighbors, shopkeepers, women he dated.

Inevitably, with that kind of emotional exposure came trust. Equally as inevitable, with trust came disappointment. And right now, McCaskey was disappointed in a man he had trusted.

Bob Herbert’s call to Maria had gnawed at him during the drive from Georgetown to Andrews Air Force Base. Herbert knew that this was a sensitive area in the couple’s relationship. McCaskey did not believe that Herbert had set out to hurt him. But his coworker, his friend, had not done anything to protect him, either. If Herbert had asked, McCaskey could have put him in touch with any number of Interpol agents in Madrid. They could have done the same job as Maria. McCaskey could not imagine what the hell the guy was thinking.

He tried calling his wife during the drive. Her cell phone voice mail took his call. He asked her to call back as soon as possible. She did not.

By the time McCaskey reached Op-Center, he was in a silent rage. The former G-man went directly to Bob Herbert’s office. That was probably a bad idea, and he knew it. But Herbert was not a kid. He could take a dressing down. Hell, he had no choice. It was coming.

The door to Herbert’s office was shut. McCaskey knocked. Paul Hood opened it.

“Good morning, Darrell,” Hood said.

“Morning,” McCaskey said. He entered the office. Op-Center’s director shut the door behind him. Herbert was seated behind his desk. Hood remained standing. His white shirtsleeves were rolled up and his tie loosened. Paul Hood was not a casual man. It must have been a tough morning. Or maybe Hood was just expecting it to get tougher.

“Everything okay?” Hood asked.

“Sure,” McCaskey replied. He did not attempt to conceal the edge in his voice. But if Hood or Herbert noticed, they said nothing. They apparently had their own problems. McCaskey had spent nearly three decades in law enforcement. When the temperature of a room was off, he knew it.

“I was just bringing Bob up to speed on developments in Africa,” Hood said. “You know what happened over there? About the kidnapping of Father Powys Bradbury?”

“I read the briefing on the Op-ED page before I left the house,” McCaskey said.

“Bad news and a Danish,” Herbert said.

“Something like that,” McCaskey replied. Their eyes remained locked a moment longer than ordinary conversation required. McCaskey realized just how angry he was at Bob Herbert for having contacted Maria.

The Op-ED page was the Op-Center Executive Dossier page, a twice-daily summary of NCMC activities. Written by the daytime department heads, it was posted on the internal web site. In that way, officials who did not normally interact could stay on top of what was happening in different divisions. It was also a quick way for the night crew to get up to speed. The Op-ED program also cross-referenced names and places with files from other U.S. intelligence agencies. If a company owned by Albert Beaudin were involved in an investigation over at the CIA, FBI, NSA, military intelligence, or some other agency, the respective department heads would be notifed via automated E-mail.

“There are a few things aren’t on the Op-ED yet,” Hood said. “Have you ever heard of a diamond dealer by the name of Henry Genet?”

“No,” McCaskey said.

“Genet has financial ties to Albert Beaudin, the French industrialist,” Hood told him.

“The Musketeer,” McCaskey said.

“Right,” Hood said. “As Bob and I were just discussing, the most compelling reason for Op-Center to be involved in this situation is to track whatever Beaudin might be doing. After what we went through in France with the New Jacobins, we can’t afford to underestimate this guy.”

“I agree,” McCaskey said.

“The big question is whether these people have anything to do with a religious cult leader named Dhamballa,” Herbert said.

“Where’s the link?” McCaskey asked.

“A man named Leon Seronga,” Herbert told him. “Seronga is one of the founders of the Brush Vipers, a paramilitary intelligence group that helped Botswana get its independence from Great Britain. The Vatican suspects Seronga of having kidnapped their priest. He has also been seen at Dhamballa’s rallies. The MO of what went down in Maun is reminiscent of how the Brush Vipers used to strike. In and out, surgical, usually early in the morning when people were still groggy. We’ve promised to help Rome try to clear up some of these connections, maybe get some people over there.”

“I think we’re past the maybe stage,” McCaskey said. “I was just with Mike, Aideen Marley, and David Battat. They’re ready to go.”

Hearing this, Herbert punched in the telephone extension of Barbara Crowe. Crowe ran Op-Center’s documents department. This wasn’t his operation, but he had never been one to fret over formalities. They would need counterfeit IDs, credit cards, and passports. Crowe could use photographs from their dossiers. Battat had been registered in a hospital in Azerbaijan. Marley had been involved in an assassination in Spain. The new identities would prevent their names from raising flags in any customs or airline databases.

While Herbert told Barbara what Marley and Battat would need, Hood continued the briefing.

“Apart from Beaudin and the missing priest, there is another immediate concern,” Hood said. “The Vatican is sending a replacement to run the church in Maun, a bishop from D.C. He arrives tomorrow.”

“Have they got resources to protect him?” McCaskey asked.

“Yes, which is what concerns me,” Hood said. “He is going to be shadowed by undercover Spanish troops posing as tourists.”

“How did Spain get involved?” McCaskey asked.

“They’re in this because of the Madrid Accords,” Herbert said as he hung up with Barbara Crowe. “That’s a fairly recent alliance between the Vatican and the king of Spain. A dozen of the Spanish army’s elite troops have gone over to Botswana. We tracked their flight. They’re definitely on the ground and probably already on site.”

“Paul, why is that a concern?” McCaskey asked.

“Because now you’ve got five political entities involved,” Hood said. “The U.S. through the bishop. The cult. The Botswana government. The Vatican. And the Spanish.”

“Ordinarily, coalitions are a good thing,” Herbert said. “In this case, though, we feel that the Vatican should be walking softly, not hammering what may be a manageable crisis.”

“Manageable by us,” McCaskey said.

“It’s worth a try,” Hood said.

“What we should be doing is gathering intel to see if the priest can be rescued,” Herbert said. “That should be done before anything else, including sending in a replacement.”

“Would Maria be part of this intel gathering group?” McCaskey asked directly.

“Darrell, Bob and I were just discussing that,” Hood said.

That was what McCaskey sensed when he entered the room. The chill between the men.

“I had called her to get me some information from the Ministry of Defense,” Herbert said. “She got that. She said she wanted to do more.”

“You asked her to go to Botswana,” McCaskey said.

There was another long look. There was something in the intelligence chief’s eyes. Something strong, as if he were braced for an assault.

“No, that isn’t it,” McCaskey said suddenly. “You already sent her.”

“Yes,” Herbert said. “She is en route.”

“You recruited my wife to spy on the Brush Vipers,” McCaskey said. As though saying the words would help him process them. “You sent her to track people who know Botswana better than we know D.C.”

“She’s not going to be alone for long,” Hood said. “And she’s been given very strict orders to gather data from secondary sources.”

“As if my wife knows the meaning of moderation,” McCaskey declared.

“Darrell, let’s talk about this,” Hood said.

McCaskey shook his head. He did not know what to do or what to think. But talking it out was third on his list of options. Beating the hell out of Herbert and walking out of the office were ahead of it, in that order.

“Darrell, I okayed the call to Maria,” Hood said. “If she was going to get to Botswana in time for the bishop’s arrival, she had to leave immediately.”

“Traveling under her own name?” McCaskey said.

“No, under her married name,” Herbert pointed out. “I made sure that she had already changed her passport. Maria McCaskey won’t show up in any foreign databases.”

“You still could have run it past me,” McCaskey said. “You could have given me the courtesy of that.”

“You weren’t here,” Herbert said.

“I have a cell phone—”

“This is not the kind of thing I wanted to tell you over a telephone, secure or not,” Herbert replied. “That’s how people cancel dinner reservations and dentist appointments. This needed to be face-to-face.”

“Why?” McCaskey demanded. “How do you know I would have fought you on this?”

“Because you fought with Maria about it,” Herbert replied. “Hell, you broke up over this a few years ago. I couldn’t take the chance that you would hang up on me and call her. I didn’t want her distracted or upset.”

“Or have someone talking reason to her,” McCaskey said.

“That was not an issue,” Herbert insisted.

“Anyway, I thought this was Mike’s operation,” McCaskey snapped. “Mike thinks that, too. I just had breakfast with him.”

“It will be,” Hood said. “What Bob did was put Maria in a position where she might be able to help us. That’s all.”

“Look, Darrell,” Herbert said. “The Spanish military group has experience in quick military strikes. They have not shown that they can conduct surveillance or work for extended periods undercover. I needed someone who can do that. Someone who was in the right hemisphere. Someone who speaks Spanish and can talk to the soldiers, if necessary.”

McCaskey heard Herbert’s words. They all made sense. But logic aside, he could not get past having been left out of the loop. This was his wife they were talking about sending into a potential combat situation.

Which was why Herbert did it this way, McCaskey told himself. Herbert had just said so. To avoid involving her in a debate like this. To keep the high emotions away from Maria.

Reason told him that what Herbert had done was smart and professional. There were human interests, national interests at risk. But there were still conflicting personal and professional stakes. McCaskey could not think of a previous time when he had felt like this.

McCaskey continued to regard Herbert. As he did, something else eased into the equation. Something unexpected. McCaskey found it in Herbert’s gaze. Those lively Southern eyes did not reflect the same hard determination McCaskey had seen a moment before. There was something new.

There was pain.

It was then that the realization hit McCaskey. It struck him hard across the chest, almost taking his breath away.

Bob Herbert was reliving his own fears, his own trauma. Everything McCaskey was feeling, Herbert must have felt each day he and his late wife were in Beirut. Yet then as now, Herbert had put his nation first. He had done his duty, despite the cost.

The furnace inside Darrell McCaskey shut down. A minute before, he had felt completely alone. That was no longer the case.

“I don’t like this,” McCaskey said, his voice low. “But I will say this much. You certainly called on one of the best undercover ops in the business.”

Herbert seemed to relax slightly. “That I did,” he acknowledged.

McCaskey took a long breath, then looked from Herbert to Hood. “I told Mike I’d do some prep work in case his people went to Africa. I need to find out if there’s anyone they might be able to hook up with over there.”

“Great,” Hood said. “Thanks.”

McCaskey turned from Hood to Herbert, then quickly left the office. Though McCaskey’s manner was calm, he was far, far from being at peace.

TWENTY-TWO

Maun, Botswana Thursday, 11:01 P.M.

The door of the church living quarters did not have a lock. There was no need for one. As Father Bradbury used to say, “Lions cannot turn knobs, and human guests are always welcome.”

Tired from their journeys, Deacons Jones and Canon had retired at ten. Jones had spent over two hours on the telephone discussing his call from Father Bradbury. He had reported it, first, to a priest in Cape Town. Then he recounted the conversation to Archbishop Patrick himself. A few minutes later, he was telephoned by a security officer from the Vatican. After that, the deacon missionary received a call from a man named Kline in New York. Deacon Jones was glad for the many years he had spent memorizing lengthy passages of scripture. He was able to repeat the conversation accurately, word for word, to each man with whom he spoke. Yet except for the first priest in Cape Town, no one seemed to share his delight at having heard from Father Bradbury. The archbishop and especially the two men from the Vatican acted as if he had been phoned by the devil himself. Deacon Jones could not figure out why. Nor would anyone explain it to him. The conversation was brief, and it had seemed innocent enough.

The men from the Vatican both told him not to speak to anyone else about Bishop Max. He agreed.

Jones did not let the confusion trouble him. Ignorance was determined by how much information one had. It was not a measure of intelligence or character. At peace with himself, he went to the washroom, brushed his teeth, put on his pajamas, and returned to the sleeping quarters. He and Deacon Canon took linens from the closet.

There were four twin beds in the long, sparsely furnished room. Two of the beds were situated near windows. The deacons made those and opened the windows. Jones took the bed away from the veranda. Canon was a heavy sleeper. If any of the tourists took a late-night stroll, he would not hear them.

Jones knelt beside the bed and said his prayers. Then he gently parted the fine-mesh mosquito net and slid inside. The window was to Jones’s right. The breeze was warm but soothing. It was good to sleep on a mattress with a clean, white sheet. In the field they usually slept on bedrolls, canvas cots, or patches of grass.

Deacon Jones fell asleep quickly.

There was a sharp prick at the top of the clergyman’s throat. It felt like the bite of a female deerfly, which slashes the flesh and drinks the blood. Jones did not know if minutes or hours had passed. He did not want to know. He was groggy, and all he wanted to do was get back to sleep. He kept his eyes closed and went to brush the fly away.

His hand struck metal.

Jones opened his eyes with a start. It was not a fly at his throat. It was a knife. Behind it was a big, dark figure. The mosquito net had been neatly pulled aside, and the intruder was standing holding the tip of the knife firmly under Deacon Jones’s chin. From the corner of his eye, Jones could see that the door was slightly ajar. He also saw someone standing over Deacon Canon.

“Have you ever met the American bishop?” the intruder asked in a low, rough voice.

“No,” Jones answered. His mind was still fuzzy. Why did the man want to know that?

“What are your names?” the intruder pressed.

“I am Eliot Jones, and he is Samuel Canon,” the deacon replied. “We are deacons at this church. What is going on?”

“Where is your cell phone?” the intruder went on.

“Why do you want to know?” Jones asked.

The intruder pushed down slightly on the knife. Jones felt his flesh pop as the tip of the blade punched through it. Blood seeped around the metal and trickled down both sides of his neck. He could actually feel the sharp steel against the top of his larynx. Instinctively, the deacon reached for the man’s hand to push it back. The intruder twisted the knife blade so that it could cut sideways now. He gave a tug to the side. The pain caused Jones’s entire body to tense. His arms pulled back in the same reflex.

“The next thrust sends it all the way through,” the intruder said. “Once again. Where is your cell phone?”

“Go ahead, cut my throat!” the deacon said. “I have no fear of death.”

“Then I will kill everyone at this facility,” the intruder said.

“That sin would be yours, not mine,” replied the deacon. “And whatever you do to their bodies, their souls will be with God.”

The intruder removed the knife. The next thing the deacon felt was a sharp sting, then a blazing pain in his right thigh. Even as the deacon reflexively sucked down air to scream, the intruder put the blade back at his throat. It took a moment for the deacon’s brain to realize that he had been stabbed. His mind shifted from disbelief to shock to defiance.

“Where is your cell phone?” the intruder repeated. “Tell me, or I’ll let your soul out in pieces.”

“The soul cannot be harmed,” the deacon whimpered. “‘Though I walk through the valley of death—’ ”

The knife pierced his forearm. The deacon screamed. The blade was worked around in a circle, digging into bone. This pain was not like the other. This one did not stop but kept going deeper into his body, as though molten lead had entered his veins. His head shook violently. His feet kicked on the bed. He could not control his body. Or his mind. Or his will.

“The phone!” the intruder said. “We don’t have time—”

“It’s inside my jacket!” the man screamed. “Behind the door! Oh God, stop! Take the phone! Take it!”

The intruder did not remove the knife. He continued to drive it down. Jones could feel his blood seeping into the sheets, along his leg.

“What time are you meeting the bishop from America?” the intruder demanded.

Deacon Jones told him. He would have told him anything he asked. How did the Savior bear it? It was incomprehensible.

The intruder removed the knife from the deacon’s wrist. The deepest pain abated instantly, like waves pulling back from the shore.

A moment later, the intruder put the blade to his throat and pushed down hard. Deacon Jones heard a scream from somewhere in the distance. It was not his own voice. He knew that because he could not move his mouth. He felt an electric pain in the base of his tongue. He lurched. An instant later, the pain struck the roof of his mouth. That one hurt worse as the hard palate offered resistance to the blade. Jones was still trying to speak, but all that came from his mouth were guttural grunts and gagging. Then the man reversed his hold on the hilt so that his thumb was on top. He pushed the knife to the left, as though it were a paper cutter. The deacon’s carotid artery was severed. Then he tore the blade back to the right. The internal and external jugular veins were cut.

The pain was intensely warm and cold at the same time. Jones heard gurgling from somewhere. It took a moment for him to realize that the sounds were his. He was trying to breathe. The deacon reached for his throat, but his hands were weak, his fingers tingling. He let his arms drop to his sides. His eyes sought his attacker. But by then he was unable to see anything. His vision swirled black and red. His head felt extremely light.

An instant later, Deacon Jones saw nothing at all. The heat and chill blended into a dreamy neutrality.

He went back to sleep.

TWENTY-THREE

Maun, Botswana Thursday, 11:30 P.M.

Leon Seronga looked down at the bloody shape on the bed. To his right, Donald Pavant finished cutting the throat of Deacon Canon. The Brush Viper had placed a strong hand across his mouth. The man had died with a single, muffled scream.

“It is done,” Pavant said to him with defiance. “You had no choice. We did what was necessary.”

Seronga continued to stare.

“Prince, this is the way you used to do it, the way that things must sometimes be done,” Pavant said.

“I promised Dhamballa this would be different,” Seronga said. “No killing. No black magic.”

“That man would have bled to death,” Pavant replied. He was cleaning his own blade on the blanket of the other cot. “You showed mercy. And if you had not pushed him, he would not have told us what we needed to know.”

“What we needed to know,” Seronga said.

“Yes. We cannot allow the bishop to come here. It would undo everything,” Pavant said. “Dhamballa would have been seen as small, petty, ineffective. Besides, no one need know about these two.”

“They mustn’t,” Seronga said.

The leader of the Brush Vipers felt sick. He had been pushed to this extreme by this man’s stubborn resistance. It would have been so much easier if the clergyman had cooperated. Instead, his words were his own epitaph. He had said that if Seronga killed, it would be on his own conscience. If that was true, these two deaths were on the deacon’s soul. Had he answered Seronga’s questions, they would have tied the men up. They would have hidden them here or in the field, in a cave, away from predators. When the kidnapping of the American bishop had been accomplished, they would have instructed authorities where to find these two.

The stupid, stupid man.

“I have the cell phone,” Pavant said from behind the door.

“See if there are fresh bedsheets anywhere,” Seronga said.

“I will,” Pavant said. “But I won’t listen to you blame yourself. We are lions. These men were prey. This is the way it had to be. This is the way you did it when you liberated the country the first time.”

“That was different,” Seronga said.

“No, it wasn’t,” Pavant insisted. “You were fighting an empire then. We are fighting an empire now.”

“It was different,” Seronga repeated. “We were fighting soldiers.”

“These are soldiers,” Pavant replied. “They fight with resistance instead of arms.”

Seronga was in no mood to debate. He removed his own knife from the throat of his victim and wiped the blade on the pillow. Then he put the knife back in his hip sheath. He waited as Donald Pavant felt his way around the dark room. The only light came from the half-moon shining through the partly opened door. They had not shut the door for that reason.

“I have the sheets,” Pavant said. He was standing by a closet in the back of the room.

The younger man hurried over. He set the sheets down on the floor. Then, together, the men prepared the bodies in turn. They removed the pillowcases and stuffed them in the wounds. That would help stem the leaking of blood. Then they wrapped the bodies tightly inside the bloodstained sheets on the bed. The blood was already soaking through, so they took blankets from the closet and lay them on the floor. The bound bodies were placed upon these. Then the beds were made.

Seronga decided that the bodies would be carried out into the floodplain. The sheets would be removed. They would be wrapped around stones and dropped in Lake Mitali. By dawn, there would not be much of the deacons. The authorities would suspect murder. But they would not be able to prove it. The soft tissue the knife had penetrated would have been eaten. And there were footprints everywhere. Those of Seronga and Pavant would not stand out. As far as anyone could prove, the deacons went for a walk and were attacked by predators. The Vatican would have doubts, but they would not have proof. Most importantly, they would not have martyrs. And as long as the other clergymen were held captive, there was a chance for a negotiated withdrawal. First of the Church, and then of all foreigners. The Botswanans would be able to profit from their own rich resources.

There was one last thing the two Brush Vipers would need: the vestments these men had worn. But Seronga did not want to carry them with the bodies. They must not be splattered with blood. He would come back for the garments when the deacons’ remains had been disposed of.

While Seronga wiped up stray streaks of blood, Pavant checked the veranda. There was no one outside. The men slung the bodies over their shoulders. Even with the loss of blood, the corpses were lighter than Seronga expected. Obviously, Deacon missionaries did not eat very well. The dead men were also still very warm. Eager to get his mind off the killings, Seronga wondered if Dhamballa’s ancient magic would be potent enough to rouse two such as these. Not just men who had died of natural causes but men who had been murdered. Seronga wished he could spend more time with their leader. He wanted to learn more about the few phenomena he had witnessed. About the ancient religion he had embraced on faith.

In time, he told himself.

For now, Seronga would continue doing things he did not enjoy. That was how Botswana had become free once before. Whether he liked it or not, that was how Botswana would become free again.

TWENTY-FOUR

Washington, D.C. Thursday, 4:35 P.M.

It was a busy afternoon for Paul Hood, the kind of afternoon when information flowed so quickly that questions provided their own answers. And each answer generated two or three new questions.

Unfortunately, none of those answers provided the key the Op-Center director was searching for.

Still, Hood was happy to get out of the morning alive. For the first time in over a week, Senator Fox’s office did not call and ask to see Op-Center’s daily work sheet. That was the duty roster Congress used to apportion budgets. Evidently, Fox was satisfied with the cutbacks Hood had already made. Nor did any other members of the Congressional Intelligence Oversight Committee contact him. That meant Mike Rodgers had been able to keep his new intelligence operation under wraps for over a day. In Washington time, that was equivalent to a year.

Even the tension between Darrell McCaskey and Bob Herbert had been defused, at least for the moment. The only lingering problem was not Op-Center’s. At least, not directly. That was the tension between Darrell McCaskey and his wife. The way Herbert described it, Maria Corneja took the assignment “like a pit bull at a rib roast.” She was not going to give up fieldwork. They had all suspected that would be the case. Now they knew it. The fact that Maria had made this decision without consulting her husband made it even worse. It was ironic. McCaskey was a great listener in interrogations or conferences. He was without equal when it came to sifting answers for truths or following voice inflections to fertile new lines of questioning. But when it came to his personal life, McCaskey tended to do most of the talking and none of the hearing. That was going to have to change.

Look who’s giving advice, Hood thought. He himself was a man who had listened to everything his wife had said. And meant to do most of it. He just never found the time.

But there had not been time to dwell on small triumphs or major shortcomings. Not long after returning to his office, Hood received a call from Edgar Kline. The Vatican security officer reported that Deacon Jones had heard from Father Bradbury. According to Jones, the priest was still a prisoner.

“Is he in good health?” Hood asked.

“Apparently,” Kline informed him.

“You don’t sound happy about that,” Hood said.

“Father Bradbury asked about the parish,” Kline went on. “Unfortunately, Deacon Jones told the father that a temporary replacement was en route from Washington.”

“Shit,” Hood said. Obviously, African missionaries had lost some of their tactical finesse since the closing years of the nineteenth century. In those days, the Boers used clergymen to spy on the location, movements, and strength of Zulu tribesmen. “That means Dhamballa knows about the bishop.”

“One has to assume that,” Kline agreed.

“Are you going to change his travel plans?” Hood asked.

“That would signal to Dhamballa that we are afraid of him,” Kline said. “We will not do that.”

“What about your Spanish undercover operatives? Have they arrived?” Hood asked.

“Yes,” Kline replied. “The leader of the group is going to introduce himself to the deacons in the morning. Several members will shadow them and watch out for the bishop.”

“That’s good,” Hood replied.

“I’d also like to send over our E-file of photographs that were taken at Dhamballa’s rallies,” Kline said. “There are some photographs of Dhamballa. We thought you might be able to search your own databases on the off chance that there’s a match.”

Hood agreed to do so. Then he told Kline about Richard Stiele’s activities. Kline did not seem overly concerned. Nor would he be. Whatever the Europeans were doing probably would not impact the Vatican directly. Hood told Kline that he would keep him abreast of any new developments, whether or not they appeared to relate to Father Bradbury.

“Just to keep you fully in the loop,” Hood said pointedly.

Kline thanked him.

A few minutes after Kline hung up, Hood’s computer beeped. He had received a file containing the address for the secure Vatican Security Organization web site. The download came with a password to access the Dhamballa file. The password was adamas. From four years of high school Latin, Hood remembered that was the word for diamond. Someone in the VSO had a clear sense of the region. Or else they knew more than Kline was letting on.

Hood forwarded the information to Stephen Viens. Until recently, Viens had been the Satellite Imaging supervisor at the National Reconnaissance Office. A college classmate of Matt Stoll, Viens had always given Op-Center’s requirements top priority. For that reason, among others, Viens was scapegoated for two billion dollars in funding that did not reach its targeted black ops programs. Bob Herbert helped to prove the man’s innocence. Op-Center was punished by having their needs given VLP status—very low priority. Fortunately, Viens still had friends at the NRO. He did not go back to his former post. He now worked as Op-Center’s internal security chief. Viens’s duties included setting up a photo analysis program for Hood. Hood also sent the Vatican address to Herbert and Rodgers.

As Hood finished sending the data from the Vatican Security Organization, Emmy called.

“Paul, that was a terrific lead you gave me about Albert Beaudin,” she told him.

“How so?” Hood asked.

“It turns out Mr. Stiele wasn’t the only Beaudin associate who liquidated assets within the last few days,” she said.

“Who else?” Hood asked.

“Gurney de Sylva, who is another Beaudin board member,” Emmy said. “He sold his minority interest in six different diamond mines yesterday.”

“Where are the mines located?” Hood asked.

“Throughout southern Africa,” she replied.

“How much did he net?” Hood asked.

“About ninety million dollars,” Emmy replied. “He turned around and put most of that money into corporations that are invested in oil operations in Russia and Mexico.”

“Maybe he thinks oil is a better long-term investment,” Hood speculated.

“Possibly,” Emmy said. “But some of the profits also went into the corporation that holds Stiele’s land leases in China.”

“So the oil deal could be a smoke screen to keep anyone from looking too closely at China,” Hood said.

“Or he could pull those investments at some point and put them into China,” Emmy pointed out. “He did not indicate his long-term plans in the filing. Then again, he is not the most forthcoming investor we’ve ever tracked. He once avoided capital gains taxes by donating millions of dollars to a charity for the homeless, the Rooftop Angels.”

“Weren’t they shut down in 2001 for money laundering?” Hood asked.

“They were,” Emmy said. “For every hundred dollars they received, the Angels gave back eighty dollars in cash. It was distributed through safe-deposit boxes, traveler’s checks, and other monetary media. We could never prove that Stiele received any of what was doled out. None of his accounts showed any unusual spikes.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Hood said. “The cash could still be sitting somewhere. Hell, he could be using it for groceries.”

“Absolutely,” Emmy said. “But that’s an ongoing investigation, which is why the red flag went up on his latest stock sales. So far, we haven’t been able to find anything that violates international law. However, I did discover a tie between de Sylva and Peter Diffring that goes beyond the Beaudin board. One that has nothing to do with China.”

“Oh?”

“With several local businessmen, Diffring co-owns the construction company that did geologic and environmental site surveys on hotel sites in Botswana,” Emmy said. “The sale required a filing with the Land Valuation division of the Department of Surveys and Mapping.”

“Who did they buy the land from?” Hood asked.

“It was purchased from a tribe, the Limgadi,” Emmy told him.

“Did they indicate what the land was to be used for?” Hood asked.

“The stated purpose is to ‘develop transportation facilities,’ ” she informed him.

“How long ago did Diffring buy into that construction company?” Hood asked.

“Four months ago,” Emmy replied. “The land office in Botswana says that so far, Diffring’s group has put in a small landing strip. Nothing more. All of this could mean absolutely nothing, Paul.”

“I know,” he said. But his gut told him otherwise.

“It’s not exactly uncommon for people to set up synergistic businesses in areas they plan to develop,” she said.

“Of course,” Hood replied.

There was a vast distinction between the kind of conspiracy Hood was envisioning and sound business opportunities Emmy had just described. These activities might have nothing whatsoever to do with Dhamballa and his group. It could all be a trick of timing.

Then again, maybe it was not. Paul Hood and his team were paid to assume that whatever was on the surface was a front. Effective crisis management had to presume guilt, not innocence.

Hood thanked Emmy for her efforts. They made dinner plans for the following week. The woman had gotten married a few months before, and she wanted Hood to meet her husband. Hood was glad for her. At the same time, he felt sad for himself. This was the first time in twenty years that he would be odd man out at a social dinner.

As Hood was finishing up with Emmy, Mike Rodgers came to the door. Hood thanked Emmy. They agreed to talk again later in the day. Rodgers entered and took a seat. The general looked better than he had in weeks. He seemed energized, engaged, focused.

“How’s the team shaping up?” Hood asked.

“Aideen Marley and Dave Battat are ready to go over if we need them,” Rodgers said.

“They got along all right?” Hood asked.

“They got along well enough,” Rodgers replied. “They’re not running off to get married, but they’ll get the job done.”

“Where’s the rub?” Hood asked.

“David knows his stuff and likes to beat you over the head with it,” Rodgers told him. “Aideen has a solid foundation, somewhat less experience, but a whole lot more tact.”

“Who’d be the better mission leader?” Hood asked.

“In this situation? She would,” Rodgers said. “I already made that call. She will interact with ordinary people better than he will.”

“Battat is okay with that?” Hood asked.

“To get back in the field? Yeah, he’s okay with that,” Rodgers said.

Hood regarded the general. Military people looked at things differently than civilians. Hood liked to have harmony on his staff. Rodgers put the emphasis on efficiency.

“Don’t worry about them, Paul,” Rodgers said. “Battat knows that Aideen will be in charge. They’ll be fine.”

Hood hoped that Rodgers was right. He had not anticipated fielding the new intelligence team this quickly, but Op-Center needed people on site. Given the haste, Hood also hoped that he had been right giving Mike Rodgers this assignment. He respected the hell out of the general. He admired Rodgers’s ability to command. But Rodgers had suffered a heavy blow with the loss of the Strikers. Psychologically, both Hood and Rodgers were in uncharted territory.

Until recently, Paul Hood had not believed in psychiatry. He felt that character came from dealing with your own problems. Then Harleigh was taken hostage at the United Nations. Op-Center’s staff psychologist Liz Gordon and other mental health specialists helped see the girl through her blackest days. They gave Harleigh her life back, and they gave Hood his daughter back.

He changed his thinking about psychiatry.

The change prompted Hood to take an unprecedented step of involving Liz in his own decision-making process. A few days before talking to Rodgers about the new intelligence team, Hood had spoken to the psychologist about it. The question he asked her: Would an officer who lost his squad be overly cautious with the next one or more aggressive? Liz told him that it depended upon the officer, of course. In the case of Mike Rodgers, she thought he might be reluctant to take on a new command. He would not want to risk any more lives. If he did accept the post, she believed he might experience a mild form of substitution hysteria. The need to re-create a failure and make it come out right.

Fortunately, this was not a military operation. The participants did not have to stay until the matter was resolved. They collected intelligence until things became too dangerous. Then they left.

“Since everything seems to be set, it’s probably a good idea to get them over to Botswana,” Hood continued. “I suspect things are going to heat up when Bishop Max arrives tomorrow.”

“We can get Aideen and Battat on a plane today,” Rodgers told him. “Travel documents are being prepared. Right now, I’ve got them in Matt Stoll’s section, reading what we have on the Father Bradbury situation. They’re also going over files about Botswana and Albert Beaudin. Bob told me that he and his people might be involved.”

“It’s possible,” Hood said.

“I also had a chat with Falah Shibli on the drive over,” Rodgers said.

“How is he?” Hood asked. Falah was an extremely capable and humble man. Those were a good combination in any man. In an intelligence operative they were invaluable. They made him invisible.

“Falah’s still working as a police officer in northern Israel, only now he’s running the department,” Rodgers said. “He said he has his hands full keeping peace on the Lebanese border, but he’d be happy to take a short leave of absence to do whatever we need.”

“A Moslem from the Jewish state helping the Church,” Hood mused. “I like that.”

“So does he,” Rodgers told him. “That’s why he offered to drop what he was doing and join the team. I told him I’ll let him know if that’s necessary. I also talked to Zack Bemler in New York and Harold Moore in Tokyo. They’re tied up for the next few days. After that, they said they’d be happy to work with us. But with Maria on the way and the other three ready to go, I feel we have a strong team to field.”

Hood agreed. Those four intelligence operatives had exceptional abilities. Hood had to trust that their collaborative skills would surface when they were required.

When Rodgers was finished, Hood brought the general up to date on his conversations with Edgar Kline and Emmy Feroche. In the middle of that briefing, Stephen Viens called.

“Paul, I think you should come to Matt’s office,” Viens said.

“What have you got?” Hood asked.

Viens replied, “Your missing link, I think.”

TWENTY-FIVE

Okavango Swamp, Botswana Friday, 12:05 A.M.

According to the beliefs of Dhamballa’s Vodun faith, midnight was the most spiritual part of the day. It was the hour when the body was weakest and the soul the strongest.

More importantly, it was a time of the greatest darkness. The Vodun soul shunned the day. Day was for the flesh so it could be warm and work. So it could be nourished. Then there was early night, a time dominated by firelight. That was the time for group prayer, for singing, drumming, and dancing. A time when animals were sacrificed to honor the loas. Revelers were asking the gods for health, wealth, and happiness in life. Occasionally, the celebrations led to pairings that created new life. It was a holy thing for children to be conceived within the energy and love of a celebration.

Yet all of that, too, were needs of the flesh. And the flesh was a prison for the soul. Daylight was also an inhibiting force. In the dark, the soul could enjoy a sacred, private communion with the earth. It could leave the material world and visit the black places of its forebears. Like the souls of the living, the souls of the dead dwelt beneath the surface.

Each midnight, before retiring, Dhamballa made time for this personal reconnecting with the voices of the past. That was how Dhamballa first became aware of his destiny. A Vodun priest, Don Glutaa, had guided him through a visit to the spirit world. There was not always a revelation, but he always came out of this journey with a reminder of why he was here: to serve as a mortal bridge between the Vodun past and future.

Dhamballa lay on his back on the rough wicker mat. He was dressed only in white shorts. His eyes were shut, but he was not asleep. The hut was dark, save for the very faint glow of a ceremonial candle. The wick was made from rushes that burned like a cigarette. It smouldered rather than flamed, releasing smoke rather than light. The short, squat candle had a slightly rounded bottom. It was not made from wax but from tallow. Dhamballa had created the candle himself before coming to the swamp. He had gone to the ancient cemetery of Machaneng. There, he mixed shavings of belladonna and pinches of dried ergot with the melted fat of a male goat. He had blended them in the eye socket of a human skull, the traditional way to make the Lights of Loa, the light of the possessing spirit. The herbs were necessary to relax his body and open his mind. The tallow was employed to capture the spirits of the dead. Burning the candle released those spirits so they could guide him through the home of the dead.

The candle sat at the top of Dhamballa’s bare chest, just above his breastbone. The tallow pooled below his chin, reinventing the shape of the candle. This act was important to the Vodun faith. It symbolized what was about to occur. The dead were going to give something to the living. The living would use it to make into something new.

The pungent yellowish smoke snaked into Dhamballa’s nostrils with every breath. His breathing grew slow and shallow. As he inhaled the fumes, the young man felt more and more as if he himself were made of smoke. He felt as though he were floating just above the mat. Then, like fire and air, his spirit wafted downward, through the weave of the mat.

Into the earth, he thought, home of the eternal spirit.

Dhamballa began to move, snakelike, through the thickly packed soil of the earth. He descended faster and faster. If and when the spirits wished, they would stir from cracks in the boulders and from places beneath the stones. They would come to him to make their knowledge available.

Almost at once, Dhamballa knew that this night was different than other nights. The spirits came quickly tonight, faster than ever before. That meant they had something important to share with Dhamballa. The Vodun priest stopped his descent so the spirits would not have to pursue him. It was for the living to wait for the honored dead.

Dhamballa did not select those to whom he wished to speak. Rather, the spirits approached Dhamballa. They came to tell him what he needed to know. They did not tell him in words but in images, in symbols.

The spirits began to tell Dhamballa about the future. They showed him a hen become a rooster. Then they brought him a calf, bloodied and torn but not yet dead. One was a mothering force that became a potential rival. The other signified a child that would be tested before it could mature.

The spirits left. Dhamballa moved on.

The holy man drifted farther into the earth. He moved now through larger caves and fissures. Finally, he came to a large pit. He floated past the rim and saw a great horned snake coiled below him. The gods were speaking to him now. This was a rarity. Dhamballa swam toward the huge rust-colored beast. The reptile opened its mouth. Dhamballa floated inside. Save for the serpent’s red tongue, everything was black. Suddenly, the forks of the tongue became white wings. Flocks of sparrows rose from beneath him. Dhamballa watched as the birds soared upward. The first ones to reach the sky became stars. Soon there were thousands of points of light. He watched with delight but only for a moment. As birds were still rising, the stars became sand and rained to earth. The grains pelted the birds, ripping them to pieces. The downpour formed a sprawling, endless desert of sand. Here and there were small oases of dead birds and blood.

Dreams of greatness are going to be tested, the holy man thought. And those who follow the dreams will be tested as well.

Suddenly, a lion with a fiery mane burst from beneath the sand. Dhamballa recognized him immediately. It was Ogu Bodagris, the spirit of war. His fangs and claws raked the empty skies. New stars appeared, blood red and expanding. They formed faces. Familiar faces. Soon everything was red. Dhamballa moved away from the flood. Slowly, the flood grew to a dull orange. Dhamballa’s eyes were open now. He was staring into the flame of the candle.

Perspiration rolled thickly down the holy man’s neck and forehead. Some of the sweat was caused by the heat of the smouldering wick. Some of it was due to the close, humid warmth of the night. But most of it came from inside. From fear. Dhamballa was not afraid of the unknown. Faith, courage, and the Vodun arts were all he needed to survive life’s countless mysteries and the troubles they caused. What frightened him was the known. Especially the duplicity of men. Even at that, Dhamballa did not fear for his own safety. If he died, his spirit would join his ancestors. What worried him was the fate of his followers. Many of them would lose their way so early in his ministry. He also feared for those who had not yet been returned to the ways of their people.

Dhamballa raised the candle from his chest. It came away easily because of the perspiration. He sat up slowly. The day had been tiring. Now the vision had left him drained.

My allies are my enemies, Dhamballa thought.

Someone close to him was going to betray him. What he did not know was who, exactly. Or how. Or when. It could be someone he already knew. It could be someone he would meet during his next sermon or holy ceremony. All he knew was that it would happen very soon.

Dhamballa put the candle in a clay bowl on a small ledge beside the window. The white canvas shade was down. He used the hemp drawstring to raise it. The flame kicked up for a moment, dancing as the hot, muggy night air rolled in. Then it died to its customary glow. With the breeze came the sounds of the swamp animals. The bullfrogs sounded like unhappy dogs. The night birds seemed to be laughing or sighing. The occasional hiss of a snake. It was deceptively loud because the sharp sibilation cut through every other sound. Almost at once, the wings of small white moths began to flash around the candlelight. Beyond the dark treetops the stars shone clear and large.

Dhamballa had always known that one day there would be conflict. He knew he would have to fight for the diamond mines. He did not mind selling the gems to outsiders to build his nation. But the earth was the home of the dead. Only the faithful should be permitted inside.

Still, Dhamballa did not expect to have to face the matter so soon. The first thing he would have to do was make certain that Leon Seronga and the Brush Vipers were among those he could trust. Without them, the holy man would have to look elsewhere for strength of arms. Perhaps the spirits would guide him. Perhaps they would not.

He suddenly felt very alone.

Dhamballa lifted a ceramic pitcher and cup from the floor beside the mat. He poured himself water flavored with mint leaves. He drank slowly and chewed on the leaves as he stared at the sky.

The stars in Dhamballa’s vision had told him of an impending future. The stars suspended in front of him told a different tale. They reminded Dhamballa of his forebears. Of the men and women who had looked up at the sky when the world was young. The stars spoke of a time when the spirits of men were few, and wisdom had to come directly from the gods themselves.

The stars gave him the courage to do what those men had done. To trust in the visions. To believe in the prophecies. And to find ways of making them come true.

Dhamballa had been given a remarkable gift. He had been given both the blessing and the curse of Vodun enlightenment. It was a blessing because he had the ideas and the voice to inspire a nation, to lead a people who had become fragmented. Who had lost their way. It was a curse because he would not be able to lead those people by spirituality alone.

He was a man of peace, yet he was going to have to fight a war.

A war in which, he feared, not all of the magic would be white.

TWENTY-SIX

Washington, D.C. Thursday, 4:47 P.M.

As they headed toward Matt Stoll’s office, Paul Hood and Mike Rodgers bumped into Liz Gordon. The psychologist was chomping hard on her nicotine chewing gum. She had recently given up smoking and was having a tough time of it. She asked to talk to Paul.

“Is it personal?” he asked.

“Yes,” she replied. Her broad shoulders swayed, and her medium-length brown hair bobbed hard as she walked and chewed.

“Can we talk while we walk?” Hood asked.

“We can do that,” the woman told him. “I’ve always been good at multitasking.”

Hood smiled. “What can I do for you?”

“My half brother, Clark, is a poli-sci major at Georgetown,” Liz said. “They’re dealing with contemporary urban issues. He was wondering if you could talk to his class about your term as mayor.”

“When?” Hood asked. It was jarring to shift gears from the global to the local. Liz was obviously better at multitasking than he was.

“Sometime within the next two weeks?” she asked.

“Sure, I’ll do it,” Hood said with a wink. “Too bad everything is not that easy.”

“Thanks. Is it the Vatican problem?” Liz asked.

Hood nodded. “As a matter of fact, you might want to tag along if you have the time.”

“Be happy to,” she said.

Matt Stoll’s space was different from the other offices. When he first came to Op-Center, Stoll had commandeered a small conference room. He proceeded to fill it with a haphazard arrangement of desks, stands, and computers. As Op-Center’s computing needs grew, the original disarray remained where it was. They were like old oak trees a village had grown around.

There were now four people working in the rectangular space. Stoll and Viens now worked back to back in the center of the room. Mae Won sat at the far end, and Jefferson Jefferson sat near the door. When Hood was in Los Angeles, all the eccentrics he knew worked in the film business. Scientists were a serious, conservative bunch. Now it was the movie people who wore short hair and understood complex mathematics and the computer programmers who were the oddballs. Mae, who was born in Taipei, had a ring through her nose and orange hair. J2, as they called Jefferson Jefferson, had no hair and a tattoo of a tree on his scalp. When the mood struck him, J2 added new branches and leaves to the tree.

In the 1990s, these individuals would never have made it past the first interview for a position with the federal government. Now, government agencies could not afford to lose good tech people to private or especially foreign employers. This was particularly true of intelligence and investigative operations. What the people looked like was less important than what they could do or the new technologies they might come up with. In their spare time, Mae and J2 were working on what they called omni ink. Paper saturated in their ink would change its display via pixel-sized microtransistors activated by wireless signals. The electronic charge would cause the ink colors to change in nanoseconds, allowing for immediate news updates, constantly changing want ads, and even on-demand help with crossword puzzles. Hood was not sure their pet name “oink” would work for the new technology. But the question might be irrelevant. He knew from the duo’s employment contracts that while any patents would be issued in their names, the government would have a shot at developing and marketing the product. As Hood walked through the door, he could not help but wonder, suddenly, if J2 would try to apply oink technology to tattoos.

Viens glanced over as the trio entered the room.

“Good afternoon, everyone,” Hood said. “What have you got for us, Mr. Viens?”

“A photo ID from the files of the IODM,” Viens replied. “That’s the International Organization of Diamond Merchants. I figured your guy must have had a job before he became a cult leader.”

“Good job, Stephen,” Hood said.

“Thank you,” Viens replied. “The IODM had his personnel file on-line, as required by law. The computer says that the guy in the three-year-old ID photograph and the guy in that Vatican photograph you sent over are an eighty-nine percent match.”

“The differences being some apparent weight loss around the cheekbones and neck, different hair length, and a change in the bridge of his nose,” Stoll added. “Possibly due to a break.”

“I’m very comfortable with that match,” Hood said.

“It’s a good one,” Rodgers agreed.

“We hacked the tax records in Gaborone and got lucky right away,” Stoll said. “Your man is named Thomas Burton. Until four months ago, he was a mine worker in Botswana.”

“Did he mine industrial diamonds or gems?” Liz asked.

At her station, Mae Won wriggled the bare fourth finger of her left hand. Hood smiled at her.

“Yes, diamonds,” Viens replied.

“There’s the connection between Dhamballa and Henry Genet,” Rodgers observed.

Hood looked at the ID on Viens’s screen. There was a color picture attached to it. Below it was a photo Edgar Kline had sent over. “Are you sure this is the same guy?”

“We’re sure,” the heavyset Stoll said from his keyboard.

“I’ve got a small on-line newspaper report of the Dhamballa guy’s first mention,” J2 said. “It matches the time Thomas Burton stopped making calls from his home phone.”

“I had a look at those phone records,” Mae added proudly.

“Where did Burton live?” Rodgers asked.

“In a town called Machaneng,” Viens told him. “They’ve got an industrial mine about five miles out of town.”

“According to the file from Mr. Kline, that was where the rally photo was taken,” Stoll pointed out.

“Anything else?” Hood asked.

“Not yet,” Viens replied.

“We’ve only had Mr. Kline’s file for about thirty-five minutes,” Stoll reminded Hood. “Like Stephen said, we got lucky.”

“Believe me, Matt, that wasn’t a knock,” Hood told him. “You guys worked a miracle. I appreciate it.”

J2 and Mae each slapped the air, giving one another an across-the-room high five.

“Will you be able to access any of this man’s medical records?” Liz Gordon asked.

“Yes, if they’re in a computer file and that computer has an Internet link,” Stoll said.

“Looking for anything in particular, Liz?” Hood asked.

“Psychiatric care,” Liz said. “Nine out of ten known cult leaders were treated, according to the last World Health Organization study.”

“That’s compared to what percentage of the non-Waco-bound populace that’s had their heads shrunk?” Stoll asked.

“Seven out of ten percent,” Liz replied.

“That doesn’t exactly put cult leaders in an exclusive club,” the computer expert continued.

“I never said it did,” Liz told him. “But there may be records that we can get our hands on. The Botswana government might be interested in helping shut down a cult before it can get started.”

“He was never shrink-wrapped,” J2 declared.

The others looked at him.

“According to Mr. Burton’s employment file, he was a line leader in the mine,” the young man said. “That meant he was the last person to see the diamonds before they left the mine. I’m looking at the qualifications IODM has on their employment site for double Ls. They can have no criminal record. No immediate family members can have criminal records. And there must be zero history of treatment for mental problems.”

“Also, according to a footnote in this file, the Botswana average for psychiatric care is far below the international average,” Mae added, still studying her own computer screen. “According to the WHO, shrinkage in Botswana amounts to three in ten people. And most of those folks are white-collar workers and military personnel.”

“They probably can’t afford psychiatric care,” Hood said.

“Government subsidies are available,” Mae said, still reading.

“Maybe I ought to move there,” Stoll said.

“Well, I still want to try to get as much information on Dhamballa as possible,” Liz said. “If we can come up with a reliable profile, we can make some intelligent guesses as to what his next moves will be. You’ll need that, Paul, if this goes on for any length of time.”

“I agree,” Hood said.

“You know, people, there’s also the whole voodoo angle to this thing,” Stoll said. “I did some research on the net. It was recognized as the official religion of Benin in 1996. It also has an extremely large following in the Dominican Republic, Ghana, Haiti, Togo, and various places around the United States including New York, New Orleans, and Miami,” Stoll said, as he read from the screen. “It’s also widely recognized throughout South America, where there are a variety of sects like Umbanda, Quimbanda, and Candomble.”

“Impressive,” Liz remarked.

“Shows how parochial we are here,” Hood said.

“The essence of it seems to be very similar to Catholicism, actually, except that the spiritual figures dwell in the earth instead of in Heaven,” Stoll went on. “Both religions worship a supreme being and believe in a spiritual hierarchy. In Vodun the big guns are called loas, and in Catholicism they’re saints. The loas and the saints each have attributes that are unique to them. Vodunists and Catholics believe in an afterlife, in the notion of resurrection, in the ritualistic consumption of flesh and blood, in the sanctity of the soul, and in clear-cut forces of good and evil, which they refer to as white and black magic.”

“Interesting,” Rodgers said. “And it makes sense.”

“What does?” Hood asked.

“It helps to explain why Catholicism took hold in non-Islamic sections of Africa back in the seventeenth century,” Rodgers said. “In the absence of a national Vodun church, Africans would have found the structure of the Catholic church familiar and comforting.”

“The food and wine the missionaries brought probably didn’t hurt their cause,” Stoll said.

“That would have gotten people to sit down and pay attention,” Rodgers said. “But I’ve seen army recruiters at work. You need more than a buffet to get people to actually commit to something.”

“So now Dhamballa wants his people back,” Hood said.

“That could well be the limit of Dhamballa’s ambition,” Rodgers said. “The larger question is what Beaudin wants. And what his associates may have promised Dhamballa.”

“What would they want from him that they can’t get now?” Liz asked.

“A puppet leader,” Hood said.

“Or maybe they don’t want anything from him per se,” Rodgers suggested. “Maybe it’s destabilization of the region that they’re after.”

“Possibly,” Hood agreed.

“There’s also the chance that Dhamballa is just doing a job for pay,” Viens remarked.

“The voodoo equivalent of a televangelist,” Stoll said. He shook his head. “That’s pretty sad.”

“Yes, but I would not spend too much time looking into that idea,” Rodgers said.

“Why not?” Hood asked.

“Let’s assume that Beaudin or someone else is underwriting the Vodun movement,” Rodgers said. “They aren’t likely to have gone out and cast the role of a religious leader. Training someone and convincing others that he’s the real thing is tough and time consuming. It’s like gathering HUMINT. Infiltration doesn’t work as well as finding an individual who is already on the inside and turning him. What’s more likely is that someone spotted Burton or Dhamballa, heard him preaching, and saw an opportunity. They found a way to dovetail his beliefs into a project that was already in the works.”

“If that’s true, then Dhamballa may not know he’s being used,” Hood said.

“That’s right,” Rodgers said.

Hood nodded. He looked at Matt and his team. “Thanks, guys. You did a great job.”

Stephen Viens smiled, J2 and Mae high-fived each other again across the room, and Matt Stoll unfolded his arms. He went back to the keyboard and began typing. He must have had another thought. Stoll was rarely in the same mental space as everyone else.

Hood turned to Liz. “Do you have some time right now?” he asked.

“Sure.”

“I’d like you to stay here and see if there’s any other data you can pick up on Dhamballa,” Hood said. “His family background, friends, people he may have gone to school with, or stood next to on the diamond line, that sort of thing. Work up a profile.”

“Sounds good,” she said eagerly. Liz was obviously enjoying the new respect Hood was giving her profession.

Stephen Viens had already started clearing boxes of diskettes and cables from a chair. He stacked them on the floor and rolled the chair next to his workstation. Hood thanked Liz, then left with Rodgers. The men made their way back to Hood’s office.

“Profiling Dhamballa is not going to give us the key to defusing this crisis,” Rodgers pointed out.

“No,” Hood agreed.

“We need to get someone close to him. We need to get his ear somehow,” Rodgers said.

“Tell him that the Europeans are using him,” Hood said.

“At least plant the idea, make him trust a little less and maybe move a little slower,” Rodgers said.

“I agree,” Hood said.

“Then we’ll definitely have Aideen Marley and David Battat airborne as soon as possible,” Rodgers said. “They can be in Maun by tomorrow evening, about six P.M. local time.”

“Good,” Hood said. “Assuming we can find Dhamballa and get our people close, what do we do about Father Bradbury?”

“I don’t think we can do anything right now except try to get close to Dhamballa,” Rodgers said.

“Then it’s strictly intel gathering,” Hood said. “No rescue attempt?”

“Except for Maria, none of the three has had much experience with kidnap situations,” Rodgers said. “And she can’t go into this alone. Besides, I wouldn’t want her tripping over those Spanish soldiers if they have some kind of rescue in the works. Unless you think you can work that out with Edgar Kline. And with Darrell,” he added.

“I don’t know if Kline will give us the kind of access we’d need to coordinate our movements with the Unidad Especial del Despliegue,” Hood said. “As for Darrell, let’s not rev him up unless we have to.”

“I’m with you on that,” Rodgers said.

“I don’t suppose we’ll be able to count on much cooperation from Gaborone,” Hood said. “They haven’t seemed to show much interest so far.”

“No, and I’ve been thinking about that,” Rodgers said. “If this were just a backwater cult, the government might have taken stronger action. But they have to be very cautious turning against a ten-thousand-year-old religion. Hell, there may even be Vodunists in the Botswana ministries and in parliament. They may want to nudge Gaborone toward embracing the faith the way Rome turned to Christianity in the fourth century A.D.”

“The Vatican is definitely not going to like that,” Hood said.

“Not a bit, which is why they’re probably going to do a full-court press to get Father Bradbury back,” Rodgers said. “Or at least force the government to move against Dhamballa.”

They reached Hood’s office and stopped.

“Mike,” Hood said thoughtfully. “We’re going to need to get Maria on site, aren’t we?”

Rodgers nodded. “If nothing else, Maria speaks Spanish,” the general said. “If she manages to hook up with the Unidad Especial, she’ll be able to converse with them. That could give us access to information we won’t necessarily get through Edgar Kline.”

“I wonder if I can sell that to Darrell,” Hood said, glancing behind himself to make sure the FBI liaison was not listening.

“You mean, the idea that his wife is going in as a glorified translator instead of as a spy?” Rodgers said.

“Yeah,” Hood said.

“I don’t think he’ll believe that,” Rodgers told him.

“I don’t think so, either,” Hood said. “Okay, Mike. You get Aideen and Battat going. I’ll go and talk to Darrell.”

Rodgers turned and left. Paul Hood went into his office. He sat heavily behind his desk.

Hood was tired inside and out. He also felt strange, though he did not know why. He was going to have that chat with Darrell. Then, because he needed to feel grounded, he was going to call home. He would see what kind of a day Harleigh and Alexander had. It would be refreshing to listen to problems that did not threaten to topple a government.

Home, Hood thought. Just thinking the word put tears in the back of his eyes. And he realized that was why he felt strange. This day had begun and now ended with Hood participating in disunions.

Paul Hood still thought of the house in Chevy Chase as home. It was not. He did not live there anymore. He pulled into the driveway on weekends to pick up the kids. Home was now a small apartment a half hour from Op-Center. It was a few bare walls and some furniture. Nothing personal except for a few photos of the kids and some framed letters from heads of state. Mementos from his days as mayor. Nothing with any real emotional history. Here he was, missing that terribly. At the same time, he was trying to stop Dhamballa from reclaiming his home. And he was helping to prevent Darrell McCaskey from starting a new life with his new wife.

When Hood was mayor of Los Angeles, when he worked in finance, he built things. He built roads, housing, corporations, portfolios, careers. He started and nurtured his own family. What the hell was he doing now?

Keeping the world safe for other families, he told himself.

Maybe. Maybe that was a party-line crock. Maybe it was true. In any case, Hood had to believe it. Not just think it but be convinced of it. Otherwise, he would not be able to pick up the phone and call Darrell McCaskey. He would not be able to ask for help that would turn up the heat in an African floodplain where McCaskey’s wife was already at risk.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Maun, Botswana Friday, 8:00 A.M.

Leon Seronga and Donald Pavant woke with the sun. By eight, they had been up for nearly three hours and were anxious to catch the bus to Maun. Seronga did not like sitting still.

He also did not enjoy impersonating a deacon. Seronga knew they could not simply assume the identities of Deacons Jones and Canon while they were here. The director of the center had certainly met them. What was more, the director had seen Seronga when he came for Father Bradbury. The man had seen him from a distance, but he still might recognize him. Seronga came up with a cover story in case they needed it. He hoped, instead, that he and Pavant could simply remain out of sight until the bus arrived.

It was not to be.

Nearly a dozen of the tourists went to the church that morning. Though the door was unlocked, no candles had been lit. No clergyman was in attendance. Shortly after eight A.M., the center’s director, Tswana Ndebele, went to the deacons’ residential quarters. Donald Pavant opened the door. He stepped through the doorway onto the veranda.

The creases of Ndebele’s sun-baked skin deepened with surprise. “Who are you?”

“Deacon Tobias Comden of the Cathedral of All Saints,” he replied. “And you are—?”

“Tswana Ndebele, the director of the center here,” Ndebele replied. He was guarded, suspicious.

“I am happy to make your acquaintance,” Pavant said pleasantly. He bowed slightly. He did not want to offer his hand. His skin was rough and calloused. They were not the hands of a missionary.

Ndebele pulled on his curly white beard. “The Cathedral of All Saints,” he said. “I am not familiar with that church.”

“It is a very small church in Zambia,” Pavant replied. The soldier did not specify where the mythical church was located. If Ndebele decided to look it up, he would have a lot of ground to cover. “We came in during the night.”

“We?” Ndebele asked.

“Deacon Withal and myself,” Pavant said. The soldier stepped aside so the tour director could see into the room.

Ndebele leaned forward. He peered into the darkness.

Seronga was curled on the bed. His back was facing the door. Tucked in the waistband of his vestments was a Walther PPK with a silencer. It was there in the event that Tswana Ndebele came over to the bed for a chat and recognized him from the abduction.

Accustomed to the brilliant morning light, the tour director could not make out details inside the quarters. After a moment, he stood back.

“How did you gentlemen get here, Deacon?” Ndebele asked.

“We came by Jeep,” Pavant informed him. “Deacon Withal did most of the driving. That’s why he is still sleeping. We got in very late.”

“I did not see a Jeep,” Ndebele said. His mouth twisted suspiciously at one end.

“Deacon Jones and Deacon Canon took it shortly after we arrived,” Pavant replied.

Ndebele reacted with open surprise. “They left in the dark to drive to Maun? They know better than that. There are no roads, no lights.”

Lying on the bed, Seronga felt his heart speeding up. This was not going well. He hoped that he would have a clear shot at the tour director. The last thing they wanted was for him to go away unconvinced.

“The deacons said they knew the way,” Pavant told him. “It was felt that two sets of deacons should go to meet the bishop. The kidnappers might still be watching. We will take the tour bus.”

Seronga waited. He listened closely. Lying there, pretending to sleep, was one of the most difficult things Seronga had ever done. There was nothing so frustrating as having one’s fate in the hands of another.

After a long moment, Ndebele nodded. “Well, that is probably a good idea,” he said.

Seronga relaxed. There was conviction in the tour director’s voice.

“Forgive all of the questions,” Ndebele went on. He sounded a little ashamed now. “We have all been as anxious as zebras since Father Bradbury was taken away. We jump at any unfamiliar noise or a change in routine.”

“I understand completely,” Pavant replied. “Now, was there something you needed?”

“Deacon, I came back here because some of our guests wanted to light candles,” Ndebele said. “I wanted to find out if that would be all right.”

“Of course,” Pavant replied.

“Father Bradbury usually lit the first ones each morning,” Ndebele said. “Not being Catholic, I didn’t know if that’s the way it has to be.”

“It will be all right if they do it,” Pavant replied. “Unfortunately, I cannot join them. We were instructed to remain as invisible as possible. If the kidnappers are watching, we do not want them to move against us.”

“Of course not,” Ndebele replied. “Though two of them did ask if they might be able to meet with you privately.”

“I don’t think that would be a good idea,” Pavant replied.

“I understand. I will tell them,” Ndebele said. “They are Spanish and very devout. I will ask them not to bother you on the bus, either. Maybe I will tell them that you only speak Bantu.”

“If you like.” Pavant smiled. “I appreciate your help.”

“I will do anything to help the church of Father Bradbury,” Ndebele said.

The director left, and Pavant shut the door. Seronga turned around. The Brush Viper commander sat on the edge of the bed. Pavant walked toward him. His easy manner and benevolent expression both vanished.

“I’m proud of you,” Seronga said. “You handled that situation like a true diplomat.”

“How would you know?” Pavant asked.

“I did not have to shoot him,” Seronga replied. He removed the gun from his waistband and put it on the bed.

Pavant shook his head. “I hate words. They do not solve things. They only put action off.”

“Well, my friend, that was all we needed to do this morning,” Seronga pointed out.

“So you say,” Pavant said. “All those gentle words about deacons, priests, and the bishop. I made myself sick. We should bring this place down, to finish the threat completely.”

“Why spend energy to pull down what will fall on its own?” Seronga asked his partner.

“Because these need to play a role,” Pavant said, shaking his fists. “They have been idle while outsiders cut the heart from our people, our nation. My hands need to be active.”

“They will be,” Seronga said. “To build, not to destroy.”

As he spoke, Seronga had gone to his backpack and removed several maps. He unfolded them on the bed. Then he sat down with Pavant to review the route that would take them from Maun back to camp. They had already arranged for one of Dhamballa’s followers to meet them at the airstrip.

Donald Pavant was still angry. Seronga could see it in the harsh turn of his partner’s brow, in the tense set of his mouth. He could hear it in Pavant’s clipped words. Growing up on the floodplain, Seronga had seen all kinds of predators. He had watched insect-eating plants, crocodiles, lions, and hyenas. He had observed aggressors from hounds to bees. None of them had the quality that too many humans possessed: the ability to hate and for that hate to feed the predatory instinct. Even when he had been forced to kill, Seronga had always been motivated by positive forces. The desire to hunt with his father. The hope of seeing Seretse Khama become president. The need to protect his nation’s borders.

Some men are driven by dreams, while others run from their nightmares, Seronga thought.

However, Seronga did have one hope: that when the struggle was over, all Botswanans would be united. He prayed that they would be moved by something that had been missing from their lives for too many years. By something greater than animal needs.

By Dhamballa and perhaps the gods themselves.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Washington, D.C. Thursday, 5:30 P.M.

The conversation with Darrell McCaskey had been flat. Paul Hood had expected that. Darrell did not tend to react to things immediately. He took them in, and then he reacted. As the former G-man sat in his office chair, the only thing that seemed to annoy him was that Hood had come by to tell him about Maria’s new objectives in Botswana.

“This is Mike’s operation, isn’t it?” McCaskey had asked.

“Yes,” Hood said.

“Then he should be the one giving me the heads-up,” McCaskey said. “I mean, Bob was the one who called her in Madrid. Now you’re here. What the hell is Mike doing?”

“He’s prepping Aideen Marley and David Battat,” Hood said. He was not going to let McCaskey take out his frustration on Mike Rodgers. “We felt it would be okay if I talked to you. Because if you want to be by the numbers official about it, Darrell, you didn’t have to be notified at all. This is Maria’s gig, not yours. I’m telling you because we’re friends, and I think you should be involved.”

That had taken some of the steam from McCaskey’s engine. He settled down a bit, thanked Hood for the information, and got back to work researching Beaudin’s operations.

Hood went back to his office. He called home. The children’s line was busy. One of them was probably on the computer. Most likely Alexander. Hood called the house phone. Sharon answered. His former wife said that Harleigh was on-line, and Alexander was at a night soccer game. She told him to phone back after ten. The kids would be up late because there was no school the next day. Teachers’ conference. Hood said he would call. He asked Sharon how she was. She was not in a mood to talk. Hood knew her well enough to know when she was measuring her words. He suspected that she had a gentleman caller.

Well, why not? he thought. No one should be alone.

Before leaving for the evening to be alone in his own apartment, Paul Hood visited with Aideen Marley and David Battat. They were in Ron Plummer’s office. The international political expert had assembled files on Botswana for them to read. Aideen was obviously a little uncomfortable being there. Plummer had replaced Aideen’s former boss, Martha Mackall. Aideen had been with Martha when she was assassinated.

Bob Herbert and Lowell Coffey III were also present. Coffey had already briefed the two agents on the laws and political structure of Botswana. When Hood arrived, Bob Herbert was providing an overview of the Vatican’s activities in the search for Father Bradbury. Battat and Aideen were told to watch out for the Spanish “tourists.” They were told not to make contact unless the soldiers initiated such contact.

“We don’t want you getting in the way of any military operation they might undertake,” Herbert said.

“Or be blamed for it, either,” Coffey added.

“Or have us caught in the crossfire,” Battat pointed out.

Barbara Crowe arrived to give the two their passports and told them about their new identities. They were Frank and Anne Butler, a Washington, D.C.–based couple on their honeymoon. Customs officials, police, service providers such as hotel clerks and waiters, and even ordinary citizens tended to be more tolerant of newlyweds. Barbara had an engagement ring and wedding bands for them both. Annie was a homemaker, and Frank was a movie critic. Battat had wanted to be a government employee or law enforcement agent of some kind. That was closer to what he really did. He said he would feel more comfortable if fellow travelers asked about it. But those jobs might raise flags at customs. Especially if some clown in line joked with the agent, “Hey, you better just let this guy through! He carries a badge.” Botswana was proud of its stability and extremely reluctant to allow potential subversives or troublemakers into the country.

“Besides, everyone wants to know about American movie stars,” Barbara pointed out. “Just say that you’ve met Julia Roberts, and she’s very nice. Everyone goes away happy.”

Except for David Battat. He had not been to a movie or rented a video in over a year. Battat said that he had hoped he could read about Botswana on the plane and then take a nap. Instead, he would be reading about Botswana and then reading People magazine and watching movies. He said he could think of nothing less exciting.

Neither could Hood. But that was irrelevant.

Hood ignored Battat’s crankiness. The former CIA operative was a professional. He had accepted the assignment. Whether Battat liked it or not, he would do whatever was necessary to complete it.

Aideen was a delight, as always. She was eager to be involved in something important. At one point she half jokingly referred to herself and Battat as “paladins for religious freedom.” Hood liked the name. Paladins became the code name for Rodgers’s new team.

After the short but intense briefings, Battat and Aideen returned to New York. There, they caught an early evening South African Airways 747 bound for Gaborone via Johannesburg.

Hood headed to his apartment. He wanted to be in bed relatively early so he could get back to Op-Center by six-thirty. That was when Bishop Max was due to arrive in Gaborone, Washington time. Hood walked in and opened the window. The night air was refreshing. Then he opened a can of pasta with tiny meatballs and dumped it on a plate. While it warmed in the microwave, Hood went to the small desk near the window. He decided not to call the kids. Instead, Hood booted his laptop and made a web-cam call to the house. That was one of the advantages of working with Matt Stoll. Op-Center’s computer genius could wire anyone to anyone else.

The line was free, and twelve-year-old Alexander got on. Hood was surprised to see the first signs of what looked like facial hair. Maybe the lighting was throwing shadows under his nose and along his cheekbones. Or it could be dirt. Alexander was still wearing his soccer clothes. Whatever it was, Hood suddenly missed him very much. He wanted to hug the boy’s neck, which did not look as scrawny as he remembered it.

They talked about the soccer game the school had played. Alexander’s team had won. He had not scored any goals, but he had assisted in a key one. Sometimes, Hood said, that was all you got. They talked about school and about a new video game system that Alexander had seen. But they did not talk about girls. Maybe the boy had not grown up that much.

Not yet.

As usual, fourteen-year-old Harleigh was much less talkative than her younger brother. She seemed to have put on a little weight over the last week or so, which was good. Her long blond hair had a few fashionable green streaks in it. That was her mother’s doing, no doubt. The idea of streaking it might have come from Harleigh, but not the color. Green was also the opposite of the blood red that other kids were using to streak their hair. But Harleigh had trouble making eye contact. Liz had said that this was typical of people who had been in hostage situations. By not looking at the people who were holding them prisoner, hostages somehow felt invisible and safe. Because the trauma leaves victims feeling impotent and extremely vulnerable, they avoid eye contact even after being rescued.

Hood and his daughter exchanged a few terse words of greeting.

“Hey, I like your hair, hon,” Hood said at last.

“You do?” she asked, without looking up.

“Very much,” he replied.

“Mom thought green was a good color,” said the girl.

“What do you think?” Hood asked.

“It reminds me of that hill I used to roll down when I was little,” Harleigh replied.

“The one near Grandma’s house in Silver Spring?” Hood said.

Harleigh nodded.

“I remember that place,” Hood said. “Didn’t we put Alexander in a cardboard box and roll him down that hill?”

“I think so,” Harleigh said.

“You did!” Alexander yelled from offscreen. “You traumatized me. I can’t go in small places now!”

“Alex, shut up,” Harleigh snapped. “You didn’t even know what a trauma was before Ms. Gordon told you.”

“That doesn’t mean I couldn’t be traumatized, Harleigh,” Alexander barked back.

“All right, kids. Stop,” Hood said. He did not want his daughter pursuing this topic of conversation. “Harl, what’s been happening at school?”

Harleigh returned to her one-word answers.

Classes were “fine.” Other kids were “okay.” Even the novel she was reading for English class had a one-word title: Emma. But Hood was grateful his daughter was talking at all. In the first few weeks after the UN crisis, Harleigh had barely said a word.

“How about Mom?” Hood asked. “How is she?” He was not sure he wanted to know. But Liz Gordon had told him it was important the kids think he was still interested in the family members.

“She’s okay,” Harleigh said.

The teenager was hiding something. He could hear the catch in her voice. Probably the fact that she had a boyfriend. But that was all right. If that were the case, it would come out when it was time.

Hood told Harleigh to take care of herself. He kissed his index finger and blew it toward her. He made certain he put his fingertip close to the tiny fiber-optic lens. That got a flash of eye contact from the girl and a tiny smile. The master screen returned as Harleigh clicked off.

Sharon had not come to the computer talk. Nor had Hood asked to chat with his estranged wife. They had gone from being emotionally and intellectually involved in whatever the other was doing to a state of aggressive neutrality. It felt strange and unnatural. What’s more, Hood still had to deal with the guilt of not spending time with his kids. Only now it had been formalized. It was not, “Daddy is working late.” It was, “Daddy does not live at home anymore.”

Over the past few weeks, there was one thing Hood had learned. He could not dwell on what went wrong with his marriage. That only caused him to beat himself up. He had to look ahead.

Hood propped his two pillows against the headboard. He set the alarm clock for five A.M. and took off his shoes. Then he lay on the bed with his pasta. A thirteen-inch TV sat on the night table to his right. He punched it on. The Discovery Channel was showing a documentary about mummies. The Discovery Channel was always showing documentaries about mummies. Hood did not bother to change the channel. At least these were Aztec mummies instead of Egyptian mummies.

Hood was exhausted. After a few minutes, his eyes began to close. He put his half-eaten meal on the night table and turned off the TV. His brain told him to get out of his clothes. To turn off the light. To shut the window in case it got too cold.

His body did not want to move.

His body won, and in a few minutes, Hood was asleep.

TWENTY-NINE

Maun, Botswana Friday, 8:21 A.M.

The bus to Maun would be arriving in a little over a half hour. Seronga and Pavant found peanut butter and bread in the pantry. They made two sandwiches each to eat on the veranda. They also made four more sandwiches to take with them. Once they met up with trucker Njo Finn and left with the bishop, they would not be able to stop for food.

At least they would not be returning to the belly of the swamp. Seronga was happy about that. Even though they were a few months short of the fall malaria season, the Okavango region was ground zero for the disease. When he had left for the tourist center, Seronga saw what he thought were a few of the distinctive, humpbacked anopheles mosquitoes that carried the disease. He was not so much concerned about his own health or that of the Brush Vipers. He was worried about Dhamballa. They could not afford for him to become ill and seem infirm.

The men would be joining Dhamballa at the southern edge of the swamp. They would hold a rally at the diamond mine where Dhamballa once worked. Then they would move their camp to Ghanzi, a town just north of the Kalahari Desert. The prisoners would remain behind on the island with a unit to watch over them. There, they would be relatively safe from detection. The tree cover protected them from the air. From the water, motorboats would be heard and a defense mounted. The Brush Vipers were prepared to take their own lives rather than be captured. There would be nothing to connect those men to Dhamballa. No uniforms. No documents. No religious artifacts.

And no witnesses. If the island were taken, Seronga had left orders that the priests would have to die. Like the killing of the deacons, that was one of the difficult choices a military leader had to make. Unlike Dhamballa, he could not afford to adhere exclusively to white magic.

Dhamballa had selected Ghanzi because it was close to the airstrip Albert Beaudin’s people used when they visited Botswana. Supplies could be brought directly to them. If necessary, personnel could also be quickly evacuated. The town of 400 was where the priest would establish the first hounfour, a Vodun temple. There would be no permanent physical structure in Ghanzi. A portable poteau-mitan would be erected, the pole through which the gods and spirits communicate with the worshipers. Symbolically, however, the pole-raising ceremony would be significant. It was to be the first public Vodun sanctification of African ground in hundreds of years. If local houngans and mambos, male and female priests, had done their job, thousands of faithful would be in attendance. With that one act, Dhamballa would become a figure of national stature. A day after thousands had proclaimed their devotion, tens or even hundreds of thousands would be emboldened to join the movement.

As the men were finishing their sandwiches, two young men walked over to the veranda. They were dressed in wide khaki shorts, short-sleeve shirts, sunglasses, and Nikes. They wore big, white, Australian outback shade hats. They looked like any members of a photo safari.

They were not.

One man stood a little over six feet tall. The other was a much broader five foot seven or eight. They both had extremely swarthy skin and ramrod-straight posture. They stopped just short of the veranda. The taller man removed his hat and took a step forward.

“Buenas días, diáconos,” he said in a strong voice.

Seronga smiled pleasantly at the speaker. He assumed the man had said “good morning,” but he was not sure. When you weren’t sure what had been said, it was best not to answer.

“¿Puedo hablar con usted por un momento, diáconos honrados?” the man went on.

Seronga had no choice now but to answer. “I’m sorry, my friend, but I do not understand,” the Brush Viper informed him. “Do you happen to speak English or Setswana?”

The shorter man stepped forward and removed his own hat. “I speak English,” he replied in a gentler voice. “I’m very sorry. We thought missionaries were required to speak many languages.”

“It is helpful but not a requirement,” Seronga replied. He had no idea if what he had just said were true. But he said it with authority. For most people, that was usually enough to make something true.

“I see,” the man said. “May we speak with you both for a moment, honored deacons?”

“For a moment, yes,” Seronga told him. “We have to prepare for our trip to Maun.”

“That is what we wish to talk to you about,” the man told him.

The small of Seronga’s back began to tingle.

“I am Sergeant Vicente Diamante, and this is Captain Antonio Abreo,” the man went on.

Captain Abreo bowed slightly at the mention of his name.

“You are vacationing soldiers?” Seronga asked.

“Not vacationing, sir,” Diamante replied. “We and our comrades are special forces soldiers with the Grupo del Cuartel General, Unidad Especial del Despliegue, out of Madrid.”

Pavant sneaked a glance at Seronga. Seronga did not have to look back to know what was in his eyes. The same fire that was there when he urged Seronga to kill the two deacons.

“Special forces soldiers,” Seronga said. He tried his best to sound impressed, even honored. He wanted to get the man to talk. “Are you expecting a military assault?”

“We do not know,” Diamante admitted. “Our unit has been sent to safeguard the bishop who is coming from America. We will do whatever is necessary to support that mission. What we wanted to tell you is that we consider the tour bus to be a potential target.”

“Thank you,” Seronga replied.

“But do not worry,” Diamante went on. “Two of us will be in the tour bus with you. If anything happens, all we ask is that you do your best to keep out of the way.”

“We will,” Seronga replied. “Tell me. Do you have any special reason to expect that something will happen on the bus or anywhere else?”

“We have no knowledge of a plot against the bishop,” Diamante told him. “But after what happened to Father Bradbury, we are taking nothing for granted. We will be armed and watching for any unusual activity.”

“Armed,” Seronga said with a shudder. “We put our trust in the lord. In what do you put your trust? Machine guns? Knives?” Seronga had to know what he might be up against.

The sergeant lightly patted a bulge under his left arm. “Our M-82s will help the lord to protect you.”

“That is gratifying. How many of you are there?” Seronga asked.

“Twelve,” Diamante replied. “We’ve arranged with Señor Ndebele to borrow one of the safari cars. Four soldiers will follow the bus in that. The other four will remain here to make sure this area stays secure.”

Seronga put his hand on his chest. He lowered his head gratefully. “Although I hope these precautions will not prove to be necessary, Sergeant Diamante, they are appreciated.”

The sergeant nodded back. “We will not acknowledge you on the bus except in passing, as fellow travelers. I hope you are correct, Deacon. That the journey will be a safe one.”

The two men left. When they had disappeared around the corner of the church, Pavant got out of his wicker chair.

“None of these bloody devils understands!” Pavant said angrily.

“I know,” Seronga answered calmly. Part of his mind was here, dealing with Pavant’s rage. The rest of it was looking ahead three hours, trying to figure out what to do.

“They think they can call in even more foreigners and swat us down. They don’t understand that this is our country,” he struck his chest with his fist, “that this is our faith we are fighting for. Our history, our birthright.”

“They’re wrong,” Seronga assured him. “They will find that out.”

“We have to alert Njo,” Pavant said.

“I agree,” Seronga replied. But that was all Seronga knew for certain. He looked down.

“What is it?” Pavant asked. “What’s wrong?”

“The question is, what do we tell Njo?” Seronga said. “It is one thing to defend the island from an attack that probably will not come. This is different. We have to decide how far to escalate this conflict militarily.”

“Do we have a choice?” Pavant asked. It was more of a statement than a question. “As soon as we take the bishop toward Njo’s truck, they’re going to realize that something is wrong.”

“I know that,” Seronga said.

“Either we need backup to cover our retreat from Maun, or we must make a preemptive strike against the Spaniards,” Pavant decided.

“A retreat would not work,” Seronga said. “Even with the bishop as a hostage, they would follow us to camp.”

“Then we must attack,” Pavant said forcefully.

“Lower your voice,” Seronga cautioned, looking around. He gestured toward the church. For all they knew, the Spanish soldiers were standing there, having a smoke.

“I’m sorry,” Pavant said. The Brush Viper bent closer. “We must make sure that they do not leave the bus station. They must not trace us to Dhamballa. They must be killed.”

“Or eluded,” Seronga said.

“Why?” Pavant asked. “Dhamballa will have to understand—”

“It isn’t just Dhamballa that I’m worried about,” Seronga said. “If we attack these men, the Spanish government will insist that it was unprovoked. They will say the soldiers were tourists. They will brand Dhamballa and his followers as terrorists. Our own government will be forced to hunt us in earnest to protect international relations, business investments, and the tourist trade.”

Pavant stared at Seronga. His dark eyes lost some of their fire. “Then what do we do?” he asked. “We can’t bring the bishop here. That will invigorate this parish. The Church will win.”

“They will also find out that we are not real deacons,” Seronga added. “We will be hunted relentlessly.”

“So we cannot come back to the church, and we cannot let the Spanish soldiers follow us to Dhamballa’s camp,” Pavant said. There was renewed anger in his voice and frustration in his dark eyes. “That does not appear to leave us very many options.”

“No,” Seronga agreed.

In fact, there was only one thing to do. Regardless of the consequences, they would have to fight. Seronga would not let Dhamballa know now. He had already decided that sooner rather than later, the Brush Vipers would have to separate themselves from Dhamballa. The Vodun leader wanted to be known as a man of white magic. His credibility would suffer if the death of the deacons were tied to the Brush Vipers. Seronga could still help him, but from a distance. He thought of the Middle East, where leaders publicly denounced radical military organizations while benefiting from their violent activities. That separation could occur within weeks when, hopefully, Dhamballa would have enough bodies around to protect him from government interference. There would be followers who moved around with him as well as foreign journalists who covered his rallies. The Europeans had promised to bring in reporters as soon as the Vodun movement had its first major rally.

The leader of the Brush Vipers rose. Everything old eventually returns, he thought. During his decades of service to the government, Seronga had engaged in various small-scale engagements, from border skirmishes to ambushes. Most of those times, the Brush Vipers had been the perpetrators. Occasionally, they had been the targets. So it would be again.

Seronga knew the small-unit offensive and defensive drills by heart. He also knew the area where the bus would be bringing them. If it came down to self-defense, he would have to have a plan.

Seronga entered the living quarters. While Pavant stood by the door to make sure no one entered, Seronga went to the bed. He opened his backpack and withdrew his cell phone. He called Njo Finn. The truck driver was about sixty miles northwest of Maun. The signal was not very strong, and Seronga made the message as succinct as possible. Seronga told the man exactly where to meet him. Using code words that were known to all the Brush Vipers, Seronga also told Njo what to have ready when the tour bus arrived.

It might not be the cleanest or best-planned operation the Brush Vipers had ever undertaken, but that did not matter to Seronga. He only had one concern: that it worked.

THIRTY

Washington, D.C. Friday, 5:03 A.M.

It was not a restful night for Paul Hood.

He dreamed that he was trying to prop up the Hollywood sign. It was an endless task. One of the big white letters would begin to tilt forward, and he would rush over to it. He would push it back up, and another would immediately start to drop over. The rate of fall did not change, but the order did. There was no respite, nothing that could be done by rote. Hood woke around three-thirty A.M., wired and perspiring. Is that how he viewed his life? Constantly propping the same things up, minute after minute after minute? Was it all superficial, like Hollywood? Or was that his own past as the mayor of Los Angeles coming back to nag at him, to tell him that this was all he was good for? Bureaucratic management.

Hood flicked the television on and turned on the History Channel. The subject was World War II, the European Theater. The subject was always World War II, the European Theater. Hood watched for a while, then decided there was no point. He was not going to get back to sleep. He showered, dressed, and headed for Op-Center.

The night team was not surprised to see him. Since the separation, he had been there late at night and early in the morning. And Hood was not surprised to find Liz Gordon still in her office. She was there with J2 and Mae Won. Those two had the energy of the young. They were sitting around her desk, working on networked laptops. The smell of coffee hung in the open door like a scrim.

Hood rapped on the jamb. “Good morning.”

J2 and Mae both returned the greeting. Liz did not look away from her monitor.

“Paul, I’m beginning to think you’ve got a very serious problem in Botswana,” Liz said.

“More than just a Vatican problem?” he asked.

“Very much so,” she said.

“Talk to me,” Hood said. He walked toward her.

Liz’s shoulders were slumped. She rubbed her eyes and looked over. “There are events in history that trigger what we call ‘mass movements.’ Examples are the American Revolution. The Communist Revolution. The French Resistance during the Second World War. Even the Rennaissance, though that was less clearly defined. It’s the result of a collection of people whose imaginations are stirred to action by a person or an event or even an idea.”

“Stowe’s Uncle Tom’s Cabin,” Hood said.

“That or Upton Sinclair’s The Jungle,” Liz agreed. “You get an emancipation movement or a sweeping overhaul in the meat industry. Incited by one thing or another, people come together with a common goal, their collective efforts producing seemingly impossible results.”

“The whole is greater than the sum of the parts,” Hood said.

“Exactly,” Liz replied. “I think we’re looking at something that is being positioned very much like that.”

“Let’s back up a second,” Hood said to her. “I assume this is based on a profile you worked up on Dhamballa?”

“Yes,” Liz said. “He is definitely not a stereotypical cult leader. That’s why I’m looking at this as a social phenomenon instead of an aberration.”

“You’re that sure?” Hood said.

“Absolutely,” Liz told him. “J2 and Mae were able to get into the computers at Morningside Mines Ltd. and access his personal records.”

“Morningside Mines?” Hood said. “Where are they based?”

“Antwerp,” J2 said. “So are about a million other diamond companies that I found.”

That information might or might not tie Burton to Henry Genet.

“Our man Thomas Burton is thirty-three,” Liz said. “He has no history of mental illness. To the contrary. He is remarkably focused. Over the course of nine years as a mine worker, he was promoted quickly and regularly. He went from working the hoses that wash the mine walls for drillmen to drilling to running the line itself.”

“The line?” Hood asked.

“That’s where the diamonds are sorted and cleaned,” Mae said.

“So he was competent and hardworking,” Hood said. “Where’s the jump to religious leader?”

“We don’t have that link yet,” Liz went on. “It could be from someone he knows, something he read, or even a holy revelation.”

“Like God talking to Moses,” Hood said.

“It almost doesn’t matter what it was,” Liz replied. “Burton is committed to this.”

“Could it be a sham of some sort?” Hood asked.

“Unlikely,” Liz replied. “Someone could be using him, for sure, but Burton himself is honest. His employee file contains quarterly performance reviews. They decribe him as intelligent, conscientious, and absolutely trustworthy. The mine owners routinely send out private investigators to watch people who work on the line. They want to make sure the workers are not pocketing diamonds and selling them privately. The investigators actually do things like paying clerks in shops or restaurants to give the subject too much change.”

“Just to see what they do,” Hood speculated.

“Right,” Liz said. “Our man gave it back. Every time. There is a philosophical consistency about an honest man who eventually turns to preaching. One is a statement to a single individual. The other is a statement to a group.” She shrugged. “But both are about truth. That doesn’t mean he wasn’t pushed into this or encouraged by someone else,” Liz added. “But he, himself, believes in what he is doing. I am sure of that.”

“What about family?” Hood asked. “Any crises or vendettas that might have motivated him?”

“Burton’s father is dead, and his mother lives in a nursing home in Gaborone,” Liz said.

“Paid for by her son?” Hood asked.

“Yes sir,” J2 said. “I checked his bank records.”

“Do we know how the father died?” Hood asked.

“Malaria,” Liz replied. She added, “The elder Burton died in a state-run hospital, not in a missionary hospital. Thomas Burton is not acting out against the Church.”

“Are there any siblings?”

“No brothers or sisters,” Liz said. “And no wife.”

“Is that unusual in Botswana?” Hood asked.

“Being unwed? Very,” J2 said. “I looked it up.” He leaned forward in his seat and looked at the monitor. “Only four percent of males over eighteen are single. Those stats are pretty much spread one percent each over the military, the clergy, widowers, and miscellaneous.”

“But Vodun clergy are permitted to marry,” Mae added. “I put together the file on the religion.”

“There are other reasons Burton might not have married,” Hood said. “Having his mother to support could be one of them. Mae, what are the qualifications for Vodun priesthood?” Hood asked.

“A male priest is called a houngan,” Mae said, “and in order to become one, a man must communicate with spirits in the presence of another houngan. Sort of a religious conference call. Women priests or mambos have to do the same thing with a senior mambo.”

“I suspect that’s a way of proving both men are hearing the same things,” Liz suggested. “Either that, or it’s a way of ensuring that the ranks or priests are joined only by those whom the priests approve.”

“Everything is political,” Hood observed.

“That’s true, but we don’t know whether Burton ever became a houngan,” Liz went on.

“How could he not?” Hood asked.

“Burton is claiming to be the embodiment of the powerful snake deity Dhamballa,” Liz said. “We don’t know if the usual rules of ascension to the priesthood apply.”

Hood stared at her. “Are you saying that Thomas Burton thinks he’s a snake god?” he said flatly.

“That’s right,” Liz replied.

Hood shook his head. “Liz, I just don’t know about this. Do you think that Burton could be playing the part of Dhamballa? Faking it? He was a poor mine worker. Perhaps he’s being paid to serve the political needs of Albert Beaudin and his partners.”

“He didn’t take money from people in the market,” Liz said. “Why would he take it from Beaudin?”

“Mothers in nursing homes can become expensive,” Hood said.

“I did the math,” J2 said. “His salary was enough to cover that.”

“Beaudin and his people may be using Burton,” Liz agreed. “But I don’t think he’s acting.”

“Why?” Hood asked.

“Two things,” Liz told him. “First, Thomas Burton’s epiphany would not have taken place in a vacuum. Even if he had no religious training, he would have gone to someone who did. Someone who could explain what he was thinking, feeling. The experience was obviously so powerful that any houngan or mambo Burton might have visited was convinced that he had been blessed. At least, no one questioned him or stood in his way.”

“Do we know that for sure?” Hood asked.

“We’re surmising it,” Liz said. “Only a few weeks passed between Burton quitting his job at the mines and Dhamballa holding his first small rally. If there had been any serious resistance from Vodun priests, it would have taken months or even years to sort out. And it probably would have resulted in the use of black magic against him.”

“Black magic,” Hood said. “Are you talking zombies now?”

“Mae?” Liz said.

The young woman nodded. “We are. Only the word is really nzumbie, which means ‘ghost.’ ”

Once again, Hood had to fight a sense of condescension. The fact that this was not his world or set of beliefs should not make it invalid. He had a flashback to when he was mayor of Los Angeles. He was hosting a movie industry dinner and was seated between two powerful studio heads. They were earnestly debating which of their studios was on top of the next big trend: talking animal movies or films about the post-apocalyptic era. Hood had brought the executives together to discuss internship programs for underprivileged city youths. He could not get worked up over the subject of Babe vs. Waterworld . But to the producers, with hundreds of millions of dollars at risk, it mattered.

To the Vodunists, this mattered.

“The zombies we’re talking about are not the stiff, vacanteyed killers we’ve seen in the movies,” Mae went on. “From everything I’ve read, they are conversant, very active beings. No blood drinking, no flesh eating, no mindless mayhem.”

“But are they still, like, slaves to masters?” J2 asked.

“No one is sure whether they’re slaves or just willing subjects,” Mae replied. “Either way, they are extremely devoted to the houngan or mambo who created them.”

“These zombies may also be victims of sleeping potions and mind control drugs,” Liz said. “Over the last fifteen or twenty years, there has been a fair amount of scientific debate about the subject in the psychiatric and medical journals. The consensus is that they do not die but are artificially placed in a deep narcosis and then revived.”

“Mind control drugs,” Hood said. He was glad that there was finally something he could hook into. “Could the Brush Vipers be victims of chemical brainwashing?”

“It’s possible but unlikely,” Liz replied. “Working as a soldier in the field requires the ability to act independently in a crisis. That brings me back to exactly what black magic is. To a Vodunist, it is not necessarily the supernatural. It is simply bloodshed.”

“Which is why we don’t think this Dhamballa man believes in it,” J2 pointed out. “If the Brush Vipers had used violence to set him up, it would definitely have shown up as a blip on some of the South African intelligence reports from the region. I checked those. All the fights and arguments our people noted were about boundaries and trade and that sort of thing. Nothing about religion.”

“Maybe the Brush Vipers kept people in line for him,” Hood suggested.

“They didn’t start showing up until after Dhamballa held his first rally,” J2 said.

“All right,” Hood said. “So Burton had this revelation and started his ministry with a core of people who believed in what he was doing, probably in his home village and possibly at the mine.”

“Correct,” Liz replied.

“At which point the mine owners and Genet might have become aware of him,” Hood went on.

“Yes,” Liz said. “We’re not sure whether Burton was still working for them when he adopted the Dhamballa personality or whether they watched him after he left. Whenever anyone quits suddenly, the PIs watch them for a while. Make sure they did not sneak some diamonds out.”

“I see,” Hood replied. “Liz, you said there was a second reason you did not think that Burton was acting.”

“Right,” Liz said. “It ties in with the sanity issue. A man who is unbalanced, a man who has a god complex, has a very specific need. He wants to be the absolute ruler. He wants to be Jesus Christ or Napoleon or—Mae, who’s the supreme god in Vodun?”

“Olorun,” Mae replied as she consulted the monitor. “He is ‘the remote and unknowable one.’ His emissary god on earth is Obatala. He’s the god who reports on human activities.”

“From what we’ve been told and what little we’ve read, Burton is not making claims of that sort,” she said.

“No,” Hood replied. “Dhamballa is just saying that he’s the incarnation of a snake god.”

“We have to be more precise about that,” Liz said. “Vodun priests do not claim to be an embodiment of gods so much as a representation. A spokesperson, if you will.”

“He’s still hearing voices in some fashion,” Hood said. “You consider that sane?”

“You mentioned Moses a minute ago,” the woman replied. “What makes you think that Thomas Burton is any less rational? How do you know he is not what he says?”

Hood wanted to answer, Common sense. But something in Liz’s voice made him hesitate. Her tone was not critical of Hood but respectful of Thomas Burton. In that moment, Hood realized he would never have said either of those things to Edgar Kline.

Hood felt a flush of shame. Liz had been right to ask that question. It was not the right of Paul Hood or anyone else to make qualitative judgments about the Vodunists or people of any faith.

“Let me ask you this, then,” Hood said. “If Burton believes he is a god in some form, why does he need the Brush Vipers? Wouldn’t Olorun come to his aid if he needed it?”

“Doubt is common to prophets and messianic figures, especially in the early stages of a ministry,” Liz replied. “And a support system is helpful. Moses had Aaron, Jesus the apostles.”

“But Moses and Jesus did not need to kidnap priests,” Hood said.

“It makes sense if you don’t think of it as an aggressive act but as a policy statement, so to speak,” Liz said. “What the Brush Vipers did, almost certainly with Burton’s approval, was merely an expedience. It was a way to announce his arrival and his target.”

Hood felt that Liz was making several leaps where she did not have facts as a bridge. But that was all right. He did not have to agree with her, but this is what she was paid to do. Explore possibilities.

“I hear what you’re saying,” Hood said. “And the bottom line is we’re dealing with a committed but probably nonviolent man. What we do not know is the extent to which Dhamballa controls the Brush Vipers and to what extent they are interested in religion or simply in power.”

“Exactly,” Liz said. “But you may find that out relatively soon. At some point early in any ministry of this type, the miraculous must occur. Moses and the plagues, Jesus healing the sick. Burton knows he has to produce something significant. Barring divine intervention, he is probably counting on a ground swell of support. By taking on the Church, he may be hoping to fire some long-dormant sense of religious zeal in his fellow Botswanans.”

Hood was silent for a long moment. “Well,” he said, “this has been quite an education.”

“For all of us,” Liz said.

Hood nodded. “You all did a very good night’s work. Thank you.”

Hood turned to go. Liz called after him. He looked back.

“Just remember something, Paul,” she said. “These people are proud of their heritage. And as the Jews in the Diaspora and the early Christians under Rome showed, the Vodunists have one great advantage.”

“What’s that?” Hood asked.

Liz replied, “Faith can never be defeated by threats and force of arms. It has to be beaten by a better idea.”

“Or from within,” Hood said. “That’s a much easier thing to do.”

THIRTY-ONE

Maun, Botswana Friday, 1:30 P.M.

She had given up smoking cigarettes for her husband. She had agreed to relocate to the United States for him. She loved him, and she was willing to give up a great deal to be with him. But Maria Corneja knew now that she could not give this up for him.

The field.

The woman had flown from Madrid to Gaborone. Within ten minutes of landing, she and a handful of fellow tourists were headed to Maun on board a two-prop British plane, a Saab 340. The trip took a half hour. The single landing strip was located outside of Maun. It was nestled in a flat region of short grasses. There was a modern, three-story control tower as well as a separate wooden tower on the opposite side of the runway. This was for sharpshooters. The marksman watched for herds as well as solitary animals that might wander onto the tarmac. If a herd were spotted, the man in the tower would fire until they left. Usually it took just one shot for the lead animal to turn and run. The rest of the animals invariably followed. If it were a single animal, it could be sick or old. If it did not leave, the sentry would shoot it with a tranquilizer dart. Then it was netted by a tractor that was parked behind the tower. The animal was hauled off the strip and taken to a local refuge for evaluation.

Tourists who came to the region by air were not bused to the heart of Maun.

They had to take individual taxis. The Ministry of Works, Transport, and Communications had given this route to the family that owned the land on which the airstrip was built. The family decided to open a taxi service. This gave the drivers ten minutes or so to talk to the new arrivals. They took pictures of the foreigners as they stepped off the plane, sold them mementos, and offered their services as personal tour guides.

Maria had intended to rent a car at the airport. Instead, she ended up with a driver named Paris Lebbard. The airport taxi stand was located near the airport car rental. Lebbard had stepped in front of Maria as she approached. He introduced himself with a smile and a bow. He said that he would charge her less than a rental car. He also told her that he would guarantee the safety of a woman traveling alone and could point out things that the tour books missed.

Maria looked him over. Paris was a very dark-skinned wisp of a man in his early twenties. He was dressed in a white short-sleeve shirt, tan shorts, and sandals. He wore a black kerchief and sunglasses. He spoke impeccable English, French, and Spanish. Maria had an idea. She decided to give him a short trial. She asked him to drive her to Maun. If she were impressed, she said, she would hire him. If not, he would have to drive her back to the car rental, free of charge.

He accepted the offer enthusiastically.

“You will hire me,” he said. “I will make this trip even more special for you. Plus,” he added, “I can take pictures with you in them. They will not just be scenery and animals.”

On the way to town, Maria learned that Lebbard had been educated by missionaries. He was a boyhood friend of the grandson of the man who owned the taxi company. She was a good judge of character. He seemed sincere, hardworking, and honest. When they neared Maun Center, Maria told him that she would be delighted to take him up on his offer to drive her around.

Paris was elated. He told her that the minimum engagement was five hours for a total of fifty American dollars. She accepted. He told her that for an extra fifty dollars, she could have him for the entire following day. She said she would think about it.

The shiny black cab reached the busy heart of the village. It pulled up to a crowded taxi stand on the side of the market. Maria got out. So did Lebbard, who stood beside the cab on his cell phone. The young man was eager to relay the news to his dispatcher, that he would be staying with his fare for the rest of the day, possibly for the following day.

While he called, the driver reassured the woman that she would learn a lot and that she would also be very safe with him.

“No wild animals and no wild Botswana men will bother you,” the young man had insisted with a back and forth wave of his index finger. He told her he carried a .38 in the glove compartment and a rifle in the trunk.

While Lebbard made his call, Maria was eager to get to work. She began walking around the market. The plane carrying the American bishop was not due for another ninety minutes. Right now, she wanted to familiarize herself with the area. See for herself what the police presence was like. What the streets were like. Whether it would be easy to get in and out of here in a cab or on foot. Whether back doors were locked and how many children there were. Where they played, in case there was gunfire. Whether the kids had bicycles. Whether there were adult bicycles in case she needed one.

Maria Corneja moved with the litheness and power of a natural athlete. She stood slightly under five foot seven inches but seemed taller because of the way she held her head. It was set high and confident, her square jaw forward ever so slightly. She looked like a Spanish princess surveying her realm. Her brown eyes were clear and steady, her nose straight, and her thin-lipped mouth set. Her long brown hair hung down her dark neck. Wearing jeans, a black blouse, and a green windbreaker, Maria did not stand out among the more exotically dressed mix of international tourists.

The bazaar was a tourist attraction, with renovated cobble streets and stalls made of handmade fabrics. It was nicknamed Old Maun, and it was set in the heart of a small but modern city. It was approximately 300 feet wide and 700 or 800 feet long. Hundreds of years ago, this had probably been a caravan stop on a trade route. A convenient stop on an L-shaped bend in the Thamalakane River. The town simply grew up around it and remained. Today, the bazaar was crowded with visitors and locals, including a few roaming beggars. They reminded Maria of the homeless people she had seen in places like Calcutta and Mexico City. They were not just poor and unkempt, they looked sickly and broken. She put money in the paper bag of one woman who passed.

The market was also a curious blend of the traditional and the new. It offered everything from fresh produce to the latest electronic devices. There were wooden stands with canvas canopies. They stood on asphalt covered with windblown sand and dead grasses. All around was the quiet clack of laptop computers. The merchants used these to keep track of their sales and inventory. Beyond the market were new, white brick apartments and municipal offices. Stuck between them, in alleys and odd angles, were shanties with warped, discolored shingles. Several of them had small satellite dishes on their sloping roofs. She could see the glow of color televisions through the windows.

At the far end of the market was a building that served as a multidenominational chapel. It was empty. Maria wondered if that had anything to do with the attack on the church at the tourist center. On the opposite end of the market was a bar. It appeared relatively empty as well. Perhaps it was too early in the day for Maunans to drink.

The town was very different from Madrid. The air was different. It was clean and dry. The sunshine felt different, too. There was no smog to filter the heat and brilliance. Maria loved it. She simultaneously felt free and plugged in. And plugged in was not simply a figure of speech. There was electricity under her skin. It was in her fingertips, along the back of her neck, at the peaks of her high cheekbones. Some of the excitement came from being part of a great intelligence machine like Op-Center. But most of it arose from something else. It was something the woman had enjoyed ever since she was four years old, the day when she was seated on her first horse.

Risk.

In her thirty-eight years, Maria had learned that two things made any moment particularly sweet. One was sharing it alone and uninterrupted with your loved one. That had happened once far too many times in her life. With Darrell McCaskey it had happened repeatedly, becoming richer and more textured each time. Maria had grown tired of once. That was why she had made the commitment to her new husband.

But the other most precious times in life were knowing that any given moment could be your last. Every part of one’s being came to life in those instants. You could feel it begin to build days before. A sharpening of the senses, memory, intellect, every physical and emotional resource at your command. When Bob Herbert called her the day before, Maria made a decision. She decided there was no reason she could not have a life with both intimacy and danger. Darrell would have to learn to live with that. After all, he was asking her to do the same.

Maybe, she thought, the risk was what made those other moments so wonderful. Once before they went after a militant group of Basque Separatists, a fellow Interpol agent had said to her, “Tonight we make love, for tomorrow we may die.” She was not in love with the man, but it was a very intense night.

Even if nothing exciting happened in Maun, Maria was thrilled to be here. Just being involved in a major, evolving operation was exciting. Before leaving Spain, Maria had pulled the Interpol files on Botswana. The history and leadership profiles brought her up to speed on the nation. In a region beset by ethnic squabbles and hungry warlords, Botswana was the self-declared “Gem of Africa.” It was a stable, democratic region of economic growth. Pertinent to her own trip, she noticed the laws against women loitering. They were extremely strict. According to a file from the Botswana Directorate on Corruption and Economic Crime, murder, drug dealing, and prostitution were zero-tolerance crimes. Firstoffense prostitution carried a mandatory prison sentence of not less than two years. Nor were the laws against prostitution and drugs based solely on the local ethic. Eighteen percent of the nation’s adult population was infected with HIV. The laws were an effort to keep the disease from spreading.

Maria did not intend to linger anywhere. She had been sent to keep a surreptitious eye on the American bishop. But before leaving Spain, she had been informed that a dozen elite soldiers with the Grupo del Cuartel General, Unidad Especial del Despliegue had come over on the previous flight. The Spanish military could look out for the well-being of the bishop. Maria had another goal. She wanted to try to find Father Bradbury. When David Battat and Aideen Marley arrived, she wanted to have leads.

When Paris was finished with his call, he came after Maria. He found her standing beside a stand that sold handmade scarves. He asked Maria what she would like to do.

“The first thing I want to do is go to my hotel and wash up,” she informed him.

“Naturally,” Paris said. “I assume you are staying at the Maun Oasis.”

“Yes.”

“I knew that,” he told her, snapping his fingers as if to say that had been an easy one. “Otherwise, you would be staying at the tourist center. In which case you would have been part of a group. So that I may make plans, what is the second thing you wish to do?” he asked.

She looked at him and smiled. He smiled back. But only for a moment. Her request both surprised and confused him.

“I’d like to go back to the airport,” she said.

THIRTY-TWO

South African Airways Flight 7003 Friday, 12:03 P.M.

Something was bothering David Battat, something he could not pin down nor put from his mind.

Battat and Aideen Marley were sitting in the wide, soft seats of the 747 first-class cabin. They were in the first row along the port-side bulkhead. Battat had the aisle seat. There was nothing in front of them but upholstered wall. There was nothing to Battat’s right but a permanent serving table. The flight deck was located one flight up. They did not fly first class for comfort. It was a matter of security. They were reviewing sensitive material on their laptops. The seats were far apart in first class, and Battat kept the back upright. It would be difficult for anyone to see what they were doing. He kept the overhead fan turned off so he would hear if anyone approached from behind. If they did, he had to make sure he closed the file in a slow, natural manner. He would not want to alarm a flight attendant with sudden, suspicious gestures.

The jet engines created a pleasant white noise, making it easy for Battat to concentrate on the files. He went through the 400 pages of material in just over three hours. Battat reviewed the thin case files on Father Bradbury, Edgar Kline, and the Madrid Accords. He was surprised. Not so much by the pact between the Vatican and Spain but by the fact that other nations had not joined. Or perhaps, wisely, the Church did not want other allies. That might tweak the temptation to build an international coalition. The world community might not react favorably to the prospect of another Crusade.

Battat had also studied the general intelligence files on Botswana as well as the personal dossiers of Maria Corneja and Aideen Marley. Maria was a top Interpol agent. She had been involved in everything from surveillance to infiltration. He was glad to have her on the team. As for Aideen, he was encouraged to read that she had not been trained in field work. Aideen had been thrust into it by the assassination of Martha Mackall, when the two of them were on a mission in Madrid. The fact that a junior political officer had helped to stop a civil war showed that she had superb instincts.

When Battat was finished with the other files, he came to a diskette labeled IP. That stood for Information Pool. It was provided to everyone who was working on a particular operation. The file consisted of odds and ends that might pertain to the operation at hand. It was updated twice a day and was filled with names, places, and institutions that had been mentioned in passing or details that had come up in background searches. Opening the file one looked for possible connections, coincidences, or anomalies to follow up on. Often, a seemingly incidental fact might trigger a link in the operative’s mind—something others had missed.

That had happened when Battat opened the IP file. And now it was bothering him. What frustrated the former Central Intelligence Agency operative was that he knew what was wrong. He just did not know why.

Unlike most of the personnel who worked at Op-Center, David Battat had not spent most of his career on a military base, at an embassy, in a think tank, or in a government office. He had been “on his feet,” as it was euphemistically referred to. He had been in the field. Battat knew people. And, more importantly, he knew how people of different nationalities behaved.

Before being stationed in the CIA’s New York field office, Battat had been all over the world. He had spent time in Afghanistan, Venezuela, Laos, and Russia. Because he spoke Russian, he had even done a four-month tour in Antarctica, from the beginning of spring to the middle of the summer. There, he was responsible for listening to Russian spies who were posing as scientists. The Russians were there to make sure the Americans were not using their own research stations as military bases.

Battat liked the Antarctic work because, ironically, it was the most comfortable place he had ever worked. It was called a “listening post,” but it was really a “listening folding chair.” Several radio consoles hung from hooks on the cinder block walls. He sat on a metal bridge chair beside the speakers. He spent his days listening for any activity picked up by wireless microphones planted in the ice. Mostly, he just heard the wind. When the Russians did come out, he heard a lot of complaining. That was the real value of the experience. Battat realized that for the Russians, working in the South Pole was a somewhat humiliating experience. Antarctica was perceived as a surrogate Siberia. It was exile, a comedown. Men did not do their best work when they felt like prisoners.

Human nature was fundamentally the same around the world. But Battat was aware of how cultural influences affected people. They brought out different traits in different people to different degrees. And he was bothered by something he had read in Paul Hood’s log. It was a passing reference, something that seemed to be off of everyone else’s radar.

The entry had to do with Shigeo Fujima, the Japanese Foreign Affairs intelligence chief. As far as the Japanese knew, they had a mole in the CIA. She was Tamara Simsbury, a young American. She had been approached by the Japanese Defense Intelligence Office, Jouhou Honbu, when she was a student at the University of Tokyo Graduate School of Law and Politics. They offered her a rich yearly stipend if she would go to work for the CIA and slip a DIO liaison officer information they requested pertaining to China and Korea. The woman went to the CIA and told them what the DIO wanted. The Agency hired her. Unknown to her Japanese colleagues, she told her superiors everything Tokyo wanted to know. If Fujima needed information from American intelligence, he could have gotten it without asking Paul Hood.

No, Battat thought. Shigeo Fujima had contacted Op-Center for another reason. The Japanese intelligence officer had wanted to establish a personal connection with Paul Hood. Something he could use later. That meant Fujima knew more than he was saying. He knew there would be a “later,” something that would involve Japan.

And, most likely, the United States.

THIRTY-THREE

Maun, Botswana Friday, 3:00 P.M.

Leon Seronga stood in the small, open observation area at the far end of the airstrip. The viewing deck was marked as such with a painted sign. The wooden plaque hung on a tall, ten-foot-wide chain-link fence. To either side were cinder block walls topped with barbed wire. There were five other people waiting at the fence, three of them children. They could not wait to see Granpapa, who was flying in from Gaborone.

At the moment, the only things to see were two small planes. They were parked on a small asphalt patch on the other side of the field, near the observation tower. The larger one was a twin-engine tour plane owned by SkyRiders. Seronga had seen this particular aircraft flying over the Okavanga Swamp. Tourists who did not have a lot of time to spend in Botswana could be flown over or to sites they wished to see. The other plane was a small, white, single-engine Cessna Skyhawk. It was a private plane.

The pilot was checking it over. Seronga wished he had access to a small craft like that. It would be so much easier to fly the bishop out of here and land at the edge of the swamp. Mr. Genet had airplanes at his disposal, but he did not offer them to the Brush Vipers. Seronga suspected that the diamond merchant wanted to keep a safe distance from the group’s activities.

Roughly two dozen other people were standing by the road on the other side of the control tower. The first floor of the tower housed the airport’s modest terminal. It consisted of a small refreshment stand, a ticket counter, and the baggage claim area. Except for the taxicabs and the shuttle bus, there was not a vehicle on the road. There was a single entrance leading to the airfield. A security officer hired by the airline stood just inside the doorway. He was armed with a 9 mm pistol and a surly expression.

Seronga had bought a bottle of water at the refreshment stand. He took a sip. The Brush Viper’s own automatic was tucked in his shoulder holster, but he was trying not to look intimidating, unhappy, or uncomfortable. He wanted to appear a proper deacon. That was not easy.

Since they had arrived here a half hour before, Seronga had found it extremely difficult to focus. Physically, he was being baked by the direct sunlight and the uncustomarily heavy clothing. He was perspiring heavily from the forehead to the knees. Though a wind was blowing lightly from the northwest, it only added to his discomfort. It swept sand and grit from the tarmac into the eyes of those waiting for passengers. The marksman in the tower wore thick goggles to protect himself. When the jet landed, the assault was much worse. The engines kicked up whatever the wind had deposited and blasted it toward the crowd.

Emotionally, it was even worse. Seronga had once heard the expression, “War is hell.” It was said by an American, and it was true. But there was something worse than combat: waiting.

Inactivity did not fill the mind with visions of the things that could go right. Rarely did tension suggest good new ideas. It fueled the nerves with things that could go wrong.

Seronga had come to Maun with a simple plan. He and Pavant had taken the shuttle bus to the airfield. The shuttle would take them back to Maun with the bishop. There, Seronga and Pavant would link up with Njo Finn. That much was certain. But two of the Spaniards had come out to the airfield as well. They claimed to have left a small bag at customs and wanted to see if it was still there. The presence of the soldiers complicated the plan. What if the Spaniards decided to chat with the bishop at the airfield? What if they wanted to stay close to the clergyman when they reached Maun? What if Seronga or Pavant did something that a deacon would never do? What if that made the bishop suspicious? What if the Spaniards noticed the bishop’s uneasiness?

Seronga could not consider every possibility. Yet he knew that he had to be prepared for all of them. That was the definition of a professional. All he knew for certain was that he and Pavant had to leave Maun with the bishop. One way or another, they would.

Still, waiting to start was like running a car in neutral. Seronga was eager to get going.

Seronga was squinting out at the dusty black tarmac. Pavant was beside him, facing the control tower. After a few minutes, the lights of the airplane finally appeared in the cloudless sky. Seronga watched as the aircraft touched down. The jet’s big wheels kicked up dust. The twin tawny clouds trailed the aircraft, and the wind carried them toward the spectators. The mother of the children pulled her youngest one to her, protecting his eyes.

As the jet taxied, Pavant nudged Seronga in the side.

“Look,” Pavant said.

Seronga glanced behind them. The two Spanish soldiers had been inside the terminal since getting off the shuttle. Now they were walking toward the observation area.

“What do you think they’re doing?” Pavant asked.

“Reconnaissance,” Seronga replied. “They probably checked the faces in the crowd. Now they’ll probably make sure they can get over the fence quickly. The bishop could be vulnerable before he reaches the terminal.” Seronga pointed to the far side of the airfield. “Maybe they’re afraid someone in those small planes will come after him.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Pavant admitted.

“I didn’t, either, until now,” Seronga said. He grinned. “It’s different when you know how things are going to happen.”

“They’re going to stay close to us, aren’t they?” Pavant asked.

“That’s very likely,” Seronga agreed. “Don’t worry about it, Donald. We’ll get through this.”

Seronga turned back to the airfield. So did Pavant.

The men watched as the jet taxied and the two screaming engines were shut down. Before the dust had settled, the ground crew was already rolling over the silver white stairway. A fuel truck growled and pulled away from the control tower. There was a fire truck parked beside it with a small Red Cross emblem on the door. The firefighter was also probably a medic. That was the extent of the rescue services in Maun.

The door to the main cabin was opened. A moment later, the door to the luggage bay came down. A tractor rolled over, tugging four stainless-steel carts. Working swiftly, two men hoisted the bags onto the luggage transport. To the right, someone boarded the Cessna. He had obviously been waiting for the jet to come in. Either he was waiting for a passenger or waiting for clearance. Meanwhile, the passengers began filing out. They moved slowly down the wind-buffeted stairway with their carry-on bags. They were a diverse mix of families, businesspeople, and tourists of all ages and nationalities.

The bishop was one of the last people off the plane. At least, Seronga assumed it was the bishop. He was the only passenger wearing a simple black shirt and slacks with a white collar. His vestments and other belongings would have to come through customs.

The man in black waved to Seronga. Seronga waved back.

“Come on,” Seronga said to Pavant.

Pavant grabbed Seronga’s arm. “Wait,” he said. “I just thought of something.”

“What?” Seronga asked impatiently.

“What are we supposed to do when we greet the bishop?” Pavant asked. “Do we have to kiss his ring?”

“I don’t know,” Seronga admitted.

“We’d better do it,” Pavant suggested. “Something like that could expose us to the bishop or the Spaniards.”

“No,” Seronga said. “Let’s not worry about protocol. If we miss any formalities, we can apologize later. We’ll explain that we wanted to get him inside the shuttle, where he will be relatively safe.”

The two men left the observation area and went to the other side of the control tower. The Spaniards passed them going the other way. The soldiers did not make eye contact. Seronga stole a glance back. The Spaniards looked at the fence. Then they turned toward the tower and took pictures with a digital camera. That made sense. The soldiers were doing more than checking the crowd and planning a possible rescue. They were trying to get images of the people waiting for the airplane. If anything happened, they would be able to upload the images to Spain and have them checked against file photographs.

Seronga turned unhurriedly. He took another swallow of water. He wondered if he was in any of those security files. Probably not, he decided. He had never done anything to merit international attention. He also wondered how the deacons wore this damn outfit in the field. Maybe they were like the flagellants he had once heard about, the ancient Catholics who scourged themselves as a form of penance.

As if being a man or woman of principle was not punishment enough, Seronga thought. Whether one was Catholic or Vodun, a patriot or a rebel, a hunter or a conservationist, to do what you believed was right, against all reason, was a terrible burden. Seronga wondered, in passing, if the bishop was a man like that. Would he go passively like Father Bradbury, or would he struggle? There was another what if, another imponderable.

Seronga and Pavant reached the front of the control tower. The two men entered the packed terminal. They headed toward the airstrip doorway. As they made their way through the crowd, Seronga turned sideways to sidle through two large groups. In fact, he wanted to see if the Spaniards had entered the terminal. They had. They were only a few steps behind him. Seronga wondered, suddenly, if the bishop knew the soldiers were here. Not that it mattered. Whatever it took, Seronga was determined to accomplish his mission.

The bishop was just making his way inside. He smiled and waved again when he saw Seronga. As the clergyman crossed the threshold, the security officer suddenly turned toward him. The guard’s pistol was drawn. He put it against the back of the clergyman’s neck.

An instant later, he fired.

THIRTY-FOUR

Maun, Botswana Friday, 3:07 P.M.

Seronga watched helplessly as Bishop Max died.

The clergyman’s head jerked back, even as his body was propelled forward. The first thing that died were his eyes. Seronga could see the light go out of them. A moment later, the bishop fell facedown on the tile floor. Blood ran with ugly speed from a hole at the base of his skull. The guard’s pistol had been so close that its flash had blackened the flesh around the wound.

In an instant, the terminal became a madhouse.

People have the same reaction when anything dramatically unexpected occurs. There is a moment of paralysis after the fact. If the danger passes, such as a car accident or an explosion, people tend to resuscitate slowly. The mind tells them there is no longer a risk. It gives them a long moment to process the situation, to adjust to the disorientation. If the danger persists, such as a fire, flood, or storm, the mind steps aside. It recognizes the danger and allows instinct to override the shock. People are free to seek a safe haven. The only ones who routinely suppress both instincts are professional bodyguards, such as members of the Secret Service. At the first sign of trouble, they are trained to launch themselves between the problem and the desired effect.

Gunfire is not like a bomb blast or car crash. It usually comes in a stream. When the airport guard fired his pistol, self-preservation took control of most of the people in the terminal. They cried, they shouted, and they ran. There were three exceptions.

One exception was the guard himself. After firing the single shot into Bishop Max, the big man turned and ran onto the airstrip. That told Seronga two things. It told him that the guard was an inexperienced assassin. It would have taken only a moment to put two or three more bullets into the body. People had been known to survive a single head wound. Additional shots would have made sure that the bishop was dead. The single shot also told him that it did not matter if the clergyman actually died, only that he was violently assaulted. Otherwise, a professional would have been engaged to do the job.

The small plane that had been preparing for takeoff was taxiing toward the terminal. The guard was running to meet it. The door on the passenger’s side was open.

The second person who did not need time to recover was Leon Seronga. He had been lucky. The gunman became the focus of his attention. That kept Seronga from going into a traumatic pause. Within an instant of the bishop having struck the floor, Seronga was running after the guard.

Seronga did not know exactly why he ran. He himself could be shot and killed. He knew that his cover as a deacon would almost certainly be undermined. But he had to try to catch the gunman. Not simply for justice. It was more personal. Someone had prevented the Brush Viper from completing the mission he had been sent to do. Seronga had to know why. He also had to try to find out who wanted the American bishop dead.

Seronga pushed the panicked passengers aside as he rushed past. He reached the tarmac as the guard made his way to the oncoming Cessna. There was a man in the wildlife observation tower. He did not have a clear shot at the plane or the guard. The larger aircraft was in the way. Seronga noted the identification number on the rear end of the fuselage. Not that he really thought it would help him. The plane would fly low to avoid radar. It would land in a field, and someone would probably hide it. Repaint it. Seronga would never see a plane with this number again.

The guard glanced over his shoulder. He could not have heard Seronga’s footsteps over the howl of the airplane engine. It was probably just a precautionary glance. The guard did not stop when he saw the oncoming Brush Viper. He simply pointed his pistol over his left shoulder and fired several quick, wild shots behind him.

Seronga dropped to the tarmac. He lifted his body slightly and thrust his hand down the front of his loose-fitting shirt. Reluctantly, he drew his weapon. Seronga could not afford to die here. The authorities would find out who he really was. They might tie the Brush Vipers to Dhamballa. That would hurt the Vodun cause. If the Spaniards asked, Seronga would tell them that he carried the weapon to protect himself from wild animals. Perhaps they would believe him. Not that it mattered. He would not be going back to the church.

The guard turned back toward the plane. Seronga got up. As he rose, he heard a muted pop-pop from the cabin of the Cessna. The guard slowed, and then his right leg folded. A moment later, he dropped to his knees. The back of his white shirt began to show a red stain.

No! Seronga screamed inside.

Of course a nonprofessional was hired to kill the bishop. Whoever was behind this never intended for him to leave.

Seronga began to run to the plane. An instant later, there was another pop. The guard twisted to the right and fell to his side. There was a red blotch in the center of his forehead. The pilot was a professional. He had not been satisfied with a single bullet.

Puffs of dirty white gunsmoke drifted from inside the cabin of the Cessna. They were quickly dispersed by the propeller. The pilot tossed his revolver onto the empty passenger’s seat and leaned toward the door. He pulled it shut. Seronga did not get a good look at the man. Earlier, he had only seen the man from behind, which was obviously what the pilot had intended.

The airplane swung toward the airstrip. The Cessna was picking up speed. Once it had lifted off, he did not want to fire. It was a tough shot. But if he happened to disable the pilot or the plane, the Cessna could easily tumble toward the tower.

Seronga reached the body of the guard. He dropped beside it and felt for a pulse. He was not surprised to find none. The man had been shot in the heart and the head. The dead man’s eyes were open. Seronga passed his hand over the guard’s face to close them.

Pavant ran up behind Seronga. He helped his fellow Brush Viper up.

“Are you all right?” Pavant asked.

Seronga nodded. He quickly put his gun back in its holster.

“We’ve got to get away from here,” Pavant told him. “There will be questions we cannot answer.”

“I know,” Seronga replied. His left hand was covered with blood from the guard’s face. He tore open his shirt and wiped the blood on his arm.

“What are you doing?” Pavant asked.

“We’ll tell people I was hurt and that you have to get me to the doctor in Maun,” Seronga said.

“That’s a good idea,” Pavant said.

Pavant put his arm around the “wounded man” for support. They turned and started hobbling toward the terminal. Sergeant Vicente Diamante and Captain Antonio Abreo were running toward them. Both of the soldiers were holding their M-82s. The weapons were clutched close to their chests, concealed from the people in the terminal.

“What happened?” Diamante asked as they neared.

“The guard shot at me,” Seronga said. “He grazed my arm.” Diamante stopped in front of Seronga and Pavant. Captain Abrero continued on toward the body of the guard.

“Let me see the wound,” Diamante insisted. He reached for Seronga’s bare and bloodied arm.

The Brush Viper twisted his body slightly. “It is not serious,” Seronga assured him.

“It is badly grazed, that is all,” Pavant added. “We will take a taxi to the hospital. I will bandage it on the way.”

“Are you certain?” Diamante asked. His eyes shifted toward his partner as the captain reached the body.

“Yes,” Seronga replied. “Sergeant, tell me. How is the bishop?”

Despite the fact that he wanted to get away, Seronga felt that was a question the deacon would have asked.

“The wound was mortal,” the sergeant replied. “I’m sorry. We tried to position ourselves as close as possible—”

“I saw what you were trying to do,” Seronga interrupted. “There was nothing you could have done to prevent this.”

“Let’s go, Seronga,” Pavant said.

They began walking back toward the terminal. Diamante walked backward, alongside them.

“One more thing, Deacon,” Diamante said. “Did you happen to get a look at the pilot or notice the serial number of the aircraft?”

“I’m sorry, I did not,” Seronga replied. “After the guard fired at me, I covered my head. Forgive me.”

“That’s entirely understandable,” Diamante said.

The sergeant headed off to join his partner. The men continued toward the terminal. Suddenly, Diamante stopped and turned.

“Señor deacon!” the sergeant yelled.

“Yes?” Seronga said.

“The tour director told me your name was Tobias,” Diamante shouted after him.

“It is,” Seronga said. What had they done wrong? Something inside his belly began to burn.

“The deacon just called you ‘Seronga,’ ” the Spaniard said.

Seronga felt Pavant’s fingers dig into his side. Neither man had caught the slipup.

“You are mistaken,” the Brush Viper replied. “He said ‘lion.’ That is my nickname.”

“I see,” Diamante said. “I’m sorry. Esté bien, be well,” he added. “I will see you later at the church.”

Seronga and Pavant continued toward the terminal. He was glad Diamante had been distracted enough to believe that and not to notice that part of his shoulder holster was visible through his torn shirt. He pulled the ripped fabric higher to cover it up.

“I’m very sorry for what happened out there,” Pavant muttered as they reached the door. “That was very careless of me.”

“Now we’ve all apologized for something,” Seronga said. “Let’s just get out of here.”

The body of the dead bishop had been covered with a large shawl. The thick weave was soaking up the dead man’s blood. It was the white and black zigzag pattern of the Kava tribe of northeastern Botswana. The tribe members were mostly Vodun.

No one in the terminal was the same person they had been just a few minutes before. They would never be the same. They would be unable to forget the moment, the shock, the sights, smells, noises.

People were either subdued or animated. Strangers had become instantly bonded by the tragedy. Some were frightened, others relieved. A few people were talking. Others were standing around, quiet and unmoving. Some were tearfully hugging new arrivals. Still others were trying to get a look at the body. The short, lanky ticket agent was doing his best to keep people away. The statuesque woman from the refreshment stand was helping. A Spanish soldier asked if he could help Seronga, but the Brush Viper insisted he was all right. He had only been grazed. Seronga and Pavant were able to slip through the terminal without being stopped.

But they were noticed.

THIRTY-FIVE

Maun, Botswana Friday, 3:18 P.M.

A third person had moved when the guard fired at the bishop.

It was Maria Corneja.

The woman had left Paris Lebbard sitting at the curb in his taxi while she went into the terminal. She saw the shooting. It was done in close quarters with eyewitnesses who could have ID’ed the killer. An amateur. She saw the deacon run onto the airfield, pursued by two swarthy men. All three men moved like soldiers. She did not need a cast list to know who everyone was.

Maria followed the Spaniards toward the tarmac. The plane was airborne before she could reach the field. Instead of continuing outside, she doubled back to the cab. She grabbed her camera and snapped several digital pictures of the airplane in flight.

Lebbard had jumped from the cab when he heard the shots. He ran toward Maria.

“What happened?” he asked.

“A passenger was shot,” she said. “Go back to your taxi. You’ll be safer there.”

“What about you?” he asked.

“I’ll be there in a minute,” she told him. “Just go!”

Paris did as she commanded. Meanwhile, Maria waited. She listened to random pieces of conversation. The assassin was the airport security guard. Maria was not surprised to hear that he had been gunned down. If he had not been shot on the tarmac, she had half expected to see his body fall from the airplane. He was not only expendable, he was a liability. When the local authorities checked, Maria was sure they would find a bank box stuffed with cash. It would probably be American currency. A down payment for murder. The woman did not know local law, but she was willing to bet the money would be confiscated by investigators. And, in time, the cash would find its way into other bank boxes.

Maria stood beside the front door. She watched as the deacons emerged from the terminal. She noticed two things at once. First, the man with blood on his arm was only pretending to be wounded. Maria had seen people who had been shot. A gunshot wound was body wide. It could be seen in the victim’s posture, in his expression. It was reflected in the concern of others. This man’s pain stopped short of his eyes. And his companion was not doing much to support him. He seemed more anxious to get out of the terminal than anything else. Second, the way the man was leaning, there appeared to be a bulge under his left arm. That was where a holster would be for a right-handed man.

Maria walked alongside them as they headed toward the curb. She coughed to get the man’s attention. He glanced over. It was the same face from the photographs she had seen.

It was Leon Seronga.

Maria headed back to the cab. She watched as Seronga and his partner got into a taxi. Then she got into her own cab.

“Paris, do you see the white car at the front of the line?” she asked.

“Yes, that is Emanuel’s car,” he said.

“I want you to follow it,” she said.

“Follow it?” he asked.

“Yes,” Maria said. “Keep a car or two between you, if possible.”

“We may not encounter any other cars on the road,” Paris pointed out.

“Then keep a two-car distance,” she said. “I don’t want it to seem as if you are following it.”

“I see,” he said. “What about the person you came here to meet?”

“He’s in that cab,” she said.

“You mean the bleeding man?” Paris asked.

“Yes.”

“And you don’t want him to know you are here?” Paris asked.

“That’s right. And I don’t think he was really hurt,” Maria added.

“I am puzzled,” Paris said. “You came to meet someone who you don’t want to meet. And now you think he isn’t hurt even though he is bleeding.”

“Please just drive, Paris,” Maria said. “It will be easier on both of us.”

“Of course,” Paris said. “I will do whatever you ask.” He sat tall. He gripped the steering wheel tightly. He was trying to regain some of the professional dignity his questions and confusion had cost him.

Seronga’s car pulled onto the road. A moment later, so did the taxicab of Paris Lebbard.

“You know, I can always call and ask where they are going,” Lebbard said helpfully. He held up his cell phone.

“If you do that, and Emanuel answers, it may be the last thing he says,” Maria informed him.

“I see,” the Botswanan said. He fell silent and slouched slightly. His dignity had vanished again.

As for Maria, she felt vindicated. And fired up. She wished that she were driving the car herself. Or better yet, she wished she was on her motorcycle. Or on horseback. Doing something where she was able to move. Burn off some of her energy.

For the moment, though, Maria would have to contain herself and do something that would give her deep satisfaction of a different sort.

She had to call Op-Center with an update.

THIRTY-SIX

Washington, D.C. Friday, 8:40 A.M.

Since the Striker debacle in Kashmir, Mike Rodgers had not spoken very often with Colonel Brett August. When the two men did chat, it was over the telephone or on-line. It was never in person. They simply did not want to look into each other’s eyes. They never said that was the reason. They did not have to. They knew each other too long and too well.

And they never mentioned the death of nearly everyone in the unit. The risk of death came with the uniform. The ultimate responsibility for those deaths came with the stripes. There was no official blame. Officially, there was no mission. There was just guilt. Though the two men had to look ahead, the loss still hurt. It hurt them every moment they were not busy. They both knew it would hurt until they could no longer feel a damn thing.

Ironically, by avoiding the subject, each man had to think about it more. He had to consider what to say, what not to say. That served to reinforce the loss and sense of failure both August and Rodgers were feeling. They each took the hit because they did not want to inflict it on the other.

Colonel August had accepted a temporary transfer to the Pentagon. He was stationed in Basement Level Two for SATKA. That was the multiservice department of Surveillance, Acquisition, Tracking, and Kill Assessment. August worked as a liaison between the Pentagon and his former coworkers at NATO. He studied data that came from potential combat regions and helped to determine the force necessary to contain the struggle or crush it. The desirability of such a response was left to his superiors. It was not an assignment August would have selected for himself. But he had run an unauthorized covert operation in Kashmir. Even though he prevented a nuclear war between India and Pakistan, someone had to take the fall for exceeding mission parameters. The Pentagon picked him. It could just as easily have been Rodgers.

August knew he could have turned this assignment down. He could have requested a transfer back to NATO. But implicit in the Pentagon position was a promise. If Colonel August stayed off the radar for at least half a year, there would not be a military or congressional investigation into his actions in Kashmir. Members of all the elite forces took exceptional risks in their work. They were not only the first ones into enemy territory. Sometimes they were the only ones into a region like Iran or Cuba. Groups like Striker conducted recon, sabotage, search and rescue, and ran surgical strikes. The military could not afford to undermine their morale. Away from the attention of the media, the so-called “centurion line” looked after their own.

Being hidden in an underground data processing center was absolutely not August’s favorite place to be. That was why he had called Mike Rodgers. Not to complain but to stay connected. To talk to someone in a place where things were not simply discussed. They happened. August knew that his lifelong friend would understand.

The men chatted about their work and about people they both knew. August told him that he had bumped into Colonel Anna Vasseri, who worked on the president’s Intelligence Oversight Board. Years before, in Vietnam, August had gotten himself an unofficial reprimand for writing new lyrics to the old standard, “The Anniversary Waltz.” He called his version “The Anna Vasseri Waltz.” Then–Private Vasseri wrote for Stars and Stripes at the time. The lyrics speculated about what happened during a night she had spent just outside Saigon with another private who worked on the newspaper. A storm and flash flood had stranded them on top of a small hill. When they were rescued the next morning, all they had with them were the blankets and bottle of Jack Daniel’s they had taken out with them.

“Has she forgiven you?” Rodgers asked.

“No,” August replied. “Which doesn’t surprise me. From the look of her, that was probably the last time her uniform was off. What the hell was the name of that cat mummy we saw in the British Museum?”

“Bast,” Rodgers replied. He did not know where the hell in his memory the name was stored, but there it was.

“Right,” August said. “Bast. Well, this woman is wrapped as tight as that cat mummy.”

Rodgers whistled when he heard that. It was good to look back at happier times. And at mistakes that did not cost so damn much.

Rodgers also talked a little about the team he was putting together. He did not tell August he had already put three members in the field. August would not have approved of that. Experienced lone wolves could be more dangerous to each other than inexperienced team players. But circumstances did not always give a leader the luxury of choice. With the help of the operatives themselves, Rodgers and Paul Hood had made that choice.

The conversation was interrupted by a call from the outside. Rodgers told August he would be in touch later in the week. Maybe they would get together for dinner. It was long overdue.

Rodgers punched the button to switch phone lines. “General Rodgers,” he said.

“General, it’s Maria,” the woman said. She did not use her last name because she was calling on a nonsecure phone line. “The American bishop was just assassinated.”

“How did it happen?” Rodgers asked.

The general fought his first, involuntary reaction. The one that went back to stories his grandfather used to tell about jinxed platoons during World War I. Units where the new lieutenant or the guy about to be mustered out or the sergeant who just had a kid always died. Rodgers refused to believe that Op-Center was cursed.

“It was right after the plane landed,” she said. “The airport guard shot the bishop in the back of the head as he entered the terminal. A Cessna taxied over, and the killer ran toward it. Then the pilot opened the door and shot him. The guard died on the tarmac, and the plane took off. I managed to take a few digital photos of the tail markings.”

“Can you download them?” Rodgers asked.

“As soon as I can get to a computer,” Maria told him. “I’m in a taxi right now.”

“Was anyone else hurt?” Rodgers asked.

“No,” she said. “Most of the people in the terminal ducked behind chairs and counters. That’s how I was able to see what happened next.”

“Which was?” Rodgers asked.

“There were two deacons waiting for the bishop. They ran onto the field to try to stop the killer. One of the deacons had a gun.”

“Was he one of the Spanish representatives?” Rodgers asked.

“No,” she replied. “Both deacons were black men.”

Rodgers had seen the file on the Grupo del Cuartel General, Unidad Especial del Despliegue. None of the soldiers was black.

“I’m almost certain one of them was the man whose photograph was in the file,” Maria added.

Apart from Dhamballa, the only black man pictured in the file was Leon Seronga. “Did you get a picture of him?” Rodgers asked.

“Yes, but it’s not a very good one,” she replied. “He was facing away from me most of the time.”

“What happened to the deacons?” Rodgers asked.

“The gunman fired at one of them,” Maria went on. “The deacon was not hit, but he pretended to be.”

“Are you sure?” Rodgers asked.

“Very,” Maria said. “The two men said they were going to the hospital and left in a taxi. I am following them now.”

“What did the Spanish do?” Rodgers asked.

“They stayed at the field,” she said. “I think they believed that the two men were deacons.”

“Were there any police officers at the airport?” Rodgers asked.

“Not that I saw,” she replied.

Rodgers brought up his computer file on the Maun airfield. He looked at the map of the surrounding area. The nearest police station was back in the city itself. That meant it would be at least a half hour before authorities could get to the airfield. Anyone who had been involved in this by accident or design would have plenty of time to get away. And several routes to do it.

“What road are you on?” Rodgers asked.

Rodgers heard Maria ask the driver. “He says we’re on the Nata Road,” she told him.

“The police will be coming along the Central Highway,” he said. “Our deacons obviously know that.”

“I’m sure they do,” she said. “On the other hand, they may not be headed toward Maun.”

“True,” Rodgers said. He should have thought of that. He glanced at the computer clock. “Your associates from Washington should be reaching Maun in about three hours. Can you keep the taxicab?”

“I’ve hired a driver for the day,” she said. “He’s a good man.”

“All right,” Rodgers said. “I’ll make sure the others hook up with you along the way. Try to check in every half hour. And Maria?”

“Yes?”

“Be careful,” Rodgers said. “And thank you.”

Maria thanked Rodgers for giving her this opportunity. Then she hung up. The general did not bother to replace the receiver. He hit Paul Hood’s extension. He felt as if Maria had lit the afterburners. He collected his thoughts as Bugs Benet put the call through.

An American clergyman had been killed. Edgar Kline and the president would have to be informed. So would Aideen Marley and David Battat. Then Op-Center would have to do two things more. They would have to find out who wanted this situation to spin out of control.

And then prevent that from happening.

THIRTY-SEVEN

Maun, Botswana Friday, 3:44 P.M.

Upon getting into the taxi, Leon Seronga told the driver to head out along the Nata Road. Seronga told him they would be taking the highway toward the town of Orapa. The driver pulled away from the curb. As he drove, he used his cell phone to call his dispatcher in Maun.

Seronga was oblivious to the driver’s conversation. The air-conditioning grumbled loudly beneath the dashboard. The muffler hacked under the car. Seronga heard none of that either. His senses had shut down to everything but lingering shock over the assassination. It held him like nothing he had ever experienced. He had seen men killed before, but he had never been caught by surprise like this. And he had never been faced with a greater crisis.

Someone obviously wanted to frame Dhamballa, possibly draw him out to defend himself, Seronga thought. Until this moment, he had not realized how truly vulnerable Dhamballa was. Not necessarily to physical attack but to being undermined. His ministry could end before it had truly begun.

In time, support for the Vodun leader would have grown exponentially. That was when Dhamballa intended to take a very strong public stand on the question of outsiders influencing or controlling Botswanan religion, culture, and industry. But that would not happen for many months. At the moment, Dhamballa was not yet well enough known to become a martyr for the Botswana cause. If he were connected to the attacks against the Church and blamed for the death of the bishop, their cause would be irredeemably lost.

Protecting Dhamballa over the next few hours and days was only part of the problem. There was also the matter of finding out who was actually responsible for the killing. In Seronga’s mind, anyone from government moles to the Spanish soldiers to the Vatican itself would have had cause to kill the bishop. But whoever was behind it, the result would be the same. National opinion would come down heavily on the side of aggressive action. To show that they were still in control of the nation, the government would be forced to redouble their efforts to find Father Bradbury and crush the Vodunists. The Brush Vipers would have to try to prevent that. They would have to stop the government, find the real perpetrators, and protect Dhamballa.

There was also a separate issue: what to do about Father Bradbury. Releasing the priest would invite prosecution as well as the inevitable return of the missionaries. Their work would be undone and resistance to it strengthened. The priest might just have to disappear the way the two deacon missionaries had.

Dhamballa had always wanted his ministry to be a contest of native esteem and ideas. Not bloodshed. Seronga had hoped that would be possible. His heart told him that peace and tribal allegiances were incompatible, whether they were local tribes or international ones. Still, he had hoped that Dhamballa could unite people in a Vodun Botswana. The nation would be joined out of pride, not economic necessity or the fear of military reprisals.

The old taxi pulled onto the empty, sun-baked highway. As he sped up, the driver regarded the men in the rearview mirror. “May I ask you something, Eminences?” the driver asked.

When Seronga did not answer, Pavant gently nudged him in the side. Seronga looked at his surly companion. Pavant motioned forward with his eyes. Seronga noticed the driver’s questioning gaze in the rearview mirror. The man must have asked him something.

“I’m sorry, I did not hear you,” Seronga said. “Would you mind saying it again?”

“I said that I would like to ask you something, Eminence!” the driver said loudly.

“Of course,” Seronga replied.

“Do you need medical care?” the driver asked.

“Excuse me?”

“A doctor,” the driver said. “I only ask because I noticed that there is blood on your sleeve.”

“Oh,” Seronga said. “Thank you, no.”

“If you are hurt, I have a first aid kit in the trunk,” the driver went on.

“This isn’t my blood,” Seronga told him. “A passenger was shot by a guard. I tried to help him.”

“A passenger?” the driver said. “Was it serious?”

“He died,” Seronga said.

“Ah,” the driver said. “I wondered why people ran out. As you can imagine, I could not hear very much inside this car.”

“I do not have to imagine,” Seronga replied.

“Did you know the victim?” the driver asked.

“I did not,” Seronga answered truthfully.

“What a sad world we live in,” the driver said. He shook his head and concentrated on his driving.

“How would you make it better?” Seronga asked.

“I do not know,” the driver admitted. “Maybe everyone should have children. Then we would want to stop shooting each other. Or maybe we should spend time making children. That would keep us too busy to shoot.” He glanced in the mirror. “I am sorry, Eminence. That is something you are not permitted to do. But you are not the one who needs to learn peace.”

If he only knew, Seronga thought. The driver returned to driving, and Seronga went back to thinking.

He had been talking to Dhamballa a great deal over the past few weeks, learning about the Vodun faith. It just now struck the Brush Viper that they had experienced the Vodun ideal of veve. A perfect, symmetrical pattern. Death in, death out. The blood of two deacons had allowed Seronga and Pavant to get into the situation. And the blood of the American bishop had given the Brush Vipers an excuse to get away from the airport.

To get away and do what? Seronga asked himself.

That was the real question. The attempt to kidnap the American clergyman had been a disaster. Neither Seronga nor Dhamballa nor any of their advisers had anticipated this outcome. A kidnapper did not expect an assassin to hit the same target at the same time.

Seronga had never failed before. He did not like the way it felt. It was distinctive by the stillness it radiated. An individual who failed suffered a system-wide internal crash. The skin felt dead. Failure slowed the heartbeat and respiration. The mouth stayed shut, the jaw powerless. The brain sat motionless, unable to get past the event. Nothing moved, nor did it want to.

But the brain has to move, Seronga told himself. There was too much to do. And there would not be time to procrastinate.

Seronga turned back to the side window. He stared out at the flat, sun-washed fields of grass toward the distant mountains. They seemed so far away. Everything did. A half hour before, Seronga had been poised to turn up the pressure on the Church. Now the scenario had changed. Seronga wanted to talk to Dhamballa, but he could not call. They were out of range. Not that it was crucial. Louis Foote monitored radio broadcasts from Gaborone at the Okavanga camp. He would hear about this soon enough and inform Dhamballa. Hopefully, the Belgians would help put together a plan of action. Still, he would have liked to inform Dhamballa himself.

Seronga wondered briefly if he should call Njo to alert him, at least, that they would be arriving alone. He decided against it. It had always been the plan for Njo to get them out of Maun as fast as possible. The only difference now was that they would not have a captive. And they would not be running from anyone. At least, not anyone they knew about.

Now that Seronga had opened his mind, thoughts flew at him. He wondered about the plane that had taken off. Where was it going? Who owned it? He thought about going back to the tourist center and talking to the Spaniards. Perhaps they had gathered additional information. But that would be too risky. The bodies of the two deacons could have been found and identified. Or they might check with the hospital in Maun and find out that he had never gone there.

No, he decided. It is best to get to Dhamballa.

Beside Seronga, Pavant was simply angry. He was breathing heavily through his nose, his hands fisted in his lap. He obviously had things to say but did not want to discuss the incident in front of the driver.

After they passed the exit for the Maun police barracks, Seronga told his driver to cut over to the Central Highway.

“Are you sure you want to do that, Eminence?” the driver asked. He was an elderly man with white hair and sun-cracked skin.

“I am,” Seronga replied tersely.

“That will not take us to Orapa,” the driver said. “It will take us to Maun, Tsau, and Shakawe.”

“I know,” Seronga replied. “I changed my mind. I’ve decided I would like to go to the church in Maun.”

“Ah, I see,” the driver said apologetically. “I will take you there. But then I must charge you for two zones, Eminence.”

“We will pay for the longer trip,” Seronga assured him. “Just take us there, please.”

“Of course,” the driver replied. He called his dispatcher to let him know the change of destinations.

After the taxi had gone a few miles, Seronga noticed the driver glancing repeatedly into his rearview mirror. A minute later, the driver picked up his cell phone. Seronga leaned forward slightly and listened. The driver called a number and spoke in colloquial Setswana. It was a language that native Botswanans used to speak with longtime friends. Otherwise, they spoke English. That was how the driver had spoken to Seronga.

“What are you doing, Paris?” the driver asked.

Seronga could not hear the other man’s response.

“I know you are working,” the driver said. “But why are you taking this route?”

The Brush Viper turned casually and glanced back. There was another taxi behind them. It was one of three other cars on the deserted road.

“Oh,” the driver said in response. Then he chuckled. “I thought you were following me.”

Seronga did not like the sound of that.

The driver and his friend chatted for a few moments more. When the driver hung up, Seronga leaned closer to the front.

“May I ask why you called the other taxi?” Seronga said.

“Paris Lebbard turned off the Okavanga road at the same time we did,” the driver told him. “It is unusual for two people to take this route to Maun. I asked Paris why.”

“What did he tell you?” Seronga asked.

“He said that he was engaged to show someone around for the day,” the driver replied. “He thought this would be a scenic route. It isn’t, though. Maybe he is just trying to add extra miles.”

“Did Mr. Lebbard say who his passenger is?” Seronga asked.

“A Spanish woman,” the driver told him.

Seronga did not like that, either. “Did he say anything else?” the Brush Viper asked.

“Nothing else, Eminence,” the driver said. His voice was beginning to show some concern. As if he had done something wrong. “Do you wish me to call him back and find out more?”

“No,” said Seronga. He did not want to risk giving her any information. “Just drive on. Don’t worry about it.”

“Yes, Eminence.”

Seronga sat back. The blood on his sleeve was beginning to dry. It occurred to him that he had rarely felt caked blood. When men died in the field, either they were quickly taken away or left behind. If they were left behind, they were invariably eaten by carnivores. It was strange, the things an old soldier had not experienced after all these years.

He returned to the problem at hand. A Spanish woman, he thought. It could mean nothing. She might be a tourist. Or she could be part of the military group that had gone to the tourist center. Perhaps Seronga and Pavant did not get away as clean as they had imagined.

Pavant obviously had the same thought as Seronga. The younger man leaned toward him. The driver would not be able to hear them over the clank of the air-conditioning and rattling muffler.

“We should stop and let the other driver pass,” Pavant whispered.

“No,” Seronga said.

“What if they are following us?” Pavant demanded.

“We can watch them better if they don’t suspect what we’re doing,” Seronga told him.

“We can watch them better if they are in front of us,” Pavant said.

“We will do it this way,” Seronga insisted. “If they are following us, they will stop in Maun. We will take care of them there.”

Seronga slumped down. The back of his black shirt was thick with perspiration. It clung to the air-chilled vinyl seat. Seronga felt the coolness. It moved along his arms and up the back of his neck. He began to come back to life. But he was revived by more than that. Seronga was encouraged at having a possible target, a potential link to whoever was behind this.

If so, there was another job still to be done.

And this time, he would not fail.

THIRTY-EIGHT

Washington, D.C. Friday, 9:00 A.M.

The call from Mike Rodgers was a shocker.

Before Rodgers phoned with news of the assassination, Bob Herbert, a very tired Liz Gordon, and political adviser Ron Plummer had spent nearly an hour in Paul Hood’s office. They had been discussing the imminent arrival of the American bishop in Maun. Darrell McCaskey was supposed to attend, but he was busy talking to his Interpol connections in southern Africa. He said he would come by as soon as he was finished.

The Op-Center brain trust agreed that there would be an attack. Hood felt that the Brush Vipers would not strike for at least two or three days. They would wait for the bishop to settle in, to establish a routine. A clean, successful abduction required that a kidnapper tap into his intended victim’s pattern. It also allowed them to study any defenses.

“That makes sense, but not everyone is as cautious or careful as you are, Paul,” Plummer said.

Hood had to admit he had a point.

Herbert and Plummer thought the Brush Vipers would strike again immediately. He felt that they had to show they could come and go unhindered in their own country. They also could not allow the clergyman to reestablish a presence in Maun. If that happened, his arrival would be viewed as a successful, even defiant return of the Catholic Church to Botswana.

Liz had a different view altogether. She did not look at the situation from a political perspective. To her, it was a question of creating what she called a “higher drama zone.” The Brush Vipers needed that.

“They can’t use the same scenario twice,” Liz insisted. “Psychologically, to simply abduct another clergyman from the tourist center is equivalent to standing still. That would be viewed as yesterday’s soup warmed over.”

“A one-note repertoire,” Plummer said.

“Right,” Liz agreed.

“Maybe they’ll just kill him,” Herbert said.

“I don’t think so,” Liz said.

“That goes back to what you were saying before about white magic?” Hood asked.

Liz nodded.

“What does the method matter, if they move closer to ousting the Church?” Herbert asked.

“It matters to their own sense of self,” Liz said.

“Yeah, assuming these guys will think it through the way you have,” Herbert said.

“This isn’t something you necessarily think about,” Liz said. “It’s something you just do. Dhamballa and his people have shown good psychological instincts so far. Don’t forget, their faith includes aspects of mind control that have been refined over ten thousand years. If they are true Vodunists, they know a great deal about human nature.”

“If you’re right,” Hood said, “the Brush Vipers will have to hit the bishop before he reaches the church.”

“Yes,” Liz said. “If they don’t strike quickly, if they have to follow him back to the church, then they will be forced to do something more dramatic than abduction.”

That last statement was still hanging in the air when the phone rang. It was Mike Rodgers. Hood put the call on speakerphone. Rodgers gave Hood the information about the assassination just as Maria had given it to him. He told the group about Maria’s immediate plans.

“Mike, this is your operation now,” Hood had replied. “You want to tell Darrell?”

“Yeah,” Rodgers had said. “Got another call to make first. Meanwhile, you’ve got to let Lowell Coffey know what’s going on. If there were security cameras, I don’t want Maria Corneja exposed to any legal fallout from leaving the scene or pursuing Leon Seronga.”

“Good point,” Hood said.

Hood told Rodgers that he would call Edgar Kline in New York.

The news about the assassination stunned everyone but Liz Gordon and Bob Herbert.

“Is that dramatic enough for you?” Herbert asked Liz.

She did not need to reply.

The others left the room so Hood could phone Kline. As Bugs Benet placed the call, Hood’s reaction was deep frustration. All four of them had been wrong about the next step.

Or had they?

Hood and Liz had agreed that the Brush Vipers were not likely to be involved in an assassination attempt. The way Maria described it, someone other than Seronga had shot the bishop. Perhaps it was someone who was not associated with the Vodunists. Hood found that even more troubling. Time and energy would be wasted pursuing the Brush Vipers when the real adversary was elsewhere. Perhaps the enemy was attached to Beaudin and Genet in some way.

But why would the Europeans have been supporting Dhamballa until now? Hood wondered. To ensure that he would take the blame for this killing? How did Beaudin benefit from that?

Hood hoped that Edgar Kline would have some insights. As Hood waited to be put through to Kline, he wondered if the Vatican security operative had expected an ambush. He also wondered if that would benefit Rome in some way. The situation in Botswana was religion on the outside but politics in the center. It was a struggle for control of the nation’s soul. In politics, death was a tool like any other. A martyr could help the Church get back into Botswana. Or perhaps the Vatican felt that if the Brush Vipers attacked an American, the United States would be drawn into the struggle on the side of the Vatican.

There were many possibilities. Unfortunately, there was not yet sufficient intelligence to support any of them.

Edgar Kline was in an office of the Permanent Observer of the Holy See to the United Nations in New York. Hood was not surprised to learn that he already knew what had happened at the airfield in Maun. Kline said that the leader of the Spanish group had informed him. He added that he was about to phone Bob Herbert when Hood called.

“I was extremely sorry to hear about the shooting,” Hood said.

“We were all caught off guard,” Kline replied. “No one expected the kidnappers to ratchet things up like this. Now we have to accept that they may have killed Father Bradbury as well.”

“Not necessarily,” Hood said. “No one here believed that the Brush Vipers would kill Bishop Max. I’m not convinced they’re behind this.”

“Who else could it be?” Kline asked.

“I don’t know,” Hood admitted. “Let’s talk about that.”

“Botswana has never been on anyone’s list of security risks,” Kline pointed out. “The government prides itself on the nation’s stability. Everyone who wants a job has one.”

“Obviously, Dhamballa and his followers feel there’s room for change,” Hood said.

“Economy masquerading as religion,” Kline said.

“What do you mean?”

“Botswana’s greatest asset is its diamonds,” Kline said. “They produce two hundred million dollars’ worth each year. No outside entity is going to stir things up for that. They’d go after drugs or weapons-grade uranium, something that could net them billions.”

“What makes you think Dhamballa and the Brush Vipers are after the diamond mines?” Hood asked.

“Someone is,” Kline remarked. “Otherwise, Dhamballa could have started this crusade in a nation with a much higher rate of indigenous religious affiliation. Mozambique, for example. Angola is half Christian, but even they have a smaller Roman Catholic population than Botswana. The fact is, no one wants to corner the cashew or banana markets.”

Kline had a point. But Hood could not help but think this was about more than diamonds. He was not the only one who thought so. The Japanese Ministry of Foreign Affairs thought so as well.

“Were the Spanish soldiers at the site?” Hood asked.

“They were there,” Kline said. “At a discreet distance.”

“Were the soldiers able to give you any insight into what happened?” Hood asked.

“Nothing,” Kline replied. “They did not see very much. They had positioned themselves well away from the tarmac. They didn’t want to seem like bodyguards. They weren’t supposed to be there.”

Which possibly cost the bishop his life, Hood thought. He wondered if the Spanish soldiers might somehow have been involved with the assassination. Or at least been aware of it.

“Where are the soldiers now?” Hood asked.

“The ones who were at the airport are still there,” Kline replied.

“Incognito?” Hood asked.

“No,” Kline said. “We wanted to be able to recover the body. Get a look at the bullet. See if it can give us any leads. The soldiers have identified themselves as special Vatican envoys and are talking with police. They are trying to get some background on the dead guard. Also, there is some confusion about the identity of the deacons who were waiting at the airport. Apparently, they were black men. The only black men who worked with Father Bradbury had already left Botswana and are in Cape Town now. What about your people?” Kline went on. “Were any of them there?”

“Yes,” Hood told him. “Maria Corneja.”

“Where was she?” Kline asked.

“Close enough to have made a tentative identification of one of those ‘deacons,’ ” Hood said. “She believes that the man she saw was the leader of the Brush Vipers.”

“Leon Seronga?”

“Yes,” Hood said.

“What else did she tell you?” Kline demanded. “Does she know where he went?”

“She’s following him in a cab,” Hood said. “I was hoping we could get some of your people to watch out for her. She’s alone over there.”

“I’ll get right on it,” Kline said. “Are you in touch with her?”

“Yes,” Hood said.

“What is her present location?” Kline asked.

“She’s headed back into Maun,” Hood said.

“In a taxi, you say?” Kline said.

“Right.”

“Maybe the soldiers can rent a helicopter at the airfield and track her,” Kline said. “Or the local police must have a small plane they can use.”

“I do not want you to do that,” Hood said.

“Why?”

“If the deacons are Brush Vipers, or operatives of any ability, they’ll notice a spotter,” Hood said.

“Does that matter?” Kline asked.

“It does if you want to recover Father Bradbury,” Hood said.

“Assuming he’s still alive,” Kline said.

“He’s alive,” Hood said confidently. “If the Brush Vipers were behind this killing, they knew they would need a hostage. If they weren’t, they have no reason to kill him.”

Kline was silent. Hood began to wonder if they had been disconnected.

“All right,” Kline said at last. “I’ll buy that.”

“If the Brush Vipers think they’re being tailed, my guess is they’ll try to get their hands on the plane or chopper and its pilot.” Hood accessed the topographical map on his computer. “If they manage to do that, we’ll have a tough time picking them up again. We can tap into South African radar, but it may not be able to find them if they fly low in the Okavango Basin.”

“That may be true, Paul, but how the Brush Vipers are tracked is out of my hands,” Kline told him. “Now they’ve killed a man. According to the leader of the Spanish team, both the local police and the national police will be moving against the assassins.”

Hood swore.

“Based on their conversations with the local authorities,” Kline went on, “the Botswana National Police have taken over the case from the police in Maun. Apparently, attacking a local individual remains a local matter. Once an international figure is involved, the state becomes involved.”

Hood noticed Mike Rodgers’s instant message about the church on his computer.

“Edgar, let me ask you something,” Hood said. “Is there a church in Maun proper?”

“There’s a multidenominational chapel,” Kline replied. “It started out as a Catholic church. We opened it to other faiths when we established the Church of the Holy Cross at the tourist center. It was a show of good faith.”

“Do you happen to know if the church has Internet access?” Hood asked.

“I can find out for you,” Kline said. “Why do you ask?”

“If the police are closing in, we may need to send our people data at a place where they won’t have to look over their shoulders,” Hood said. He did not want to tell Kline about Maria’s photographs. The Botswanans might want to confiscate the camera.

“Hold on,” Kline said.

“While you’re looking,” Hood went on, “what is the name of the dead security guard?”

“Festus Mogami,” Kline said.

“Are they sure that’s his real name?” Hood asked.

“Pretty certain,” Kline said. “He’s been at the airport for at least two years, according to one of the ticket agents.”

Hood instant-messaged that name over to Bob Herbert. It sounded, on the surface, like the kind of mob hits he used to see in Los Angeles. An outsider was hired to kill an important figure. Then he was shot by the backup gunmen or the people who were supposed to get him out.

“The church in Maun does have an E-mail address, so obviously they’re on-line,” Kline said.

Kline provided the E-mail address. He also gave Hood an up-to-date list of the pastors who held services at the chapel. Hood sent all the information to Herbert as well.

“Is there anything else you can tell me?” Hood asked.

“What are you looking for?” Kline asked.

“Details about the shooting, anything about what our people might be facing over there,” Hood told him. “Because we are in this now. Not just Op-Center but the United States. I don’t think the president will do anything except condemn the action, but you never know.”

“Paul, I don’t have any other information right now,” Kline told him. “I wish I did.”

“Can we talk to the leader of the Spanish team?” Hood asked.

“I’ll find out for you,” Kline replied. “Your agent in Maun is Spanish, isn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“Depending on what region of the country she’s from, that could work for her or against her,” Kline said. “The soldiers are serious loyalists.”

“Maria’s not a separatist, if that’s what you’re asking,” Hood said. “She was with Interpol for years.”

“That’s good,” Kline said. “I’ll call over there. They may want to talk to her directly. I’ll let you know as soon as possible.”

Hood believed that Kline would press the soldiers to cooperate. He would want all the help he could get.

“Before you go, Edgar, there is one more thing I would like to ask you,” Hood said. “Does the Church believe that what’s happening in Botswana is the will of God?”

“That’s an odd question,” Kline said.

“Not from a doctrinarian member of the Episcopal Church,” Hood said. “We believe that God’s hand is in everything.”

“Catholics believe in free will,” Kline said. “It is the privilege of an intelligent being to act or not act. There is no compulsion from outside. God did not will the kidnappers to do what they did nor the assassin to do what he did. The choices were their own.”

“And God would not have intervened to stop either of those events,” Hood said.

“He would not have,” Kline said. “He did not save His own Son. Murder is the province of—”

Suddenly, Kline stopped.

“I have another call,” the Vatican official said. His voice was noticeably different now. It was clipped, urgent.

“Is everything all right?” Hood asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Then we’ll talk later,” Hood said.

“No, I’ll call you right back,” Kline insisted urgently.

“Why?” Hood asked. “What happened?”

“The incoming call,” Kline said. “It’s news from Father Bradbury.”

THIRTY-NINE

Washington, D.C. Friday, 9:00 A.M.

Before phoning Darrell McCaskey, Mike Rodgers needed to put in a call to his friend Lieutenant Colonel Matt Mazer at the Pentagon. Rodgers wanted Mazer to call ahead to the airport in Gaborone. He wanted to make sure the plane carrying Aideen Marley and David Battat to Maun was given a thorough security check. The airfield as well. Maybe it was an attack on the bishop himself. Or maybe someone was shooting Americans. Rodgers wanted to make sure Aideen and Battat were protected.

Rodgers had just hung up with Mazer, when Darrell McCaskey swung into his office.

“Mind if I come in?” McCaskey asked.

“No. I’m glad you’re here, Darrell,” Rodgers said. “I was just going to give you a holler.”

“What about?” McCaskey asked.

“I’ve heard from Maria,” Rodgers replied.

“And?”

“She’s doing all right,” Rodgers said.

“Just ‘all right’?”

“No, she’s fine,” Rodgers said. This was not coming out the way he wanted. Rodgers had been in combat situations that were easier than this.

McCaskey eyed the general warily. “I hear a ‘but’ there, Mike,” McCaskey said.

“What you hear is frustration, Darrell, because I feel like a genie in a goddamn bottle,” Rodgers said.

“Mike, what the hell are you talking about?” McCaskey asked.

“I’m talking about things happening on the outside that affect what we do,” Rodgers said. “The bottle gets rubbed, we jump into service with all our resources, and we have very little control over any of it.” He took a short, deep breath. “Yes, Maria is all right. But she was at the airport in Maun when a security guard, or someone posing as a security guard, killed the American bishop.”

“What?” McCaskey declared. “They killed the bishop who just flew over there?”

“Yes,” Rodgers said.

“How did it happen?” McCaskey asked as he eased into a chair. His voice was flat and professional. For the moment.

“He was killed by a gunshot at close range,” Rodgers told him. “When the killer tried to board a small plane that was apparently waiting for him, the pilot shot him.”

“A patsy,” McCaskey said.

“No doubt,” Rodgers said.

“And Maria?”

“She was on the sidelines, but she’s pretty sure she ID’ed one of the men who was on site,” Rodgers said. “She thinks it was a Brush Viper. She’s following him in a taxi.”

“Did the Brush Viper participate in any way?” McCaskey asked.

“Not that she could see,” Rodgers said.

“I see. Does Maria have backup?” McCaskey asked.

“Aideen Marley and David Battat will be arriving in Gaborone shortly,” Rodgers told him. “They’ll be in Maun in about three hours. I left a message for Aideen on her cell phone. Calls are being relayed by our consulate in Gaborone. She’ll call before they catch the connecting flight, and I’ll bring them up to speed.”

“What about local police?” McCaskey asked.

“They were not present, and she left without them,” Rodgers said. “It would have taken them about a half hour to get there.”

“But you’ll let them know where Maria is,” McCaskey said.

“She doesn’t want that,” Rodgers replied.

“Does that matter?” McCaskey asked.

“Yes, it does,” Rodgers said. “Maria is hoping the Brush Viper may lead her to Dhamballa and Father Bradbury. She doesn’t want to do anything to signal her presence.”

“Mike, it doesn’t matter what she wants,” McCaskey said. “She isn’t running this mission. The Maun police can pick up the Brush Viper and get the same information she can. Botswana peace officers can be pretty aggressive when they want to be.”

“Then how do we get the information?” Rodgers asked.

“Why do we need it?” McCaskey asked. “The police can find Father Bradbury.”

“Not if the target sees them closing in and signals ahead,” Rodgers said. “You know better than that, Darrell.”

McCaskey stared at Rodgers. The look was pure G-man: steady gaze, neutral mouth. It was an expression that agents practiced to keep adversaries from knowing whether they had touched a weak spot in a confrontation or interrogation. Or that they had let an important piece of information slip. Rodgers did not think McCaskey was trying to keep his feelings a secret, but the former FBI agent was trying to keep them in check. McCaskey could not have liked what he just heard about his wife.

“What about you, Mike?” McCaskey asked.

“I don’t follow,” Rodgers said.

“What do you want?” McCaskey pressed.

“I want Maria to be safe,” Rodgers replied. “I also want to complete the mission she undertook.”

“In that order?” McCaskey pressed.

There was something accusatory in McCaskey’s tone. Rodgers did not appreciate it.

“Very much in that order, Darrell,” Rodgers replied. “I’ve already lost my allotment of Op-Center personnel for this year.”

McCaskey looked like he’d been hit across the back with a two-by-four. There was an awkward, deadly silence. McCaskey lowered his eyes. Some of the anger seemed to leave him.

Mike Rodgers was still pretty pissed off, himself. But not because McCaskey had raised the subject of Rodgers’s priorities. If he were in McCaskey’s position, he would have asked the same question. And not as diplomatically. He would have done it for two reasons. First, to make sure his wife was not taking reckless chances. And second, to blow off pressure at having been left out of the decision-making process from the start.

No, what bothered Rodgers was one of the same things that bothered McCaskey. Maria was being forced to improvise an entire recon operation. There was no playbook for Maria to follow. And there was no exit strategy. The least they could do was to try to get her some blockers.

“Let’s get back on track,” Rodgers suggested.

McCaskey nodded weakly.

“One of the reasons I was going to call you is that we’ve got an orphan agent in the field,” Rodgers said. “Who do you know over there?”

“No one we can use,” McCaskey replied. “I already checked. There’s an Interpol office in Johannesburg, but that’s a dry well.”

“They don’t have anyone free, or they won’t help?” Rodgers asked.

“Interpol South Africa needs authorization from Botswana to operate within their borders,” McCaskey said. “That will take days to obtain.”

“They can’t go in unofficially?” Rodgers asked.

“They won’t,” McCaskey replied. “Unlawful police actions are code-one crimes. Federal crimes that carry a minimum of life imprisonment. South Africans don’t get very favorable treatment in Botswana courts. It’s a holdover from apartheid.”

“There’s no one else we can ask?” Rodgers asked.

“All of my dealings in that region were with ISA,” McCaskey said. “Botswana was never a hub of intelligence activity.”

“Which could be one of the reasons the perpetrators struck there,” Rodgers thought out loud.

“First rule of starting a revolution,” McCaskey said. “Always start where the resources are on your side. Speaking of which, Bob told me that the Vatican Security Organization has undercover personnel in the area. Members of the Grupo del Cuartel General.”

“That’s true,” Rodgers said.

“Can’t we get them to help Maria?”

“Paul’s going to ask Kline about that,” Rodgers replied. “We don’t know what their mandate was. I’m also not sure how far to trust them. They didn’t do a very good job protecting the bishop.”

“No,” McCaskey agreed.

“If it doesn’t work out, I need some other options,” Rodgers said. “What about newspaper offices over there? Do you know anyone in Maun?”

“I might be able to find someone who knows someone,” McCaskey said. “Why?”

“Maria took pictures at the airport right after the shooting,” Rodgers said. “I want those. We’ll need someone in the heart of town who has a computer and modem that can take Maria’s digicam software.”

“I’ll look into it,” McCaskey said. “In the meantime, you might try the local church. They’re probably hooked into the Vatican by PC. I’m sure your friend Kline can get you access.”

“Good idea,” Rodgers said. He turned to his computer and immediately sent an instant message to Hood.

“Thanks, General,” McCaskey replied. “You want another really good suggestion?”

“Sure,” Rodgers said.

“Recall Maria,” McCaskey said.

He was serious.

“Do you think she would bail if I did?” Rodgers asked. “Or would she know that you put me up to it?”

“I don’t care,” McCaskey said. “At least she’d be back here.”

“Maybe not,” Rodgers said. “You don’t divert a laser gun-sight from seven thousand miles away.”

“You do if you’re a good gunner,” McCaskey said.

Rodgers didn’t like that. But he didn’t let it get to him. McCaskey was not thinking. He was reacting. If Rodgers did the same, there would be even angrier words and probably worse.

“Look, Darrell,” Rodgers said. “No one knows that Maria is in Botswana. I’m sure she will not do anything to call attention to herself.”

“I know that,” McCaskey said. He was exasperated, and it showed in his expression, his voice, his posture. “But hell, Mike. Maria isn’t even armed. She turned in her handgun when she resigned from Interpol. Even if she had a weapon, she wouldn’t have risked packing it in her luggage. Not without a license. A scanner might have picked it up at the airport. There would have been questions, she would have had to say who she was, there might have been a leak. She’s too professional to have let that happen.”

Mike Rodgers did not know what else to say to his friend. Even if he did, there was not a lot of time to say it. Rodgers did not want to spend any more time on hand-holding. He wanted to check in with Bob Herbert and Stephen Viens. Make sure they were doing everything possible to support Maria.

“Darrell, we’re going to do everything we can to help her,” Rodgers said. “But we’re in this now, and we have to let it play out.”

“We?” McCaskey said. “She’s the one who’s out there on her goddamn own.” He rose and turned to go.

“Darrell?” Rodgers said.

McCaskey turned back.

“I heard everything you said,” Rodgers said. “I’ll get her out of there as soon as possible.”

“I know you will,” McCaskey said. He thought for a moment. “And I’m sorry if I hit you hard.”

“I can take it,” Rodgers said.

“Yeah,” McCaskey said with the hint of a smile. “Anyway, you’re in the intel-gathering business now. I needed to tell you what was on my mind.”

“Fair enough,” Rodgers said.

McCaskey left the office, and Rodgers immediately phoned Hood. Bugs Benet told him that the boss was still on the phone with Edgar Kline. Rodgers told Benet to make sure Hood looked at the instant message before ending the call.

Then he called Matt Stoll. Rodgers wanted to make sure they had conversion software to upload to Botswana. He wanted to be certain Maria’s camera would interface with whatever computer they located.

As Rodgers made the call, he had an unsettling whiff of the future. He had the very strong sense that the next wars would be fought this way. Not by soldiers looking for the correct range for their artillery. Not even by massive armies, financial institutions, and diplomats working in tandem, the way they had in the War on Terrorism. Wars of the future would be fought by people behind desks searching for the right software to fire off. A combination of cyber-hits, intelligence, and microsurgical strikes.

Mike Rodgers was not sure he was prepared for that future. A future in which, conceivably, any nation could be a superpower.

Even Botswana.

FORTY

Okavango Swamp, Botswana Friday, 4:39 P.M.

Father Bradbury had spent nearly twenty-four hours in a small hut in the center of the tiny island. The only items in the room were an aluminum-frame cot, a hanging lantern, and a straw mat. The priest’s left ankle was cuffed to the frame of the cot. He had been fed stew three times during that period. They left him with a canteen of warm water to keep him from dehydrating. The priest had been taken to the outhouse twice. The shutters were still closed, and the room was ferociously hot, though it was not as stifling as his first prison had been. He had been left with one thing to occupy himself. It was a slender pamphlet containing the reflections of Dhamballa.

Bradbury lay on his side on the canvas cot. He had sweated so much that the fabric was clammy. His outer clothes were so rank with swamp water and sweat that he had removed them. They were lying on the dirt floor, where he hoped they would dry. The ground was slightly cooler than the air.

Occasionally, people would pass the hut. It was difficult to hear anything that was said outside. Bradbury wondered if he were the only one being held on this small island. He wondered what was happening in the outside world. How the Church and his deacons had reacted to his abduction. He hoped his friend Tswana Ndebele was all right. Now that Father Bradbury had time to reflect on what had happened, he realized how many people would be worried about him.

He also had time to reflect on the suffering of Jesus and other Christian saints and martyrs: Saint John the Evangelist beaten, poisoned, and placed in a cauldron of boiling oil; the young convert Felicitas, taken to an arena and trampled by a wild cow; Saint Blaise, raked with iron combs and beheaded; so many others. In John 16:33, Jesus warned that there would be tribulation in this world. Father Bradbury would not complain about his.

The priest also took time to read the Vodun booklet several times. He was happy to have it. Perhaps it would give him a means of communicating with the Vodun leader. When they met, nothing he said had any impact. If the Bible taught him anything about zealots, it was that reason seldom worked on them. Perhaps there was some other way they could communicate. Perhaps if he knew more about the man’s faith, he could find something they had in common.

They came for him again. There were two men, dressed in camouflage fatigues and carrying rifles. Only this time, there was an urgency Father Bradbury had not seen before. While one man unlocked his leg, the other held his arm tightly. Father Bradbury did not resist.

“Please let me get my clothes,” the priest said. He pointed to them as the second man took his other arm.

The men allowed Father Bradbury to dress. Then they pulled him toward the door.

“The booklet—” he said. He gestured to the pamphlet, which had fallen on the ground. The men ignored him.

The priest did not bother to ask where they were going. It was still light enough in the leaf-filtered twilight for him to see their faces. They seemed anxious. As they headed toward the center of the island, the priest became aware of other activity. Men were gathering things up inside huts. On the far side of the island, moss, leaves, branches, and canvas were being removed from motorboats. The vessels had been kept there under heavy camouflage. A small airplane was being stocked beyond them.

Obviously, the camp was being abandoned. Quickly. The priest had seen films of occupied towns and concentration camps being evacuated. Papers, extra supplies, and evidence of crimes were destroyed. Witnesses and prisoners were executed. Father Bradbury had a sudden, strong sense that the men were taking him out to shoot him. He began to murmur through the Eucharistic prayer. He never imagined this was how it would be, administering the last sacraments to himself. So much of his life had been stable and predictable.

The men led Father Bradbury to Dhamballa’s hut. It was dark, lit with just a few candles. It seemed funereal. They brought him in and released his arms. The Vodun priest was standing in the center of the room. His posture was as ramrod straight as before. Another man was with him. A bald man, short and hefty, stood beside him. He was slouching slightly. Both men wore unhappy expressions. The smaller man, a white man, was sweating heavily. The priest could not tell if that was a result of the heat or anxiety. Probably both.

The soldiers released Father Bradbury’s arms. They left the hut and shut the door. Physically and psychologically, Father Bradbury felt stronger than he had the last two times he was here.

All right, the priest thought with some relief. The soldiers are not going to kill me.

At least, not yet. Father Bradbury wondered what Dhamballa would want him to do this time. The priest had already recalled his missionaries. He lacked the authority to do anything else.

Dhamballa stepped closer to the priest. Their faces were only inches apart. There was fierce intensity in the Vodunist’s eyes. He pointed toward the telephone on his table.

“I want you to call your diocese,” Dhamballa told him.

“The archdiocese in Cape Town,” Father Bradbury said.

“Yes,” Dhamballa replied.

Something must have happened. The Vodun leader’s voice was tense, angry. He pointed a long finger toward the phone on his table. Then he pointed toward Father Bradbury.

“What do you want me to say to them?” Bradbury asked.

“That you are alive,” Dhamballa said.

“Why would they think I am not?” the priest asked.

The other man jostled the priest. “This is not a negotiation,” he complained. “Make the damned call!”

The man had what sounded like a French accent.

Father Bradbury looked at him. They had starved and struck him so much that his body seemed to be in pieces. And when there was no body, only one thing remained: spirit. That could not be hurt from the outside.

“Why?” the priest asked.

“I will tell you,” Dhamballa said. “Your replacement was executed when he landed at the Maun airport.”

“The bishop?” Father Bradbury asked.

“Yes,” Dhamballa replied.

“Because of my call to the deacon?” he asked.

“No,” Dhamballa said. “We had nothing to do with this.”

The priest felt weak. Martyrs were a part of history. That was fact. But there was nothing inspiring about it. Not when you were living it.

He pushed Dhamballa away and stepped back. He did not want to hear any more.

“I want people to know that you are well,” Dhamballa said. “And I want you to tell them that we did not do this.”

“Of course you did it,” Father Bradbury replied. His statement bordered on accusation.

“You idiot!” said the other man. He struck the priest.

“Stop that!” Dhamballa yelled.

“He makes accusations, but he knows nothing!” the man charged.

“I know that you started a process of discrimination,” the priest went on. “You forced it upon people who love the Church. Perhaps you’ve given courage to others who do not share the views of the Church—”

“All I know, priest, is that we killed no one,” Dhamballa insisted. His tone was more moderate, yet there was menace in it. “But if we are forced, we will do whatever is necessary to preserve our heritage.”

There was often a very thin line between someone being confident and someone on the verge of being overwhelmed. The priest heard it in the confessional booth time after time. He could tell when an individual was contrite and afraid of damnation. He could also tell when a person was simply feigning atonement. Dhamballa and the other man were desperate. Father Bradbury did not know what their scheme was to extend the influence of Vodunism. In his lucid moments, he hoped it would be done by peaceful means, by what Dhamballa described in his writings as “white magic.” But that was no longer the only thing at risk. Their lives might be in jeopardy. Father Bradbury could not ignore that. Nor did he have any reason not to make the phone call and tell the truth. He was alive.

“If I make the call, they are going to ask me questions,” Father Bradbury said. “They will want to know how I am and how I have been treated.”

“You may tell them anything except where we are,” Dhamballa replied. “They must understand that while we have our differences, we are men of peace.”

“They will say that men of peace don’t take other men by force,” the priest pointed out.

“Men of your sect inflicted the Inquisition on men of peace,” Dhamballa said. “What is it that you say? Let he who is without sin judge me.”

The Vodun leader had anticipated the question. This was not the time to debate the point.

The priest looked over at the cordless phone. He looked at Dhamballa. “I read your pamphlet. There is room for everyone.”

“That is true,” Dhamballa said. “But not in Botswana.”

“We don’t have time for this,” the other man snarled. “Make the damned phone call.”

The priest went over to the small table. As he crossed the cool, damp soil, he looked at the telephone. It was covered with droplets that glistened in the dull daylight. Perspiration, no doubt. This was where the bad news had been received. As Father Bradbury walked toward the phone, he said a short, silent prayer for the murdered bishop.

“You will have no more than three minutes to deliver the message,” Dhamballa cautioned. “I will not give the authorities time to triangulate the call. We will also be listening,” he added.

Dhamballa punched the speakerphone button. A loud, strong dial tone filled the room. Father Bradbury had not noticed before, but the dial tone sounded extremely clear. The camp must have had their own uplink.

Father Bradbury’s ordeal had cost him his focus. It took the priest several moments to remember the phone number of the archdiocese. He began to punch it into the keypad. Perspiration blurred his vision. He entered the number slowly. It hurt to move his fingers. He just now noticed how severely swollen they were. No doubt that was a result of the heat and humidity. Perhaps the salt in the stew had caused it.

So many things have changed out here, the priest thought. Yet Father Bradbury did have one wondrous realization. His mind, his body, and his emotions had all undergone degrees of metamorphosis. Through the ordeal, however, his faith had remained unaltered.

“Hurry!” snapped the man who might be from France.

Father Bradbury glanced over at the European. The man’s expression was agitated. He looked at his watch.

The activity all over the island, the priest thought. The European’s urgency. Father Bradbury realized that these people were suddenly on an extremely tight timetable.

Despite the stiffness in his joints, Father Bradbury entered the numbers more quickly. He finished entering the number. Then he turned and rested against the table. Dhamballa stood directly beside him. The priest’s own sweat fell on the black receiver. As he waited for someone to answer, Father Bradbury wondered what the European was doing here. His language and demeanor did not suggest that he was a holy man. His reasons for being in Botswana had to be political or economical. Power and wealth were the only other reasons faithless men embraced religion. Even in his own Church.

A lay secretary answered the phone. Father Bradbury introduced himself and asked to be put through to the archbishop as quickly as possible.

“Of course, Father!” the young man practically shouted into the receiver.

In less than half a minute, the archbishop was on the phone with his heavy, distinctive Afrikaner accent.

“Powys, is it truly you?” Archbishop Patrick asked.

“Yes,” Father Bradbury replied.

“Praise to God,” the archbishop sighed. “Are you well?”

“I am—”

“Have you been released?” the archbishop pressed.

“Not yet, Your Eminence,” Father Bradbury said. “My captors are with me, in fact,” he added. The priest wanted the archbishop to know that they were not free to speak.

“I see,” the archbishop replied. “Gentlemen, if you can hear me, please talk to me. What must we do to secure the release of our beloved brother?”

Dhamballa did not respond. He stood still, glaring impatiently at Father Bradbury.

“Your Eminence, my freedom is not why I’ve called,” said the priest. “I have been asked to tell you something.”

“All right,” the archbishop said. “I’m listening.”

“My hosts insist that they were not responsible for the death of the American archbishop,” Father Bradbury said.

“Do you believe them?” the archbishop asked.

“I have no reason to doubt what they have told me,” Father Bradbury replied.

“Do you have reason to believe them?” the archbishop pressed.

The priest regarded the dark-eyed Vodun leader. “They have fed me and given me shelter and water,” Father Bradbury said. “They do not seem to want blood upon their faith.”

“I see,” said Archbishop Patrick. “If they are good men, as you say, then when may we expect your safe return?”

The priest was still looking into Dhamballa’s eyes. There was no hope, no answer to be found in them.

“Soon, I pray,” the clergyman replied.

Dhamballa took the handset from Father Bradbury. He hung it up.

“Thank you,” Dhamballa said. But the hardness in the Vodun leader’s eyes was unchanged.

“Good,” the European said. “Since that is done, I’m going out to see about the preparations.”

The French-sounding man left. Father Bradbury turned away from Dhamballa. The priest leaned on the table, his shoulders slumping. He shook his head sadly. After a moment, he slipped his hands into his pockets and turned back. When he spoke, his voice was quiet but firm.

“Please,” Father Bradbury said. “I do not know what you’re planning. I do not want to know. But I recognize fear, Dhamballa.”

The Vodun leader said nothing.

“You’re afraid, and so is your friend,” the priest said as he cocked his head toward the departing European. “Talk to me. Not as a prisoner but as a friend,” he implored.

“As a confessor?” Dhamballa asked.

“If you like.”

“I do not like,” Dhamballa replied.

“Dhamballa, I don’t care what your plans are for me,” the priest said. “But I am worried about your followers. They are my countrymen, too, and I care very much about them.”

“If you care about Botswana, then make no trouble for me,” Dhamballa replied.

“I’ve tried to be cooperative, have I not?” the priest asked.

“As the termite who looks out from your wall and says, ‘But I did not eat your table,’ ” the Vodun leader replied. “Sabot, Alfred!”

“Don’t you understand?” Father Bradbury said. “More can be accomplished through talk than through fighting. Don’t force a confrontation you cannot win.”

The soldiers came back into the room. They awaited instructions. Dhamballa looked at Father Bradbury.

“We are the ones being forced,” Dhamballa told the priest. “We’ve been forced from our roots and now we’ve been forced from a measured, peaceful plan. At the moment, Father, we have nothing to lose.”

Dhamballa told the soldiers to take the priest back to his shack. Then he left the hut.

Father Bradbury sighed as the men took hold of his arms. He did not struggle as they led him out. The sun had gone down. The men moved the priest quickly across through the thickly shadowed twilight. Activity around the island seemed more intense than it had a few minutes before. Perhaps that was because everything was now being done by lantern light. Battery-powered lanterns were suspended from tree limbs and hooks on the hut walls. Each soldier had a brilliant glow around his station. Their open jackets fluttered lightly in the gentle air that rolled in from the swamp.

The angels of Vodun at work, Father Bradbury thought.

The priest was returned to the shack. Once again, his left ankle was chained to the cot. Father Bradbury remained standing as the men left. They locked the door behind them. The priest listened. When he was sure they had gone, he reached into his pocket.

Father Bradbury had counted the footsteps from Dhamballa’s hut to his own. By his measure, it was about two hundred steps. That was about fifty yards. It might be too far.

The priest reached into his deep pocket. He would know in just a few seconds. He had to act quickly if he was going to prevent a disaster from befalling these people. The darkness in the hut had shielded his actions. But it would not be very long before Dhamballa noticed what Father Bradbury had done.

Leaning close to the light of his own lantern, Father Bradbury looked down at the telephone receiver. The priest had placed his hand on the cordless unit when he turned his back to Dhamballa. It had been easy to step close then and conceal the fact that he was slipping it into his pocket.

Now he put it to his ear. He was not too far from the receiver. There was a dial tone.

His heart pumped blood to his brain and made his senses hyperalert. Even his fingers seemed more alive than before as he hit Redial and pressed the phone to his ear.

The irony of what he was doing did not escape him. The soldiers had seemed like angels to him. Now he was a tactician, a de facto warrior. Father Bradbury did not even recognize his own somber voice as he spoke to the archdiocese secretary and asked to be put through to Archbishop Patrick.

A moment later, the priest’s feet were set on a path from which there was no turning back. He prayed it was the right one.

FORTY-ONE

Gaborone, Botswana Friday, 4:40 P.M.

As the South African Airways 747 was making its final descent into Gaborone, the chief flight attendant went to the front of the cabin. He announced gates for connecting flights. If passengers were bound for Cape Town in South Africa or Antananarivo in Madagascar, their flights would be departing on time. If they were headed to Maun, there was an indefinite delay.

As the flight attendant made his way back to the galley, Aideen stopped him.

She asked what the problem was in Maun.

“The airfield has been closed,” the middle-aged attendant informed her.

“What’s the problem?” Aideen asked.

“They did not tell us,” the attendant replied.

“We’ve got family waiting for us,” Aideen lied.

“I’m sure an announcement will be made at the terminal,” the attendant said. Smiling politely, he excused himself.

Aideen glanced over at Battat. His mouth twisted unhappily.

“Maybe they’ve got some kind of animal infestation up there,” Battat suggested. “Migrating storks or gazelles or an insect swarm. Something that will pass quickly.”

“I’m pretty good at interpreting airport-speak,” she said. “This was the kind of announcement they make when there’s an ongoing situation like a fire or a bomb threat. I was also watching the flight attendant. I really don’t think he knows why there is a delay.”

“But he would know if it were weather- or animal-related,” Battat said.

“Exactly,” Aideen replied.

Ten minutes after the jet touched down, Aideen was standing outside the gate in the big, open terminal. She accessed her cell phone voice mail. There was a message from Mike Rodgers. He had left Aideen the access code to the generalpurpose voice mail box at Op-Center. Obviously, General Rodgers had not wanted to leave information on the automated answering system of her cell phone. If someone else accidentally entered her code, they would be able to get the information. That could compromise security.

The message told Aideen why the Maun airport had been shut down. It also instructed her to get to the village as soon as possible. Maria Corneja was chasing a pair of Brush Vipers with no backup. Rodgers’s message included Maria’s cell phone number.

Aideen put the cell phone away. She quickly briefed Battat. There were security officers by the gate and along the corridors. Aideen did not want to act suspiciously. Since one airport was attacked, she assumed that others would be on heightened alert. She pointed at overhead signs while she and Battat spoke, acting as if they were discussing which way to go.

Battat did not seem surprised by the killing. Aideen asked him why.

“There seems to be a lot more to this situation than what we’ve been told,” Battat said.

“In what way?” Aideen asked.

“The Belgians, the Chinese, the Japanese, the Vatican, us,” Battat said. “There are too many people interested in a very small battleground. It’s like Vietnam.”

“A stage for superpowers,” she said.

“That would be my guess,” he remarked.

“Why?” she asked.

“I’m not sure,” he replied, “but I’ll bet Dhamballa or people close to him have some of those answers.”

Aideen told Battat to go ahead and rent them a car. They only had carry-on luggage. She said that she would take the wheeled bags through customs and meet Battat in front of the airport.

The young woman pulled the two bags through the modern, air-conditioned terminal. She was edgy, unsettled, but she did not know why. It was more than just the dangerous business at hand. There was something about the environment that bothered her.

She looked around.

For one thing, she had noticed a sharpness about the security personnel that she had not seen in her travels through the United States or Europe. Their posture was perfect, and their uniforms were crisp and immaculate. They were alert, yet their expressions were calm, almost spiritual. She had read in the Op-Center files that Botswana was like the Middle East. Church and state were not separate. Religion was an integral part of the national, political, and individual character.

That was an alien concept to the young woman. And it created a subtle, unpleasant disconnect. Aideen did not even believe in her own Protestant faith. Not because she did not want to. She had never trusted anything that could not be sensed or measured. She realized that she did not know how to deal with these people. That scared her.

The gates fed into a narrower corridor that took passengers to customs. As Aideen entered the hallway, a flash of light caused her to turn to her right, to the west. As she walked, she looked out the large, double-pane picture windows. The view was epic. The bottom half of the sun rippled as it neared the absolutely straight horizon. Aideen had never seen the sun so large or so crimson. Ahead, to the north, were sharp-edged mountains. They were blue gray and featureless except where the setting sun struck snow-topped peaks. For just a moment, the amber rays sparked and danced off one cliff, then another. It was like a distant cascade of flame.

A bloodred sun and a mountain of fire, Aideen thought. If she were spiritual, if she were superstitious, those would be troublesome omens.

Aideen rounded another corner and found herself in the luggage claim area. Beyond the three crowded carousels was the customs area. It was already jammed with people who had brought only carry-on luggage. Aideen looked for Battat and did not see him.

Good, she thought. He was able to get through before the crowd hit. They would be on their way to Maun shortly.

Aideen crossed the baggage area and entered the customs hall. She selected one of the four lines and stood in it. It was a dramatic change from the quiet of the plane and the open terminal.

Strange languages assaulted her. The sights were both familiar and new. There was American-style clothing from suits to T-shirts as well as bright, traditional African attire. There was movement everywhere. People fanned themselves with ticket folders and open hands. Children ran tight circles around their mothers as if they were maypoles. On the other side of the customs counters, vendors sold newspaper, candy, and beverages from small pushcarts.

As she waited, Aideen was surprised to find her confidence returning. Then she realized why. Despite the new sights and sounds, she was back in a world she understood, a world like the one she left behind.

A world of organized chaos.

FORTY-TWO

Maun, Botswana Friday, 5:22 P.M.

The streets were darkening quickly as the rattling taxi arrived in Maun. Leon Seronga was glad it was dark. Only the main road had streetlights. Neither Njo Finn nor his truck would be visible to casual passersby. Finn had said he would park on a narrow side street near the town’s movie theater. The doors did not open until six-thirty. No one would be there now. After six-thirty, Finn would have moved to the soccer field at the north end of the town. Only a few people were out there at night, kicking a ball by flashlight or lantern. There was a small picnic area where Finn could have parked and waited, unseen.

Seronga had not wanted to go to the soccer field. If he did, others might see what he was going to do.

The Brush Viper had the taxi driver drop them in the square at the center of town. The shops were winding down their activities. Buses were growling down the main thoroughfare. The newer green buses were carrying tourists back to Gaborone. The older ones, lopsided and rusty with patchwork paint jobs, were bringing villagers back to remote areas of the floodplain.

The old Maun theater was across the street. Seronga saw Finn’s truck parked in the shadows.

“Are you certain you will not need me for anything else, Eminences?” the driver asked.

“I am certain,” Seronga said. The Brush Viper walked around to the window and paid the man. The fare was seventy pulas, the equivalent of twenty-seven American dollars. Seronga gave the driver twenty-five pulas above the amount on the meter.

The driver looked up. He smiled widely. “Thank you, Eminence. You are very generous.”

Despite the pressure of the moment, Leon Seronga took a long look at the man’s face. He looked at flesh baked by years of heat. At eyes bloodshot from long hours and a long, hard life. But what a magnificent face it was. The face of a man, a pillar of this nation, of their race. These were the people that the Brush Vipers were fighting for. Hardworking Botswanans.

“You deserve this and more,” Seronga replied warmly.

The taxi pulled away. Leon Seronga stepped onto the sidewalk and joined Pavant. The other Brush Viper was standing behind a telephone booth, away from the lights of the taxi. He was scowling as he watched for the taxi with the Spanish passenger.

“It’s coming,” Pavant said.

Seronga stood beside him. They looked down the two-lane road. There were a few bicyclists. They were probably local workers on their way home. There were virtually no cars left on the road. The taxi was approaching slowly. Its identification number glowed red in the plastic display on top of the vehicle.

“I want you to do something,” Seronga said. “Cross the street in front of the taxi. Act as if you’re in a hurry, but make sure they get a good look at you in the headlights.”

“And then?” Pavant asked.

“Go to the alley and wait behind the truck with Finn,” Seronga said. “I’ll stay here. If the woman follows you, I’ll come in after. If I don’t think she’s coming in, I’ll join you in a few minutes.”

“Do we want a hostage or a casualty?” Pavant asked.

The question was asked casually, but it was not a casual question. Seronga considered their options. A woman’s life was at stake. But Seronga also had to consider the future of Botswana.

“If she enters the alley, do what it takes to silence her and get us out of here,” Seronga told him.

“What if she decides to stay in the taxi and follow us?” Pavant asked.

“Then we’ll wait until we’re outside of town and take them,” Seronga said. “I don’t think she’ll do that, though.”

“Why?” Pavant asked.

“Right now, the woman does not know that we’re aware of her,” Seronga replied. “She does not know about the truck. She has to try to find out why we’re here.”

Pavant nodded in agreement. He waited until the taxi was a little closer. Then he walked briskly into the street. The taxi stopped as he crossed. Pavant turned toward the driver. The Brush Viper’s face was clearly illuminated by the headlights as he passed.

Meanwhile, Seronga had stepped away from the battered old phone booth. He stood in the recessed doorway of a bakery that had closed for the night. The taxi slowed some fifty meters ahead. It pulled to the curb on the same side of the street as the movie theater. A woman got out. She spoke with the driver for a moment. Then she strolled back toward the theater. The taxi left. The woman went past the movie theater for about thirty meters. Then she turned and walked back.

Seronga was anxious to get going. He lowered himself to his left knee. He withdrew the nine-inch hunting knife from its leather sheath on his right shin. He shielded the exposed blade with his left hand. Seronga did not want to risk it glinting in a streetlamp or passing headlights. He rose slowly and held the knife behind him. He watched to see what the woman did.

She passed the movie theater again. This time, she looked across the street. Seronga did not care whether she saw that someone was there. What mattered was that she not see him clearly. The woman would have to come to Seronga to find out whether he was a deacon, whether he was with the other man. Fighting a defensive battle was easier than fighting an offensive one. The attacker always led with strength. Once that strength was exposed, weaknesses were also revealed. That was where the defender struck.

The woman passed below a streetlight. This was the first time Seronga saw her face. She looked to be in her midthirties. She did not appear to be anxious. She also did not appear to have any backup. Perhaps the woman did not expect to find trouble here.

Or maybe she’s smarter than I gave her credit for, Seronga thought.

The woman stopped and looked at the handwritten card propped in the box-office window. She glanced at her watch. She was acting as if she were waiting for someone to show up.

To take her to a movie, Seronga realized.

The woman had only seen one deacon. She must have seen both of them in the taxi. Maybe she was waiting for the second to arrive. Or maybe she was going to wait until people began arriving for the film before she went into the alley.

In either case, Seronga did not have the time to wait for her. Sometimes even a cautious soldier had to take the offensive.

Keeping the knife concealed behind his back, Seronga stepped from the doorway and strode toward the alley.

FORTY-THREE

Maun, Botswana Friday, 5:31 P.M.

Maria Corneja had been with Interpol long enough to know when she was being set up.

Back on the highway, Maria had heard the conversation between Paris Lebbard and the other taxi driver. When it was over, Lebbard filled her in on what the other driver had been asking. Maria knew two things then. First, that the two “deacons” were going somewhere and did not want to be followed. And second, that they would be watching her.

When Maria reached Maun, she became even more convinced that the men had a very specific plan for her. Over the years, Maria had attended dozens of Interpol seminars on profiling. She had started when it was still a nascent science called “psychological evaluation studies.” People who committed crimes, or feared they were suspected of crimes, did not present themselves to potential captors. Not unless they were sociopaths who yearned for a confrontation. Watching them at the airport, these men did not seem to be unusually aggressive or careless, yet the deacon had made a point of staring at her as he crossed the street. That could only mean one thing. The man wanted her to see him. He wanted her to follow him. And that could only mean one thing.

The deacons wanted her out of the way. The fact that the men did not stay hidden, watching her, suggested that they did not have a lot of time to waste. Their actions told Maria how to react. She would quickly reconnoiter and then kill time. That would force them into the open.

Obviously, the deacon wanted to see if she would follow him down the street beside the movie theater. A truck was parked well down the road there. Perhaps it was their truck. Or perhaps they were meeting other people inside the theater. The man who had walked in front of the taxi was not Leon Seronga. That was probably the man who was watching from across the street. It was clear to her that these men did not think she was a seasoned intelligence officer.

Maria decided to wait in front of the theater. That way, she could watch both the alley and the man in the doorway across the street. But there was a time limit. She had checked the schedule in the box office. People would be arriving soon to open the theater. The laws in Maun were strict about women loitering. If nothing happened by six o’clock, she would have to go into the alley and hope she wouldn’t be seen there. She did not want to risk being confronted by police. If the deacons tried to slip away, she would not be able to follow them.

Fortunately, Maria did not have to wait until six o’clock.

The man standing in the doorway suddenly came toward her. There was blood on his sleeve. As the man passed under a streetlight, she knew for certain that it was Leon Seronga.

Seronga walked purposefully, his eyes on her. Maria could tell at once that he had a weapon. The man’s arm was held stiffly at his side instead of swinging. She did not know if it was a gun or knife.

Maria waited by the movie theater. She pretended to pay the man no attention. If she walked toward him, he might feel challenged. That could provoke him. Perhaps he was not certain she was interested in him at all. Maybe his determined approach was a way of testing her.

If so, Maria had a surprise for the man. It had nothing to do with the small can of pepper spray she had palmed. If necessary, using the spray would help to protect her. But it would not get Maria what she came for. She had to lead Seronga carefully and precisely to the point she wanted. He had to trust her with the location of Father Bradbury.

Seronga slowed as a truck clattered by. It was followed by two men on bicycles. The deacon continued forward as the traffic passed.

Maria looked toward the alley. As far as she could tell, no one was standing there. That was important. She did not want to find herself being approached from two sides. For all she knew, these people had one or more accomplices waiting in another building or down another side street.

Seronga was about five meters away. Maria waited until he had halved that distance. Now she was going to get him to do what she wanted. She was going to get him to walk her safely into that side street.

“I know that you did not kill the bishop,” she said.

Seronga stopped. “Who did?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she replied. She did not want to tell him about the photographs she took. Not yet.

“Are you one of the Spanish soldiers?” Seronga asked.

“No,” Maria replied.

“Then who are you?” he asked. “Why did you follow us?”

“I want to help you,” she stated.

“Why?” Seronga demanded. He was growing tense, impatient.

“Because I believe in what you’re doing,” she lied.

Seronga hesitated. Maria did not want to say much more. Yet she needed him to be curious enough to take her with him. She needed for him to trust her.

“I want to help, even though you tried to get me to follow your partner into that dark side street,” she said. “Even though you are holding a weapon behind your back.”

“Are you unarmed?” he challenged.

She opened her palm. “A purely defensive tool,” she said. She raised her arms. “Go ahead and check. I have nothing else.”

Seronga glanced toward the alley. “All right,” he said. “Walk ahead of me, and do as you’re told.”

Maria acknowledged with a nod. Then she walked toward the alley.

The nod had not been for Leon Seronga.

FORTY-FOUR

Washington, D.C. Friday, 11:18 A.M.

Maria Corneja had told Mike Rodgers that she would get in touch with him as soon as she knew where Leon Seronga was going. According to the map on Rodgers’s computer, Maria should have reached the city by now. He tried not to worry. She was a professional. Unfortunately, she was still a professional who was pretty much on her own.

Since Maria had telephoned, Rodgers had conferred with McCaskey and Herbert. Lowell Coffey joined them as well. He wanted to be able to alert them to any possible infractions of international law.

The men discussed getting help in the area from FBI, Interpol, or CIA sources. The only help available was ELINT from the CIA. The agency could provide electronic intelligence by monitoring wireless communications in the region. Rodgers asked Herbert to request the surveillance. It would be handled by listening posts at the United States embassies in Gaborone and in Cape Town, South Africa. Though these were one-person operations, it was possible that something might turn up.

Even though Rodgers was in charge of the new HUMINT division at Op-Center, he asked Herbert to make those calls.

“You’re better at finessing those drop-everything requests than I am,” Rodgers said.

“It’s easy,” Herbert said. “All you have to do is grovel with a little steel in your voice.”

“Amazing what is in Bob’s incomparable diplomatic arsenal,” Coffey remarked.

“Lowell, that is my diplomatic arsenal,” Herbert replied. “That and threatening to go on The Dugout and name the bastards who are looking for votes and appointments instead of looking after their constituents.”

“The Dugout?” Coffey snickered. “Stuttering Matt Christopher doesn’t let his guests get in more than three words before cutting them off.”

“Three words are all I need,” Herbert said. “ ‘Barbara Fox, bureaucrat.’ That’s my targeted diplomatic arsenal. Plant the idea and it takes root on its own. It’s like when an attorney says something in a courtroom and the judge tells the jury to ignore it. Like they do, right? All people have to do is hear my calm voice before Matt starts blathering.”

Coffey laughed.

Rodgers had never considered himself much of a diplomat. He was a tactician and a commander. Right now, he was not feeling competent in those areas, either.

What concerned Rodgers most was that Maria still had no support on the ground. Aideen Marley and David Battat had landed in Gaborone. But Aideen had called to inform him that they were driving to Maun. The trip would take serveral hours.

Rodgers also feared that Aideen and Battat would end up being in the wrong place. Everyone was assuming that Leon Seronga was headed to Maun. What if he were not?

Shortly after the meeting ended, Rodgers finally received a call from Botswana. It came through on Maria’s calling card. The caller had the correct ID number to enter the private Op-Center telephone directory. Once there, the caller was able to input Mike Rodgers’s name and receive the correct extension. Without the ID, the caller had to go through the switchboard. That enabled the electronic operator to trace the call. The system kept crank calls to a very low minimum.

But the caller was not Maria.

The man on the phone identified himself as Paris Lebbard. Rodgers did not recognize the name, but the accent sounded almost Egyptian.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Lebbard?” Rodgers asked. The general said nothing more. Maria’s cards had been lost or stolen. If that were the case, Rodgers did not want to let the caller know who he had reached or who she was.

“I am your friend Maria’s driver,” Lebbard said. “In Botswana. She gave me her calling card and your number.”

“Is Maria all right?” Rodgers demanded.

“She nodded to me that she was,” Lebbard replied.

“She nodded? I don’t understand,” Rodgers said.

“That was our signal,” Lebbard said. “I dropped her off to meet the man from the airport. Then I parked around the corner and sneaked back. I watched as she spoke with the man. If she had not nodded, I would have gone to the police station to report a kidnapping.”

“I see,” Rodgers said. The general experienced the same gut-burning fire he had felt in Kashmir. The one that told him he may have acted recklessly. The desire to get Maria on-site backup had gone from necessary to desperate.

“She told me you would be concerned, sir,” Lebbard added. “But I like her very much. And I know she has a husband who loves her. I also know she is trying to keep peace in Botswana. If I had any doubt about her safety, I would have gone for assistance at once.”

Rodgers was not entirely convinced. But the general had to take his cue from the people in the field. And right now, Paris Lebbard was the only person in contact from the field.

“Thank you, Mr. Lebbard,” Rodgers said. He swung toward his keyboard and prepared to type. “Can you tell me what the man looked like?”

“It was dark, and I was too far to see his face,” Lebbard said. “But he was dressed like a Christian clergyman.”

“Where did they go?” Rodgers asked.

“They walked to his truck, which was parked on Bath Street,” Lebbard said. “Then they drove away.”

“When did Maria leave with the man?” Rodgers asked.

“Less than five minutes ago,” Lebbard said.

“Can you describe the truck?” Rodgers asked.

“Yes,” the driver reported. “They drove right past me. It was a Chevrolet. Maybe ten years old. The cab looked olive green. It was dented, with a lot of rust. It had a canvas back and no markings on the side.”

“Were you able to get the license number?” Rodgers asked as he typed up the description.

“No,” Lebbard said. “It was covered with mud.”

“Do you have any idea where they went?” Rodgers asked.

“That is difficult to say,” Lebbard replied. “The truck did not get on the highway but took local roads.”

“Meaning?” Rodgers asked.

“The driver does not want to be followed,” Lebbard said. “At night, on the dirt roads, he will pass only villages. He will know if anyone is tailing him.”

“Which direction was the truck headed?” Rodgers asked.

“North,” Lebbard replied. “Though there is one thing.”

“What’s that?” Rodgers asked.

“It has not rained here for over a week,” the driver said. “There was not only mud on the license plate of the truck. It was also on the fender, tires, sides, and flaps. It was dark mud. That’s the kind of mud you find in and around the swamps to the north.”

Rodgers made a note of that. He immediately E-mailed the description of the truck, its location, its heading, and its possible destination to Stephen Viens at the National Reconnaissance Office. There was a chance the NRO might pick the truck up by satellite. He also sent a copy of the E-mail to Aideen Marley.

“This is very helpful,” Rodgers told him. “Was there anything else, Mr. Lebbard?”

“Yes,” the driver went on. “Maria gave me other instructions.”

That took Rodgers by surprise. He smiled slightly. The driver was very well organized. Rodgers also felt a flash of vindication. He had been right to select Maria for this assignment. She had obviously made a big impression on this man.

“Go ahead,” Rodgers said.

“She left me with a camera and a computer diskette,” the man said. “She said I should send you the photographs she took. She also said you might know where to find a computer.”

“I do,” Rodgers informed him. “Where are you now?”

“I am at a pay telephone at Nhabe, two blocks from the eastern bank of the Thamalakane River.”

Rodgers brought up the map of Maun. “That’s perfect,” Rodgers said. “Do you know the multifaith chapel in the center of Maun?”

“Of course,” Lebbard replied. “It’s to the west of the Mall. The Chapel of Grace.”

“Right,” Rodgers said. “Go there. I’m going to call someone who will get you access to a computer. Do you know how to use the software?”

“Maria told me to insert the diskette,” Lebbard said. “She said there would be instructions telling me what to do next. I have read maps for years. I am very good at following directions.”

“I’m sure you are,” Rodgers said. “Go there, Mr. Lebbard, while I make a few calls.”

“I will,” Lebbard replied. “Sir, Maria did not tell me who she works with. She is Spanish, but you sound American. Are you with the United Nations?”

Rodgers did not want to respond without knowing how his answer would be received. “What if we were?” Rodgers asked. “Would that make you happy?”

“It would make me very happy, sir,” Lebbard replied. “When I was a young child, nurses from the United Nations came to my village. They gave us injections against smallpox and polio. They gave us food. They gave me the first chocolate I ever tasted.”

Rodgers thought for a moment. He wanted Paris Lebbard to be happy. But he did not want to lie to an ally.

“We are not the United Nations, Mr. Lebbard. But we have worked with them,” Rodgers said.

That seemed to please the Botswanan. Rodgers was glad.

Maybe he had the makings of a diplomat after all.

FORTY-FIVE

Okavango Swamp, Botswana Friday, 6:20 P.M.

Father Bradbury had not bothered to turn on the lantern when the soldiers returned him to the room. The priest knelt by the foot of the cot and prayed. When he was done, he sat on the edge of the cot. He peered into the darkness. He let his mind move through the rich past and the uncertain future. Whichever way he looked, however, he came to the same place.

Life was about choices.

Years before, Father Bradbury had decided that the most dangerous thing in the world was to have a choice. When he was an altar boy, thirteen-year-old Powys Bradbury had found himself in a rectory fire. A spark had jumped from the fireplace while he was stoking it. An open Bible caught fire, a burning page fell on the rug, and within seconds, the room was ablaze. The youth looked around. There was no time for guilt or self-reproach. He tried to decide what Father Sleep would want saved.

Photographs? Books? Earthenware that had been dug up from Bethlehem? Black smoke began to cloud around the boy. Young Bradbury’s throat began to thicken. After a few strained breaths, it was nearly impossible to inhale. His eyes teared, and he could not see. That was when he found it easy to prioritize. Bradbury needed to get out.

Forty-nine years ago, Powys Bradbury had a choice whether to risk his life or not. Now he did not have that luxury. Yet there were still choices to make. In a way, they were more important than deciding what to take from a burning rectory. These choices were not about whether to escape. They were about how to accept his fate.

Neither Dhamballa nor the European had indicated that Bradbury’s life was in jeopardy, but the soldiers and their leaders were breaking camp. The priest had already seen people rushing about. Now they were shouting and hurrying about. The departure was going to be hasty.

He was excess baggage.

The shadows around Father Bradbury seemed especially deep. At a time when he should be contemplating spiritual matters, he found himself thinking about physical things. He would have all eternity to contemplate the spiritual. This was the time to savor the shell that God had given to him, to enjoy the wonder of the senses: the simple act of breathing, a gift passed from the nostrils of God Himself through Adam; the beauty of the heart working at its steady, dependable pace; all of it functioning in miraculous unison. It was, on reflection, a masterpiece of the Creator’s art. One that no man had the right to destroy.

Yet men kill and torture each other every day, he thought. That was why people such as Father Bradbury were needed. Only the peace of God could stop violence.

The priest began to pity the cultists who might be ordered to kill him. They were indirectly causing the suffering of others the priest might have saved. Father Bradbury also forgave the soldiers. The men would not understand what they were doing. And not understanding, they could never sincerely repent. They could not be saved.

The priest moved from reflection to the world around him. As he contemplated what might be his last minutes, Father Bradbury had no trouble admitting that he did not want to die. He drank in the beauty of even these dismal surroundings and the wisdom God demonstrated by letting men grow old. God had designed humans so that their senses and bodies dimmed over time. The world became more and more selectively available to them. Aging, people could only savor what their dimming senses could see, hear, taste, smell, or feel. God made the choice for them. He showed people how to enjoy, even cherish the things close to them. But God did not intend for life to end all at once. That was why He had put in His Commandments that it was wrong to murder. Father Bradbury wanted to experience God’s choices over time.

The door of the hut flew open. The two soldiers had returned. He could only see their silhouettes framed by distant lantern light. Their posture was different than before. Their knees were bent slightly. Their shoulders were hunched. They were more aggressive.

They were holding their handguns.

One of the men came in. He released the priest’s ankle from its metal cuff. Then he poked Father Bradbury in the side with his gun. That was the only order the soldier gave.

The priest rose. His legs were unsteady, due to exhaustion and fear. He fell on the shoulder of the soldier. The man did not pull away.

“Thank you,” the priest said.

It took a moment for Father Bradbury to regain his footing. His knees were trembling, and his thighs felt weak, but he remained standing.

Choices, he thought. He could not think about the future. He thought about the moment. His heart was racing. The back of his neck was clammy. And his legs were like harp strings. But he was suddenly overwhelmed by the magnitude of God’s gift to humankind. As he walked from the hut, the soldier put a hand on his shoulder. He forced the priest to his knees. He stepped behind him.

Father Bradbury felt cold. He was aware of nothing else but his heart hammering high in his chest and the sudden flow of tears. He looked up at the early evening stars. He was grateful for his life, thankful for all life. If it were possible to have an out-of-body experience without leaving his body, the priest was experiencing one now. He felt entirely at peace. Perhaps this was God’s way of easing men into death.

“No!”

The shout broke the moment. Father Bradbury looked across the small island. Dhamballa was striding toward them. He had to have found out about the phone.

Or had something else happened? Something to distract him? His stride was quick, but it did not seem hostile.

“Put your weapon down,” the leader commanded. “The priest is coming with us.”

The soldier behind Father Bradbury backed away. The priest felt his heart drop from his throat. Blood began to subside from his temples and extremities. He stopped counting what was left of his life in breaths.

Dhamballa stopped beside Father Bradbury. “Why were you doing this?” he demanded.

“We were following instructions,” the soldier replied.

“Instructions from whom?” Dhamballa asked.

“Leon Seronga,” the soldier told him.

“Seronga?”

“Yes,” the soldier said.

“Is he here?” Dhamballa asked.

“No,” the soldier replied. “He called on the radio set five minutes ago.”

“He had the code word?” Dhamballa asked.

“Yes,” the soldier said.

“And he ordered you to execute the prisoner?” Dhamballa went on.

“He told me to do it personally, before we left,” the soldier said.

“Did he say why?” Dhamballa asked.

“No, houngan,” the man told him.

Even in the dark, the priest could see that Dhamballa was surprised. It was in his stiff posture, the way he stood still and silent for a long moment.

“But you did not think to check with me,” Dhamballa said.

“You are our religious leader,” the soldier said. “He is our military commander.” There was a hint of defiance in his voice.

“You did not question the order?” Dhamballa pressed.

“I asked him to repeat it, that is all,” the soldier said.

Dhamballa moved closer to the man. “Do you know what happened today in Maun?”

“Yes, houngan,” said the soldier. “Another Catholic holy man was killed.”

“He was shot in the back of the head, as you would have done,” Dhamballa said. “That changes things for us. When we move into Orapa, we must show the world that we are not murderers. This man must be with us.”

“I understand,” the soldier replied.

“You will see to it, then?” Dhamballa asked. “You will see that he arrives safely?”

“Yes, houngan.”

“If Seronga contacts you again, let me know,” Dhamballa added. “We leave within the hour.”

Dhamballa left, and the soldiers helped Father Bradbury to his feet.

As they walked toward the shore, the priest found it strange to be back in his body. He felt tired and hot again. Thirst and hunger returned. But whether it was to make him brave or more pious, Father Bradbury knew one thing.

God had showed him the edge of eternity for a reason.

FORTY-SIX

Okavango Swamp, Botswana Friday, 6:42 P.M.

Dhamballa shut the door of his hut. He was surprised to notice that his forearms were weak, his fingers shaking, as he turned on the lantern. He felt disoriented and alone.

The Vodun leader did not want to believe what the soldier had told him—that Leon Seronga had ordered the killing of the priest. The man Dhamballa knew would not give such a command. Not only was it bloodthirsty, it was against everything the peaceful revolution they had worked to achieve stood for.

Yet, do you really know Seronga? Dhamballa thought ruefully. He is an officer, and officers yearn for promotions, for power.

But Dhamballa must not think about that now. It was time to put the material world aside and let the gods speak.

Dhamballa removed a tiny chest from inside his desk. He set it down on the mat, knelt beside it, and raised the lid. Carefully, he removed a white cloth. He set it on the mat and unwrapped it. There were five chicken bones inside the cloth. A source of sustenance and fertility, the chicken was sacred to Vodunists. These were bones that Dhamballa had dried himself when he began studying the art of the houngan. He had baked them in the sun and in heated sand, drawing out all the moisture and making them hard, like ivory.

He reached into the chest and removed a pouch. He undid the drawstring and took out a pinch of cornmeal. This powder, known as ma-veve, represented a direct connection with the healthy and fertile earth. He spread the powder over the cloth, then steepled three of the bones on top of it. Only the largest of the bones was marked. It bore notches in the surface from top to bottom. Then he palmed two others and gently rolled them between his palms. He closed his eyes. The noise of the breaking camp seemed distant. The rolling of the bones often put the Vodunist in a trancelike state. Dhamballa’s own houngan mentor had once told him that the man was the real medium. The bones were simply a totem to focus and guide the spirit of the houngan. During this brief journey, they did not provide detailed information about the future. Rather, they read currents in the river of human endeavor. They foretold where the currents would lead. The details were for a houngan to discover through deed and meditation.

Dhamballa released the bones. While they were still airborne, the gods breathed upon them. The Vodun leader could feel the breath as it rushed past him. The two tossed bones struck the other three.

Dhamballa opened his eyes. He studied the pattern in which the bones fell. They confirmed his fears.

Until tonight, the bones had landed in patterns that suggested peaceful trials for himself and his adversaries. Trials of religious resolve, of philosophy, of endurance. They pointed to the moon or sun to tell whether the ordeals would come during the night or day. They pointed east, west, north, or south to tell him from which direction the challenges were coming.

But something had changed.

The house of bones had fallen with all of the pieces crossing one another. That meant chaos was in the offing for the Vodun leader.

There were two more throws to make. The first toss told him how the future would be if the currents went unchanged. The second toss was a look at whether the events might be changed. If the bones landed exactly as before, then the future was fixed. First, there was something he must do.

Dhamballa picked up the largest of the bones. This was the bone with the hash marks cut in its surface. He tugged a hair from his head and carefully worked the strand through a small slit in the base of the bone. Then he wound the rest of the hair through the other notches cut in the bone. There were slashes representing the eyes, the heart, the stomach, and the loins. Dhamballa fit the free end in a slit on the top of the bone. When the Vodun leader was done, he picked up the rest of the bones and tossed them all again.

The other four bones landed on top of the bone with his hair.

The gods were telling Dhamballa that there was only one way to prevent the chaos. He must take the entire burden upon himself. He must deal with the issues and come up with the solutions.

The Vodun leader scooped the bones into his hand. He gave them a final throw. This last toss would tell Dhamballa whether it was possible to find a solution to the chaos. It would also suggest whether that solution could be peaceful or whether violence was inevitable. He did not bother praying. The gods were there to advise, not listen.

He leaned forward as the bones came to a stop. If none of the bones had touched, then peace was possible. That was not the case. Two of the bones lay by themselves. That meant some participants did not want to confront Dhamballa or each other. Two other bones lay crossed atop the element representing Dhamballa. The gods were telling him that while a peaceful solution was possible, those participants would be against it.

He bent and looked more closely at the cloth. The smallest bone was lying directly across the heart of the Dhamballa bone. That told him something significant.

His gravest enemy was also the unlikeliest one. Until now, he would have thought that was Leon Seronga. But if the prince had not betrayed him, it had to be someone else. Genet was gone and would not be present at the mine. Yet he and his partners stood to lose a great deal if Dhamballa failed. They were going to become Botswana’s exclusive diamond merchants on the international market. They would have half of the 500 million dollars the diamonds would generate.

Dhamballa picked up the bone with his hair. He carefully removed the strand and tossed it aside. In its present form, it was an effigy, a crude doll that could impact his own life. If he broke the bone or shut it in darkness, those afflictions would be visited upon him. After shaking the cornmeal from the cloth, Dhamballa rewrapped the bones and placed them back in the chest. In a moment, he would leave the hut to join his soldiers. First, he knelt on the mat and sought to find his center. He could not allow anger or fear to unbalance him.

Dhamballa had not expected events to unfold as they had. But one of the fundamental teachings of Vodunism is that nothing is guaranteed. Even prophecy and magic can fail if the practitioner is careless or distracted.

This is the situation that exists, he thought.

He would not have the time to build a larger following. To get enough attention so that the media would be watching. To present a strong, unified force to the government. To demand that the people of Botswana not be led to the worship of new gods. To insist on the control of industry by Botswanans, not foreigners. He did not even know if the leader of his soldiers had betrayed him.

Nothing is guaranteed, but one thing is certain, Dhamballa told himself. He had to go to the mine. He had to preach as he had planned. There was still a chance that he could rally the loyal. Perhaps he could start a fire that would bring others to their side. With luck, they could draw sufficient numbers to hold off the military in a peaceful way. If they failed, Dhamballa would be assassinated. Even if he were not shot, it was Thomas Burton who would be arrested and tried. His words would be stifled by the leaders, his cause twisted by government attorneys. It would be years before the Vodun movement would have another chance to present its case to the people.

And for Dhamballa, there would be no other chance at all.

FORTY-SEVEN

Washington, D.C. Friday, 12:00 P.M.

Matt Stoll had once told Paul Hood about the electron factor. It was knowledge that Hood thought he would never use. Like so many things, however, he was wrong.

The science lesson had been given two months ago. The senior staff had taken Hood to dinner for his birthday. It was Ann’s idea to have the postmeal celebration at a bar near Ford’s Theater. Bob Herbert, Stephen Viens, and Lowell Coffey joined them at a booth in the empty tavern. Stoll went, even though he was not a drinker. He said he liked watching other people drink.

“Why?” Ann asked.

“I like seeing who they become,” Stoll said.

“That sounds a little condescending,” Ann remarked.

“Not at all,” Stoll replied. “It’s inevitable. Everyone and everything has two natures.”

“You mean you, too?” Herbert asked.

“Sure.”

“The old Superman, Clark Kent thing?” Herbert asked.

“There’s the timid or the heroic, the benevolent or the bestial, countless yins and yangs,” Stoll said.

“Oh yeah?” Herbert remarked. He raised his beer in the direction of the Capitol. “I know some people who are just stinking rotten all the time, thank you very much Senator Barbara Fox, you disloyal, budget-cutting Ms. Hyde.”

“She was also a loving mother,” Stoll replied.

“I know,” Herbert said. “We helped her find out what happened to her daughter. Remember?”

“I remember,” Stoll said.

“That’s something she seems to have forgotten,” Herbert said.

“No. It’s the duality that is a fact of life,” Stoll insisted. “It’s the result of physics.”

“Physics?” Hood asked. “Not biology?”

“Everything comes down to physics,” Stoll told him. “I call it the ‘electron factor.’ ”

“Is this your own theory?” Herbert asked.

“It’s not a theory,” Stoll replied.

“No. He said it’s a ‘fact of life,’ ” Ann said, grinning and slapping Herbert on the wrist. “Facts are not theoretical.”

“Sorry,” Herbert replied. “All right, Matthew. Tell us about the electron factor.”

“It’s simple,” Stoll replied. “When an electron is doing its thing, spinning around the nucleus of an atom, we don’t know it’s there. It’s just a cloud of force. But when we stop an electron to examine it, what we’re studying is no longer an electron.”

“What is it?” Hood asked.

“Basically it’s a ‘Hyde’ electron,” Stoll said. “An electron is defined by what it does, not what it looks like or how much it weighs. Remove it from its natural habitat, from its orbit, and it becomes a particle with nothing to do.”

Stoll went on to say that everything in nature had that double personality. He said that people could be one thing or another at any given time. Loving or angry, awake or asleep, sober or drunk. But not both. He said he enjoyed watching the change. He wanted to see if there would ever be someone who could be two things at the same time.

“Sure,” Herbert said. “How about annoying and boring?”

Stoll pointed out that those were not occurring at once. It was obvious that the scientist was annoying Herbert. Therefore, Herbert was not bored. As for Stoll boring someone else, that was purely speculative. And if he were boring them, then he was not annoying them.

Ann was sorry that she had brought the subject up. She ordered another chocolate martini. Herbert ordered another Bud.

Hood continued to nurse his light beer. He was fascinated.

Hood remembered the conversation now because he was that electron. The stationary electron. The one without a purpose.

Hood stood in the small washroom at the back of his office. The door was shut. Physically, he was as isolated as he felt. He rubbed water on the nape of his neck and looked in the mirror on the small medicine cabinet. Incredibly, there was only one decision he had to make at the moment: whether to go to the local greasy spoon or the pizzeria for lunch. And Hood was not even that hungry. It was simply something to do.

Isolated and useless, he thought, at forty-five years of age.

Mike Rodgers was running the field operation. Bob Herbert was handling the intelligence gathering and liaising with Edgar Kline. Matt Stoll was on top of the ELINT. Liz Gordon would be refining her profile of Dhamballa and Leon Seronga.

Even the former accountant in Hood was restless. Senator Fox had done all the budget slashing for him. He could probably stay in here the rest of the day, and everything would run just fine. Even Bugs Benet, God bless him, was on top of things. Hood’s assistant was dealing with a lot of the operational details, paperwork, and E-mails the director had been handling. Benet even found time to take care of some of the press matters Ann Farris used to handle.

It was not just here Hood felt a sudden disconnect. Right now, his kids would be eating the lunch their mother had prepared. There was a time when Hood knew what was in those sandwiches. Or in the juice boxes. What kind of snack they were having. What brand of chips. Who they would be sitting with at school. Hell, he did not even know what their class schedules were.

Some of that was their age. They were not in elementary school anymore. Some of it was circumstance. Hood was not at the house anymore. If he called each morning to ask what the kids were having for lunch, they would not see it as Dad connecting. They would think it was weird.

Whether or not this was a momentary lull or the shadow of things to come, Hood had to do something. The leaner Op-Center was still feeling its way. His divided family was still finding its own new personality. Hood had to do the same. If things were quiet here this afternoon, maybe he would drive over to the school and pick up Harleigh and Alexander. Or he could stay and watch Alexander play ball, if that was what he was doing.

Hood was about to splash water on his eyes when the phone on the washroom wall beeped. Maybe Lowell Coffey was bored and thinking about going to lunch.

It was Mike Rodgers.

“Are you free?” Rodgers asked.

“Yes,” Hood replied.

“We may have to blow the situation in Botswana to the next level,” Rodgers replied. “We’re meeting in the Tank in two minutes.”

“I’m on my way,” Hood said. He hung up the phone, wiped his neck, and tightened the knot of his tie. Then he opened the washroom door.

And, gratefully, Paul Hood began to move again.

FORTY-EIGHT

Maun, Botswana Friday, 7:00 P.M.

The lights of Maun vanished, swallowed by the dirt kicked up by the truck. The vehicle bounced and rocked as it made its way over the dirt roads outside the city.

The cab of the truck was dark. Maria Corneja was crowded between the driver and Leon Seronga. Pavant sat in the back of the truck. He was armed with a rifle and night-vision goggles.

Soon Leon would contact the base camp. That was when they would reach the fork that took them north to the swamp or west toward the diamond mine. Leon needed to know where Dhamballa wanted to rendezvous. One of the Brush Vipers monitored military and police bands. Seronga was certain the Vodun leader had already heard about the bishop’s murder. Seronga also needed to assure Dhamballa that he had nothing to do with that.

As the truck pushed through the dark, Seronga turned to the woman seated beside him.

“Shall I introduce myself?” Seronga asked. “Or do you already know who I am?”

“You are Leon Seronga, commander of the Brush Vipers,” the woman answered.

“How do you know all of that?” he asked.

“I cannot tell you,” she said.

“You’re not being very helpful,” Seronga said.

“It’s not my job to be helpful,” she replied. “All you need to know is that I can help.”

“By revealing who killed the bishop,” Seronga said.

“I have taken steps to find out who was responsible for the shooting,” Maria told him.

“Can you tell me what kind of steps?” Seronga asked.

“I took photographs at the airport,” the woman replied. “I’ve arranged for the pictures to be analyzed. Hopefully, my colleagues will be able to trace the identity of the people involved.”

“Colleagues in Spain?” Seronga pressed.

Maria did not answer.

“But you will use that information to help us?” Seronga asked.

“I said I would use the information to clear you,” Maria replied, “nothing more.”

“That will help us,” Seronga pointed out.

Maria acted as if she had not heard. “But I will do that only if you give me what I want,” she said.

“Which is?” Seronga asked.

“You must release your captive, Father Bradbury,” she replied.

“What if that is not possible?” Seronga asked.

“Everything is possible,” Maria replied.

“But your cooperation depends upon that?” he asked.

“Absolutely,” she answered.

“Unfortunately, I do not have the authority to promise what you say is possible,” Seronga informed her.

“Then get it,” she said.

“That isn’t going to be easy,” Seronga said.

“If political upheaval were easy, everyone would do it,” Maria replied. “Without my help, your movement will die within days.”

“You’re certain of that,” he said.

“Yes.” Maria looked at him. “Whoever ordered the death of the bishop wants that. Assassinating an American prelate is a harsh opening move. I can only imagine what will follow if they do not get their way.”

“And you say you have no idea who they are?” Seronga said.

“None,” she replied.

“Would you tell me if you did know?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she admitted.

Seronga sat back. He gazed out the passenger-side window. A thin coat of pale mud made the moon a featureless blur. That was fitting. Nothing was in clear focus right now. Except the woman. She had the confidence of a cheetah. He turned back to her.

“What do you know about our movement?” Seronga asked. Maria shrugged. “Not much.”

“Then let me tell you,” Seronga said.

“Why?” Maria asked.

“You may be swayed by the righteousness of what we are doing,” he said. “I was.”

“Mr. Seronga, I am from Madrid,” Maria said. “I have listened to the arguments of Basque separatists and monarchists from Castile, all of it very passionate and at times persuasive. But when they break the law, I don’t care what they have to say. I take them down.” She looked at him. “I’m here to secure the release of Father Bradbury. That is my righteous cause. I won’t be stopped. If you want my help, that is the price.”

“What if cooperating with us is the only way you will survive the night?” Seronga asked. He did not like being ordered around by someone he did not yet respect.

The woman looked ahead. A moment later, she jammed her left foot on top of the driver’s foot. The accelerator was crushed to the floor and the truck sped ahead. Njo Finn’s shouts filled the cab as he struggled to steer. At the same time, Maria thrust her long thumbnail into the small of Seronga’s throat. The nail rested just above the sternum. Seronga tried to push her back, but she used her free arm to brace herself against the driver’s shoulder. That action also pinned Njo Finn against the door. The harder Seronga pushed, the more Finn was pinned. Finn could not interfere with her and steer at the same time.

Maria pushed harder on Seronga’s throat. He gagged. He could feel her long nail break through his flesh.

The Brush Viper raised his hands. Maria released both men. She raised her foot from the accelerator.

“That was madness!” yelled Finn. “I almost ran into a tree!”

Pavant pounded on the back of the cab. “What happened? Is everything all right?”

“Everything is under control!” Finn shouted back. He looked at Seronga. “Isn’t it?”

Seronga nodded.

Finn looked at Maria. She did not answer.

“I’ll take that to be a ‘yes’ from the lady,” Finn said.

The three sat in silence. Seronga raised his right hand slowly. He did not want to alarm her by moving quickly. He touched a finger to his throat. There was blood. He lowered his hand to his side.

“Mr. Seronga, a killer for a familia in Spain once asked me the same question you did,” Maria said. “He posed a threat veiled as a question. Well, I am here. He is with the devil.”

The tone of Maria’s voice was unchanged from before. This woman was as cool a warrior as Leon Seronga had ever encountered. But Seronga had been a soldier for a long time. He had nothing to prove to her or to himself. He had underestimated her. She had impulsively, foolishly put him on notice. He would not give her that kind of freedom again.

The Brush Viper had slid his right hand into the leather pouch on the door. That was where Njo Finn kept an automatic. Seronga wanted to make certain the weapon was there. It was.

Seronga relaxed and looked ahead. In a few minutes, he would call base camp for instructions.

He believed that this woman might be able to help them. He did not want to jeopardize that or hurt her. But there was too much at risk to let her determine policy.

He had already killed in the name of the faith. He had slain the two deacon missionaries.

If necessary, he would kill again.

FORTY-NINE

Washington, D.C. Friday, 12:05 P.M.

“Edgar, Paul Hood just arrived,” Bob Herbert said.

Herbert was talking into the speakerphone on the desk of the conference room, which was familiarly known as the Tank. The Tank was surrounded by walls of electronic waves that generated static to anyone trying to listen in with bugs or external dishes.

“Good afternoon, Paul,” Kline said.

“Hello,” Hood said. He strode behind Herbert and stopped there. Mike Rodgers, Darrell McCaskey, and Lowell Coffey were also in attendance. The men looked grave.

There was a thin monitor built into the arm of Herbert’s wheelchair. When he was in the Tank, he jacked his computer and phone into a land line. He angled the monitor toward Hood and pointed toward the screen. There was a photograph of a small airplane. Herbert typed on the keyboard, “Just in from Maun. Assassin’s getaway plane. Tracing number now.”

Hood patted Herbert’s shoulder.

“Paul, I was just telling Mike and the others that the Vatican wants to move against the people who are holding Father Bradbury,” Kline said. “We are under a lot of pressure to take action.”

“Your office or the Vatican?” Hood asked.

“My office,” Kline replied. “Officially, the Vatican is calling for patience and a peaceful resolution to the crisis. Unofficially, they want the assassins caught, Father Bradbury released or rescued as quickly possible, and his captors apprehended and tried.”

“I can understand why,” Hood said.

“We found the driver who took the two ‘deacons’ to Maun,” Kline said. “His description pretty much confirmed what we suspected. They were not affiliated with Father Bradbury’s church. We are looking into the whereabouts of all the deacons who serve or have served in Botswana, though we are relatively certain these men will not be among them. It looks like your agent may have been right. They could very well be Brush Viper imposters.”

“Could they have stolen vestments from one of the church residences?” Hood asked.

“Easily,” Kline replied. “We may have more information soon, however. The driver did tell us where he dropped them. The entire Spanish unit is converging on the area. The driver also put us in touch with the man who brought your agent to Maun. He won’t tell us anything.”

“Maybe he doesn’t know anything,” Hood pointed out.

“I don’t believe that,” Kline said frankly. “He won’t even tell us where he dropped your agent. Surely he knows that.”

“I can’t answer for what he does or doesn’t know,” Hood said. “Maybe he doesn’t want to be involved in this. He could be afraid.” That would not surprise Hood. Either Maria had terrified the driver or charmed him. Either way, he would not be talking.

“Paul, I gave you access to that church to use as a data drop,” Kline said. “I have told you what we know. As I was just telling Mr. Herbert, I thought we were cooperating on this.”

“Mister?” Herbert muttered. He scrunched his face.

“Edgar, we are cooperating,” Hood said.

“Then I’ll ask you the same thing the other members of your staff refused to answer, Paul,” Kline said. “Where is your agent now? Is she still in Maun, or has she followed the two Brush Vipers?”

Hood looked at Rodgers.

“Edgar, this is Mike,” Rodgers said. “As I told you a minute ago, we don’t know where Maria is. She has not contacted us.”

“You have an agent in the field, closest to the scene, and she has not called in to let you know where she is?” Kline said.

“I have to assume she’s been very busy,” Rodgers said.

“Either that, or she’s not in a position to talk to us,” Herbert said. “She could be hiding in a goddamn closet somewhere, eavesdropping.”

“Edgar, what reason would we have to withhold information from you?” Hood asked.

No one said anything for a moment. Hood could think of many reasons. No doubt Kline could as well. But this was not the time to go into them. Which was why Hood had asked the question.

“You’ve got other agents en route,” Kline said. “How are they going to rendezvous with her?”

“We’re hoping she will contact us so we can relay the information to them,” Rodgers said.

“Well, while you’re waiting for that, we’re going to find the Brush Vipers,” Kline said.

“I wish you luck, Edgar,” Hood said. “I sincerely do.”

“We’re going to find them and do whatever it takes to stop them from terrorizing our missionaries. What I don’t want is for your people—more of your people, General Rodgers—to be caught in the crossfire in a foreign land.”

That last dagger was a reference to the loss of Striker in Kashmir. The general took the hit impassively. Hood did not.

“If you want our cooperation, Edgar, you’ll address my people with a little more tact,” Hood said.

“What I will do, Paul, what I am concentrating on doing, is bringing down the people who are attacking my Church,” Kline said. “If anyone gets in our way, I’m sorry if they get clipped with a little tactlessness. They’ll recover.”

“What about Father Bradbury being caught in the crossfire?” Herbert asked. “How much does that matter?”

“I’m not even going to answer that,” Kline said.

“No, you wouldn’t,” Rodgers said. “Because you and I both know how the Grupo del Cuartel General and their Unidad Especial del Despliegue work.”

“Explain,” Hood said.

“Paul, those soldiers hit hard,” Rodgers said. “And they protect their own. They would sooner take out everyone in the line of fire than suffer any casualties. If you pursue your publicly stated policy of patience and peace, our people might be able to get Father Bradbury out safely.”

“And the Brush Vipers?” Kline asked. “How do we keep them from attacking us again?”

“That’s the responsibility of the government of Botswana,” Hood said. “The United States government will push for intervention over the death of the bishop. There’s no need for a skirmish.”

“Unfortunately, that call will be made by Rome, not me,” Kline said. “And they feel they have to respond in order to protect missionaries in other lands. My job is to get them any assistance I can. What I need to know is whether you will provide assistance.”

Hood looked at the others. He did not see a consensus in their eyes. He punched the mute button on the phone.

“Do we need to talk about this?” Hood asked.

“Yeah,” Herbert said. “We do.”

“Do we have Edgar’s number?” Hood asked.

Herbert nodded.

Hood deactivated the mute. “Edgar, we’ll call you back in ten minutes,” Hood said.

“I’ll be waiting,” Kline said and hung up.

Hood moved from behind Herbert. He leaned on the table. “All right. First, where is Maria?” he asked.

“She’s heading north, off-road, to points unknown,” Herbert said. “Her driver, Paris Lebbard, saw where Maria went.”

“Is he following them?” Hood asked.

“No,” Herbert replied. “But Lebbard saw the off-road direction they took. That was all we needed. We had Viens look for them with the GOSEE-9.”

The GOSEE-9 was the Geosynchronous Observation Satellite and Electromagnetic Eavesdropping platform. The bus-sized satellite was positioned over southern Africa. It had wide bandwidth audio eavesdropping capabilities. Maria, Aideen, and Battat had each been given an OLB, an orbiter locator beacon. It was a device that looked like a pen and never caused a problem at customs. The OLB sent out a high-frequency pulse every thirty seconds. The GOSEE-9’s onboard computer placed the pulse on a map and sent the exact location to a corresponding map in the NRO’s computer.

“What was Maria’s last reported position?” Hood asked.

“She was about four miles north of where Lebbard had reported seeing them,” Herbert said. “We left that information on voice mail for Aideen and David. They rented a car in Gaborone. Their cell phone can’t reach Op-Center.”

“Hell of a roaming charge if they could,” Coffey said.

“The towers in Botswana are too remote for a direct call,” Herbert said. “However, they were able to call the satellite line at the United States embassy in Gaborone. The communications officer there is going to pipe them into a U.S. trunk line so they can collect their messages.”

“Why can’t they just call Mike directly?” Coffey asked.

“They can,” Rodgers said. “But they may be in a place where they’re free to listen but not talk. Or maybe they don’t want their voices picked up and recorded by electronic eavesdropping.”

“Any call longer than two minutes is relatively easy to pinpoint through triangulation,” Herbert explained.

Coffey nodded with understanding.

“According to the OLB signal tracked at the NRO, Aideen and Battat turned west before they reached Maun,” Herbert went on. “They appear to be on an intercept course.”

“So there’s a chance they can actually reach Dhamballa and get to Father Bradbury,” Hood said.

“Well, without knowing how and where the priest is being kept, that’s difficult to say,” Rodgers answered. “In theory, yes. That’s why we want to give her a shot before the Spanish army goes rolling in.”

“But a clean rescue like that doesn’t satisfy the Vatican’s needs,” Hood observed.

“No. They got into this to crush a rebellion,” Rodgers said.

“We got in to save a priest and help an ally.”

“Still, we may end up with a war,” Herbert said. He tapped the photograph of the airplane. “We still don’t know who shot Bishop Max or why.”

“Put aside the ethics of this for the moment,” Hood said. “Does preventing the removal of the Brush Vipers and Dhamballa from Botswana hasten or delay a war? Does it buy us time?”

“You mean, if there’s a third party involved?” Herbert asked.

“Right,” Hood said.

“I would say it slows things down,” Herbert said. “Whoever killed Bishop Max obviously wanted Dhamballa to take the fall for the murder and get crushed for it,” Herbert said.

“So an attack by the Spanish soldiers against the Brush Vipers helps whoever killed the bishop,” Hood said.

“This is all very speculative, but yes,” Herbert said. “For all we know, the Spanish could have done it. Or the assassins could have been sent by Gaborone. Maybe they were looking for a reason to shut down Dhamballa.”

“Excuse me, but aren’t we obligated to support the legal government?” Coffey asked.

“Is a government that murders an innocent American citizen lawful?” Rodgers asked.

“That’s assuming Botswana had a part in his death,” Hood said.

“I said legal not lawful,” Coffey pointed out. “We all know that legal governments sometimes do unlawful things.”

“I’m shocked,” Herbert said.

“Look, that’s not a minefield I want to cross if we don’t have to,” Hood said. “Right now, I want to focus on our people.”

“Hear, hear,” McCaskey said.

“Do we let them go ahead on their own, do we abort this thing, or do we allow them to lead the Spanish soldiers to the target?” Hood asked.

“If the Spanish are killing Botswana citizens, we don’t want to be a part of that,” Coffey said.

“Why not?” Herbert asked. “The president might view that as a viable coalition.”

“Spain and the U.S. ganging up on Botswana?” Rodgers said.

“No,” Herbert replied. “Two nations surgically striking against the rebels, who are holding a Catholic priest as a hostage. Botswana will thank us for not having to move against their own people.”

“I’m not so sure of that,” Rodgers said. “None of us has been given permission by the ‘lawful’ government to stage any action.”

“We’ll get that authority after the fact, assuming it all works out,” Herbert said. “They’ll be happy to give it to us.”

“Mike, I’m inclined to agree with Bob, but not for the reasons stated,” Hood said. He was looking at the photograph. “A third party, as yet unknown, killed Bishop Max. Maybe Spain, maybe Gaborone, but maybe someone else. The someone else is the one that scares me. Especially with Beaudin on the perimeter. It would suggest that there is something larger going on. The sooner the Brush Vipers and the Vatican are removed from the equation, the sooner we can find out who is behind the killing.”

“You’re assuming the Brush Vipers can be removed from the equation,” Rodgers said.

“They haven’t fought for years,” Herbert said.

“True. But there are dozens, possibly hundreds of them,” Rodgers said. “And they will be fighting on terrain they know well.”

“Yes, but we have an advantage they do not,” Herbert said.

“Which is?” Rodgers asked.

“We have someone on the inside,” Herbert said. “Someone of whom they are unaware.”

“Someone who isn’t going to be risking her life to stop what smells like a revolution we have no business in,” McCaskey said.

“Darrell, she has no instructions to intervene,” Hood said. “We’ll monitor this closely, I promise.”

McCaskey’s arms were folded tightly across his chest. He leaned back in the chair and was rocking. Hood considered ordering him home. He would see how things developed.

“You know, I’m missing something here,” Coffey said. “How does having Maria on site help us? We can’t contact her directly.”

“Aideen and Battat will be able to do that,” Herbert said. “And we’ll make sure they are fully briefed via voice mail. They’ll check for instructions and fresh intel before they do anything.”

“Gotcha,” Coffey said.

“We’ll let them know the Spaniards are going to move in,” Rodgers said. “Their job will be to get to Father Bradbury, if possible. Get him out if they can. That accomplishes our original goal, and it gives us the moral high ground.”

“In other words, our people get in and out before the shooting starts,” Coffey clarified.

“Either that or they lay very, very low,” Herbert said.

Rodgers’s hands were folded on the conference table. He was staring at them intently. “I do want to make this observation,” he said. “This started as an intelligence-gathering operation. It now has a potential political objective with a military component. The military end will be undertaken by soldiers who will not have the time nor inclination to check passports before they open fire. The people we have sent are not qualified to participate in that kind of operation. I don’t want them involved in any way.”

“Maria speaks Spanish, doesn’t she?” Coffey asked.

“Yes,” McCaskey said. “But Mike is right. They should not be interfacing with the Spanish soldiers.”

“I didn’t mean to suggest that,” Coffey said. “Only if it comes down to that, she can communicate with them.”

“Yes,” Rodgers said. “Communicate. Not collaborate.” He looked at Hood. “Are we on the same page about that?”

“Unless I’m mistaken, it’s your call,” Hood said.

Herbert made a face. “I have a couple cents to put in, too, Mike. Darrell’s not going to like this, but safety aside, they are our only resource in the region.”

“For intelligence,” McCaskey reminded him.

“Yes, but only if we exclude the one objective we have not discussed,” Herbert said.

“Which is?” Hood asked.

“Whether our people can prevent bloodshed,” Herbert said. “We aren’t just there for the greater glory of Op-Center. I believe that part of our mission is to try to save lives.”

“Starting with the lives of our team,” McCaskey said. “You heard Kline. He wants them to lead his soldiers to Dhamballa.”

“That doesn’t necessarily mean ‘For a bloodbath,’ ” Herbert said. “Our people can be a moderating force. And for that matter, the Spanish soldiers can help to protect them.”

“Like they protected the bishop?” McCaskey asked.

Hood held up his hands. “People, these are all good points. But I’m thinking that maybe we can do both.”

“Do both what?” McCaskey asked.

“Keep the peace and free Father Bradbury,” Hood said.

“How?” McCaskey asked.

“Aideen and David will be intercepting Maria before long,” Hood said. “Suppose they tell her and Seronga what is coming. If they can persuade him that the cause is in serious jeopardy, they may convince him to split up. One or two of our people go with Seronga to free the priest. The other one or two lead the Spanish soldiers off-trail. Meanwhile, we work with Kline to convince Gaborone that the Brush Vipers were not responsible for the killing of Bishop Max.”

The Tank was silent for a moment.

“Not bad,” Herbert said.

“What if Seronga is not as reasonable as you think?” Rodgers asked. “He’s a soldier. If he decides to fight, we could be leading the Spanish soldiers and our own people into an ambush.”

“Seronga cannot want that kind of a showdown,” Hood said. “Especially if Maria can convince him that we’re on the trail of whoever it was that really did kill Bishop Max.”

“It’s not risk-free, but it’s solid,” Herbert said as his wheelchair phone beeped. “I like that better than cutting bait and running.” He picked up the phone and wheeled himself from the table.

Hood turned to Rodgers. “Mike?”

Rodgers thought for a moment. “There are still a lot of variables,” he said.

“When are there not?” Hood asked.

“True, but the biggest is what three men will do—Seronga, Dhamballa, and Beaudin, if he has any influence in this. Religious zealots are not known for rational behavior. Even when it comes to survival. And industrialists are not known to give up plans for mega-expansion, if that’s what he has in mind.”

“Nothing’s guaranteed,” Hood agreed.

“And of course, it’s not our asses on the line out there,” Coffey added.

“No, but we’re going to get them through this,” Hood said as Herbert wheeled back over. “Bob, you want to get Kline back on the phone?”

“In a minute,” Herbert said. He tapped the photo of the airplane. “That was my guy at Air Force Intelligence. He tracked the identification number on the airplane and located the registration.”

“And?” Hood asked.

“It was rented from a local company named SafAiris,” Herbert said. “The plane landed in a field and was abandoned.”

“Who rented it?” Rodgers asked.

“The name they gave was Don Mahoney of Gaborone,” Herbert said. “I’m willing to bet there’s no such person.”

“Fingerprints?” Rodgers asked.

“If there are, we may not be able to get to them before the plane is impounded by the Botswana military,” Herbert said. “Police in the region have already spotted the aircraft. Anyway, it probably wouldn’t tell us much. People this thorough don’t forget to wear gloves.”

Hood knew the intelligence chief well. There was something else on Herbert’s mind. “Out with it, Bob,” Hood said. “What’s the rest of it?”

“The rest is a real kick in the head,” Herbert said. “Air Force Intelligence Signal Surveillance picked up a transmission from those same coordinates at four-thirty-one P.M. Botswana time.”

“Why were they listening to that area?” Rodgers asked.

“They weren’t. They picked something up because they’ve been monitoring our outgoing calls,” Herbert said.

“Come again?” Coffey said.

“It seems that since the showdown in Kashmir, the AFISS has been keeping track of our foreign communications,” Herbert said.

“What are they doing?” Coffey asked. “Making sure that we behave ourselves?”

“On the books, they probably want to make sure we don’t field any military missions that might backfire,” Herbert said. “Trigger something that could involve more U.S. forces.”

“We haven’t done that so far,” Coffey said.

“That’s a bullshit reason,” Rodgers said. “The Air Force is doing this because they don’t want us showing them up.”

“That would be the off-the-books reason,” Herbert agreed. “Look—the fact that our own people are spying on us is not what surprised me. It was the nature of the signal they received.”

“What about it?” Hood pressed.

“The AFISS routinely monitors radio transmissions that are sent to major intelligence agencies around the world,” Herbert said. “Even if they can’t decipher the code, they keep track of activity. Not just content but volume and frequency are also important.”

“Like a surge in credit card activity sending up flags,” Coffey said.

“Bingo,” Herbert replied. “That’s how we knew when the Russians were going to move into Chechnya. Increased communication. The radio transmission from the landing area in Botswana was noticed by the AFISS computer because it matched a foreign office we’ve been calling.”

“Which one?” Hood asked.

Herbert replied, “Shigeo Fujima at the IAB.”

FIFTY

The Trans-Kalahari Highway, Botswana Friday, 8:07 P.M.

Battat was at the wheel as he and Aideen left Gaborone in their rented Jeep Wrangler Sahara. They got on to the Trans-Kalahari Highway. Almost at once they were struck by the scope of the countryside. Battat had been across Texas and had taken the Trans-Siberian railroad. When he was a teenager, he had crossed the ocean working on a yacht for some international oil tycoon. But he had never seen expanses as level and featureless as these. On both sides there was nothing but scrub, rock, and tawny earth to the horizon. Occasionally, the setting sun would catch a snow-topped mountain. But the peaks were so remote they were quickly hidden by the dusty winds that blew across the veldt.

As the Americans began their drive toward Maun, Aideen called the embassy at Gaborone to access the voice mailbox at Op-Center. Battat was surprised to hear that they had received new instructions. They were no longer going to be linking up with Maria Corneja in Maun.

“Is something wrong?” Battat asked.

“Maria managed to sneak off with Leon Seronga,” Aideen said. “They believe he’s taking her to Dhamballa’s camp.”

“Damn, that woman gets around,” Battat said.

“There’s more,” Aideen told him. “Undercover Spanish troops are searching for Seronga and Dhamballa. Op-Center is inclined to assist them.”

“What about assisting Maria instead?” Battat said. “We have an agent on site who may be in a position to defuse the situation.”

“That’s international politics for you,” Aideen said. “I suspect we’re helping the Vatican, not Spain. The United States needs to maintain good relations with Rome and, through them, help keep peace in Africa. We don’t want another Somalia.”

“Whoever we’re helping, Maria is with Seronga. That puts her in the line of fire,” Battat said.

“Maybe not,” Aideen went on. “Hood wants the Spanish soldiers delayed. That’s why we have to get to Maria first. We’ll split up, one party going with Seronga, the other taking the Spanish along a different route. Whoever goes to the Vodun encampment is to try to get Father Bradbury away. That has to happen before the Spaniards arrive to take him by force. Ideally, we would also convince the Brush Vipers to lay low.”

“Cornered and desperate men do not always do what you want,” Battat remarked.

“But there’s a chance they might,” Aideen said.

“Yeah, and there’s a chance an elephant stampede will save us the way it used to save Tarzan,” Battat said.

“They might do it if Seronga or Dhamballa do not see another way out,” Aideen said.

“Do we know exactly where Maria is?” Battat asked.

“Op-Center is going to send her coordinates through the embassy to my laptop in a few minutes,” Aideen said.

“God bless wireless,” Battat said.

“They’re going to take a little longer getting that same data to the Vatican Security Office,” Aideen added.

“Did Rodgers give any indication which of us is supposed to lead the Spaniards off course?” Battat asked.

“No,” she replied. “I suppose Maria has to be part of the group that goes with the Spanish soldiers. Her countrymen may be more willing to follow her.”

“Why?” Battat asked. “Because she’s Spanish?”

“No,” Aideen replied. “Because she’s a great-looking woman.”

“God bless the male libido, too,” Battat remarked, shaking his head slowly. “And did the Op-Center brain trust tell you where we’re supposed to lead the Spanish army?”

“General Rodgers said the field operation is under my direction,” Aideen told him. “He wants to try to give the other team, the one that sticks with Seronga, a minimum of two hours to work with Dhamballa.”

“That’s just great,” Battat said.

“What is?” Aideen asked.

“Never mind,” Battat said.

“You don’t like the plan?” Aideen pressed.

“No, it’s fine,” he lied. He did not want to get into it. Complaining wouldn’t change anything.

“If you want, we can call Rodgers through the embassy,” she suggested. “I’ll ask him to clarify things.”

“No,” Battat replied. “He’ll just tell us to use our initiative. And he’d be right.”

“General Rodgers said he would feed Maria’s locater beacon into the computer beginning at half past eight,” Aideen went on. “That way we can be sure to intercept Maria. The general said the map coordinates would be refreshed every three minutes.”

Battat glanced at the car clock. The download was just over fifteen minutes away.

“General Rodgers also said Op-Center was instituting an SSB,” Aideen continued. “I did not see that term in any of my files. Do you have any idea what it stands for?”

“It’s a simulated systems breakdown,” Battat told her. “American intelligence agencies share locater beacon technology with several international intelligence services, including Interpol. Interpol has a Spanish division. Rodgers obviously does not want the information being accessed by Spain or the Vatican Security Office prematurely. He needs at least a half hour to purge the download system of cooperative links. The beauty of SSB software is that it allows them to lock out our allies without making it look as if it’s intentional. There will be static, wireless disconnects, software crashes, a whole menu of impediments. It spares hurt feelings and mistrust in future dealings.”

“I see,” Aideen said. “That should give you some idea of how many different issues they’re dealing with over there.”

“While we, luckily, have just one problem,” Battat said.

“Father Bradbury,” she said.

“Sorry, that’s two problems,” Battat said. “Father Bradbury is number two. Number one is getting out of Botswana alive. This was supposed to be simple recon, not search and rescue and deceive elite Spanish soldiers.”

Aideen frowned. “I’m not going to worry about that,” she said. “We’ve read the material, we’ve studied the maps. We’re prepared.”

“Are we?” Battat asked.

“As prepared as we can be,” she replied.

“Exactly. There’s always the stuff you can’t plan for,” Battat said. “I’ve had some experience with that. A couple of months ago, I was hunting for one of the world’s most elusive terrorists.”

“The Harpooner,” Aideen said.

“That’s the SOB,” Battat said. “I wanted to be the one to bring him down. I needed to redeem myself. I collected data, zeroed in on where the bastard had to be, searched the region yard by yard, and waited. The bastard was literally one hundred and eighty degrees from where I thought he’d be. He coldcocked me. He would have killed me except that he needed me alive. We’re improvising on a stage where there’s no room to screw up.”

“We won’t.”

“How can you be sure?” Battat asked. “Tell me something. If this car had been a stick shift, could you have driven it?”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Aideen asked.

“Just answer me,” he said.

“No,” she replied. “Could you have driven it?”

“Yes,” he replied.

“So where’s the problem?” she asked.

“My point is, at any given moment, we are going to face those kinds of unknowns even with a plan,” Battat said. “Without a game plan or a playbook, the risks are extreme.”

“Then we have to be that much more alert,” Aideen said. “We have knowledge, and we have skills. That’s why General Rodgers put the two of us together. We obviously make a good team.”

“Aideen, we were the only ones who showed up in time to be shipped here,” Battat reminded her.

“It wasn’t just that,” the woman replied.

“Oh?”

“Mike Rodgers would not have sent us if he didn’t think we could pull this off,” Aideen said.

“Mike is a general, and generals have to field armies, or they have nothing to do,” Battat said.

“He’s not like that,” she insisted. “Besides, I think you’re looking at this all wrong. We have options. We have the right to exercise our own judgment.”

“Do we? If I wanted to turn around and go back to Gaborone, is that what we would do?” Battat asked.

“You would,” she said.

“And what would you do?” he asked.

“I would stay here,” she said. “I’d walk.”

“You’d be dead before morning,” Battat said. “This is Africa. There are predators that don’t check passports.”

“I would take my chances,” she said. “Don’t you get it?”

“Obviously not,” Battat replied.

“Most people would kill for the kind of freedom we’ve been given out here,” Aideen said.

“Speaking of which, we may have to do that, too,” Battat said.

“Do what?” Aideen asked.

“Kill people,” Battat told her. “Are you prepared to take a human life? Will you push a knife into a person’s back if you have to, or crack their head open with a rock?”

“I faced that question in Spain,” she replied.

“And?”

“If it’s my life or someone else’s, they’re dead,” Aideen said.

“What if it’s my life or someone else’s?” he asked.

“We’re a team,” Aideen replied. “They’re dead.”

Battat smiled. “I’m glad to hear that, anyway.”

“Don’t doubt my resolve,” Aideen said sternly. “I’m here. I’ll do whatever the job requires.”

“Fair enough,” he said. “What about Maria Corneja? Is she as tough as everyone’s been saying?”

“The first person I worked for at Op-Center was Martha Mackall,” Aideen said. “Martha was a tough, tough lady. No bullshit. She was confident and strong as steel.”

“She was the one who was killed in Madrid?” Battat asked.

“Yes, a drive-by shooting, totally unexpected,” Aideen said. “Interpol became involved, and Maria was assigned to the case. I was asked to tag along and help her find the assassins. If Martha was steel, Maria is iron. Not quite as polished, but I never saw her break. I can’t even imagine that happening.”

“That means she’ll want to make all the decisions when we hook up,” Battat said.

“She’ll want to, but she’ll follow the orders Op-Center sends over,” Aideen said. “Including who is in command.”

“Orders,” Battat said. He shook his head. “I’m sure this whole thing would look real solid in the computer simulations. Or at least plausible. We have state-of-the-art intel simulation in Washington. There are respectable agents working in the field. And there’s a relatively modest target. Hell, it sounds almost easy. But there’s always the unknown. I was lucky in Azerbaijan. Here, they could dump your body, and you’d be a meal not a crime scene.”

“As if that matters,” Aideen said.

Battat snickered. “I suppose you’re right.” He shook his head. “You asked me why I was complaining a minute ago. I’ll tell you. We don’t really have freedom. What we have is a blueprint for scapegoating. What ‘freedom’ really means here is, ‘If you screw up, it’s your ass.’ ”

“Op-Center doesn’t work like that,” Aideen said.

“What makes you so certain?” Battat asked. “You weren’t with them very long.”

“Like I said a moment ago, I was there long enough to know that Paul Hood, Mike Rodgers, and the rest of them are not run-of-the-mill bureaucrats,” Aideen told him.

“If you say so,” Battat said dubiously.

“If they were, I wouldn’t be here,” she said. “I was happy working as a political consultant. And I was safe. No one was shooting at me.” She paused. “Not with bullets, anyway.”

The woman’s voice sounded wistful when she said that. Battat smiled. Finally, they appeared to have something in common.

“You got a lot of sniping in the Washington press?” Battat asked.

“Not just me but my causes,” Aideen said. “That hurts even more. They were my babies.”

“Unfashionably liberal causes, I’m guessing?” Battat asked.

“Let’s just say inconvenient,” Aideen replied. “Women’s rights abroad, mostly.”

“Forgive me, but that doesn’t quite jibe with using Maria as Mata Hari,” Battat observed.

“The question is not using sex appeal as a tool,” Aideen said. “The issue is having the option to do so.”

“It still sounds like a contradiction,” he said. “You want to hear something ironic?”

“Sure.”

“I got hit by the press because I gave a woman too much freedom,” Battat told her.

“Annabelle Hampton?” Aideen asked.

“That’s the gal who was spying for terrorists,” Battat said. “There were Op-ED pieces suggesting that ‘her superiors’ be investigated for treason. There were slurs in the conservative press. Always blind items, but everyone knew who they meant. Especially after they found out I was in Moscow at the time.”

“Yet you had the will to come back from that,” Aideen said. “Pretty impressive.”

“Either the will or the fear,” Battat said. “I didn’t want to leave government service with that on my record.”

“I think it was character,” Aideen said. “I learned something back in college. I had a twelve-to-two A.M. radio talk show. It was called The Late Aideen. Ironically, I got at least two death threats a week. What I realized was that you have to do your job regardless of what people think, say, or do. It’s either that or do something safe, boring. I never want to do that.”

“Well, it won’t be boring here,” Battat said. “The Spanish and the Brush Vipers won’t be using innuendo and mud. They’ll be using 9 mm clips.”

“My attitude will be the same,” she said.

Battat hoped so. When he was being fired on in Baku, he felt a lot different than he did when he was spying on the UN from a CIA office in New York. The knowledge that being discovered will cause you to be reassigned is different from knowing that a mistake could be fatal. Some people flourish under fire. Battat did. Others wither. Aideen said she had faced armed enemies before. Obviously, she had held up all right. Otherwise, Mike Rodgers would not have sent her back into the field.

The two sat quietly until eight-thirty. Consulting the computer map, Aideen switched on the decode program.

“It’s downloading,” she announced.

It took less than a minute for the data to be received from Op-Center. Aideen quickly calculated their new route. It was off-road. Not the kind of journey either of them wanted to take at night. But no mission had ever been designed for the comfort of the operative.

The Trans-Kalahari Highway took Battat and his partner to the Meratswe River. The wide, seasonally low river was located on the outskirts of the Central Kalahari Game Reserve. There, the Wrangler left the modern turnpike for the off-road trails. If they had a chance of intercepting the truck with Maria and the Brush Vipers, they would have to cut through the barren salt pan. A dirt road marked the way. It was difficult to say whether the trail had been pounded out by buses or years of migrating animal herds. Possibly both.

The soft top of the vehicle was down. The only sounds were the well-tuned I-6 engine, the air rushing by, and an occasional loud bounce when the Wrangler hit a shallow ditch. Fortunately, the vehicle’s sophisticated suspension minimized the jolt to the lower spine.

Crossing the plain was not like driving in New York City. Or Moscow. Or even Baku, Azerbaijan. Driving here reminded Battat of sailing. For one thing, darkness came very quickly in the flat pan. Or maybe it only seemed that way because so much flat terrain became black all at once. For another, there was a sense of freedom. He could continue north on the path marked with signs. Or he could venture to the east or west. The grass was low enough to go off-road. But there was also a clear and ever-present danger.

The blackness.

Outside the cone of the Wrangler’s headlights, the sky was actually brighter than the ground. It also seemed closer, in a way. That was because the Milky Way was clearly visible as it arced across the sky. Battat did not even have to avert his eyes to see it clearly. The other stars were even brighter as were the occasional shooting stars. Whenever Aideen saw a shooting star, she wished for more light. They did not get it. As a result, Battat did not dare to proceed at more than thirty to forty miles an hour. There was no telling when they would run into a ditch, a flat boulder, or a yellow ANIMAL CROSSING sign. These were scattered throughout the region, bearing the silhoutte of a trumpeting elephant, a rhinoceros, or a lion. Wild animals were something they had to watch out for. Most of the larger predators were on game preserves. But there were still rogues, strays, and packs of wild dogs, hyenas, and other nocturnal hunters.

On the other hand, because it was so dark and because the plain was so utterly flat and featureless, Battat did not imagine they would have much trouble spotting another vehicle.

There was still one thing that troubled David Battat. He worried about it more than the ditches and the boulders, more than getting lost in the darkness. The former CIA agent worried whether the Brush Viper truck would be in a position to spot them first.

And what Seronga would do if he did.

FIFTY-ONE

Washington, D.C. Friday, 1: 08 P.M.

Darrell McCaskey stepped into Mike Rodgers’s office unannounced and unexpected. McCaskey wanted information. In retrospect, he realized he wanted something else. A fight.

He got it.

The FBI liaison was angrier than he had been the day before. He had not slept very much that night. The more he had thought about what happened, the more his rage had built. The people close to him had done what was expedient. They did not do what was right. He was furious at Rodgers for asking Maria to go abroad. He was mad at Maria for having accepted. And he was disgusted with Paul Hood for having allowed her to go. McCaskey and Maria had just gotten married. She had given up intelligence work. What the hell were they all thinking? At what point did the human factor enter into decision making? Where was loyalty to old friends, concern for their well-being?

McCaskey had come to Rodgers’s office unannounced because he wanted to see the general’s face. Rodgers was not a man who admitted concern. Not to his coworkers, not even to his friends. McCaskey had heard that the only one Rodgers confided in was his childhood friend and fellow officer Colonel Brett August. But Rodgers was also not a man who could disguise what he was feeling. It was always there in his eyes, in the turn of his mouth. McCaskey did not want to see any of that hidden for his benefit.

Rodgers was sitting at his computer. He glanced over as the FBI liaison walked in. Years with the FBI had taught McCaskey to size up a person in an instant. To read expressions, posture, perspiration levels. The concern in Rodgers’s face was considerable.

“What’s the latest?” McCaskey asked.

“I was just reading the confirmation from Matt Stoll,” Rodgers replied. His expression became neutral. Mike Rodgers was back in control. “The download for the OLB has been received in Botswana. Aideen and Battat are en route to meet your wife.”

“When do they expect to link up?” McCaskey asked.

“I estimate that should happen in about two hours,” Rodgers told him. “What have you been up to?”

“Paul showed me the photo Maria took at the airport. He also gave me the AFISS phone data,” McCaskey told him. “I’m looking into the possible involvement of Shigeo Fujima. Paul wants me to find out what the IAB could possibly gain by killing the American bishop. Or at least by implicating Dhamballa in the assassination.”

“And?”

“Nothing yet,” McCaskey told him. “The Japanese have zero interest in Africa in general and Botswana in particular. They certainly don’t gain anything by moving in on the diamond industry. The income would be a blip on Japan’s gross national product. My people are looking into other possibilities involving Beaudin and Genet. We’ll see what turns up.”

“Could the Japanese have made the hit for some other party?” Rodgers asked. “Someone we haven’t considered?”

“That’s one of the possibilities I’ve been checking,” McCaskey said. “It would help if we knew whether the assassination was aimed at the Vatican, at this bishop in particular, or at Botswana.”

“It’s easier when you’ve got nations fighting over borders or commerce or thousands of years of enmity,” Rodgers said. “We don’t know what the core issue is here. But I don’t think it’s religion.”

“So what happens next?” McCaskey asked.

“In Botswana?” Rodgers asked.

McCaskey nodded.

“In about ten minutes, Paul is going to send Edgar Kline the same coordinates Matt gave Aideen,” Rodgers said. “A few minutes after that, the Spanish soldiers will begin heading toward the spot as well.”

“Have you heard anything from over there?” McCaskey asked.

“Aideen?”

McCaskey nodded.

“Nothing.”

“Have you given them any additional instructions?” McCaskey pressed.

“No,” Rodgers said.

McCaskey gave Rodgers a moment to add to that. He did not, damn that stubborn son of a bitch. Rodgers knew what McCaskey wanted to hear. That Maria could withdraw at that point.

“Do the Spaniards know that my wife is with this Leon Seronga character?” McCaskey said.

“Kline has been told,” Rodgers assured him. “He will pass that information along. It’s to the advantage of the Vatican Security Office to have a Spanish-speaking ally on site. Especially one who has been trailing Seronga.”

“Look, Mike, there’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you,” McCaskey said.

“Shoot.”

“I assume Maria will make the call whether to terminate, not the greenhorns?” McCaskey asked. The FBI liaison was getting angry again. He could feel it in his shoulders, in his arms and fingers, along the line of his jaw. He wanted to move, to strike out.

“Aideen decides for the team, but Maria can decide for herself,” Rodgers replied. “And Darrell—I need you to do something for me. I need you to back off David and Aideen.”

“Why?” McCaskey said. “Last time I looked, I was still drawing pay from Op-Center. I’ve got a voice here.”

“You do,” Rodgers said. “But it’s an emotional one, and that doesn’t help us. Battat and Aideen are good people.”

“They’re green,” McCaskey insisted.

“Darrell—”

“I’ve read their dossiers,” McCaskey went on. “They haven’t logged enough solo field hours to qualify for a CIA junior recon post.”

“Battat has,” Rodgers said.

“Right,” McCaskey said. “The guy the Harpooner clocked in the field.”

Rodgers did not look happy. McCaskey did not care.

“Aideen Marley spent a few days in the field with Maria,” McCaskey went on. “A few days. That was less than ninety-six hours in a support capacity. And yeah. Technically, Battat has put in the time. If you count his entire career, which has a big midsection where he sat in an office in New York City. Over the last five years, he spent even less time in the field than Aideen, a total of three days. That was also in a support capacity.”

“They distinguished themselves in both cases,” Rodgers said.

“How do you figure that? Maria did most of the work in Spain, and Battat barely survived in Baku,” McCaskey said.

“Battat’s opponent did not survive,” Rodgers said pointedly. “That’s a win in my book. And Aideen proved she’s a quick study. Maria personally commended her work in Europe.”

“Then why does having them out there with my wife fill me with very little confidence?” McCaskey asked.

“I’m not going to answer that,” Rodgers said.

“I will,” McCaskey said. “Because I know Maria. If you let her stay with this mission, she’s going to watch their asses, not her own!”

“I don’t agree, but we won’t get anywhere debating any of this,” Rodgers said. He rose. “Darrell, you’ve been looking for a fight on this ever since it started. I’m not going to give you one. Now, I’ve got to go see Paul—”

“Mike, I need you to do me a favor,” McCaskey said.

“Darrell, I won’t order her back,” Rodgers said.

“You have to,” McCaskey said. “Maria’s carried this far enough. I want you to get her out.”

“I can’t,” Rodgers said emphatically.

“Why?” McCaskey shot back. He leaned on the desk. “Mike, you don’t need my wife over there. You can have her link up with the Spanish soldiers, and she can brief them. Then you can ask them to ship her the hell out. They can handle this thing with our other two people.”

“It’s not that simple,” Rodgers said.

“It can be.”

“There’s more to this than just manpower,” Rodgers insisted. “We need to buy time. Someone has to get to Dhamballa and convince him to release Father Bradbury. If not, the Spanish may go in there shooting. They need to discourage other attempts on missionaries.”

“Why can’t Aideen or Battat carry that message?” McCaskey asked.

“They can,” Rodgers said. “But we also need someone to keep the Spaniards away from the camp.”

“Then I’m really confused, Mike, because I’m doing the math, and you’re not making sense,” McCaskey said. “Aideen does one job, Battat does the other. You said they’re capable. Maria goes home. It’s easy.”

“It’s easier with three people than with two,” Rodgers said. “And I owe it to Aideen and Battat to give them all the support I can. They’re the ones at the front line. Besides, Maria is not going to come home before her mission is completed. She just won’t do that.”

“She might, for me,” McCaskey said. “If not, maybe she’ll do it for you. When the Spanish get to Maria, you can order her back.”

“I just told you I won’t do that,” Rodgers said. “Not unless I know she’s in danger.”

“Screw the job for just a minute, Mike!” McCaskey implored. “We’re talking about my wife!”

“I understand that, Darrell—”

“Christ, do you know I haven’t even seen her since we got married!” McCaskey said. “She was coming here to be with me, not to go to Africa. You want to talk about owing someone something? You owed me that courtesy.”

“I owed you?” Rodgers said. “For what?”

“For friendship,” McCaskey said.

“Friendship has nothing to do with this,” Rodgers said. “We needed an agent. Maria is a damn fine one. End of story.”

“No, Mike, the story is just getting started—”

“Not for me, it isn’t,” Rodgers insisted. “Whether Maria broke a promise to you, I don’t know. Whether you should have ever asked for that kind of promise, I also don’t know. Whether Bob and I should have talked to you first was a judgment call. Unfortunately, we didn’t have a lot of time for back and forth. What I do know is that this matter is between you and your wife. And you can talk to her when she gets back.”

“That’s your answer?” McCaskey asked.

“Pretty much,” Rodgers said.

“ ‘I’m only doing my job’?” McCaskey said.

“Yeah. And don’t make it sound dirty,” Rodgers warned. “You’re really starting to piss me off.”

“I’m pissing you off?” McCaskey said. He felt like throwing a punch. “We’ve been through the wars down here for nearly eight years. We’ve gone through crises, personal and professional losses, all kinds of shit. Now I need a friend and a favor, and I can’t get either.”

“That’s bullshit. Ask me anything else, and I’ll do it,” Rodgers said. “But not this. I need the assets I have.”

“ ‘Assets,’ ” McCaskey said. “You sound like Joseph Goddamn Stalin throwing peasants against trained German troops.”

“Darrell, I’m going to let that slide,” Rodgers said. “It’ll be safer for us both.” Rodgers came around the desk. “Excuse me.”

“Sure,” McCaskey said. He didn’t step aside. “Go to Pope Paul. He’ll absolve you. He’ll give you a shot of that ‘for the cause’ crap. He’ll say the job comes first, and you’re doing the right thing keeping Maria in the field. Me? I care more about the lives of my teammates than the life of a priest who knew the risks of the work he was doing. Who wasn’t even our responsibility in the first place!”

Rodgers walked around McCaskey. McCaskey grabbed his arm. Rodgers glared at him.

McCaskey released him, not because he was afraid, but because beating each other bloody was not going to get Maria home.

“Mike, please,” McCaskey said.

Rodgers looked at him. His gaze was softer now. “Darrell, you think I don’t care about our people?”

“I don’t know,” McCaskey said. “I honestly don’t know.”

Rodgers stepped right up to McCaskey. McCaskey could not remember seeing such a look of betrayal in someone’s eyes.

“Say it again, Darrell,” Rodgers demanded. “Tell me again that I don’t care about them. That I didn’t care about Bass Moore or Charlie Squires or Sondra DeVonne and Walter Pupshaw and Pat Prementine and the other people I lost in Kashmir. I want to hear it when you’re not yelling. I want to hear it when you’re actually thinking about what’s coming from your mouth.”

McCaskey said nothing. When he had spoken, he was not thinking about the Striker members who had been killed over the years. He was only thinking about his wife.

“Say it again!” Rodgers yelled.

McCaskey could not. He would not. He looked down. All the emotion that had built up in the last day was gone. Unfortunately, he had let it loose on the wrong target. And at that moment, Darrell McCaskey knew who he was really mad at. It was not Mike Rodgers, and it was not Maria. He was mad at himself for the reason Rodgers had said. McCaskey should never have tried to get Maria to agree to give up her work.

“Mike, I’m sorry you took it that way,” McCaskey told him. “Shit, I’m sorry.”

Rodgers continued to look at him. The men were silent for a moment longer. Finally, Rodgers looked away. Once again, he turned and headed toward the office door.

“I’ll be back here after the Kline download,” Rodgers said softly. “Let me know when you’ve got something about the Japanese.”

“Sure,” McCaskey said. “Mike?”

Rodgers paused and looked back. “Yeah?”

“For what it’s worth, that isn’t what I meant,” McCaskey said. “I know how you feel.”

“I know what’s in your heart, pal,” Rodgers said. “It’s been a tough time for everyone. Right now, we’re both a part of your wife’s support system. Let’s see what we can do to make that work in the best way possible.”

Rodgers turned away and left the office. He did not look back at McCaskey. It seemed very, very quiet.

McCaskey made a fist and drove it into his open hand. The slap sounded like lightning. Which was appropriate. He had done what he had really come for. He had let out the pent-up energy. But he had dumped it on an old friendship. One that he feared would never be the same.

FIFTY-TWO

Maun, Botswana Friday, 10:09 P.M.

Except for the occasional bounce, it was silent in the cabin of the truck. Leon Seronga did not complain. The Spanish woman was staring ahead, and Njo Finn was silent. He was gripping the wheel tightly. After the encounter with Maria, the driver seemed glad to be in control of something.

The windows were open. The night air was not cool, but the strong wind felt good. A half hour before, Pavant had passed a six-pack of warm Cokes from the back of the truck. Seronga had offered one to Maria, but she had declined. Seronga was nursing his second can. Each sip of the warm beverage burned his mouth, but the caffeine was helping him to stay awake. There was an open map on Seronga’s lap. His left hand was resting on the map to keep it from blowing away. Seronga had drawn a circle with a seventy-five-mile radius. The Vodun base camp was located at the center.

The passage through the dark veldt had given Seronga time to think. And now that he thought about it, this was a very strange place for him to be. Not the plain but the war itself. Until now, Seronga had never felt that he was fighting a religious war. He believed he was fighting a war for Botswana. Yet he was beginning to wonder about that. He was starting to think that Dhamballa might be right, and he could be wrong. It was not a bad feeling, though. To the contrary. It was comforting to think that 10,000 years of spirit might be greater than the African continent and its civilizations.

Decades before, in the years of the quiet revolution to oust the British, the Brush Vipers did everything that was necessary to free Botswana. Back then, Seronga’s vision was clear. So were his methods. Above all, there was strength of purpose: the desire to be free. It was backed by strength of arms and the patience to use them only when necessary.

Seronga had felt those same stirrings of purpose when he first heard Dhamballa speak. Religion had not entered into it. The man’s words were about Africa and Africans. The truth was, Leon Seronga had no use for religion.

Since childhood, Africa had been his god. There was nothing to compare to the majesty of this land, the terrible beauty of the predators and the serenity of the prey. Or the moods of the place, which were unfathomable. Some days were epic and clear. They made life joyous. On others, depending upon the mood of the land, weather moved in with force or seductiveness. Sometimes rain and wind came from nowhere. Other times they were announced by gentle breezes and cool drizzle. There were baking droughts that lasted for weeks or horrendous floods that came so suddenly people drowned in their sleep. Then there were the nights. Sometimes, like tonight, the skies were so vast and vivid that a man felt as if he were weightless and airborne. Other nights were so close, so choking, that Seronga felt as if he were the only man on earth. On such nights even the crickets seemed as though they were on another world.

If the land had been his god, the lives and accomplishments of his people had been his religion. People invented other gods, he believed, because they feared death. For Seronga, death had always been a normal, accepted part of life. Since he was lucky enough to be part of Africa, he had to accept being part of that cycle. He had never resented it. He had never asked for extensions. Too much of life could be wasted on preparing for death.

Leon Seronga did not doubt the righteousness of what he was doing here. Even if he did not succeed, he would not question what he had done. But for the first time in his life, he wondered if he had been wrong about religion. He wondered if the Vodun gods were behind the spirit of Africa and his people.

Or maybe it is not wonder, he thought. Maybe it is hope.

For the first time in his life, Seronga felt a sense that things were out of balance. He felt like an outsider in his own land, in his own battle. There were Spanish soldiers in Maun. Priests from a diocese in South Africa. Observers in Rome. Allies in Belgium, France, and even China. More and more tourists on the roads and in the fields. Africa was no longer that pure physical entity he had once known. It was a park for the rich. A battleground for the ambitious. A source of souls and revenue for Rome. And he thought it had been minimized by the United States, when it became a cause for environmentalists and a laboratory for ethnologists. As if it needed aid and study to stay Africa.

But if Dhamballa was right, maybe Seronga had been finding Africa in the wrong place. Maybe the land and the people were just the manifestation of a greater identity.

Or maybe a veteran Brush Viper is just getting old and scared, Seronga had to admit.

That thought came with a little smile. He did not like to think of himself that way, but maybe it was time. Seronga had seen old lions stand in the brush and watch young members of the pride lead the hunts. He often wondered what those elder warriors were thinking. Did they not want to show how slow they had become? Were they too tired to get into the fray?

Or maybe it was something else, Seronga thought.

Maybe a voice inside the old lion was telling him to pick the time and place for a final hunt. There would be a better time for the warrior to become legend. Seronga wondered whether animals, like people, were powered by legends. And maybe those legends were the real essence of a people.

That was what led Seronga to wonder if Dhamballa might be right.

The gods of which Dhamballa spoke might be nothing more—or less—than ancient warriors who fell in combat and were immortalized in stories. After all, Seronga asked himself, what were gods but idealized beings? They were entities who could not be challenged or assailed, whose purpose was clear and perfect. Whether they were fancy or spirit did not matter. By keeping these memories alive, the nature of a people could be sustained. Even if the land was conquered and the inhabitants enslaved and shipped to other continents, the stories could not be erased. The gods could not be destroyed.

“We’re almost there,” Finn said.

Seronga had constructed giants and eternities in his mind. The driver’s very real voice startled him.

“Thank you,” Seronga replied. He took a swallow of Coke. The tingle brought him back to the moment. He looked at the map.

The point they were approaching was within the reach of Dhamballa’s radio. Even if he had left the base camp, the route he would take would keep him within the circle. As the truck entered that circle, they would finally be able to contact Dhamballa.

Seronga was not sure what he would find when that happened. He did not know how Dhamballa had reacted to the assassination. He did not know how that would affect their next rally.

They passed a small, kidney-shaped lake. The stars shone back at themselves from its surface. A few minutes later, Seronga spotted the dark silhouette of Haddam Peak. The 2,000-foot mountain stood alone in the northeast. Seronga recognized the distinctive hooked tor blocking the stars. It was the last landmark on the map. The truck was entering the call radius. The Brush Viper opened the rusted glove compartment. He replaced the map and removed a slender, oblong, black radio. It was a Belgian Algemene-7 unit. Used by the federal intelligence and security agency Veiligheid van de Staat, it was a secure point-to-point radio with a range of seventy-five miles. Dhamballa had the only receiver.

Seronga pressed the green Activate button on the bottom right of the unit. A red Speak button was to the right. A blue Terminate button was located to the left.

Seronga placed his thumb on the red button. He raised the hooded mouthpiece to his lips.

And stopped. He looked around.

“What’s that?” Seronga asked.

Finn peered ahead. So did Maria.

“Where are you looking?” the driver asked.

“At one o’clock,” Seronga said. He used the radio to point to his right.

“I don’t see anything,” Finn said.

“I do,” Maria replied. “It’s a car. A Jeep.”

The woman was right. A small vehicle glinted faintly in the headlights of the truck. It was about one hundred yards away.

Finn slowed.

“Are you expecting anyone?” Seronga asked.

“Yes,” Maria said.

Seronga glared at her. “Stop the truck,” he said.

Finn crushed the brake. The truck stopped with effort, skidding slightly toward the passenger’s side. That left Seronga staring out his open window, directly at the Jeep.

Seronga put the radio in his lap. He slid his hand beside the seat and withdrew the gun. He did not let Maria see it. Not yet.

Pavant poked his head around. “What’s wrong?”

“Ahead,” Seronga said.

“I see them,” Pavant replied. “Do you want me to get the night-vision goggles and intercept?”

“Not yet,” Seronga said. He regarded Maria. “Who are they?”

“Two of my associates,” Maria replied.

“What do they want?” Seronga asked.

“They’re here to help.”

“To help who?” Seronga pressed. “You?”

“No. To help you and your people survive the night,” she replied. Her voice was chilling in its calm prediction of disaster.

Seronga looked ahead. The Jeep remained stationary.

“How did they know we were going to be here?” Seronga demanded. “Do you have a signaling device of some kind?”

“That isn’t important,” Maria replied.

“It is to me,” Seronga insisted.

“What matters is that there is an elite Spanish unit searching for your leader’s camp,” Maria told him. “These people may have news about them. I suggest we hear what they have to say.”

Seronga saw Finn running his hands anxiously along the wheel.

“It’s going to be all right, Njo,” Seronga said.

“I’d like to get out of the truck,” he said. “I need to get out.”

“It will be all right, I promise,” Maria assured him. “But you had best trust me quickly.”

Seronga raised the gun. He let Maria see it but did not put it on her. The woman was obviously a skilled fighter. In tight quarters like this, it would be easy for her to neutralize the weapon by moving close to Seronga. He also did not want to risk firing wild.

“We’ll all get out,” Seronga said. “We’ll go to the Jeep together. Pavant?”

“Yes?”

“Do you see anyone watching from the sides or back?” Seronga asked.

Pavant looked around. “No. There’s no place to hide,” he replied.

“All right. You stay where you are and cover us,” Seronga said. He cracked the door and eased out. His shoes crunched on the rocky terrain. “Let’s go,” he said to Maria.

The woman slid out beside him. Seronga stepped back. He allowed her to walk several yards ahead. Finn jumped out on the other side. Seronga was glad the driver did not have a gun. He was a good and loyal man, but he had never been in combat. He had not trained extensively for it. The damn thing was, Seronga had not expected to be in combat, either. This was supposed to be a peaceful revolution. A war of ideas, not bloodshed.

The three walked toward the Jeep. Seronga did not even think to doubt what the woman had told him, either about the Spanish soldiers or that the people in the Jeep wanted to help them. It was a remarkable individual to command that kind of trust having said so little.

Finn stayed close to Seronga, behind the woman. Seronga watched for signs of movement. He wondered if the occupants of the Jeep were as cool as their comrade.

He knew he was not. Although he did not show it the same way as Njo Finn, he was afraid. Not for himself but for the cause. At the same time, he had a thought that was also new to him. It was not so much a whisper of hope but a challenge.

If the Vodun gods existed, this would be a very good time for them to make themselves known.

FIFTY-THREE

Washington, D.C. Friday, 3:10 P.M.

“Chief, we’ve got some weird stuff going on.”

The call from Bob Herbert came while Paul Hood was checking in with the rest of the staff. There were other divisions of Op-Center that functioned independent of the core crisis management group. There was a small budget office, a human resources center, and a communications group that worked directly under Bob Herbert.

They monitored fax transmissions, cell phone calls, and satellite activities in regions where Op-Center personnel were working. Hood was lucky to have a great group of young gogetters and veterans working under him. Each learned from the others. Their briefings were always reassuring. As Bob Herbert had once put it, half joking, “They’re the bedrock on which us big ol’ titans do our striding.” Hood was just happy to have a group that really supported him. That had been a big change from being mayor of Los Angeles. Unlike the city council and various departments in the city, everyone here was on the same page.

“What’s happening?” Hood asked.

“There has been an unusual amount of radio traffic at the Air Wing of the Botswana Defense Forces,” Herbert said.

“Define unusual,” Hood said.

“An across-the-system jump from ten to fifteen communications an hour to more than three hundred,” Herbert replied.

In the United States, that kind of increase would signify a Defcon One state of readiness.

“We’ve picked it up here, and the CIA noted it, too,” Herbert went on. “Their frequency scanners at the embassies don’t react unless there’s a spike of at least one hundred percent.”

“Do we know what the increased traffic is about?” Hood asked.

“Not yet,” Herbert said. “The signals are all encrypted. We’re collecting it and breaking it down here. Viens is trying to get us some satellite visuals of the bases. He’s scraping together all the satellite time he can for us. The thing is, Jody Cameron at NAVSEA intelligence just told me they’re also starting to get radar blips. One of their destroyers is picking them up from the Mozambique Channel.”

NAVSEA was the Naval Sea Systems Command. The intelligence division was comprised of a worldwide deployment of cutters and destroyers. These ships were responsible for monitoring land and sea activities inaccessible by U.S. or allied bases. The intelligence collected by these ships determined whether vessels of the Maritime Preposition Force needed to be sent to a region. These were ships that provided military support prior to the arrival of main expeditionary warfare ships. The ships that patrolled the Mozambique Channel were responsible for covering the region from South Africa to Somalia.

“What did the blips suggest?” Hood asked.

“Chopper traffic,” Herbert replied. “More than they’ve ever seen in the region.”

“Are they doing search grids or heading somewhere?” Hood asked.

“The helicopters are heading north from the airfield outside Gaborone,” Herbert said. “NAVSEA is saying this is either an action or a drill.”

“We’ve got to assume it’s not a drill,” Hood said.

“Of course,” Herbert said. “Hold on—Matt Stoll’s shooting me some of the data from the encrypted transmissions.”

There was a short silence that felt very, very long.

“Shit,” Herbert said. “Son of a bitch.”

“What is it?” Hood demanded.

“They’ve got a destination,” Herbert said. “Okavango Swamp.”

“Damn,” Hood said.

“They also say it was Edgar Kline who gave them that destination,” Herbert added.

“How the hell could Kline have given them a target?” Hood asked. “We didn’t know it ourselves.”

“I don’t know,” Herbert admitted.

It had been more than an hour since Hood had called Kline on his cell phone and given him the location for the rendezvous between Op-Center’s teams and the soldiers from the Unidad Especial del Despliegue. And there was no way the Vatican Security Office could have extrapolated Dhamballa’s location from what Hood told him. Op-Center did not even know for sure where the Vodunists were based.

“Get him on the phone,” Hood said.

“With pleasure,” Herbert said angrily.

Hood was uncharacteristically impatient as he called Mike Rodgers. He brought the general up to date, then conferenced him into the discussion. The two men waited as Kline’s voice mail picked up on the cell phone.

“Goddamn him!” Herbert said. “He’s ducking us.”

Hood was frustrated, too, and angry, but he forced himself to stay cool and on target.

“Bob, do we think Kline’s still at the Mission of the Holy See in New York?” Hood asked.

“That’s the only secure place Kline could use to monitor a military action,” Herbert told him. “Kline definitely would not have left if something is brewing.” Before Hood could suggest it, the intelligence chief added, “I’m calling over there now. I’ll find him.”

“If you do, I’ll do the talking,” Hood said.

“You got it,” Herbert said. “Only if I get to break his freakin’ nose when this is all over. Screening calls,” the intelligence chief went on. “That’s so frigging low rent. You want to impede someone, do it like a man. Use diplomatic doublespeak. Face-to-face, toe-to-toe.”

Hood did not interrupt or comment. Bob Herbert frequently raged at something. It was in his hot Mississippi blood to do so. This time, though, Hood had to agree that Herbert had a good reason to boil.

Herbert reached an automated switchboard. The intelligence chief had no idea whose office Kline was using. He waited for an operator. The operator did not know anyone by the name of Edgar Kline. Exasperated, Herbert hung up and redialed the main number. When the voice menu came up, he punched the extention of the Path to Peace Foundation Bookstore.

“Can I help you?” asked the youthful-sounding man who answered the telephone.

“Yes,” Herbert said. “What’s your name?”

“Mr. Hotchkiss,” said the clerk. “Can I help you?”

“Yes, Mr. Hotchkiss,” Herbert told him. “Do you carry a copy of the last rites?”

“We do,” replied the clerk. “It’s in several books. The most popular is the Concordance of Catholic Liturgy—”

“I’ll take it,” Herbert said. “And I want a bookmark placed on that page.”

“Any particular style of bookmark?”

“No,” Herbert replied. “I’ll need the book delivered to someone in your building.”

“In our building?” the man said.

“That’s right,” Herbert replied. “Mr. Hotchkiss, is there anyone else working in your shop?”

“Yes—”

“Please ask him to deliver the book while I give you the credit card information,” Herbert said. “Oh, and I want an inscription on the title page.”

“Certainly, sir.”

“It should read, ‘Answer your cell phone, or you’ll need this,’ ” Herbert told him. “Sign it Bob H.”

“Excuse me?” the young man said.

“Just do it,” Herbert said. “Lives depend on you.”

Hood was impressed by the concern and conviction Herbert put in that one statement. The man was the best.

“I’ll do it right away, sir,” the clerk replied. “To whom is the concordance being delivered?”

“Man named Edgar Kline,” Herbert said. “Ask around in the diplomatic corridors. Someone will know him.”

“I know him,” the man said.

“You do?” Herbert asked.

“He was in here before, buying a travel guide,” the man said.

“To southern Africa?” Herbert asked.

“That’s right,” replied the clerk.

“Did he want to see maps?” Herbert asked.

“He did!” Hotchkiss replied. “How did you know?”

“Lucky guess,” Herbert told him. “Mr. Hotchkiss, can I count on you to do this?”

“You can,” Hotchkiss said. “Since I know what he looks like, I’ll deliver it myself.”

“Thanks,” Herbert replied.

The clerk turned the phone over to his associate, and Herbert gave him the credit card information. While he did, Hood hung up. He consulted a computer map of northern Botswana. The rendezvous point for Maria, Aideen, and Battat was thirty miles from the swamp. He did not give Kline any information that could have led the Botswanan military to that region. The target had to have come to him some other way. But who would have known to contact him? The VSO was a highly secretive organization. They did not maintain ties with very many international intelligence groups. Only the Spanish, the Americans—and then it hit him. The intelligence did not come from the outside. They had missed the obvious source.

Mike Rodgers walked in. “What do you think, Paul?” the general asked Hood.

“I think it was Father Bradbury,” he said.

Rodgers was puzzled. “What about him?”

“He’s the only one who knows exactly where Dhamballa is,” Hood said. “Either the VSO pinpointed the last call he made or, maybe more likely, he found a way to signal them.”

“Radio equipment or a phone,” Rodgers said. “Dhamballa has to have them. It’s possible.”

“Gentlemen, this is not good,” Hood said. “We have to stop our people from going in.”

“You’re getting ahead of me,” Rodgers said.

“The Botswana government thinks that Dhamballa’s people killed our bishop,” Hood said. “They have to move against him. The Air Force is going to clean the lot of them out.”

“But not before the Spanish get in and save Bradbury,” Rodgers said.

“Maybe no,” Hood said. “If they think the Vodunists killed once, they can always be blamed for killing twice. Who will be able to prove that they did not kill Father Bradbury?”

“No one,” Herbert said.

“We have to give Gaborone the photo Maria took,” Rodgers said.

“That may not stop them,” Herbert replied. “The photo will tell them they have a larger problem. Other enemies on the inside. They will still want to clean up this one first, as quickly as possible.”

“I still don’t think the Vatican will offer Father Bradbury up as an altar sacrifice,” Rodgers insisted. “I do not want to believe that. Not while they have an option.”

“Maybe not,” Hood agreed. “What options do they have?”

“The Unidad Especial del Despliegue,” Rodgers said. “They can get one of the air force choppers to airlift the Spaniards close to Okavanga Swamp. The soldiers go in and get Father Bradbury out.”

“Eliminating the need for them to rendezvous with our people,” Herbert pointed out.

“That’s not the bad part,” Rodgers said. “Our guys will still be heading for the swamp with Seronga. I’ve got a map of Botswana in front of me. If my calculations are even roughly correct, they should get there just about the time the Botswana Air Force arrives.”

Rodgers grabbed the phone on Hood’s desk. He called the embassy in Gaborone and asked to be patched through to Aideen Marley.

At once.

FIFTY-FOUR

Maun, Botswana Friday, 10:31 P.M.

Aideen Marley and David Battat had decided to remain hidden for now. They would let Maria handle the approach. She was the most experienced of the three. She was the one on the inside.

Battat and Aideen had left the Jeep when they saw the approaching headlights. They were lying belly down on a threeor four-yard-high dirt rise several dozen yards beyond it. They could not rule out the possibility that Seronga would strafe the vehicle with gunfire before approaching. Of course, the two knew they would probably not be much safer lost in the wilderness, at night, without transportation. They had no idea what predators might be about. Still, not knowing Seronga’s state of mind, this seemed like a reasonable precaution.

Aideen and Battat lay side by side as Maria and two men left the cab of the truck. Cautiously, the three approached the Jeep. They were silhouetted by the headlights, so Aideen could not see many details, but it looked as though one of the men had a gun. He appeared to be pointing it at Maria, who was walking several yards ahead. Aideen tried to read Maria’s body language. The woman was striding as she had in Spain. As though nothing intimidated her. If she were in immediate danger, she did not show it.

“Hello!” Maria said at last. “Are you there?”

Aideen could not see David. The two had worked out a series of taps to communicate. She felt him rub the back of her hand. That meant he thought they should stay where they were. She agreed and rubbed him back.

The trio came closer.

“I am here with Leon Seronga and Mr. Finn,” Maria said in a strong, steady voice. “There is another man in the back of the truck. No one will harm you. We all need to talk.”

Aideen knew Maria’s voice. The tone in the woman’s voice put Aideen at ease. She believed the woman was telling the truth. Aideen tapped the back of Battat’s hand. That meant she wanted to speak. Battat hesitated. Then he tapped the back of her hand in agreement. Slowly, Aideen rose.

“I’m here,” Aideen said. She extended her hands to the side as she walked forward. “I’m not armed.”

“Do you have any news for us?” Maria asked.

“Yes,” Aideen said. “There are Spanish soldiers at least an hour behind you, possibly more. We need to split into two groups. One group will lead them away from Dhamballa’s camp. The other will head toward it.”

“Why?” a man shouted from the distance.

Aideen assumed this was Leon Seronga.

“We believe that the only way to prevent a shooting war is for the Vodunists to release Father Bradbury,” Aideen said. She rounded the Jeep. The three were less than fifty yards from her.

“Who are ‘we’?” Seronga asked.

“I’ve already explained to Mr. Seronga that we are not going to discuss our identities,” Maria said.

Aideen had no intention of doing so. But she was glad Maria took the initiative. That gave her a little room to play good cop.

“There is no reason to discuss who we are, only what we want to do,” Aideen said. “And that is to save lives.”

“I believe you,” Seronga said. “But I can’t afford to trust you. You won’t even tell me who you are.”

“If something were to happen to you, we would not want that information to get out,” Aideen said.

“You mean, if I were caught and tortured,” Seronga said.

“Yes,” Aideen said.

“What do you think this is, some primitive, degenerate society?” he asked.

“No. But these are dangerous times,” she replied bluntly. “People do excessive things.”

“They even kidnap people,” Battat said as he came up behind her. “I will say this, though. The chances of something happening are greater the longer we stand here talking.”

Seronga’s group stopped a few yards from the Jeep. The leader of the Brush Vipers regarded Aideen and Battat.

Suddenly, there was a faint beeping.

“What’s that?” Seronga asked.

“My cell phone,” Aideen replied. She was surprised. Only the embassy could reach her out here. “I’m going to answer it,” she said. She removed it from the pouch on her belt.

“Give it to me,” Seronga said. He held out his left hand.

“I have to answer it first,” she replied. “If I don’t give them the code, they’ll hang up.” That was a lie, but Aideen did not want to hand over the phone. Not until she found out who was calling and why. She flipped it open. “This is Barley,” she said. She chose a word that sounded enough like Marley so that the caller would simply think it was a glitch in the connection.

“Aideen?” said the caller.

“Yes.”

“This is Mike Rodgers,” said the caller. “Can you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“Are you free to speak?” he asked.

“Not really,” she replied.

Seronga strode over. He motioned for the phone as he approached.

“I am giving you over to Leon Seronga,” Aideen said.

“No!” Rodgers said. “Are Maria and David with you?”

“Yes,” Aideen said. She backed away and motioned Seronga back.

The Brush Viper pointed the gun at her. She did not stop moving. The woman was driven by purpose, not personal security.

Battat came between them. “Let the lady talk,” he said. “We’re here to help you.”

Seronga did not lower the gun. But he did not fire nor did he advance.

Aideen continued her conversation. “Do you need them for something?” she asked.

“No,” Rodgers told her. “What I need is for the three of you to abort this mission now.”

“Why?” Aideen asked.

Seronga must have caught the concern in her tone. He stepped forward.

“We believe the Botswana Air Force is en route to the Vodun camp in the Okavanga Swamp,” Rodgers told her. “You are to stay away from there. Do you copy?”

“Yes,” Aideen replied.

“What is going on?” Seronga demanded.

Aideen did not answer.

“The Botswana military is probably monitoring the airwaves, so I’m signing off before this call can be traced,” Rodgers said. “I don’t want this order questioned or second-guessed. Get out. Now.”

Seronga pushed Battat aside and walked toward her. “I asked you a question!” he snapped.

Battat grabbed the Brush Viper’s arm as he moved past. A shot kicked up dirt and pebbles near Battat’s feet. It came from the truck.

“If there is a next shot it will be through your heart!” a voice warned from that direction.

Battat released Seronga and stepped back. Seronga grabbed the phone from Aideen. He put it to his ear.

“Hello,” Seronga said. “Hello!” After a moment he glared at Aideen. “No one is there.”

“No,” Aideen said. “My superior did not want the Botswana Air Force tracing the call.”

“The air force? Why would they?” Seronga asked.

“Apparently, they found your camp in the Okavanga Swamp and are on their way,” she said.

Seronga stood very still for a moment. Then he turned and yelled to the man in the truck. “Get the radio from the dashboard and call the camp,” Seronga said. “Find out what the situation is.”

The man in the truck acknowledged the order. Seronga turned back to the others.

“What else do you know?” Seronga demanded.

“Just that,” Aideen replied.

Seronga waved his pistol at Aideen, Battat, and Maria. “Get in your Jeep, all of you.”

“Why?” Battat asked.

“We are going to the camp,” Seronga said.

“To do what?” Battat asked.

“If there is some kind of attack, we must make certain it is stopped,” Seronga replied.

“How?” Battat asked.

“You two are Americans, I think,” Seronga said. “We will contact the Botswana military and let them know you are there. They will be less inclined to attack if you are at risk.”

“We cannot tell anyone we are here,” Battat said.

“Why?” Seronga asked.

“Because officially, we are not here,” Battat said.

“But you are here, and lives are at risk,” Seronga said. “Your legal status is a ridiculous point.”

“Not when it comes to Gaborone stopping Dhamballa,” Battat said.

“But this woman knows we did not kill the bishop—” Seronga said.

“That will be irrelevant, unless you release the priest,” Battat warned him. “I have a feeling that if the army attacks, they’ll find him dead in the rubble of your camp.”

Just hearing that gave Aideen chills. It was conceivable. It truly was.

“I have raised the camp!” the man in the truck shouted. “They see no sign of an aircraft!”

“Where are they now?” Seronga asked.

“They are out of the swamp and moving toward the diamond mine,” the man in the truck answered. His voice sounded flat and mute by the echoless expanse of plain.

“Tell them they must change their course and come toward us,” Seronga said. “I will give them the coordinates in a minute.”

“What if they won’t listen?” the man in the truck asked.

“Then they will die!” Seronga said. “This is no longer about a rally but about survival. Tell them that!”

“I will!” the man shouted.

Seronga turned back to Aideen. As he did, his eyes caught a gleam of the truck headlights. They glinted bright, narrow, ferocious.

“You don’t know when the attack is due?” Seronga pressed.

“I do not,” she answered.

“Do you swear this?” Seronga demanded.

“I don’t want any deaths on my conscience,” Aideen replied flatly.

Seronga seemed to accept that. He looked around as if he were searching for answers, for inspiration.

“They must be using helicopters,” he said after a moment. “Jets would have trouble spotting them through the trees.”

“Can’t they land?” Aideen asked.

“Not if they think we are still in the swamp,” Battat said. “There’s nowhere to set down.”

“What if they know Dhamballa has left?” Aideen asked.

“We can still scatter and hide if we have to,” Seronga told her. “And we can fire back. My soldiers are accustomed to working in small groups as well as independently.”

“Something just occurred to me,” Maria said. “What if the Spaniards are going in first?”

Seronga looked at her. So did Aideen.

“Explain yourself,” Seronga said.

“We have to assume the Spanish soldiers were also given this information,” Maria said. “In that case, they may not be coming here. They might have been picked up at the Maun airfield.”

“You’re right. The Spaniards could have leapfrogged over us,” Aideen said. “By now they might have reached the camp, infiltrated it, and rescued Father Bradbury.”

“Wouldn’t Mike have told us if something like that were going on?” Battat asked.

“Probably, if he knew,” Aideen said.

“The Spanish are not very open about the conducting of military maneuvers,” Maria told him. “In Spain, separatist factions could use that information to plan acts of terror.”

Seronga came toward Maria with the gun. “Get in the Jeep, all of you,” he said urgently.

“Why?” Battat asked.

“We are going to join my group,” Seronga said.

“Like hell—” Battat said.

“Now!” Seronga yelled. “I don’t care whether you three are here officially or not. You are now my hostages. Your government will be informed. That will buy us time.”

“I have a better idea,” Aideen said.

“I don’t have time to debate!” Seronga said.

“You’re doing all the talking,” Aideen yelled back. “Mr. Seronga, I need my phone.”

“What are you going to do?” the Brush Viper asked.

“I’m going to call my people and ask them to put out fake intel,” Aideen replied. “Something that will stall the Botswanans.”

“What kind of information?” Seronga asked.

“I don’t know,” Aideen told him. “I’ll figure it out. Look, you’re wasting time. Whatever I do cannot be worse than what’s already happening,” the woman pointed out.

Seronga hesitated, but only for a moment. He handed her the phone. “Make your call from the Jeep. I’m returning to the truck. I want to be with my people as soon as possible.”

Aideen looked at Battat. She could not see him well. But she could see him shifting his weight slightly from foot to foot. She could not decide if he were going to go along with this or try to disarm Seronga.

But there was one decision Aideen could make. She turned and strode toward the Jeep. “I’m going to join the Vodunists,” she announced.

Battat hesitated.

So did Maria, but only for a moment. She followed Aideen. She stopped as she passed Battat.

“Aideen is right,” Maria said. “If Op-Center can delay the attack, we might find a way to stop this. If we leave, many will die.” She cocked her head toward the sniper on the truck. “Including us, perhaps.”

Maria continued toward the Jeep. She grabbed the roll bar, hopped over the door, and sat in the backseat. “Are you coming?” she asked Battat.

Battat glared at the truck.

Aideen had already reached the Jeep. She punched in the number of the embassy in Gaborone and was looking back. She saw Seronga lower his pistol and walk toward the truck. It was a gesture, nothing more, since the man in the truck still probably had his rifle trained on them. But it was a smart move.

Battat finally turned and walked toward the Jeep. Maria sat on the back passenger’s-side seat, her head on the roll bar support. Her eyes were shut. Aideen was holding the phone to her ear. The night operator at the embassy had answered. Aideen had asked to be put through to Terminal 82401. While the woman waited to be connected, Battat climbed behind the wheel.

“It needed to be said,” Battat told her defensively.

“You needed to say it,” Aideen replied.

“All right. I needed it,” Battat said in a harsh whisper. “I don’t know if I agree with what you’re doing. If we do stay with Seronga, we cannot afford to be identified. You understand that.”

“I do,” Aideen told him.

“Then why don’t you stay out here?” Maria asked. “We’ll send someone to get you.”

“Because it isn’t a question of my own security,” Battat snapped. “We’re in this deeper than we were ever supposed to be. We don’t have the approval of the Congressional Intelligence Oversight Committee. Or the president. We’re completely exposed, and the repercussions for Op-Center could be disastrous. Especially if we’re caught helping rebels.”

“You are right,” Maria replied. “But this work, our work, is about risk. I don’t mean just physical danger but political fallout. The United States will survive whatever we do. My primary concern is about the people who may not survive if we abandon them.”

“That’s why I’m going with you,” Battat said. “If I’m going to do the wrong thing, I want to do it for the right reasons.”

Aideen was not sure she agreed this was wrong. But she did not have time to think about it.

A moment later, Mike Rodgers was on the line.

FIFTY-FIVE

Washington, D.C. Friday, 3:13 P.M.

Not long after Bob Herbert got off the phone with Hotchkiss at the Vatican mission bookstore, Edgar Kline called Paul Hood. Kline did so not because Bob Herbert had effectively threatened to kill him. He did it, he said, because he did not want to do what Hood and Herbert had done. Edgar Kline said that he wanted to tell the truth.

Mike Rodgers, Bob Herbert, and Paul Hood had remained in Hood’s office after contacting the Vatican mission. They were seated around the desk when the call came through. The Op-Center director put Kline on speakerphone.

“Edgar—it’s Paul,” Hood said. “Bob and Mike are here as well.”

“I got your message, Bob,” Kline said.

“Good, you prick.”

“Edgar, we all seem to be pressed for time,” Hood said. “What’s going on?”

“I’m sorry, but I was not at liberty to reveal what was happening,” he said. “We did not want it to get back to Seronga. Someone there might have told one of your field personnel—”

“My feelings aren’t hurt, and explanations don’t matter now,” Hood said. “Just tell me where we are.”

“Father Bradbury managed to get a cell phone and call the archdiocese in Cape Town,” he said. “During the brief call, Bradbury described the general direction and duration of their trip, as well as descriptions of the site itself. There was enough detail to give the Botswana military a good idea where Dhamballa is located. He was afraid to stay on the phone any longer for fear that Dhamballa would notice the phone was missing or see the on light on the console. The decision to go in after him was that of the Botswanans, not ours,” Kline added.

“What if Dhamballa was not responsible for the death of the bishop?” Hood asked.

“Dhamballa cannot prove he wasn’t involved in that,” Kline said.

“Buy us the time to check,” Hood suggested.

“Paul, I wish I could,” Kline said. “If it were up to us, we would let the Unidad Especial handle this. All we want from this is the safe return of Father Bradbury and a restoration of order in Botswana.”

“Edgar,” Herbert interjected, “while you’re busy coming clean, where are the Spanish soldiers?”

“I can’t tell you that,” Kline said.

“So much for trust,” Herbert said.

“I’m being truthful,” Kline said. “But that doesn’t mean I’m at liberty to reveal everything.”

“Do you know where they are?” Hood pressed.

“Yes,” Kline replied. “But under the circumstances, I cannot share that information. In fact, that is part of why I did not call to tell you about Father Bradbury’s message. I did not want information reaching Leon Seronga, either by accident or design.”

“That would not have happened,” Hood said. “We have had the same goal from the start. We sent our people in there to help you.”

“Well, things change quickly in our world,” Kline said.

“Not loyalties,” Rodgers said. “Not ours.”

“The only thing that changed is our agents went from being spies to being targets in the middle of a shit storm,” Herbert said.

“Then withdraw them,” Kline said.

“We may,” Herbert said.

“Gentlemen, let’s stay on issue,” Hood said. “The point of this conversation is that we all want to rescue the priest and get our people out safely. We also should be trying to save lives. Is there some way we can keep the air force from hammering the Brush Vipers?”

“At this point, I very much doubt it,” Kline said. “They are going to make an object lesson of the Vodunists.”

“But what if that isn’t necessary?” Hood said. “What if we can help get the priest out without any violence?”

“How?” Kline asked.

“Let me talk to my people over there. You talk to Gaborone,” Hood said. “Ask for a delay.”

“And what happens if the Brush Vipers use a period of détente to get away or to attack another compound?” Kline asked. “What happens if people die this time, Paul? What happens if the Brush Vipers decide to take hostages? Or kill other priests and deacons?”

“I can’t guarantee they won’t,” Hood admitted. “But it isn’t likely. Especially if they know what’s being sent against them.”

“All we’re saying is give our people a shot,” Herbert said. “Damnit, Edgar, forget all the shit that’s gone on between us. Try to delay the attack. That’s just basic statesmanship and something else the Church stands for.”

“Which is?”

“Humanitarianism,” Herbert said.

Kline sighed. “I wish it were that simple.”

“It can be,” Hood said.

“What happened to turning the other cheek?” Herbert asked.

“It went out when slaps became gunshots,” Kline said. “Besides, we’re not talking about bearing an insult. We’re talking about the abduction and killing of priests. Never mind by whom. The survival of the Church in Botswana, in Africa, is being challenged. It has to take a stand. And the Botswanans have to show that they are in power. Don’t forget, my friends. We did not ask for this war. The Vodunists chose this course.”

“Perhaps,” Hood said. “But someone else killed Bishop Max to escalate the situation. By doing the same thing, by escalating the war against the Vodunists, you are abetting the ones who attacked you.”

“That will come out in time,” Kline said. “First things first. We deal with the Vodunists and the kidnapping of Father Bradbury. Then we find out who attacked the Church and Botswana.”

Just then, Rodgers’s cell phone beeped. He checked the number. It was the embassy in Gaborone. That meant the clock was running. There was no time to leave the room. If the call were being relayed from Aideen, it could be pinpointed within two minutes. Rodgers looked at Hood and dragged a finger across his own throat to kill the speaker. Hood did more than that. He asked Kline if he could hold the line for a few minutes.

Kline agreed. Hood hit the Mute button.

“I’m surprised he agreed, the bastard SOB,” Herbert said.

“It’s worth the wait for him,” Hood said. “I might decide to share whatever information is incoming.”

Meanwhile, Mike Rodgers accepted the patch-through. Hood and Herbert fell silent.

“Yes?” Rodgers said. He did not use his name in case Aideen had dropped the phone and someone had discovered it.

“We need help,” the caller said.

It was Aideen. Her words were urgent, but her voice was calm.

“Go ahead,” Rodgers said.

“We’ve linked up with Seronga and are headed toward a rendezvous with Dhamballa,” she informed him.

“You’re staying?” Hood said.

“We have to,” Aideen said. “The Vodunists are changing their destination to meet us. Father Bradbury will be with them. We will try to obtain his release. We should be with them in about two hours. Do you know where the Spanish soldiers are?”

“No,” Rodgers said. “But we believe they are trying to reach Father Bradbury.”

“That was our conclusion,” Aideen said. “General, we need time. Seronga seems inclined to support us. We believe it’s possible to end this peaceably. Can you sell Gaborone on that idea?”

“I don’t know,” Rodgers said. “They appear set on ending this situation in a very public way.”

“What if you tell them that we have already obtained the release of the priest?” Aideen asked.

“That would make things worse,” Rodgers said. “The air force would still go in to mop things up.”

“Then we have to find another way to delay them,” Aideen said.

“Look, I’ll talk this over with Bob and Paul,” Rodgers said. “We’ll try to work out something.”

“Thank you,” Aideen replied.

“I understand,” Rodgers told her. “Proceed under the assumption that you’re a go for a peaceful resolution. If there’s a problem, I’ll let you know. You’ve done very good work.”

Aideen thanked him. Rodgers clicked off. The call had taken just over one minute.

“What have we got?” Hood asked. “Hold on,” he added. He clicked on the speakerphone. “Edgar? Are you still there?”

“I am.”

“Mike Rodgers just got a call from one of our agents who is with Seronga,” Hood informed him. “You will be hearing the briefing from Mike the same time we do.”

“Thanks, but I don’t see what good this will do,” Kline said.

“Can you be any less goddamn hopeful, you South African misery?” Herbert snapped.

“Enough, Bob,” Hood snapped. “Edgar, if nothing else, it will renew the partnership we were supposed to have in this operation,” Hood said.

“Fair enough,” Kline replied.

“Mike?” Hood said.

Rodgers liked what Hood had done. It was a no-lose situation for Op-Center. It accomplished three things. It neutralized Kline’s charges that Hood had not been forthcoming. It reinvigorated the idea of an alliance between Op-Center and the Vatican Security Office. And most importantly, it put the next move on the shoulders of Edgar Kline.

“Gentlemen, our three operatives are with Leon Seronga,” Rodgers said. “The word is that Seronga seems tired. From the sound of it, this whole movement is suddenly tired, or at the very least scared. Our group is meeting with Dhamballa and the Brush Vipers in under two hours. Our people believe they can obtain freedom for Father Bradbury and perhaps even get the Brush Vipers to disband. They have asked us to find a way to give them that opportunity. They have asked us to buy them those two hours.”

Hood waited a moment. Then he looked at the speakerphone. “Edgar? Any thoughts?”

Kline was silent.

“I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it now. We started this as a mission to save lives,” Hood said. “We can’t sit here and do nothing, just say this is out of our control.”

“And I’ve told you, the Brush Vipers chose their own path,” Kline said. “We are not responsible for what happens to them.”

“Edgar, we are,” Hood insisted. “This information just made us responsible. We have options. We have a duty. Our job is to manage crises, not sit on the bench and watch them explode. Your job, if I may, is to restore normalcy. We can do that. It’s not impossible.”

“The crime of kidnapping Father Bradbury does not call for a response of mass murder,” Rodgers said. “It was wrong, it was illegal, but let’s deal with it in those terms.”

“And there’s something else that just occurred to me,” Hood said. “Edgar, we don’t know who is traveling with Dhamballa. What if there are children at the camp who had nothing to do with any of this? Should they be punished, too?”

Hood let that thought soak in before continuing.

“Edgar, we don’t have enough information to allow an air strike to take place,” Hood concluded. “At least—at the very least—give our people the time to finish what they were sent to do.”

“Paul, I don’t know,” Kline said. “Even if I wanted to, I don’t know if I can make that happen.”

“Try,” Herbert said.

“Your say-so will get the Spanish soldiers to delay entering the camp,” Hood said. “If they don’t go in, the Botswana choppers won’t strike for fear of killing Father Bradbury.”

“You can tell them the camp is moving,” Rodgers said. “It’s true. They might miss it altogether.”

“Paul, they may be in there already, with the Brush Vipers,” Kline said.

“Then, Edgar, we can’t afford to waste any more time,” Hood pressed.

The silence that followed was tense, exaggerated. The hum of the computer fan sounded like a turbine.

Finally, Kline spoke. “I will do what I can. I’ll ask them to hold,” he said. “But I cannot answer for the Botswana military.”

“They may not attack without knowing that Father Bradbury is out of danger,” Rodgers said.

“I pray you’re right,” Kline replied.

The Vatican officer hung up.

“Well. All it took was three of us beating him with morality to get him to budge,” Herbert said.

“I’ve had to use more than that to get you to move sometimes,” Hood said.

“Yeah, but I’m usually right,” Herbert said.

Calmer now, Herbert left the office to see what Darrell McCaskey might have discovered about the Japanese connection. Rodgers looked at Hood.

“I pray we’re right, too,” Hood said.

“Yeah,” Rodgers said. “You want to make that official?”

Hood smiled. “Are you serious?”

Rodgers nodded.

“It’s been a long time,” Hood said.

“Then I’ll lead,” Rodgers replied.

The general slid off his chair and lowered himself to one knee. Hood did the same. Rodgers said something about God looking after the people in the field, especially those who were risking themselves for others. Rodgers knew from countless missions that the words themselves did not matter as much as the sentiment. His heart and soul were definitely in this. Not just because he felt they were right but because he understood the political crisis Botswana was facing. And he believed that only divine intervention could save Dhamballa and the Brush Vipers from being slaughtered.

FIFTY-SIX

Okavango Swamp, Botswana Friday, 11:19 P.M.

These were the hours that made life worthwhile. They were the challenges for which Captain Antonio Abreo had been trained. They were a chance to pit himself against an unfamiliar environment and a new enemy.

They were an opportunity to savor life by risking it.

His nonmilitary friends and relatives told him it was a crazy way to make a living. They were all farmers and fishermen and tour guides. They had comfortable lives. They would probably have long lives. Eighty years of boredom did not appeal to Abreo.

Risk, and planning for that risk, did.

Captain Abreo had felt there was a better chance of getting to the priest with two men rather than an entire unit. Dressed in camouflage greens, Abreo and Sergeant Vicente Diamante had decided to jump to the site described by Father Bradbury.

The two men had taken off from Maun. They flew on a twin-turboprop EMB-110 that had been flown in from Gaborone. The Brazilian-made aircraft belonged to the Botswana Meteorological Research Department. The government had loaned it to the Unidad Especial del Despliegue to make the incursion. Though Gaborone was not happy to have foreign soldiers operating on their soil, their involvement would remain a secret. It was more important to restore order absolutely. At the same time, the remaining members of the team were making their way to the swamp in the company of the Botswana military.

The BMRD had detailed maps of the region. Captain Abreo had used them to pinpoint the likely location where Father Bradbury was being kept. Then he and Sergeant Diamante had parachuted to the nearest small island, which was about a quarter mile away. There, Diamante deployed a small rubber raft. The men carried that plus a pair of night-vision goggles, a radio, two M-82s, and a pair of nine-inch hunting knives.

While the sergeant inflated the raft, Captain Abreo hid the parachutes behind a clump of vines. Then he scanned the darkness for signs of a camp. He found it with no problem. Lights, sounds, activity. He did not even need the night-vision glasses to see them. After dabbing mud on their faces and hands, the Spanish officers put the raft in the water. Then they made their way swiftly and silently toward the deserted northern side of the small island. All of the activity seemed to be centered in the south. It was clear that the Vodunists were breaking camp. There were several small huts on the island. Abreo spotted one where there was no activity. Where the windows were closed, despite the heat. That was probably the shack where Father Bradbury was incarcerated. Once the two soldiers had recovered the priest, the plan was for them to head north. When they were a half mile from the island, they were to radio the commander of the Botswana strike force. The attack would commence soon thereafter. When it was finished, one of the helicopters would retrieve the two soldiers and the priest.

The sergeant was crouched in the rear, rowing. First on one side, then the other. The dark water rippled gently around the raft. The captain peered ahead. He ignored the few gnats that clouded around his ears and cheek. Swatting them away would accomplish nothing except to distract him. It was surprisingly quiet out here. The only croaking and clicking they heard had been around the island. The officer was aware of all of it. The sounds, the smells, the gentle current under the raft. Once a mission had begun, Captain Abreo became a part of his environment. Alert, patient, defensive rather than offensive. Growing up on a sheep farm in the Basque country, he had learned a very simple lesson from foxes. The ones who got away were the ones you never saw coming.

As the elite soldiers neared the target, the radio blinked. It was a dull brown pinpoint flash that would not be visible more than a few feet away. Abreo picked up the headset. He attached the subvocal microphone to an elastic band he wore around his throat. Then he plugged the small disk-shaped microphone into the band. The tiny receiver plucked vibrations directly from his voice box. It would enable him to whisper and still be heard.

“Abreo,” he said.

“Captain, this is CHQ,” said the caller. That was the code name for Corporal Enrique Infiesta, the group’s radio operator. Infiesta spoke fluent English and was liaison with the Botswana military.

“Go ahead,” Abreo replied.

“Sir, the VSO liaison has asked us to postpone the operation,” Infiesta informed him.

“For how long?” Abreo asked. The order had killed the captain’s internal engines. He had to start them up again. They were still in a danger zone.

“Two hours,” the caller replied.

“What’s the reason?” Abreo asked.

“There is a simultaneous operation. That one has been given priority,” Infiesta replied.

“Priority? By whom?”

“I don’t know, sir,” the caller told him.

“There is no one around but cult members,” Abreo replied. “Do you know if this other party infiltrated the Brush Vipers?”

“I do not know, sir,” Infiesta told him.

“Are they Spanish or Botswanan?” Infiesta asked.

“I don’t know that either, sir,” the radioman replied. “Do you want me to call and ask?”

“No. That won’t change anything,” Abreo replied.

Abreo looked out at the island. The cultists were running around loading the boats. They were so intent on leaving, they were not watching their flank. That was the problem with young movements. Leon Seronga was obviously the chief strategist. He was not here. Whoever was the number-two officer did not have the experience to mount a successful retreat. Or perhaps they felt they were not going to be attacked here.

Or perhaps they had learned that they were, Abreo thought. If they had that information, that would explain the haste.

“Do the orders cover reconnaissance?” the captain asked.

“No, sir,” said Infiesta. “Only what I told you.”

“Very well,” said Abreo.

“Will there be a return message, sir?” the caller asked.

“Tell the VSO liaison that the order was received, nothing more,” Abreo replied.

“Yes, sir,” Infiesta replied.

The captain signed off. He removed the headset and microphone and turned to the sergeant.

“There is another team engaged in the rescue,” Abreo whispered. “VSO wants us to postpone.”

“Are they Botswanans?” Diamante asked.

“I don’t know,” the captain told him.

“But we’re just minutes away from possibly finding and rescuing the priest—” Diamante said.

“I know,” Abreo replied. There was a trace of irritation in his voice. He got rid of it. The men were still on a mission, and annoyance was a distraction. “We have our orders, and we will follow them. However, we have no instructions other than to postpone. We are going to continue to the island and conduct on-site reconnaissance. If we happen to encounter the priest and he asks for our help, we will not refuse it.”

“That would be wrong, Captain,” Diamante agreed.

“Very much so,” said Abreo.

The soldiers continued toward the island. Abreo continued to study the island.

The more he examined the hut through the night-vision goggles, the more convinced he became that it was a prison. Vines hung thickly in front of the window. They had never been cleared, which suggested that it was never opened. As they came closer, he also saw a dead bolt. On the outside.

When they were just one hundred yards from the northern shore, the men allowed the raft to drift with the forward momentum they had created. Even though there was shouting on the island, they could not chance that the rippling water would be heard.

A few minutes later, they were ashore. While Diamante tied the raft to an exposed banyan tree, Abreo crept ahead. The shack was about two hundred feet to the southeast. Abreo used the night-vision glasses to sweep the area. Everyone was engaged in getting off the island. It looked as if they were nearly ready to depart. There would not be a lot of time to pull this off.

There was no one watching the hut outside. There might be a guard inside. Or perhaps the priest was not there. Or maybe they simply were not expecting a rescue attempt out here in the swamp. Captain Abreo would have to explore each of those possibilities in turn.

There was definitely someone in there. Slivers of light came through the shutters and from cracks in the walls. They seemed brilliant in the night-vision glasses. He put the goggles back in the case hooked to his belt. He motioned for Sergeant Diamante to proceed. Both men drew their knives and unbuttoned the flaps of their holsters. If they encountered any Brush Vipers, they would kill them silently and move on. Crouching low, they began moving forward.

Their boots sank deep in the mud of the island. Each step was accompanied by a soft pop as they fought the suction. Geckos ran over and around their feet. But Abreo never took his eyes from the shack.

It took four minutes for the men to reach the back wall. The captain and the sergeant separated. They went around the sides and checked the front. No one was there. They came back to the rear window where Captain Abreo looked around for a small rock. He found one and tossed it up to the roof. Standard operating procedure for an incursion like this was to cause a sudden noise and see what sounds came from inside.

The stone clattered on the tin roof and rolled off the far side. Abreo heard nothing from inside. A captive might not react to the sound. However, sentries tended to be tense or at least curious. There were no footsteps from inside. No one went to the door and looked out. If the priest was inside, chances were good he was there alone.

The next move was a little trickier. Abreo stood. Standing well to the side of the window, he used the hilt of his knife to rap on the shutter. He knocked twice. He heard distinctive muffled sounds. A man with a gag.

Diamante and Abreo exchanged glances. Someone was in there, probably the priest. Abreo moved toward the window. Diamante sheathed his knife and removed his pistol.

The captain regarded the window. It had the kind of shutter that lifted straight up. The dead bolt was at the center bottom. He indicated to Diamante that he would raise the shutter. The sergeant would then scan the room from behind his pistol. If the shack were clean, they would go inside and get the prisoner.

Slowly, Abreo raised the dead bolt. Squatting to the side, he picked up a fallen branch. He used it to lift the shutter. If anyone shot at him, he would be out of the line of fire.

Abreo and Diamante waited. The muffled cries returned. Diamante looked at Abreo. The captain nodded for him to investigate. Diamante nodded back. He rose slowly behind his pistol.

Abreo unholstered his own weapon. If anything happened to the sergeant, he wanted to be ready to return fire.

Diamante stuck his head inside. He looked quickly to the left, then the right. After a moment, the sergeant ducked back down. Abreo lowered the shutter and crouched beside him.

“There’s a man in there, masked and tied to the bed,” the sergeant whispered. “The room is empty.”

“He’s masked?” Abreo said. “Then why is the lantern on?”

“Probably because they will be coming back for him soon,” Diamante suggested.

Abreo nodded. That made sense. In the haste of breaking camp, that would be one less thing to think about.

Now came the difficult part: the commit. If they could escape silently, they would. If not, they would escape any way possible. If that proved impossible, they would have to execute an exit plan that neither man wanted to use.

The soldiers had seen an old picture of Father Bradbury. They knew his age, that he was Caucasian, and that he spoke both English and Bantu. Still, the man in the bed was thinner, dirty, unkempt. He could be a decoy. The soldiers would not know until they went in and Diamante talked with him.

“Are you ready?” Abreo asked.

Diamante nodded.

Abreo dropped the stick and went to the shutter. He raised it. The priest was inside. He was gagged and bound spread-eagle on a cot. He was facing the window. He was just lying there. The captain climbed into the low window. Sergeant Diamante followed his commander in. The sergeant ran directly to the door and placed his ear against it.

Abreo took a quick look around in the light of the single lantern. There was no one else in the shack. He hurried to the cot.

The priest was facing away from him. He had a black hood over his head. His hands were tied behind his back. His clothes were filthy and torn. Abreo pulled off the hood. A gaunt, pale face looked up at him. He removed the cloth gag from the man’s mouth.

“Padre Bradbury?” Abreo asked.

“Yes,” said the man.

The captain studied him for a moment. He looked like a man who had been through hell. His eyes were soft. So were his hands. He was not a warrior or a laborer.

Abreo tossed the hood aside. Still holding his pistol in his right hand, he took out his knife and began cutting the bonds. First he freed the priest’s left hand, then his right. The priest sat up.

And then Captain Abreo heard it. A low, dull hiss coming from under the bed. Diamante heard it, too.

It was then that the captain noticed a wire attached to the priest’s right hand. It had been run down the headboard of the cot. Smoke began to pour from under the bed. That was why the priest had been hooded. So he could not tell them what had been done.

And Abreo realized, suddenly, why the lantern was still lit. When the tear gas was triggered, the African soldiers who came to investigate would be able to see just where the Spaniards were.

There was no time to finish freeing the priest. Already, yellow orange smoke obscured the window. Diamante was still at the door. They would have to go out that way.

Abreo yelled for the sergeant to open the door and get out. Gagging, Diamante pulled open the door. The captain ran out after him, feeling for the wall and the jamb. He found the door and ran out.

There were shouts. They were being ordered to stand down. Abreo did not have to understand the language to interpret the tone.

Abreo rubbed his eyes, trying desperately to clear the gas-induced blur. He turned to his left. He saw the edge of the shack. He had an instant to decide what course of action to pursue.

There appeared to be just one left.

The most important part of this mission was not simply to rescue the priest. It was to deprive the Vodunists of immunity from attack. As long as the Brush Vipers held Father Bradbury, the Botswanan military would not want to move against them. Vatican charities fed many Botswana villages. Gaborone would not want to risk that unless they had no choice. Not moving against them, they would be able to regroup somewhere else. They would continue to rebel against the government, to try and overthrow the Church. Above all, Abreo could not allow that to happen. It was a long shot, but they had to try. They had not become special forces soldiers to have things easy. The captain felt more completely alive in this moment than he had ever felt. He was almost giddy from the personal danger.

“Cover me!” Abreo yelled.

Diamante understood. He obeyed without question. The sergeant opened fire into the oncoming Brush Vipers. Abreo heard the fire fade to the west. The sergeant was trying to make his way around the shack. He would use the tear gas as cover to return to the water.

The captain also fired, then turned back toward the shack. Since he could not see, he would fire in the direction of the cot.

He never made it. A bullet tore through his right thigh. He screamed from the pain and exhilaration. He had risked everything. The moment had come, and he had not run from it.

The bullet punched him forward, through the doorway. Abreo landed facedown and lost his pistol. To his left, he heard a scream. That had to have been Diamante. Mentally, Abreo saluted his loyal ally.

As bullets slashed the air above him, Abreo blinked hard. He tried to clear his vision and find his pistol. He spotted it a few feet ahead. The soldier attempted to crawl toward it, but his right leg refused to cooperate. It felt cold. To hell with it. He began pulling himself forward on his elbows.

The soldier moved ahead, but only for another foot or so. A fusillade from the doorway tore into the captain’s back and shoulder blades.

Abreo did not feel the punch of the hot bullets as they tore through flesh and muscle, shattered plates of bone. The young captain was dead before the impulses reached his brain, before his chin struck the floor.

A moment later, the gunfire stopped. All was still.

FIFTY-SEVEN

Makgadikgadi Pan, Botswana Friday, 11: 40 P.M.

Leon Seronga was tired. He was tired in body and also in spirit. What he had just heard took even more out of him.

The Brush Viper was riding in the truck alongside Njo Finn. They were following the Jeep through the dark plain. Seronga put them less than an hour from the rendezvous with Dhamballa. That was when the call came from the original camp in the Okavanga Swamp. Seronga’s hands were unsteady as he answered the radio. He did not want bad news.

As it turned out, the radio message from the decoy elements of Dhamballa’s camp was both welcome and disturbing.

The Brush Vipers who had remained behind to keep the Spaniards from following Dhamballa had been successful. The Botswanans had let the Spanish soldiers reach the island. They had allowed the Spaniards to get into the shack. They had rigged a canister of tear gas to a Caucasian Brush Viper standing in for Father Bradbury. The Brush Vipers would have taken the intruders prisoner if they had surrendered. Instead, the Spaniards chose to fight. Two Brush Vipers died in the exchange. Both Spaniards were also killed.

Leon Seronga welcomed the news. It was becoming increasingly clear to Seronga that Father Bradbury could be the key to their survival. Not as a hostage but as an advocate. Someone who had spoken with Dhamballa and knew that he was not a killer.

The news also disturbed Seronga because two of his men had fallen. Seronga had lost very few soldiers over the years. He did not know the individuals well, and he was troubled that he would not get to do so. One of the men had children and grandchildren. The other was just eighteen years old.

The priest and the Vodunists had moved out to join Dhamballa and the rest of his party. It would be up to the Americans to communicate that information to their superiors without providing his specific location. And their superiors would have to notify the Botswana military that Father Bradbury was still a hostage. Gaborone would have to negotiate rather than attack.

Seronga told Finn to catch up to the Jeep. They pulled alongside, and Seronga motioned for them to stop. He opened the door and told Aideen to get in. It would be easier to talk to her than to the others. All the while, Pavant kept his rifle trained on the occupants. As soon as she was inside, Seronga told the Jeep to drive on. Finn continued following them.

“You don’t look happy,” Aideen said.

“There has been a firefight,” Seronga told her.

“Between who?”

“My Brush Vipers encountered members of the elite Spanish force,” Seronga told her.

“Where?” she asked.

“Does it matter?” he replied with resignation.

The woman glared at Seronga for a moment. Then she swore. “You did it, didn’t you?”

Again, Seronga did not have to respond.

“You warned your camp that the soldiers were out there,” she yelled. “Why? That was not part of our arrangement.”

“My people had to be prepared,” Seronga replied.

“What your people had to do was move from the target area!” Aideen said. “They had to get away from the Botswanan helicopters. That was why we gave you the intel.”

“Dhamballa might have encountered the Spaniards en route,” Seronga pointed out. “The two soldiers who invaded our camp were traveling independent of the others.”

“That’s possible,” Aideen agreed. “At the very least, we should have been consulted about your plans.”

“If the Spaniards had not engaged us, you would never have known about this,” Seronga pointed out.

“If you had not kidnapped Father Bradbury, none of us would be in this situation!” Aideen snapped.

“That kind of lashing out is not going to help!” Seronga snapped back.

“You’re right,” Aideen admitted. “Let’s deal with this. Were there any injuries?”

“There were four fatalities,” Seronga told her. “Two of theirs and two of ours,” he said.

Seronga could see Aideen regarding him in the green glow of the dashboard. Her expression was cold.

“Stop the truck,” the woman said to Finn.

“What are you doing?” Seronga asked.

“I want out!” Aideen yelled. The woman turned in the cramped space of the cabin. She reached for the door handle. She reached out the window to open it from the outside.

Seronga reached across and grabbed her wrist.

“Let me go!” Aideen yelled. “I’m getting myself and my people out of here now.”

“Wait! Listen to me!” Seronga said angrily.

“You treat people like bugs,” she declared. “They bother you, you swat them. I won’t listen to you. We won’t be a party to that.”

“It wasn’t like that,” he said. “The Spaniards came into our camp, armed for a fight. They tried to get away with Father Bradbury.”

Aideen turned back to him. “What?”

“They broke into the shack where he was staying,” Seronga said. “We cornered them with tear gas and attempted to apprehend them. We wanted to take them alive. If the Spaniards had surrendered, no one would have been hurt. They would have been held until it was feasible to set them free. Instead, they tried to shoot their way out.”

“You’re saying the Spaniards went ahead with a rescue attempt, even after we asked them to fall back?” she asked.

Seronga nodded.

“I can’t believe that,” she said.

“If you wish, you can speak to Father Bradbury yourself. He will tell you that he was removed and another was put in his place.” Seronga held the radio toward her.

“I wouldn’t know if it were really Father Bradbury or not,” she said.

“I anticipated that,” Seronga said. He took a scrap of paper from his shirt pocket. “I had my men provide me with the serial numbers of the Star 30PK pistols carried by the Spanish soldiers. You can relay those to your superiors. Have them check the numbers against the weapons that were issued to the soldiers. You will see I am telling the truth.”

Aideen accepted the paper. “I will. It still won’t prove your soldiers didn’t hunt the men down.”

“What did we have to gain?” Seronga asked. “We already had the priest. We did not need more hostages. We certainly did not need another reason for the Botswana military to move against us.”

“I don’t know about that,” Aideen said. “Maybe you and your leader are developing martyr complexes.”

“That is far from the case,” Seronga replied. “For me, it’s too late in life. And for Dhamballa, it is too early. He’s only just begun his ministry. Maybe that is why I’m being so protective. He does not yet have the kind of following that will afford him protection from retribution.”

“You might have told us all of this,” Aideen said. “You could have taken us into your confidence.”

“Sometimes people listen better after a thing is done,” Seronga told her. “What is most important now is not what happened. What matters is what happens next. Dhamballa has left the swamp. That will leave the air patrol searching, but not for very long.”

“We must convince them you still have the priest and will not harm him,” Aideen said. “Will you turn him over, though?”

“That is for Dhamballa to say,” Seronga told her. “But if you can hold them off, I will do as I promised. I will find a peaceable solution to this crisis. But neither the Botswana military nor the Spanish must attack my people.”

“You were a soldier. Don’t you know any people in the military?” Aideen asked.

“Some,” he admitted.

“Can’t you talk to them?”

Seronga smiled sadly. “Dhamballa represents change. Even if I could talk to my old friends, they stand to lose a great deal under a new government. They are not idealists. They are policemen.”

“I understand,” Aideen said.

Seronga apologized again for having acted without consulting Aideen. Then he had Finn catch up to the Jeep. Aideen rejoined her team. The two vehicles continued toward the rendezvous point.

The Brush Viper did not know if a nonviolent resolution were possible. The Botswanans clearly had an agenda. Perhaps the Vatican did as well. That was the elimination of possible insurgents.

There was only one way they could succeed, and Seronga would not allow that to happen.

For that, he would gladly give up his life. Not as a martyr, as Aideen had suggested, but as what he had always been: a soldier.

FIFTY-EIGHT

Washington, D.C. Friday, 4: 41 P.M.

Paul Hood, Bob Herbert, and Mike Rodgers were still in Hood’s office, waiting for word from the field. Rodgers had spent the time studying computer files on the Botswana military. In case his people needed the information, Rodgers wanted to know the range, weapons configuration, and maneuvering capabilities of the helicopters. He also wanted to know how many men were on board each chopper. The answers were not encouraging. The Air Wing of the Botswana Defense Forces flew French Aerospatiale AS 332 Super Puma helicopters. They carried up to twenty-five troops each and could be configured to carry a variety of weapons. The choppers had a range of four hundred miles. That was enough to reach the swamp and then set out on a new search. If the squadron was traveling with a tanker ship, they could set off in another direction almost immediately.

Hood was on the phone with the president’s national security adviser. Now that Americans were in a potential war zone, it was time to brief the White House.

“Where are the helicopters now?” Hood asked after giving the president an overview of the situation.

Herbert was looking at a radar feed into his wheelchair computer. “The choppers are holding their position at the edge of the swamp,” he replied. “I’m guessing they were surprised by Dhamballa’s change of plans.”

“Mike, does that mean they’ll have to turn back?” Hood asked.

“Not necessarily,” Rodgers replied.

The general told him about the strengths and limitations of the aircraft the Botswanans were using. Hood passed the information to the president. Hood told the commander in chief he would report back as soon as he had any news. Then he hung up and exhaled loudly.

“How did he take it?” Herbert asked.

“He does not want any of our people firing a shot,” Hood said. “If for some reason they get snagged by the Botswanans, they’re to go quietly.”

“Go quietly and stay in prison so the Botswanans don’t lose face,” Herbert said. “Then, if we’re lucky, Gaborone will believe they were tourists who got off track somehow.”

“That’s pretty much it,” Hood said.

“Are you going to tell Aideen that?” Rodgers asked.

“What would you do?” Hood asked. “It’s your operation.”

“I’d tell them to do whatever is necessary to survive and exit,” Rodgers replied. “I certainly wouldn’t leave them defenseless.”

“I agree,” Hood said. “Aideen won’t use violence unless it’s absolutely necessary. And if that becomes necessary, the U.S. will have to deal with whatever happens.”

“We all agree,” Herbert said. “ ‘Out of chaos does come order.’ ”

“Or worse chaos,” Rodgers said. “That’s something Nietzsche and I never agreed on.”

Herbert’s mouth twisted, and he pondered that as Darrell McCaskey joined them.

“What’s new on the Japanese front?” Hood asked him.

“Something that may or may not have any bearing on what’s going on in Botswana,” McCaskey said.

McCaskey appeared to have regained some of the old G-man steel. Rodgers was glad to see it.

“A group of Japanese tourists was stopped at customs in Gaborone three days ago,” McCaskey said. “They were bringing all kinds of electronics into the country. The Botswanans let them in. According to the hotel records, two of the tourists never checked in. I tried to run them down but could not find them. However, two Japanese tourists did show up, renting a car in Maun. There was no record of those two having entered the country.”

“You think they’re the same people?” Hood asked.

“The timing works if they took the afternoon bus from Gaborone to Maun,” McCaskey said.

McCaskey fell silent as Rodgers’s phone beeped. The general answered immediately.

“Yes?” Rodgers said.

“It’s Aideen,” said the caller. “Two Spanish soldiers tried to rescue someone they thought was Father Bradbury. They were killed.”

“Oh Jesus,” Rodgers said.

The other men looked at him.

“The Vodunists lost two men,” Aideen added. “The priest is still with Dhamballa.”

“When did this happen?” Rodgers asked.

He noticed a crack in McCaskey’s tough expression. Rodgers felt bad for him, but he could explain that nothing had happened to his wife. Not yet.

“The attack came at about eleven-thirty, local time,” Aideen replied.

“After we called Kline,” Rodgers said.

“That’s right,” Aideen said. “Seronga had left the priest and several men behind as decoys. The Spaniards went for it. I have serial numbers for the weapons they were carrying as proof.”

Aideen gave Rodgers the serial numbers. He wrote them down. Rodgers immediately recognized the PK prefix as belonging to the Star pistols carried by the Spanish military. He confirmed to Aideen that, apparently, they had gone in. Rodgers covered the mouthpiece. He asked Hood to get Edgar Kline on the line.

“What is it?” Herbert pressed.

Hood held up a finger as Aideen continued.

“The Vodunists will allow the Botswana military or the VSO to talk to Father Bradbury, to prove that they have him,” Aideen went on. “We are very much trying to find a nonviolent way out of this.”

“Do you need to be involved in that?” Rodgers asked.

“I don’t think Seronga can do it alone,” Aideen said. “If the Botswana military shows up, my sense is that they’ll shoot first and justify it later. But if they know that Father Bradbury is here and we are here—”

“Understood. How much time do you need?” Rodgers asked.

“About two hours,” Aideen replied.

“I’ll try to get that for you,” Rodgers assured her.

“We should be linking up with Dhamballa in less than an hour,” Aideen said. “Father Bradbury will arrive shortly after that. We will call you on this phone. You’ll have to put him through to the authorities, convince them that he is well. If we can delay the attack, we can also prove that the Brush Vipers had nothing to do with the death of Bishop Max.”

“I like it,” Rodgers said. “What we don’t know is whether that will satisfy Gaborone’s needs.”

“I’m hoping we can also get the Brush Vipers to disband,” Aideen said. “I spoke with Seronga. I think they’ve had enough.”

“All right,” Rodgers said. “We’ll work it on this end. Meanwhile, is everyone all right?”

“So far,” she replied.

“Good,” Rodgers said. “Hang in. I’ll get word to Kline. And Aideen?”

“Yes?”

“If we can’t pull this off and it gets hairy, you bail,” Rodgers said. “All of you.”

“We will,” she promised.

Rodgers clicked off. He looked at McCaskey. “They’re all right,” Rodgers told him.

The former FBI agent eased visibly.

Rodgers looked at Hood. “Have you got him on the line?”

“He’s coming,” Hood said.

Rodgers asked Hood to put the phone on speaker. Rodgers briefed the others while he waited. He was just finishing when Kline picked up.

“What is it, Paul?” Kline said.

“No, this is Mike Rodgers. Mr. Kline, about forty-five minutes ago, two members of the Unidad Especial tried to take Father Bradbury by force,” Rodgers told him.

“Are you sure?” Kline asked.

“Yes,” Rodgers replied. “They were killed. So were two Brush Vipers.”

“Bloody hell,” Kline said.

“It must have been,” Rodgers agreed.

“General Rodgers, you must believe me; I had no knowledge about the Spanish soldiers,” Kline said. “They were ordered to stand down. The message we sent was received and acknowledged. I don’t know what happened in the field. Perhaps the Brush Vipers were the aggressors.”

“That isn’t the story I was told, but it is not important at this moment,” Rodgers said. “What I need you to do is keep the Spanish and the Botswana military away. You know we have people on site. They need two hours. They think the Brush Vipers can be persuaded to disband.”

“General, I obviously didn’t have a lot of pull with our people. I certainly don’t have a lot of sway with Gaborone,” Kline said. “None of us does. That was why we had to go to Spain in the first place. I also don’t know if the Botswana government will accept a delay or even the surrender of Dhamballa. This isn’t only about justice anymore. It’s about seeming to appear weak. They can’t afford that, especially if the Brush Vipers did in fact kill those Spanish soldiers.”

“I understand,” Rodgers said. “Which is why you have to convince Gaborone that if they attack, Father Bradbury will die. So will my people. Maybe it will help if you tell them that they are three American tourists who were picked up by the Brush Vipers.”

Herbert shook his head vigorously. “Gaborone could use that kind of standoff for publicity,” the intelligence chief said. “They may want to show off their hostage negotiating skills.”

“At least it will hold off the attack,” McCaskey said, “give our people a chance to get out.”

“Maybe,” Herbert said. “I agree with Edgar. At this point, I think the Botswana government feels it needs a show of force. A hostage situation will also cause questions to be asked about who the Americans are and how they got in. We can’t risk that.”

“Then call our team and tell them to cut loose,” McCaskey said. “What else is there to do?”

“Running through the wilderness while Botswana pilots are looking for people running through the wilderness may not be the best course of action,” Rodgers said.

“That is probably true,” Kline said, “though I don’t think they’ll shoot at people who don’t fit the profile of Brush Vipers.”

“Aideen will concoct some story about being out on safari,” Herbert said.

“They’ll have a Jeep to prove it.”

“Gentlemen, without saying anything about your people, I’ll do what I can to settle the situation,” Kline said. “I’ll call you as soon as I have an answer.”

“And try to make this order stick,” Herbert said.

Hood had moved to kill the call as soon as Kline finished. He obviously expected Herbert to say something. Rodgers did not think the VSO officer heard. Not that he cared one way or the other. Kline had not proved to be a particularly effective partner.

“So this is where we’ve ended up,” McCaskey said. He was not so much angry now as resigned. “They go forward, whatever the price.”

“For now,” Rodgers said. “Just for now.”

“We just have to acknowledge that at this moment there are risks in flight,” Herbert said.

“Darrell, you know what my orders are to Aideen,” Rodgers said quietly. “If anything goes wrong, they will pull out. I’m sure they can find a place to hole up until the crisis passes.”

“Maybe,” McCaskey said. “And maybe Aideen and Battat will do that. I’m not so sure about Maria.”

“They all will,” Rodgers said. “If it comes to that, I will order it.”

“More forcefully than you did before?” McCaskey asked.

“Yes,” Rodgers replied. “I deferred to the judgment of the individual running the mission in the field. The situation is different now. Anyway, you’re forgetting something important, Darrell.”

“What’s that?”

“Maria loves you,” Rodgers said. “She’s committed to you. She wants to come back to you. If this thing goes south, she’s not going to stay there just for the hell of it.”

“No,” McCaskey admitted. “She’s not suicidal.”

“She hasn’t been married to you long enough,” Herbert said. Hood made a face. Herbert shrugged it off. But Darrell smiled for the first time in two days.

“I’ll tell you what I’m afraid of,” McCaskey went on. “We don’t know what they’re thinking in Gaborone. Father Bradbury may mean more to the Botswanans dead than alive. The air force can say they struck after he was killed. And Gaborone will use his death as an excuse to come down hard on any dissent in the future. If that’s the case, they won’t care who is with Dhamballa. The air force will go in and wipe them all out.”

“I’ll let Aideen know your concerns,” Rodgers said. “We can prepare for that. Maybe put some distance between our group and Seronga.”

“Mike, I’d like to do something else,” McCaskey said.

“What’s that?” Rodgers asked.

“I’d like to talk to Maria,” he said.

“I don’t think you should,” Rodgers said. “Every time we speak with them, there’s a chance we can be traced. We don’t want to give the Botswana Air Force a map to where our people are.”

“I’ll keep it short,” McCaskey promised. “Unless there’s some other reason you’re against it?”

“Frankly, there is,” Rodgers admitted. “I don’t want Maria getting upset or distracted. Not now.”

“How about encouragement?” he said. “Maybe she can use some of that.”

“Talking to you won’t be a neutral event,” Hood said. “You know that. Let’s see how this plays out, okay? Maybe we can revisit it later.”

McCaskey looked as if he wanted to argue. He thought better of it. Instead, he got up to go.

“Darrell, about those Japanese who went to Botswana,” Hood said. “Any chance we can find out who they really are?”

“We’re talking to a guy in Tokyo who deals in fake passports for the entire Pacific Rim,” McCaskey said. “He wouldn’t have actually made these, but he thinks he can find out who did. We’ll get someone to talk to whoever that is, convince him to cooperate.”

“I can save you the trouble,” Herbert said. “My gut tells me these guys are working with Fujima.”

“That could be true,” Hood said. “Which brings us to the next obvious question. Why the hell are the Japanese so interested in Botswana?”

“I don’t know,” Herbert said. “But I am convinced of one thing.”

“Which is?” Hood asked.

Herbert replied, “That a bunch of people are keeping some very big secrets from us.”

FIFTY-NINE

Makgadikgadi Pan, Botswana Saturday, 12:30 A.M.

Maria Corneja knew that she should not think when she was tired. At those times, her thoughts were cynical, pessimistic. And that was not what she needed now.

But she could not help herself. She was what she was.

The woman was still perched on the back of the Jeep. The wind was keeping her alert as she looked out at the extraordinary blackness. As vivid as the stars were, their indifference bothered her. They were the same as they had been when apes with no ambition crossed the salt pan. They would be the same when the earth was a dead ball.

So what are we all doing this for? she wondered. The stars will burn, the world will turn, and life will go on, whether we succeed or not. If I were to leave now, nothing would change.

Except for one thing. However impassive the universe was, Maria still had to face herself in the morning. And she wanted to be able to do so with a sense that she had been true to herself. Unfortunately, she was not quite sure what that meant in this case. She did not believe that Leon Seronga was a bad man. As far as she could tell, his tactics had not been excessive. And his ambitions seemed to be moral. Unfortunately, they were also illegal.

Still, she wondered what she would do when it came time. Even though she had worked for Interpol, she had never been a company player. It had always been a question of right versus wrong. Fortunately, Interpol had usually been on the side of right.

Then there was Darrell. He was probably insane with anger, worry, and resentment. Maybe he was even a little proud of her, though that was probably buried deep. She refused to think about any of that. If she let herself be influenced by his emotions, her own would get fired up. This situation did not need more passion. It needed as much calm reason as she could summon.

As Maria’s mind probed the blackness, her eyes did the same. She was watching for the arrival of Dhamballa and the Brush Vipers. It was not announced by lights on the horizon but by Seronga’s truck speeding up. Within moments, he had pulled alongside the Jeep.

“My group is close by!” Seronga shouted. “They are less than four miles from here, at Lake Septone. We will meet them there.”

“Have all the Brush Vipers arrived?” Aideen asked.

“Yes!” Seronga told her. “They are deploying themselves among the rocks around the lake. You might want to pass that along to your superiors. They can inform Gaborone.”

“I wouldn’t advise that,” Battat said. “They might think it was provocative rather than defensive.”

Maria knew that it was both. Even if the Brush Vipers did not intend to challenge the choppers, their action suggested they were ready to do so. In Seronga’s position, she would have done exactly the same.

The truck pulled in front, and the Jeep followed. Obviously, Seronga was no longer concerned about the Op-Center team leaving. Perhaps he had decided to trust them. Decisions were easy when there were no options.

They reached the lake in less than ten minutes. It was not quite the fortress Maria had pictured. In the glow of the headlights she saw less than a dozen boulders the size of desk chairs. They were clumped here and there where some ancient flood must have deposited them. The lake itself was less than a square mile. It did not appear to be very deep. Maria thought she could see reeds jutting out from the center of the water.

As they neared the lake, the truck driver killed his headlights. Only the parking lights remained on. Aideen did likewise. It was a strange sensation to be moving through near-absolute darkness. Yet the vastness of the land did not go away. The sounds from the vehicles seemed to travel forever. It was different than a sound that echoed from a group of trees or a canyon wall. It just rolled out and diminished slowly.

The truck stopped. So did the Jeep. Several lanterns were turned on along the lake. People were approaching. Seronga switched on his own flashlight and walked toward them.

Battat sidled up to Maria. Aideen joined them.

“How do you want to handle this?” Battat asked.

“I think that’s up to Seronga,” Aideen said.

“Shouldn’t we be involved in the discussions?” Battat pressed.

“Yes,” Maria agreed. “Before they become carved in stone.”

She started forward briskly. The other two came after her. As they walked, it occurred to Maria that this was how warring tribes must have approached each other five thousand years before. She could not decide whether it was exciting to be a part of that history or whether it was sad because we had not advanced very much in all those centuries.

As they approached, Maria felt something in the air. It was an extremely low vibration, like the rumble from a subwoofer. It felt as if it were coming from the ground, but that was not the case. The ground was trembling slightly from whatever was causing her to shake.

What was just a hint of motion became more pronounced over the next few seconds. Maria stopped and looked up.

“Do you feel that?” she asked.

Aideen and Battat also stopped.

“I do now,” Battat said. “Feels like a tank.”

“Not a tank,” Maria said.

They heard a low hum. She looked among the stars. Finally, she saw one that was moving.

“A scout,” she said. “They sent out scout choppers.”

She started running toward the lake.

“Seronga!” Maria shouted.

“I see it!” he shouted back.

“No lights!” he cried even louder. “Everyone shut their lanterns!”

Along the lake, the lanterns snapped off. But as the light in the sky grew larger and the sound became louder, Maria had a feeling they were too late.

SIXTY

Makgadikgadi Pan, Botswana Saturday, 12:45 A.M.

Seronga knew what had to be done. He had one job, one goal. To save Dhamballa. And there was really just one way to achieve it.

The Brush Viper trotted toward the caravan. He shouted now and then to get his bearings. The other Brush Vipers would shout back. The roar of the rotors was not yet strong enough to drown them out. Their voices told him where he should be headed.

Seronga’s one job was to protect the future of Vodunism. That was the only place the pure heart and soul of Botswana still survived. It had to be kept alive. To do that, Seronga needed to make certain that Dhamballa was not captured or killed. That meant holding off the assault and getting Dhamballa out of here. What Seronga did not know was whether Dhamballa would agree.

Seronga reached the nearest of the boulders. Pavant and Finn arrived a few moments later.

“There are three others coming behind us,” he said as he moved past the guards. “Let them pass.”

The men said they would.

A dozen yards beyond them, he saw the flickering of a shielded cigarette lighter. The face of Nicholas Arrons was behind it. He was the driver of the van in which Dhamballa was traveling. Seronga ran toward him. When he was a few feet away, the light flicked off. Breathing heavily from the short run, Seronga stopped by the front of the van.

“Do you hear that?” Seronga asked.

“Of course,” Arrons replied. “A scout?”

“Very likely,” Seronga said. “Where is the decoy group?”

“They left the swamp double-time and caught up to us about a mile back,” Arrons replied. “They’re resting by the lake. At least, they were. I’m sure they heard the helicopter.”

“We’ll have to deploy them in case we’re strafed,” Seronga said.

“I ordered the rocket launchers deployed,” Arrons told him.

“No one fires unless we’re fired upon,” Seronga said.

“Those were my orders,” Arrons replied.

“Where is the priest?”

“He is in the other van,” Arrons said.

“Have Terrence bring him over,” Seronga said.

“The ordeal in the swamp was difficult for him,” Arrons said. “So was the drive here. He has not slept or eaten very much.”

“There will be time enough for that soon,” Seronga said. “Bring him to me now.”

“Yes sir,” Arrons said.

The soldier left, and Seronga stepped to the side of the van. Though they had been speaking by radio since Dhamballa broke camp, there was something different in Arrons’s voice now. It was as though he were hiding something.

Seronga knocked on the door, then pulled it open. Dhamballa was sitting cross-legged on a mat. The interior lights had been covered with duct tape. Only a faint, muddy light illuminated the inside.

Seronga bowed his head slightly. There was no formal way to greet a houngan, but Seronga felt he needed something to show his respect. He had settled upon this.

“I’m glad you are safe, Dhamballa,” Seronga said.

“What happened at the airport?” Dhamballa asked.

The beating of the rotor was getting louder. Seronga glanced back at the sky. The light was three times more brilliant than any of the stars.

“Sir, we can discuss this later,” Seronga said.

“I must know,” Dhamballa said.

The helicopter was now a steady drone. It seemed increasingly likely that the chopper had spotted them.

“I don’t know,” Seronga said. “Pavant and I were waiting for the bishop, when someone shot him. We don’t know who that was.”

Dhamballa stepped closer. He looked into Seronga’s face, at his forehead, at the edges of his mouth.

“The bones told me that someone close will betray me, so I must ask again,” Dhamballa said. “Either by action or by design, were you responsible for the death of the American bishop?”

“Neither I nor my soldiers had anything to do with the assassination,” Seronga said. “We have not always agreed on policy, houngan. I would tell you if it were otherwise.”

The Vodun leader regarded him for several seconds longer. “I believe you,” he said.

“Thank you,” Seronga said. He was glad, since he had no intention of adding to his answer. “Perhaps the betrayal came from the outside. From the men who were helping you to power.”

“If so, I will find that out,” Dhamballa said.

Maria, Aideen, and Battat walked up behind Seronga. Pavant and Njo Finn joined them.

“Mr. Seronga, we need to make some decisions,” Aideen said.

“Yes,” he agreed. He gestured behind him. “Houngan, during the past few hours, these people have helped us with information and planning. Maria was at the airport with me. She saw the killing and has evidence that will help authorities find the assassin.”

“Arrons told me about these people and what they’ve done,” Dhamballa said. “Thank you all.”

“Sir, you can thank us by breaking up this party and moving out as soon as possible,” Battat said.

“And what would we do?” Dhamballa asked.

They heard footsteps in the dark. Arrons was approaching from behind the car. He was bringing Father Bradbury.

“We believe there is a way to save the movement,” Seronga said. “But to do so, we must have time. There are two ways to get that time. First, we must turn the priest over to these people. We must let the government know that we have released him. Second, you must go.”

“Go where?” Dhamballa asked. He seemed genuinely surprised by the suggestion.

“Away from this area,” Seronga said. “And quickly, sir. We are soon to have company.”

“We have a rally scheduled,” Dhamballa replied. “We cannot disappoint our people, show them cowardice. Now that we are together, I think we should turn around and trust in the gods to protect us.”

“You will never get to the rally,” Maria insisted. “The gods may protect your spirit, but I wouldn’t bet on them against a 2.75-inch rocket.”

“Seronga and his men will be with me,” Dhamballa remarked. “They have arms. And I believe the government will not want a massacre. If those are not deterrent enough, we still have the priest.”

“Holding Father Bradbury may not help you,” Maria warned. “Not any longer. The outside world will perceive the incident at the airport as the onset of chaos. And your movement will be blamed.”

“We are not responsible,” Dhamballa said.

“Unfortunately, you won’t have the opportunity to make that case,” Battat told him. “Gaborone needs this situation to go away.”

“Situation?” Dhamballa said. “Is that how the oldest religion on earth is perceived?”

“Not the faith,” Battat told him. “The actions of the practitioners. Whether or not you killed the bishop doesn’t really matter now. You kidnapped Father Bradbury. You precipitated this crisis. I know something about how blame works, and trust me. You will be blamed.”

“We’re wasting time,” Maria cut in. “If that helicopter has seen you, it will signal the others. They will be here within an hour. You will all be arrested or cut down. There will be no rally.”

Dhamballa turned to Seronga. “What do you say?”

“I believe these risks are very real, houngan,” he replied. “If we are all dead, no one will be in a position to dispute what the government says. We must not give them the opportunity to take us down.”

Arrons and the priest arrived.

“You’re asking me to run,” Dhamballa said to Seronga.

“Not run. Walk with dignity. Leave with these people,” the Brush Viper said. “You and Father Bradbury. Maria knows we did not kill the bishop. Just by emerging from the salt pan, Father Bradbury will attest to the fact that while his stay may not have been pleasant, he is alive and well.”

Father Bradbury had been looking at the others. His eyes stopped on Seronga.

“Those clothes,” the priest said suddenly. “Where did you get them?”

Seronga did not answer.

“Where did you get them?” the priest demanded. “No, you don’t have to tell me. I know. You got them from my deacons. You had to. If they had left Botswana, they would have taken their clothes with them. What did you do to them? Are they all right?”

Maria looked at the Brush Viper. “Seronga, were the deacons still at the church when you arrived?”

“Yes,” Seronga replied.

“Where are they now?” she asked him.

Seronga wished there were time to explain what he had done. How this was a war and that lives are lost in war. How he needed information about Bishop Max and there was only one way to get it. How compassion would have cost them everything they had struggled to achieve.

He wished, most of all, that Dhamballa did not have to hear this.

“The missionaries are with their god,” Seronga replied.

“By your hand?” Dhamballa asked. His voice was a whisper. If disbelief had a sound, this was it.

“Yes,” Seronga said. “We killed them. We had no choice.” Dhamballa sat absolutely still. It was the posture of disbelief.

“Jesus wept,” Father Bradbury said. He made the sign of the cross, then tightly folded his bony fingers. “How many more people have to die for this insane crusade?” he asked. His hands began to shake. He glared at Dhamballa. “How can you call yourself a holy man when you allow things like this?”

“All religions kill!” Seronga yelled angrily. “When oppression cannot be stopped with reason, what other course is there?”

“Patience,” Father Bradbury replied.

“For far too many years we were patient, priest,” Dhamballa said. “But I did not want to advance our cause with the breath of the dying.”

“No! Yet you knew it could happen when you surrounded yourself with soldiers,” Seronga said. “There is not one person here, not one faith or government represented, who has not advanced an idea by killing.”

The helicopter came lower, then hovered. A searchlight was turned on. They would spot the men in the boulders.

“Dhamballa, we must get you out of here,” Maria said urgently. “You and the priest.”

“Yes, you must go,” Seronga agreed.

Dhamballa regarded his lieutenant. “What will you do? Fight?”

“No,” he vowed. “I will lead the helicopters away.”

“How?” Dhamballa asked.

“I don’t have time to answer,” Seronga said. “Maria, will you take them from here?”

“Yes,” she said.

The Brush Viper regarded Dhamballa. “Sir, maybe we could have done things differently. All of us. Perhaps we took on too big a challenge. Or perhaps the faith was meant to stay underground. I don’t know. But I do know one thing. You must continue what was very nearly begun here. You must carry it to others. You must live to speak of it.”

“And pray for us, sir,” Pavant added, his eyes on the sky. “Please do that as well.”

Dhamballa nodded silently, sadly. “I will do all of those things.” He looked at Seronga. “In the end, we must consider the future, not the past.”

Maria stepped around Seronga. She reached into the van, her hand extended toward Dhamballa. He hesitated. Then he accepted her hand and stepped into the night.

“I’ll bring the Jeep around,” Battat said.

A gentle wind stirred from Seronga’s left, from the west. It did not come from the rotor of the chopper. Dhamballa turned his face toward it. There was something poignant about the moment. The Vodun leader seemed to be saying good-bye and looking ahead at the same time.

Aideen took Father Bradbury by the arm and led him toward the Jeep. Pavant and Arrons left to join the other men. Only Maria was left. She turned her back on the men but did not leave.

Dhamballa kissed Seronga lightly on both cheeks. Then he pressed his left index and middle fingers to the Brush Viper’s forehead. He drew the finger down along the bridge of Seronga’s nose to his nostrils.

“May the gods look down and preserve you,” Dhamballa said. He put a palm over his own eyes. “May they also forgive you.”

“Thank you,” Seronga said.

Dhamballa lowered his hand. He held it out, palm up, and exchanged a knowing look with Seronga. Then he turned and left with Maria. Seronga walked after Pavant. He stopped and turned back.

“Maria!” he shouted.

“Here!” she called back.

“Get home safely,” he said. “All of you. And thank you.”

“We will meet again, I hope,” she replied.

The Brush Viper continued after Pavant. He did not believe that he would ever see Dhamballa or the others again. The helicopter spotlight was playing across the terrain, picking out the rock formations and studying them. The crew had to have seen the Brush Vipers.

Seronga would lead them away in a few minutes. Part of him hoped the helicopter followed. He did believe in Dhamballa and his work. He believed in it because he believed in Botswana. In Africa. In the people among whom he had lived and fought and laughed. He could not have asked for a more fulfilling life. Or, if it came to that, a more fulfilling death.

Prince Leon Seronga moved from one small group to the next. He told the men to get back into the vehicles and head north. He told them to move in different directions to make pursuit more difficult.

“What do we do if we are fired upon?” Arrons asked.

“I would prefer that you stay hidden and escape when you can,” Seronga replied. “If necessary, fight back. If it is absolutely necessary, surrender.”

“What will you do?” Pavant asked.

Seronga thought before answering. “I must clean the black magic from Dhamballa’s hand,” he replied.

“The killings?” Pavant asked.

“Yes.”

“How can that be done?” Pavant asked.

Seronga smiled. “By me, and me alone. I want you to join the others before the helicopters arrive.”

Pavant lingered for a moment. He saluted his commander with a sharp, clean snap. It was the first time that Seronga could remember Pavant saluting. Then he turned and ran into the darkness. Soon, all Seronga heard was the beat of the helicopter rotor and the growl of the engines as the trucks and vans slipped away.

He hunkered down beside one of the boulders. But he did not pick up any of the weapons. He simply watched the helicopter. And he made sure it saw him for a moment. Soon, other lights appeared in the distance. The squadron was coming. One of the helicopters would have to land to make sure this area was cleared of Brush Vipers.

It would be, very nearly.

Seronga unholstered his pistol and thought about the land. He thought about the night and about his life.

Seronga had no regrets. In fact, he felt surprisingly at peace. When all of this was done, his body would still be a part of this great continent. His spirit would be part of an eternal collective.

In the end, that was the most anyone could ask for.

After a few minutes, the scout helicopter landed. Troops emerged. They were fast-moving silhouettes in the bright searchlights mounted to the side of the chopper.

Seronga counted ten of them. The men went from rock to rock, securing each position. They were good, these kids. They moved well. He wondered how he would have fared if he were their age, competing with them.

Then the soldiers noticed the tracks of the vans. The men pointed to the north and northwest.

Eventually, the soldiers headed toward his position.

Seronga fired at the nearest soldiers. Not to kill. Not to wound. Simply to delay. They hit the ground, rolled behind the boulders, took shelter while they covered one another. These kids were very good. They belly-crawled to new positions so they could triangulate fire on the rock.

After a few minutes, it became clear that Seronga could delay no longer. He did not know if they would take him alive. He did know they would probably beat him for information. Or perhaps drug him. Only the latter scared him. He also knew what his fate would be for murdering the two deacons.

With gratitude for the life he had lived, Prince Leon Seronga put the barrel of the pistol to his temple.

He fired.

SIXTY-ONE

Washington, D.C. Friday, 6:19 P.M.

The tension in the office was not like anything Paul Hood had ever experienced. Hood, Rodgers, Herbert, and McCaskey sat in their chairs, waiting. Lowell Coffey had joined them. No one was talking because there was nothing to talk about. There had been no further word about the Japanese or the Europeans. Everyone was focused on the situation in Botswana.

Hood could tell that Herbert was not comfortable with the silence. It was not in the man’s gregarious nature to be silent among friends. After shifting in his wheelchair several times, Herbert finally spoke.

“When I was a kid, I saw a movie called Sink the Bismarck,” the intelligence chief said. “I don’t remember whether the movie was accurate or not, but there was this one scene that really stuck in my mind. The commander of the British naval forces was running the search-and-destroy operation from his underground HQ in London. After he gets word that the Bismarck has gone down, he looks at his watch. It’s six o’clock. He’s been working for days straight. He goes out for dinner and realizes it’s actually six A.M. Time got totally screwed up for him down in the bunker.”

Everyone was silent for a long moment.

“Are you saying that you’re totally screwed up, Bob?” Lowell Coffey finally asked.

“No,” Herbert said. “What I’m saying is that perceptions get warped when you’re in a crisis situation. We’re sitting here, cut off from other stimuli. No windows. No news about the world. No phone calls from friends or family. I don’t know if that’s a good thing.”

“Whether it is or isn’t, what choice do we have?” Coffey asked.

“I don’t know, but we should talk to Liz about that,” Herbert replied. “She should come up with some sort of activity or music or some feng shui decor that helps us keep perspective.”

“Like floral pattern wallpaper,” Hood said.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Herbert cautioned.

“I tried taking my mind off things once by playing blackjack against the computer,” Hood said. “I lost. It didn’t make me feel any better.”

“Losing at anything is not supposed to make a person feel good,” Herbert pointed out.

“You did have one consolation, though,” Rodgers said.

“What was that?” Hood asked.

“There was a Reset button on the game,” Rodgers said. There was a whisper of bitterness in his voice.

“I don’t think any of this is relevant,” McCaskey said. “We have perspective, and we have direction and resources. What we don’t have is a goddamn resolution. That’s what makes a person nuts.”

While McCaskey was speaking, Rodgers’s cell phone beeped. He punched it on and simultaneously glanced at his watch. As he did so, Rodgers carefully noted the time.

“Yes?” Rodgers said.

“Good news,” Aideen said. “we’ve got the priest, and we’re on our way back to Maun. Dhamballa is also with us.”

“That’s great!” Rodgers said. “How is the team?”

The general saw McCaskey lean forward intently. McCaskey briefly put his forehead against his folded hands. Then he leaned back and looked over at Mike Rodgers.

“Everyone is fine here,” Aideen told him.

Rodgers felt his chest grow lighter. He gave McCaskey a thumbs-up. The FBI liaison shut his eyes, threw back his head, and laughed.

“We just heard shots,” Aideen went on. “We can only assume it’s Leon Seronga. He stayed behind to cover our retreat.”

“What about Father Bradbury?” Rodgers asked.

“He’s a little shaky and says he could use a bath, but we think he’s okay,” Aideen replied.

“Did Dhamballa come willingly?” Rodgers asked.

That brought a surprised look from the others.

“He’s with them?” Herbert muttered.

Rodgers nodded.

“Seronga convinced him that he had to leave,” Aideen said. “I don’t know what Dhamballa’s plans are, though.”

“Do you think Dhamballa will seek immunity?” Rodgers asked. He snapped his fingers at Coffey.

“I think he wants to stay here and try to relaunch his crusade,” the woman replied.

“Just in case, I’ll put Lowell on it,” Rodgers said. “We’ll have the process in motion.”

Coffey nodded. He got out his cell phone.

“What is the status of the Brush Vipers?” Rodgers asked.

“When we left, they intended to go deeper into the salt pan,” Aideen told him. “The idea was to lead the helicopters away from us.”

Rodgers glanced over at NRO image on the computer. “Radar still has them moving north,” he said.

“I’m glad to hear that,” Aideen said. “We’ll reach Maun well before the sun is up. Once we do that, we’ll be in the clear.”

“Aideen,” Rodgers said, “we’re all pulling for you. You’ve all done an amazing job over there, all of you. Thanks.”

“We’re kind of happy right now,” she admitted.

“Tell Maria I love her,” McCaskey said softly.

“Aideen? Is Maria available?” Rodgers asked.

“Yes, she is.”

“Tell Maria her husband would like to speak with her,” Rodgers said. He looked at his watch. He and Aideen had been on the phone just over a minute. Rodgers shot McCaskey a look. “He would like to speak with her for thirty seconds, tops,” Rodgers added.

McCaskey got up quickly, and Rodgers tossed him the cell phone. McCaskey took it into the hall.

“That was nice,” Hood said. “Thanks.”

Herbert was visibly impatient. He was not usually sentimental. He was less so during a crisis. “Mike, what’s happening out there?”

As Rodgers briefed the others, McCaskey returned. He lay a hand on Rodgers’s shoulder and gently squeezed as he walked past. For a moment, all seemed right with the world.

Suddenly, Herbert glanced at the computer screen.

“Shit. They’re changing course,” the intelligence chief said.

The others gathered around Herbert’s computer.

“See these two?” Herbert said. He pointed at a pair of blips. “They’re moving southwest. That’s the direction our people are headed.”

“It could be just an exploratory thing,” Coffey said.

“We could also have had the line open a little too long,” Herbert said. “They may have triangulated the call.”

It was possible. They had gotten sloppy and complacent. McCaskey might have stayed on just a few seconds too long.

“There aren’t a lot of vehicles out there at night,” Herbert said. “And our guys don’t have a big head start.”

Rodgers took the phone from McCaskey.

“Ideas, anyone?” Hood asked.

“If the military catches our people with Dhamballa, they’re going to be screwed,” Coffey said. “Abetting a revolutionary is not going to play well in a Botswana court.”

“They can’t be caught,” McCaskey said.

“They won’t be,” Rodgers said. He called Aideen.

“What are you thinking?” Hood asked.

“I’m thinking we can get this to work in our favor,” Rodgers replied.

SIXTY-TWO

Makgadikgadi Pan, Botswana Saturday, 1:56 A.M.

Aideen Marley was sitting between Father Bradbury and Dhamballa in the backseat of the Jeep. Battat was behind the wheel, and Maria was beside him. They were thumping across the terrain at a rapid pace. They had stopped just once, briefly, to fill the tank from the gas can in the back.

The fog lamps threw wide, bright circles of light across the immediate landscape to the front and forward sides. The brilliant lights blanched the dirt and shrubs. They looked almost like black-and-white photographs.

Aideen was surprised when the cell phone beeped again. She prayed that nothing was wrong. The last call had run a little longer than the others. Not long enough for it to be triangulated, she hoped.

“Hello!” she said.

“We think you’ve been spotted,” Mike Rodgers said.

Aideen covered her open ear with her palm. The Jeep was making a lot of noise as it slammed across the uneven terrain. She wanted to make sure she heard that correctly.

“Repeat?” she said.

“Several choppers are headed in your direction,” Rodgers said.

“Intent?” she asked.

“Unknown but unlikely to be moderate,” Rodgers replied. “I think I have a solution.”

“Go ahead!” Aideen shouted.

“Your team and Dhamballa must exit the Jeep,” Rodgers told her. “Let Father Bradbury have it. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” she said.

“When the Botswana army finds him, he must tell them he escaped,” Rodgers went on. “He cannot say anything about you or Dhamballa. The rented Jeep won’t be traceable. Elements of the Spanish army will probably get the credit.”

“They can have it,” Aideen said. She looked behind her. She thought she saw three stars moving slightly. They might be satellites. Or small planes.

Or they could be helicopters.

“You’ll have to find some other way out of the salt pan,” Rodgers said. “We’ll see what we can do from this end.”

“We’ll figure something out,” Aideen said. “I’ll let you know what we’re doing.”

“Good luck,” Rodgers said.

Aideen hung up. She tapped Battat on the shoulder and told him to stop at once. He did. He also killed the engine and the lights. The world grew dark. The sound of the nocturnal insects was strangely threatening. Aideen looked behind her. The movement of the lights were the same as the single helicopter had been earlier. She listened.

“What’s wrong?” Battat asked.

“Do you hear that?” Aideen asked.

“Cicadas,” Battat said.

“No, from the sky,” Aideen said.

The woman heard a faint drumming sound droning far, far away. It had to be coming from the lights. They had to be helicopters. They were about twenty minutes away.

Quickly, Aideen explained the situation to the others. When she was done, she looked at Father Bradbury.

“Will you do it?” she pressed. “Will you leave us and take the Jeep?”

The priest looked at Dhamballa. “Will you swear to me on your gods that you had nothing to do with the death of my deacons?” Father Bradbury asked.

“Killing is against my beliefs. It is contrary to the white arts,” Dhamballa replied. “I would never authorize such a thing.”

“Then I will do what you ask,” Father Bradbury said, looking at Aideen.

Aideen thanked him and got out of the Jeep. Dhamballa followed the woman out.

“How are we going to make sure we aren’t killed ourselves?” Battat asked. “I was looking around as I drove. There were big eyes glowing behind foliage. A lot of them.”

“I’ll make sure you are all right,” Dhamballa said.

“How?” Battat asked.

“Do you have a flashlight?” Dhamballa asked.

“Yes,” Battat said.

He pulled one from the glove compartment, switched it on, and handed it to Dhamballa.

“We will use petrol,” the Vodun leader said.

“For what?” Battat asked.

While the others climbed from the Jeep, Dhamballa went to the back. He reached into the open storage compartment behind the full-size spare tire. He removed the three-gallon tank of gasoline and unscrewed the top.

“Predators do not like the scent,” Dhamballa informed him. “It resembles rotting meat. If you put some under your arms and along the front of your thighs, all but the carrion feeders will move on. And they are cowardly. You will be able to scare them off.”

Aideen came over. “By shouting and that sort of thing?” she asked.

“Just so,” Dhamballa said. He went over to Battat. “You will only need a little under the arms and inside the thighs.”

Battat pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. He wadded it then allowed Dhamballa to splash on gasoline. He dabbed some where the Vodun leader had instructed. Aideen was next. She looked over at Maria, who was standing at the side of the Jeep.

“Maria?” Aideen said.

“I’ve been thinking,” Maria said. “We may not have to stay out here for very long. Dhamballa, what is the best-known landmark in this area? A village, a mountain, a river. Anything.”

“We are about two miles from Wraith’s Point,” he told her. “It’s a dried geyser that whistles when the sun and temperature go down.”

Maria asked for the phone, and Aideen gave it to her. While the Spanish woman placed a call, Father Bradbury moved behind the wheel of the Jeep. He made sure he knew where all the controls were located.

Aideen stood behind the vehicle, watching the sky. The smell of the gasoline made Aideen dizzy. She breathed through her mouth to minimize the impact. The lights she had noticed before had doubled in size. The patting sound had grown louder. Aideen looked anxiously at Maria. She could not imagine what the woman was planning. Whatever it was, she hoped it happened very soon.

Suddenly, Maria shut the phone and strode over. She took the can of gasoline from Dhamballa and poured fuel onto her palm.

“We’d better get going,” Maria said as she rubbed the gas on. “Those are definitely helicopters.”

“Who did you call?” Aideen asked.

“The cavalry,” she replied. “Let’s go.”

In Spain, Aideen had learned that it did not pay to try to pull information from Maria. Aideen would go along with this because they had no choice. Battat seemed too tired to argue. Nor was there time. They had to get away from the Jeep.

Aideen turned to Dhamballa. “Which way do we go?” she asked.

“To the southwest,” the Vodun leader said. “I will leave you with this,” he added and handed her the flashlight.

“Leave us?” Aideen said. “Aren’t you coming?”

“No,” he replied. “I go a different way.”

“Where?” Maria asked.

“To a new beginning,” he replied.

“You need not do this,” Maria said. “I will tell them you did not kill the bishop.”

“The bones have told me that someone betrayed us,” Dhamballa said. “I must find out who that is. And you must go!”

“We will,” Maria said. “Be careful.”

Dhamballa thanked her. Then he walked over to Father Bradbury. Aideen listened to the exchange as she, Maria, and Battat walked off.

“I am sorry for all that has happened,” Dhamballa said.

“The truly repentant are forgiven,” Father Bradbury replied.

“I do not require forgiveness from you or anyone,” Dhamballa answered confidently. “But I will do things differently the next time.”

“I hope you will,” the priest replied. “There is room for your faith and mine to coexist.”

“Not here,” Dhamballa replied. “Not in Africa.”

That was the last thing Dhamballa said before walking off in the blackness.

Aideen heard the Jeep as Father Bradbury started the engine. She turned back as the headlights came on and the priest sped into the night. Soon, the Jeep engine was a faint buzz, its lights lost in the distance.

The choppers sounded louder. They were nearly as loud as the locusts. Battat was looking toward the east as they walked.

“We may have dodged a bullet,” Battat said. “The helicopters seem to be veering off.”

Aideen looked over. Battat was right. She took a long, slow breath. Aideen had not realized how tense she was. Not until she felt the relief of seeing the helicopters following the Jeep.

It was strange. The three of them had accomplished far more than they set out to do. Yet Aideen could not help but feel a sense of defeat.

It was not just the blood that had been spilled. She could not shake the idea that something pure and fragile had been corrupted during these past few days. A vision. An idea. An ideal. Perhaps it was too old or too young to bear the weight that had been placed upon it. Maybe it had been polluted by politics and finance and having an army.

She did not know. All she knew was that this was not a victory.

For anyone.

SIXTY-THREE

Makgadikgadi Pan, Botswana Saturday, 3:19 A.M.

Light.

Throughout this long and troubling night, the danger had all been about light. The searchlights of the helicopters in the sky. The hungry eyes of predators behind the scrub. Finally, after a long trek, Maria and her group were endangered by the failure of light.

The flashlight died nearly a half hour before Maria and the others reached the extinct geyser. Fortunately, Wraith’s Point was appropriately named. The group was still able to locate it. The site howled deep and hollow. It reminded Maria of a strong canyon wind in the Pyrenees. The sound came intermittently, every minute or so. It was caused as gases baked underground throughout the day rose through the channels just below the surface. The group simply followed the sound. With nothing to create an echo, it was relatively easy to track the howling. They stumbled here and there over rocks and into gullies. But if there were any predators, Dhamballa’s solution kept them away.

Aideen had asked Maria why they were going to the geyser. Maria told her. Aideen accepted the information without comment. Maria did not know whether the woman believed her. She did not know whether she believed it herself. Over the years, she had grown extremely skeptical about people and their promises. But cynicism did not mean having no hope. She had that.

When the three reached the mound, they stepped around it single file. They moved carefully, feeling their way as they went. They determined that the geyser mound was approximately twenty feet around and three feet tall. Up close, the howling sounded like someone was blowing into a giant bottle. Maria was surprised to find that there was very little outgassing from the geyser. It was primarily an acoustic phenomenon.

After rounding the geyser, the group sat. There was nothing else to do. Father Bradbury had been given the cell phone. By now, he was probably safe aboard the helicopter. Maria felt a great sense of accomplishment about that. But she also felt sadness for Dhamballa. He was a young man with a vision. Maybe he was too young to have carried this through. If his beliefs were as important to him as he said, he would be back.

Maria also felt bad for Leon Seronga. She did not imagine that he had survived the night. Someone had to take the fall for the deaths of the deacons and the killing of the Unidad Especial del Despliegue. He would not want the Brush Vipers to take that hit. They were protecting their leader. Presumably, the soldiers would all return to the lives they were living before the Vodun movement began. She did not know whether that was a good thing or a bad thing. Sometimes nations benefited from a good shaking. Maria came from a country that had its own active, separatist movement. As long as the challenge did not degenerate into anarchy, she found the process, the questioning, to be a healthy one.

But Maria felt good about what she and her colleagues had done. She enjoyed being in action, in a new environment. Yet there was also something disturbing about it. A familiar loneliness. A familiar weight. The responsibility of leadership, of getting friends and adversaries to do what you needed them to do. Maria wondered the same thing she had wondered when Darrell proposed this second time. Whether it was a good idea to continue carrying that load. The challenge was invigorating, exciting. Yet when that responsibility became too much, and it was time to put it down, she did not want to be alone.

That puts you right where you were when you said yes to Darrell, she realized.

They sat there in silence for forty minutes. There were no sounds other than the blasts from the geyser. There were no more lights moving in the sky. Their eyes were accustomed to the dark, and the stars were breathtaking. It was good to have this short stretch of peace.

And then there were two lights on the horizon. They were far away, moving toward them on the ground. If Maria was correct, they were lights that signified help, not danger. A few minutes later, there was sound.

“I don’t believe it,” Aideen said. She started to rise.

“Stay down,” Battat said. “We don’t know who it is.”

“David is right,” Maria said. But she rose anyway. She brushed off the dirt of the mound as she walked slowly toward the oncoming lights. Maria did not think it was a military vehicle. They would most likely be traveling in pairs for protection. It could be a ranger on patrol for poachers. Or it could be a tour group out on a real safari, not one of those luxury trips. They might be heading for a site to watch the sunrise.

But it was none of those. It was a taxicab.

It was Paris Lebbard.

The taxi bounced forward and pulled to a stop near the geyser. Maria walked over as Lebbard rolled down the window. She could see his face in the wide glow of the headlights. He was smiling broadly.

“Thank you,” she said.

“You are very welcome.” Lebbard beamed. “This is going to cost you a great deal.”

“Doesn’t it fall under the day rate I paid you?” she asked. The Botswanan shook his head. “This is a new day, my friend.”

“True enough,” Maria replied. “I will pay, and I thank you anyway, Paris. You saved our lives.”

“Several times today,” Lebbard pointed out. It was a proud statement not a boast.

The others had walked over. Maria introduced them by first name. Lebbard invited them to get in the back.

“You smell of petrol,” Lebbard said as Maria got in beside him.

“Animal repellant,” she replied. “It’s probably a good thing I gave up smoking.”

Lebbard swung the taxi around, and Maria slumped in her seat. She was spent. Her mind immediately lost the focus to which it had clung for so many hours. She found herself feeling detached from the others. They were not the familiar faces from Interpol. And what was this place? The salt pan, even Maun, were not the well-known streets of Madrid or the outlying cities and towns and mountain roads. And she had never smelled like this.

It was all very disorienting. Maria had never worked set hours. It was always on a case-by-case basis. But maybe she needed structure more than she had ever imagined.

There will be time enough to consider all that, Maria told herself. To think about the past and the future. Right now, she needed to rest.

She did not close her eyes, but she closed her mind. And for the moment, that was enough.

SIXTY-FOUR

Gaborone, Botswana Saturday, 6:09 A.M.

Henry Genet watched the sun rise.

The Belgian diamond merchant was sitting in a comfortable armchair in his room at the Gaborone Sun Hotel and Casino on Julius Nyerere Drive. He was drinking coffee he had made in the in-room coffeemaker. His chair was angled so that he could see both the sun and the imposing National Stadium, which was located to the southeast.

There were no swarming or biting insects. There were no birds or amphibians vocalizing. Just the hum of the air conditioner, which was turned on high. This was far, far better than the hut and canvas cot he had been forced to endure in the swamp.

If only things had worked out differently.

Genet had flown back to the city in his small plane. Then he had come here to wait for a flight to London on Monday. He had left the camp harboring doubts about whether Dhamballa would be able to reach the mine for his rally. Upon reaching the hotel, he turned on the radio. There was news about a showdown on the salt pan. It claimed that the abducted Catholic priest had been rescued. The report also quoted the military commander in Gaborone as declaring that the Brush Vipers had been dispersed and their leader slain. He concluded by saying that the “minor cult leader” Dhamballa had disappeared. Officials presumed that he was in hiding and would probably attempt to flee the country. The government wanted to reassure everyone that order had been restored.

Of course they did, Genet thought.

But they were wrong.

Genet took a sip of coffee from the white ceramic cup. He contemplated the things that he and his partners would be doing over the next few months. These things would have been quicker and easier with a revolution in Botswana. A revolt that would have spread to South Africa and the rest of the African nations. A war that would have required countless weapons and ammunition provided to both sides by Albert Beaudin. A war that would have given Genet and his partners the diamond mines as well as access to countless ore-producing sites.

A war that would have given them the money to ramp up for the bigger war they hoped would come. That war would have left them poised to become one of the most powerful military-industrial consortiums in world history.

Now Beaudin and his people would have to settle for something else or find another way.

Genet was tired, but he could not go to sleep. He had to call his partners in Paris. They had to be informed, before they heard it on the news, that they had failed to put a puppet in a place of power. Genet was bracing himself to make that call. This operation was under his direct supervision. Beaudin and the others would not be pleased.

Beyond the failure to elevate Dhamballa, what bothered Genet most was what did happen here. The Brush Vipers had not assassinated the American bishop. His own people had not killed him. Theoretically, the Vatican could have shot him to rally support. But apart from being against God’s law, a move like that would be politically insane. If it were ever revealed that the Church had acted, they would be crippled for decades. Perhaps the Chinese had some idea who had done it. Beaudin would have to ask his contacts there. If they would speak with him. For they, too, lost with the failure of the Vodun movement. They were going to share in the growth of Beaudin’s industries. Many of the new factories would have been located in China. Beijing would not only have earned profits, they would have benefited from the development of new weapons.

Genet looked at the clock on the nightstand. It was nearly six-thirty. He would place the call at seven. Beaudin would just be waking up then to check the stock markets in Asia.

The diamond merchant took another swallow of coffee. He glanced at the package he had made it from. Ironically, it was a French blend.

Henry Genet’s world seemed strangely inverted. He had no idea how the Group would proceed. Yet he still knew one thing.

He knew how the matter would end.

SIXTY-FIVE

Washington, D.C. Saturday, 12:52 A.M.

After Rodgers had placed the call to Aideen, the ventilator died in Hood’s office.

“Overworked from all that musk and testosterone we’ve been pumping out,” Herbert deadpanned.

More likely it was something that hadn’t been updated when the former Cold War command center was renovated for Op-Center. Hood, Rodgers, Herbert, McCaskey, and Coffey moved into the Tank. The conference room had more space and more phones. Also, it had been renovated. Hood should have shifted there in the first place. But they had all been too caught up in the moment to move. They grabbed sandwiches from the vending machine down the hall and talked about anything else while they waited to hear from one of the three members of the group. Some of them checked E-mail. Knowing that Aideen no longer had the cell phone made it worse. At best, they would hear nothing until the operatives reached Maun. With luck, that would happen around two-thirty.

Hood had received E-mails from his son Alexander. That was how the boy communicated when his father was tied up. They had a separate life together on-line. Different topics and a different language. Even a different relationship than they had when they were together physically. Alexander was more serious on-line, and Hood more flip. It was strange. Hood knocked out some quick responses so the boy would have them in the morning.

The first call that came through to the Tank was from Edgar Kline. Hood put the VSO officer on speakerphone. The Vatican Security officer was calling to inform them that Father Bradbury was located by a Botswana military helicopter. He was safe.

“I wanted to thank you all,” Kline said. “Especially you, Bob and Paul. I know we had some disagreements along the way, but I hope that won’t stand in the way of future cooperation.”

“Every family has its disputes,” Hood replied. “The point is, we are still family.”

Herbert made a face. He moved both of his fists up and down. He was right. But this was how the game was played, and Herbert knew it. And in the end, the results were what mattered.

“Against the odds, your people secured Powys Bradbury’s freedom,” Kline went on. “You probably saved his life.”

“Thank you, but we don’t know that Father Bradbury’s life was in danger,” Hood cautioned.

“Perhaps he would not have been murdered as the bishop was,” Kline acknowledged. “But I am informed that he had been tortured and looked deathlike. We cannot be certain he would have died without you. But we are certain, now, that he will live.”

“I’ll grant you that,” Hood said. “I’ll also pass your thanks along to the others.”

“I also want you to know that a Botswana patrol has found Leon Seronga,” Kline reported. “He is dead.”

“By whose hand?” Hood asked.

“He took his own life.”

“Are they sure?” Herbert asked.

“They’re very certain,” Kline replied. “He took a single gunshot wound to the temple. He must have known it was over. Or maybe he was trying to keep the government from interrogating and trying him.”

Hood looked at Herbert and Rodgers. Obviously, they were all thinking the same thing. Leon Seronga did that and more. He fell on his sword for Dhamballa. He had given the government of Botswana a fall guy. They could blame this on him and present his death as the end of the threat. There could be an immediate return to normalcy.

Kline had nothing else to say. He asked to speak with the three field operatives as soon as possible. The Vatican wanted to convey their thanks to them personally. He was sure Father Bradbury would like to do that as well. Hood promised to make that happen.

“What about you?” Kline asked. “Do you have any further information on the murder of Bishop Max or about Dhamballa?”

“No,” Hood replied. “Not a thing.”

There was a short silence. Hood had learned to read the silences of foreign officials. It meant that they did not believe the last thing you had said, but they were too diplomatic to tell you so.

Having made his point, Kline thanked them all again and hung up.

“Yeah, friend. We’re gonna tell you that we let Dhamballa walk off into the sunset,” Herbert muttered.

“To tell you the truth, I’m not sure we did the right thing there,” McCaskey said.

“We established our mission parameters, and we stuck to them. Our people are safe, and they’re coming home. We did the right thing,” Rodgers declared with finality.

“We also lost an opportunity to establish close ties with the Botswana government,” McCaskey pointed out. “In the end, that kind of relationship can prove extremely useful.”

“Especially if it turns out that something else is going on in that region,” Herbert said.

“Then we would have had to tell them why we were there and how we got in,” Hood reminded them.

“That would not be a basis for establishing trust,” Rodgers said.

“Trust is not a factor in this, Mike,” McCaskey said. “Need is a factor. If they need us, the rest is irrelevant.”

“We can go to the Botswanans when this done, make fresh overtures,” Hood said. He winked at McCaskey. Things had gotten tense again between the former G-man and Rodgers. Hood wanted to take the edge off. “You can do that when you go to collect Maria. Make it a belated honeymoon.”

“That would be nice,” McCaskey admitted.

“What would be nice is figuring out where the Japanese fit in all this,” Herbert said.

“We also have to get that information out somehow,” Coffey said. “Let people know that the Brush Vipers did not kill the bishop. I don’t know if I sympathize with Dhamballa and Leon Seronga. I certainly don’t like what they did. But they should not take the rap for something they did not do.”

“I agree with you one hundred percent,” Hood said. “We have to try to clear them and at the same time gather evidence about how and why the Japanese are tied to this.”

“What a time to not have a press department,” Herbert remarked. “Ann would have come up with some good ways to leak this.”

“My staff can handle whatever needs to be presented to the media,” Coffey remarked.

“Yeah, but Ann Farris had panache,” Herbert said. “She presented things to the media from ten different directions. From here, through the newspapers, on radio talk shows. It was a coordinated assault.”

“Bob, we’ll figure out how to do it,” Hood said.

“Maybe Ann will consult,” Herbert suggested.

“We’ll get it done,” Hood assured him. He looked away. He did not want to think about Ann Farris. That was both a personal and a professional issue. He had no time for it right now.

The phone beeped. Hood grabbed it. “This is Hood,” he said.

“Paul, it’s Aideen.”

“Talk to me, Aideen!” Hood said.

“We made it,” she told him. “We are in Maun.”

Hood did not realize how tense his shoulders were until they relaxed. The others in the room cheered.

“Did you hear that?” Hood asked.

“I did,” she said.

“How are you?” Hood asked. “Where are you?”

“Paris dropped us at a hotel—the Sun and Casino. There are rooms. We’re taking one.”

“Be our guest,” Hood said.

“We will be,” Aideen replied.

“Everyone come through all right?” Hood asked.

“We’re tired, but that’s it,” she said. “Hold on. Maria would like to talk to her husband.”

Hood punched off the speaker. He transferred the call to McCaskey’s station. The other men rose. They left the Tank to give McCaskey some privacy.

Coffey and Herbert left to go home. Rodgers turned to go. Hood lay an arm on his shoulder.

“You did a great job, Mike,” Hood said. “Thank you.”

“They did it,” he said, pointing to the Tank. “The people overseas.”

“You picked them, you sold them on it, you ran it,” Hood said. “You did a helluva job. This is going to work. The human intelligence team is going to knock some heads together out there.”

“I believe you’re right about that, anyway,” Rodgers replied.

“Go home,” Hood told him. “Get some rest. We’ll need it for the wrap-up tomorrow.”

Rodgers nodded and left. Hood noticed that, tired as Rodgers was, his shoulders were strong and straight, just as they must have been when he was a recruit at the age of nineteen.

As Hood was about to leave, McCaskey emerged. He looked like a kid on the night before Christmas.

“Good talk?” Hood asked.

“Yeah,” McCaskey said. “Real good. Maria sounds absolutely drained but satisfied.”

“She should be,” Hood said. “They did an amazing job over there.”

“She wants to come home as soon as possible,” McCaskey went on. “I’m going to fly to London and collect my wife.”

“Great,” Hood said. He felt a stab of sadness. He was going to go home to an empty apartment.

McCaskey’s eyes became wistful. “Listen, I’m sorry about the way I’ve been acting since this started. It hit a primo sore spot—”

“Don’t apologize,” Hood said. “I’ve got ’em, too. We all do.” He smiled. “The important thing, Darrell, is that we learned something very important.”

“What’s that?” McCaskey asked.

“How not to engage HUMINT operatives in the future,” Hood replied.

McCaskey smiled and left. Hood went back to his warm office. He took an old fan from the closet, set it on the floor beside his chair, angled it up, and turned it on. It felt good. If he shut his eyes, he could imagine he was on the beach in Carlsbad, California, where he used to go with young Harleigh and Alexander. They would stroll along the miles-long concrete seawall, occasionally going down to the beach to sit, drink, or watch for dolphins.

Where did those breezy, innocent days go? How did he end up alone? How did he land in the windowless basement of an old military building, leading a team of military officials, diplomats, and intelligence officers, trying to put out fires around the world?

You wanted to get out of politics but still do something important, he reminded himself.

Well, Paul Hood got that. He also got the pressures and demands that came with that challenge.

Yet there is also deep, deep satisfaction, he had to admit. And this moment was one of them.

But now it was time to get back to work. Before Hood left for the night, he wanted to send Emmy Feroche an E-mail to thank her for her help and tell her not to worry about Stiele, for now. Then, after a long night’s sleep, there was a conversation he had to try to have. A chat with the man who probably knew much more about this situation than he had let on: Shigeo Fujima. Hood suspected that, at best, the conversation would go something like the talk with Edgar Kline. On topic without being particularly illuminating.

Only this time, it would be Paul Hood generating those carefully measured pauses.

SIXTY-SIX

Tokyo, Japan Monday, 3:18 P.M.

The red telephone beeped in Shigeo Fujima’s office at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.

The head of the Intelligence and Analysis Bureau had no intention of answering it. Not unless the call came in on his private black line. Fujima was waiting to hear some very specific information. Without that information, other conversations were not relevant. Nor were they of any interest at the moment. Fujima’s deputies could handle those.

The young, clean-cut intelligence officer was smoking an unfiltered cigarette. He sat with the phone headset resting on his head as he looked at a map of Botswana on his computer. The map was marked with symbols signifying copper, coal, nickel, and diamond mines. China produced a great deal of coal. But those other assets would have been useful to them. The map was also marked with red flags. Those were targets he had hit. One at the airport in Maun. The other, a psy-ops strike, at Dhamballa’s camp in the Okavango Swamp. His people had used a laptop to re-create Seronga’s voice, using taped radio communiqués. Communiqués that also enabled them to pick up the password. Then they had broadcast their own message to Dhamballa, that Seronga had been the one who killed the American bishop.

That had put doubt in Dhamballa’s mind about the loyalty of Leon Seronga. If the Botswanans had not brought Dhamballa down, Fujima had to make certain that the cult itself was unstable. The Vodunists could not have been allowed to succeed with what they were planning.

Now, just two things remained:

First was to make sure that both the Europeans failed. That was an easier task.

Then there were the Chinese. That would take more time, but it must be done. Beijing and Taipei were an even greater threat.

The outside line kept beeping. Fujima used one cigarette to light another. He looked at his watch. It was about eight A.M. in Botswana. The operatives should have reached the target by now. They tracked him from the swamp, first by boat and then by air. They should have found him.

And then the call came. Fujima continued to smoke as he punched the button to answer. He inhaled quickly, then blew out smoke to relax.

“Mach two,” Fujima said, using the code word that was changed daily. “Go ahead.”

“I would recognize that exhaling of cigarette smoke even if you did not use the code word,” the caller remarked. “So might an enemy, if he were using my secure phone.”

“Point taken,” Fujima said. That was the trouble with so many field agents. They had to be invisible and silent most of the time. When they got a chance to speak their mind, they did. Agent Kaiju was no exception.

“We found him,” Kaiju went on.

“Where?” Fujima asked. As the intelligence director spoke, he accessed a drop-down menu of the cities in Botswana.

“City one, sector seven,” the caller reported.

“I’m there,” Fujima replied. The Belgian was in Gaborone near the athletic stadium. He dragged silently on his cigarette. Then he exhaled from the side of his mouth.

“He is in a hotel,” Kaiju informed him. “The sign is in English. I cannot read it.”

“The Sun and Casino,” Fujima told him, consulting the map. “That’s the only one in the area.”

“Very good,” the caller said. “What do we do?”

Fujima thought for a moment. “Debrief and neutralize,” he replied.

Kaiju repeated the instructions. Fujima acknowledged them. He hung up and promised to call back when he and his partner had more information.

Fujima sucked hard on his cigarette. He blew out angrily. He did not like to authorize killings. But surgical eliminations were sometimes necessary to prevent greater loss of life in the future. It was made easier by the fact that the target was someone who had helped to create the current chaos.

But even with that accomplished, Fujima did not imagine that the looming crisis would go away. All the interrogation would give them was more information, more time to plan a response.

His telephone continued to beep. Fujima continued to ignore it. He had not slept in over a day, and he was tired. He did not want to slip and say something he would regret.

Instead, the intelligence director punched out his cigarette. He sat back in his high leather chair, closed his eyes, and waited. He waited to hear that this part of the mission was at last concluded. Though the respite, he suspected, would be a short one.

Other Titles by Steve Pieczenik

THE MIND PALACE

BLOOD HEAT

MAXIMUM VIGILANCE

PAX PACIFICA

STATE OF EMERGENCY

HIDDEN PASSIONS

MY BELOVED TALLEYRAND

For more information on Steve Pieczenik, please visit www.stevepieczenik.com and www.strategic-intl.com.

Books by Alexander Court

ACTIVE MEASURES

ACTIVE PURSUIT

Other Titles by Steve Pieczenik

THE MIND PALACE

BLOOD HEAT

MAXIMUM VIGILANCE

PAX PACIFICA

STATE OF EMERGENCY

HIDDEN PASSIONS

MY BELOVED TALLEYRAND

For more information on Steve Pieczenik, please visit www.stevepieczenik.com and www.strategic-intl.com.

Books by Alexander Court

ACTIVE MEASURES

ACTIVE PURSUIT

NOVELS BY TOM CLANCY

The Hunt for Red October

Red Storm Rising

Patriot Games

The Cardinal of the Kremlin

Clear and Present Danger

The Sum of All Fears

Without Remorse

Debt of Honor

Executive Orders

Rainbow Six

The Bear and the Dragon

Red Rabbit

The Teeth of the Tiger

SSN: Strategies of Submarine Warfare

NONFICTION

Submarine: A Guided Tour Inside a Nuclear Warship

Armored Cav: A Guided Tour of an Armored Cavalry Regiment

Fighter Wing: A Guided Tour of an Air Force Combat Wing

Marine: A Guided Tour of a Marine Expeditionary Unit

Airborne: A Guided Tour of an Airborne Task Force

Carrier: A Guided Tour of an Aircraft Carrier

Special Forces: A Guided Tour of U.S. Army Special Forces

Into the Storm: A Study in Command

(written with General Fred Franks, Jr., Ret.)

Every Man a Tiger

(written with General Charles Horner, Ret.)

Shadow Warriors: Inside the Special Forces

(written with General Carl Stiner, Ret., and Tony Koltz)

CREATED BY TOM CLANCY

Splinter Cell

CREATED BY TOM CLANCY AND STEVE PIECZENIK

Tom Clancy’s Op-Center

Tom Clancy’s Op-Center: Mirror Image

Tom Clancy’s Op-Center: Games of State

Tom Clancy’s Op-Center: Acts of War

Tom Clancy’s Op-Center: Balance of Power

Tom Clancy’s Op-Center: State of Siege

Tom Clancy’s Op-Center: Divide and Conquer

Tom Clancy’s Op-Center: Line of Control

Tom Clancy’s Op-Center: Mission of Honor

Tom Clancy’s Op-Center: Sea of Fire

Tom Clancy’s Op-Center: Call to Treason

Tom Clancy’s Net Force

Tom Clancy’s Net Force: Hidden Agendas

Tom Clancy’s Net Force: Night Moves

Tom Clancy’s Net Force: Breaking Point

Tom Clancy’s Net Force: Point of Impact

Tom Clancy’s Net Force: CyberNation

Tom Clancy’s Net Force: State of War

Tom Clancy’s Net Force: Changing of the Guard

Tom Clancy’s Net Force: Springboard

CREATED BY TOM CLANCY AND MARTIN GREENBERG

Tom Clancy’s Power Plays: Politika

Tom Clancy’s Power Plays: ruthless.com

Tom Clancy’s Power Plays: Shadow Watch

Tom Clancy’s Power Plays: Bio-Strike

Tom Clancy’s Power Plays: Cold War

Tom Clancy’s Power Plays: Cutting Edge

Tom Clancy’s Power Plays: Zero Hour

Tom Clancy’s Power Plays: Wild Card

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Acknowledgements

ONE - The Celebes Sea Tuesday, 4:19 A.M.

TWO - Washington, D.C. Monday, 7:45 P.M.

THREE - The Celebes Sea Tuesday, 4:34 A.M.

FOUR - Sydney, Australia Thursday, 8:30 A.M.

FIVE - Darwin, Australia Thursday, 8:42 A.M.

SIX - Washington, D.C. Wednesday, 7:33 P.M.

SEVEN - Sydney, Australia Thursday, 10:01 A.M.

EIGHT - The Celebes Sea Thursday, 12:12 P.M.

NINE - The Celebes Sea Thursday, 12:33 P.M.

TEN - Darwin, Australia Thursday, 12:05 P.M.

ELEVEN - Darwin, Australia Thursday, 12:17 P.M.

TWELVE - The Celebes Sea Thursday, 1:08 P.M.

THIRTEEN - Washington, D.C. Thursday, 11:09 P.M.

FOURTEEN - Darwin, Australia Friday, 12:47 P.M.

FIFTEEN - Darwin, Australia Friday, 12:59 P.M.

SIXTEEN - Washington, D.C. Thursday, 11:55 P.M.

SEVENTEEN - Cairns, Australia Friday, 7:00 P.M.

EIGHTEEN - The Celebes Sea Friday, 7:33 P.M.

NINETEEN - Over the Pacific Ocean Friday, 2:57 A.M.

TWENTY - Cairns, Australia Friday, 7:58 P.M.

TWENTY-ONE - The Celebes Sea Friday, 9:44 P.M.

TWENTY-TWO - Cairns, Australia Friday, 9:45 P.M.

TWENTY-THREE - Washington, D.C. Friday, 7:17 A.M.

TWENTY-FOUR - The Celebes Sea Friday, 10:33 P.M.

TWENTY-FIVE - Tokyo, Japan Friday, 9:34 P.M.

TWENTY-SIX - Washington, D.C. Friday, 8:57 A.M.

TWENTY-SEVEN - The Celebes Sea Friday, 11:09 P.M.

TWENTY-EIGHT - Over the Pacific Ocean Saturday, 2:22 A.M.

TWENTY-NINE - The Celebes Sea Saturday, 12:04 A.M.

THIRTY - Washington, D.C. Friday, 10:07 A.M.

THIRTY-ONE - The Celebes Sea Saturday, 12:36 A.M.

THIRTY-TWO - The Celebes Sea Saturday, 1:00 A.M.

THIRTY-THREE - The Celebes Sea Saturday, 1:01 A.M.

THIRTY-FOUR - Washington, D.C. Friday, 12:31 P.M.

THIRTY-FIVE - The Celebes Sea Saturday, 2:02 A.M.

THIRTY-SIX - The South Pacific Saturday, 7:44 A.M.

THIRTY-SEVEN - Washington, D.C. Friday, 7:44 P.M.

THIRTY-EIGHT - Cairns, Australia Saturday, 9:45 A.M.

THIRTY-NINE - Darwin, Australia Saturday, 12:08 P.M.

FORTY - Darwin, Australia Saturday, 12:31 P.M.

FORTY-ONE - Washington, D.C. Saturday, 12:23 A.M.

FORTY-TWO - Cairns, Australia

FORTY-THREE - Cairns, Australia Saturday, 6:22 P.M.

FORTY-FOUR - Washington, D.C. Saturday, 7:31 A.M.

FORTY-FIVE - The Great Barrier Reef Saturday, 10:03 P.M.

FORTY-SIX - Cairns, Australia Saturday, 10:04 P.M.

FORTY-SEVEN - Washington, D.C. Saturday, 8:47 A.M.

FORTY-EIGHT - Cairns, Australia Saturday, 10:49 P.M.

FORTY-NINE - Cairns, Australia Saturday, 11:12 P.M.

FIFTY - Cairns, Australia Saturday, 11:27 P.M.

FIFTY-ONE - Cairns, Australia Sunday, 12:00 A.M.

FIFTY-TWO - Washington, D.C. Saturday, 11:00 A.M.

FIFTY-THREE - The Coral Sea Sunday, 1:21 A.M.

FIFTY-FOUR - Cairns, Australia Sunday, 1:42 A.M.

FIFTY-FIVE - The Coral Sea Sunday, 1:55 A.M.

FIFTY-SIX - The Great Barrier Reef Sunday, 2:09 A.M.

FIFTY-SEVEN - The Coral Sea Sunday, 2:09 A.M.

FIFTY-EIGHT - Washington, D.C. Saturday, 12:38 P.M.

FIFTY-NINE - The Coral Sea Sunday, 2:39 A.M.

SIXTY - Osprey Reef Sunday, 2:46 A.M.

SIXTY-ONE - Washington, D.C. Saturday, 1:00 P.M.

SIXTY-TWO - The Coral Sea Sunday, 3:01 A.M.

SIXTY-THREE - The Coral Sea Sunday, 3:08 A.M.

SIXTY-FOUR - Washington, D.C. Saturday, 1:24 P.M.

SIXTY-FIVE - The Coral Sea Sunday, 3:33 A.M.

SIXTY-SIX - Cairns, Australia Sunday, 3:56 A.M.

SIXTY-SEVEN - The Coral Sea Sunday, 4:01 A.M.

SIXTY-EIGHT - Cairns, Australia Sunday, 4:45 A.M.

SIXTY-NINE - Cairns, Australia Sunday, 4:59 A.M.

SEVENTY - Washington, D.C. Saturday, 3:06 P.M.

SEVENTY-ONE - Cairns, Australia Sunday, 5:07 A.M.

SEVENTY-TWO - Cairns, Australia Sunday, 5:16 A.M.

SEVENTY-THREE - Cairns, Australia Sunday, 5:24 A.M.

SEVENTY-FOUR - Cairns, Australia Sunday, 5:30 A.M.

SEVENTY-FIVE - Cairns, Australia Sunday, 5:38 A.M.

SEVENTY-SIX - Washington, D.C. Saturday, 4:00 P.M.

SEVENTY-SEVEN - Cairns, Australia Sunday, 7:10 A.M.

SEVENTY-EIGHT - Darwin, Australia Sunday, 7:13 A.M.

SEVENTY-NINE - The Coral Sea Sunday, 7:45 A.M.

EIGHTY - Darwin, Australia Sunday, 7:46 A.M.

EIGHTY-ONE - Washington, D.C. Saturday, 6:29 P.M.

THE BESTSELLING NOVELS OF Tom Clancy

RED RABBIT

Tom Clancy returns to Jack Ryan’s early days—in an extraordinary novel of global political drama . . .

“AN OLD-FASHIONED COLD WAR THRILLER.”

—Chicago Sun-Times

THE BEAR AND THE DRAGON

President Jack Ryan faces a world crisis unlike any he has ever known . . .

“INTOXICATING . . . A JUGGERNAUT.”

—Publishers Weekly (starred review)

RAINBOW SIX

Clancy’s shocking story of international terrorism—closer to reality than any government would care to admit . . .

“GRIPPING . . . BOLT-ACTION MAYHEM.”

—People

EXECUTIVE ORDERS

Jack Ryan has always been a soldier. Now he’s giving the orders . . .

“AN ENORMOUS, ACTION-PACKED, HEAT-SEEKING MISSILE OF A TOM CLANCY NOVEL.”

—The Seattle Times

DEBT OF HONOR

It begins with the murder of an American woman in the back streets of Tokyo. It ends in war . . .

“A SHOCKER!”

—Entertainment Weekly

THE HUNT FOR RED OCTOBER

The smash bestseller that launched Clancy’s career—the incredible search for a Soviet defector and the nuclear submarine he commands . . .

“BREATHLESSLY EXCITING!”

—The Washington Post

RED STORM RISING

The ultimate scenario for World War III—the final battle for global control . . .

“THE ULTIMATE WAR GAME . . . BRILLIANT!”

—Newsweek

PATRIOT GAMES

CIA analyst Jack Ryan stops an assassination—and incurs the wrath of Irish terrorists . . .

“A HIGH PITCH OF EXCITEMENT!”

—The Wall Street Journal

THE CARDINAL OF THE KREMLIN

The superpowers race for the ultimate Star Wars missile defense system . . .

“CARDINAL EXCITES, ILLUMINATES . . . A REAL

PAGE-TURNER!”

—Los Angeles Daily News

CLEAR AND PRESENT DANGER

The killing of three U.S. officials in Colombia ignites the American government’s explosive, and top secret, response . . .

“A CRACKLING GOOD YARN!”

—The Washington Post

THE SUM OF ALL FEARS

The disappearance of an Israeli nuclear weapon threatens the balance of power in the Middle East—and around the world . . .

“CLANCY AT HIS BEST . . . NOT TO BE MISSED!”

—The Dallas Morning News

WITHOUT REMORSE

His code name is Mr. Clark. And his work for the CIA is brilliant, cold-blooded, and efficient . . . but who is he really?

“HIGHLY ENTERTAINING!”

—The Wall Street Journal

NOVELS BY TOM CLANCY

The Hunt for Red October

Red Storm Rising

Patriot Games

The Cardinal of the Kremlin

Clear and Present Danger

The Sum of All Fears

Without Remorse

Debt of Honor

Executive Orders

Rainbow Six

The Bear and the Dragon

Red Rabbit

The Teeth of the Tiger

SSN: Strategies of Submarine Warfare

NONFICTION

Submarine: A Guided Tour Inside a Nuclear Warship Armored Cav: A Guided Tour of an Armored Cavalry Regiment

Fighter Wing: A Guided Tour of an Air Force Combat Wing

Marine: A Guided Tour of a Marine Expeditionary Unit

Airborne: A Guided Tour of an Airborne Task Force

Carrier: A Guided Tour of an Aircraft Carrier

Special Forces: A Guided Tour of U.S. Army Special Forces

Into the Storm: A Study in Command

(written with General Fred Franks, Jr., Ret., and Tony Koltz)

Every Man a Tiger

(written with General Charles Horner, Ret., and Tony Koltz)

Shadow Warriors: Inside the Special Forces

(written with General Carl Stiner, Ret., and Tony Koltz)

Battle Ready

(written with General Tony Zinni, Ret., and Tony Koltz)

CREATED BY TOM CLANCY

Tom Clancy’s Splinter Cell

Tom Clancy’s Splinter Cell: Operation Barracuda

Tom Clancy’s Splinter Cell: Checkmate

Tom Clancy’s Splinter Cell: Fallout

CREATED BY TOM CLANCY AND STEVE PIECZENIK

Tom Clancy’s Op-Center

Tom Clancy’s Op-Center: Mirror Image

Tom Clancy’s Op-Center: Games of State

Tom Clancy’s Op-Center: Acts of War

Tom Clancy’s Op-Center: Balance of Power

Tom Clancy’s Op-Center: State of Siege

Tom Clancy’s Op-Center: Divide and Conquer

Tom Clancy’s Op-Center: Line of Control

Tom Clancy’s Op-Center: Mission of Honor

Tom Clancy’s Op-Center: Sea of Fire

Tom Clancy’s Op-Center: Call to Treason

Tom Clancy’s Op-Center: War of Eagles

Tom Clancy’s Net Force

Tom Clancy’s Net Force: Hidden Agendas

Tom Clancy’s Net Force: Night Moves

Tom Clancy’s Net Force: Breaking Point

Tom Clancy’s Net Force: Point of Impact

Tom Clancy’s Net Force: CyberNation

Tom Clancy’s Net Force: State of War

Tom Clancy’s Net Force: Changing of the Guard

Tom Clancy’s Net Force: Springboard

Tom Clancy’s Net Force: The Archimedes Effect

CREATED BY TOM CLANCY AND MARTIN GREENBERG

Tom Clancy’s Power Plays: Politika

Tom Clancy’s Power Plays: ruthless.com

Tom Clancy’s Power Plays: Shadow Watch

Tom Clancy’s Power Plays: Bio-Strike

Tom Clancy’s Power Plays: Cold War

Tom Clancy’s Power Plays: Cutting Edge

Tom Clancy’s Power Plays: Zero Hour

Tom Clancy’s Power Plays: Wild Card

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: SEA OF FIRE

A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with

Jack Ryan Limited Partnership and S & R Literary, Inc.

PRINTING HISTORY

Berkley edition / July 2003

Copyright © 2003 by Jack Ryan Limited Partnership and

S & R Literary, Inc. OP-CENTERTM is a trademark of Jack Ryan

Limited Partnership and S & R Literary, Inc.

All rights reserved.

This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin (Group) USA Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

eISBN : 978-1-101-00369-5

BERKLEY®

Berkley Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin (Group) USA Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

BERKLEY and the “B” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin (Group) USA Inc.

http://us.penguingroup.com

Acknowledgments

We would like to acknowledge the valuable assistance of Martin H. Greenberg; Larry Segriff; Denise Little; John Helfers; Brittiany Koren; Lowell Bowen, Esq.; Robert Youdelman, Esq.; Danielle Forte, Esq.; Dianne Jude; and Tom Colgan, our editor. But most important, it is for you, our readers, to determine how successful our collective endeavor has been.

—Tom Clancy and Steve Pieczenik

ONE

The Celebes Sea Tuesday, 4:19 A.M.

There were three things that swarthy, dark-eyed Singaporean Lee Tong knew very well.

One of those was the sea. The lanky but muscular Lee was the son of the late Henry Tong, a hardworking mate on a timber carrier. The elder Tong’s vessel, the 100-ton capacity Lord of the Ocean, was a container ship. It took regular runs of hardwood cargo from their home port in Singapore to India. On the return trip it would carry teak logs that had been shipped from the Ivory Coast to Bombay. These were bound for Hong Kong and Tokyo. Lee’s mother had died of food poisoning when the boy was five. Rather than live with his grandparents in Keluang, on their inland farm, Lee often traveled with his father. By the time Lee was thirteen, he was working full time as a cabin boy for the first mate.

Traveling the timber route, Lee learned the different moods of the waters. The clean smell of the Andaman Sea was different than the tart, oily smell along the coast of the South China Sea. The currents of the East China Sea caused a sharper rocking than the heavier, lofting swells in the Pacific Ocean. The storms were different, too. Some were sudden and ferocious. Others came from afar with enough warning that the pilot could steer around them. Lee also learned about men on these odysseys. What pleased them, what bothered them, what bothered them enough to kill. He learned that money, undemanding women, cigarettes, drink and the camaraderie of drink, and the loyalty of friends were the only things that really mattered to him. By the time the elder Tong died of liver failure, Lee had only managed to get a lot of smoking and drinking done. He would never get much more as long as he worked on the Lord of the Ocean or a vessel like her, which was why Lee Tong took up the next profession he did.

When Lee was sixteen, several years into his own career on the timber ship, he met two other young sailors who did not want to end up like their own fathers. Who were unhappy working for three dollars a day, seven days a week. Eventually, in port, they sat down with other dissatisfied young men from other professions. That led Lee to the second thing he knew very well.

Piracy.

Lee was standing in the steep raised prow of the sampan. The vessel was not of Singaporean design. It was a squat Shanghai Harbor model, also known as a mu-chi or hen boat. The name was a result of the sampan’s resemblance to the bird. Built mostly of softwood, which aged well and was extremely light, the mu-chi was eighteen feet long with four compartments, including a galley. There was an engine for rapid travel and four yulohs—thirteen-foot-long oars—for silent travel. That was how the five sampan pirates were traveling now, with Lee’s crewmates rowing two men to a side. They had bought the sampan in China, legally, just over two years before. They had paid for it with cash, most of it borrowed from Lee’s grandparents. The loan was repaid within a year. Buying the sampan was the last lawful act the men had done.

Early in their career the men learned how to mingle with harbor traffic to select their prey, how to track them until dark, and how to come alongside swiftly and quietly. They learned how to prowl the shipping lanes with their backs to the setting sun so that they would not be seen. Former police sergeant Koh Yu kept both a 500-channel scanner and a world band receiver on board to monitor restricted police and military communications. He had stolen them before resigning from the Special Operations Command of the Singapore Police Force. After sampling all kinds of ships, they focused on yachts and fishing charters. The take was usually good, and resistance was limited to indignant words. Since most of those words were English, Lee didn’t understand what was being said. Among them, only the unflappable Koh spoke English. And Koh did not care what was being said. None of the men felt remorse about the work they did. On land, the large took advantage of the small. The fat had their way with the lean. At sea, the sharks ate the tuna. Lee Tong had tried both lives.

He preferred being a shark.

They began by waylaying small pleasure boats, tour ships, and party vessels out of Hong Kong and Taipei. The men didn’t even have to board the ships to rob them. They came alongside and pressed plastic explosives low on the hull. The soft, explosive patties were homemade from concussion-ignited mercuric fulminate—a mixture of mercury, alcohol, and nitric acid—paraffin, and linseed oil to keep the wax pliant. That was a contribution of eight-fingered Clark Shunga, a former demolitions man for the lumber industry. Trees that were too difficult to cut down were blasted down. When he lost two fingers to a faulty detonator cap, he was fired with meager compensation. The Woo See Lumber Company was afraid that he would kill someone by mishandling explosives. He showed them that he could still play the guitar, but they were unimpressed. Clark put all of his severance pay—fifty dollars—toward the sampan.

The pirates would carefully place the plastic explosives fore and aft, a few feet above the waterline. That would keep them dry. It would also make it difficult for anyone to try to dislodge them with a pole or net. They would have to stand there, on the rocking deck, while the pirates shot at them. After the explosives were placed, the sampan would withdraw to a safe distance of between fifteen and twenty feet. Using a megaphone, they would order that valuables, jewels, and occasionally a female hostage be sent over the side in a rowboat or dinghy. They would enjoy the woman’s company for a short while and then set her adrift. If the orders were not followed, they would turn on the laser sight and fire a bullet from one of the M8 pistols that each man carried. The shot would ignite the explosive. To date, the pirates had never found it necessary to destroy a ship.

The Celebes Sea was still relatively new territory to Lee and the others. They had been sailing this region of the Western Pacific for just two months, since the Singapore navy increased its patrols in the South China Sea. The shipping lanes were different, and the sea itself was different. The waters did not heave up and down or from side to side like other bodies of water. They pitched you back and then drew you forward, thanks to a very strong and constant undertow. It reminded Lee of something his father once said about life: that it lets you move one step ahead and then knocks you back two.

The sampan was traveling dark. The cabin lights were off, and even the phosphorescent compass was covered with a canvas cloth, so that it would not be seen when they came alongside. They were headed toward two beacons roughly a quarter mile away, the fore and aft running lights of a yacht. It was an eighty-foot two-masted sailing yacht they had spotted while heading to port the previous day. The men had tracked the low, sleek vessel as it headed southeast. It was on an easy course with just a few people on board. It was probably a weeklong charter that cost some fat Aussie or Malaysian about fifteen or twenty thousand dollars, American. It was the perfect prey. This was the third thing Lee Tong knew well: spotting perfect targets. Since organizing the others on that hot, humid, hard-drinking night in Hong Kong, Lee had never picked a loser.

Until tonight.

TWO

Washington, D.C. Monday, 7:45 P.M.

The Inn Cognito was located at 7101 Democracy Boulevard in Bethesda. Paul Hood had never been to the new hot spot, but Op-Center’s attorney, Lowell Coffey III, had given it an enthusiastic recommendation. Hood and his undemanding palate were happy with something less chichi. He could do without TV monitors showing tape of blinking eyeballs and snapping fingers. But he was not here alone. He was with Daphne Connors, founder of the cutting-edge Daph-Con advertising agency. The forty-one year-old divorcée had also gotten a thumbs-up from Coffey, who knew the family of her former husband, attorney Gregory Packing, Jr.

The name of Daphne’s firm appealed to Washingtonians. Especially to the military. The blond-haired Daphne also appealed to Beltway insiders. She had the stylish poise and intensity of a CNN anchorwoman. In addition to handling various Army accounts, she represented hotels and restaurants, including this one. That was how they managed to get a reservation.

Daphne was quite a contrast to Hood, whose job as the director of Op-Center demanded quiet, steady leadership. The husky-voiced woman was extremely high-energy. She reminded Hood of the late Martha Mackall, Op-Center’s go-get-’em political liaison. Martha had been confident, poised, and always stalking. He didn’t know what she was hunting or why. He was not sure she did, either. But she never stopped.

Maybe that’s what Martha was really searching for, Hood thought. Understanding.

Tragically, terrorist bullets ended the life of the forty-nine-year-old African-American woman. Hood was sorry he had not gotten to know her better. From a strictly managerial point of view, he also wished he could have learned how to harness her intensity.

Hood tried to keep up with the hard-driving Daphne as she described how she established her agency in college with commissions she earned from selling ad space in university newspapers. She told him how it had grown to a global organization that employed over 340 people in the United States alone. In ten minutes she must have used the words push and drive a dozen times each. Hood found himself wondering how their respective organizations would fare if they switched jobs. His guess was that Daph-Con would end up being sold to some insipid conglomerate and homogenized. Op-Center would probably swallow the NSA, the CIA, and possibly Interpol.

Well, it might not be that extreme, Hood thought. But he had served as mayor of Los Angeles. He had worked on Wall Street. And eight years ago he had returned to government. Hood was fascinated by the different management styles in the public and private sector. He enjoyed the give-and-take of a team, the challenge of reaching a consensus. The need for self-expression that drove someone like Daphne was foreign to him. It was also a little off-putting—not because he disapproved but because he felt intimidated. His former wife, Sharon, had been introspective and very satisfied to go with the family flow. Even the presidents and world leaders Hood had known found it necessary to be team players.

“Paul?” Daphne said over her ducksalad appetizer.

“Yes?”

“I’ve been to enough pitch meetings to know when someone’s brain is wandering,” she said.

“No, I’m here,” Hood replied with a smile.

She gave him a dubious look. It had playful corners around the eyes and mouth, but just barely.

“You were telling me about the pro bono work you do for the Native American Chumash in California, so that their sacred caves in the Santa Ynez range are protected.”

The woman relaxed slightly. “All right, you heard me. But that still doesn’t mean you were listening.”

“I assure you, I was,” he said. “That glazed, unfocused look you saw was the glazed, unfocused eyes of Paul Hood at the end of a long day of bureaucratic conflicts.”

“I see,” Daphne said. She smiled now. “I understand. Totally.”

Still, Hood knew that she was right. Years ago, an actor friend in Los Angeles had taught him a trick of the trade. It was called “floating” lines. It was done when performers did not have adequate rehearsal time. You let words into your short-term memory, where they could be accessed. That left the rest of the brain free to observe, muse, and—yes—wander. Hood used the technique to memorize speeches when he was mayor. Since coming to Washington, he had developed floating to an art by attending endless policy briefings that were anything but brief. He could listen, even take notes, while thinking about what he needed to do when he got back to Op-Center.

Daphne pushed her plate aside and leaned forward. “Paul, I have to confess something.”

“Why?”

She laughed. “Funny. Most people would have asked, ‘What?’ ”

He thought about that. She was right. He did not know why he said that.

“I haven’t been on a date in seven years,” Daphne said, “and I’m afraid I’ve turned this into something of a dog and pony show.”

“If it helps, I’m enjoying what you have to say.”

“You’re sweet, but I don’t like it,” Daphne said. “I’m acting like I’m at a client pitch. I’m trying too hard to sell myself.”

“No—”

“Yes,” she insisted. “You’ve been very patient for the last half hour.”

“I told you, I’m interested,” he answered truthfully. “I don’t meet many people who run businesses.”

“No, you meet people who run countries,” Daphne said.

“Most of whom are not as interesting as you are,” Hood replied. “And that wasn’t a line,” he added.

That caught her with her guard down. “Talk to me about that.”

“Most of them had to sandblast their most distinguishing features, make everything smooth to get where they are,” Hood told her. “What’s left is guided by constitutions or surrounded by domestic and international watchdogs, constituents, and special interests.”

“Is that a bad thing?” she asked.

“Not necessarily,” Hood replied. “It prevents dictatorships. But it also slows progress to a glacial pace. The individual leader can’t move without the entire system moving with him or her.”

“Still, what they do affects more than the bottom line of a very minor privately held company.” She sat back. “What about you?”

“What do you want to know?” he asked.

“How you do it,” she replied. “You don’t seem to be one of those bureaucrats who’s always on the make, looking for access.”

Hood selected a bread stick from the basket. He dabbed it in a dish of olive oil and took a bite. He was not good at this either. When Sharon used to ask him how his day went, he never said much. There was no point starting a lengthy conversation because there were always interruptions. The phone, the kids, something on the stove or in the oven.

“I’m interested in having the access it takes to do my job, not in collecting it,” Hood replied.

“An idealist.”

Hood shrugged a shoulder.

“Is that a yes?” Daphne pressed.

Hood looked at her. Daphne had a nice smile. It started at the eyes and made its way down. “Let’s say I try to do what’s right,” he replied. “When I screw up, it’s not out of malice.”

“So you don’t possess the revenge gene that most people in big government have,” she said.

“No,” he said. “Bastards invariably cause their own downfall.”

“And that really works for you?” she asked.

“It leaves me free to do more constructive things,” Hood said.

Daphne laughed. “Lord, we are very different people. I hate SOBs or discourtesy or people who beat me at anything.” She regarded him. “I still don’t believe you have absolutely no bloodlust. Tell me if I’m overstepping some kind of first-date rule with this, but I read about those men who took the children hostage in New York. The ones you and your team killed. Didn’t you hate them?”

“That’s a good question,” Hood replied.

Daphne was referring to the renegade United Nations peacekeepers who had seized the Security Council during a party. Several children, including Hood’s daughter Harleigh, were among the young musicians providing entertainment. Hood and his number-two man, General Mike Rodgers, entered the chamber and, in a bloody gun battle, freed the captives.

Daphne was regarding Hood intently.

“I certainly hated what they did,” he told her.

“But not them?” she asked.

“No,” he answered truthfully. “They lost. Victory cost us something. Life always does. But it cost them everything.”

“So you see it as a net gain for our side,” Daphne said.

“I’m not quite that dispassionate about it, but yes. More or less,” Hood told her.

“You’re more philosophical about confrontations than I am,” Daphne told him. The woman leaned forward again. “I hate my enemies, Paul. I despise them from my nose to my toes. And I track them. I follow their activities in the trade magazines and through the cocktail-party circuit. If they are executives in a public company, I check the stock several times a day. Each time it goes down, I’m a happy woman. I don’t miss an opportunity to cut their hamstrings. In fact, I go out of my way to get them.”

“Well, that’s business,” he said.

“No, Paul. It’s personal. I personalize it. I personalize everything. You don’t understand that, do you?”

“It seems a little obsessive to me,” he admitted. “Or maybe that should be for me.”

“It is obsessive!” Daphne agreed. “Who says that’s a bad thing?”

“Well, there will always be more enemies,” Hood replied. “You can’t vanquish all of them.”

“Probably not,” she said.

“So I don’t see what the benefit is to an ongoing high-intensity conflict,” Hood said.

“Living,” she said. “You feel passionate about something every second of every day.”

“The hate doesn’t eat you up?” Hood asked.

“That’s the point!” she said. “It only eats you up if it stays inside. I channel it, use it as fuel for other things.”

“I see,” Hood said.

Not only did Daphne remind Hood of Martha Mackall, but she would get along terrifically with Op-Center’s intelligence chief Bob Herbert. Herbert hated fast and deep and enthusiastically. Hood admired, respected, and trusted him. But if Herbert didn’t have someone to keep him in check, he would constantly struggle between what was right and what was satisfying.

Daphne sat back again. “So. Now that I’ve turned you off completely, talk to me about whatever you do that isn’t classified.”

“You didn’t turn me off,” Hood insisted.

“No?”

Hood shook his head as he took another bite of breadstick. “Some of my best friends are sociopaths.”

The woman gave Hood a twisted little smile.

That’s promising, Hood thought. She can laugh at herself.

Hood answered Daphne’s question as she finished her appetizer. He explained that Op-Center was the epithet for the National Crisis Management Center. It was housed in a two-story building at Andrews Air Force Base. During the Cold War, the nondescript, ivory-colored structure was one of two staging areas for flight crews known as NuRRDs—nuclear rapid-response divisions. In the event of a nuclear attack on the nation’s capital, their job would have been to evacuate key officials to safe command centers outside of Washington, D.C. With the fall of the Soviet Union and the downsizing of the NuRRDs, emergency air operations were consolidated elsewhere. The newly evacuated building at Andrews was given over to the newly chartered NCMC.

Hood told Daphne no more or less than was described in Op-Center’s public charter.

“The NCMC has two primary functions,” Hood said quietly. Speaking in a loud whisper was a habit he had developed whenever he discussed even declassified Op-Center business in public. “One is preventative. We monitor intelligence reports as well as the mainstream press for possible ‘hot button’ incidents. These are seemingly isolated events that can trigger potential crises or terrorist activities at home and abroad.”

“Such as?” she asked.

“The failure of Third World governments to pay their troops, which can lead to revolution and attacks on American interests,” Hood said. “The seizure of a large cache of drugs, which can spur retaliation against law enforcement officers. We make sure local personnel are aware of potential dangers.”

“So there’s a lot of profiling, intelligent guesswork, that sort of thing,” Daphne said.

“Exactly,” Hood said. “The other function of Op-Center is to deal with situations that have already started to burn. I can’t go into details, but it’s along the lines of what we did at the United Nations.”

“Killing bad guys,” Daphne said.

“Only when necessary,” Hood replied. He said no more.

Until eight months ago, the crisis-management process relied heavily on the rapid-response military squad known as Striker. After Striker was decimated in Kashmir, Hood decided to rely instead on the surgical insertion of deterrent personnel. This allowed Op-Center to undermine enemies from the inside. It might take more time, but it risked fewer lives. If a military presence were required, Rodgers would call in an outside special ops unit.

The conversation turned to their private lives. Daphne told Hood about her ex-husband and how he was not ambitious enough to satisfy her.

“He was a partner in his father’s law firm, a very powerful and high-profile firm,” she said. “But he preferred riding horses to working with cases. I tried to get interested in that, but the smell and the empty shmoozing just drove me crazy. Especially since that was as high as he ever aimed.”

“Didn’t you know what kind of man he was when you married him?” Hood asked.

“I was twenty-two,” she said. “I didn’t know anything. I had spent my teenage years building my little advertising business. I thought it would be fun to hook up with a man who knew how to relax and had the means to do so. I didn’t count on losing respect for him.”

Hood laughed. “I had just the opposite problem,” he said. “My wife wasn’t happy with the way Op-Center monopolized my time. I actually quit for a few days, but I couldn’t stay away.”

“Did you know it was costing you your marriage?” Daphne asked.

“Not until the account was overdue,” Hood said. “I knew Sharon was unhappy, but I didn’t think she was that unhappy.”

“So she initiated it?”

Hood nodded.

“How do you get along now?” Daphne asked.

“Okay,” Hood said. “She’s flexible with visitation and all that. But we were never really best friends. I suppose that was a problem all along.”

“I agree,” Daphne said. “You have to like someone to be their friend. You don’t have to like them to be married to them. Actually, I’ve developed a simple test for that.”

“Have you?”

“Yes,” she said. “I call it the sandbox test. If you and your potential mate were dropped in a sandbox, could you have fun there for twenty-four hours? Could you build castles or have a little Zen garden or pretend you were on a beach? Could you improvise a game of Battleship or draw pictures? Could you do something other than have sex or wish you were somewhere else? If the answer is yes, then that’s a person you should consider being with.”

“Does it have to be a sandbox?” Hood asked. “Why not just a hotel room or some form of transportation?”

“You would have TV in a hotel room,” Daphne said. “Or magazines and food in an airplane or train. A sandbox demands imagination. You have to look at a mound of sand and see a dune or a mountain or a castle. It requires the ability to play well with others and to be a little silly. It requires the capacity to access the child inside you. Otherwise you can’t be in a sandbox at all. Or a fun relationship. You also need to be able to communicate. If you don’t have all of that, you’ll be incredibly bored. Or else you’ll end up bickering. Those same qualities are necessary for a successful relationship.”

“And how did you arrive at this concept?” Hood asked.

“When I was doing a national campaign for an insurance company,” the woman said. “It was set in a sandbox, with two people growing old together. It started me thinking.”

Now Hood thought, too. He could never have spent a day in a sandbox with Sharon. He could not imagine himself playing in a sandbox with former Op-Center press liaison Ann Farris. After his separation, he had a fling with her. But Hood could have spent a day in a sandbox with the woman he was dating before, Nancy Jo Bosworth. The love of his life. A woman who walked out on him and shattered his heart. Hood thought about the way Bob Herbert talked about his wife, a fellow CIA operative who was killed in the Beirut embassy blast in 1983. He could imagine them playing together in a sandbox. Hell, that was essentially what they were doing together in Lebanon when she died and Herbert lost the use of his legs.

“It works with most of the ladies I’ve known,” Hood told the woman. “But it sounds as if your former husband would have been a great one for playing in the sandbox.”

“He would have been,” Daphne agreed. “If it were a really big sandbox and he was with a Thoroughbred. Gregory would have felt self-conscious, uptight, and bored with just me. Like Lawrence of Arabia without a camel. That’s the key, Paul. Would you enjoy a silly experience like that together? Is the idea of being together more important than where you are?”

“I get it,” Hood said.

The sandbox test was an absolute. Daphne was obviously a woman of extremes, and life demanded more compromise than she seemed willing to allow. Yet it was sad to think that very few people Paul Hood knew could pass the test. Especially himself and Sharon.

Hood did not know whether he and Daphne Connors would enjoy a day in a sandbox. And it was much too early to worry about that. Still, they had spent an agreeable time having dinner and discussing very different philosophies of life.

They had not come to blows.

That was a good start.

THREE

The Celebes Sea Tuesday, 4:34 A.M.

The sampan rocked vigorously from side to side as it neared the yacht from the stern. Lee Tong had moved aft. Clark Shunga had passed out plastique to Lee and one of the other men. Koh Yu continued to monitor the radio while the men silently oared the sampan closer.

Lee was poised on the horseshoe-shaped aft section of the boat. His feet were bare, and his legs were spread wide to help him keep his balance. Two curved wooden arms rose three feet above a seat to which the keel was attached. Lee worked the long yuloh-shaped keel with his left hand. The water whispered across the paddle of the keel. The sound always calmed him, especially before an assault. In his right hand he held a fist-sized chunk of plastique. The explosive was sealed in a sheet of plastic food wrap. The covering prevented the sea spray and Lee’s perspiration from coating the plastique. The dampness would make it difficult for the waxy substance to adhere to the hull. The pirates had slung six large canvas sacks filled with sand over the port side of the sampan. This quieted the impact in case the vessels happened to bump one another.

Lee’s pistol was tucked in a worn leather holster attached to his belt. He wore the gun low on his right hip. Once the explosives had been placed and the sampan pulled away, Koh would come from below with a megaphone. He would call out to the passengers on the yacht. If necessary, Lee and Clark were the ones who would fire at the plastique.

The sampan was just a few meters from the yacht. The ship was not at anchor, and the sampan was rocking slightly in its wake. Lee skillfully maneuvered the keel while the other men oared forward. At the bow, Clark watched the yacht with night-vision glasses. Virtually every pleasure ship that sailed these waters had a deadman’s watch from dusk until dawn. Even so, a ship traveling dark and silent was virtually impossible to see or hear. Especially if it came from the bow or stern. Most sentries tended to stay in the midsection of the vessel and watch the horizon. That was especially true in this region. Most sailors did not yet consider the Celebes Sea to be dangerous.

The sampan eased ahead. The yacht was more than four times the length of the pirate vessel. They would sail alongside, close to the hull, and place the explosives in reverse order. Clark would attach his explosive to the rear of the vessel as they passed. Then the sampan would continue forward. If the pirates were spotted, Lee would be able to aim his weapon at the plastique Clark had placed. When they reached the bow, Lee would use a rag to wipe sea spray from the vessel. Then he would place his charge against the hull. Then the sampan would move off to the side.

Clark continued to scan the ship slowly from bow to stern. As far as Lee could tell, there was no one on deck. Suddenly, Clark stopped. He was looking at a spot low on the forward mast.

“Retreat!” Clark said in a strong whisper.

Lee turned the keel to the port side. The yuloh men immediately switched to backwater strokes. Lee bent at the knees to brace himself for the lurch he knew would follow. The sampan shook as it braked. The streamlined boat steadied quickly as the men began to row in reverse.

Lee opened his eyes very wide. He tried to see into the darkness. He searched the spot where Clark was still looking. He could not see anything.

“It’s tracking us,” Clark said. His voice was louder now.

“What is?” Lee asked.

“A security camera with a night-vision lens,” Clark said. “It’s three meters up on the mast.”

Lee looked up. He still did not see the surveillance camera. But there was no time to worry about it. Just as the sloping prow of the sampan cleared the stern of the yacht, several figures came on deck. They were about four meters up. Lee could not see them, but he could hear them. He could also hear the distinctive slap of clips being loaded into automatic weapons. An instant later, the soft, black night was pocked with yellow flashes, deadly stars on the deck of the ship. A sound like balloons popping rolled from the deck. And then there were screams. The screams of the men on the sampan.

Lee felt the backward movement slow. The yuloh men must have been hit. He did not dwell on that. He released the tiller and ran forward. Realizing that he was still holding the plastique, Lee tossed it overboard. He did not want to risk having a bullet strike the explosives by chance. His chances of surviving the attack were remote enough without the added risk.

As the wooden deck spat splinters of wood at him, Lee scurried on hands and knees to the middle of the vessel. The belowdecks compartments were covered by a long, inverted U-shaped shelter. This was made of Foochow pine covered with bamboo matting. The roofing would provide some protection as Lee made his way belowdecks. The pirate’s intention was to hide there and hope that the yachtsmen did not board the sampan. If they did, he still had his pistol. He would use it against them if he could. If not, he would turn it on himself. He did not intend to spend any time in a Singapore prison.

Lee screamed as a bullet hit his right ankle. The shot cut his Achilles tendon and caused his leg to straighten. He flopped flat on his belly as a hot, cramplike pain raced up his right side all the way to his neck. As he fell, a second bullet drilled into his left calf. That sent a wave of fire up the other side. Lee bit down hard to keep from screaming and giving his location away. Desperately, he tried to pull himself forward on his flat hands. Perspiration stung his eyes. He felt as though his body weight had tripled as he dragged himself ahead. He sucked air through his teeth and fought to keep his eyes open.

Suddenly, that effort was no longer necessary.

There was a sound from the bow like a rock going through glass. He knew that sound. It was plastique. Lee felt himself rising. The sound was followed by intense heat and white light, both of which hit Lee like a fist. He couldn’t hear, see, or feel anything but that for an endless moment.

And then he heard, saw, and felt nothing.

FOUR

Sydney, Australia Thursday, 8:30 A.M.

Lowell Coffey liked a good intellectual fight. He loved joining them. He loved causing them. Typically, there were two ways they came about.

One way was by giving speeches. Communicating his strongly held ideas as concisely and effectively as possible. Being the attorney for Op-Center allowed him to do that from time to time. He spoke on issues of international rights and national security, of civil liberties and the loss of privacy. If the thirty-nine-year-old attorney had the thick skin required for politics, he would have run for office. But he had a stubborn, confrontational nature when anyone criticized his views. In politics, Coffey knew he would get it from both sides. The Southern California native believed in a very strong and aggressive military. That was his conservative side. He believed very deeply in human rights in all their forms and variations. That was his liberal side. He would never form any kind of coalition to get himself elected, which was unfortunate. Unlike many politicians, Lowell Coffey III had what he jokingly referred to as a “substance abuse” problem. He was addicted to issues that had meat on strong bones. His interest in substance was what drove him to international law. His father would have preferred that he join the successful entertainment law firm of Coffey and O’Hare, based in Beverly Hills. But while Coffey liked his Armani suits, Rolex watch, and Jaguar—which was in the shop more than it was out—he had needed substance as well. He found it first as an assistant to the California state attorney general, then as deputy assistant to the United States solicitor general. Since joining Op-Center six years ago, he was up to his cleft chin in substance. There was hardly a nation on earth or a division of the federal government Coffey had not dealt with since joining the National Crisis Management Center. Sometimes those dealings were adversarial, as when Striker was caught in the struggle between India and Pakistan, or when Paul Hood and Mike Rodgers shot up the United Nations to end the hostage standoff. Often he ended up learning on the job. But even international confrontations gave him satisfaction he would not have gotten from negotiating product placement in movies for deodorant or beverage brands. Coffey’s personal and professional integrity did not prevent his coworkers from referring to the sandy-haired Californian as Percy Richkid. It was a tease, and he rolled with it. Besides, Coffey could not help the financial stratum in which he was born. He took pride in the fact that he had never used family connections to get anything. Coffey had worked hard at every school he attended, and he had earned every position he held.

The second thing the tall, blue-eyed attorney enjoyed was travel. Unlike most travelers, however, seeing new sights was not what appealed most to Coffey. Back in the early 1980s, the attorney had attended Oxford for postgraduate studies in international law. Being on campus had exposed him to ideas that were not only contrary to his own but often anti-American. Coffey knew things to be true viscerally. He enjoyed having the opportunity to defend them intellectually. He discovered that classrooms, coffeehouses, even train stations and airport lounges gave him an opportunity to jump into conversations and state his views. After graduation, traveling around the world for the state of California and the federal government gave Coffey the chance to exercise his skills. Happily, every region was different. Coffey encountered debates in London that were unlike those he found in Montreal, Moscow, Tokyo, or Damascus.

And now, Sydney.

Coffey was standing outside the front door of the Park Hyatt Sydney on Hickson Road. He had arrived the night before and gone directly to bed. From his room at the rear of the hotel he could see across Sydney Cove to the spectacular Sydney Opera House. Standing here, along the broad avenue, he was able to look out at the wharves on Walsh Bay. Sydney was a clean, vibrant, spectacular city. Coffey was only scheduled to be here for three days. Most of that time would be taken up by the Conference on International Oceanic Sovereignty. Coffey hoped he would have time to see some of the city.

Even though Coffey had his sunglasses on, it was still a blindingly bright morning. The sun bounced off the water and the clouds. It was reflected from every silver tower and white structure in a city full of them. The sun and air felt different here than they did in the United States or Europe. Maybe the heat was softened by the constant sea breeze. Maybe the ocean kept the air clean as well. Whatever it was, Coffey found it invigorating.

Tourists came and went from the hotel as Coffey waited for his ride. Penny Masterson was chairperson of the Asian Rim Relocation Organization. Coffey had met the woman in Washington several years earlier at a seminar hosted by Amnesty International. ARRO was a not-forprofit group dedicated to assisting refugees from Indonesia, Malaysia, and other nations close to Australia. Many of those refugees ended up in Australia, most of them illegally. Those who were caught or subsequently identified were returned to their homelands. If there was anything worse than being an illegal immigrant deported from a nation, it was being an illegal emigré returned to one of those countries. Charges of treason, followed by lengthy prison sentences including hard labor were not uncommon.

The petite, strawberry-blond Penny was the perfect person for the job. The twenty-nine-year-old was sweet, she was bright, she was compassionate. She had grown up being teased about her maiden name, which was Penny Date. Boys would ask if that was how much she charged. As a result, Penny had the thickest skin of anyone Coffey had ever met. She could run for public office and win. But she wanted to help people and not, as she put it, “run a football team whose primary adversary is itself.”

Penny pulled up in her old red pickup. The doorman opened the battered door. It groaned.

“Sorry, Lowell,” Penny said as he climbed in. “It isn’t exactly the red-carpet treatment.”

“It’s charming,” Coffey replied diplomatically. The truth was, the truck smelled of fertilizer, and there were what Bob Herbert called HVICs on the windshield—high velocity insect casualties. The only thing charming about the vehicle was the driver. Penny’s accent had little silver bells in it. Her smile gleamed like those little silver bells. And her eyes were as brilliant as the sunshine. If she were not married, he would be engaged in a very serious long-distance courtship.

“The truck is functional,” Penny said. “Unfortunately, I hadn’t quite mastered some of the narrow turns when that happened,” she added, nodding to the dented door.

“But you have now?” Coffey asked anxiously as he buckled himself in.

Penny laughed. That was music, too. “I wouldn’t put Gaby in here if I hadn’t,” she replied as she pulled away from the hotel.

“Gabrielle must be what, now—a year old?” Coffey asked.

“Thirteen and a half months,” Penny said. “And she’s a peach.”

“I have no doubt,” Coffey replied. “What about your husband? How is he doing?”

“Charlie is doing great,” Penny said. “He quit the parks service seven months ago and became a self-employed gardener.”

“Which explains the truck instead of a minivan,” Coffey said.

“We’ve got a fleet of three!” Penny laughed. “Charlie just couldn’t take it anymore. He spent more time figuring out how to implement budget cuts in his field crew than he did actually landscaping. As he put it, ‘I was tired of trying to move heaven. I’d rather move earth.’ ”

“We’ve got that same problem at Op-Center,” Coffey said. “Do you work with him at all?”

“On weekends I use this truck to help him transport trees, shrubs, and soil around the city and suburbs,” Penny said. “I have to say, I enjoy getting my hands dirty in a wholesome way.”

“It probably takes your mind off the more unpleasant things in life,” Coffey said.

“It does,” Penny agreed. “But I found that it also serves a purpose in my own work. When I drive up to meetings or detainment centers, people don’t automatically assume I’m a homemaker who is using ARRO as something to fill the daytime hours.”

Penny turned off Hickson Road. Tools rattled in the open back of the truck. Penny did not even seem to be aware of the sounds. There was something sweet about that, Coffey thought.

“How is the conference shaping up?” Coffey asked.

“It’s going to be the largest of the four we’ve held here,” Penny said. “Thirty-two nations, one hundred and eleven representatives. And the breakfast reception at the State Parliament House is going to be a first. They’re finally acknowledging that we’re a force to be counted. When that’s done, we’ll go over to the Sydney Convention Center. You’ll be speaking after dinner, which means that everyone will be well-fed and ready to sit back and listen.”

It also meant that Coffey would have time to mingle, eavesdrop, and find out what other people were thinking. He would have time to address up-to-the-moment issues in his speech.

“Will our nemesis Brian Ellsworth be there?” Coffey asked.

“He was invited, of course,” Penny said. “But he declined as usual.”

“I’d be honored to take it personally,” Coffey said.

“Your keynote speech in Brisbane last year was not in his nightstand reading stack, I’m sure,” Penny said. “But I do believe his disinterest is spread across the entire organization.”

Ellsworth was chief solicitor for the Australian Maritime Intelligence Centre. Based in Darwin, Northern Territory, the MIC was the first line of defense against illegal aliens trying to make their way into Australia. They maintained that nationals who desired amnesty typically defected to foreign embassies in their own countries. As far as Ellsworth was concerned, every boat, plane, or raft that came through the back door carried drugs, smugglers, or terrorists. According to ARRO’s research, just over 65 percent of those craft did. The other 35 percent transported people who were poor, terrified, and searching for a less oppressed life. The “Australia first” MIC had a great deal of influence in parliament. By law, illegal immigrants were typically returned to their point of origin within twenty-four hours. ARRO and the MIC were constantly fighting one another for a way to make the process more equitable.

As Penny spoke, her cell phone beeped. The young woman excused herself and answered it.

“It could be the baby-sitter,” she said apologetically. She punched the hands-free phone that was bracketed to the dashboard. “Hello?”

“Mrs. Masterson?” asked a man’s voice.

“This is she.”

“Mrs. Masterson, is Mr. Lowell Coffey with you?”

“I’m Lowell Coffey,” the attorney said. “Who is this?”

“Sir, this is Junior Seaman Brendan Murphy in the command of Warrant Officer George Jelbart, MIC,” the young man replied. “I have your name from Mr. Brian Ellsworth. Sir, Warrant Officer Jelbart was wondering if you might have some free time today.”

“I’m here for a conference,” Coffey replied.

“Yes, sir, we know.”

“What did Mr. Jelbart have in mind?” Coffey asked.

“A flight to Darwin,” Murphy replied.

“That’s clear across the continent!” Coffey declared. “Why does he need to see me?”

“We have a situation, sir,” the officer replied. “One that he needs to discuss with you face-to-face.”

“What kind of situation?” Coffey asked.

“A hot one, sir,” the caller replied gravely.

The way the MIC officer emphasized hot led Coffey to believe that he was not referring to the temperature or an imminent event. That left just one interpretation.

“There are some people I should talk to before I agree to anything,” Coffey said, glancing at Penny.

“We are a little squeezed for time,” Murphy said. “You are the first and hopefully only call I’m making about this.”

“If I decide to come, when can you arrange for transportation?”

“A P-3C patrol craft has been dispatched to Sydney Airport, Mr. Coffey,” the caller replied. “It will arrive within the hour. As I said, sir, the warrant officer would like to talk to you in person.”

Penny and Coffey exchanged looks. She tapped the Mute button.

“That doesn’t sound like an invitation,” she said.

“No,” Coffey agreed. It sounded like an order.

“What do you want to do?” she asked.

“That doesn’t seem to matter, does it?” he asked.

“Why not?” she asked. “You’re a civilian and an American. You can tell the junior seaman, ‘No thanks,’ and hang up.”

“Then I wouldn’t find out why Ellsworth recommended they call,” Coffey said. “I have a feeling the MIC is interested in talking to Op-Center, not just to Lowell Coffey.”

“What makes you say that?” Penny asked.

“I’d rather not say until I’m sure,” Coffey replied. It was not that he did not trust Penny. But he was an attorney. A cautious one. He did not like to say anything he did not believe or know to be true.

Coffey disengaged the Mute button.

“Where will the plane be waiting?” Coffey asked.

“If you go to the domestic cargo terminal, someone will meet you,” the caller said.

“All right,” Coffey said. “I’ll be there.”

“Thank you, sir,” the junior seaman said. “I’ll inform the warrant officer.”

And Coffey would inform Hood.

He apologized to Penny. She said that she understood completely. He said that he hoped he would be back soon.

In his heart, though, he sensed that would not be the case. Especially if “hot” meant what he thought it did.

FIVE

Darwin, Australia Thursday, 8:42 A.M.

Fifty-two-year-old Warrant Officer George Wellington Jelbart had seen and experienced many extraordinary things in his thirty-two years of service in the Royal Australian Navy.

Jelbart spent his first twelve years of military service with the Hydrographic Force. Based in Wollongong, just south of Sydney, he and his team constantly updated charts of the 30,000 kilometers of Australia’s coastline as well as adjoining waters. He loved being out in ships and planes, producing maps that covered nearly one sixth of the world’s surface. Even when his team was caught in a tropical cyclone, a category five hurricane, or a tsunami, he relished the work he was doing. As his naval officer father once described it, “The Navy puts muscle in your back. Danger keeps it strong.”

The next nine years were radically different and much less muscular. Because Jelbart was so familiar with the geography surrounding Australia, Deputy Chief of Navy Jonathan Smith moved him to the Directorate of Naval Intelligence. That was during the 1980s, when the influx of Japanese businessmen and investors brought an influx of Japanese criminals. There, in a windowless office, Jelbart helped signal personnel pinpoint the direction and location of broadcasts coming from local waters and surrounding nations. He did that out of duty, not love. Finally, on his fortieth birthday, Jelbart requested a transfer. He needed to be back on the sea or at least in the sunlight. Smith agreed to a compromise. He gave Jelbart a promotion and shifted him to the Maritime Intelligence Centre. There, the newly minted warrant officer would be out-of-doors and dealing with a wider range of illegal activities than he had in his previous posts.

That was where Jelbart encountered the unexpected on a weekly basis. Some of it was heartbreaking. There were the Malaysian slavers who abducted Aborigine children via cargo plane. There were refugees from war-ravaged East Timor who were dropped offshore using World War II–surplus parachutes. Most of them were young. All of them were inexperienced jumpers. Fifty of the sixty-seven of them drowned. There were the Australian drug traffickers who used surfboards with high-tech listening devices to spy on MIC aircraft. Jelbart had even investigated sea-monster sightings in the Gulf of Carpentaria. Those turned out to be Chinese submarines conducting maneuvers.

But in all his years in the Royal Australian Navy, the sandy-haired, six-foot-four-inch Brisbane native had never heard anything like this. The implications were chilling.

Jelbart had arrived at his office in the Australian Central Credit Union Building, 36 Mitchell Street, at seven A.M. Throughout the early 1990s he had arrived early to hear phone messages and go through the mail. Since the late 1990s he had to come to the office early to slog through E-mails. If he could eliminate the E-mails from fellow officers who were compelled to forward bad jokes, he could do the job in an hour. Unfortunately, he had to open every correspondence on the off chance it had something to do with naval matters.

Shortly after Jelbart arrived, the phone beeped. His aide, Junior Seaman Brendan Murphy, answered. Murphy forwarded the call. It was from Captain Ronald Trainor of the Freemantle-class patrol boat Suffolk. They had found a man floating in the Banda Sea twelve miles east of Celebes.

“The fellow was barely conscious and clinging to a section of waterlogged pine,” Trainor reported. “He’s dehydrated and lost a lot of blood. He had been shot twice in the lower legs and managed to rig some crude bandages from his shirt. We assume he’s a pirate whose mission ended badly.”

“That’s a possibility,” Jelbart said.

Jelbart was confused. This was a routine rescue on international waters. It did not require the ship’s captain to report to him personally.

“But what drew us to him was extremely unusual,” the captain went on.

Jelbart grew concerned as Trainor explained. What they found was not only unusual, it was inexplicable. The warrant officer wanted a complete investigation. Trainor told him that they would search for the rest of the vessel and crew, as well as whoever attacked them. In the meantime, the injured man was going to be airlifted to the Royal Darwin Hospital along with the remnants of his vessel. Jelbart said that he would meet the helicopter there to take charge of the evidence and arrange for security. When he hung up, Jelbart realized that he would also have to notify Chief Solicitor Brian Ellsworth. Ostensibly, the Banda Sea castaway was being brought to Darwin for medical care. But Captain Trainor’s other discovery made that a secondary issue from the MIC’s point of view. The man had to be questioned. There were complex legal issues surrounding the interrogation of a foreign national recovered in international waters.

Ellsworth was in the shower when Jelbart called. The civilian official lived with his newscaster wife in the exclusive La Grande Residence on Knuckey Street.

At the warrant officer’s insistence, Mrs. Ellsworth summoned him to the phone. Jelbart explained the situation as it had been explained to him. The forty-three-year-old solicitor thought for a minute before replying.

“I will meet you at the hospital,” Ellsworth replied. “But there is someone else I would like you to call.”

“Who?”

“A gentleman named Lowell Coffey,” Ellsworth said. “He is in Sydney for a conference on international civil rights.”

“That’s the ARRO symposium?”

“Yes,” Ellsworth said. “Mr. Coffey works for the National Crisis Management Center in Washington.”

“Op-Center? Do we really want a foreign intelligence service involved in this?” Jelbart asked.

“We want the NCMC for three reasons,” Ellsworth told him. “First, we’ll want to get a very quick read on this situation. The NCMC can help us. Second, one of their best people is already in Australia. I don’t agree with his politics, but he is smart and well-informed. Finally, holding this shipwrecked alien could backfire. Especially if the explanation turns out to be something very innocent. If that happens, we have someone to share the blame.”

That last was not entirely honorable, Jelbart thought, but the solicitor did have a point.

Ellsworth had told Jelbart how to get in touch with Lowell Coffey. He was to call Penny Masterson, who was Mr. Coffey’s host for the ARRO conference. The warrant officer passed the information to Brendan Murphy. Jelbart also told Murphy to dispatch a plane to Sydney. If the American agreed to come, Jelbart did not want to waste any time.

While the junior seaman made the calls, Jelbart composed an E-mail explaining the situation. He sent the message coded Level Alpha to Rear Admiral Ian Carrick at Royal Australian Navy headquarters in Canberra. The Level Alpha clearance guaranteed that only the rear admiral would see it. When that was finished, Jelbart checked his computer to see what appointments he would have to cancel today. And possibly tomorrow. He hoped this took no longer.

If it did, what Jelbart hoped was just an incident could turn out to be a crisis.

SIX

Washington, D.C. Wednesday, 7:33 P.M.

“What do we know about the hair up Shigeo Fujima’s nose?” Paul Hood asked.

Hood, Bob Herbert, and Mike Rodgers were sitting in Hood’s office. It was the end of an uneventful day in the middle of an uneventful week. As much as Hood had often wished his plate were not so full, he felt restless when it was empty. Especially since he did not have a family to go home to. Ironically, it was his overpacked schedule that had cost him his family.

Paul Hood’s question hung in the air like a high, arching fly ball. Shigeo Fujima was the head of the Japanese Intelligence and Analysis Bureau at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Fujima had helped Op-Center resolve a recent crisis in Botswana without explaining why he knew what he knew. Or why he was interested. That did not sit well with Hood. Especially since the young officer was not returning Hood’s calls.

“We know nothing,” Herbert replied, finally calling the catch.

“What have we done to find out?” Hood asked.

“Last time I checked, which was about two hours ago, everyone in the tech lab, including Matt Stoll, had been unable to get into the IAB computers,” Herbert went on. “Stoll says that all the files we want to look at are apparently in dedicated systems.”

“I’m not surprised,” Hood said. “The IAB does not play well with others.” Daphne Connors’s sandbox reference popped into his head. Maybe the woman had something there after all.

“Do we want to send someone to Tokyo?” Rodgers asked. “Check the files after hours?”

General Rodgers had recently established a human intelligence team at Op-Center. It consisted of international operatives who had worked with Op-Center in the past. Three of the members had distinguished themselves on the inaugural mission to Botswana.

“Who would you assign?” Hood asked.

“I’ve been talking to the guys we worked with during the Korean missile crisis,” Rodgers said. “They gave me the names of people they have used. I talked to several of them. One in particular seems a good candidate. Bibari Hirato. She’s based in Tokyo.”

“This makes me nervous. What’s she got against her own country?” Herbert asked.

“Japan isn’t her country,” Rodgers said.

“I see,” Herbert said.

“Bibari is the daughter of a Korean comfort woman. Her father is one of three or four hundred Japanese sol.diers who used her early in the war. Bibari’s mother gave her a Japanese name so she could go over if she chose to.”

“And mess with them,” Herbert said.

“In a word, yeah,” Rodgers said.

“Objection withdrawn,” Herbert said.

“Mike, why don’t we have Bob run a check on her?” Hood said. “If she’s clean from our point of view, let’s do it.”

“It was on the to-do list for tomorrow,” Rodgers said.

As the men were chatting, Hood’s phone beeped. Hood’s assistant, Bugs Benet, said Lowell Coffey was calling from Australia.

“Thanks,” Hood said.

“What time is it there?” Herbert asked.

“Late tomorrow morning,” Rodgers said.

“Too early for Lowell to have pissed off anyone at a breakfast meeting,” Herbert said.

Herbert fell silent as Hood took the call.

“Morning, Lowell,” Hood said. “How are things Down Under?”

“Surprising,” Lowell replied. “I’m on my way to the airport.”

“Why? What’s up?” Hood asked.

“I’m not entirely sure,” Coffey said.

“Lowell, Bob and Mike are here,” Hood said. “I’m putting you on speakerphone.”

“Good,” Coffey said. “I may need their help.”

Hood punched the button and sat back. “Go ahead, Lowell.”

“A few minutes ago, I got a call from an aide to a Warrant Officer George Jelbart of the Maritime Intelligence Centre,” Coffey said. “He told me they have a hot situation up in Darwin. From what I was able to get over an unsecure line, ‘hot’ probably means one thing.”

“Radioactive,” Hood said.

“Right,” Coffey replied.

Hood felt a chill in the small of his back. “Did he give you any context, a scenario of some kind?” Hood asked.

“Zero,” Coffey said. “But I was on a cell phone, and he obviously didn’t want to say very much. All I was told is that there’s an airplane waiting to take me to Darwin.”

Herbert had already swung up the laptop computer attached to his wheelchair. The intelligence chief had lost the use of his legs in the Beirut embassy blast that had killed his wife. He had wireless Internet on the laptop, as well as the ability to tap any of Op-Center’s computers using LEASH—Local Executive Access Secure Hookup. The technology only worked within a radius of 500 feet from the personal computer in his office. While Coffey was speaking, Herbert had gone to the Australian Department of Defence file. He found the dossier on Warrant Officer Jelbart and read it.

“What do you know about Jelbart?” Rodgers asked.

“He’s a heavyweight,” Herbert said. He spoke loud enough for Coffey to hear. “He’s fifty-two, a career officer, divorced twice, no kids. He runs the coastal intelligence network and has a background in mapping and signal recon. Commendations up to his eyeballs.”

“Bob, are there any nuclear submarines in the Darwin area?” Rodgers asked. “I’m wondering if there could be a leak.”

“I was not given that information.”

“It could also be a plutonium-powered satellite that fell to earth,” Hood suggested.

“I suppose,” Coffey agreed. “But why would Jelbart call me for either of those? My first thought was that there might be civilian casualties resulting from an accident of some kind—”

“Possibly American civilian casualties,” Rodgers pointed out.

“Right. But wouldn’t they go to an embassy first?” Coffey asked.

“Not necessarily,” Hood said. “If they were negligent in some way and wanted to cover their asses, having an internationally known human-rights attorney on site would be a nice cosmetic touch.”

“Gentlemen, before we go to war with Australia over this, I’d like to check both possibilities,” Herbert said.

The intelligence chief went to the United States Department of Defense secure file and accessed the naval intelligence Red List—an up-to-the-minute listing on the whereabouts and status of nuclear-capable craft. It was the list that gave the Pentagon the first warning that the Russian submarine Kursk had gone down in August 2000. The list also showed the status of the nine cruise missiles that had been removed from the submarine and taken to the top secret Nerpa shipyard located at the mouth of Olenya Guba Bay in Murmansk. The list included vessels with nuclear-powered engines and nuclear missiles. Herbert told the others that only the Chinese People’s Liberation Navy had a vessel operating in the region, a Xia-class ballistic missile submarine. There was no suggestion of any problems on board. Then he went to the National Reconnaissance Office site to check on nuclear-powered satellites and exploration craft. Herbert reported that the list of deorbiting hardware was free of alerts.

“I sure was hoping it was one of them,” Herbert said.

Hood did not have to ask why. Absent an accident, that left the probability of illegal nuclear activity, possibly the transportation of weapons or raw nuclear material.

“Lowell, are there any nuclear power plants in the Darwin region?” Rodgers asked.

“I already asked my host,” Coffey told him. “She said she does not believe there are.”

“I’m with you, Lowell,” Herbert said. “Nothing personal, but I’m bothered by the fact that they asked for you instead of an official representative of the federal government.”

“I am, too,” Coffey said.

“Do we know that they didn’t do that as well?” Hood asked.

“I was told that I was their one-and-only,” Coffey said.

“Jelbert’s aide may not have been in possession of that information,” Hood pointed out. “For all we know, the American embassy has been notified. We’re going to have to let this play out until we know more.”

“There obviously has to be a legal issue involved,” Herbert said. “Something that requires Lowell’s expertise in international affairs.”

“That does seem to make sense,” Hood said. “Lowell, how long until you reach the airport?”

“About fifteen minutes,” Coffey replied.

“Maybe we’ll know more by then,” Hood said. “Lowell, let us know what you find out as soon as you can.”

“Of course,” he said.

Hood wished him well and hung up. He looked at the others. “Bob, is there any history of nuclear trafficking in that region?”

“The answer is, ‘possibly,’ ” Herbert said.

“Jeez, I remember when intelligence agencies used to deal in probablies,” Rodgers said.

“When you were a greenhorn in ’Nam, they did,” Herbert said. “We still had human intelligence resources in every backwater den you could imagine. Then the electronic intelligence guys came in and said there was no reason to risk lives anymore. They were wrong. Satellites can’t do belowdecks imaging in a freighter or oil tanker.”

“What about those possibilities, Bob?” Hood asked, getting them back on subject.

“We suspect that terrorists and rogue states in the Pacific Rim have used commercial ships and private vessels to transport nuclear weapons or components,” Herbert told him. “But we have no evidence of that. For the last few years a bunch of navies and air defense forces around the world, including Australia, have been placing radiation-detection equipment on their vessels. These gizmos measure gamma radiation or neutron fields, depending on whether they’re looking for raw radioactive material or weapons, respectively. But they haven’t found anything.”

“Which doesn’t mean much,” Rodgers said. “Adequate lead shielding will hide that.”

Herbert nodded. “That’s why we need more people watching potential traffickers on the shipping and receiving ends. The CIA and the FBI are working on that, but we’re nowhere near up to speed yet.”

“All right,” Hood said. “The system has a lot of holes. But you’re saying the Aussies have the capacity to pick up hot cargo?”

“That’s right,” Herbert said. “And if that’s what happened, there are a lot of reasons they might want someone like Lowell to have a look.”

Hood suggested that Herbert and Rodgers return to their offices to see if there was any other intelligence they could dig up. He would notify them as soon as Coffey called.

As they left, Hood looked at the photo of Harleigh and Alexander on his desk. He wished he could roll back the clock ten minutes. The responsibility of fighting nuclear terrorism was an unimaginable burden. The price of failure would be appalling.

Still, whether Hood wanted it or not, that responsibility might be his. Hopefully, this would prove to be something far less dire than he could imagine.

SEVEN

Sydney, Australia Thursday, 10:01 A.M.

It was like talking to stone.

When Lowell Coffey did not get the service, respect, or answers he was looking for, his inclination was to stand and fight. Quietly, but with unshakable determination. Jaguar dealers or presidents, it did not matter.

This was a rare exception.

Coffey and Penny arrived at the domestic cargo terminal. It was a vast, low-lying building that looked as if it had been built in the 1960s. It was situated away from the main terminal area. Penny parked the pickup among rows of semis with container rigs. They walked to the front office, which sat just inside the main hangar. There they were met by a petty officer from the MIC. He was a fresh-faced kid whose name tag said Lady. That name must have got him teased a lot more than Date. Coffey judged him to be about twenty-five. The petty officer checked Coffey’s passport, thanked him for coming, and said he would show the attorney to the aircraft. He removed a small point-to-point radio from his belt. Lady was pleasant, efficient, and uninformative. Unacceptably so. Coffey refused to follow the young man into the hangar.

“Petty Officer Lady, before I board the aircraft, I would appreciate some information,” Coffey said. “Specifically, I’d like to know why I’m going with you.” He had to speak loudly to be heard over the forklifts that were moving barrels and containers.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the young man replied. “I can’t tell you that.”

“Then I can’t go with you,” Coffey insisted.

“No, sir. I mean I can’t tell you because I don’t know,” Lady said. “What I can do, sir, is put you in touch with my CO if you’d like. But I can assure you that he doesn’t know anything more than I do. This is a Level Alpha operation. Information is on a need-to-know basis.”

“Well, I need to know, and so do my superiors,” Coffey said. He held up his cell phone and wiggled it back and forth. “What do I tell them?”

“Sir, I wish I could help you. But that information is at the other end of a two-hour flight,” Lady said. He held up his own radio. “What shall I tell the pilot, sir? He is waiting to take off.”

If the kid had wiggled the radio, the attorney would have turned around and left. But he did not. He was respectful. And he had effectively called Coffey’s bluff.

The American turned to Penny.

“It looks like I’ll be taking a two-hour flight,” he said. “I’ll let you know as soon as I have some idea what’s going on.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Penny said.

“I do,” Coffey said. “I just hope this isn’t an elaborate Ellsworth plot to keep me from giving a speech.”

“He’s a duck-shover,” she said, “but if that turns out to be the case, just E-mail me the speech. I’ll read it for you.”

Coffey thanked her and indicated for Petty Officer Lady to lead him to the plane.

“Duck-shover?” he said, turning back to Penny.

“My dad drove a taxi,” the woman shouted ahead. “That’s what they used to call drivers who cut other taxis off or muscled them out of the way.”

“I love it!” Coffey called back, waving as he headed toward the back of the hangar and the door that led to the field.

The Lockheed P-3C was a big, gray, cigar-shaped four-engine prop plane. It was 116 feet in length with a wingspan of nearly 100 feet. Coffey had only been in a prop plane once before, when he traveled with the regional Op-Center mobile office to the Middle East. He had not liked the noise and vibration then. He did not think he would like it now.

Because this was a transport mission, not travel to a combat zone, the P-3C had gone out without a tactical coordinator. The TACCO’s station was located in the rear of the aircraft. After Petty Officer Lady turned Coffey over to the crew, the captain gave him the coordinator’s seat. According to the pilot, it was the warmest, most comfortable place in the plane. The plane was taxiing before Coffey had even buckled himself in to the threadbare red seat.

The attorney faced the port side as the aircraft rumbled its way into the air. He was sitting in a cubicle shaped like half a pentagon. The sun-faded blue metal walls were covered with displays, buttons, and old-fashioned switches and dials. Coffey sat with his back to the open window as the sun burned across his neck and the equipment. An hour ago, if Coffey had to guess all the places he could conceivably have found himself this morning, the rear end of a Royal Australian Navy patrol craft would have been nowhere on the list.

The strangeness of it all was outweighed by Coffey’s curiosity as to what he would find on the other end. The attorney was thrilled by the fact that he was in the right place to do something about whatever this was. He relished the opportunity and the challenge. It reinforced one of his strongest convictions: that an individual did not have to be in the big, bulging belly of politics to have a positive impact on society.

For the duration of the 116-minute flight, no one came back to check on the attorney or offer him coffee. Or a pillow. Nor was the flight all that comfortable. Coffey wondered if they had stuck him back there just so he would not bug anyone for answers. Sitting there, he found himself thinking about Paul Hood’s managerial style.

Hood did not always have information that people wanted to hear. But he never kept them out of the loop. Sometimes he was not at liberty to say what he did know. But he always told people that. Stonewalling was dehumanizing. Hood had his flaws, but he always treated people like people.

The plane landed at Darwin International Airport. The airport consisted of one large central structure that looked like a shopping mall in Anytown, U.S.A. The building was all white. Coffey wondered if everything in Australia was white. Located less than four miles outside the city, DIA was both a commercial airport and a Department of Defence airfield. It was used primarily by the Royal Australian Air Force. However, the MIC also flew reconnaissance missions from here.

Coffey was not taken to the terminal. The plane pulled off onto an apron where several F-18s were parked. The pilot walked him down the aft staircase to a waiting black sedan.

“Tell me, Captain,” Coffey said as they crossed the short, windy stretch of tarmac. “Did you folks strand me back there on purpose? An unadorned yes or no will suffice.”

“Yes, sir, we did,” the captain replied.

“Follow-up question,” Coffey said. “Why did you leave me alone?”

“Because we were told to, sir,” the pilot said.

Okay, Coffey thought. At least that was honest.

The pilot turned him over to the petty officer who stood beside the car. The men exchanged salutes, and then the pilot left. The petty officer opened the door, and Coffey got in. There was a glass partition between the front and back of the car. Obviously, they did not want him talking to the driver, either.

The car sped off, carrying Coffey past a forest of tall, colorful stone poles that stood in a small, green plot beside the building. Coffey recognized these from the tour book he had read during the flight to Australia. They were Tiwi Pukumani burial poles—a tribute to the Aboriginal peoples who dwelt in the Northern Territory. They were used as mourning totems during funeral ceremonies. Afterward, they remained standing above the grave as a memorial to the dead. These particular poles were carved to honor all native dead. Coffey thought about how moving it must be for a sculptor to work on interpretive likenesses of deceased individuals from his tribe or village. The process made more sense to Coffey than a marble worker impersonally hacking names into stone.

Also, the burial poles were not white. They were brightly painted, a celebration of life.

As the sedan headed toward downtown Darwin, Coffey looked out at the gleaming waters of the Timor Sea. He found it ironic that since leaving Sydney he had encountered a pilot, a driver, and a series of totems. All of them were mute, but only one of them had any eloquence.

The one that was made of stone.

EIGHT

The Celebes Sea Thursday, 12:12 P.M.

If anyone had been watching the two vessels, it would have seemed like a chance encounter. A passing ship or plane, even a spy satellite, would see it as an offer by a decommissioned cutter to lend assistance to a yacht. The two ships stayed together briefly, less than fifteen minutes. Then the cutter pulled away, its captain waving grandly to a fellow seafarer.

In fact, the encounter was anything but innocent. Or accidental.

Forty-seven-year-old Peter Kannaday, owner and skipper of the Hosannah, was supposed to have made the rendezvous with the privately owned cutter when night was upon the sea, and no one could have seen them together. But the explosion on the sampan had opened a crack in his hull. Actually, it had blown an oar, pieces of hull, and the body of a pirate against the bulkhead of the yacht. They were what had caused the breach. The crack was less than a meter long and was well above the waterline. But where it had hit was very inconvenient for the captain. Inconvenient and extremely dangerous. They had to stop and repair it. Fortunately, there had been no other ships in the area. That was one of the reasons Kannaday had selected this route in the first place.

The Australian sea captain watched as the red-hulled cutter moved away slowly. The diesel-electric motors growled loudly as the 200-foot-long ship crawled forward under a perfect blue sky. The cutter was formerly owned by the Republic of Korea Navy, bought from the United States in 1950. Now it was the property of Mahathir bin Dahman of Malaysia, who used it as part of his global waste-disposal operation. The ship’s captain, Jaafar, had said that Dahman had been very concerned about the risks of a daylight pickup. Jaafar had assured him that it would be all right. Dahman decided to trust his man on the scene. Jaafar was right. Everything went well.

Kannaday did not think that his own boss would be as understanding. It bothered Kannaday that he had to worry about that. The ship had a security officer for this. One who had been appointed by the boss himself.

Kannaday turned from the deck and went below. He pulled a hand-rolled cigarette from his shirt pocket. He lit it and took a few quick drags. The five security officers had gone down ahead of him. They were in the process of returning their automatic weapons to the gun racks. They were always on high alert during a transfer.

The rest of the crew was going about their business of sailing the yacht back to Australia.

The yacht belonged to Kannaday, and some members of the crew had been with him for nearly seven years. They were loyal, though not necessarily to him. They liked the untaxed money they made and the job was easy. Most of the time the Hosannah pretended to be conducting coastline tours or fishing runs. They wanted to be seen in as many places as possible. Crew members posed as paying customers. Between those essentially idle cruises, the crew were veterans of countless independent smuggling operations. They had transported people and goods all across the southern hemisphere, from Australia to South America.

The security people did not work for him. They worked for John Hawke, who worked for Jervis Darling. A thick mist of distrust circulated between them and Kannaday’s veteran crew. Kannaday’s men had never had to defend their vessel and their cargo. But they could and would, if necessary. Hawke’s team had never sailed a yacht. Yet each team believed they could do the other’s job better. Seamen always felt that way. Unfortunately, what had happened the night before stoked the frustration in both camps. The seamen felt the security team should have seen the sampan coming before dark. They had radar and sonar, installed in the radio room by Darling’s technicians. Unfortunately, the sampan was so small it literally slipped under the radar. Kannaday’s crew felt that once the threat was identified, the security people should have anticipated that there might be explosives on board. They could have changed course to avoid the threat, as they always did before going to work exclusively for Darling. Unfortunately, the schedules of Darling and his partners did not allow time for flight. They were to load and off-load the materials as soon as possible.

The miserable irony was that except for the explosion, everything had gone perfectly. The security system and defensive response had worked. An hour before they were supposed to meet Jaafar, the sophisticated marine radar had picked up a blip. Darling’s nephew Marcus had reported it to Kannaday, who had watched the seven-inch color monitor in the communications room. They had observed the sampan’s approach on the night-vision security camera attached to the mainmast. They decided that the crew were pirates preparing to board. A security team went on deck and took them out. So as not to hit fuel supplies or stockpiled ammunition, they aimed at the men, not at the sampan. Though they took precautions, a replay of the security video showed what had happened. Bullets struck explosives one of the pirates had been carrying. Perhaps the pirates had intended to try to cripple the yacht and forestall pursuit. In any case, the handheld explosive had blown up and damaged the yacht. There was no way to have seen that. No way to have anticipated it. And, unfortunately, no way to protect against it.

The yacht was divided into ten rooms. Six of those were for the crew, one was for munitions, one was for Kannaday, and one was for communications. The tenth room, the room that was damaged, was for their cargo. Kannaday walked down the carpeted central corridor to the room where repairs were still ongoing. Fortunately, all of the internal walls had held secure. Kannaday stopped beside thirty-one-year-old John Hawke, his security officer.

Hawke was a contrast to the tall, prematurely silverhaired Kannaday. The sinewy, five-foot-nine-inch Hawke was what the people of his native Cootamundra, South Australia, used to call a Mong—a mongrel, the son of a Canadian father and an Aborigine mother. However, no one who knew Hawke used the disparaging term. The taciturn sailor wore a wommera tucked in his sash belt. The traditional Dharuk weapon was a hooked wooden stick used for hurling darts with force and accuracy. The dart was placed in a hollowed end and then flung, like a jai alai ball. Kannaday had seen Hawke use the weapon on sea birds for practice. Their eyes were his favorite target. Their squawks were like sylvan music to him, producing the only smile Kannaday ever saw.

Hawke’s own eyes were pale gray set in a face of dark rust. His hair was black and curly and worn in a shoulderlength ponytail. He moved with the steady, fluid grace of a man who had spent most of his life on a ship’s deck. The oddest thing about him was that he was almost always whistling. Except for when he was on deck at night, he would whistle native melodies. No one ever asked him why, and no one asked him to stop. Not only was he a formidable presence, but he had been handpicked by Darling.

Right now Hawke was standing outside the cargo door. He was wearing a radio headset. He was speaking with the three crew members who were inside the room. Kannaday offered Hawke a drag from his cigarette. Hawke declined with a single shake of his head.

“How is it going?” Kannaday asked.

“Mr. Gibbons says they’ll have the outer hull sufficiently repaired to get us safely to the cove,” Hawke told him.

“Good,” Kannaday replied. “Thank the lads for me. I’m going to report to the chief.”

Hawke did not respond. Kannaday had not expected him to. If something did not need to be said or indicated, Hawke did nothing.

Kannaday moved past him down the corridor. He shouldered by the security personnel who were returning from the munitions room to their cabin. The lab had been made from the forward port-side guest cabin. The radio room was assembled in the rear starboard guest cabin. In the center of the yacht was the saloon. Walls had been erected in the center of the dining area. The security team slept in hammocks slung in the port-side section. Kannaday’s crew slept in the starboard section. Kannaday’s own cabin was astern. Except for transfer times or emergencies, the security team remained below. To all outward appearances, the Hosannah was simply a pleasure yacht on charter.

Kannaday knocked on the door of the communications shack. Without waiting for a reply, he slipped his large frame through the small doorway of the windowless cabin. The rush of air from the belowdecks ventilation duct filled the room. The vent was located port side of a crawl space that ran the length of the yacht. That was where emergency supplies were kept. It was also where nonlethal contraband such as drugs or political refugees were kept.

The green-haired communications officer looked up from his cot. Marcus Darling was the chief’s twenty-five-year-old nephew. The heavyset young man had an advanced degree in electronics and the arrogance that comes from nepotism. Most of the time he lay here or on deck reading science fiction and fantasy novels or watching DVDs on his laptop. Occasionally, he took the flare guns from the compartment above his station and checked them. In case of an accident, he was in charge of all forms of rescue signaling. But what the kid really wanted to do was run one of the boss’s movie-special-effects facilities in Europe or the United States. Uncle Jervis told him that after he put in a year on the yacht, he would send Marcus wherever he wanted to go.

Marcus was the one who had built the Hosannah’s secure radio system three years before. At the time, the young man was still in college, and Jervis Darling was just beginning to plan this operation. Marcus had hacked a classified NATO web site to get a list of components the organization used in their field-communications setup. The heart of the system was a digital encryption module that could be interfaced with analog radios. Run through a personal computer, the DM continually modulated the frequencies while communicating the changes to a computer on the receiving end. It was virtually impossible to decrypt the communication without the computer software.

Marcus set aside the science fiction novel he was reading. He rose from the cot as Kannaday shut the door. The radio operator was on call all day, every day, and this was where he slept. The room was a tight squeeze with the radar equipment where the porthole used to be and the radio gear on the wall across from the cot. Kannaday backed against the door while Marcus moved toward the desk. It was actually a wide shelf built directly into the wall. The desk ran the length of the cabin. The young man eased into the canvas director’s chair in front of the radio.

“I didn’t hear any shooting this time, Peter,” Marcus said.

“We get things right on occasion,” Kannaday replied. He had long ago given up explaining himself or trying to get the kid to refer to him as Captain Kannaday. Fortunately, Marcus did not do it when other crew members were around. This was just the young man’s private dig.

“Don’t be modest,” Marcus said. “You and your crew get things right most of the time.”

“There’s a ‘but’ in your voice,” Kannaday said.

“You’ve good ears,” Marcus said. “The ‘but’ you hear is that Uncle Salty likes things to be right all of the time. He doesn’t like movies that flop, magazines that don’t make a profit, and real estate that loses value.”

Salty was the Australian media’s nickname for Jervis Darling. It was inspired by the big, stealthy saltwater crocodile of the Northern Territory. Kannaday had no idea whether Darling liked the epithet or not.

“This is a different kind of business,” Kannaday said. “There has to be leeway for the unexpected.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Marcus said as he activated the system. He picked up the headset and hung the earpiece around his left ear. “Unfortunately, we can’t really afford that leeway, can we?”

“What do you mean?”

“Failure can result in more than a financial loss for everyone concerned,” Marcus said.

As much as Kannaday disliked giving Marcus his due, the kid was right. Failure in this enterprise could result in death or the kind of jail term that would make death the preferred option. On the other hand, like all the men on board, Kannaday obviously felt that the risk was worth it. Kannaday was earning 75,000 dollars a week. His men were taking in 6,000 each. Darling put the money in an escrow account in the Cayman Islands. At the end of each two-year stint, the money would be theirs. They had six months to go on this leg. And they did not have to do any other kind of smuggling for this employer. No drugs, no guns, no terrorists. They already knew the handful of players in this game, so there were rarely personnel changes and very few surprises. The only thing that made no sense to Kannaday was what was in this for Jervis Darling. The captain did not understand why a multibillionaire would be interested in taking a risk of this magnitude.

Marcus contacted Jervis’s personal secretary, Andrew Graham. Andrew was at the Darling compound in Cairns. The secretary said he would transfer the call to Jervis Darling’s private line. Marcus handed Kannaday the headset. Kannaday placed the entire unit over his head. Marcus did not get up, so Kannaday leaned on the metal desk. He looked at the thermometer-like spectrometer on the wall in front of him. One cable ran from the base of the unit to Marcus’s computer. Another ran to a battery pack on the desk. The device ate up a lot of electricity, but they could not afford to be without it. This room adjoined the laboratory. If there were a leak, software in Marcus’s computer would notice a photopeak on its internal graph. That would cause an alarm to sound.

The connection would take about five seconds. They were five very long seconds. Kannaday drew hard on the cigarette. Most of the time, the sixty-two-year-old Darling was a soft-spoken man. But that was misleading. The Australian native could communicate more with a delay or with silence than most people could with speech. Darling had been very quiet when he was told about the explosion. He had told Kannaday simply to “take care of it.” The captain had been chilled by Darling’s monotone, by the way he pronounced “take” and “care” as distinct words instead of running them together. Hopefully, word of a successful transfer from Dahman’s ship would mollify him.

“Go ahead,” Andrew said.

“Sir, the transfer has been completed,” Kannaday said. They never used Darling’s name over the air. Unlikely though it was, there was always a chance that the signal could be intercepted and interpreted.

“All right,” Darling replied. “We will talk about this when you arrive . . . Captain.”

There was a click. Kannaday felt as though he had been punched hard in the gut. Darling had hung up. Kannaday had not expected absolution, but he had been hoping for neutrality. He did not get that. There had been a pause between “arrive” and “Captain.” Kannaday did not know whether that meant It was your responsibility to protect the ship, or Enjoy the title while it’s still yours. Kannaday removed the headset.

“Did Uncle Salty take a bite?” Marcus asked.

“Without even opening his bloody mouth,” Kannaday replied. He opened the door.

“Don’t worry,” Marcus said. “Maybe my uncle will let it go at that. If you don’t catch the first wave, often you won’t catch it at all. When I was a kid, I saw him do that on one of his movies. His star was scratching away at a part like she was chipping for gold. Three days into the shoot, the director was already six days behind schedule. Uncle Salty couldn’t yell at his big-name star, so he went after one of her wardrobe mistresses. He showed up on the set one morning and chewed her out for being slow. Chucked a micky, big time. Uncle Salty’s star worked a lot faster after that.”

“I’ll make sure to warn my dresser,” Kannaday said. “This is not a motion picture. Your uncle cannot afford to let things slide. He cannot write off a failure on his taxes.”

“That’s true,” Marcus said as he returned to his cot. He shrugged. “I was just trying to give you some hope. Forget I said anything.” Marcus picked up his novel and resumed reading.

Kannaday left the communications room. He should have known better than to engage in any kind of dialogue with Marcus. Not only did the kid like to tweak him, but Kannaday believed that Marcus and Hawke had something going. It was nothing he could pin down. It might not be anything more than simpatico. But every time Kannaday came upon them together, it looked as though the two men had just finished setting a bear trap. Hawke was typically implacable, but Marcus was always watchful, cautious, guarded.

Kannaday went to his small cabin in the aftermost section of the yacht. The hardwood floorboard creaked slightly. He shut the door and stared out the tiny rear porthole. He did not see the sea or the sky or the glare of the sun on the bulletproof glass. He was only aware of one thing: How would Darling react when they were face-to-face?

Kannaday knew too much about this operation for the magnate simply to dismiss him without the rest of his pay. Besides, Darling would have to get himself another boat. If he tried to take this one, the new captain of the Hosannah would have to explain what happened to the old captain. There would be an inquiry. Anyway, Kannaday did not believe that Darling would kill him. There were rumors about past activities of that sort, but Kannaday’s crew was not stupid. If something happened to Kannaday, they would not wait around. They would take the yacht to sea and lose themselves at the first crowded port. Kannaday also did not think Darling would risk the setup he had.

Of course, there might be larger issues for Darling to consider. Issues that might override these other concerns. Darling might feel as if he needed to teach an object lesson to the men on this or other operations. That accidents could not be tolerated.

That possibility worried Kannaday. There was only one way he could be sure it did not happen.

That was to strike first.

And Kannaday had an idea just how to do it.

NINE

The Celebes Sea Thursday, 12:33 P.M.

The cutter had proceeded northwest at seventeen knots. It reached the designated area quickly. Fortunately, the delay had not impacted Jaafar’s scheduled drop-off. International Spent Fuel Transport, a division of Dahman Waste Management, had clearance at the site for noon until three-thirty every two weeks. There were 112 visits to this site each year. The next ship would not visit here until the following morning. The International Nuclear Regulatory Commission assigned the slots so that each ship would have a comfortable window for getting in and out of the area. The time slots were created to minimize the chance of collisions. And if an accident occurred on one ship, it would not threaten the crew of another.

Jaafar watched from the bridge as his crew worked the winch on the forward section of the cutter. The eight crewmen all wore radiation suits. They worked slowly and carefully as the fifty-foot crane removed a concrete block from the forward hold.

The block weighed three tons and was roughly the size of a compact automobile. It was designed to contain just three ten-gallon drums of waste. Each radioactive rod was sealed inside a mixture of absorbent lithium chloride, potassium chloride, and alkali metal chloride salts. These were packaged inside cesium metal containers within reinforced ceramic and steel drums. Once the concrete block was in the water, it would be lowered slowly to a ledge feet below. A fiber-optic camera on the line would guide the winch operator. He would take care not to nick or damage any other block while placing his. Each week, the INRC sailed through this region to make certain none of the blocks were leaking.

This area of the Celebes Sea was one of twelve oceanic regions where the INRC permitted radioactive waste to be deposited. The seabed here was geologically stable, and fishermen did not regularly sail these waters. Any leaks would not have a high impact on any peoples or economy. Of course, security was a relative state of mind. The waste would be highly radioactive for ten thousand years. But it had to be disposed of and, for now, this was one of the best places for that. Especially since scientists were discovering that even the strongest containers buried on land were subject to erosion from microbacteria. Many of these organisms had been buried in volcanic flows millions of years ago and remained dormant inside the rocks. Just a whisper of radiation from materials such as cobalt 60 caused them to be revived and eat through rock and metal.

The olive-skinned, black-bearded Jaafar watched with pride as his men went about their task. The thirty-seven-year-old had worked closely with the physicists hired by Mahathir bin Dahman. They had designed a safe and efficient process for off-loading waste. The walls of the bridge were decorated with documents from the INRC commending the Dahman operation.

Jaafar remained at his post until the operation was completed. He radioed the home office in Kuala Lumpur to tell them that everything had been successful. Then he went below to thank the crew and have lunch.

And to enjoy, as always, one delicious snack.

The irony of those INRC citations.

TEN

Darwin, Australia Thursday, 12:05 P.M.

Royal Darwin Hospital is one of the finest, most modern facilities in Australia. A ten-story white structure, it has a unique mission. Because the population it serves lives across a vast region, with varied racial backgrounds and difficult climatic conditions, the hospital must be ready to deal with almost any kind of illness or injury.

Medically, they were ready for Lee Tong. Psychologically, no one was ready for him. Or what he brought to Australia.

The staff car rolled up to the front entrance of the hospital. As it did, an officer stepped from the lobby. He was a big man with hair the color of straw. Coffey was not up on his Royal Australian Navy chevrons, but this man had the carriage of a high-ranking officer. The driver ran around and opened Coffey’s door. The petty officer saluted as the other man approached the car.

“Mr. Coffey, I’m George Jelbart,” the man said in a very thick Australian accent.

“Good afternoon, sir,” Coffey said.

“Thank you for coming,” Jelbart went on. “I hope the ride was not too uncomfortable.”

“It was fine, except for the curiosity burning a hole in my head,” Coffey replied.

“Please forgive the secrecy,” Jelbart said. “You’ll understand why that was necessary.”

“I’m sure,” Coffey said. “Thing is, I hate calling my boss and telling him that I don’t know why I’m going someplace. It looks bad, us being an intelligence agency and all.”

“I understand. Again, you’ll see why it was necessary.”

The men entered the hospital lobby. They walked past the casualty area toward the elevators, and went up to the fifth floor. There, toward the end of an L-shaped corridor, two leading seamen stood at ease on either side of a door. They each wore a sextant patch on their sleeve. When Coffey asked, Jelbart told him that the badge was from the navy’s hydrographic survey branch. Both men wore handguns and no-nonsense expressions.

Hydrographic survey and maritime intelligence, Coffey thought. Science and counterespionage were working together on this. That reinforced what he had been thinking all along. He only hoped that the situation was not as bad as he imagined.

The men saluted as Warrant Officer Jelbart arrived. He returned the salute as he opened the door. Directly inside was a lead screen made up of three vertical panels. It was similar to the ones Coffey had seen in X-ray laboratories. The screen did not surprise him, but it did sadden him. A human being was lying on the other side of the screen.

There was a small window in the center. Jelbart gestured for Coffey to look through. The attorney stepped up and studied the patient in the bed. He was a dark-skinned, muscular-looking man with an intravenous needle in his arm and an oxygen mask on the lower half of his face. There were bandages over his bare chest, shoulders, arms, and portions of his face and scalp. Several monitors were hooked to his arms and temples.

“We think he’s from Singapore,” Jelbart said.

“Why?” Coffey asked.

“It’s his general physiognomy,” Jelbart told him. “Also, he’s wearing clothes usually worn by dockworkers at Keppel Harbor. His shark and anchor tattoos look like the designs they do there as well. At least, the portions that weren’t burned away.”

“I see,” Coffey said. “How did he get here?”

“He was picked up by an RAN patrol boat,” Jelbart said. “They found him clinging to a few planks from what may have been a sampan. That’s what the wood and curve of the wood suggested. He had third-degree burns over twenty percent of his body and a bullet hole in each leg. Ironically, the burns cauterized the wounds. Otherwise, he would probably have bled to death. He was out there for eight or nine hours before they found him.”

“He’s lucky they found him at all,” Coffey said.

“Lucky is a relative term,” Jelbart said.

“How so?”

“Our patrol boats are equipped with radiation detectors,” Jelbart went on. “They watch for anyone who might be trying to smuggle nuclear weapons through the region. They got a reading from our friend.”

“From him or from the wreckage?” Coffey asked.

“Both,” Jelbart replied. “The doctors don’t think he received a lethal dosage. There are tests, of course, though I understand the best sign will be if he actually wakes up. I’m told you know Brian Ellsworth.”

“Yes.”

“He is downstairs in the morgue with some local security officials and the wreckage,” Jelbart told him. “We bathed the victim, but we don’t want to clean up the planks until they’ve been analyzed.”

“So you’re keeping it isolated,” Coffey said.

Jelbart nodded.

“Has anyone contacted the authorities in Singapore?” Coffey asked.

“Yes,” Jelbart replied. “We’re hoping they can help to identify this individual.”

“But he will be too sick to transport back to Singapore,” Coffey said knowingly.

“That happens to be true,” Jelbart told him. He faced Coffey. His voice was barely above a whisper now. “But you’re right, Mr. Coffey. We don’t want him leaving here just yet. If this man was involved in the transport of nuclear materials, we don’t know who else in Singapore might be involved. It could be members of the government, the military, or private industry. We don’t want anything to happen to him until we can question him.”

“You know that you can’t hold this man if he asks to be released,” Coffey said. “He was found in international waters and committed no crimes that you’re aware of. For all you know, he was a victim.”

“I understand that,” Jelbart said. “Now let’s talk about reality. This region is the world’s best-traveled route for nuclear traffic. Your government has been at war with potential nuclear terrorists here and in Africa and the Middle East. But it’s been on our shoulders to try to stop the goods in transit. That’s not easy. Without trace radiation or known perpetrators, we have no right to board ships in the open sea. The coastline is another problem. Watching that eats up a lot of time and resources. I don’t know what we’re going to find out about this man. Air and sea patrols are searching the region where he was found. They’re looking for more of the wreckage. So far, nothing has turned up. A few extra hours in the water may have diluted the radiation and the wreckage sufficiently to make detection difficult.”

“What about other vessels that may have been in the region?” Coffey asked.

“We’re checking charters, radio transmissions, even cellular phone calls that were made before dawn,” Jelbart said. “According to the doctor, the victim was injured about four or five A.M. Perhaps another vessel saw or heard something. But then, we assume they would have reported it.”

Coffey nodded. “Of course, if there was something illegal going on, this man’s shipmates would have steered away from other vessels,” he said.

“Most likely,” Jelbart agreed. “There’s one other scenario we have to consider. The accident occurred near the Ryder Ridge, a region for nuclear waste disposal. It’s remotely possible this man and his shipmates were trying to salvage some of that material.”

“In a sampan?” Coffey asked.

“I said ‘remotely possible,’ not ‘likely,’ ” Jelbart pointed out. “Which brings me back to what I believe is the case. That they were transporting nuclear material in some form and were attacked. Maybe it was a deal gone wrong. Maybe they pushed their engine and it overheated. But we need to find out more, which means holding this man until such time as he can speak to us.”

Coffey looked at the unconscious victim. “What are you asking me to do? Ignore his rights?”

“Involving you was Mr. Ellsworth’s idea,” Jelbart said. “I don’t know what he wants you to do. But I’m telling you, Mr. Coffey, this has me scared. We have in the past intercepted troublesome cargo. Components for nuclear weapons. Fake passports for the transit of rogue nuclear scientists. Plans of nuclear power plants here and abroad, including the routes they use for the transportation of spent fuel. But this is the first time we have encountered clear evidence of radioactive materials close to our shores.”

“The point is, you did find it,” Coffey said.

“By luck.”

“Nonetheless, you know where to look now,” Coffey said. “By examining the wreckage, you may even know what to look for. What kind of ship, where it came from. This man may not know anything. You can’t treat him as if he’s a terror mastermind.”

“Sir, we can’t afford to treat him as if he isn’t,” Jelbart replied. “Do you want to know what I’m asking you to do, Mr. Coffey? I am asking you to consider the rights of the twenty million people living in Australia and the countless millions living around the globe. I’m asking you to consider their right to live lives free of nuclear terrorism.”

“People should live free from any form of terrorism,” Coffey said. He nodded toward the man in the bed. “That includes state-sanctioned terrorism, physical or psychological.”

“No one is going to hurt him,” Jelbart said. “Which is something else you should consider. Whatever treatment this man receives while he is our guest will be preferable to what they would do to him in Singapore. If the government wants information, they will beat or drug him to get it. If someone wants to silence him, they will do that, too.” Jelbart looked at his watch. “I told Mr. Ellsworth I would bring you to him. I suggest we go downstairs now. The representative from Singapore is also due any moment.”

The men returned to the elevator.

Coffey was torn. In theory, he could disagree with nothing the warrant officer had said. In practice, he could not shake a quote by Calvin Coolidge that he had memorized. It was commemorated in a plaque in one of the lecture halls at the UCLA School of Law where Coffey had been a student. It said, “Men speak of natural rights, but I challenge anyone to show where in nature any rights existed or were recognized until there was established for their declaration and protection a duly promulgated body of corresponding laws.”

Jelbart was wrong. Bend the law, and the rights of all people suffered.

But then, Coffey was a good lawyer. As such, he could not help but wonder if there was a loophole in this instance. Nuclear terrorism, even the threat of it, removed part of what made him want to protect this man.

It took the word human from human rights.

ELEVEN

Darwin, Australia Thursday, 12:17 P.M.

The RAN Iroquois helicopter carrying Female Naval Defence Technical Officer Monica Loh of COSCOM, the Coastal Command of the Republic of Singapore Navy, landed on the helipad at the Royal Darwin Hospital. The pad was typically used by the Rescue Birds—helicopters that brought patients from the regions surrounding Darwin. Formerly an officer with the Explosive Ordnance Disposal Group, the five-foot-seven-inch Loh walked several paces ahead of the two shorter male Naval Defence technicians who had accompanied her. The vessel to which Loh was attached, a 360-ton mine countermeasure vessel, was still at sea. Warrant Officer George Jelbart had dispatched the helicopter to get Major Loh to the Darwin hospital as quickly as possible.

Brian Ellsworth had sent a scanned photograph and fingerprints of an injured seaman to the Police Coast Guard at the Tanjong Pagar Complex in Singapore. Ellsworth had wanted any information the PCG might have on this individual. He was Lee Tong, a registered former seaman on the Lord of the Ocean container ship. The PCG wanted to know why Ellsworth needed this information. He told them, at the same time inviting someone from COSCOM to join the investigation. Since FNO Loh had experience in that area of the sea, as well as with explosive devices, she was sent to Darwin. The last time she had been involved with Australian officials was three years before. That was when the two nations had joined with Malaysian authorities to raid a warehouse on the Malaysian coast. They broke up a DVD pirating ring that the Australian Film and Video Security Office said was costing Hollywood producers over twenty-five million dollars a year in lost revenue.

Everyone wants to be in show business, she thought bitterly at the time. To carry out the raid, Loh’s superiors had pulled her off a coinvestigation with the Home Affairs Ministry involving Lebanon’s Hezbollah guerrilla group recruiting Singaporean Muslims. These individuals were being used to spy on the American and Israeli embassies in Singapore. Fortunately, the Singaporean Muslims decided the risk was not worth the rewards. They quit the Lebanese terror unit before carrying out their mission.

Loh and her two aides were met by a pair of RAN leading seamen and escorted to the back of the hospital. They were informed that a service elevator would take them to where the “items” were being stored.

It felt strange to be on land. Loh was used to the rocking of the MCMV, where she spent much of her time. Even the helicopter had felt more comfortable than solid, unmoving asphalt. It was also unusual for Loh to be in the sunshine. While the bulk of the twenty-eight-person crew searched for mines, she conducted signal intelligence operations in a segregated area of the ship. She listened for communiqués that might suggest smuggling operations. If she detected anything unusual, the appropriate police or military unit was sent to investigate.

The fact that just the opposite was happening here did not surprise her. The thirty-four-year-old Loh did not share the viewpoint of many of her fellow female naval officers. They regarded the RSN nomenclature as dismissive, since male naval officers were simply referred to as naval officers. Loh did not agree. She sincerely believed that men had created the distinction for a reason. So that they would have somewhere to turn when things got difficult. Like now. Loh’s father, Vendesan, was an officer with Singapore’s Criminal Investigation Department. His specialty was gathering intelligence on the powerful secret societies that ran the nation’s gambling, prostitution, and drug rings. Her father was very smart. But whenever Vendesan was baffled, he discussed the situation with his wife. Monica would often lie in bed, listening to their conversations. Her mother, Nurdiyana, was a schoolteacher. More often than not, the woman would have sensible solutions to her husband’s problems. It was the same with the FNOs. When roaring and mane shaking failed, the RSN lions sent in the smarter, cagier lionesses.

Not that Loh’s father was like that. He respected women. And he respected intellect. Chinese, Malay, Tamil, and English were all official languages in Singapore. He spoke them all. At his insistence, Loh had learned them in school. He himself had taught her Japanese.

“Arms can subdue, but often at great cost,” her father had once told her. “But languages can infiltrate and control. If used correctly, they give you power over groups and individuals.”

Her father had been proof of that. He had survived forty-five years with the CID before retiring.

The Singaporeans and their escorts entered the spacious elevator and rode down three floors. The doors opened on a metal desk with a security guard seated behind it. A senior member of the Darwin Police Force was standing beside him. The officer tipped his hat to Loh as she walked past. If she were out of uniform, she would have found that sweet. In uniform, it made her uncomfortable. She would have preferred a salute. They walked a few steps to the morgue. The hospital guard buzzed them in. The two leading seamen did not enter.

The morgue was about twenty by twenty feet. There were refrigerated cabinets with stainless steel doors on the left-hand side. On the right side were shelves with chemicals, tools, and electronic equipment. There were two doors in the rear. In the center of the room was a row of gurneys. Dark aprons covered several of them. Loh assumed that these were lead-lined and that the remains of the boat were beneath them.

There were four other people in the brightly lit room. One of them walked over briskly and introduced himself. He was Brian Ellsworth, a short, rotund, balding man. Dressed in a black three-piece suit, the pale official looked as though he were dressed for his own funeral. Ellsworth introduced Warrant Officer George Jelbart, attorney Lowell Coffey III of the National Crisis Management Center in Washington, D.C., and Dr. Maud Forvey, a physicist at the Northern Territory University.

Loh introduced herself and her two aides.

“I want to thank you all for coming,” Ellsworth said. “Frankly, we aren’t sure precisely what we’ve stumbled upon. We hope you can help.”

“You received the data from the Police Coast Guard,” Loh said.

“Yes. We did, just now, thank you,” Ellsworth said. “We have people checking to see if there is additional information about Mr. Tong.”

“I would like to visit him,” Loh said.

“We’ll take you to his room in a minute,” Ellsworth said. “First, if you don’t mind, we’d like to know if there is anything you can tell us about the wreckage. We understand you’ve been at sea for ten years.”

“That’s right,” she said.

“Mr. Jelbart believes it’s from a sampan, but we aren’t certain,” Ellsworth said. “By the way, Dr. Forvey has checked the flotsam for radioactivity. It is extremely low level, perfectly safe for a brief exposure. Just don’t handle any of the pieces without the proper attire.”

Loh walked over to the gurneys. Dr. Forvey put on thick yellow gloves. She raised the end of one of the lead covers. The Singaporean officer looked at the charred pieces of planking.

“That’s Foochow pine,” she said.

“Are you certain?” Ellsworth asked.

“Absolutely. The Chinese use it to make mu-chi sampans.”

“Do you ever see these in Singapore?” Warrant Officer Jelbart asked.

“Occasionally,” Loh said. “They’re mostly used for river travel.”

“Why is that?” Ellsworth asked.

“The mu-chi sampans have a very low profile and can pass easily under most bridges,” Loh informed him.

“Are they motorized?” Jelbart asked.

“They can be,” she replied.

“Obviously this one was,” Ellsworth said. “The question is, why take one of them to the middle of the Celebes Sea at night?”

“Piracy,” Loh replied. “That’s what sampans are used for in the South China Sea.”

“That would make sense,” Jelbart said. “The low profile would make it extremely difficult to spot on the horizon and difficult to pick up on radar. If they waited for nightfall, they could quietly oar their way to a ship.”

“That’s exactly what they do,” Loh told him.

“What about using the sampans for smuggling?” Ellsworth asked.

“That is uncommon,” Loh said. “There is not a lot of storage capability. They would not be very efficient when weighted down. Doctor, could you raise the apron a little higher?”

Dr. Forvey did so. Loh examined the wreckage for a long moment.

“There is something else,” Loh said. “I don’t believe that the explosion of a diesel engine caused this wreckage.”

“How can you tell?” Ellsworth asked.

“The engine would have been located in the rear,” she said. “The curve of these planks suggests they came from the front section. Something would have had to explode close to the planks to do this kind of damage. Also, the foxing along the sides of the wood is unusual. Petrol explosions produce sharp, splintering cracks. This wood was pulverized.”

“Suggesting what?” Jelbart asked.

“That a powerful explosive device was on board,” Loh said. “There have been reports over the last few years about a band of pirates who place explosives on the hulls of ships. The pirates threaten to destroy the vessels unless they turn over their cargo.”

“Do we know anything about these pirates?” Jelbart asked.

“No,” Loh replied. “They always attacked in the dark and stayed out of range when making their demands. Any hostages they took were hooded or killed. It is conceivable they could have used a sampan for these attacks.”

“How did they collect their plunder?” Jelbart asked.

“The cash and jewelry were put in a dinghy or sometimes a bag, which one of the pirates would swim over to collect,” Loh replied.

“That would not have been a convenient way to move nuclear materials around,” Dr. Forvey noted. Carefully, she lay the heavy apron back across the battered pieces of wood.

“That assumes this was the same group of pirates,” Coffey said.

“The only way we’re going to find that out is by talking to the survivor,” Loh said. “I would like to do that as soon as possible.”

“He’s unconscious,” Ellsworth told her.

“Then we’ll have to wake him,” Loh replied.

“Officer Loh, that’s something we will have to discuss with his doctors,” Ellsworth said.

Loh glared at him. “You can discuss it with his doctors,” she suggested firmly. “I am here to find out why a sampan and one of its operators were exposed to radiation.”

“We can try to do both,” Coffey suggested diplomatically.

Loh turned and walked toward the door. There was nothing to hunt down here.

The lioness was moving on.

TWELVE

The Celebes Sea Thursday, 1:08 P.M.

The yacht was about to cross south into the Molucca Sea when Captain Kannaday summoned John Hawke to his cabin. Fifteen minutes later, the security chief knocked and entered.

Kannaday was seated at a small rolltop desk against the port-side wall. It was an eighteenth-century piece. There were laminated charts marked with grease pencil and a laptop with nautical data. When Kannaday sat here, it made him feel like the captain of an old-time frigate or whaling ship. How many of those men also dealt in contraband? he often wondered. Back then it would have been slaves and arms and opium.

Hawke shut the narrow door behind him. The bright light from the porthole moved with the slow sway of the he pryacht. One moment the sun shone brightly on the officer’s long face. The next moment he was in sharpedged darkness. Hawke did not blink in the direct light of the sun. He removed his headset and hung it over his shoulder.

There was a deck chair beside the bed. Kannaday did not invite him to sit. The captain swiveled his own chair toward the newcomer.

“You took your time getting here,” Kannaday said.

“I was busy with the repairs,” Hawke replied.

The man had a voice like sea spray. It was soft and feathery, a combination of his mother’s drawling Aborigine accent and his father’s lyrical Canadian inflection. Considering the setback they had suffered, it was also disturbingly confident and untroubled.

“What is the status of the lab?” Kannaday asked.

“The hole has been welded shut,” Hawke replied. “The area is free of leakage.”

“Leakage of seawater or radiation?” Kannaday asked.

“Both,” Hawke replied. “However, damage to the processing equipment has been extensive.”

“Are you saying the materials cannot be processed by the time we reach Cairns?” Kannaday said.

“That is correct,” Hawke informed him. He waited a moment, then asked, “Is there anything else?”

“Yes. You don’t seem very upset,” Kannaday said.

“I cannot change what is,” Hawke said.

“The chief did not want us ever coming into port with the cargo,” Kannaday reminded him.

“The only other option is to dump the drums,” Hawke said. “We have already radioed ahead for new equipment. It will be waiting at the compound when we arrive. We will sail in, collect the gear, then sail out.”

“Are you certain there are no other options?” Kannaday demanded. “Nothing we can jury-rig?”

“The destruction was extensive. You can get a radiation suit and go to the laboratory and look for yourself.” Hawke removed the headset from his shoulder. He held it forward. “Or you can ring Dr. Mett and ask him.”

“I’m asking you,” Kannaday said.

“Asking? It sounds as if you are accusing me,” Hawke said.

“Perhaps you’re feeling guilty,” Captain Kannaday said. “What is the problem, exactly?

Hawke’s unhappy gray eyes were fixed on the captain. He replaced the headset. “Even crude reprocessing requires nitric acid to dissolve the spent elements,” Hawke replied. “All of our containers were shattered in the explosion. We also need a functioning centrifuge to separate the remaining materials into daughter products. The blast dented the swing arms. They will not turn correctly. Our partner is expecting three pounds of enriched uranium in pellet form. Three hundred and fifty pellets, roughly. If we cannot distill the material, we cannot turn it over to our partner, nor he to his clients.” Hawke paused. He was beginning to seem restless, annoyed. “I feel obligated to add, Captain, that the crew feels we are lucky to still be afloat.”

“I agree, Mr. Hawke. And I don’t much care for luck,” Kannaday said.

“We took every reasonable precaution,” Hawke pointed out.

“Apparently not,” Kannaday said. “Our hull was breached.”

“Once again, did you order me here to take some of my skin off?” Hawke asked.

“No, Mr. Hawke,” Kannaday replied. “The truth is, I asked you here for something else. I’d like your resignation as head of security.”

The shifting light fell full upon Hawke’s face. After a few moments, his expression changed. He no longer appeared to be impatient. He seemed almost amused by Kannaday’s pronouncement.

“You expect me to fall on my sword for what happened?” Hawke asked.

“Those are your words, not mine,” Kannaday said.

“But that’s what you’re asking.”

“We were unprepared. The men who attacked us were not novices,” Kannaday said. “There must have been reports of previous raids.”

“Quite possibly,” Hawke agreed. The amusement vanished as swiftly as it had come. He was growing angry now. “But whenever our computer boys hack about for classified information, they risk leaving a trail. Every time we pay someone to look up police records on a particular sea lane or harbor, we bring someone else into our circle. It is more efficient and ultimately more secure to deal with a rogue or two if and when they show up.”

“That’s an excuse, not an answer,” Kannaday replied. “I want your resignation.”

“And if I choose not to give it?”

“Then you will be dismissed,” Kannaday said.

“With or without the chief’s approval?” Hawke asked.

“When we sail into the cove with those drums of raw nuclear waste on board, the chief will not dispute what I have done.”

“Are you so sure, Captain?” Hawke walked forward. “I work for him, not for you.”

“The chief dislikes failure,” Kannaday said. “He’ll back me.”

“Because you’re the captain?” Hawke pressed.

“Because I’m looking out for his interests,” Kannaday replied.

“I see. This decision has nothing to do with your being a full-blood?” Hawke demanded.

“That’s irrelevant,” Kannaday said.

“Because you say so?” Hawke asked.

“Because it’s true!” Kannaday replied. “I have never judged you by your background.”

“But when you have your audience with the chief, you will tell him that I was inattentive and uncooperative,” Hawke said. “White shorthand. Those are the usual charges against native Australians. You might even get him to believe you. He has never been a friend to Aboriginals or their issue.”

“Your background has nothing to do with my decision,” Kannaday insisted. “You failed in your responsibility. That is not something we can afford. You will be paid for the work you have done thus far. That’s a considerable sum, I should add. With a resignation, you can run security for another operation. This won’t affect your career.”

Hawke drew the wommera from his sash. The four-inch-long darts were in a closed canvas sack that hung beside it. Kannaday was not concerned. There was not enough room to use them in here. And the stick was neither solid nor thick enough to use as a club.

“I refuse to resign,” Hawke said. There was steel in his jawline, in his voice. “Now. How will you enforce your decision?”

“I have weapons, too,” Kannaday said. “And I have the men to use them. More men than you have.”

“You have sailors,” Hawke said. “I have killers.”

“Half of them are Aboriginal and half of them are white,” Kannaday said. “How do you know they won’t turn against each other in a showdown?”

“My people are loyal to me,” Hawke said.

“Your people? Your killers still work for the chief, and they will want to get paid,” Kannaday assured him. “Now get out. I have to inform the Indonesians that we will not be making the rendezvous in the morning. Then I’m going to turn over security operations to one of my people, Mr. Henrickson. You may have free run of the ship as long as you agree not to work any mischief.”

“I will not resign,” Hawke said.

“Then you are dismissed,” Kannaday said. He glanced at the wommera as he rose. “And if you’re thinking of taking me on personally, I’ve tangled with monkeys like you my whole life. Up and down the islands, in bars and down alleys, on and off board ship.”

“Monkeys,” Hawke said contemptuously.

“Yes,” Kannaday said. “Annoying little creatures. Now leave before I throw you out.”

“Like trash,” Hawke said.

Kannaday had had enough of this. Everyone felt oppressed these days. He reached for the security chief’s shoulders. As he did, Hawke jerked the wommera as though he were cocking a shotgun. The top quarter of the stick flew off. Beneath it was a scalpel-sharp five-inch steel blade. Hawke thrust the slender knife forward. He pressed it into the soft flesh just below Kannaday’s larynx. The blade was pointed up. Hawke forced Kannaday to the balls of his feet. Kannaday had not known the wommera had a concealed blade. He felt stupid. That was worse than feeling helpless.

“Don’t ever assault me,” Hawke said. “I’m not your dog . . . or monkey.”

Kannaday said nothing. At moments like these it was best to listen. That provided information as well as time.

“Maybe you’re telling the truth,” Hawke went on. “Maybe you hate me for myself, not for my background. Or maybe you were just protecting your ass like you’ve done before. For your information, I did conduct research before signing on. I looked up your personal history. I know about the lawsuit your former partner Mr. March filed when you stole this ship by changing national registries. He could not get you into court because he could not find you. I know about the counterfeiters you betrayed in Auckland to save yourself from a smuggling charge, and I know about the wife you abandoned in Sydney. The chief needed someone to run this route, and you were the perfect bastard. But I knew it would be wrong to trust you too far.”

Hawke leaned into the wommera. The captain felt a pinch at his throat. He backed against the rolltop desk. Hawke followed him. Thick drops of blood fell slowly onto Kannaday’s trousers. The captain had anticipated that Hawke might attack him. He kept a .45 in his desk drawer for protection. But he was up against the drawer and could not reach it.

“You asked why I was late just now,” Hawke said. “I was speaking with my men. They may be mixed, Mr. Kannaday, but they understand loyalty. They also understand necessity. If they cannot trust their fellows under fire, they will not survive. So here is my proposal. I will allow you to keep your ship and your command. If the chief dismisses you, we will refuse to sail with anyone else. He will not want to lose us both.” Hawke moved in closer. He did not press the blade further. “We can all ride out this unfortunate incident. The key to your personal survival, Captain, is not to find a goat. It is to be allied with a hawk. Someone who can watch over you.”

“You have a sword at my throat,” Kannaday rasped. “You haven’t left me any options.”

“Did you leave me any?” Hawke demanded. “How does it feel?”

The blood was running thicker now. Kannaday thought about trying to grab the shaft.

Hawke seemed to read the captain’s mind.

“Think this through,” Hawke warned. “No one needs to know about our exchange,” Hawke told the captain. “When you see the chief, you can tell him you were injured in battle. He may even respect you more for it. I will tell my men that you never threatened me. I will say that we simply agreed on what you would tell the chief. You can wear a turtleneck to conceal the wound.”

“I see. And we just go on as we were,” Kannaday said.

“We do,” Hawke replied. “You don’t have to like me or our arrangement. But this is what necessity demands. You will live with it.”

Hawke backed away. He relaxed the blade slightly. A moment later he removed it entirely. That was intended, no doubt, to be a show of trust. Or perhaps of confidence. The two were often related.

Kannaday removed a handkerchief from his pocket. He dabbed it against the shallow wound. He stepped away from the rolltop desk. The captain could reach the .45 now. Hawke had attacked him. Kannaday had the wound to prove it. And the weapon.

The sheath of the wommera was attached by a slender leather thong. Hawke replaced the cap and returned the weapon to his belt. Then he turned away and walked slowly toward the door.

Kannaday could easily reach the gun. Hawke obviously knew that, too. He had to suspect that the captain kept a weapon in his quarters. But to stop Hawke now would mean shooting him from behind. To kill him that way would probably cause even his own sailors to turn on him. They would understand discipline and self-defense but not cowardice.

Hawke paused by the door. He turned back and faced the captain full. “Is there anything further you wanted?”

“No,” Kannaday replied.

Hawke lingered a moment longer. Then he reached behind him, twisted the knob, and left the room.

Kannaday’s shoulders dropped. He had not realized how tense he was until they did. He checked the handkerchief and saw that it was thickly stained with blood. He pressed it back in place and went to get a first-aid kit. He kept one in the locker at the foot of his bed, along with his private store of scotch. As soon as he patched the cut, he would open the bottle.

Kannaday was shaken. The captain was also angry at himself for underestimating Hawke. The man had poise. And courage. And a purpose: To end this encounter leaving Kannaday feeling something less than a captain. And a man.

Kannaday sat on the bed to clean and bandage the wound. He gazed into the mirror on the inside of the lid. The gash was a quarter inch long and bleeding slower now. But it went deep. Right down to his dignity.

As Kannaday uncapped the antiseptic cream, he reasoned that he had not come from this empty-handed. If he had not confronted Hawke, there was no guarantee the man would have stood by him. Still, Kannaday promised himself this much. If John Hawke failed to back him up with Jervis Darling, honor and pride would not save him. Kannaday would take him down anywhere and any way he could.

Even if that meant shooting him in the back.

THIRTEEN

Washington, D.C. Thursday, 11:09 P.M.

“I feel like I’m in Oz,” Coffey said into his cell phone.

“You are,” Hood reminded him.

“I mean the other one, the Emerald City one,” Coffey replied. “The one where an out-of-towner walks around with a strange collection of personalities, looking for something that’s really tough to find.”

Hood was alone in his office. Bob Herbert and Mike Rodgers had just gone home, but their teams were still looking for intelligence. They were seeking any leads about radioactive materials missing or currently being trafficked through the region. They had not yet turned up anything new or relevant. As Herbert had reported before leaving, governments or components thereof were often involved in this trade. Unlike individuals, nations like China and the Ukraine were very good at covering their activities.

“I’m standing down the hall from the pirate’s hospital room,” Coffey went on. “Three people just went inside. One was Brian Ellsworth. You can read about him in my files. The other two are Warrant Officer George Jelbart of the MIC and Female Naval Defence Technical Officer Monica Loh of the Singaporean Coastal Command.”

Hood entered the names on his computer as Coffey spelled them. He forwarded the information to Bob Herbert. Hood knew that the designation female had been part of the title in Singapore for decades. The military services were fully integrated, and discrimination was not permitted. Nonetheless, high command liked to keep their combat unit leaders weighted toward men. This was an easy way to keep track of the balance.

“Is the patient conscious?” Hood asked.

“No, which is why I didn’t go in with them,” Coffey said. “Ellsworth said they’d notify me if he came around. Meanwhile, I’m using the secure phone I borrowed from Jelbart. Switch to code DPR1P.”

“Hold on,” Hood said.

He entered the code for AMIC into his desk unit. Op-Center telephones were preprogrammed to decrypt calls from over two hundred allied intelligence services around the world. The Australian Maritime Intelligence Centre was one of these. The only thing required to secure the line was an access code for the individual AMIC phone.

“Done,” Hood said. “So what do you make of all this?”

“I honestly don’t know yet,” Coffey admitted. “The wreckage is definitely that of a sampan, and it is definitely radioactive. It was probably destroyed by explosions that occurred on the sampan itself. Apparently, pirates have been working the Celebes Sea sporadically for years. They use explosives to hold crews hostage while the vessels are robbed.”

“So this could have been a premature detonation,” Hood said.

“It’s possible,” Coffey agreed.

“But that doesn’t explain the radioactivity,” Hood added.

“Exactly. As far as anyone knows, these pirates have never dealt in nuclear material. That’s making everyone around here pretty jumpy.”

“Why?” Hood asked. “Nuclear trafficking has been going on for years in the region. The MIC knows that.”

“They also know that there isn’t much they can do about it,” Coffey said quietly. “If word gets out about this, there will be pressure to do something. Only no one knows what, exactly. It’s the same problem the United States has faced for years. How do you monitor every point of access? It’s tough enough catching drug shipments. Radioactive materials are even more difficult.”

Coffey was right. There was not much that anyone could do about it. A terrorist could use a lead-lined fountain pen or pocket watch or even a rabbit’s foot on a key chain to slip plutonium into a country. Just a few grams of weapons-grade material would be enough to kill thousands of people or contaminate tens of thousands of gallons of water.

“Has the press been all over this?” Hood asked.

“Not yet. The government is trying to keep this as quiet as possible,” Coffey said. “Patients and visitors are being kept away from the man’s room, but this is a big hospital. Someone is certain to hear that something unusual happened. The game plan is to deny that anything hot was involved.”

“Is there anything else we can do?” Hood asked.

“I’ll let you know,” Coffey replied. “Right now it looks as though someone’s motioning for me. I think they want me in the room. Paul, I’ll call you back when I can.”

“I’ll be here another hour or so,” Hood said. “Then you can get me on the cell or at the apartment.”

“Very good,” Coffey said and hung up.

Hood placed the phone in the cradle. He sat back and thought about what was happening on the other side of the world. It was strange how events like this caused the globe to shrink. Conceivably, what Coffey and the others were dealing with could impact the United States within hours. Nuclear material could be transported clandestinely by sea and then loaded onto an aircraft anywhere in the region. The plane could be flown to a small airfield in Washington or New York or Los Angeles. A small amount of nuclear material could be walked into the terminal and left in a waste can. Or dropped on the floor under a bench. The human toll would be extraordinary. A larger amount of nuclear matter could be attached to a makeshift explosive. Perhaps homemade plastique or cans of spray paint triggered by a car flare. The human toll of the dirty bomb would be unthinkable.

All of that could be in progress right now, Hood thought. The realization came with a keen sense of helplessness.

There were always crises. That was why Op-Center had been chartered. They were the National Crisis Management Center. But the personality of these disasters had changed over the years. The speed, the scope, and the frequency of them were terrifying. And though more resources were being applied to combat them, those resources targeted existing patterns and likely perpetrators. A methodology had not yet been created to anticipate what Bob Herbert called “kamikaze genocide”—the piecemeal extermination of Westerners by suicide attacks.

Several years ago, when Op-Center was combating neo-Nazis, Herbert said something that had stayed with Hood.

“When the brain doesn’t have enough information, only your gut can tell you what to do,” the intelligence chief said. “Fortunately, since some depraved sons of bitches blew up my wife and my legs, my gut has been able to digest some pretty sick thoughts.”

Hood suddenly felt energized. He and his team would figure this out. They would figure out everything that came along. Every deviant variation, every monster. They had to. It was necessity but also something more.

It was stubborn, blessed American pride.

FOURTEEN

Darwin, Australia Friday, 12:47 P.M.

“Madam, we are not going to inject the patient with anything!”

The speaker was a man in a white tunic. Probably the attending physician. He was standing in a tight circle with Ellsworth, Loh, and Jelbart. Ellsworth was the one who had motioned Coffey over. The man’s strident voice was the first thing Lowell Coffey heard as he approached the closed door.

“Doctor,” said Loh, “we have a situation that needs to be resolved as swiftly as possible—”

“And I have a patient who needs rest,” he interrupted.

“You have one patient now,” she said. “How will you feel when this ward, including the hallways, is lined with beds?”

The doctor looked at Ellsworth. “Is she right about that? Is it possible?”

“Such a scenario does not appear imminent,” Ellsworth replied crossly. He was looking at Loh.

“There is radioactive material abroad,” Loh persisted. “We have to know whether this man was transporting it, receiving it, or merely stumbled upon it. We have to find out if there is radioactive material still at sea, poisoning the fish that may feed some of your patients. Or poisoning some of your future patients. Doctor, we need to know what happened.”

“If I do as you ask, you may kill him,” the doctor said, shaking his head. “Then you will never get your answer. And there is no guarantee that he will say much, or even anything, if we wake him.”

“That is a risk worth taking,” she replied.

“Easy for you to say,” the doctor said.

“Before we even consider whether to take this rather extreme step, let’s find out if we’re free to do so,” Ellsworth said. He turned to Coffey. Ellsworth was visibly upset. Coffey could not decide which was worse for the Australian official: the responsibility of having to make a controversial decision, or the fear of what they might discover. “Lowell, this is your bailiwick. What do you say, keeping in mind that we are not entirely certain of our guest’s nationality? Have we the right to do anything to him?”

“Apart from administering medical care,” the doctor added.

Coffey glanced at the physician’s name tag. “Dr. Lansing, if this man is a Christian Scientist or a Buddhist, even that could be considered a violation of his rights.”

“You’ve got bronze for brains!” the doctor exclaimed. “The patient was shot twice and had third-degree burns! He would have bled to death if we didn’t patch him up!”

“That may be,” Coffey said. “However, the International Resolution on Oceans and the Law of the Sea says that absent a victim’s ability to choose, the dispensation of care is a decision to be made by his family or by the ranking representative of his nation, in that order.”

“And if we don’t have those?” Jelbart asked.

“In that case, the host nation calls the shots, isn’t that true?” Ellsworth said.

Coffey nodded.

“That would be us,” Ellsworth said.

“Correct,” Coffey said. “But the host nation is also liable for citation in any civil-rights violations that may arise from the execution of that decision. And the host nation is required to exercise what is called ‘humanitarian caution’ in administering curative drugs or techniques.”

“Which means we don’t give him norepinephrine cocktails to try to wake him,” Dr. Lansing said with finality.

“Not necessarily,” Coffey said. “If this man is suspected of what is classified as a ‘high crime’ involving the international transport of drugs or other contraband, the questioning of him by responsible authorities is permitted.”

“Go question him!” Dr. Lansing said. “It appears I can’t stop that. Just don’t ask me to wake him!”

“I cannot believe you are debating this when there may be radioactive waste spilling into the sea,” Officer Loh said.

“And I can’t believe your nation canes people nearly to death for spray-painting graffiti, but there we have it,” Dr. Lansing charged.

“Doctor, the IROLS is rather specific on the question of interrogation,” Coffey said. “It doesn’t say ‘ask,’ it says ‘question.’ The regulations presume that the individual is awake.”

“If he is not?” Dr. Lansing asked.

“Then frankly, the peremptory issue is one of summum bonum, the supreme good,” Coffey said. “Will the public welfare benefit from taking reasonable security measures? The only guidelines that apply are whether there is just cause for the pursuit of the information and, if so, that the questioning be done in a humane manner, without coercion or threats.”

“I’d say a radioactive man is reason enough to infer the presence of dangerous nuclear material,” Jelbart said.

“And you do have the weight of at least one other nation behind your decision,” Coffey said, nodding toward Loh.

“Whoa. Just one?” Ellsworth asked him.

“Officially, yes,” Coffey said.

“Will the United States back whatever decision we make, emphasis on the we?” Ellsworth pressed.

“You’ve got sound legal grounds, and my office agrees that there are real security concerns,” Coffey said. “That’s as close to a yes as this attorney can give you right now.”

Dr. Lansing looked from Coffey to the others. He shook his head unhappily. “Attempting to wake this man may kill him. You understand that?”

“We do,” Loh said.

“I’m absolutely opposed to it,” Lansing said. “I want that known.”

“Noted,” Ellsworth said.

“I also want to tell you, not as a doctor but as an interested observer, that the one man to whom this matters most can’t say a bloody word! I don’t think that’s right.”

“Why do you assume he would be opposed?” Coffey asked.

“Good point!” Jelbart said. “Maybe he would want us to snatch whoever did this.”

Lansing looked from Ellsworth to Jelbart. “I have other patients. Which of you two is going to sign the consent form?”

There was a long moment of silence. Jelbart turned to Ellsworth. “Is this going to be a military or government matter?” the warrant officer asked.

That is a good question, Coffey thought. If this were classified as a military issue, the armed forces would have a legal leg up to launch a military response. The transport of nuclear material would automatically be classified as a security threat and not simply illegal traffic. If Ellsworth signed, Canberra would be obligated though not bound to pursue a diplomatic resolution.

Coffey was not surprised when Jelbart answered his own question a moment later.

“I’ll sign the form,” the warrant officer said. “Let’s see what our guest can tell us.”

Dr. Lansing summoned a nurse. He turned Jelbart over to her while he went to the medical supply closet on the opposite side of the corridor. Officer Loh went silently into the hospital room.

“Thank you, Lowell,” Ellsworth said.

“You’re welcome, Brian,” Coffey replied.

The government official looked pale. He went to the water cooler on the opposite wall.

“Would you like some?” Ellsworth asked as he filled a cup.

“No, thanks,” Coffey said.

Ellsworth drained the cup and refilled it. He drained that, too, then crumpled the paper cone and tossed it in the trash.

“Is there anything you haven’t told me?” Coffey pressed.

Ellsworth shook his head.

“Is there anything else I can do?” Coffey asked.

“Yes. Would you mind sticking around?” Ellsworth asked. “I know you have that convention in Sydney. But we really could use a third-party voice.”

“What would you have done if I had gone against you?” Coffey asked.

“I didn’t think you would have,” Ellsworth replied, sounding somewhat defensive. “I feel that we have the jurisdiction to do this.”

“You didn’t answer me. What would you have done?” Coffey asked.

“We would have done exactly what we are doing,” Ellsworth admitted. “We don’t have a choice. This is a scary business, Lowell. It has to be dealt with aggressively.” He looked at Coffey and smiled slightly. “But it’s good to have you on our side.”

Coffey smiled. It was strange to hear Ellsworth talk about dealing with things aggressively. Just a minute ago he had frozen when it came to taking responsibility for drugging their guest. What the chief solicitor meant, of course, was that he must aggressively authorize others to take action and responsibility. It was a strange new world for people like Brian Ellsworth. Men who enjoyed the perks of power without the shoulder-bending weight of liability.

In the meantime, though, Lowell Coffey found himself in agreement with Ellsworth on one point, at least.

This was a scary business. And he had a feeling it would get a lot more terrifying before it was through.

FIFTEEN

Darwin, Australia Friday, 12:59 P.M.

FNO Loh stood between Warrant Officer Jelbart and Dr. Lansing. The three wore rubber gloves and surgical masks. The Singaporean naval officer watched dispassionately as the physician injected a clear solution into the patient’s intravenous needle. He had already turned off a valve to the drip in the patient’s thin but sinewy left arm. Brian Ellsworth and Lowell Coffey stood behind the lead-lined screen near the doorway.

The balding physician shook his head. “This poor chap is going to get a double dose of wake up,” Lansing said.

“How so?” Jelbart asked.

“I’ve had to shut off the flow of painkillers. Morphine inhibits the uptake of norepinephrine,” the doctor informed him. “In a perverse way, though, that may help to save him. I’m giving him a moderate dosage of levarterenol. I’m hoping that the combination of pain and stimulant will be enough to wake him without damaging him.”

“Why would he be damaged? What does this norepinephrine do?” Jelbart asked.

“It is an energizer,” Lansing told him. “This patient is suffering from hypotension.”

“Shock,” Jelbart said.

“That’s right,” Lansing replied. “The sudden jump from systemic underactivity to overactivity could easily drive him to cardiac arrest.”

“I see,” Jelbart said. “What about the radioactivity? How has that affected him?”

“It’s too early to say,” the doctor replied. “There would not be many symptoms this early, and we still don’t know what the original exposure levels were.”

“Then how can you treat him?” Jelbart asked.

“He’s still alive,” the doctor said dryly. “So we can infer that the dose was not lethal.”

“True,” Jelbart said.

“There are standard responses, regardless of the exposure,” Lansing went on. “I’ve given him Melbrosin pollen, a natural radiation-sickness therapy. We can treat the results, the nausea and weakness. But this boosts the capability of the bone marrow to produce red and white blood cells. It won’t affect the pharmacological treatments he’s receiving for his wounds. If there is good news in any of this, it is that the burns appear to have been caused in the explosion, not as a result of the radiation.”

“How can you tell?” Jelbart asked.

“The body responds differently,” the doctor replied. “You see a more extensive form of blistering with radioactive burns.”

“What about the levels of radiation the patient himself is generating?” Jelbart asked.

“They are extremely low,” Lansing assured him. “We won’t be contaminated in any way if we stay for less than a half hour or so. And we will be here for far less than that, I assure you. That lead screen is primarily for the nurses who walk by all day.”

The man in the bed began to moan as the drugs entered his system. FNO Loh leaned toward him.

“Don’t bother talking to him yet,” Lansing cautioned. “He won’t hear you. This is only the pain talking. You’ll know he’s conscious when you see his eyes begin to move under the lids.”

Loh stood up again. She tugged on the hem of her jacket and absently ran a hand down the front.

The room was warm, and there was the faint odor of antiseptic. It smelled sanitary rather than fresh. To FNO Loh, dirty mop water on the deck of a patrol ship smelled fresh. Salty sea air, rich with fuel from the engine room, smelled fresh. This smell was void of life, of character.

The young woman looked at the patient. He was starting to breathe more rapidly. She felt a pinch of sadness. It took suffering and horror to put him in what was probably the cleanest bed he had ever been in. Whatever his nationality, there were thousands of other young Asian men and women just like him. Maybe he was running from something. Maybe he did not want to be like his father. Perhaps he was running to something. Perhaps he had seen European or American movies or television shows and wanted to live like that.

The officer felt compassion for him, but she also felt contempt. It was not a crime to want to escape from terrible oppression and poverty. To desire money and freedom. Yet there were other ways to earn money. Legal, honorable ways. Service in the military was one. Working on a farm was another. Apprenticeship in a trade was yet another. People like him were devious rather than smart, indignant rather than industrious, violent rather than strong. They deserved the disaster they ultimately brought on themselves.

The patient’s eyes opened slightly. They crinkled with discomfort. His dry lips parted and moved wordlessly. He began to shift about, then started thrashing weakly as he moaned. Loh leaned close to his ear. She lightly touched his unbandaged cheek and forehead.

“Don’t move,” Loh said softly in Malay. She repeated it in Chinese and then in English.

“Who—?” he said in Malay.

“You are safe,” she said. “I am Monica. You are in a medical facility. Where are you from?”

The patient writhed and opened his mouth in silent pain.

“Where are you from?” Loh repeated.

“Singapore,” he said.

“What is your name?” she asked.

“Name,” he said drowsily. “Lee.”

“Lee what?” she pressed.

“Tong,” he replied.

“Lee Tong, what were you doing at sea?” she asked.

“It hurts,” the patient said. He closed his eyes. Tears fell from the sides. “My skin, my feet . . . on fire.”

“We will make the pain stop when you answer my questions,” Loh said. She was glad the doctor could not understand her. He would only waste time with misguided pity. “What were you doing at sea?”

“They fired at us,” he said.

“Who did?” Loh asked.

“They saw in the dark,” he went on.

“The boat you were attacking?” she asked.

“Yes,” he replied. “They hit . . . plastique.”

“Your plastique?” she asked. “You had plastic explosives on board?”

He nodded.

“Lee Tong, were you trying to take something from the other vessel?” Loh asked.

He began to pant.

“Did you attack another vessel?” Loh demanded.

“It hurts . . . help me!”

“Did you attack another vessel?” she shouted.

“Yes—”

Dr. Lansing was checking the heart monitor to the right of the bed. “Ms. Loh, his blood pressure is rising, two ten over sixty. His heart rate is two twenty.”

“Meaning what?” Jelbart asked.

“He’s approaching ventricular tachycardia,” the doctor said. “That can cause hemodynamic compromise—clots, air bubbles, death.”

“You’re saying you haven’t got much time,” Jelbart said.

“I’m saying he hasn’t got much time,” the doctor replied. “It’s time to stop this, Ms. Loh.”

Loh refused to move. “Lee Tong, what did you want from the vessel?” she demanded.

He did not answer. He simply moaned.

“Did you want to hijack it? Did you want to steal something?” the naval officer asked.

“Money,” he replied.

“You just wanted money?” she asked.

“Jewelry,” he said. “Goods.”

“What kind of goods?” she pressed.

“Electronic,” he replied.

“Nothing dangerous?” she asked. “No nuclear waste?”

He shook his head weakly.

They were just pirates, then, she told herself. Pirates who picked the wrong vessel to try to board.

Lee Tong began to cry. He struggled against the straps that held him to the bed. A nurse came over to help restrain him.

“Officer Loh, this has got to stop,” Dr. Lansing said. “Nurse, he needs a beta-blocker to stabilize. Push more propranolol IV. The rest of you—out.”

Loh ignored the physician. “Lee Tong, were you in the Celebes Sea when this happened?”

“Yes,” he replied.

“Can you describe the vessel you attacked?” she asked.

“Too dark,” he said. He began to shiver and become more active. His eyes opened suddenly. He forced out a raw, hoarse, inarticulate scream.

“That’s enough!” the physician said.

Dr. Lansing moved in front of the woman. He turned the morphine drip on again. Almost at once the patient began to calm.

Loh maneuvered around the doctor. “Can you describe the boat?” she asked. “Did it sink?”

“Did not sink,” the man said as he drifted off. “Explosion . . . kept going . . . ”

Lee Tong relaxed and sank back into the bed.

“Why did you do that?” Loh asked the doctor.

“Because his heart rate was approaching two hundred and thirty-five beats a minute,” the doctor said. “In his weakened condition, we could lose him. Now step aside, Ms. Loh. Let me do my job.”

The naval officer moved back. As the physician moved in with his nurse, Jelbart took FNO Loh by the arm. He walked her around the lead screen and into the corridor. The other men gathered around her.

“What did he tell you?” Ellsworth asked.

Loh looked at the others. She took a short breath. “His name is Lee Tong, and he is Singaporean. He was at sea with other pirates, and they attempted to rob a vessel at night. They only wanted those goods they could spend or fence. That is typical of the breed. Judging from the radioactivity, it appears they happened upon a vessel that was carrying nuclear waste.”

“What kind of ship?” Jelbart asked.

“I don’t know,” she said. “But these people do not routinely attack the kind of vessels that would transport nuclear materials.”

“Legal nuclear materials,” Coffey pointed out.

“That is correct,” she said. “The pirates obviously tried to stop the ship and were repulsed by weapons fire, probably by a team with night-vision capability. Lee Tong said they were cut down in the dark.”

“By professionals,” Jelbart said.

“It appears so,” Loh agreed. “In the course of that exchange, the pirates’ own plastique was detonated. It must have punched a hole in the target vessel and sprayed the sampan with radiation. He said that the ship is still afloat. Perhaps it was crippled in the explosion and is at anchor not far from where it was attacked. I’m going to search for it.”

“Before you leave,” Coffey said to Loh, “I am obligated to point something out.”

“Yes?” she said.

“Whatever the patient told you cannot be used in fashioning a legal case against him,” Coffey told her. “Mr. Tong did not have an attorney present, and he was under the influence of medication.”

“He is also guilty of piracy,” Loh replied flatly.

“Perhaps,” Coffey admitted. “And if you are inclined to prove that, you will have to do it some other way.”

The woman’s aides were standing at the far end of the corridor. Unschooled and very young, they both knew virtue from criminal behavior better than these older, highly educated men beside her. Knowledge and liberality had crowded common sense from their brains.

“Gentlemen, I am returning to my patrol ship,” she said. “It is probably not a coincidence that this event occurred where it did.”

“What do you mean?” Ellsworth asked.

“You’re thinking about the 130-5 site, aren’t you Officer Loh?” Jelbart asked.

“I am,” Loh replied. “I would like to go there and look for evidence of a conflict or perhaps the target vessel itself.”

“Excuse me, but what’s the 130-5 site?” Coffey asked.

“It’s the point of intersection at one hundred and thirty degrees longitude, five degrees latitude,” Jelbart replied. “That’s where Japan and China are permitted to dump their nuclear waste.”

“But Officer Loh just said these pirates wouldn’t have attacked a vessel of that sort,” Ellsworth said.

“They would not have,” the Singaporean agreed. “What I’m afraid of is something else.”

“What?” Ellsworth asked.

“That they attacked a vessel that may have just done business with one of those vessels,” Loh replied.

SIXTEEN

Washington, D.C. Thursday, 11:55 P.M.

Paul Hood was about to leave when the phone beeped. It had been nearly five hours since he turned over the running of Op-Center to the evening shift. That was the only time he got to catch up on E-mails, intelligence briefings, and personal matters.

He snatched it up and sat on the edge of the desk.

“Evening, Paul,” Coffey said.

“Good afternoon,” Hood replied. “So? Did your patient wake up?”

Coffey told him he had. Before the attorney briefed him, Hood conferenced in Mike Rodgers and Bob Herbert. Both men were at home. Rodgers was up watching old action movies, as usual. Usually John Wayne or Charlton Heston. Herbert was getting ready to turn in.

Nothing Coffey said surprised Hood.

“Do you have any information about the bullets they pulled from the pirate or the wreckage?” Rodgers asked.

“Yes, I wrote that down,” Coffey said. “Jelbart had one of his men come over and take a look at them. He just received word that they were from a .380 double-action semiautomatic. The initial forensics tests said that the bullets were remanufactured with a tungsten-polymer coating—”

“Which means that they’re doubly difficult to trace,” Rodgers said.

“How so?” Hood asked.

“Remanufactured, meaning that the shell and casing came from different places,” Rodgers said, “and designed so as not to retain evidence of the rifling from the barrel that shot them.”

“Bullets without fingerprints,” Herbert said.

“More or less,” Rodgers replied.

“Would it take considerable financial resources or a special laboratory to create ammunition like that?” Hood asked.

“Not necessarily,” Rodgers replied. “Depends on what scale they’re making these things. A few dozen, even a few hundred could be done in a shack with easily obtainable gear.”

“So that’s pretty much a dead end,” Hood said.

“There is one thing that we need to talk about,” Coffey said. “Brian Ellsworth, the chief solicitor for the Australian Maritime Intelligence Centre. He is very keen to have the United States as a part of this investigation.”

“Officially, you mean,” Rodgers said.

“That’s what I mean,” Coffey said. “I’m here as an independent adviser, not as a representative of Op-Center or the United States.”

“What is Mr. Ellsworth looking for?” Hood asked.

“A formal commitment that we are a part of this investigation,” Coffey told the others.

“Why should that matter?” Herbert asked. “There isn’t a convenience the Australians need or a challenge that scares them.”

“They could certainly do this by themselves,” Coffey agreed. “At the same time—”

“They would prefer not to go it alone,” Hood interrupted. “Especially if they need to put pressure on Singapore for access to intelligence or background information on this pirate.”

“On Singapore, Malaysia, China, anyone who could be involved in this,” Coffey replied.

“Frankly, I don’t think the pirate is going to matter much anymore,” Herbert said. “He and his guys were just unlucky.”

“Possibly,” Hood agreed. “I’m curious what they’ll do if they discover that any Australians are involved in this.”

“I’m sure that’s another reason Ellsworth wants us involved,” Coffey said. “If there is an Australian component to this, we can help pressure anyone in Canberra who might be in denial. That’s one thing they don’t do very well, Bob. Self-examination. There’s a very strong bluewall component in their thinking. It’s them against the Rim, fighting for European values in an Asian world. They don’t like attacking their own.”

“Is anyone going out to the site of the attack?” Rodgers asked.

“Loh and Jelbart are both going on separate vessels,” Coffey said. “I’ll be joining the Australians.”

“Lowell, if these pirates had attacked a vessel involved in the legitimate transport of nuclear material, there would be a record of the transit. Isn’t that correct?” Hood asked.

“Yes,” Coffey said. “Also a report would have to have been filed about the attack. The International Nuclear Regulatory Commission demands that an accident or attack involving any nuclear vessel, military or civilian, must be reported to both the home and destination port. That hasn’t happened.”

“How do you know?” Rodgers asked.

“Because the INRC must put out a bulletin immediately, warning of potential dangers to shipping or possible radioactive contamination,” Herbert said. “The Australian Department of Defence, the Department of National Emergency Services, and the Communicable Disease and Public Health Center are among those institutions that would be notified.”

“And have not been,” Hood said.

“Right,” Coffey said.

“Are the public health people down there taking any special precautions?” Hood asked.

“They’re going to increase coastline patrols off the major cities,” Herbert said. “They’ll be looking for radioactivity, of course, as well as any ships that look as though they’ve been damaged.”

“Bob, is there anything the National Reconnaissance Office can do to help look for the mystery ship?” Hood asked.

The National Reconnaissance Office was the highly secretive government agency that controlled and processed satellite imagery as well as other electronic surveillance capabilities.

“We’re talking about a very large area with a great deal of shipping,” Herbert said. “We don’t know which way the other ship may have gone or exactly where the sampan was. I’d like to try to narrow the search area before we ask the NRO to tie up resources.”

“Isn’t this what those resources are for?” Coffey asked.

“Actually, no,” Herbert replied. “Those satellites are for watching Chinese naval maneuvers, missile tests, and picking out terrorist activity in the hills and jungles of Indonesia. All of that affects American military and foreign policy on a daily basis.”

“I see,” Coffey said.

“You don’t sound happy, Lowell,” Hood suggested.

“Well, I was hoping to give the Australians something,” Coffey said.

“Does it have to be practical or can it be political?” Herbert asked.

“I suppose both is out of the question?” Coffey said.

“Only since the days of Julius Caesar,” Herbert said. “Will Mr. Ellsworth accept a gesture of solidarity?”

“Most likely,” Coffey said. “What did you have in mind?”

“Going over there myself,” Herbert said. “It would be awkward sending Mike into a situation that is already bristling with soldiers.”

“And I’m not sure the Pentagon would approve,” Rodgers added.

Hood had to agree with that. Though Rodgers was second-in-command at Op-Center, he was still a soldier. The Australian press might assume that the unscheduled arrival of a military adviser was a prelude to a regional military buildup. Extreme ideas tended to grow in the fertile ground of unprecedented situations. They could not afford that kind of attention, not just from foreign governments but from the White House. Op-Center’s needs might conflict with the administrations short- and longterm plans in the region.

“Mike, what about some of your special ops people?” Hood asked.

“If I sent Maria off on another mission now, Darrell would start a war of his own,” Rodgers said.

Darrell McCaskey was Op-Center’s liaison with the FBI and various international law enforcement groups. He had recently married former Spanish Interpol agent Maria Corneja. Shortly thereafter, Rodgers offered her a spot on his new intelligence-gathering unit named Op-Center Reconnaissance, Intelligence On-Site. ORION had been assembled to put spies on the ground, where the crises were happening, instead of relying on electronic surveillance. Maria accepted the assignment and was immediately sent to Africa along with her new teammates David Battat and Aideen Marley. McCaskey had not been happy about that.

“The other operatives are out of town, tying up personal and professional matters before moving down here,” Rodgers said, “and I haven’t had any face time with my Asian intelligence man, Yuen Chow.”

“Where is he now?” Hood asked.

“At home in Hong Kong,” Rodgers said. “He’ll be here next week. We’re still running security on him. He spent seven years working in the movie business in Shanghai. It’s tough finding out which of these boys may have had ties with the Guoanbu in Beijing or the Triads in Hong Kong.”

“Or both,” Herbert said. “Frankly, I’d want some of that take-no-prisoners muscle in my corner.”

“So would I,” Rodgers said. “But I would hate having to hire a shadow to make sure my spies weren’t doubledealing.”

The Guoanbu was short for the Guojia Anquan Bu, the Chinese Ministry of State Security. They were a ruthless intelligence service with irrevocable ties to Chinese nationals around the world. The Guoanbu thought nothing about imprisoning people at home to gain the cooperation of family members abroad. The Triads were the equally amoral gangsters who had organized in Hong Kong over a century before. They took their name from a three-sided good luck symbol that stood for heaven, earth, and man.

“So that leaves us with me,” Herbert said. “I can go to Darwin and lend a hand collecting and crunching intel.”

“Lowell?” Hood asked.

“It sounds like a good idea to me,” Coffey said.

“Run it past Ellsworth,” Hood suggested. “In the meantime, Bob, why don’t you get ready—”

“I’ve been making the reservations on-line as we speak,” Herbert told him. “Air New Zealand to Darwin. I’ll be there Saturday morning.”

“By way of how many cities?” Rodgers asked.

“Five,” Herbert replied. “D.C. to New York to Los Angeles to Sydney to Darwin.”

“Screw that. I’ll call over to the travel office at the Pentagon,” Rodgers told him. “I’m sure we can hitch you a ride and get you there with less hassle.”

“What, on one of those butt-cold, avalanche-loud, flying metal rib cages that you guys call airplanes?” Herbert asked.

“Actually, I was going to requisition Air Force One,” Rodgers said. “But I don’t want you going soft.”

“Gentlemen, I’m going home,” Hood told them.

“And I’ve got to go hitch a ride with Jelbart as soon as he’s finished with Ellsworth and Officer Loh,” Coffey said.

“What are they talking about?” Hood asked.

“Whether we’re going to have two investigations or a coordinated operation when we get out to sea,” Coffey replied.

“Jeez,” Herbert sighed. “This is how the world will be lost. There will be a skirmish that bloodies someone’s nose followed by a world war that has nothing to do with that. We’ll kill each other debating how to find some son of a bitch instead of just laying waste to him and his kind.”

“You said it before,” Hood reminded him. “It’s either practical or political.”

“Well, let’s see if we can make it both,” Herbert said.

“How?” Hood asked.

“By understanding,” Herbert replied.

“That’s it?” Hood asked, amused.

“Yes,” Herbert said. “Understanding that the only way to get rid of me is by doing this thing right.”

SEVENTEEN

Cairns, Australia Friday, 7:00 P.M.

The tranquillity of the cove was just what Peter Kannaday needed. Like any long-time sailor, his emotional state was strongly affected by the sea.

The sun was going down as the Hosannah entered the mouth of the cove. The effect was like a candle on the sea. There was a long, rippling, waxy-yellow streak on the water. It ended in a burning yellow wick on the horizon. Kannaday watched it from the stern as they entered the cove. Directly above him the blue-green skies were already spotted with early stars.

To all other sides of him was Darling Cove. The inlet was located in the northern reaches of the Great Barrier Reef. Over 2,000 kilometers in length and up to 125 meters thick, the reef is separated from the mainland by a shallow lagoon. The massive structure was born at the end of the Ice Age when oceanic polyps began to thrive in the region. The polyps created protective multicolored shells that survived when the animals themselves perished. Coral built upon coral for over 10,000 years, providing a home for each new generation of tentacled creature. It also became a haven for countless species of fish, giant turtles, humpback whales, manta rays, dolphins, and dugongs—marine cousins to the elephant.

The helmsman steered the yacht into the calm, widemouthed inlet. Kannaday looked down at the stained-glass blue water. Then he walked forward as sweet, warm air washed over the deck. It carried the hint of grapes from the Darling vineyard located to the southwest. Immediately to the northwest was a limestone formation scooped from a hundred-meter-high cliff by ancient storms. The rock glowed rust orange in the twilight.

The high reef concealed the cove from the open sea. To access the inlet a sailor had to know to come around the reef well to the north. The mouth itself was less than a half kilometer across. It was just about 200 meters to the far shore. There was a long stone wharf ahead and deep stretches of tawny white sand on all sides. Two motorboats, a motor yacht, and a pair of sailboats were at anchor. Security cameras were concealed in the 200-foottall karri trees that ringed the cove. Kannaday knew that microphones were hidden in the trees as well. They rarely heard more than the wind, the soft breakers, or the cry of a lost dolphin. For boaters who happened by, there were signs at the entrance to the cove. The oak boards, floating on moored buoys and mounted to posts, announced that this was the private property of Darling Enterprises. There were no posted warnings, no threats. Anyone who knew of Mr. Darling knew to keep out. Those who did not were arrested within two minutes of entering the cove. Guards lived in a small cabin just beyond the beach. Most of the time they surfed the Internet or played tiddledywinks. Darling held twice-yearly competitions among the staff with a sizable purse.

It did not escape Kannaday that the object of that game was to gather all the different chips in one cup. A cup that was controlled by Jervis Darling.

Kannaday took another moment to watch the sun set. This was the ninth or tenth time he had sailed into this cove. The quiet, majestic beauty of this place thrilled Kannaday for a moment. It always did. But this time it also made him angry. He felt as though he should own the seas he had just traveled. Kannaday had a yacht, and he was on the way to having enough wealth to keep him comfortable for the rest of his life. Instead, all he could think about was the displeasure of Jervis Darling. A man whose name alone on a placard was enough to frighten would-be trespassers. Kannaday resented the man’s power and feared his disapproval. The captain also hated his own resentment and fear.

The yacht would be anchoring in a few moments. Kannaday would take a motorized dinghy. He would be met there by a Humvee. There was no need to radio ahead. The guards would have seen him. As the yacht slowed, Kannaday wondered if Jervis Darling feared anything. The billionaire probably feared failure. Also death, most likely. And almost certainly in that order. A man like Darling would only accept defeat at the hands of God himself.

If only I could have God as an ally, Kannaday thought bitterly. Instead, he had John Hawke.

The security officer was belowdecks with his men. They were probably watching action movies on DVD. That was all they ever did. There was no curiosity about the world, no desire for self-improvement. Perhaps that was why Kannaday had assumed Hawke would take his offer and go. It was easy.

Men like Hawke liked things easy.

Kannaday walked to the port-side winch that held the dinghy. He waited as one of the crewmen lowered it to clear water. The hum of the motor echoed through the cove. Kannaday’s stomach began to burn.

Even though John Hawke had physically threatened the captain, Kannaday did not fear him. Fear did not come from known threats. It did not come from fear for one’s physical well-being. For a man of the sea, the adrenaline kick that came with danger carried the captain through moments like those. Even when he had the knife at his throat he was not fearful. He had been focused on surviving, which was not the same thing.

Fear came from one thing above all. It came from the unknown. It grew from the anticipation of something debilitating. A loss of freedom. The inability to realize one’s vision.

Darling represented that kind of power. Kannaday was not looking forward to this meeting. He considered calling Hawke’s bluff. Would that little man have the courage to seize the yacht? And would Darling accept Hawke as commander if he did?

Sun-bronzed first mate Craig McEldowney ambled over. The big, thirty-nine-year-old New Zealander stopped beside Kannaday. The two had been together for two years. They had met in a bar in Surabaya, Java, where McEldowney was washing glasses. The former dockworker had just served five years’ hard labor for stealing shipments of tobacco and selling it at a discount to the locals.

“It’s going to be all right,” McEldowney said. “The chief isn’t going to blame you for what happened.”

“Who will he blame?” Kannaday asked.

“Nobody,” McEldowney replied. “Captain, these things happen. Just like they did to me.”

Kannaday grinned. McEldowney was a decent but dullwitted man. That was why he had been caught.

Kannaday left his first mate in charge and swung down the aluminum ladder into the blue-gray dinghy. The rungs were damp with sea spray. He had to hold on tight to keep from slipping. He reached the sturdy little boat and sat on the aft bench. He released the winch cable, switched the engine on, and sped toward the wharf. The guards were already driving down the sloping, wooded path. The crunch of wood chips and the growl of the Humvee engine added to the noise.

This is how chaos is built, Kannaday thought. One noise at a time.

The question before Kannaday was simple. What was the best way to prevent his own situation from becoming more chaotic? Unfortunately, only one man had the answer.

And that answer was unknown.

EIGHTEEN

The Celebes Sea Friday, 7:33 P.M.

When Lowell Coffey was eight years old, something wonderful happened. His father took him to see the circus in Sherman Oaks. What was most memorable, however, was not the show itself. What Coffey remembered best was sticking around to see the circus being broken down. The deconstruction had been a mesmerizing sight, awesome in its scope and complexity.

The departure of the Singaporean and Australian ships from Darwin reminded Coffey of that. Banners flying and large vessels setting out. Instead of roustabouts, sailors were putting the big machine in motion. Instead of elephants, there were helicopters and motorboats being moved into position. Instead of the smell of horses and sawdust, there were diesel fuel and ocean air. The scope and logistics of both were memorable. There were, however, two major differences. After the circus was packed and moving, the young Lowell Coffey had gone home with his father. The boy had felt sad and disconnected. This morning, the adult Lowell Coffey had gone with the seagoing convoy. He felt plugged into a great and powerful enterprise. It was invigorating.

For about three minutes.

Unfortunately, the adult Lowell Coffey was also desperately nauseated. He was sick from his high, hammering forehead down through his vacant gaze to his sloshing stomach. Even the joints of his knees felt as if they were rolling in their sockets. And the attorney was sitting down.

Coffey was on the small, claustrophobic bridge of the MIC corvette. George Jelbart was in command and seated in a swivel chair to his right. The medic had given Coffey two dimenhydrinate tablets, a generic form of Dramamine. It did not make Coffey feel better, but at least he got no worse. There was only one exception. Whenever Warrant Officer Jelbart swiveled in his seat, Coffey tasted his own breakfast for a moment. There was something very disorienting about the officer’s side-to-side movement.

The swift, modern warship had departed Darwin minutes after Loh’s patrol boat had set out. Ellsworth did not join them. He had gone back to his office after intensive dockside discussions about how to manage this joint investigation. Since this was Loh’s plan, it was agreed that she and her crew would conduct the initial phase. Jelbart would lend whatever support was necessary in terms of equipment, manpower, or technical capabilities. Coffey had told them that Op-Center’s intelligence chief, Bob Herbert, was coming to Darwin. Herbert would be prepared to assist with analysis of whatever they did or did not find at sea. Ellsworth had been happy to hear about the NCMC’s involvement. He was grateful for the intelligence resources, of course. But Ellsworth was more interested in America’s support. This could turn out to be an isolated incident, in which case everyone would be relieved. If it were something else, though, the more weight Ellsworth had behind him, the happier he would be.

Jelbart removed the small, compact headset he was wearing. He hung it around his neck. “How are you doing there, Mr. Coffey?” he asked.

“The situation has stabilized somewhat,” he said with a weak smile. He looked down. Unlike the horizon, the floor of the bridge was not moving. Attorneys were meant to be in quiet wood-paneled offices where the only movement was the pendulum of a grandfather clock.

“You’ll get used to it,” Jelbart promised. “By the time we get back to Darwin, it will feel unnatural to be on ground that doesn’t move.”

Coffey had to take that on faith. Right now it did not seem plausible.

The radio operator leaned in. He was located in a cubicle just off the main control center.

“Sir?” he said. “Incoming from FNO Loh.”

Jelbart slipped the headset back on. He adjusted the mouthpiece. “Jelbart here,” he said.

“We have reached the target area,” she said.

Jelbart glanced at the control panel. There was a small black monitor to his right. It had an electronic grid overlay in light blue. Ships were red dots. Jelbart had previously explained to Coffey that this was an adjustable global positioning display. They could pull back as far as five hundred square kilometers or move in as tight as ten square kilometers. The area currently being displayed was twenty square kilometers.

Jelbart turned to his right. “Helm?”

“Yes, sir,” said one of the two men seated there.

“Coordinates ten-five-nine west, three-four-two north,” Jelbart said, reading from the grid. “Backwater standby, on command.”

The helmsman repeated the coordinates, acknowledged the command, and set the course accordingly.

Coffey looked up. He was confused. “I can see them out the window,” he said. “Why don’t you just follow them?”

“We have been,” Jelbart told him. “But if something happens to officer Loh’s vessel and we lose visual contact, we want our computer to know exactly where they are.”

“I see,” Coffey replied. It was an unpleasant thought but a practical one.

The Singaporean patrol boat came to a complete stop. Jelbart ordered the corvette to half speed. He came alongside the other vessel, keeping 300 meters to port. After a moment, the corvette stopped. With one axis of motion removed, Coffey immediately felt a little better. Able to look out now without feeling sick, the attorney watched the prow of the Singaporean vessel. Using fishing nets, sailors had lowered several black boxes into the water. They looked like laptop computers.

“What are those?” Coffey asked.

“They’re grannies,” Jelbart replied. “Gamma ray and neutron irradiation saturation detectors. I learned about them in the physics course MIC gave its personnel. Impressive little units.”

“What do they tell us?” Coffey asked.

“The kinds of materials we are searching for give off three kinds of radiation,” Jelbart said. “Alpha particles, beta particles, and gamma rays. Gamma rays are the most powerful. Even mild doses can cook your insides. That’s the first thing you want to detect.”

“If the sampan encountered gamma radiation, the sailor would not be alive,” Coffey suggested.

“Possibly. He may not have been exposed to the mother lode. It’s good to keep a watch out for it. That’s also the reason I gave the backwater standby command. In case we have to get out of here in a hurry.”

“I like that option,” Coffey said.

“Neutron irradiation tells you something about the elements involved and the size of the nuclear sample,” Jelbart went on. “Officer Loh checked with the INRC to determine the size of the drums deposited out here. There is always trace radiation, however tightly these things are secured.”

“That’s reassuring,” Coffey said.

“The levels are not dangerous unless exposure is cumulative,” Jelbart added. “That’s one reason to put it out to sea or deep in caves.”

“What about the ecological impact?” Coffey asked.

“The fish are tested regularly. As long as they aren’t affected, I don’t think anyone in the area cares very much,” Jelbart said. “The point is, given the time the last vessels were here and the amount they off-loaded, Officer Loh knows exactly what the readings should be.”

“What was the last ship to come out here?” Coffey asked.

The computer monitor was located in front of Coffey. Jelbart swung toward it. His swivel was quick and unsettling. The attorney looked down and took a slow, deep breath to try to get his balance back.

“The last vessel to visit here was a Chinese freighter with four twelve-gallon drums of material from a nuclear power plant outside of Shanghai,” Jelbart said. “Before that it was a cutter owned by International Spent Fuel Transport out of Malaysia. They deposited three ten-gallon drums of material from a Japanese nuclear power plant. No one was out here for ten days prior to that.”

“How will we be able to tell them apart?” Coffey asked.

“They each have a specific drop point,” Jelbart replied. “The coordinates Loh sent us represent the Chinese site.”

“I see,” Coffey said. “I’m still unclear about one thing, though. What does she hope to find? If one of these ships were damaged, wouldn’t someone have been notified?”

“Possibly,” Jelbart said. “What concerns us is that one of the vessels may have transferred their cargo to another ship. That other ship may have been the one the pirates attacked.”

“What do you do if that scenario pans out? Go after the vessel?”

“I don’t know,” Jelbart replied.

“You don’t know? Wouldn’t that be a logical step?” Coffey asked.

“Perhaps,” Jelbart told him. “It could also tip off whoever has the nuclear material. It might be more prudent to try to find that material, then go back and clean up the relay team itself.”

“Doesn’t the MIC have simulations and playbooks for this sort of thing?” Coffey asked.

“We have search patterns and seizure protocols, yes,” Jelbart replied. “When it comes to tracking radioactive cargo, we’re in unfamiliar territory. Just as America has been. The only nuclear materials we’ve actually hunted were two warheads missing from the Soviet Union’s Strategic Rocket Forces. One was from a facility in Kazakhstan, the other from Belarus.”

“Did you find them?” Coffey asked.

“The Russians eventually did,” Jelbart replied. “There were indications that the warheads had been purchased by Indonesian rebels. Perhaps they were, but delivery was never made. The weapons had actually been moved to a cave in the Ukraine. Russian engineers and physicists hired by a retired general were in the process of dismantling them.”

“Lovely,” Coffey said.

“We try to rebuild Eden, but the snakes are always there, more persistent than ever,” Jelbart said.

“They’ve had a lot of time to study us from the underbrush,” Coffey observed.

“Too true,” Jelbart said. “The other thing about this mission, Mr. Coffey, is that we have a partner.” He nodded toward the Singaporean vessel. “We don’t know how porous their command center might be. We don’t know how many secrets we’ll be comfortable sharing.”

“I wonder if she feels the same,” Coffey said.

“Almost certainly,” Jelbart said. “Though with her it’s as much a cultural issue as a political one. The Singaporeans are aggressively private.”

“That’s an oxymoron. I’ll have to think about it,” Coffey remarked.

“You’ll see what I mean when you spend more time with FNO Loh,” Jelbart promised.

It also sounded racist. Coffey hated even benign generalizations like that. He would try not to hold that against Jelbart.

Ten minutes after the search had begun, Loh radioed that the Chinese site was registering the anticipated levels of ambient radiation. She provided the coordinates for the next site. The patrol boat moved on.

So did the corvette.

And so, once again, did Coffey’s stomach.

NINETEEN

Over the Pacific Ocean Friday, 2:57 A.M.

Once in a very rare while life surprised Bob Herbert.

Mike Rodgers was able to get the intelligence chief on a TR-1 long-range strategic reconnaissance aircraft. The plane was headed from Langley Air Force Base in Virginia to Taiwan with a stopover at the Australian Defence Force Basic Flying Training School in Tamworth, New South Wales. There, the USAF was going to pick up three officers for hands-on experience in surveillance upgrades. The RAAF would give Herbert a lift to Darwin. The TR-1 was leaving at one-thirty A.M., which meant the intelligence chief had to hustle. Herbert drove himself from his waterside home in Quantico, Virginia. There was literally no traffic at that time of the morning. He made the eighty-mile trip in one hour.

There was a small officers’ station on board the sixty-two-foot-long aircraft. It was located near the cockpit. The crew removed the seat, and Herbert was able to tuck his wheelchair into the area. There was a power source for the chair batteries and a wireless Internet jack for his computer. Herbert felt oddly like a cyborg, a part of the big, sleek spy ship. Happily, the aircraft was not as noisy as transports he had been on. In fact, it was as quiet as a commercial jetliner.

Life was good, at least for the moment. And since a moment was all anyone could count on, Herbert tried to enjoy it. He did, for a while.

Herbert submerged himself in research and coffee. The coffee was provided by a very considerate navigator. The black coffee did more good than the research. The moment of contentment passed.

Using the plane’s secure communications link, Herbert donned his WASTEM screen name. The profile he had created was for a thirty-year-old white female, one who advocated militia uprisings and a suspension of rights for everyone who was not a “pure-blooded American.” Herbert had made her a female to attract male sociopaths, men who were looking for someone to share their mental illness with. Through WASTEM, the intelligence officer had been able to break up a supremacist group that arranged tours to Libya. There, for 50,000 dollars, group members could watch prisoners being tortured. For 75,000 dollars they could participate in the torture using whatever means they wished. For 150,000 dollars they could carry out an execution.

Herbert had his wife’s picture attached to the profile. Not only was Yvonne a fox, but she would have appreciated having a posthumous hand in destroying cults of hate. A cult like the one that had claimed her life.

As usual, WASTEM had dozens of E-mail messages. Most were from men and women who wanted to go shooting with her or sponsor her at their training camp in this wilderness or that mountain range. Though WASTEM’s interests included the acquisition of “red rain,” a euphemism for radioactive materials, none of the E-mails offered to sell her any. He spent some time in the Anarkiss chat room, where sickos went for romance. As one of the few “women” in the room, WASTEM was always extremely popular. If anyone seemed to have information he might want, he offered to go private with them. People with something to hide spoke more freely in a chat room for two.

Unfortunately, no one had any leads on nuclear material being trafficked through the Far East or the South Pacific.

Herbert’s next stop were charts of the shipping lanes in that region. He got a list of tankers, fishing vessels, ocean liners, and pleasure boats that had been through the area in the past seventy-two hours. When he got the names, he switched to his generic BOB4HIRE screen name. Claiming to be an insurance investigator, he E-mailed the various shipping companies and charterhouses. He asked if any of them had received a report of an explosion in the Celebes Sea. While he waited for the answers, he contacted the National Reconnaissance Office. He asked for an ID listing of all the ships that had accessed global positioning data around the time of the explosion. That information was supposed to be confidential, stored in coded files known only to the vessels and the satellites. However, the NRO had access to the satellite databases, thanks to the Confidential Reconnaissance and Code Satellite. CRACS was one of a new generation of satellites that spied on other satellites. Using sophisticated background radiation detectors, it read incoming and outgoing satellite pulses that momentarily blotted out the cosmic radiation. CRACS ended up with a silhouette of the communication from earth. The satellite was able to translate the pulses into numbers. That, in turn, gave the NRO the code words used by the earth-based planes or ships to contact the satellite.

What Herbert was looking for was an inconsistency. He was hoping to find a vessel that might have been close enough to hear the sampan explosion but did not report it. If he found that, chances were good it was the ship the pirates had tried to waylay.

The data came in slowly over the next several hours. During that time Herbert reveled in the relative comfort and privacy of his little section of the airplane. He was facing the starboard side of the aircraft, and there was a small window to his right. He leaned forward and looked down. The view inspired him. Not because it was a big, beautiful ocean but because it reminded him how people had fought and suffered and perished to explore it. Nothing came without hard work and sacrifice. That fact kept Bob Herbert from slipping into bitterness for what his own public service had cost him.

He received replies from twelve of the twenty-two E-mails he had sent out. No one had reported any explosions in the region. He also learned that there had been at least one vessel in the region at the time of the explosion. It was named the Hosannah and was apparently owned by a gentleman named Arvids March. There was a reference to a court case that Herbert could not access. The vessel sailed under a Tasmanian flag and listed six ports of registry. Herbert searched the Tasmanian phone directory on-line. He could not find an entry for Arvids March. That did not surprise him. Ships from one country were often registered in another for tax reasons. Mr. March could be from anywhere. Or it could be a fake name for a fake enterprise. Herbert did a full Internet search for him and came up empty. He searched under A. March and found over ten thousand references, from “I love a March” to a hip-hop group Ides a March. He sent an E-mail to Op-Center asking them to see what they could find out about the man. A quick check turned up nothing. Obviously not a publicity-seeker or public figure.

Then Herbert took a break. A think break. He had spent hours on this search and had very little to show for it. That was frustrating. Worse, it was dangerous. Herbert knew too well what could happen when people went into a situation with zero intelligence. That was how the embassy in Beirut was hit.

Herbert went back to his computer. The rogue boat was out there.

He wanted to find it.

TWENTY

Cairns, Australia Friday, 7:58 P.M.

It was the largest privately owned collection of prehistoric fossils in the world.

Jervis Darling had developed a love and deep appreciation for prehistoric animals forty years before. When in his early twenties he read an article on the Australian Museum in one of his first magazines, Australian Insider, he had not realized what a successful reign the dinosaurs had on earth. Each new generation evolved into a more refined version of the last. The carnivores became perfect pack hunters as well as individual predators. The herbivores bonded in family units with complex forms of child care. They had survived over 100 million years. That was 100 times longer than humankind and its ancestors had walked the earth. It was probably 100 times longer than humans would continue to walk the earth.

Unless he had his way.

Darling began buying fossils, from the smallest, oldest marine trilobites to a complete land-ranging allosaurus to a soaring pteranodon. He did not settle for plaster casts, as so many museums did. Only the real thing. He had them displayed in two large rooms on his estate, along with murals showing the animals and their world. It was ironic, he thought. The Australian media had nicknamed him Salty after the northwest crocodile. That was an insult, though not for the reasons they thought. Darling did not mind being compared to a carnivore. But he aspired to be one of the all-time great ones, like tyrannosaurus or gorgosaurus. Not a relatively small contemporary offshoot.

The moon shone through the large, arching skylight. Small lights illuminated the mounted skeletons, murals, and exhibit cases. Dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt, the six-foot-four-inch Darling stood in the middle of the cathedral-like structure. The bald-headed media titan did not end each day with a stroll through his collection. He did so today, however. He reminded himself that sometimes creatures perished due to things outside their control. The dinosaurs were a perfect example. Apparently they all died out slowly after an asteroid struck the earth. The collision threw incalculable tons of dust into the atmosphere, blotted out the sunlight for years, and created a worldwide ecological disaster. The equivalent of a prehistoric nuclear winter. According to the geological record, these impacts and global extinctions occurred with some regularity.

Portions of the earth were overdue for a similar cleansing, he reflected. It was a concept Darwin would never have imagined. A mixture of natural selection and mass extinction.

Footsteps echoed along an adjoining corridor. A few seconds later, Andrew stepped through the door connecting the mansion with the wing that housed Darling’s collection of Ice Age fossils.

“Mr. Darling, Captain Kannaday is coming up the walk,” the executive secretary informed him.

“Bring him to the kitchen,” Darling said.

“Yes, sir,” Andrew replied.

There was no hesitation in Andrew’s voice. If Darling had instructed his aide to escort Kannaday to his private observatory, to the garage, or to a guest-room closet, Andrew would have done so without question. Descended from people who lived here during the Ice Age, Andrew Juta Graham was one of the few people whom Darling trusted absolutely.

Darling followed his secretary into the hallway of the 30,000-square-foot estate. This was the east wing, which held the public area of Darling’s home. The museum, the dining hall, the ballroom, the screening room, the gym, the indoor and outdoor swimming pools. He made his way through the dining area to the kitchen. He asked the cook and her assistant if they would mind waiting in their quarters for a few minutes. They left at once. Darling went to one of the three refrigerators and removed a large bottle of sparkling water. He leaned against a butcher-block counter and faced the picture window. He opened the water and took a swallow as he stared off at rolling grounds. He wondered suddenly if the dinosaurs ever drank from sparkling springs. They probably did. And did they notice a difference?

Of course, he decided. But it would not have meant anything to them. They did not have the brainpower to look past the initial stimulation. In that respect the dinosaurs were like the terrorists Darling was dealing with now. Locked into narrow patterns of information processing. Impulsive instead of reflective. What made them dangerous also made them easy to manipulate.

A door opened behind him. It was the door that led from the rear of the estate through the servants’ quarters. Darling set the water on the countertop and turned. His back was to the window as Andrew left and Kannaday made his way through the appliances. Spotlights from an outdoor patio shone outside the window. Crisp white light washed over the skipper. He was dressed in a black pullover and khakis. Even though Kannaday walked briskly, with his shoulders pulled back, he looked tired. He extended his big right hand. Darling shook the hand and held it.

“Your palm feels warm,” Darling said.

“I was on deck, in the sun, Mr. Darling,” Kannaday said.

“Palms up?”

“I’m like a solar battery, sir,” Kannaday said. “Sunlight hits a spot and shuttles all around me.”

“Ah. Would you like a cold beverage?” Darling asked.

“Thank you, no,” Kannaday replied.

Darling released Kannaday’s hand slowly. “Wine,” he said.

“No, thank you.”

“I wasn’t offering,” Darling said, laughing. “I was just wondering if grapes ever fermented in prehistory.”

“I would imagine they did,” Kannaday said. He seemed stung by having rejected an offer that had not been made.

“Quite right,” Darling said. “The liquid may have collected in a pool. A dinosaur might have lapped at it. Perhaps he even became a little inebriated. Quite a thought, wouldn’t you say?”

“It is,” Kannaday replied.

“I wonder what a prehistoric vintage would demand in the Mahogany Auction Room,” Darling said. “An unthinkable sum, I would imagine. Can’t you just picture it? Scientists bidding against connoisseurs to buy a mudcrusted and fossilized puddle.”

Darling chuckled at the thought. Kannaday smiled uncomfortably. The man has no imagination, Darling thought. Then again, he was at something of a disadvantage here. Because Darling was silhouetted by the patio lights, Kannaday could not see him clearly. He could not tell from Darling’s expression whether he was joking or being serious. That was how Darling wanted it. He wanted his guest off balance and open. Vulnerable.

Darling crossed his arms and regarded the captain. “I understand that replacement gear is being sent over to the yacht.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I want you back at sea as soon as possible.”

“Of course,” Kannaday said.

“Before you go, though, I’d like an explanation,” Darling said.

“First, I promise that nothing like this will happen again,” Kannaday said. “We should have foreseen it. Your security chief agrees.”

“Hawke agrees?”

“Absolutely,” Kannaday said.

“And how will you guard against future attacks?” Darling demanded. His mood soured quickly. “A sampan full of sea rats drew close enough to put a hole in the side of your vessel! How did that happen?”

“Sir, the men in the sampan did not cause the explosion,” Kannaday said. “We did.”

“How?”

“By accident. We hit the pirates hard, fast, and decisively,” Kannaday told him. “The attack triggered explosives that were on board the other vessel.”

“Why did you let them get so close?” Darling asked. “You have a good radar system on board.”

“The sampan did not create a blip that was distinguishable from porpoises or flotsam,” Kannaday said. “We failed to identify it until the security camera picked it up. By then it was nearly upon us. At that point we decided not to strike until we were certain that we were facing an enemy,” Kannaday replied.

“Why?” Darling asked.

The question seemed to surprise Captain Kannaday. “Sir, are you suggesting we should have attacked what may have been an innocent vessel?”

“Preemptive strikes reduce risk,” Darling told him.

“I would have thought that a stealthy passage was more important,” Kannaday replied.

“The best way to assure a low profile is to eliminate potential witnesses,” Darling pointed out. “Now, you say Mr. Hawke agrees that adequate security precautions were in place?”

“He does,” Kannaday said.

“Or am I hearing a case of ‘You watch my back, I’ll watch yours’ ?” Darling said.

“Excuse me?” Kannaday asked.

“I don’t know Mr. Hawke very well,” Darling said. “I doubt anyone does. A good security chief does not share his thoughts. But I cannot believe Hawke would agree that a disastrous operation was, in fact, a competent one. It is an indefensible position.”

“Sir, forgive me for repeating myself, but what happened was unforeseeable,” Kannaday insisted.

“And I say that what happened was preventable!” Darling yelled.

Kannaday said nothing.

“As for Mr. Hawke, you would not misrepresent what he said. That would be easy to check. So we have a contradiction.”

“Mr. Darling, you’ve lost me,” the captain said helplessly.

“Hawke has apparently agreed to back your explanation, that this was a freak occurrence,” Darling said. “Why?”

“Because it was.”

“Do you like Mr. Hawke?” Darling asked.

“No, sir. I don’t.”

“You do not like him, you did not hire him,” Darling said. “This was your chance to blame him and get rid of him. Why hasn’t that happened?”

Darling watched Kannaday’s face. The blanket glow of the spotlight left nothing in shadow. The captain did not break eye contact or move his mouth. It was unnatural.

Kannaday was concealing something.

It took a long moment for the captain to speak. It must have felt far longer than that.

“You’re right,” Kannaday said at last. “I called him out for this. I demanded that he surrender his post.”

“And what was his response?”

Carefully, the captain rolled down the neck of his sweater. There was a white surgical bandage taped to his throat. In the center of the bandage was an ugly red spot. Jervis Darling was not surprised to see it. Kannaday had to have been wearing the high collar for some reason. Had he been injured in battle, he would not have sought to hide the wound.

“Hawke put a blade to my throat.”

Darling snickered. “You let him surprise you just as the pirates did.”

Kannaday did not reply.

“Hawke let you survive so you could absolve his team of blame,” Darling went on. “On the one hand, I should not care about that. I am only concerned about results. The problem, Captain, is that I like people to meet or surpass my expectations. You have failed in that regard.”

“Once!” Kannaday said. There was frustration, not anger, in the captain’s gravelly voice. “We’ve had a single slip in more than a dozen very difficult, perfectly executed missions.”

“You had two slips, Captain Kannaday,” Darling pointed out. “First the pirates, then Hawke.”

“All right,” Kannaday agreed. “I made two mistakes. I accept that responsibility.”

“Wherein lies the problem,” Darling said. “Errors can be repaired. Restoring trust is another issue.”

“Mr. Darling, I feel like a catboat in a bloody hurricane,” Kannaday said. “I need to finish this job. Then I have to look ahead to the other jobs. I can live with the way things are between me and John Hawke. My ego can handle that. But how do I fix it with you?”

“You are the captain,” Darling said. “Figure it out.”

“Sir, I’m trying very hard to do that,” Kannaday said. “In the future we will attack or avoid any ship that comes close. We’ll push the Hosannah to make up as much lost time as possible. I will work out my problems with John Hawke if you like.”

“Captain Kannaday, I don’t ‘like’!” Darling sneered. “You suffered a mutiny on board your vessel!”

“It was a disagreement, Mr. Darling.”

“It ended when Mr. Hawke dictated shipboard terms from the hilt of a blade,” Darling pointed out. “That, sir, is a mutiny.”

Kannaday was about to respond. Instead, his mouth clapped shut and he looked away.

“And you did nothing about it,” Darling went on. “Was his knife at your throat all day?”

“No, sir.”

“How did he pay for his crime?” Darling demanded. “What did he say when the wind changed and you put a knife at his throat? You did want to do that, didn’t you?”

“I did, sir.”

“I wish you had,” Darling said. “You cannot work for me and for Mr. Hawke. The way back, Captain, is to fix that.”

The silence in the kitchen was such that Darling could hear the water fizzing in the bottle.

Kannaday held Darling’s gaze a moment longer. “I understand, sir. Was there anything else?”

“No,” Darling said.

Kannaday nodded. Then he turned to leave. As the captain made his way around the counter, Andrew appeared to escort him from the estate. Andrew had been just out of earshot the entire time. Kannaday respected the secretary’s devotion, his discretion, and above all his loyalty. If only everyone in Darling’s service were like that.

Darling walked to the counter. He picked up his water and took a quick swig. He did not really care whether Kannaday won back his respect or not. All that mattered was having someone take charge of this mission. To see the rest of it through without event. To make sure he was not bothered on any future aspects of the operation.

Darling finished the water and wondered who that lieutenant would be. John Hawke was a confident man, and strength was a great motivator. Peter Kannaday was a frightened man. Fear could move a man as well, often in strange and unexpected ways.

Which is the greater asset? Darling asked himself.

The big, successful prehistoric predators had enormous power and guile. Sometimes, though, a startled vegetarian like a stegosaurus would swing its spiked tail and fell a mighty tyrannosaur. There were countless cracked skulls in the fossil record.

The tactics never changed. Only the combatants and their weapons.

Darling put the empty water bottle on the counter. He left the kitchen to briefly attend to his other businesses. The safe ones. The ones that had long ago lost their ability to challenge and gratify him. The ones that covered the world and reported on it.

A world that he would have a hand in reshaping.

TWENTY-ONE

The Celebes Sea Friday, 9:44 P.M.

Monica Loh’s patrol boat hovered about the second nuclear waste site. This was where the Japanese government was allowed to deposit material. Tokyo was also free to assign space to other nations, provided they adhered to the International Nuclear Regulatory Commission codes.

The officer did not like coming to the Japanese site. She did not like going to any place controlled by the Japanese. It was a purely psychological reaction but a strong one. People of smaller nations in this region were inevitably caught in the backwash of history created by China and Japan. The Chinese were ambitious, organized, and insensitive. With over a billion people to feed and manage, Loh did not blame them for their totalitarian efficiency. She did not have the same sympathy for the Japanese. They were greedy rather than ambitious. They were domineering, not just organized. And they were cruel rather than insensitive. When the Chinese turned outward it was for land and resources to control. The Japanese looked for people to subjugate.

Singapore had its own forms of overkill. Laws were strict and punishment stricter. Dissent was permitted as long as sedition and abusive language were avoided. Work was hard, wages were low, and the government did not do enough to ease the burden of laborers. The shipbuilders and oil refiners were the backbone of the economy. The government could not afford to alienate them. Since the bulk of the population was of Chinese heritage, they understood the rules. But Singaporeans had, at heart, a gentle nature. Their discomfort about the Japanese came partly from history lessons and partly from a clash of natures. They experienced it on the seas, in the harbors, in the banks, and on the stock exchanges. Whenever FNO Loh was around Japanese sailors, military or otherwise, she felt as though she was on high alert. Even tourists made her uneasy. They seemed to be collecting memories instead of enjoying them.

Loh watched from the deck as the sailors lowered their gear into the water. They were just a few meters ahead of her, port side. They worked in silence as they had been trained to do. Talk was a distraction in military operations. Still, every one of the officer’s senses was stimulated. She smelled the oil and salt of the sea. She heard the slapping of the waves against the hull of the patrol ship. Spotlights fastened to the rail played across the water. The net containing the equipment seemed to lose pieces as it descended into the darkness between the bright, patchy crests of sea. A strong, temperate wind pushed at her from the northwest. Though the woman’s world was the sea, she had always felt a kinship with the wind. It moved across the ocean, just like she did. It was silent. And it had changing moods that were only noticed by those who got in the way. The stars were partly hidden by high, wispy clouds. They reminded Loh of a waitress she had once seen in Bangkok. The woman had worn a white gown with sequins that sparkled in the light. Now that Loh thought of it, she knew as little about that waitress as she did about the heavens. The world was full of mysteries.

Loh was relaxed as the men and women worked. She did not care whether they found the site to be corrupted or intact. Even no information was information. She would deal with whatever they discovered. Though not a practicing Buddhist, Loh believed in the four noble truths it taught: that existence is suffering; that the cause of suffering is desire; that suffering eventually ends in a state of peace known as nirvana; and that the road to nirvana, the so-called eightfold noble path, consists of the qualities of right resolve, right speech, right action, right livelihood, right effort, right mindfulness, and right concentration. All of those skills did not come easily. And they required one thing above all.

Patience.

Loh had learned that quality by watching her father work on his cases. In the end, the perpetrator would be caught. It only remained to be seen how, when, and where.

After a few minutes, the young male specialist in charge of naval underwater systems jogged over to FNO Loh. He saluted.

“Ambient radiation levels are below normal at the site of the last deposit,” he said. “Unless the coordinates are incorrect.”

“There is no reason to believe they are,” she said. “Go down and see what you can find.”

“Ma’am,” he said, saluting and turning.

It took just five minutes for the underwater unit to get into the sea. They carried a fluoroscopic scanner. If there were anything hot inside the stencil-dated concrete block, it would show up as a red pattern on the viewfinder.

Ten minutes later the three-person team reached the site. The block that had been deposited registered as cold. It contained no radioactive materials. FNO Loh unhooked the point-to-point radio from her belt. She contacted Warrant Officer Jelbart on the other vessel.

“Then the materials were off-loaded somewhere between the source and the drop-off point,” Jelbart said.

“That is apparently the case,” Loh agreed.

“And it’s possible they were given to the vessel that was attacked by the sampan,” Jelbart said.

“That is also likely,” she said.

“We’ll get the name and registry of the ship that made this drop,” Jelbart told her. “Then we’ll have a talk with the captain.”

“That is worth doing,” Loh said. “But I am betting you will not find the ship or the crew.”

“What do you mean?” Jelbart asked. “The ship has to be registered.”

“That is true,” she said. “But that vessel probably has multiple registries. I am guessing they were notified when the sampan attacked their fellow ship. While they were still at sea, the vessel would have been rechristened and the hull repainted. I doubt very much that we will find it.”

“Then we’ve learned nothing,” Jelbart said. “Except for the fact that there is a great deal of nuclear waste somewhere in our corner of the world.”

“That is not nothing,” Loh said. “We will find it.”

“I like your attitude. Any suggestions?” Jelbart asked.

“Just one,” she said. “Have patience.”

TWENTY-TWO

Cairns, Australia Friday, 9:45 P.M.

Peter Kannaday returned to the yacht a shaken man.

During the meeting with Jervis Darling, the captain had experienced something extremely disturbing. For the first time in his forty-seven years, Kannaday’s natural, healthy suspicion had blossomed like a nightshade into poisonous paranoia. And it had happened for a shockingly simple reason. Being buffeted by two forces, Jervis Darling and John Hawke, was troublesome enough. What bothered Kannaday more was the thought that those forces might not be working independently. Hawke had been hired by Darling. They could be working together through Marcus Darling. Perhaps the elder Darling wanted Kannaday to turn on Hawke so that Hawke could eliminate him. Then he could seize the yacht. Kannaday’s crew would not turn against a security chief who had defended himself. From Jervis Darling’s point of view, this was easier and more secure than purchasing a yacht and leaving a paper trail. Or there could be other reasons. Perhaps Darling was doing this out of nothing more than utter contempt for an easygoing man. Or maybe breaking people was how Darling got his jollies.

These suspicions turned the captain’s natural force, his momentum, inside out. It had turned healthy caution into deadly fear. Kannaday had to find a way to get rid of that.

Kannaday also had to get rid of John Hawke. Even if Hawke and Darling were not working together, the captain had not been given any wiggle room on that account.

Kannaday hoped that getting the mission back under way would help restore some of his balance.

The Hosannah left Darling Cove at 9:05 P.M. Repairs to the laboratory had been completed by 10 o’clock. The new equipment had been secured and tested. The yacht was ready to make their delayed rendezvous with a fishing vessel from Malaysia. But no sooner had they set out than Kannaday’s radio beeped. It was Marcus Darling reporting some very odd radio traffic in the Celebes Sea. Captain Kannaday went below to see him.

John Hawke was already in the radio shack. It was the first time Kannaday had seen him since returning from the Darling estate. The security chief had been working in his cabin when Kannaday returned.

Their eyes barely met. Hawke said nothing to Kannaday, and the captain did not acknowledge the security chief. Kannaday stood behind the radio operator. Hawke was to the left, where the porthole used to be. Marcus had an Alta Vista translation file open on his laptop. The program automatically translated incoming messages into English typescript.

“I picked up a communication from a Japanese trawler,” Marcus said. “He was asking if it was safe to pass.”

“Asking who?” Kannaday asked.

“A Singaporean patrol vessel, judging by the names and ranks,” Marcus replied.

“Why would he ask that?” Kannaday asked.

“The trawler is at one hundred and thirty degrees longitude, five degrees latitude,” the younger Darling told him. “Obviously, the patrol ship is there as well. And the worst news is, it may not be alone.”

Kannaday felt a chill. “Go on.”

“The ship from Singapore is apparently talking to another ship,” Marcus continued. “I can’t hear what the other ship is saying because the message is blacked out.”

“Then how do you know the Singaporeans are talking to another ship?” Kannaday asked.

“Because there are short blackouts after every conversation with the trawler,” Marcus told him. “They are of roughly the same duration as the initial conversation. It’s as if the boat receiving the message is translating and relaying the conversation word for word.”

“Why wouldn’t another ship just listen in?” Hawke asked.

“Because as soon as the other ship turned on their radio, someone like me would know they were there. And, more importantly, I’d know exactly who they were,” Marcus said.

“I see,” Kannaday said. “Is that a military tactic?”

“Military or police, yes,” Marcus replied.

Military and police vessels did not go to that site on routine visits. The area was monitored by civilian vessels of the International Nuclear Regulatory Commission.

“We need to find out who is there,” Hawke said.

“Why?” Kannaday asked. “The dumping grounds are not on any of our routes.”

“They are on Jaafar’s route,” Hawke pointed out.

“Why should that worry us?” Kannaday asked.

“He is an ally.”

“By now Jaafar has got the name of his ship repainted and is flying a different flag,” Kannaday said. “Those changes would have been made at night or under a tarpaulin. It is very unlikely that anyone would have seen him.”

“Then what are one and possibly two military vessels doing at the waste site?” Hawke asked.

“I have no idea, and I’m not sure it concerns us,” Kannaday said.

“If they discover that Jaafar deposited empty drums of nuclear waste, it could come back to us,” Hawke said.

“They would have to find him first, which is unlikely,” Kannaday said. “If Jaafar thinks someone is on to him, he will go into hiding. We can warn him on our secure channel.”

“I want to know who’s out there,” Hawke repeated.

“And do what, exactly?” Kannaday asked.

“Go after those vessels, if necessary,” Hawke said. “Do to them what the pirates wanted to do to us.”

A preemptive strike, Kannaday thought. Just what Darling might have suggested. Maybe Hawke was sincerely concerned about the patrol ship. Or maybe he was simply trying to provoke a confrontation with Kannaday. In either case, the captain decided to let him have his head on this one.

“How do you recommend we conduct reconnaissance?” Kannaday asked.

“We need a satellite overview,” Hawke replied. “We need to see who is there and what they’re doing.”

“Marcus, can you do that?” Kannaday asked.

“We can do that through Colonel Hwan,” Marcus said.

“Who is that?” Kannaday asked.

“Colonel Kim Hwan is my uncle’s man at the North Korean Reconnaissance Bureau,” Marcus replied. “The NKRB collects strategic and tactical intelligence for the Ministry of the People’s Armed Forces. They also eavesdrop on business rivals when my uncle needs them to.”

“How long will it take to get information from Colonel Hwan?” Kannaday asked.

“We won’t know until we contact him,” Marcus said. “He may be able to get the information through normal channels. If not, he might have to go to the Chinese for access to one of their satellites.”

“Do it,” Hawke said.

Hawke did not bother to ask Kannaday. The captain let that go, too. Kannaday wondered if he was afraid to stop him or letting him run until he hit a reef. He realized now how complacent he had grown as a commander. Maybe he should question this more. Just to flex his muscles.

“You’re certain there’s no way anyone can eavesdrop on our message or trace the signal?” Kannaday asked.

“It’s extremely unlikely,” Marcus replied. “My uncle has a direct line to Colonel Hwan’s cell comm. We’ll patch into that and send E-mails directly to him. Hwan can respond to them immediately. No one would have any reason to monitor those communications.”

“And if someone does?” Kannaday asked stubbornly.

“Every message we send is coded and untraceable,” Marcus told him. “We’ll be safe.”

“All right,” Kannaday said. “Go ahead.”

Marcus accessed the main transmitter in Darwin. He turned to his laptop and accessed the codebook on the hard drive. He looked up Hwan’s code name. Once he had that, he took the appropriate diskette from a small safe under the radio stand. He plugged that into the drive.

“Ready,” Marcus said.

Hawke dictated as Marcus typed. The security director had not reacted to Kannaday giving the final okay to contact Hwan. Hawke asked the North Korean colonel to find out who was at the waste site and, if possible, why. While they waited for an acknowledgment, Kannaday watched for any sign of bonding between the two men. A glance. Hawke moving closer to Marcus. Something that might indicate collusion. Both men would benefit by Kannaday making a misstep. Hawke could seize the Hosannah. Marcus could run certain aspects of the mission, show his uncle leadership chops. They did not seem to be connecting in any meaningful way. The captain felt some wind in his sails.

Many paranoids do have enemies, Kannaday reflected. But he wondered whether, more often than not, it was themselves.

“What do we do in the meantime?” Marcus asked.

“We continue to the rendezvous point,” Kannaday said. “Is everything set with the Malaysian crew?”

“I received a radio message while you were with the boss,” Marcus said. He accessed the notes on his computer. “They’ve been crisscrossing the area since we missed our appointment. I told them we had an equipment problem. They are awaiting a new ETA.”

“Tell Captain bin Omar we’ll be there at one A.M.,” Kannaday said. “And thanks for being vague about what happened.”

“I didn’t have much choice,” Marcus said. “It would not have instilled confidence to tell them the truth.”

That was true.

Kannaday asked Marcus to let him know when he had any information. Then he went to the deck to chat with the crewmen who were posing as passengers. There was a great deal of sea traffic offshore. Kannaday knew many of the local skippers who ran pleasure boats. Ironically, if they saw Kannaday, if they waved to him, it helped him stay anonymous. No one thought, Where is Captain Kannaday and what is he up to?

Kannaday walked the deck. The sea air was unusually misty. The droplets felt good on the captain’s face. He felt slightly better than he did before. Hawke had a different project to focus on. That kept the pressure off Kannaday. It also did something else.

It gave him time to figure out what to do about the security chief.

TWENTY-THREE

Washington, D.C. Friday, 7:17 A.M.

As mayor of Los Angeles and as head of Op-Center, Paul Hood had taken calls from heads of state. During times of crisis he had spoken calmly over the phone with his counterparts in other nations. Even when lives were at risk or lost, Hood had been able to speak without agitation to operatives in the field. He had talked with the wives and mothers of police officers and firefighters who had lost husbands and sons. He had called and visited the families of the Strikers who had perished in the Kashmir conflict.

But Hood was somewhat unnerved when he got around to accessing his personal cell phone messages. Daphne Connors had called at six-fifteen that morning. From the sound of her voice she had just woken up. Or perhaps she was just going to sleep. She often went to client parties that continued late into the night. She reported in a low, smoky voice that she had a dream about him. It had something to do with a stagecoach driver and a tavern owner in the old West. Only Hood was running the saloon and Daphne was running the stage.

Maybe that was true. Or maybe it was a pretext to phone. In either case, the call troubled him. Or rather, it was the tone of Daphne’s voice. He had not heard a bedroom voice in years. His former wife, Sharon, had never had one, really. And the one night he spent with Op-Center’s former press liaison, Ann Farris, was followed by awkward silence and forced felicity.

Daphne’s voice was very feminine, very seductive. It got into Hood’s ear, into his mind, into all his nerve endings in a way that made him very uncomfortable. It also made him wonder with dismay whether his discomfort was actually with Daphne. It might be with the idea of anyone getting close. Maybe his marriage had gone just the way he wanted it to. Built around a core of emotional and physical detachment for the sake of stability. It was as if he were running a city government or federal agency.

Hood did not like that thought at all. He chose not to think about it. He had arrived at the office a half hour before, and he was still going through the report from the evening unit. It appeared to have been an uneventful night everywhere except in the Celebes Sea. Hood listened to a call from Lowell Coffey to Hood’s evening counterpart, Curt Hardaway. The call had been recorded digitally on Hood’s computer.

Coffey reported that the Singaporean patrol ship had discovered an empty concrete block at a nuclear disposal site. The block should have contained radioactive waste. Radiation detectors on board Coffey’s ship, an Australian MIC corvette, supported the findings.

“The Singaporeans are not trying to put anything over on us,” Coffey assured Hardaway. “We are going to try to locate the vessel that made this drop. The ship that was scheduled to have been at the 130-5 site is owned by Mahathir bin Dahman of Malaysia. Warrant Officer Jelbart has heard of Dahman. He is involved with waste disposal on a global scale.”

Hood made a note of the name.

“Jelbart is not hopeful of tracking the missing material from here,” Coffey continued. “If the ship sold the nuclear material, the vessel will already have gotten a face-lift. If they were just pawns, it will be difficult to get timely interviews with anyone who may have been involved. The Malaysian government is not known for opening its books, so to speak. Especially when it comes to the country’s leading citizens.”

Coffey then asked Hardaway if the NRO would have a look at the region. Perhaps they saw something. Hardaway had left Hood a note saying that he had checked with the NRO. They did not routinely watch the Celebes Sea. The only time they would turn a satellite to the region was if they learned the Chinese or Russians were also doing so. Like the United States, those nations often tested their satellite systems using targets in out-of-the-way sectors. New space cameras were often calibrated and focused using targets on ships or submarines.

Hood archived the messages, then put in a call to Bob Herbert. The intelligence officer would have been airborne for a little under six hours. That was just enough time to make him cranky. Herbert enjoyed being in the field. But once Herbert started downloading mission data into his brain, he was anxious to act on it. Waiting killed him.

The pilot of the TR-1 said that Herbert was sleeping. He asked if Hood wanted to talk to him anyway. Hood said he did not. He was sure Herbert would check in when he woke.

As Hood hung up, he got a call from Stephen Viens. For several years Viens had been the Satellite Imaging supervisor at the National Reconnaissance Office.

Viens had been a college chum of Matt Stoll, Op-Center’s chief technical officer. Because of their close relationship, Viens had always given Op-Center’s needs top priority. Viens was now Op-Center’s internal security chief. He still had friends at the NRO, however. Whenever they came across something that might be of interest to Op-Center, they let him know.

“Paul, I just got a call from Noah Moore-Mooney at the NRO,” Viens said. “Bob Herbert had put out an APB on activity in the Celebes Sea.”

“Curt Hardaway said there’s nothing going on there,” Hood said.

“There wasn’t,” Viens said. “Until a few minutes ago.”

“What have you got?” Hood asked.

“Our Shado-3 satellite watches Chinese satellites,” Viens said. “When they move, it tracks them. They just saw one shift from Taiwanese shipping lanes in the South China Sea to an area of the Celebes.”

“What area?” Hood asked.

“The coordinates are one-hundred and thirty degrees longitude, five degrees latitude,” Viens told him.

“That’s where Lowell Coffey is,” Hood said, “along with Australian and Singaporean naval vessels. Why the hell would China be watching two small naval ships?”

“How would they even know the ships were out there?” Viens asked. “Flyover?”

“Maybe,” Hood said.

It was unlikely that the Chinese would be dealing in third-party nuclear material. They had enough of their own to sell, much of it to Pakistan.

“Stephen, when you were at the NRO, did you come across any cooperative satellite use?” Hood asked.

“You mean would another nation have access to the Chinese satellite?” Viens asked.

“Right.”

“Allies like the Vietnamese or North Koreans asked Beijing for intelligence,” Viens said. “But China controlled the hardware.”

“All right, Stephen, thanks,” Hood said. “Let me know if you get any other information about this.”

“Will do,” Viens said.

Hood hung up. He looked at his computer clock. He needed to call someone. Someone who had not been returning his calls. But right now it was the only person who might be able to get him the information he needed.

Hood picked up the phone and placed one of those calls he was comfortable making. One he was good at. One where the fate of nations, and not the fate of Paul Hood, was at risk.

TWENTY-FOUR

The Celebes Sea Friday, 10:33 P.M.

Raja Adnan bin Omar and his radio operator stood in the small dark cabin of the fishing boat. The radio operator was standing beside a shortwave set on a shelf.

The radio operator’s legs were bent slightly to help him stand on the rocking deck. Bin Omar was at the wheel. Both men were dressed in heavy black pullovers. Their heads were uncovered, their hair and beards well groomed. A wet wind hissed against the windows. It punched through the old wood of the cabin walls. The two men were accustomed to it. So were the two other fishermen aboard the thirty-footer. One of them was bin Omar’s twenty-seven-year-old son. They were below, putting fish in large ice lockers and repairing the nets. They had caught more fish during their zigzagging delay. When they were finished, they ripped the nylon strands on purpose so they would have something to do. In case they were ever boarded, bin Omar wanted them to be busy. Idle men looked guilty, even if they were not. The lockers were stored in a closet at the stern of the vessel. Two of them were made of lead. They were not designed to hold fish.

Automatic weapons were also stored below in case they were needed.

The radio operator removed his headset. “They are just over two hours from us. They apologized again for the delay.”

“Did they give you a reason?” bin Omar asked.

“Mr. M said only that the problem was mechanical in nature,” the operator replied.

“Ah,” said bin Omar. “The excuse that cannot be disproved.”

“Perhaps they will tell us more when we are together,” the radio operator suggested.

“They will have to,” bin Omar said. “Our employers will certainly wish to know more. But it is not our problem. We are merely messengers.”

For the first time in more than a year of dealings, Captain Kannaday had failed to make a rendezvous. The sixty-two-year-old fisherman was unhappy about that. He disliked the unexpected, whether it was a storm, a surprise inspection by harbor police in Pontian Ketchil, or a delay. It was particularly dangerous in the smuggling business. Whether they were transporting drugs, weapons, or nuclear material, seamen did not like being out in the open sea. Here, they were equally vulnerable to patrol ships and pirate vessels.

Bin Omar hoped that Captain Kannaday had a reasonable explanation. Though processed nuclear waste was not the easiest material to obtain, Kannaday was not the only supplier in the region. Until today, he had simply been the most efficient. And the group with whom bin Omar was associated, the Kansai Unit, demanded reliability. The Asian group also demanded accountability. Bin Omar would have to explain the delay.

Despite that, bin Omar was at peace. His wife and other children were home and well cared for. And he was always at ease on these waters, which his family had sailed for hundreds of years. For whatever the fate of the angry men and the mad civilizations they built, he knew one thing for certain. The bin Omars would sail these seas for centuries to come.

TWENTY-FIVE

Tokyo, Japan Friday, 9:34 P.M.

Shigeo Fujima was standing on the balcony of his apartment smoking a cigarette. The Japanese intelligence officer was tired and had come home early. He wanted to try to relax this weekend. Fujima had worked on several situations back to back. There was Chinese involvement in the attack on Vatican clergy in Botswana; increasing Chinese financial links with Taiwan; and the rapid growth of the Chinese space program, which was about to put a man into orbit. Chinese expansionism on earth, with a workforce of one billion people, was a direct threat to Japan and the entire Asian Rim. Especially with the Japanese economy so hard hit by the worldwide recession.

Fujima lived with his wife and two daughters in a spacious apartment near Yoyogi Park. They had been living here for nearly seven months. The elder Fujima daughter, Keiko, attended the International Trade and Industry Inspection Institute, which was just a five-minute walk from the apartment. Their younger daughter, ten-year-old Emiko, attended the Children’s Play International School, which was a six-minute walk from the apartment. They were lucky to get the 2,000-square-foot, two-story place, though the Fujimas’ good fortune came at a price. They lived here because the Japanese economy was in turmoil. A commercial photographer used to live here. When retail sales began to struggle, advertising was cut back. If agencies ran advertisements at all, they used text and computer-generated images rather than photographs. The photographer was evicted. The Fujimas moved in from an apartment that was half the size and nearly as expensive.

“These are sad times,” he muttered to himself as he flicked his cigarette toward the street. They were difficult for the economy and they were barely manageable in areas of world security. He was lucky to be home this early. To be able to have dinner with his wife. To see the kids before they went to bed. Assuming Keiko got off the phone and Emiko unplugged herself from the computer, that is. He smiled as he turned back to the apartment. He could not really expect them to change their routine for him. Things were not as they were when he was a boy. If he had not gone to his father when he came home from his job as a train conductor, he would have been beaten with a strap.

“Maybe it’s good to have things so predictable here,” he thought aloud. His life at the office was anything but that.

Suddenly, Keiko came running from her room. Her long raven hair framed her vampire-pale face.

“Father, there’s a man on my cell phone,” the teenager said. “He wants to talk to you.” She held out the purple phone.

“Someone called for me on your phone?” Fujima asked.

“Yes. He cut in while I was talking with Kenji. He said it’s urgent. He sounds foreign,” she added. “His Japanese is terrible.”

Fujima took the phone and thanked her. He turned back to the balcony. “This is Fujima,” he said.

“I’m sorry to call this number,” said the voice on the other end. “It was the only one listed in the directory.”

Keiko was right. The man’s Japanese was awful. But the voice was familiar. “Who is this?” Fujima asked.

“It’s Paul Hood at Op-Center,” he said in English. “I’m sorry. I was using a god-awful translation program on the computer. My phonetic Japanese is not particularly good.”

“Neither is your timing, Mr. Hood,” Fujima said. “This call is extremely—”

“Unorthodox, I know,” Hood said. “My apologies, Mr. Fujima. But we need to speak.”

“I was just about to have dinner with my wife,” Fujima told him. “And this is an unsecured line.”

“I know that, Mr. Fujima,” Hood replied. “So I hope you will understand when I tell you that materials are missing from your backyard. Materials that should have been left at the 130-5 site.”

“I see,” Fujima said. Hood was referring to radioactive waste. Suddenly, dinner did not seem so important. Fujima used his shoulder to hold the phone to his ear while he lit another cigarette. “Please go on, Mr. Hood,” he said as he drew hard on it.

“We are looking for it with the help of Singapore and Australia,” Hood went on. “But someone is watching us. They’re using a Chinese satellite, and we don’t believe it is the Chinese. We think it may be the traffickers. We need to know who might have access to that platform. I thought you might be able to get that information.”

“I can tell you that right now,” Fujima said. “South Korea conducts naval maneuvers in that region. North Korea has full access to three satellites in the region. The satellite you’re interested in is called the Fong Sai.”

“Who would run that operation for the North Koreans?” Hood asked.

Fujima heard his daughter yelling from behind. “Father, my phone! That man had the operator break in!”

Fujima covered the mouthpiece. “A moment, Keiko,” he said. He returned to Hood. “The man you want is Colonel Kim Hwan of the North Korean Reconnaissance Bureau. He’s a very low-profile fellow.”

“Do you have any contact information for him?” Hood asked.

“We have his office telephone and E-mail,” Fujima said. “I’m sure you have that on file.”

“If not, I’ll let you know,” Hood said.

“Is there anything we can do?” Fujima asked.

“Not at the moment, thank you,” Hood said. “We have people on the scene and more en route. If anything happens, we’ll talk again.”

“You had best use my home phone,” Fujima said. He gave Hood the unpublished number. “It will help to keep peace here. You have a teenage daughter, as I recall.”

“I do,” Hood said. “Go and have your dinner. Again, I’m sorry to have interrupted.”

“Not at all,” Fujima said.

The intelligence officer clicked off the phone and returned it to his daughter. The young woman hit Redial and disappeared into her room. She closed the door with her foot. Fujima shook his head and ran a hand through his short black hair. It was damp with sweat. Anxiety never showed in his stoic expression, his dark eyes, his strong mouth. When he was worried, he perspired.

Fujima continued to smoke his second cigarette. He wondered whether he should go back to his office at Gaimusho, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. He felt he should do some research into the 130-5 site. Perhaps get a schedule of the drop-offs, collect background data of the ships and their crews. But Op-Center was probably doing that already. It would be better if he rested tonight. That way he would be fresh for whatever happened the following week.

The slender thirty-five-year-old intelligence officer turned as his wife came from the kitchen. She told him that dinner would be ready in five minutes. He thanked her, winked, and said he would be in shortly. She smiled back. Then Fujima leaned on the railing and looked down at the street.

“What a world it is,” he said.

Fujima’s father would never have believed it. The nation that had dropped a pair of nuclear bombs on Japan was asking him for help to find missing nuclear material. And Fujima had given that aid. In the space of one generation, loyalties had shifted that dramatically. Yet that was not the most astonishing part. What was remarkable was that warlords and rogue groups could work in the shadows to create Hiroshima-level destruction. And not to end a war but to start one.

“What a world,” Fujima said again.

For the moment, however, Fujima was going to leave the responsibility for it to someone else. Dinner and his wife were waiting. His daughters would join them.

He intended to enjoy them.

That, after all, was what he was fighting for.

TWENTY-SIX

Washington, D.C. Friday, 8:57 A.M.

It was time for Bob Herbert’s wake-up call.

After Paul Hood hung up with Shigeo Fujima, he brought up the dossier on Colonel Hwan. While he read the file, Hood had his assistant Bugs Benet put in a call to the cockpit of the TR-1. Hood was patched through to his groggy intelligence chief. As Bob Herbert answered, it occurred to Hood that in all the years they had been working together he had never had to wake Herbert. It seemed like the man was always on the job or socializing. The first-time experience was disturbing. Clearly, the Mississippi native was not at his most alert or Pride-of-the-Deep-South charming when yanked from a dead sleep.

“Sorry to get you up,” Hood said after Herbert had grumbled something into the headset.

“The world better be ending,” Herbert said. Those were his first coherent words.

“It isn’t, though it might be roughed up pretty bad if we don’t do something,” Hood informed him.

“Now that I think of it, I don’t give a damn about the world,” Herbert said. “Just us. The U.S.”

The intelligence chief sounded as if his mouth were full of sand. Hood waited a moment.

“Are you sure you’re with me?” Hood asked.

“I’m here,” Herbert said. “But damn, I wish I had coffee.”

“Sorry about that,” Hood said.

“It’s okay. What’s on the table?”

“A North Korean colonel named Kim Hwan,” Hood said. “Have you ever heard of him?”

“Colonel Kim Hwan,” Herbert muttered. “Yeah. I came across his name in the files I brought. He’s a surveillance guy, I think.”

“Right,” Hood said.

“Is he with us or against us?” Herbert asked.

“He may have used a Chinese satellite to have a look at what we’re doing in the Celebes Sea,” Hood said.

“How do you know that?” Herbert asked.

“I asked Shigeo Fujima,” Hood said.

“The prick finally took your call?” Herbert asked.

“He had no choice,” Hood replied. “I had the operator cut in on his daughter’s cell phone.”

“Nice,” Herbert said. “Well, Fujima would know who is running what in that part of the world.” The intelligence chief was sounding much more alert now. “So Colonel Hwan is against us. Why?”

“That’s what we need to find out,” Hood said. “Coffey’s team found an empty concrete block at the bottom of the Celebes Sea. The block was supposed to have nuclear waste inside.”

“North Korea gets whatever nuclear material they need from China,” Herbert said. “Why would they be interested in unprocessed waste material?”

“That’s the go-for-broke question,” Hood said.

“South Korea doesn’t need to go buccaneering for it either,” Herbert said. “We supply them. So Hwan wouldn’t have been watching to see what the enemy does either.”

“Makes sense.”

“That suggests a third party,” Herbert said.

“Which is where we run into problems,” Hood said. “I’ve got Colonel Hwan’s dossier on the computer. It’s pretty thin stuff. He’s a career man, no family, completely off the Western radar.”

“Does he attend seminars, go to retreats, travel in a private capacity?” Herbert asked.

“We don’t have that information,” Hood said. “As I said, he’s not even a blip to our intelligence allies.”

“That worries me.”

“Why?” Hood asked. “It could be he isn’t a heavyweight.”

“It could,” Herbert agreed. “More often than not, though, those are the real professionals, the ones who manage to stay hidden and anonymous. Let me think for a second.”

While Hood waited for Herbert, he scanned the dossier. They did not even have a picture of the man. That seemed to support Herbert’s interpretation. A low-watt intelligence officer would not mind being photographed. Hood came from the worlds of politics and finance. Voters were wooed according to complex demographics. Banking and investments were done with precision. Crisis management was different. It unnerved him to consider how often the only barricade between security and disaster was seat-of-the-pants thinking by men like Bob Herbert. In the same breath he thanked God that he had men like Bob Herbert around him.

“Okay,” Herbert said. “Did Hwan go to school?”

“You mean college?”

“Yes,” Herbert said.

Hood scanned the dossier. “He did. Hwan studied in Moscow and then in London. Why?”

“Nearly seventy-five percent of the people who are recruited for intelligence service jobs studied abroad,” Herbert told him. “Other cultures and colloquial languages are familiar to them. If Colonel Hwan studied in London, he probably speaks English.”

“How does that help us?” Hood asked.

“We can talk to him,” Herbert informed Hood. “What time is it in North Korea?”

“Just after ten P.M.,” Hood said.

“Spies collect information during the day and disseminate it at night,” Herbert said. “Hwan probably gets up early to read intelligence reports that came in during the night.”

“Why does that matter?” Hood asked.

“He’ll probably be at home now, sleeping,” Herbert said. “Can you get me that number?”

“I’m sure Matt can dig it from a computer system somewhere,” Hood said. “Why?”

“Because sometimes a classic, low-tech approach is the best one,” Herbert replied.

“I’m not following you,” Hood admitted.

“How did I behave when you called me just now?” Herbert asked.

“You were cranky. Disoriented,” Hood said.

“Exactly,” Herbert said. “It’s the old POW gambit. You drag a guy from his cell or cot during the middle of the night. His guard is down. His head is fuzzy. You don’t even have to beat him. You hammer him with questions. A man who is scared and tired will respond to force. His mouth will engage before his brain can prevent it.”

“So you call Colonel Hwan and wake him up,” Hood said. “He’s not a prisoner of war. He’s probably not going to be very scared in his own home. What makes you think he’ll tell you anything?”

“Because I’m a professional, too,” Herbert replied.

TWENTY-SEVEN

The Celebes Sea Friday, 11:09 P.M.

Lowell Coffey was belowdecks in the captain’s cabin. The attorney was lying on the small bed with his arms at his side and his eyes shut. Though it was black outside, the shade was pulled over the porthole. Coffey did not want to open his eyes and see the swaying of the stars. It was bad enough that he had to feel the constant movement of the corvette, hear the waves brushing the hull. He had come down here a half hour before, after Jelbart and Loh had both decided to remain at the site. There was no point of going to Darwin or Singapore until they had some idea where their next stop would be. They could not do that until they located the vessel that had deposited the empty concrete block. It bothered him that the naval might of two nations had to wait for some slippery civilian ship to turn up on someone’s radar. He felt as useful as Scylla and Charybdis after Odysseus had sailed through the Strait of Messina.

There was a rap at the narrow metal door.

“Come in,” Coffey blurted. The attorney sat up slowly on the edge of the bed. Even so, he had to stop and prop himself on an elbow as his stomach remained horizontal.

A young sailor entered carrying a large radio handset. “Sir, there’s a call for you.”

“Thank you,” Coffey said weakly as he extended his free hand.

The young seaman gave him the unit, then left and shut the door. Coffey lay back down.

“Yes?” he said.

“Lowell, it’s Paul.”

“Hey, Paul,” Coffey said weakly.

“Wow,” Hood said. “It sounds like I’m waking everyone today.”

“No, you didn’t wake me,” Coffey said. “I’m just trying not to make any excessive moves. That includes my vocal chords.”

“It’s that bad?”

“Whatever the opposite of water baby is, that’s me.”

“I see,” Hood said.

“What’s been happening?” Coffey asked.

“Your ships are being watched,” Hood said.

That opened Coffey’s eyes. The attorney rolled onto his side. He ignored the complaints from his belly. “How? By whom?”

“By a Chinese satellite,” Hood told the attorney. “It’s apparently being time-shared by the North Koreans. We have an idea who may be running the actual surveillance, though we don’t know who may have ordered it. Bob is looking into that now.”

“You know, it could be nothing at all,” Coffey said. “It may be a planned reconnaissance. I’m sure the North Koreans routinely watch the military activities of other nations in this region.”

“They do, but military traffic is uncommon in that sector,” Hood said. “This is not someplace they would have targeted without a reason.”

“That reason being we may have been seen or heard or ratted out,” Coffey suggested.

“In a manner of speaking,” Hood replied. “We don’t know yet how it happened. What’s the latest over there?”

“Jelbart and Loh are still trying to find the ship that made the drop-off here,” Coffey replied. “The only thing we’re sure of is that it did not leave the way it was supposed to.”

“How do you know that?”

“The ships that come here are required to file an itinerary with the International Nuclear Regulatory Commission,” Coffey told him. “FNO Loh called Paya Lebar Airbase and asked for an air force F5 Tiger II flyover of the route. The jet didn’t find any ship there. Jelbart informed the INRC and asked for their help. They were useless.”

“What do you mean?”

“Roughly half the ships are spot-checked on their way to this site, when they are carrying nuclear materials,” Coffey told him. “They are boarded and checked for radiation leaks, security, general seaworthiness. The ships are not checked after they leave the site.”

“So no one knows if they have even made the drop,” Hood said.

“Correct.”

“That’s insane,” Hood said.

“I agree. So do Warrant Officer Jelbart and FNO Loh,” Coffey said. “The problem is that maintaining a fleet is expensive. The INRC is financed by grants from the United Nations, environmental groups, and dues paid by nations that use the waste fields. That gives them about fifteen million dollars a year to oversee all international nuclear shipments, not just waste product.”

“That’s all?” Hood said.

“Yes, and that doesn’t take into account whatever kickbacks are being handed out,” Coffey added.

“That’s a helluva low priority we give the security of nuclear material,” Hood said with disgust.

“That’s true, Paul. But to be honest, people who want to smuggle nuclear material are going to do so whether the INRC increases its activities or not,” Coffey said.

“That does not mean we have to make it easy for them,” Hood pointed out. “We wouldn’t even have known about this incident except for the attack by the sampan.”

“Not everything is as well-ordered as law and finance,” Coffey said.

“Funny you should say that,” Hood said. “I’ve been thinking about the nature of our business, and it should be more structured. We live in a high-tech world. We can watch someone key in a cell phone number from outer space. Losing ships and radioactive waste are inexcusable.”

“Only in hindsight,” Coffey said. “When I was in college, I interned with a criminal lawyer. I used to go to prisons with him to interview clients. Once we had perpetrators locked up, it was easy to kick ourselves in the ass and realize what we should have done to save lives. These people we’re dealing with now, the smugglers and terrorists, are full-time sociopaths. How do you compete with that? How do you stop someone from putting botulism in an ATM deposit and poisoning the money supply? How do you prevent someone from filling a glass water bottle with acid and carrying it into a jetliner?”

“I don’t know,” Hood admitted. “But we have to figure it out. We’re talking about hundreds of thousands of lives!”

“The numbers aren’t the issue, Paul,” Coffey said. “I’ve watched hostage negotiators work. To them, a single captive is their entire world. Anyway, the problem is not how we apportion resources. The problem is us. We still have the equivalent of a moral gag reflex.”

“And that is?”

“We’re civilized,” Coffey said sadly. “Hell, I’m so civilized I can’t even be at sea without feeling my guts in my throat. Our quarry does not have that disadvantage.”

“You may be right about that, about everything,” Hood said. “But I know this. If we want to stay civilized, we’re going to have to find a way of identifying who’s with us and who’s against us.”

“Ideally, yes,” Coffey said. “The question is how.”

“That’s something Op-Center is going to have to look at a lot more carefully, Lowell,” Hood said. “We need more comprehensive human intelligence and preventative interference.”

“You mean profiling and spying on your neighbor,” Coffey said. “We become the sociopaths we behold.”

“I’ll trust our civilized nature to keep that from happening,” Hood said.

“If nothing else, that puts you on the high road,” Coffey said. “Right now all that seems to get you is a better vantage point from which to watch all the fighting and destruction.”

“I hate to say this, but you’re sounding like Bob now,” Hood noted.

“Frustration will do that,” Coffey said.

“Only if you let it,” Hood said. “Meanwhile, I’ll let you know when I hear from Bob.”

“Okay,” Coffey said. “You know, maybe it’s just the nausea talking. I’ll try to hold tighter to my optimism.”

“Thanks. We can use some of that,” Hood said.

The attorney clicked off the phone. For a moment he felt like he did when he used to listen to a closing argument on behalf of a defendant he knew was guilty. He felt virtuous in theory but crafty in practice.

Coffey sat, this time more slowly. He felt a little better now, proving that seasickness was to some degree a state of mind. As long as he did not pay it attention, he was fine.

Too bad all our problems don’t go away when we ignore them, Coffey thought.

He rose cautiously and opened the door. The seaman was waiting outside. Coffey gave him the phone and thanked him. Then the attorney followed him to the bridge. He walked closer to port side so that when the vessel rolled, he could simply lay a shoulder against the wall and slide forward.

The more he thought about it, the more Coffey realized what his problem was.

He had joined the National Crisis Management Center to help keep it honest, as it were. To keep it from becoming unaccountable, in case the leadership ever moved in the direction of J. Edgar Hoover’s FBI. Despite his own protests and resistance, however, Coffey knew that Hood was right. More needed to be done to protect lawful people and nations. And that protection had to come from places like Op-Center. Bob Herbert had once described it as the cowcatcher that guarded the rushing locomotive. Op-Center was uniquely equipped to position itself between progress and disaster. It had men like Darrell McCaskey, Mike Rodgers, and Bob Herbert to share experience in police work, the military, and intelligence. There were technical geniuses like Matt Stoll and the seasoned staff psychologist Liz Gordon. It had communications experts, political professionals, and an authority on satellite reconnaissance. Coffey knew international law. And Paul Hood was a skillful manager who knew how to synthesize all these talents.

If Hood were looking for order, Coffey was holding too tightly to it. Not all the answers were found in law books. Sometimes they were found in people. And he knew that this was a team of good people.

Hood was right when he said he would trust in their civilized qualities to keep abuses from happening. That thought made Coffey proud, and that pride was what had lifted his spirits.

The challenge was great. But there was one thing more important than that. Something they could not afford to forget.

The challenge was far from hopeless.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Over the Pacific Ocean Saturday, 2:22 A.M.

Surprise was a wonderful but dangerous thing.

Whether giving or receiving, surprise was short-lived, explosive, and directed. Wielded deftly, it was an intelligence operative’s greatest tool. It was also valuable as “incoming.” Knowing there might be danger behind a door or around a corner or even at the other end of a telephone kept an agent sharp. Being unready for it could be lethal. Bob Herbert had learned that in Beirut. Since then, he had no trouble ramping up to high alert.

That zero-to-sixty acceleration was one of the qualities Bob Herbert cherished most about intelligence work. He did not have to know what time it was. He did not necessarily have to know where he was. All Herbert needed to know was who or what the target was. Once he had that goal, exhaustion, discomfort, and even lust slipped away. If he had not gotten into the intelligence game, Bob Herbert felt that he would have made a helluva chess grand master.

Matt Stoll got the colonel’s home phone number for Herbert. Stoll did not even have to slip into the North Korean People’s Army classified phone directory. The number was attached to an intelligence research file included with the North Korea Advisory Group Report to the Speaker of the U.S. House of Representatives from 1999.

“I’ve learned to search our own government databases before going to others,” Stoll said.

If the number didn’t work, Stoll said he would take the next, longer step to get it.

Herbert would have preferred verification up front. But he also wanted to get this done as quickly as possible. He had suffered through a traditional bomb attack. If the Beirut terrorists had possessed nuclear material, he and thousands of others would not be alive today.

While he waited, Herbert booted his wheelchair computer. He plugged the phone into a jack with two cables. He jacked one back into the aircraft comm system and the other into his computer. He activated the transcription interface, a program that would simultaneously create a typed recording of their conversation. Herbert also practiced speaking in as deep a monotone as possible. Herbert was not sure of the nationality of the individual who had spoken to Hwan. He wanted his voice to be as geographically neutral as possible. Accents were less about the spin given to vowels and consonants than about cadence and pitch. The deeper and flatter a voice, the less identifiable it would be.

Herbert’s headset was still jacked into the aircraft’s secure phone line. He input Colonel Hwan’s number. The phone beeped several times before someone answered.

“Hwan,” said a man with a high, nasal voice. There was a long moment before the man spoke. That meant he had lifted the receiver, then had to get into position to use it. Probably because he was in bed.

“We need more coverage,” Herbert said. His voice was like a bow being drawn across a bass cello. And his goal was to keep the conversation in the third person singular. Herbert needed names.

“I’m in bed,” Hwan said.

“We need it now,” Herbert replied.

“You cannot have it now,” Hwan replied. “And who is this? You are not Marcus.”

“Marcus took ill. You know how it is here.”

Hwan said nothing.

“He’s been working too many hours, like everyone else on this damn project,” Herbert added.

Again, Hwan did not bite. Perhaps the North Korean did not know what the project was.

“I’m Marcus’s backup, Alexander Court,” Herbert said. Court was the author of a novel Herbert had seen lying in the crew bay. He liked the sound of the name. Good pseudonym. “What about it, Colonel? Can we count on your help just one more time?”

“Alexander, remind Mr. Hawke that I agreed to give him one look,” Hwan said. “I cannot afford to do more at this time. Don’t make me go to his superior, Mr. Court.”

“Maybe you should go to the boss,” Herbert pressed. “Hawke has been making all our lives miserable.”

“I suggest you complain to him yourself,” Hwan said.

“He would never take my calls,” Herbert said. He was pushing Hwan, trying to get a name.

“I doubt he would take mine either, even if I knew how to reach him,” Hwan said. “Good night, Mr. Court.”

“Colonel Hwan, will you reconsider if the boss himself calls?” Herbert asked.

“It would depend on what he has to offer,” Hwan said. “If he is willing to part with one of his Sisters, I might consider it.” He said that with a laugh.

“Which one?” Herbert asked.

“His choice,” Hwan said.

The connection was cut.

Herbert sat still for a long moment. He felt drained. He had not gotten everything he had hoped for, but he had gotten something. An uncommon first name, Marcus. A surname, Hawke. The fact that Hwan had attached a “Mr.” to it suggested strongly that it was not a code name, “hawk” without the e. And they were all working for a secretive, tough-to-reach figure who had more than one sister. Possibly young, apparently wealthy.

He unplugged the phone and logged on to the Internet. He forwarded the transcript to Hood and Coffey. Then he did a word search of Marcus, Hawke, sisters.

The words showed up in the same place, but in each case they were unrelated. There was an on-line bookstore with author Nigel Hawke, a biography of Marcus Aurelius, and a novel called The Lost Sisters. There were sports pages with a Hawke’s Bay soccer team, the tennis-playing Williams sisters, and a basketball player named Marcus Fowler.

“It was too much to hope that I might catch a break,” he muttered.

Herbert checked Marcus and Hawke separately. There were over four thousand references for each, too many to check. He decided to add geography to the search. He entered Marcus, Hawke, sisters, Malaysia, then replaced Malaysia with North Korea, North Korea with Indonesia, then Indonesia with Singapore. He still did not get a single link for even two of the entries.

Then Herbert increased his geographical search. He included Australia, followed by New Zealand. What he found in New Zealand was unexpected.

A surprise.

A good one.

TWENTY-NINE

The Celebes Sea Saturday, 12:04 A.M.

Peter Kannaday remained on deck as the Hosannah sailed swiftly toward its rendezvous. He used to love this feeling of his yacht slashing through the water. It made him feel powerful and free. He had seldom done this at night due to the risk of collision. But with the radar and sonar equipment Darling had paid to install, darkness was no longer a problem.

Kannaday leaned against the port-side railing, his legs spread wide to help him keep his balance. He was pouring black coffee from a thermos. His hair was thick with sweat, and the strong wind chilled his scalp. The perspiration on his head and neck was partly from the hot coffee and partly from a sense that he was lost. He was no longer the captain of his fate or even his own ship. The professional seaman was not accustomed to feeling adrift.

Or frightened. But he was that, too.

Kannaday had spent his life on the ocean. Below its surface was nothing but mystery. He had always accepted that. And it was never a problem as long as he stayed above the water. Yet he was just becoming aware of how much of the rest of the world was hidden from view. Some of it was mundane, like hot coffee inside a thermos. Some of it was more threatening.

Like a knife concealed in a wommera, he thought. Or radiation in a lead case. Even Jervis Darling at his estate.

Also hidden were the true loyalties of men. Especially those who served with him, it seemed.

The captain had been awake for nearly forty hours. Tired as he was, however, he would not go to sleep. First, there was a job to finish. Captain Kannaday did not want to rest until the cargo had been delivered and he had reported that to Darling. He was also determined to stay on deck. If the yacht were approached by any of the military patrols investigating the 130-5 site, he wanted to be on hand and ready to talk with them.

The second reason Kannaday had stayed on deck was more important. And also more personal. It was because of John Hawke and his security team. Perhaps exhaustion was influencing his perception to some degree. But over the past few hours it seemed as though the kingdoms of the two men, like their crews, had become clearly defined. The security personnel and belowdecks belonged to Hawke. The upper deck and the seamen belonged to Kannaday. The communications center was neutral. No one had actually said as much. It was all in the looks, in the attitude of the crew, in the places men did and did not go. They bonded like pockets of algae around a rock.

Kannaday wondered how much of the tension was due to the strain between himself and Hawke. Most, he suspected. He doubted Hawke would have said anything about their confrontation. Perhaps the men had heard it. Or maybe they sensed it. A sailor who could not sniff a change in the wind, feel a shift in the rolling deck, did not survive for long.

But some of the tension also had to be due to their cargo. The events of the past two days had reminded them just how dangerous it was. Kannaday had visited the laboratory once to watch the entire purification process. Those spent nuclear reactor fuel rods, black and glittering, were among the deadliest materials on earth. They were terrifying, beautiful, and curiously sensuous, like a rattlesnake or a black widow spider. If someone were exposed to one, death would be extremely unpleasant. Kannaday had read up on radiation sickness before accepting this assignment. A brief exposure to low-dosage radiation, between 50 and 200 rads, would cause mild headaches. The same exposure to 500 or so rads would cause headaches, nausea, exhaustion, and hair loss. With exposure to 1,000 rads, individuals would suffer vomiting, diarrhea, and complete exhaustion within an hour of exposure. The cells of the body would begin to break down, and a painful death would result within thirty days.

Fortunately, the scientists who had been processing a previous delivery in the laboratory had been wearing protective garments. And the few particles of radium torn away by the blast had been carried outward by smoke from the resulting blaze. The lab workers assured Kannaday that any exposure their own people had suffered was well under fifty rads. The crew took showers to clean off whatever particles they may have picked up. There were no reports of illness.

Still, it was clear now that the potential for catastrophe was ever present. And the nature of the danger magnified the fear of the crew. There was no defense against this foe. Once released, it was invisible and unstoppable.

Kannaday took another swallow of coffee. So, if the cargo is so deadly, why are you so scared of Darling? he asked himself. And Hawke. Both men are physical, and one is not even here. They are far from invulnerable.

To the contrary. They had one weak spot, he felt. Both were certain of their power over him. He had learned on the sea that nothing was certain. Seemingly small storms could explode in a moment. An apparently smooth surface could hide an undersea tremor that spat up hundred-foot waves. Overconfidence makes a man vulnerable.

There might be something Kannaday could use in all of this. The notion of the hidden weapon. Something that would work against Hawke, and even against Darling, if necessary.

He would have to think about that. First came the job.

Marcus signaled him on the point-to-point radio. He had just received a message from bin Omar. The Malaysian ship was twenty-two miles to the northwest. They would come alongside the Hosannah within the hour. Kannaday called the laboratory for an update. They were nearly finished processing the materials. They would be ready in time for the exchange. Kannaday thanked them, then went below. He wanted to inform Hawke in person.

Maybe it was the caffeine talking through a hazy mind, but Kannaday felt that was a bold step. The idea of going to the lair of the opposition made him feel energized. It made him feel stronger. It was the same reaction he had when he stood alone against Marcus and Hawke in the radio room.

Or maybe the events of the past few days had taught him something. After all these years of sailing, Kannaday had thought he understood what it took to be a man. He believed it meant a willingness to take on muscular challenges. To risk the elements and battle the sea, to master a sailing ship. Exertion made the male, danger made the man.

That was what he thought. He was beginning to see that he could not have been more wrong. Being a man meant doing things that did not come naturally, where the risk was in challenging one’s own beliefs and traditions. In his case, fighting back with mind instead of sinew.

The exertion still made the male. But it was the knowledge gained that made the man.

And Kannaday was beginning to realize that knowledge, hidden inside, was what made men most dangerous.

THIRTY

Washington, D.C. Friday, 10:07 A.M.

Paul Hood was just finishing a phone conversation with Mike Rodgers when Bob Herbert called.

The general was on his way back from a breakfast with Senator Dan Debenport of South Carolina. The senior senator was going to be taking over the chairmanship of the Congressional Intelligence Oversight Committee from the retiring senator, Barbara Fox. Hood would not be sorry to see her go. Fox had never understood that crisis management could not function according to a rule book. Op-Center could not always get approval from the CIOC for operations. Bob Herbert had a nickname for the constant clash between Op-Center and the CIOC. He called it the “bility breach.” Hood demanded flexibility. Fox insisted on accountability. Those two things did not go together.

Debenport was a former Green Beret who had done two tours of duty in Vietnam. That was why Hood had sent Rodgers to chat with him. He hoped the two military men would hit it off. That would not only help Op-Center, it would also help Hood. Even when he kept Senator Fox out of the loop, dealing with the CIOC took more time than Hood cared to give it.

From the sound of things, Senator Debenport was willing to give Op-Center a great deal of leeway in terms of the kind of operations they could mount. But there was a caveat.

“We can have the freedom we want because Senator Debenport doesn’t want the United States to stumble into crises that could have been avoided,” Rodgers said. “To do that, however, he wants to work closely with us. He wants to make sure there is a flow of information between him, Op-Center, the FBI, the CIA, and the NSA.”

“I’m not sure there’s a net gain for us,” Hood said unhappily.

“Added bureaucracy, you mean.”

“That, plus the senator will be in a better position to interfere with operations,” Hood said. “He can tell us that we have more elbow room. But if he disapproves of something, he can shut the action down. It may not even be intentional. He might have other things to do when a plan reaches his desk. He may red-light an operation until he has a chance to study it.”

“We still have autonomy, Paul.”

“Until he says otherwise,” Hood replied.

“True,” Rodgers said. “But I’ll be able to talk to him. He and I have a lot of friends, colleagues, and experiences in common. That’s more than we have with Senator Fox.”

“I can’t argue with that,” Hood said.

That was when Herbert phoned. Hood immediately took the call. He could not conference Rodgers in because the general’s phone was not secure. He did, however, plug the call through to Lowell Coffey. The attorney was on the bridge of the Australian corvette.

“Okay, Bob,” Hood said. “What have you got for us?”

“I talked briefly with Colonel Hwan,” Herbert said.

“I got your transcript and put some people on it. Nice work.”

“Thanks. I’ve been doing some checking myself. If you read the transcript you know that he gave me a man’s surname: Hawke, I believe with an e. And someone else’s first name, Marcus. I didn’t find any link between them. But then he mentioned the boss of the project. Hwan said that what he’d really like is one of the big man’s sisters. Now, the colonel’s not married, but I don’t think that’s what he was talking about. I found out there is an island group east of New Zealand. It’s called the Chatham Islands. North of the Chathams is an island group called the Sisters.”

“I’ve heard of those,” Coffey said. “There was some issue about native rights and fern-tree preservation on the main island. Let me ask Jelbart what he knows about them.”

Herbert chuckled when Coffey left. “And here I thought the law was boring,” he said. “I didn’t realize that the mind-swelling topic of fern trees was part of the mix.”

“A battle is a battle is a battle, whatever the prize,” Hood said.

“I guess.”

“Is that all you were able to get from the colonel?” Hood asked.

“That’s it,” Herbert said. “I pushed, but I get the feeling he gives these guys as little of his time and effort as possible.”

“Which suggests what?” Hood asked.

“That he’s doing it for the money, not for the cause, whatever that is,” Herbert said.

“Colonel Hwan is on the payroll, but his government is not part of the project,” Hood said.

“You got it.”

Coffey came back on the line. “Gentlemen, either we’re way off target, or we’ve got one hell of a bombshell,” the attorney said.

“I’m not sure which is better,” Herbert said.

“Jelbart says that none other than Mr. Jervis Darling owns several of the smaller islands in the Sisters chain,” Coffey said.

“The media big shot?” Herbert asked.

“That’s the one,” Coffey replied. “Jelbart is putting in a call to Darwin to check something else.”

“Forget it,” Herbert said. “I beat him to it.”

“I’m lost,” Hood said.

“I just went on-line and did a word search,” Herbert said. “Darling has a nephew named Marcus.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Hood said. “Why would a man with Darling’s billions and all his media holdings be involved with something like this?”

“Boredom?” Herbert suggested.

“I don’t believe that,” Hood replied.

“What is the name of the guy who owns the ship that was supposed to have made the drop at 130-5?” Herbert asked.

“Mahathir bin Dahman, a Malaysian billionaire,” Hood said.

“Another billionaire,” Herbert said.

“He’s involved with everything from waste disposal to real estate,” Hood said.

“This is smelling like what they call executive action over at the CIA,” Herbert said.

“Which is what?” Hood asked.

“It started with the idea that businessmen from the military-industrial complex were involved in the JFK assassination,” Herbert said. “They wanted to speed up U.S. involvement in Vietnam, along with the increased military buying that would entail. When Kennedy held the course, they got together and had him offed. Or so the theory goes.”

“So there’s an apparent executive action involving nuclear smuggling,” Hood said.

“It could be,” Herbert said. “The executive action profile says that men like Dahman and Darling can’t be bothered with the inconvenience of the democratic process. Over time they begin to feel they’re entitled to power. So they take it by any means necessary. That includes forming strategic alliances. If we have a union here, the question is who approached whom?”

“That’s a big if,” Coffey said. “You’re making a lot of assumptions about some pretty powerful and reputable men.”

“You bit,” Herbert said.

“Pardon?”

“They count on that reaction to avoid suspicion, Lowell,” Herbert said. “Paul, have Liz Gordon profile these guys. I’ll bet she comes up with the same scenario I did.”

“Even if she did, it would still be supposition,” Coffey pointed out.

“Maybe, but we aren’t in court,” the intelligence officer reminded the attorney. “If we’re going to find the missing nuclear waste, we have to make a few educated guesses.”

“Bob, I agree that we have to pursue this,” Hood said. “I also think we’re getting ahead of ourselves. Lowell, let’s assume Bob pegged this right. You’re on the scene. What do you suggest?”

“To begin with, I can’t imagine that the Australian government is going to move against Jervis Darling without overwhelming evidence,” Coffey said. “And I mean airtight, overwhelming evidence.”

“Certainly Darling would be counting on that, too,” Herbert remarked.

“If he’s involved,” Coffey reminded them.

“You know, gentlemen, I’m thinking,” Herbert said. “Why don’t we step right up and ask him?”

“Just like that?” Coffey asked.

“It worked with Colonel Hwan,” Herbert said.

“He’s not Jervis Darling,” Coffey said. “My dad deals with movers and shakers in Hollywood. They’ve got layers of people between themselves and the events they cause.”

“Layers only work if you go through them,” Herbert said. “I’ll go around them.”

“Before you do, maybe we should have some real ammunition,” Coffey said.

“Such as?” Herbert asked.

“I’m wondering if there might be a paper trail from Darling to Dahman,” Coffey said.

“Probably not,” Hood said. “But there could be something else. Something I might be able to help with. This could be an executive action, as Bob suggests. Or it could be as simple as there being a hole in Darling’s pocket. One that he’s trying to fill. While we’ve been talking I’ve had a look at his stock reports. A lot of those media companies aren’t doing as well as they once were. And he’s a majority shareholder.”

“I like that,” Coffey said. “At least it’s a starting point.”

“Meantime, Lowell,” Herbert said, “maybe you can get your local friends to do some recon to help me. See what kind of boats Darling owns, where they are, possibly check his phone records.”

“I’d like to hold off on that,” Coffey said.

“Why?” Herbert asked.

“Because there’s the very real possibility that an all-out investigation will bump into people who are sympathetic to Jervis Darling or are on his payroll,” Coffey said.

“So?”

“Bob, Lowell’s got a point,” Hood said. “We don’t want him throwing those layers of intermediaries at us until we’ve had a good look around. Lowell, do you think you can talk to Jelbart or Ellsworth about this without sending up too many flares?”

“Jelbart, certainly,” Coffey said.

“Bob, what about Dahman?” Hood asked. “Do we have any Malaysian sources?”

“Not really,” Herbert admitted. “That’s something you should ask Lowell’s friend FNO Loh about.”

“I can do that,” Coffey said. “She seems trustworthy. Though I’m not sure we should open two fronts. There’s twice the opportunity for leaks.”

“I’m not sure we can avoid them,” Herbert replied. “This rope apparently has two ends.”

“That’s true,” Hood said. “Which means if you tug on one, you’ll get to the other. I’m with Lowell on this. I think we should concentrate our resources on the Australian end for now.”

“Paul, trashman Dahman may be the easier end of the rope to grab,” Herbert said.

“But if we do get him, Bob, that will give Darling time to generate alibis and red herrings to keep the heat from him,” Hood said. “Darling scares me more. He’s got unlimited access to interests in the West, Bob. He probably gets a free pass through customs in most places.”

“Billionaires with private jets often do,” Coffey pointed out.

“If Darling’s gone bad, for whatever reason, he’s the one we have to worry about,” Hood said. “If Dahman is involved, we can sweep him up later. Lowell, have that talk with Jelbart and get back to us.”

“Will do,” Coffey said.

“Bob, will you hang on a second?” Hood asked. “I need to talk to you about something.”

“Sure,” Herbert said.

As Coffey got off, Hood hit the Mute button. He wanted Herbert to think he was conducting other business. In fact, he wanted to take a moment to think about what he was going to say. Unless Bob Herbert himself did the closing, he did not respond well to having trapdoors shut on those dark, complex, underground tunnels that ran through his mind.

Hood tapped off the Mute button. “I’m back,” he said.

“What happened?” Herbert asked. “Did I honk you off or something?”

“No,” Hood replied. “Just the opposite. When you feel strongly about something, I don’t like closing the door.”

“Boss, I feel strongly about everything,” Herbert said.

“I know,” Hood said. “But Lowell was pissing you off. I wanted to get him on his way, then come back to what you’re thinking.”

“He pisses me off because he’s a left-wing elitist,” Herbert said. “But he may be right about this. I’m not sure I’m right about going after Dahman.”

“And I’m not sure you’re wrong,” Hood admitted. “What if you went to Malaysia? Did some checking?”

“Frankly, I’d enjoy the hell out of it. If time were not at a premium, I’d push for it,” Herbert said. “But since we don’t have the resources to go in with me, I’m not sure it’s the best use of my time, but I appreciate the counterproposal. Did you think I’d accept?”

“I wasn’t sure,” Hood said. “I thought you might.”

“My independent Southern soul?” Herbert commented.

“Something like that.”

“Well, I’m thinking you might be right about that one,” Herbert told him. “I got into the spy game because I wanted to be Peter Gunn. Remember him? The TV private eye?”

“Vaguely,” Hood said. “I was a Gunsmoke and Bonanza man myself.”

“An ensemble guy,” Herbert said.

“I never looked at it that way, but I suppose so,” Hood admitted. “I wanted to run the Ponderosa.”

“Gunn was a loner,” Herbert said. “He always knew what to say whether he was talking to a thug, a cop, or a woman. Just the smartest, most confident repartee. He was tough. He could take a beating or give one. And he never lost. That’s what I wanted to be like.”

“But?”

“But I don’t have Gunn’s writers,” Herbert said. “I learned there is a big fat difference between fiction and reality. Just between us spies, I didn’t get quite as much information as I wanted from Colonel Hwan.”

“You got what we needed.”

“Barely,” Herbert said. “When that happens, I tend to push a little too hard on the next one. Thanks for reeling me in.”

“You reeled yourself in,” Hood said.

“You’re wrong, but we’ll leave it at that,” Herbert told him.

The intelligence chief hung up. Hood sat back. It was funny. He never knew that Herbert had joined the CIA to be like a TV character. He wondered if things like that should be in a person’s dossier. He found it touching. He was glad they had that conversation. Not just for Herbert’s sake but for his own. There were times when Hood had his doubts about decisions. That came from not being a specialist like Herbert, Coffey, or Rodgers. There were other times, like now, when he was sure of himself. He thought back to something his mother’s mother had said in her later years. Grandmother April was a dressmaker who learned her trade in Phoenix when Arizona was still a territory. After the family relocated to Los Angeles, she got work in the movies. Hood went with her to the studio one day and watched as she was making a ball gown for a movie. She asked for a bolt of gray. Her eleven-year-old grandson asked why she wanted such a boring color.

“Sometimes red and blue can’t function together unless you have a neutral color between them,” his grandmother had replied.

She was right. Which was why he felt pretty good right now.

Sometimes people needed that, too.

THIRTY-ONE

The Celebes Sea Saturday, 12:36 A.M.

Coffey asked to see Warrant Officer Jelbart in private. With permission, the men walked over to the captain’s small ready room. It was little more than a closet with a desk and chair, but it had a door. Coffey closed it. The men remained standing. Jelbart had known that the American was on a call to Op-Center. But Coffey had spoken quietly, and the bridge was filled with the usual conversation and radio communication, as well as the constant rumbling of the engines far below. Jelbart did not know what Coffey had discussed.

Jelbart was stunned when the American told him. He did not doubt the accuracy of the intelligence, but he refused to accept the conclusion.

“Mr. Coffey, why would a man in Salty’s position become involved with any black-market activity?” Jelbart asked.

“Excuse me. Salty?” Coffey asked.

“Yeah. Nicknamed for a crocodile,” Jelbart said. “And may I say, the shoe fits.”

“Interesting,” Coffey observed. “Crocodiles are not discriminating about their prey. They’re survivors.”

“What you’re getting at won’t fly,” Jelbart said. “I’m sure they would be much more selective if they had billions of dollars to plan their menu.”

“Perhaps.”

“Mr. Coffey, forgive me,” Jelbart said. “But do you have any idea what you’re saying?”

“I do. Which brings us back to your question, Warrant Officer. Let’s assume the information is correct. Why would a man in Mr. Darling’s position do anything like this?”

Jelbart shook his head. “I cannot begin to imagine.”

“Try,” Coffey urged.

“Boredom, maybe? A challenge?” Jelbart said. “God knows he’s got all the power, money, and influence he needs.”

“Is his power base very solid?” Coffey asked.

“Lord, yes,” Jelbart replied. “For many ordinary folks, Jervis Darling embodies the spirit of Australia. He has proven that anyone can build an empire. Politicians fight for his endorsement and photo opportunities.”

“What about his personal life?”

“The business press doesn’t like him, but the society pages love him,” Jelbart said. “He and his young daughter go everywhere. Usually with some established actress or political matron on his arm. No supermodels or fluff.”

“What happened to Mrs. Darling?”

“Dorothy Darling died in a hang-gliding accident four years ago,” Jelbart said. “You may also be interested to learn, Mr. Coffey, that Jervis Darling has never been the subject of personal litigation. And it has nothing to do with the army of legal firms on his payroll.”

“Tell me something, Warrant Officer. Are you under his spell, too?” Coffey asked.

“No,” Jelbart replied. “But I admire the quality that my countrymen see in him.”

“And that is?”

“Noblesse oblige,” Jelbart said.

Coffey frowned slightly.

“I know that sounds strange to you Americans. But Mr. Darling presents class and benevolence in balance,” Jelbart went on. “It makes him nonthreatening. And that makes him beloved. Sort of like Walt Disney or Thomas Edison. A man who started by creating small, specialinterest magazines about archaeology, geology, prehistory. Merging them synergistically to create rich harbors for upscale advertisers. Using his profits to buy real estate, start a bank, develop the Internet. He’s a local hero. People don’t want to know about his flaws.”

“Is all of this a way of saying we can’t investigate him?” Coffey asked. “Or that you won’t?”

“I don’t know.” Jelbart exhaled. “Your evidence is not overwhelming.”

“I’m aware of that,” Coffey told the officer. “But we do know that nuclear material is missing. We don’t know where it is. Should we hold off until someone explodes a dirty bomb?”

“I’m not suggesting that,” Jelbart said.

“You just don’t want to involve Jervis Darling,” Coffey said.

“Yeah. That’s what I don’t want.”

“And we won’t,” Coffey said. “Certainly not at this stage. Hopefully not ever, if it turns out that our information is incorrect.”

“What worries me is how do we verify that information? And then what happens if it is correct,” Jelbart said.

“I’m confused. If Mr. Darling is proven to be a reasonable suspect, then I would think the law takes over,” Coffey replied.

“In which case even solid evidence may not be enough to bring him down,” Jelbart said. “Attorneys can battle the validity and admissibility of proof, you know that.”

“Of course.”

“Even if it does implicate Darling, his fall will do more than shake his empire,” Jelbart said. “His investments, his reach, are everywhere.”

Coffey said nothing. Jelbart shook his head.

“All of that aside, I would have to sell an investigation to Commodore Atlan, who is the commander, Maritime Patrol Group. He would probably want to take it to one or more of the ministers for defence. Darling will be a very tough target to sell and also to keep quiet.”

“Do you need the authorization of Commodore Atlan to look into nuclear trafficking?” Coffey asked.

“Right now, all I am authorized to investigate is the destruction of a sampan that washed up on Australian soil,” Jelbart said. “This is an issue of nuclear materials missing from international waters. When I file my report, the CDRMPG will make a determination about Australia’s risk and, thus, her levels of involvement. Ironically, if Mr. Darling is involved, they will be less inclined to believe that Australia is at danger. He has always been a patriot.”

“Maybe Australia isn’t at risk,” Coffey agreed. “What about Japan? Or Taiwan? Or the United States?”

“Do you want the truthful answer or the one you want to hear?”

“The truth,” Coffey said.

“We are surrounded by nations who are distrustful of our Western culture, fearful of our freedoms, and covetous of our prosperity,” Jelbart replied. “We move very, very carefully in this region because of that. Our neighbors look for any excuse to run us down to their people. So we tend to stay out of matters that do not directly concern us. I’m no coward, Mr. Coffey—”

“I never said that you were, nor did I mean to imply it.”

“I wanted to be up front about that,” Jelbart said. “I’d take on Satan himself if he swung his pointy tail at the Gold Coast. But all we know for certain is the following: that a Malaysian boat did not make its scheduled drop of nuclear materials; that a Singaporean sampan was apparently and inadvertently involved as a third party in the off-loaded materials; and that a North Korean officer is watching our investigation of the site. Your own intelligence, based primarily on a brief phone conversation with the officer, suggests that an Australian citizen might—might—be involved. Mr. Coffey, that is far from compelling.”

“It doesn’t have to be compelling. We are not writing a novel,” Coffey said. “We are investigating possible criminal activity. We are obligated to follow reasonable leads.”

“Well, there you’ve hit it,” Jelbart said. “I don’t find the lead reasonable. I’m not going to recommend a course of action based on some dilly theory. Marcus is not a common name, but Marcus Darling is not the only one who owns it. Jervis Darling is not the sole landowner in the Chatham Island Sisters group, nor even the largest investor there.”

“It’s the two of those together that make this a reasonable lead,” Coffey said patiently.

“Tape recordings or fingerprints are reasonable. This is speculation,” Jelbart said dismissively.

“Fine, call it ‘speculative’ or ‘possible’ or even ‘remote.’ Pick whatever word you like,” Coffey said. “But it’s not impossible. Op-Center is going to look into Darling’s activities regardless. Will you be part of that? Or would you prefer that we come back to you if or when we find a more solid connection? At which point you will have to explain to your government why you did not pursue a possible lead about nuclear smuggling.”

“Mr. Coffey, I don’t give a ripe fig about saving face,” Jelbart replied. “What I do care about is mindless activity. I’m too busy for that. If you want my help investigating Jervis Darling, give me one reason why someone like him would deal in nuclear waste.”

“Maybe he wants to blow up one of his own holdings, get himself international sympathy,” Coffey suggested. “Maybe he wants to blow up a rival’s holdings and put him out of business.”

“Talk about concocting novels,” Jelbart said.

“You asked for ideas,” Coffey said with an angry shrug. “I’m an attorney, not a theorist. But I can tell you this. If you’re wrong, there could be a very heavy price to pay. Are you prepared to accept that?”

Jelbart stood in the small room. He listened to the purr of the ventilator fan above. The air smelled metallic. Part of that was due to the perspiration that had begun collecting on his upper lip.

“I assume you are going to brief FNO Loh and tell her about the other chap, the Malaysian,” Jelbart said.

“We decided to wait on that,” Coffey said. “Director Hood felt that it would be an overreaction to involve Singapore at this early stage.”

“Why?”

“Think Salty,” Coffey said. “The animal, not the man. Tug the tail, and the head might bite you.”

“What if I wanted her involved?” Jelbart asked.

“For what reason?”

“Triangulation,” Jelbart said. “We don’t do anything in the military without a three-point tag. Anyway, she will give us another set of eyes. Yours and mine obviously see things differently.”

“Fair enough,” Coffey said. “If you insist on her involvement, then we would have to go along with that.”

“I insist,” he said. “When you agree to that, I’ll contact my superiors.”

Coffey regarded the officer. “I need to know something, Warrant Officer. Which is it that’s moving you? Respect or fear?”

“Neither,” Jelbart said. “I said what I said so you’d know who Darling is. I want Loh involved to protect the RAAF and my career. As for me personally, I would feel this way if you were investigating a slushy in the ship’s galley. I believe in fairness and the right to privacy, Mr. Coffey.”

“As do I,” Coffey said. “But we live in a dangerous world, Warrant Officer. And I also believe in the rights of people to live without fear. In this case, fear of being irradiated.”

“I cannot argue with that, Mr. Coffey. Do you want to inform Op-Center before or after we chat with Loh?”

“After,” Coffey said. “Asking permission isn’t as important as having information.”

Jelbart did not know if that were meant as a dig or if Coffey were simply being frank.

There was a firm rap on the door. Jelbart moved aside to open it. Communications Specialist Edie Albright was standing there with a radio.

“FNO Loh,” she said.

“Thank you,” Jelbart said. “There’s timing for you,” he said to Coffey as he took the radio and raised it to his mouth. He hit Send. “Jelbart here.”

“Warrant Officer, our shore patrols report no success in finding the Malaysian vessel from the 130-5 site,” the woman said. “They regret to say the trail is very cold.”

“I’m not surprised. They had a big head start in a bigger sea,” Jelbart said. “FNO Loh, Mr. Coffey and I would like to have a private conversation with you. Is your line secure?”

“It is. What is this in reference to?” she asked.

“Mr. Coffey has information about someone who may be involved in this operation,” Jelbart said.

“Mr. Jervis Darling?”

“Yes,” Jelbart said. He felt as though he had been punched in the back. “What made you say that?”

“We have been watching him since he killed his wife,” she replied.

THIRTY-TWO

The Celebes Sea Saturday, 1:00 A.M.

The Malaysian fishing ship moved slowly toward the yacht. Kannaday watched from the deck. The fishing vessel had only one light on, a lantern attached to the prow. If they were spotted or pursued, the captain could douse the light and run dark on a different course. He would try to get behind the much larger yacht so that his movements would be blocked from radar. The yacht was at minimal lighting, which meant it was dark save for a light at the bow, one at the stern, and one amidships at the base of the mainmast.

But Kannaday did not expect any problems. Not from sea or air patrols, anyway. There was nothing on the radar. The only problem might come from Hawke. Kannaday had come up with a plan to deal with the security chief. He had worked out every convolution. There were two chances in three that it would go his way. He liked those odds.

Still, the captain was anxious. Kannaday had never had to deal with insubordination. Ego was never an issue with his crew. They were paid to do a job, and they did it. Moreover, unlike the incident in his cabin, this was going to be a public confrontation. Below deck, only Kannaday’s pride had been at risk. On deck, his ability to command would be in jeopardy.

Kannaday stood at the port-side railing. He watched as the shipping vessel pulled within fifteen meters of the yacht. Neither boat went to anchor. The captains wanted to be mobile. Four Hosannah security men came from belowdecks. Each man was carrying a small barrel. Hawke was behind them. He had been watching the loading of the mini-launch. The Hosannah had two, both suspended from the rear. The vessel would be loaded with the valuable cargo and then lowered. The Hosannah would take nothing in return. Payment on delivery was worked out through other means. Kannaday did not know what they were. Overseas bank transactions most likely.

Kannaday walked over to his crew. “Mr. Hawke, I’d like you to go with them.”

“I always do,” he replied.

“Not with our crew, with the Malaysians,” Kannaday said.

Hawke turned to face Kannaday. The lantern was behind Hawke. Kannaday could not see his expression.

“Why would I want to do that?” Hawke asked.

“To ensure the security of the cargo. To reassure the chief,” Kannaday told him.

“Did he order me to do that?”

“I’m asking you to go,” Kannaday replied. The captain made a point of asking rather than ordering. He hoped that would make it go down easier. He also refused to say whether or not the order came from Darling. Hawke would not dare call to find out. That would appear openly mutinous. Hawke had to know that Darling would not be sympathetic to that.

How and why was not important. What mattered was to get Hawke into the launch. Kannaday would log the order and show Jervis Darling that he was still in command.

Hawke was silent as the men continued working behind him. He was obviously considering the same options Kannaday had contemplated.

“What if I decline to go?” Hawke asked. He moved closer to Kannaday. His eyes were steel resolve.

“Why would you do that?”

“My post is here, on the yacht,” Hawke replied.

“Your post is where the captain sends you,” Kannaday said. “Patrols are out there. You know that. They may be looking for us and anyone we meet. Or would you prefer that I radio the chief? Tell him that you do not consider the cargo to be worth protecting?”

“I’ll send some of my security team,” Hawke replied. “We do not need them here at the moment.”

“They are not as capable as their leader.”

“They are capable enough,” Hawke insisted. He turned to go.

“Would you prefer that I call the chief and tell him that you are afraid to go?” Kannaday asked. The captain was speaking loud enough now that the other crew members could hear.

Hawke did not even look back. “Do that.”

“Mr. Hawke, you will go aboard that fishing vessel or you will go below,” Kannaday ordered.

“I have work to do,” Hawke replied.

“Your work is finished,” Kannaday told him.

“Not until we are back at the cove,” Hawke shot back. He was still looking ahead.

Kannaday felt as if he’d been hit by a swinging spar. Hawke had defied him in front of the crew. The security officer had embarrassed him in front of the Malaysians, who were watching with night-vision glasses from the deck of their vessel. They would carry word to their boss, who would relay it to Darling. Kannaday’s brain, spirit, and flesh were all affected by a disorienting sense of humiliation. Reason left him. His ego winked off, then came back like a nova. His flesh grew hot and prickly. Kannaday felt as though the dignity had been baked from him. He wanted it back. He had considered the possibility that Hawke would refuse the order. But he had not imagined exactly how it would feel.

Nonetheless, there was only one thing for Kannaday to do.

Without hesitation, Kannaday reached for the back of the security officer. He placed a strong hand on each of the man’s shoulders. He did not grab just the fabric of Hawke’s sweater. His fingers dug deep, wrapping tightly around the meat of the man’s shoulders. Kannaday took a long step back, pulling Hawke with him. The captain immediately turned and dipped and slammed Hawke onto the deck. The security chief lay on his back. He whipped the wommera from his sash and pointed the blade up. Kannaday wanted to drop on the man’s chest and pound him senseless. But he forced himself to step back. Kannaday did not want to give Hawke the opportunity to kill him in self-defense.

Hawke rose quickly. “You bloody bastard! No one puts his hands on me! No one!”

The men were less than ten feet apart. Hawke walked forward slowly, holding the blade waist high. The captain stood firmly on the gently rolling deck. His legs were wide and his fists were low at his sides. His eyes were on Hawke, who was now walking into the light.

There was no going back.

“Come at me again, damn you!” Hawke said.

“Back off, Hawke. You disobeyed an order!”

“You’re not fit to give them!” Hawke said.

“Then relieve me of my command, Mr. Hawke.”

The launch was loaded but did not lower into the water. The crew had stopped working. Everyone was watching the altercation between the captain and the security officer.

“I’ll make it easy for you,” Kannaday said. He stepped forward, took the wommera blade, and placed it against his heart. “Use it!”

Hawke glared at the captain. Kannaday did not know what the security officer would do. It was not as if the authorities of any nation or maritime group would care that a smuggler had mutinied.

Hawke pushed the tip through Kannaday’s shirt. He continued to drive it forward. Kannaday knew he could not back down. Not with everyone watching. Not after he had given Hawke this opportunity.

Hawke stopped. He did not remove the wommera blade from Kannaday’s chest. The knife hurt, dull and tight like a muscle cramp. But the captain refused to show pain.

“I do not participate in gestures,” Hawke said. “Our customers can see to the security of their own vessel. I was hired to look after this one.”

“In that case, your job is done,” Kannaday said. “You may go below.”

Hawke hesitated. The captain realized there was only one way to end this impasse.

Kannaday took a step back. The blade slipped from his chest. The captain ignored the laceration and the bleeding beneath his shirt. He turned and addressed the crew at the stern.

“Mr. Neville, take the cargo to the fishing vessel,” Kannaday said to the launch pilot. Neville was one of Kannaday’s men.

“Yes, sir,” the seaman replied.

The men lowered the launch into the water. Kannaday walked to the railing and watched as the small boat settled into the smooth sea. The four men climbed down an aluminum ladder and boarded her. Neville turned on a small spotlight at the front of the boat. A moment later they pulled from the yacht and headed toward the fishing vessel.

Kannaday turned back to finish up with Hawke. His rage was gone but not his anger. It had been turned into strength of purpose. The captain did not know what he would say or do. Fortunately, he did not have to decide right now. John Hawke was gone.

So were his men.

Kannaday began walking toward the mainmast. As he did, he casually pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. He shook it out and slipped it under his shirt. He pressed it against the wound. The cut was bleeding moderately. A bandage should take care of it. He would tend to it when he went below. He wished his problem with John Hawke could be as easily resolved.

Kannaday was exhausted, but he dared not rest. When the launch returned, they would head back to Cairns. The trip would take nearly four hours. Hawke would surely attempt some form of retribution during that time. The security chief could not let the public rebuke stand. Not if he wanted to retain credibility with his men. And not if he wanted to maintain his own self-respect. Kannaday knew damn well what that was like. He was glad he had been able to turn this around.

Suddenly, Marcus Darling emerged from belowdecks. The radio operator hurried toward the captain. It was strange to see the younger Darling hurry anywhere. Nothing in life had ever seemed important to him.

“What is it?” Marcus asked breathlessly as he approached.

“What is what?” Kannaday asked.

“Mr. Hawke said you wanted to see me,” Marcus said. “He told me it was urgent.”

Kannaday felt as if he had been stabbed again, this time in the back of the neck. His sense of satisfaction evaporated like sea mist at morning. He looked at the younger man and swore.

Already aware that it was probably too late, Kannaday ran around Marcus Darling and headed toward the stairwell. Hawke wanted the radio room for a reason. And whatever that reason was, it would not be in Kannaday’s best interests.

THIRTY-THREE

The Celebes Sea Saturday, 1:01 A.M.

Monica Loh had never felt comfortable conversing with outsiders. To her, that meant anyone who was not a member of her immediate family. She had always been able to prove herself with actions. She felt confident in any situation where physical or command skills were required. She was proficient at judo, skilled with handguns, and emphatically prepared to carry out orders. That was what an officer of the Singaporean military did.

Conversation was a different matter. FNO Loh could never anticipate every question, and she hated saying, “I don’t know.” That was a sign of weakness. She was particularly uncomfortable talking with men. Rarely was the conversation simply what it seemed to be. She usually felt that they were talking down to her or tolerating her. Sometimes they were looking at her body and not even listening. She could always tell. Thoughts relaxed them. When the mind was engaged, only their eyes were alert. But when men were exposed to physical stimuli, their entire body became tense, predatory.

Fortunately, Jelbart and Coffey had not been with her when she told them about Dorothy Darling. The conversation was only about what she knew, which was not much.

Loh told them how the thirty-five-year-old woman had gone to Singapore with her young daughter Jessica-Ann. They went to the famed Jurong Birdpark early one morning, two hours before it opened to the public, then went off by SUV into the surrounding hills. Mrs. Darling was a pilot and an avid fan of hang gliding. While her daughter picnicked with Mrs. Darling’s personal secretary, Robin Hammerman, Mrs. Darling and her longtime flight instructor from Cairns drove their car higher into the range. They brought a powered hang glider—a tandem unit that looked like a large motor scooter suspended from a traditional hang glider. The unit was an early, homemade model. It did not have the ballistic parachute system that came with later designs.

Loh told the men how the engine of the hang glider caught fire shortly after liftoff. While Jessica-Ann watched, the blazing hang glider briefly circled the hills before plunging into a dense wood.

“That had to have left some serious psychological scars,” Lowell Coffey suggested.

“The girl described the sight as a red-and-black bird,” Loh said. “She said there were screeches coming from it.”

“Jesus wept,” Jelbart murmured.

“Was this information contained in an official investigation report?” Coffey asked.

“I only read the Australian newspaper reports, which were rather graphic,” Loh told him.

“Many of the local rags tend to be that way,” Jelbart admitted. “I don’t like reading or repeating that rot.”

“I did hear that Mr. Darling’s bank accounts were flagged and watched,” Loh said.

“By which nation?” Coffey asked.

“Australia,” Loh said. “According to those newspaper accounts, which I’ve read, the man’s wife was allegedly having an affair with the flight instructor. Prosecutors wanted to see who Darling might have paid to sabotage the engine. If they found anything that would have given them an actionable crime, they could have made a case for intent to cause death.

“The murder investigation was the start of the search, but the end was somewhat surprising,” FNO Loh continued. “There was not enough of the engine left to examine, and investigators did not uncover any sort of payoff from Mr. Darling to whoever may have executed this crime. But they did find evidence of unusual financial activity.”

“Unusual in what way?” Coffey asked.

“Mr. Darling was putting more money into Singapore banks at a lower interest rate than he could get in Australia,” Loh said. “And he was keeping it in liquid assets only.”

“Was that in the newspapers, too?” Coffey asked.

“No,” she replied.

“Then how do you know?” he pressed.

“I briefly dated a banker. He liked to impress me with the names on accounts he was managing,” she said.

“Hence the ‘briefly dated,’ ” Coffey said.

Loh did not respond. But the American attorney was correct.

“This banker bloke told you that the government was watching Darling’s accounts?” Jelbart asked.

“He did,” Loh replied. “He did not tell me what they may have found out, if anything. I’m not sure he would have known.”

“So you don’t really know the extent to which the government is investigating Darling or what else they may have found,” Jelbart said.

“No,” Loh said.

“If they had evidence connecting Darling to the death of his wife, they would have gone after him,” Coffey said. “Australia and Singapore have an extradition arrangement.”

“I can’t imagine him being careless enough to leave any kind of trail,” Jelbart remarked.

“As American presidents and corporate CEOs have demonstrated with regularity, powerful people often feel bulletproof,” Coffey pointed out. “Though I am intrigued, FNO Loh. You seem pretty certain that Jervis Darling had his wife murdered.”

“By all accounts, he is a possessive man.”

“And are all possessive men killers?” Coffey asked.

“I believe most people would be killers if they thought they could get away with it,” she answered.

“I’m not sure I agree, but that’s not important,” Coffey said. “FNO Loh, do you have access to the government files on Darling?”

“I don’t know,” Loh admitted. She found herself overenunciating the words as she forced them from her mouth. “But I’ll find out,” she added.

“When you do, ask if they have anything on Mahathir bin Dahman, a Malaysian billionaire,” Coffey said. He spelled the name for her. “Have you ever heard of him?”

“Again, only what I have read in the newspapers,” she said. “He is heavily involved in the development of real estate.”

“Any scandals?” Coffey asked.

“None of which I am aware,” the officer reported. That was a somewhat milder form of “I don’t know.” It did not come out any easier. FNO Loh wished she did not feel as though she had to impress these two men. They certainly were not pushing her.

“All right,” Coffey said. “Anything you can find will be more than we have now.”

“Have you heard anything more about the sailor from the sampan?” Loh asked.

“The last report I had from the hospital was about ninety minutes ago,” Jelbart said. “The patient was sedated and not speaking.”

“Do they have anyone who can speak Malay in case he does say something?” she asked.

“The intercom is on, and there is a voice-activated tape recorder at his bedside,” Jelbart said. “Anything he says will be recorded and played for someone who can translate. I’ll make certain you hear it as well.”

“Thank you,” she said. Loh had to admit that for men, these two seemed all right.

“The question is, what do we do while we wait?” Coffey asked.

“If I may make a suggestion,” Loh said.

“Please,” Coffey replied.

“I will contact Singapore for those files. But we have a saying in the military: ‘Do not wait. Advance.’ ”

“I’m sure that reads well in a textbook,” Coffey said.

“It works in practice, Mr. Coffey,” Loh replied. It felt good to say that with certainty. “I believe that we should try to collect our own intelligence about Mr. Darling.”

“I’m a coastal police officer, not a spy,” Jelbart said. The warrant officer was not complaining. It sounded to Loh as though he were frustrated. And a little concerned. “I’m also afraid that the more Australians who know about this, the greater the odds of Darling finding out. We’re still talking about theories, and highly speculative ones at that.”

“Our top spy will land in Australia a few hours from now,” Coffey said. “He’ll know what to do.”

“I can tell you what we have to do,” Loh replied.

“Can you?” Coffey asked.

“Yes.” It felt good to be able to answer this one, too. Because the answer was not only right, it was obvious. “We should not waste time following the 130-5 trail. It is already cold.”

“What should we do?” Coffey asked.

“Make sure that Jervis Darling is unable to kill,” she replied. “Again.”

THIRTY-FOUR

Washington, D.C. Friday, 12:31 P.M.

“Boss, would you please authorize the uploading of a benevolent systemic virus?”

The man in the doorway was portly Matt Stoll. The young computer genius was standing there with his arms at his sides and his expression deadpan. Unless there was a crisis, Paul Hood had learned to take nothing the technical wizard said seriously. Stoll was not just a proudly archetypical nerd, he was a proudly archetypical nerd on steroids. It was not enough for him to be smart. He was aggressively intelligent, still driven by the curiosity and precociousness that must have made him an elementary school terror.

“A benevolent virus,” Hood said, playing along. “What did you have in mind?”

“Something that would allow users of National OnLine Operations to enjoy a functioning Internet provider,” Stoll said. “Every time I open an attachment, I get booted. Every time I download a photograph, I get booted. Every time I try to access data, I’m told that the system is busy.”

“Matt, am I wrong in believing that we do most of our on-line work through U.S. Governet?”

“You are not incorrect,” Stoll said in his characteristic monotone. “I am talking about a system I use at home. However, our computers here have the juice to really spruce up the service.”

“Permanently?” Hood asked.

“No. For just an hour. To show those NOLO incompetents what they could have if they upgraded their systems and paid more attention to customers than to their stock prices,” Stoll said.

“I’ll tell you what,” Hood replied. “No.”

Stoll seemed unfazed. “They are an evil empire, sir. This is a crisis situation. It is within the parameters set by the NCMC charter to involve ourselves.”

“The charter also specifies the process by which executives other than the director, deputy director, and acting directors may request operational status for a project,” Hood said. “Write a report and submit it to the CIOC. If the committee backs this, you will have my full cooperation.”

“I could have done it without telling you,” Stoll pointed out. “You wouldn’t have known about it unless you saw it on the news or read it in an intelligence briefing.”

“Possibly. Why didn’t you?” Hood asked.

“Because the individual we are investigating, Jervis Darling, is a major stockholder in NOLO-Australia,” Stoll said. “I did not want any moves against a holding controlled by him to be traced back to me or to Op-Center. It might raise flags.”

“Thank you,” Hood said.

“You’re welcome,” Stoll replied.

The technical officer stepped from the doorway and left. The encounter was strange but not unprecedented. Telling someone the damage he could do was Matt Stoll’s way of complaining. He was a tech guy and a perfectionist. He had vented about cable networks, long-distance phone carriers, and other high-tech systems in the past. It was like Mike Rodgers beefing about the bureaucracy at the Pentagon or Bob Herbert venting about what he could do with one-tenth the budget allotted the CIA or the FBI.

Stoll was right about one thing, though. “NOLO contondere,” as it was referred to in the stock pages, was an ineffectual disaster. It made money because it was a monolith, nothing more. If he started thinking about that, Paul Hood would get pissed as well.

The phone beeped. It was Lowell Coffey.

“Paul, there has been a strange twist since our last conversation,” he said. Coffey proceeded to tell him about the discussion with FNO Loh. “She spoke to the military intelligence people in Singapore who liaise with the prime minister’s Office of Strategic Information,” Coffey went on. “They confirm business ties between Darling and Mahathir bin Dahman. He’s invested in the Malaysian’s building projects, commercial aircraft plants, and water-processing facilities.”

“Do you know what the paper trail looks like?” Hood asked.

“If you’re asking whether this is public knowledge or not, it is,” Coffey replied. “Darling puts money in Malaysian banks, and bin Dahman draws on that as needed.”

“Is there a public record of Darling’s holdings?” Hood asked.

“No,” Coffey said. “The government has learned that Darling gets private stock for his money. Nothing actionable, though.”

“It’s a lot of stock, I’m sure,” Hood said. “An improportionate amount compared to what other investors get. I’ll bet that bin Dahman takes a big hit every time Darling invests.”

“He does,” Coffey said.

“This could suggest that bin Dahman is using real estate and privately held businesses to pay Darling for services rendered,” Hood said. “Such as providing him with nuclear materials.”

“It makes sense,” Coffey said. “What’s your view on Darling himself? He’s got a helluva reputation down here. He’s got a mega-fortune. Why would he risk all that to do something like this?”

“I’ve been wondering about that,” Hood said. “Maybe it’s tied into something you said a minute ago. He got away with murder and liked how it felt.”

“You mean Leopold and Loeb, the sequel?” Coffey asked. “Bored rich man gets his kicks planning the death of millions of people?”

“You answered your own question.”

“Yeah,” Coffey replied. “Jelbart and I were talking about this as a power grab, but you may have something there. You don’t even have to run that one past Liz Gordon. It’s simple but neat.”

“It’s a starting point, anyway,” Hood replied. “Meanwhile, what’s your next step?”

“We’re sailing back to Darwin to wait for Bob, then I guess it’s on to Cairns,” Coffey said. “We’re obviously going to have to take this investigation directly to Darling.”

“I agree,” Hood said. “And when you do grab him, I want you to do me a favor.”

“Sure,” Coffey said.

“Tell him he runs a lousy on-line service,” Hood said. “Tell him for Matt Stoll.”

Coffey was confused, but Hood told him not to worry about it.

Hood hung up. He felt more involved than he usually did in evolving situations. For one thing, unlike Mike Rodgers or former Striker leader Colonel Brett August, Coffey was keeping him plugged into every development in the field, however small. For another, the diverse resources of three nations were available to him. It was as true in crisis management as it was in mathematics: one point was simply one point; two points defined a line; three points created a plane, and a plane was something you could stand on. The United States, Australia, and Singapore created a plane.

There was something else that gave Hood comfort as well. For all his clout, Jervis Darling was still a businessman at heart. He was a potentially twisted one, yes, but a corporate tycoon nonetheless. Unlike the rogue generals and megalomaniacal politicians Hood and his team usually faced, he understood this breed. He could sit in their chairs and imagine the decisions they made.

But there was still a storm in the distance. One that Paul Hood could not anticipate. One that Op-Center and its allies might not be able to control. It had to do with the circus, of all things. Bob Herbert once told the CIOC that a crisis was like the big top.

“You can’t afford to grab the ringleader and lose the other attractions,” Herbert had said. “While we’re all packed shoulder to shoulder in the grandstands, those rampaging elephants and runaway clown cars will crush us flat.”

Hood hoped that if Darling were involved, he knew where the nuclear materials were headed and who was handling them. Otherwise, the toll in the grandstand could still be catastrophic.

THIRTY-FIVE

The Celebes Sea Saturday, 2:02 A.M.

Peter Kannaday did not know what to expect when he reached the radio room.

He could not imagine to whom Hawke might be broadcasting. Jervis Darling? The Malaysian fishing ship? Someone else? Kannaday’s mind leapt to conspiracies. Perhaps Hawke had pirates following them in order to seize the Hosannah. Or maybe an aircraft was en route to remove him. Or Kannaday.

As Kannaday swung down the stairs he learned how wrong he had been. Hawke was not even in the radio room. He and his thugs were waiting for the captain in the hall. Two men grabbed Kannaday, one hugging each arm. A third got behind him and grabbed Kannaday’s windbreaker. He grasped it near the neck and put a knee against Kannaday’s lower back. That prevented the captain from bending. A fourth man forced a rag in Kannaday’s mouth. The captain tasted oil. It had come from the engine compartment. The men turned Kannaday so he was facing into the corridor.

Hawke was standing there.

The security man passed under the recessed light. His arms were at his sides. For the most part his expression was as inscrutable as always. Except for the eyes. They were volcanic.

Kannaday struggled for a moment before settling into tense compliance. He was not afraid. Though Kannaday had a pretty good idea what was about to take place. He was going to die. He was resigned, though still defiant.

Hawke stepped in very close. He put the heel of his left palm against Kannaday’s chin and began to push up slowly. The captain’s head went back. Kannaday’s gaze shifted from Hawke’s angry eyes to the low ceiling of the corridor. He felt the muscles tense along his shoulders and upper arms. The pressure was cutting off his air. He tried to draw breath around the rag in his mouth. Nothing was getting through. He began to feel claustrophobic, panicky. If Hawke pushed back any farther, his neck would snap.

Kannaday resisted. He began to struggle again.

“You want to breathe,” Hawke said. “Let me help.”

Hawke released kannaday’s chin. He stepped back and punched the captain hard in the gut. Kannaday could not help but breathe then. He sucked air through his nose and around the rank cloth. Hawke moved in on him again. He hit Kannaday with a roundhouse right to the jaw. It struck so hard that the cloth flew halfway from the captain’s mouth. Kannaday snatched more air through his nose and mouth as he took another blow to the belly, a hard left. Hawke stepped in as he delivered it, twisting at the waist. At the same time he drew the other elbow back, tucked tight against his ribs. That gave the twist extra snap. Hawke knew how to drive the blows in. He knew how to make them hurt.

When he was younger, Kannaday had been in a number of dockside brawls. But those always ended up on the floor and consisted mostly of grappling and clawing. He had never been given a beating. Kannaday’s jaw throbbed, and his ears were pounding. He was nauseated from the blows to the abdomen. His shoulders burned from the strong fingers of the man behind him.

A left uppercut rocked Kannaday’s head back. He could actually feel his brain bump the top of his skull. His teeth bit through the cloth and snapped on his tongue. He tasted blood. The bone of his lower jaw literally rang, and the ringing spread to his limbs. If the men had not been holding him up, he would have fallen. Kannaday’s jaw continued ringing as Hawke followed the uppercut with a right back fist to the mouth. Kannaday’s head slumped to his right shoulder. His hurt tongue flopped over dislocated teeth. His eyelids sagged.

Hawke stepped in again. He grabbed Kannaday’s aching chin and squeezed. The pain forced the captain’s eyes to open.

“This is just the beginning of your tutorial,” Hawke said.

He kneed Kannaday very low in the belly. Twice. The gag fell entirely from the captain’s mouth now. So did thick drops of saliva mixed with blood. Hawke ignored the bloody spittle dripping onto his hand. He slapped him hard with his left hand. Against the right ear. Then Hawke cocked his left arm and jabbed a fist square into Kannaday’s right eye. He drew his fist back and hit him in the mouth. Kannaday felt his lips split.

“Now, Captain,” Hawke said. “Do I have your attention?”

Kannaday’s head was drumming. His face felt hot wherever skin touched bone. He had only a greasy view from his right eye. All he could hear was his own rapid heartbeat and strained breathing.

Hawke was still holding the captain’s chin. He moved his mouth close to Kannaday’s left ear.

“I asked you a question,” Hawke said.

Kannaday’s chest was still bleeding from the wound inflicted earlier by the wommera. He was dizzy from the loss of blood and dazed from the beating. All he could manage was a weak nod.

“Good. Here is how the rest of this enterprise will play out,” Hawke said. “You will stay in your cabin until we reach Cairns. Then you will go to the chief and tell him that the mission was successfully completed. When he asks why you look the way you do, you will tell him we had a disagreement.”

Kannaday attempted to speak. He could not even move his mouth. It felt as though everything had been pulped together: tongue, teeth, lips. Instead, he just shook his head.

Hawke kneed him again, this time in the groin. Bloody spittle flew from Kannaday’s broken lips. Hawke continued to lean close.

“We can keep this going for as long as you want,” Hawke told him. “In the end, you will do what I ask.”

Kannaday managed to exhale something that sounded like the word he intended. “Why?”

“Why?” Hawke asked. “Because if you tell him that you walked into another ambush, he will regard you as an ineffective commander. He will dispose of you, and I will get your job. Only I do not want it, Captain. I like having one man on the plank in front of me. I am only interested in money.” Hawke moved back slightly. “Our friend Marcus will corroborate your story. He likes the way things are now, having to report to Uncle Jervis every now and then. I do not think he would enjoy serving a real captain.”

Hawke had spoken slowly and clearly. Kannaday had heard all the words. But they were confusing. The captain had never known a man to fight for anonymity and a subordinate position.

“I would like to take you to your cabin,” Hawke said. “My men will see that you are cleaned and patched up. But I want to make certain that we have an understanding this time, Captain.”

Hawke’s voice seemed to be echoing now. Kannaday had to fight to pick up the words.

“G-good,” Kannaday said. It was the only word he could manage without using his lips or tongue. He was not sure anyone heard. He felt himself drifting. His good eye shut.

Hawke was still holding Kannaday’s chin. He pinched hard. “Good?” Hawke repeated. “Then you agree?”

Kannaday nodded once. Hawke released his chin. The captain’s head dropped so that his right ear was facing the ground. A moment later he felt his legs being lifted. He was being carried astern.

There was something oddly comforting about being semiconscious. Kannaday was living from second to second. He was preoccupied with pain. He had no responsibility other than to ride it out. The moments when the hurt subsided, even slightly, were almost euphoric. A part of him was actually grateful to the men who were carrying him.

A Marshall Plan for Peter Kannaday, the captain thought with lightheaded detachment. First we break you down, and then we build you back up.

Awareness came in short flashes. Kannaday was in the hall. Then he was in his cot. Then he was being bandaged and wiped down with a damp cloth. It felt refreshing but hurt at the same time. He realized that he was passing out and then waking as the men ministered to his wounds.

Finally, everything was silent and still. The pain was there, but it seemed distant.

As he lay there, Kannaday heard a soft buzz behind him. He recognized the sound. It was the engine of the launch. The crew must be heading to the fishing vessel. Or maybe they were returning. He had no idea how much time had passed. Perhaps he had been down here longer than he thought. In any case, Kannaday needed to get on deck to make sure the delivery went as planned. He was still the captain. Even the mutinous Hawke had said that much.

Hawke, Kannaday thought suddenly. Dreamlike memories of the beating came back to him. So did the rage he had felt when Hawke’s men first grabbed him.

The captain should have killed the mutinous bastard when he had the opportunity. He would get the gun from his desk and kill him now. Marcus had betrayed the captain, too. Kannaday could not kill the boss’s nephew. But he could lock the privileged little bastard in the radio room until they reached Cairns. Jervis Darling would understand that.

The captain sat up. As he did, his head imploded. The act of moving had reignited the beating. Hot prickles raced from Kannaday’s forehead to his temples and down his neck into his spine. His flesh caught fire, and he was immediately sickened by the iron-rust taste of blood in his mouth. Kannaday shouted and shot back onto the cot. He breathed quickly, squeezing his eyes shut and whimpering as he tried to ride out the pain.

No one came to him. No one spoke. He listened past the blood that was surging through his ears.

He was alone.

THIRTY-SIX

The South Pacific Saturday, 7:44 A.M.

Before Lowell Coffey turned in for the night, he phoned Bob Herbert. Coffey brought Herbert up to date on the latest development involving Jervis Darling. The veteran intelligence officer was not surprised by the idea that Darling might be involved in this undertaking. It was not the power-corrupts bromide that influenced Herbert. It was what Herbert called the big-shot syndrome. The idea that coin itself was no longer the coin of the realm. Resources were. He had tracked the phenomenon from his childhood, when the people who had color television sets were big shots. You went to their house to watch Bonanza or Star Trek or King Leonardo cartoons. Less than a decade later, oil became the prized commodity. Everyone wanted it. The Arabs had it. They became big shots. Kids in the early eighties who had Atari Pac-Man cartridges or Cabbage Patch Dolls were the talk of the class. Shortly after that, the Japanese had the technology everyone wanted. Enter the new generation of bigeru shotsu. Money was irrelevant. People would pay whatever it cost to get what the newest grand panjandrum was peddling.

With the collapse of the Soviet Union, high-grade nuclear materials became the hottest coin in the world. Just like the kid with a PlayStation 2, the person who had enriched uranium or plutonium or a nuclear weapon itself could be a star, if only for a moment. Herbert remembered thinking how a few years back atom bombs had briefly been the codpiece of India and Pakistan. One blew up a plain and hogged the headlines, the other blew up a mountain and did the same. Gross national product, religion, starvation, and disease just did not matter then. For those few days, big booming bombs was it. Megatonnage made you the Tom Cruise of the international stage.

Someone accustomed to wealth and control would find nuclear material irresistible. With it, he was a player. Knowing where it was, he was safe. Without it, he was simply an observer who could be erased along with every other pawn on the chessboard. That would definitely not appeal to a man like Jervis Darling. He liked to be a big shot.

Unfortunately, Darling was a big shot. Herbert downloaded gigabytes of data and read up on him. Darling had security, influence, money. He controlled international corporations that could be used to shift money and hide people and deeds. He also had the world’s largest private collection of prehistoric fossils.

“The guy likes to remind himself what happens to giants who don’t adapt,” Herbert mused.

Worse than that, Darling was a beloved big shot. He was the Australian dream made flesh.

The hours raced by as Herbert sat in his little cubicle in the heart of the plane. As the engine roared and the sky brightened, Herbert consumed data as if he were a pigeon at an outdoor bake sale. He flitted from file to file, snagging a crumb of information here, another there. Everything Herbert read confirmed his initial suspicion: that this kind of trade was something in which a man like Darling would involve himself.

After the intelligence chief finished an initial read, he sat back in his wheelchair. “So how do we find out for certain whether you’re behind this disgusting little transaction?” he wondered aloud.

They would continue to look for the people who had actually made the presumed trade. But Herbert knew they might not find the radioactive bread crumbs they were looking for. Already, one boat had been destroyed and another had vanished. For all they knew, they could be dealing with submarines or aircraft as well. Perhaps the materials had been dropped somewhere else for pickup at some later date. The canvas of possibilities was huge.

“No,” he said. “Lowell had the right idea.”

They had to go after Jervis Darling himself. Directly and quietly. If he had been in a movie, Herbert would have put on thick glasses and pretended to be a paleontologist with a rare fossil to sell. FNO Loh would be his assistant. Darling would be suspicious, of course, and quiz them about dinosaur genera. Herbert would have boned up on his prehistoric animals, and what he did not know, his erudite aide would. They would win Darling’s confidence.

But this was real, and they needed a quick, comprehensive solution. One that would identify Darling as a participant. It would also, he hoped, stop the trafficking itself.

As the TR-1 banked into the light of the new day, Herbert saw a flash of orange on his computer monitor. A moment later he felt the delightful heat of the sun on the back of his neck.

And he got an idea. One that would not require him to pronounce pachycephalosaurus.

THIRTY-SEVEN

Washington, D.C. Friday, 7:44 P.M.

Paul Hood stepped into the parking lot. It was a dreary and overcast evening, but the cool air tasted sweet. It always did after he spent a day in Op-Center’s windowless, forced-air underground offices. He walked to his new Toyota Maxim for the forty-five-minute drive to his apartment. An apartment that was as empty as hell without the sounds of video games and ringing phones and the distinctive thumping of Alexander holding the handrail and wall and leaping down half a flight of stairs. But it was feeling a little more like home now. As much as leaving dirty shirts on the couch or renting the DVDs you wanted to see or eating chicken salad directly from Styrofoam take-out trays could make a place feel like home.

Hood was just getting into the car when his cell phone beeped. It was Mike Rodgers. The two men had not spoken since Rodgers met with Senator Debenport. The general had spent the day interviewing potential field operatives as well as intelligence personnel who might be able to help him put together his new HUMINT unit. Rodgers had wanted to see all four candidates in public instead of in his office. It was important to see how they blended in with crowds, how anonymous they could appear when they were not part of a group.

“How did the interviews go?” Hood asked.

“They were informative,” Rodgers replied.

“Hold that thought,” Hood said. Rodgers would know what that meant. As Hood sat behind the wheel he put his headset on. At the same time he tucked the cell phone into a scrambler built into the dashboard. It looked like a typical hands-free setup. However, the frame contained a chip that sent a loud screech along with the conversation. Only a phone with a complementary chip could filter out the sound. The chip in the car only worked with numbers that had been specifically keyed into the cell phone’s memory. “Ready,” Hood said. He started the car and drove toward the sentry post.

“I just want to say up front that this is not like putting together a military special ops team, where someone can demonstrate marksmanship on a firing range or hand-to-hand combat in the gym,” Rodgers told him. “The entire process is a bit of a boondoggle.”

“How so?”

“Because good intelligence people, by nature, don’t talk. They observe and listen,” Rodgers said. “As I sat there, I kept wondering if the silent interviewee was more suitable than the one who volunteered information.”

“Interesting,” Hood said. “Guess you go by your gut.”

“Pretty much,” Rodgers admitted. “Silence and disinterest have pretty much the same sound. On the other hand, David Battat talks a lot. Maria Corneja doesn’t. Aideen Marley is somewhere in the middle. Falah Shibli speaks five languages but says less than Maria. It is all in what your gut tells you.”

“How is Shibli?” Hood asked.

“Very well,” Rodgers replied. “He’s agreed to serve as needed, though he’s decided he would prefer to remain in the Middle East. I got the sense that he’s doing undercover work for the Mossad.”

Falah Shibli was a twenty-nine-year-old Israeli of Arabic descent. He had spent seven years in Israel’s tough Druze Reconnaissance unit, the Sayeret Ha’Druzim, before joining the police in the northern town of Kiryat Shmona. Shibli had worked with Op-Center in the Middle East. He would be a valuable resource for Israeli intelligence, since he could move freely among Arab populations.

Hood waved at Sergeant Ridpath in the booth. The noncom waved back and pushed the button that raised the heavy wooden bar. Hood drove from the lot. “So how did the new people impress you?”

“There’s one guy I really liked,” Rodgers said. “Sprague West. Fifty-five-year-old former Marine, Vietnam vet. He put in a quarter century with the NYPD, the first ten of those undercover. He infiltrated the Black Panthers, drug rings, broke up prostitution. My kind of guy. And cool, Paul.”

“Silent?”

“Yeah,” Rodgers admitted with a chuckle.

“Where is he based?”

“Here,” Rodgers said. “He moved to D.C. when he left the force to be near his mother.”

“Does he have other family?” Hood asked.

“Two grown daughters and three ex-wives,” Rodgers said. “They weren’t happy with what he did for a living.”

“Great. We can start a support group,” Hood said.

“The nontalker and the man who loves to listen,” Rodgers said. “It could be interesting.”

“Incredibly dull, more likely,” Hood said. “What’s your game plan with Mr. West?”

“I’ve invited West to come to the office on Monday,” Rodgers said. “We’ll talk more about specific assignments. His mom died last year, and he would like to get back in the field.”

“Sounds perfect,” Hood admitted.

“Meanwhile, what’s happening with Lowell?” Rodgers asked.

Hood brought Rodgers up to date. When he was finished, the general was silent for a moment.

“Any thoughts?” Hood asked.

“Only about the Aussies and Singapore,” Rodgers said. “They’re tough nuts. Good partners to have in a big game.”

“How big a game do you think this is?” Hood asked.

“I don’t think there’s a global conspiracy with Darling at the head, if that’s what you mean,” Rodgers assured him.

“Why not?”

“Men like Darling are autocrats, not oligarchs,” Rodgers said. “Defenders band together for mutual protection. Aggression is a solitary activity. Even during World War II, Germany and Japan stayed a world away from each other. And they would have gone toe to toe eventually.”

“So what’s the scenario you envision?”

“Apart from the perverse challenge?” Rodgers said. “I see world capitals being attacked and crippled, economies paralyzed. You want to see where the targets may be? Look at where Darling has the fewest investments.”

“I have,” Hood said. “He’s still invested heavily at home and in South America. But he’s shifted a lot of his assets from Europe and the United States to the Pacific Rim.”

“There you go,” Rodgers said. “He’s looking to rough up a London or Washington, Paris or Bonn. Change the financial and geopolitical dynamic. Does he have any children?”

“A young daughter.”

“The heir to his efforts,” Rodgers said. “What father doesn’t want to give his daughter the world? You were ready to resign from Op-Center for your kids, for your family.”

“True. But I would draw the line at killing millions of people,” Hood said.

“Would you?” Rodgers asked.

“I don’t follow.”

“We’ve gone to war to protect our way of life, to preserve our view of the future for our children,” Rodgers said.

“When we’ve been attacked,” Hood said. “That’s an important distinction.”

“Maybe Darling believes that his world has been attacked, or at the very least threatened,” Rodgers said. “He may feel that Australia has been minimized by the United States and the European Union. He may fear the growing political, financial, and military strength of China. Maybe the states around China are also afraid, and he has rallied the oligarchy to fight back. Maybe Beijing is their target. We just don’t know.”

“All good points, though instinct tells me this is more of a challenge to Darling than a political issue.”

“That could be,” Rodgers agreed. “It doesn’t change the fact that he has to be stopped. Fortunately, as I said, the people on site are probably the best we could ask for. And we’ve got good ones in reserve, if needed. It won’t come free, or even cheap, but we’ll fix this.”

Hood thanked Rodgers for the assessment. Then he hung up and cracked the window slightly. After being inside, he wanted to feel more of what his son Alexander called “real” air.

This was not a job for people who had families. Or liked to be able to sleep nights. It was one thing to worry about a corporate bottom line or a project deadline. It was far different to worry about lives, whether it was one life or ten thousand. Then again, Hood was inevitably encouraged, even inspired, by people like Mike Rodgers and Bob Herbert. Men and women who had vast experience, perspective, and something else. Something easily misplaced in the day’s slush of ominous data and frightening theory.

Hope.

Optimism.

And the resolve never to let them go.

THIRTY-EIGHT

Cairns, Australia Saturday, 9:45 A.M.

Jervis Darling had gone to bed after receiving a signal that the transfer had finally been made. It was three rings on his cell phone, twice in succession. Because Darling had installed an FDS, a file-disabling security chip, there was no record of who had called. If someone had been watching the yacht, there was no way they could triangulate the call. Ordinarily, communicating with the yacht did not concern him. But there had been disturbing news reports about the sampan attack in the Celebes Sea. There were unconfirmed reports that radiation was detected on the wreckage. If that were true, naval patrols might be monitoring communications in the region. They could be searching for radioactivity as well as looking for anyone who might have heard or seen the explosion. If the Hosannah were picked up for any reason, his nephew knew to play dumb. Marcus would say that he had been hired to run the radio shack by the yacht owner. Period. Jervis would then telephone the person in charge. He would protest the presumption that his nephew was in any way involved with nuclear trafficking. Peter Kannaday would take the fall for it. Yachts were easy enough to acquire. Blame was what Captain Kannaday was being hired to carry.

The Hosannah was not coming directly back to Cairns. It would sail the coast for several hours after dawn, like any pleasure boat. When Kannaday was sure they were not being followed, he would bring her in. That should happen around ten in the morning.

Darling spent the early part of Saturday morning as he always did: having breakfast with his eight-year-old daughter. The meal of salmon, scrambled eggs, and raisin toast was Jessica-Ann’s favorite. It was served in a large atelier adjoining Jervis Darling’s bedroom. The room had been built for Darling’s wife to pursue painting. It was too bad Dorothy did not stick to that as her principal hobby. As John Hawke put it after investigating her activities, “Your wife has been working with a new brush.” Because a man is occupied, that does not give his wife license to amuse herself with someone less busy. Jervis and Dorothy Darling had exchanged vows, not contingencies.

Dorothy’s wooden easel and tray of paints were still stored in a corner of the sunlit room. There was an untouched canvas stretching in its frame. Jessica-Ann said she wanted to paint on it one day. She liked coming here. The blond-haired girl had been one of her mother’s favorite subjects. She said the smell of the paint made her feel as though her mother were still here. Darling could not deny his daughter that comfort.

Despite the loss of her mother four years earlier, Jessica-Ann was an outgoing, cheerful, and open young lady. Darling had seen to it that she did not want for companionship or activities. He also made sure that they spent as much time together as possible. Darling had no reservations about taking her to meetings at home and abroad. If he were leaving the country, he would simply pack up a tutor or two to travel with them.

Darling did not want to push his daughter into any of his businesses. For all he knew, she might want to be a painter, like her mother. She already liked to draw. She enjoyed sketching birds and insects. She imagined what the faces might be on the butterflies and fireflies she saw around the estate. That would be fine with Darling. He wanted to expose Jessica-Ann to all the possibilities. When the time came, she alone would decide what to do with her life. And she would make that decision in a world that did not revolve around Europe or America.

Jessica-Ann came to the table in a brilliant yellow jumpsuit. Her long hair was piled under a cap sporting the name of the latest boy band she was into. Darling had a permanent skybox at all the arenas and stadiums in Australia. Jessica-Ann got to see every concert that toured Down Under. Her high cheekbones had a healthy flush, and she wore her big, perennial smile. The young girl had just gone for a morning squash lesson at their private court. She took a moment to mime for her father the proper way to serve.

“Let me ask you something,” Darling said as she slid into one of the cushioned iron chairs. “Would you rather play with perfect form and lose or with bad form and win?”

“I’d rather win,” she said without hesitation. “It would be even better to do it with bad form, because that would show I had amazing talent.”

“I like the way you think,” Darling said as Mrs. Cooper served their breakfast. Smelling the fresh salmon, Jessica-Ann’s Siamese cat Spokane ambled over. The overweight cat was named for the first city outside of Australia that Jessica-Ann had visited. The cat moved aggressively along her leg, and Jessica-Ann slipped it a thin slice of salmon.

Darling and his daughter saw each other regularly during the week. But this was their special time. Business was not permitted to intrude. Thus, it was not until nearly ten A.M. that Darling took a call from the Hosannah. He was drinking coffee and having his first look at the on-line news services. Though it was not the call he had been expecting, it was not a surprise.

Peter Kannaday was not on the other end of the phone. It was Darling’s nephew Marcus. He was calling from a landline. The yacht was able to plug into it upon entering the cove.

“You received the signal?” Marcus asked.

“I did. Why are you calling instead of the captain?”

“He’s in his cabin,” Marcus replied.

“I repeat the question,” Darling said. He could tell when someone was being evasive. They tended to answer directly and quickly, as though the answer had been rehearsed.

“He had a run-in with Mr. Hawke,” Marcus said.

“Is Mr. Hawke with you?”

“No,” Marcus replied. “Shall I get him?”

“That isn’t necessary,” Darling told him. “What happened?”

“I’m not entirely sure,” Marcus replied. “We made the rendezvous at the rescheduled time. As the launch was setting out, Mr. Hawke came below with several of his men. He asked me to tell Captain Kannaday that Hawke was in the radio room. I was to remain above deck until they came for me.”

“How long were you up there?” Darling asked.

“About ten minutes,” Marcus told him. “Mr. Hawke came up and told me it was all right to go below.”

“And the captain?”

“Hawke said he had retired and was not to have any visitors or messages,” Marcus told him.

“Are you sure Captain Kannaday is alive?” Darling asked.

“I went to the door and had a listen,” Marcus said. “I heard movement but nothing more.”

“He hasn’t asked for anything,” Darling said.

“Not that I’m aware of,” Marcus replied. “He hasn’t used the intercom.”

“So Hawke has been running the ship.”

“Apparently,” Marcus replied. “He brought us in. I was asleep most of the time.”

“Is anyone coming ashore?” Darling asked.

“Not yet,” Marcus said. “Mr. Hawke asked me to call in. I have no further instructions or information.”

Darling poured himself more coffee. It was already prepared to his taste, dark and sweet.

John Hawke was smart. Kannaday had obviously done what Darling had suggested. He had made noises like a real captain. Hawke must have threatened Kannaday in return. Perhaps they had tied him up or beaten him. But locked in his room, Kannaday was still the captain. If there were ever a fall to take, legally or with Darling, he would still have to take it. But that was Kannaday’s problem. Darling’s problem was that if he asked to see Kannaday, he would find out what happened. That Hawke had pushed him to the wall and won. Then he would either have to replace him or send him back to the Hosannah. If Darling left him in charge, then he himself would look weak. He could not knowingly leave a crippled captain in charge. Unfortunately, there was no one available to replace Kannaday except for Hawke. But if Darling asked Hawke to take charge, he ran the very real risk that Hawke would decline. John Hawke preferred the shadows to the light. His refusal would also make Darling appear weak. As Hawke had just demonstrated, he was not afraid to push back.

The next pickup was not for another four days. The yacht was scheduled to cruise with its “paying” customers until then.

“When you see the captain, tell him I’m pleased that everything went as it was supposed to,” Darling said.

“What if I don’t see the captain?” Marcus asked anxiously.

“Then deliver the message to the next in command,” Darling replied. “That is typically how things are done, is it not?”

“Of course,” Marcus replied. He hesitated.

“Was there anything else?” Darling asked.

“Actually, yes,” Marcus said. “I’m not sure I want to go back on board.”

“Why?”

“There’s bad air on that ship,” Marcus said. “First the attack, now this strangeness between the captain and Mr. Hawke.”

“That shouldn’t impact your work or your job performance,” Darling said. “You’re insulated from all of that.”

“I don’t feel insulated,” Marcus complained. “Everyone on board feels it.”

“Deal with it,” Darling said firmly. “Set an example for the others. I need my radio operator.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now go back on board,” Darling told him. “Remember that fear is its own fuel. Have a positive attitude.”

“I will, sir,” Marcus said unconvincingly and hung up.

Darling placed the phone in its cradle. He glanced at his laptop without seeing it. He felt confident with Hawke watching things. He actually felt sorry for Peter Kannaday. Command was beyond the abilities of some people. Kannaday was one of those men. He was and would continue to be nothing more than the master of a pleasure boat. A rich one after another few years, but what did wealth matter without self-respect?

Darling wondered if Kannaday would settle into his role as a subordinate captain or whether he would try again to take on Hawke. Darling did not know the captain, but he knew human nature. He knew men. When it came to testosterone and reason, reason usually lost.

Kannaday would lash out again. Only this time it probably would not end with the captain being locked in his cabin.

Darling returned to the computer to read the latest rumors about a radioactive sampan found in the Celebes Sea. According to the reports, no one knew who the unconscious sailor was or what happened to him.

That was good. Even if he were conscious, it was unlikely the seaman had seen or heard anything useful. Hawke would have made certain of that. After all, Darling thought, he did do his best work in the dark.

THIRTY-NINE

Darwin, Australia Saturday, 12:08 P.M.

At a few minutes after eleven A.M., the TR-1 touched down at the Australian Defence Force Basic Flying Training School in Tamworth, New South Wales. Within ten minutes, a rested and energized Bob Herbert was wheeling himself up a ramp into the belly of an RAAF Bell 204 helicopter. He had called ahead and specifically requested this vehicle. And not just because it was wheelchair friendly. It fit with the reconnaissance idea he was formulating. The Bells were heavy-lift choppers capable of transporting troops or, more importantly, being reconfigured for spray loads to help put out fires.

Ninety minutes and a smooth but loud ride later, Herbert was on the ground in Darwin. Before leaving Tamworth, Herbert had said he might need the helicopter for a few hours more. The pilot shut the rotor off and waited as Herbert disembarked. Lowell Coffey and a gentleman in uniform were there to meet him. The officer looked a healthy bronze. Lowell looked sallow.

The officer introduced himself as Warrant Officer George Jelbart. It was the first time a man had ever crouched to shake Herbert’s hand. He probably did it as a courtesy, to make direct eye contact. But Herbert felt like he did when he was a kid being introduced to some friend of his father’s. He half-expected the officer to tousle his hair when he rose. As they began walking toward the terminal, Coffey shot Herbert a furrowed, That was strange look. Herbert was glad Coffey had noticed. He was not sure how much was registering in the attorney’s tired mind. It was clear from Coffey’s bloodshot eyes and pallor that his little ocean odyssey had not agreed with him.

“I won’t ask if you had a pleasant flight because those daylong trips are never enjoyable,” Jelbart said. He had to speak loudly to be heard over the wind. “But we appreciate your coming. We have a van waiting out front. Our offices are just a few minutes’ drive from here. There are beverages and sandwiches waiting. Is there anything else you’ll want?”

“Not a thing, thanks,” Herbert said.

“Mr. Herbert, the ADF commander told me that you rang ahead to request that specific aircraft,” Jelbart said.

“Yes. The RAAF registry on the TR-1 listed it among your aircraft,” Herbert told him.

“And you’ve asked it to wait for you,” Jelbart went on.

“That’s right.”

“May I ask what you have in mind?” Jelbart pressed. “We have a number of helicopters here, you know.”

“I do know that,” Herbert replied. “But there was something special about this one.”

“Would you mind sharing that information?” Jelbart said.

“We’ll talk about it when we get to the office.”

“All right,” Jelbart said.

“Tell me something,” Herbert went on. “Will FNO Loh be part of this operation?”

“She will,” Jelbart said. “But I want to emphasize that whatever we do will not be a part of the official ASEAN or ANZUS logs. This is an entirely independent action.”

ASEAN was the Association of Southeast Asian Nations. Established by the Bangkok Declaration of 1967, ASEAN was a socioeconomic as well as de facto security arrangement between Indonesia, Malaysia, Singapore, the Philippines, Thailand, and Brunei. Signed in 1951, ANZUS was a similar arrangement between Australia, New Zealand, and the United States.

“Why do you want to hide what we’re doing?” Herbert asked. “Lowell, didn’t you say that earlier, Ellsworth couldn’t wait to have the U.S. officially committed to this investigation?”

“I did,” Coffey said.

“That was pre-Darling,” Jelbart said. “Any activities undertaken by those groups are part of the public record. If this proves to be a dead end, Mr. Darling must not know that he was being investigated.”

“Makes sense,” Herbert said. “Darling’s got the clout to hammer careers flat and eviscerate budgets. He could probably bring down a sitting government if he set his mind and resources to it.”

“Without question,” Jelbart agreed. “FNO Loh agrees. Frankly, I’m uneasy even using his name in public.”

“Then we won’t use it,” Herbert told him. “How does Captain Hook strike you?”

Jelbart smiled. “That appeals.”

“Good.” Herbert looked at Coffey as they reached the terminal. The automatic door swung in. “You’ve been pretty quiet, Lowell.”

“Yes.”

“You’re also straw yellow,” Herbert added.

“That, too,” Coffey admitted. “Mr. Jelbart, you said I’d miss the swaying of the boat. I don’t. I still feel as if I’m moving.”

“That’s because you were sitting and lying down on the boat instead of standing,” Jelbart said. He seemed relieved to be talking about something other than Jervis Darling.

“Now you tell me.”

“I once went to a seminar on homeostasis,” Jelbart said. “It was mandatory for personnel who serve on the land, sea, and air. We learned that the body hastens to adapt to new stimuli, like ocean roll or weightlessness for astronauts. It’s akin to the survival instinct or antibodies rallying against a disease. But acclimation works best if the individual is doing what he always does in both environments: walking, talking, eating, that sort of thing.”

“What you’re feeling, Lowell, is not the sway but the body’s countersway,” Herbert said.

“I don’t understand,” Coffey said quietly.

“What happens in a new environment is that the fight-or-flight mechanism is triggered, and adrenaline floods the bloodstream,” Herbert told him. “When you went to sea, resources were pumped into all of your equilibrium centers. Your heart rate jumped, along with muscle strength and metabolism. It takes a while for that to return to normal. Over time, the on-off switch becomes much easier to control. Experienced seamen like Mr. Jelbart go from one to the other with no lapse at all.”

Herbert had no idea whether Coffey had heard. He was looking straight ahead and showing no expression.

“I’m impressed you knew that, Mr. Herbert,” Jelbart said.

“We got the same lecture when I joined the company years ago,” Herbert told him. “Only they didn’t call it a seminar on homeostasis. They used the acronym WYFLH.”

“What does ‘wiffle’ mean?” Jelbart asked.

“Why You Feel Like Hurling,” Herbert said.

Jelbart shook his head and smiled. Coffey did not react. He was too busy concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other.

The van had a civilian driver, and no one spoke about the mission during the brief ride. Jelbart informed Herbert that Darwin was the nation’s gateway to Asia. The airport had recently been upgraded, and a four-billion-dollar railway had just been completed linking Darwin with Adelaide and other major cities in southern Australia. It certainly looked the part of an up-and-coming city. Downtown Darwin was more metropolitan than Herbert had imagined. Both automobile and pedestrian traffic were thick on the wide, sun-drenched avenues. Newly built towers twenty and twenty-five stories tall rose behind the thickly treed streets. Trendy, upscale stores filled the firstfloor shops. It could be Cleveland or Charlotte or any other smallish metropolis in the United States.

Maybe that’s one reason someone like Darling might want to shake things up, Herbert thought. Even though he had international corporations, he might not appreciate the globalization of his native land. That kind of resentment was not limited to Third World nations and radical regimes. Even the Canadians had their problems with American influence.

The van stopped in front of the Australian Central Credit Union Building. The group took the elevator to the tenth floor. They went directly to the MIC offices, where they were met by Brian Ellsworth. The solicitor was solicitous, though he lacked the rugged confidence of Warrant Officer Jelbart.

No, that isn’t it, Herbert thought. Ellsworth is afraid.

They retired to a warm, sunny conference room and shut the door. Jelbart moved a chair aside, and Herbert rolled up to the circular conference table. He poured himself water and took a half sandwich from the tray in the center of the table. It was tuna salad. He took a bite and looked out the window. He could see the ocean from here. The tuna salad tasted very fresh. Maybe it was caught and made locally. This was really a small town with big-city aspirations and modern-world problems. No wonder Ellsworth was scared. On paper, there were solutions and options to twenty-first-century crises. In practice, Australians were still fighting the Japanese Eighteenth Army for New Guinea. They were strong, but not subtle. They were courageous but not patient.

Jelbart took coffee, a sandwich, and a seat. Coffey sat without eating. Ellsworth remained standing.

“Mr. Hebert has been fully briefed?” Ellsworth asked Jelbart.

“He has,” Jelbart replied.

“Except for one thing,” Herbert said. “The whereabouts of FNO Loh.”

“She went back to the hospital for another look at the sampan wreckage,” Jelbart said. “She will be joining us presently.”

“I see,” Herbert said. “Do you know if she was looking for something in particular?”

“She did not say,” Jelbart replied.

“Forgive me, Mr. Herbert, but we need to move this along,” Ellsworth said. “There are several ministers and one prime minister waiting for the outcome of our session. Warrant Officer Jelbart and I have been authorized to plan and execute a strategy for locating the missing radioactive material, as well as to gather evidence that will identify and help prosecute those who were involved in the removal and trade of said material. For obvious reasons, this strategy must be developed as quickly as possible. We are anxious for your input.”

Herbert looked at Ellsworth. “I think I followed that,” the intelligence chief said. He took a bite of sandwich. “There are two effective ways of doing this. One way is to set up a sting. We pose as men in the market for hot grease.”

“Hot grease?” Ellsworth said.

“Fissionable material,” Herbert said. “The stuff that makes things pop and burn.”

“Jesus lord,” Ellsworth said.

“We try to lighten up Armageddon to keep from being chronically depressed,” Herbert admitted. “Anyway, the problem with that option is it would take weeks to set up a credible front. We don’t have that kind of time. So I’m going to suggest a quicker, less orthodox plan.”

“And that is?” Ellsworth asked impatiently.

“We smoke the bastards out,” he replied.

FORTY

Darwin, Australia Saturday, 12:31 P.M.

Monica Loh stood in the hospital room, behind the lead shield, looking in. The door was shut behind her. The odor was different than the last time Loh had been there. It was musky, much less antiseptic. That was not surprising, given that the patient had been lying here since his arrival two days before. He was catheterized and taking only liquid nourishment, so there was little for nurses to do other than change his position every six hours.

The sailor was still unconscious. According to the doctor, part of that was the result of the explosion and part of it was due to the painkillers and sedatives being delivered intravenously.

Loh had asked the physician if the patient would be at all communicative without the drugs.

“He would not be talking,” the doctor replied. “He would be moaning. Loudly. The burns he received are quite severe.”

So there was no information here and no clues from the wreckage. She had just been downstairs. The pieces of sampan had been examined for fragments of another boat. Perhaps the target vessel had been damaged in the explosion. There was nothing. The blast had occurred locally, on the sampan. Forensics had even pulled particles of algae from the wood. They had hoped it might point them to a specific area of the Celebes Sea where the sampan had been sailing in the hours before the blast. Unfortunately, the organisms the scientists had identified all belonged to colonies that existed throughout the region.

A blank ship and, for now, a blank sailor. Word had reached her while they were at sea. There were over 500 Lee Tongs listed at the Singaporean Office of Registry and Taxation. More than half of them were the right age to be this man. COSCOM was checking them out. But the research would take days, possibly weeks. If they could find this one, they might be able to learn who he spent time with ashore. Whether anyone else on the sampan survived. Dr. Lansing had told her he would jolt Tong awake again if she could prove that tens of thousands of lives depended on the answers the pirate would give. But the pirate had not said much before. Lansing and Ellsworth both agreed there was no reason to imagine a second try would produce different results. Loh felt it was certainly worth a try. If she thought that Tong would survive, she would have insisted that he be transferred to a hospital in Singapore. The doctors there might be no less reluctant to wake him than Dr. Lansing, but they would have no choice. Criminals have few rights in Singapore. The government would put public safety before the well-being of a pirate.

Instead of working with what might be scraps of information from the source, they were going to make plans based on ideas from an American spy. This Bob Herbert could be a brilliant intelligence operative. But whatever he came up with would still be exploratory. That was like sailing without charts. It was not something Loh preferred to do.

The FNO continued to look out at the bandaged, fraillooking Singaporean. He seemed so alone in the clean, white bed. She began to think just how alone he really was. She knew that people who were born without opportunity, such as a family business or store or political connections, had three options: they could dwell in poverty, turn to crime, or agree to indentures such as military service or a lengthy contractual apprenticeship. Ironically, if this man survived, he would return to Singapore in a worse position than before. Chances were good the owner of the boat would not come forward to press charges. The pirate would go free. But only the most menial, lowest-paying work would now be available to him because of his past. And because of that past, he would be watched by the police. His activities would have to be reported by landlords and employers. If Tong were involved in a fight, or stole food or clothing, or picked someone’s pocket, he would be dealt with very harshly. Caning and imprisonment, most likely.

It would be better for everyone if Dr. Lansing revived him. FNO Loh could ask him a few final questions, and he could die having done something beneficial for society.

That is not for you to say, Loh warned herself. She had gone from making subjective judgments to making moral ones.

She turned from the pirate and walked into the deserted hallway. Darwin police were keeping nonessential personnel away from the pirate’s room. They were checking the IDs of everyone who stepped from the elevator. There were already rumors circulating about what had happened on the Celebes. The Australian government did not want anyone to obtain confirmation that nuclear materials were involved.

An MIC officer was waiting to take FNO Loh to the meeting. They made their way to the elevator in silence. Loh was still thinking about the pirate. She was wondering what drove him to his trade. Confidence had to be one of those things. Everyone on a sampan crew works in an extended voyage. And only a crew that knew the sea well would attempt to sail it in a sampan. Especially if they were carrying explosives.

That boldness might spill over into the kind of vessel the pirates would attack, she thought. They were like longboat seamen who would not shy from chasing a whale. No ship would be too large for them tackle. No crew would be too formidable.

That was a small thought, but it could be a useful one. Maybe there were others she had overlooked. Loh actually felt a trace of satisfaction. Perhaps this poor man was not as blank as she had thought.

Lee Tong’s misdeeds might help them catch a potential terrorist.

FORTY-ONE

Washington, D.C. Saturday, 12:23 A.M.

Paul Hood could not sleep.

Dressed in Calvin Kleins and an old L.A. Rams T-shirt that had been given to him by former quarterback Roman Gabriel, Hood lay on his back in the queen-size bed of his two-bedroom apartment. He stared at the ceiling, watching for the occasional cone of light as a car drove past or an airplane flew by. The window was open a crack, and the blinds were raised. He had moved from a nearby hotel four months ago, but he had not gotten around to putting up shades. At least he was remembering to stock the essentials. The first night he’d had no toilet paper. He had to use the Washington Post.

The view was to the west, so Hood did not get the rising sun. Not that it mattered. He was usually awake before the sky was light. He had probably witnessed more sunrises than a generation of roosters. And he probably spent less time in the sun than anyone else in Washington.

The new, five-story-tall building was called The Newport. It was located on Tyburn Court in Camp Springs, Maryland, a short drive from Andrews Air Force Base. Hood had a corner apartment on the top floor. That gave him access to a sundeck on the roof, though he had never been to it. Whenever the kids stayed over, Alexander slept on a sofa bed in the living room, and Harleigh had the second bedroom. To ease the blow for Alexander of not having his own room, the living room was where Hood kept the PlayStation 2 video games.

The room was quiet. It was not noise that kept Hood up. Nor was it the situation in Australia. Hood had been through more than a dozen crises over the past ten years. He had learned how to ride them out by focusing on the upside. Civilization would survive. It was simply a matter of the cost. That did not make a crisis pleasant, only manageable. Besides, this problem was in the hands of very capable people. If they needed him, they knew how to reach him.

What troubled Hood, the more that he thought about it, was the extent to which he was needed. Not at Op-Center but in his personal life. Like the splashes of light above him, the patterns of Paul Hood’s life changed less and less as the days wore on.

There was dust on the game console. He had noticed it tonight when he walked past the TV. The kids had not stayed with him in over three weeks. It had not seemed that long. Hood was not angry or disappointed. It was not even a question of his being at the house more. Teenagers grew up. They got involved in activities. They dated. Harleigh had two sessions with a psychiatrist each week. The girl was still suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder following her hostage ordeal at the United Nations. She had gotten over the initial phase, when all she wanted to do was stay in her room and see no one. Now she was back at school and beginning to play the violin again. She still went through frequent periods of lethargy and depression. She was also suffering from occasional headaches and psychosomatic stomach ailments. All of that was being taken care of slowly and carefully. Some of it was being addressed through psychiatry, some by Hood and Sharon. Most, however, seemed to be happening because she was hanging out with her friends. Perhaps that was to be expected.

Teenagers were like the cars and planes outside, Hood thought. They pulled away and threw less and less light on their parents. That was to be expected and accepted.

What bothered Hood was that he had come up with nothing to fill the empty places. Now that he thought of it, maybe losing those activities made him realize that there were other holes. Perhaps Op-Center was part of that problem. He had built an effective team, and he had not set new goals.

Maybe he should run for the Senate, he thought halfheartedly. He had enjoyed campaigning and giving speeches when he ran for mayor of Los Angeles. Maybe he should win an election, have himself appointed to the CIOC, and work on the other side of the intelligence fence. That would be a challenge. Especially if Mike Rodgers were named to replace him.

It was something to consider. Especially since Hood was one of the public heroes of the United Nations hostage crisis. He had saved children, including his own daughter. Voters would respond to that.

The more Hood thought about that, the more the idea appealed to him. Maybe he could even run for president. A few spy agency alumni had managed to reach the Oval Office.

The real question was how much he truly wanted that. Or the Senate. Or anything else.

And then late-night common sense poked him in the ribs and whispered in his ear. The hollowness is not about whether you are needed, it told him. It was not about what he did for a living. It was about how Hood was living. His former wife was dating. She was working and meeting new people. Not Paul Hood. Traffic patterns had changed, but he had not. He was waiting for the kids to come to him. He was waiting for crises and crisis managers at Op-Center to come to him. When they did not, he found himself lamenting how dull his life was. How sparse the lights on the ceiling were.

Running for office again was not a bad idea, Hood had to admit. But it was not a decision that should be made in the small hours of the night. Not with a head as clouded as his heart was empty. Not when there were smaller steps Hood could take first.

Such as? he asked himself.

Such as calling Daphne Connors back and asking her on a second date, he told himself as he shut his eyes and replayed the pleasures of the first date on the insides of his eyelids.

FORTY-TWO

Cairns, Australia

Saturday, 5:57 P.M.

Queensland North Rural Fire Brigade Deputy Captain Paul Leyland loved his life.

The brown-eyed Leyland stood on the wide balcony that surrounded the observation tower. He looked out at the world and lives that had been entrusted to him and his team. He felt the way the ancient mythic gods must have felt. They each had a particular responsibility, whether it was war, fertility, the underworld, or the hearth. For Deputy Captain Leyland, there was no greater responsibility than to safeguard this land, its people, and the future of both. And there was no greater reward than doing it well.

Leyland had a bald head that seemed to glow emberorange in the fast-fading sunlight. Part of that was due to the tautness of his flesh. Part of it was the constant perspiration. Leyland hated hats. Feeling the sun on his bare scalp was one of life’s great delights. That was why he preferred to be out here instead of sitting in the tower. There was an old joke about a bald head being a solar panel for the sexually active man. For Leyland, the part about the solar panel was true. The sun gave him life. As for the sweat, he had thick red eyebrows and a woolly mustache to protect his eyes and mouth. He rehydrated himself regularly from a canteen tucked in his utility belt. He used a vintage metal canteen instead of a plastic bottle like the kids who worked with him. Leyland liked the feel and taste of the hot, metallic water whenever he took a drink.

The five-foot-seven-inch former Royal Australian Air Force Maritime Patrol Group pilot had been working for the QNRFB for six of his forty-two years. He had recently passed up a promotion to senior deputy captain because he did not want to go to an office or firehouse. He wanted to stay out here, with his devoted Little Maluka, in the Cairns Observation Tower. Nearly 170 feet in the air, he could see across the Atherton Tableland for limitless kilometers in every direction. The wind from the ocean was as constant as the blazing sun. Leyland could smell a fire before he saw it, even when the wind was blowing against it, which was a good thing. With its rustic farms, volcanic lakes, waterfalls, and rain-forest region, the upland area outside of Cairns was one of the nation’s leading tourist attractions. The Kuranda Scenic Railway and the Skyrail Rainforest Cableway carried five times as many passengers each year as all the commuter railroads that served Queensland. Paul Leyland, his live-in crew of two, and Little Maluka were the Kadoovas, as they called themselves. The deranged ones who put the safety of their territory before their own well-being.

The observation tower stood on the top of a 500-foot-high hill. There was a paved, two-lane road and a landing pad for helicopters. The tower itself was made of unvarnished wood. Brick or cinderblock would have been safe from sparks in the event of a fire. But they would have been problematic on the hill. Because of the moisture, the ground was constantly shifting. The mortar would have cracked and left the structure unstable. A metal tower would have become unbearably hot. For Little Maluka and the others, anyway. Leyland could take anything. In fact, the Cairns native relished extremes.

Inside the tower was communication equipment and a two-meter-diameter alidade. The revolving, horizontal disc had a map on its face as well as upright markers for angular measurement. It could see in all directions from the tower. The topographic device was used to pinpoint the exact location of a fire. For Leyland, the alidade was the world in miniature. Looking at it made him feel even more like a god.

The other members of his team, John “Spider” Smolley and Eva Summers, were in the small log cabin at the base of the tower. Little Maluka, their koala mascot, was beside him. Usually he was in his large pen beside the cabin. At sunset, however, he liked to relax on the wind-cooled observation platform. The koala had been badly injured during a blaze and nursed to health. When the small marsupial was well enough to leave, he had decided not to. Why should he? Eva made sure Little Maluka had all the eucalyptus leaves he could eat. Leyland was the one who named him. Maluka was Aborigine for “the chief.”

The cabin was air-conditioned, and there was a TV set with a DVD player. The twentysomethings spent most of their time watching television or talking on the radio. But they came to life when they had to. They risked their lives without hesitation. The three of them were usually the first ones on scene, working with volunteers to evacuate residents, construct firebreaks, and coordinate the activities of firefighters who flew in from other areas. Yet neither of Leyland’s deputies felt quite as he did. That this land was Heaven and he was Saint Peter. If the red-tongued Devil showed up at their gates, it was a sacred duty to beat him back.

Little Maluka was lying on his soft back beside Leyland’s boot. His eyes were shut. There was reddish white scar tissue around his big black nose and on his legs. The grayish fur would probably never grow back there. But that was all right, Leyland thought. It made the little guy look tough. Not that a koala needed to look tough. It had no real enemies here except for men. For centuries, they had hunted koalas for food and fur. Now there were laws to prevent that. The firefighter raised his foot. He touched the animal’s exposed belly with his toe. The koala grunted, but he did not open his eyes.

“You’re tough, all right,” Leyland muttered. “You lazy slushy. Is that how you got hurt? Sleeping while the woods burned?”

“He’s not a slushy,” a female voice said over the radio.

That was Eva. She was on the main radio in the cabin. Leyland always kept his portable radio open. In an emergency, the second or two it took to turn it on could be decisive.

“You’re right. Little Maluka could not work in a kitchen,” Leyland replied. “At least kitchen help does the dishes. This boy doesn’t do anything except purr like a fat cat.”

“When the RFB starts a koala brigade, he’ll be the first to enlist—hold on,” she said, interrupting herself. “I have incoming.”

Small, high-powered binoculars hung from Leyland’s neck. He snatched them up and did a quick walk around the tower. If someone was calling in a fire, he might be able to spot it. He saw nothing.

“Captain, I’m putting the call through to you,” Eva said.

“What is it?” Leyland pulled the radio from his belt. He put the cupped upper half against his ear. It was shielded so that he could hear if he were in a chopper or a loud roaring fire.

“I don’t know what this is,” she said. “They won’t tell me.”

“Who won’t tell you?”

“They won’t tell me that either,” she replied.

“Better not be a smoodger,” Leyland said.

“He doesn’t sound like he’s kidding,” Eva assured her commander. “Here he is.”

While Leyland waited, he stuck out his lower lip and blew perspiration from his mustache. It was something he did when he was annoyed. He was not accustomed to getting secret calls. He scanned the canopy of trees to the northwest. Fires occasionally started in the campground there.

“Captain Leyland?” the caller asked.

“Yes. Who is this?”

“Warrant Officer George Jelbart, Maritime Intelligence Centre,” the caller replied.

“Is there a situation?” Leyland pressed. The man was calling from a helicopter. He could hear the sound in the radio.

“There isn’t a fire, if that’s what you’re asking,” Jelbart replied.

Leyland relaxed. He lowered the binoculars.

“But we do have a situation,” the officer went on. “We are coming in to discuss it with you.”

“We?” Leyland asked.

“We’ll discuss it when we arrive,” Jelbart said. “We should reach the helicopter pad in about fifteen minutes. We’d like clearance.”

“What kind of bird are you flying?”

“A Bell 204,” Jelbart told him.

“There’s room for you. You’re cleared,” Leyland informed him.

“We checked that before we left,” Jelbart replied. “Thanks for the backup, though.”

The caller clicked off. Leyland replaced the unit in his belt. It automatically switched back to base-audio. He was intrigued by the call but also frustrated. Leyland hated being in the dark about anything. He would have pressed for information, but he also disliked wasted effort. If the warrant officer had wanted Leyland to know more, he would have told him more.

“Eva, have Spider climb up to keep an eye on things,” Leyland said. “I’m going to the helipad.”

“Right away,” she said after giving Spider the order. “What’s going on?”

“We’re having guests,” Leyland replied. “Intelligence chaps from the Aussie navy.”

“Sounds important,” Eva said. “Is it?”

“When was the last time anyone visited who was not with the RFB?” Leyland asked.

“Never, in the three years I’ve been here,” she replied.

“And not in the six years I’ve been here,” Leyland said as he started down the ladder in the center of the tower.

“I don’t follow,” she said.

“No one comes out here if it isn’t important,” Leyland said.

FORTY-THREE

Cairns, Australia Saturday, 6:22 P.M.

Lowell Coffey could not decide which was worse—riding in a boat or in a helicopter. The naval vessel rocked its passengers this way and that. The helicopter vibrated wildly and was deafening. Not that a qualitative comparison between the corvette and the Bell was going to help. His fight-or-flight mechanism, or whatever Jelbart and Herbert had decided it was, wanted him to flee. The only reason Coffey mused about the differences was to keep from dwelling on the discomfort itself. Toward the end of the forty-five-minute journey, it was a necessary distraction.

The relative motions being equally unpleasant, Coffey decided that the helicopter was marginally worse. On the corvette he could move around. Here, he was stuck between FNO Loh and Bob Herbert in a thinly cushioned bench designed for two. The pilot and Jelbart were in front of them. Herbert’s wheelchair was in the small cargo space behind the backseat.

Herbert had contributed something else to the mission. His plan to gather intelligence about Jervis Darling.

For the first half of the journey, the plan had been in the forefront of Coffey’s mind. For one thing, he was not sure it was a workable idea. But it was the only idea anyone had. That made it inevitable by default. For another, he was not sure it was a legal idea. But they were not going to court. Not yet. As Jelbart had said, the objective was to find the missing radioactive material. Pinning it on Darling could be done later.

Coffey also was not happy having to involve additional outsiders in the operation. He did not doubt that the personnel of the Queensland North Rural Fire Brigade were as brave as any soldier who ever shouldered a rifle. But Jelbart admitted that the locals were fiercely loyal to Jervis Darling. The magnate made generous donations to local sports programs, environmental groups, municipal organizations, and charities. Since the reasons for the operation were classified, the firefighters might not want to help spy on their benefactor. And they could not afford to go through channels. That would waste time and risk leaks. This was going to have to be accomplished through tactful persuasion. Bob Herbert could be persuasive, but tact was not in his repertoire. Jelbart was a native, but he also seemed to be a balls-ahead kind of guy. And Monica Loh was both Asian and a woman. Exurban Australians were cheerfully misogynistic as well as naturally suspicious of all outsiders. But they were particularly wary of what many called “the Asian Escalade.” In less politically sensitive times it was known as “the Yellow Peril.” The liberal soul of Lowell Coffey hated the term. Throughout the Western world, it was applied primarily to the Japanese before and during World War II. It was reborn when China fell to Communism, and it grew in popularity with the conflicts in Korea and Vietnam. To Australians, the fear was not so much about the threat of military confrontation. It was the very real loss of jobs and economic prosperity to all the nations of the Asian Pacific Rim. Most Asian nations did not have the kind of compensation packages that were available to Australian workers. A company could hire twenty Taiwanese seamen or mill workers for the price of three Australians. Many of these workers toiled at home. But each year, hundreds of illegal immigrants slipped into Australia along the nation’s 7,813 miles of coastline. They went to work for industrial firms, as fishermen, and in the food-processing industries. Most of the money they made was sent home, doubling the hit to the local economy. That made a considerable impact in a nation of twenty million people.

The only diplomats on the team were Coffey and Ellsworth. Ellsworth had stayed behind to act as a liaison with other intelligence agencies. That left the burden on Coffey. Coffey, a man whose mind was being jostled as thoroughly as the rest of him.

The helicopter slipped over a ridge and dropped toward a white landing pad on top of a hill. As it settled down, Coffey decided that, in fact, he preferred the chopper to the corvette. The ride was a hell of a lot shorter. The chopper came to rest with the slightest bump. The pilot cut the rotor, and Jelbart jumped out. A man was approaching from along a dirt path. There was an observation tower some 400 yards behind him. While the pilot retrieved Herbert’s wheelchair, FNO Loh and Coffey joined Jelbart. The Singaporean officer had been quiet and expressionless throughout the journey. Perhaps she felt uncomfortable being in Australia. Or she might have been focused on the mission. Or both. It could also be that after hanging around politicians and attorneys for his entire professional life, Coffey was unused to people who were silent when they had nothing to say.

Coffey waited by the helicopter until Herbert was in his wheelchair. Even without his chair, the intelligence chief was surprisingly mobile. His arms were thickly knotted with muscles. With remarkable ease, he could cross an aisle or hop onto a desk to assault someone on the other side. Those arms reminded Coffey of the climbing roots of a banyan tree. Herbert’s strong fingers could probably dig holes in concrete. He swung unaided from the doorframe of the chopper into his chair. It was an inspiring thing to see.

The fire officer was nothing like Coffey had imagined. He had expected Paul Leyland to be a strapping and immaculate man. A GQ cowboy with outback trappings. He was not.

Paul Leyland was not especially presentable. His olive-green uniform was rumpled and spotted with perspiration on the collar, under the arms, and behind the knees. His skin was rash-red, not bronze. It looked like there were patches of fur stuck to his boot. He was well under six feet tall. He was not even wearing an outback shade hat. His bald head was bare and sweaty.

“I think we’re going to be able to do business with this guy,” Herbert said as they approached.

“What makes you say that?” Coffey asked.

“Two things. First, he smiled when he shook Officer Loh’s hand,” Herbert said.

“So? Maybe he just likes the ladies,” Coffey suggested.

“Exactly,” Herbert said. “He’s not wearing a wedding band. He’s up in his tree house most of the day. She’ll be an asset.”

“That’s quite a leap of faith,” Coffey said. “Jelbart said Leyland has a woman working for him.”

“Yup,” Herbert said. “That strengthens my case.”

“How?”

“She’s the only female firefighter in this department,” Herbert told him. “He had to okay her being here. He likes having a woman around, and it doesn’t matter if she’s foreign. Which is my second point. It shows he’s got an open and independent mind.”

“I’m not signing off on any of that,” Coffey said.

“Dinner at the 1789 in Georgetown says I’m right,” Herbert replied.

“Does everything have to be a war with you?” Coffey protested.

“Not a war. Call it a dispute with hair on its chest. You in or out?” Herbert pressed.

“I’m in,” Coffey said.

The men left the landing pad. They crossed damp grasses to where the others were standing. The group was brightly lighted in the glow of the footlights on the landing pad. Jelbart introduced them.

“I understand you’re the offsider running the team,” Leyland said as he shook Herbert’s hand.

Coffey noticed that the captain did not smile. Herbert did, however. From the side of his mouth, at Coffey.

“Actually, Officer Loh and I will be conducting activities jointly,” Herbert told him.

Both Jelbart and Loh looked at the intelligence chief. Loh was impassive. Jelbart seemed somewhat surprised. But he said nothing.

“I see,” Leyland said. “So which of you is going to tell me exactly what these activities are? And would you like to go to the cabin to do it?” He pointed toward a small structure near the base of the tower. “It’ll be getting pretty chilly out here in a few minutes. You might be more comfortable.”

“We’re a little squeezed for time,” Herbert said. “And we won’t be out here that long.”

“All right,” Leyland said. “What’s on your mind?”

“Discretion, for one thing,” Herbert said. “Nothing we are about to discuss can be repeated.”

“I can keep a secret,” Leyland said. “Just tell me one thing. Is what you want to do legal?”

“In theory, and if everything goes the way I hope,” Herbert replied.

Leyland looked at him strangely. “That’s like calling a match ‘safe’ until you strike it.”

“Captain Leyland, I’m a solicitor,” Coffey interjected. “The situation is equivalent to breaking down the door of a house that’s on fire. Technically, you are trespassing. But by every other measure, it’s the right thing to do.”

“You burble like a solicitor,” Leyland said. “So the answer is no?”

“The answer is that we are investigating a national security matter,” Jelbart said.

“An international security issue,” FNO Loh added.

“Correct,” Jelbart agreed. “We can bat around the fine points of ethical versus legal law if you like. Or we can try to save a couple of million lives. Which will it be?”

Leyland looked at the group. “I’m out here to save lives. I’m listening, people.”

“Thank you,” Jelbart said.

“Captain, do you have any kind of personal or professional relationship with Jervis Darling?” Herbert asked.

“We trapshoot twice a week,” Leyland said.

“That’s fantastic,” Coffey said.

“That was a joke,” Leyland told him. “No. I have no personal or professional relationship with Mr. Darling. In fact, the only part of him I have ever seen is the arse end of his helicopter.”

“What about firefighting?” Herbert asked.

“Our squad doesn’t even watch his estate,” Leyland said. “He has his own security and fire prevention service.”

“So I’ve been told,” Herbert said. “Still, I’m hoping there’s a loophole somewhere. I need a reason to go into the estate.”

“A reason to get on the property or in the house?” Leyland asked.

“In the house,” Herbert said.

“You mean like asking to use the dunny?”

Coffey inferred from the context that dunny meant lavatory.

“No, it has to be somewhat more substantial than that,” Herbert replied. “Assuming Mr. Darling is there, I need to be inside the mansion for about ten minutes while he is on the outside. Would you have a legal right to check the grounds for fire safety violations?”

“Only if there were a fire,” Leyland said. “We have what’s called the right of inquiry. We are allowed to investigate the cause of a blaze to make sure it doesn’t happen again. But don’t ask me to start a fire. It hasn’t rained for two weeks. It could easily spread.”

“We wouldn’t ask you to do that,” Jelbart said.

Coffey watched Herbert’s expression go from hopeful to annoyed. Obviously, the intelligence chief thought he had his way in.

“Let me ask you this,” Leyland said. “Is it necessary that you see Mr. Darling himself?”

“No. His presence is not required,” Herbert said.

“He may not even be there,” Jelbart pointed out.

“Then I have something that may work, though it’s going to take a bush liar to sell it,” Leyland said.

“We’ve got some of those,” Herbert replied. “What’s on your mind?”

“I’m thinking that Mr. Darling would rather deal with us than with a group that could really do him some damage,” Leyland replied.

“Who?” Jelbart asked.

“Come with me,” Leyland added. He started toward the tower. “I’m going to show you how to stamp your passport.”

FORTY-FOUR

Washington, D.C. Saturday, 7:31 A.M.

Matt Stoll was the only other person in the operations level when Paul Hood arrived. That was not unusual. It was a Saturday morning.

Hood came in on Saturday mornings now because he had nowhere else to go. He would get an update from Herbert or Coffey wherever he was. One thing on his to-do list was to call Daphne Connors and see if she was free that night. If he did not push himself, no one else would.

Stoll usually came in on weekends to write or try out software he did not get to use during the week. Unless there was a technology convention in town, the computer genius did not have an active social life. He had no interest in socializing with women who did not speak his language.

“She doesn’t have to know gate propagation in highres temporal resolution, though that would be heaven,” he once said. “But she should know how many megabytes there are in her PC and what that means. If I have to explain it, then the sex is never very good.”

Hood was not clear on who the sex was not good for or why. He was glad he was not on the need-to-know list.

As it turned out, the cherubic-looking Stoll was not here to tinker with a new program. He said he had gotten a call from Bob Herbert. The intelligence chief told him he needed something very specific.

“Bob wants me to rig him a Hoover,” Stoll said in his joyless monotone. Excitement, whenever Stoll showed it, was in the speed his fingers moved on a keyboard. Right now he was typing very rapidly.

“Which is what?” Hood asked. He suddenly felt very sorry for any woman Stoll had ever met.

“A Hoover is a data vacuum,” Stoll replied. “Bob wants to use his wheelchair computer as a drop zone for an external source.”

“You mean we plug into Bob, and Bob plugs into something else,” Hood said. “He serves as a conduit that allows us to read the ‘something else.’ ”

“I couldn’t have said it better,” Stoll said.

“What is Bob planning to plug into?” Hood asked.

“Well, he called right before his chair was loaded into a helicopter, so he didn’t go into a whole lot of detail,” Stoll said. “Apparently, Bob’s going to try to get into Jervis Darling’s estate. He wants to jack into his phone system.”

“Why? I thought we already hacked the Darling phone records.”

“We did,” Stoll said. “If he’s using his own uplink for secure calls, they wouldn’t show up on his public records. But if Bob plugs in directly, he’s accessing the origin point of the calls. That will give him access to all the numbers in the telephone’s memory.”

“What if those numbers aren’t programmed in?” Hood asked.

“Most phones retain the information somewhere,” Stoll assured him. “The redial function usually stores ten to twenty numbers. It costs less to build a chip that eliminates numbers by attrition. They get scrolled from the system rather than erased. Most people don’t know that.”

“What about incoming calls?” Hood asked. “We need to ID them.”

“If Darling’s phone has caller ID or whatever the Australian equivalent is, those numbers will also be stored,” Stoll said. “If he doesn’t, we’ll have to settle for the outgoing calls.”

“Did Bob say how he intended to get access to Darling’s private line?” Hood asked.

“For the record, it’s not the line he needs to get access to,” Stoll said. “It’s the phone itself. Bob can’t just splice into the fiber optics. That would put him outside the scrambler. Any data he got would be useless.”

“I see. Okay. How does Bob plan to jack into the phone?”

“He didn’t say,” Stoll replied. “I’m sure Darling has an office phone with multiple lines. That would mean there’s a data port. All Bob has to do is plug his computer into that. That will give us access.”

“That’s all Bob has to do,” Hood said. “I’ll give him a call.”

“He said he was turning his phone off,” Stoll told him. “He doesn’t want it beeping while he’s in with Darling. If it helps, Lowell told him the only legal risk would be invasion of privacy. Lowell is also pretty sure Darling would not press that issue. He said the reasons for the investigation would come out, and the publicity would be bad for Darling, even if he were innocent.”

“The legal options are not what worries me,” Hood said. “If Darling’s into nuclear trafficking, he’s probably also in bed with some ugly characters. They may not bother with lawyers.”

“I don’t blame them,” Stoll said.

Hood scowled.

“I guess we could call Lowell to try to stop him,” Stoll suggested.

“No,” Hood said. “We need facts to support our theory, and this is probably the best way to get them. I take it Lowell is not going along.”

“Right,” Stoll said. “It was Bob, a fire warden, a lady officer from Singapore, and a koala.”

“A koala? An animal?” Hood asked.

“Yeah. Search me what that’s all about.” Stoll smiled as he finished writing his program. “It’s like the cast of the Wizard of Oz. And they’re in Oz. Pretty ironic, don’t you think?”

That it was. Right down to the big, blustering wizard spewing fire. Only this Oz was no dream.

Stoll activated the program. He ran a test on an Op-Center phone line just to make sure it was working. It functioned perfectly. They had all the numbers Lowell Coffey had phoned the day before he left. Hood looked away and ordered the list purged from Stoll’s computer.

“I’ll bet you didn’t peek in the girls’ locker room in high school, either,” Stoll said.

“As a matter of fact, I didn’t,” Hood admitted. “I don’t mind being a spy. I never liked being a voyeur.”

“Interesting. We’ll have to discuss the distinction,” Stoll said.

“I can give it to you in two words,” Hood said as he clapped a hand on Stoll’s rounded shoulder. “National security.”

“The voyeuristic instinct is a doorway to intelligence, and intelligence is the spy’s basic unit of data,” Stoll said. “Unless you look, how do you know Lowell’s not working for the Chinese or some terrorist group?”

“He believes too strongly in the rule of law. Tell me, do you routinely check on all of us?” Hood asked.

“Nope. I’m not a voyeur. I was only asking you.”

Hood felt like kicking himself. He should have known better than to take one of Matt Stoll’s infamous buggy rides. They took you slowly around the park without getting you anywhere. Hood did not have the time or focus for this kind of discussion.

Stoll told Hood he would not know anything else until data started coming in. Hood asked his computer wizard to let him know the moment that happened, then left to go to his office. It was disconcerting to see the corridors so empty. It was like a manifestation of his own hollow life. Maybe that was something Bob Herbert had learned after losing his wife. You mourn, but you don’t sit still. You fill that empty hall with anything you can. Even if it isn’t necessarily good for you.

Of course, there’s a difference between recreational and reckless, Hood thought. He was certain that Bob had considered the risks. He was also sure of something else. Herbert was probably enjoying the hell out of them. Hood only hoped that the intelligence chief was aware of the greatest danger.

Complacency.

A quiet, seaside estate was not war-ravaged Beirut or a skinhead stronghold in Germany. Those were the kinds of environments where Herbert was accustomed to waging war. They were unstable regions where instinct kept the mind and body on high alert.

Hood had to trust that his colleague knew what he was getting into. He also hoped that Herbert would come up with something else. Something that quickly sketched plans did not always allow.

An exit strategy.

FORTY-FIVE

The Great Barrier Reef Saturday, 10:03 P.M.

He hurt.

Everywhere.

Peter Kannaday suffered pain with every breath. It was dull and warm and it was everywhere. He felt it spiritually as well as physically. The captain lay on his bed in a bruised heap, belly down, face to the wall. He had slept on and off since Hawke’s thugs had brought him here. Kannaday’s eyes and mouth were open, but it was dark. He did not see, nor speak, nor swallow. His stomach was rumbling from hunger. His tongue was swollen and dry. The only liquid he had tasted lately was his own blood.

Sometime during the night Kannaday had roused himself briefly to see if the door was locked. It was not. He checked to see if his gun was still there. It was not. He was free to walk the deck, broken and humiliated but unarmed. He would probably be able to radio Jervis Darling because he was free and he was still the captain. But what would he say? That he had been minimized, reduced to a figurehead? That he had not been able to enforce his authority or hold what was his? That he had no idea what to expect or what to do?

Kannaday closed his mouth. Even his neck muscles hurt. He must have strained them when he struggled with the men who were holding him. He had to get past the pain and think. It was clear that Hawke would not kill him. He wanted Kannaday as a buffer between himself and the law. But Kannaday had no idea what Darling might do. Darling did not like dealing with weak men. Kannaday would be kept around no longer than necessary. Then he would be dismissed or, more likely, eliminated. Darling was a man of absolutes.

From the slow rocking of the swells, Kannaday could tell that they were close to shore. No doubt Hawke had reported back to the cove and was now following their cruising course along the Great Barrier Reef. Kannaday had time to act, but not a lot.

Kannaday forced himself to move. He got his arms under him and pushed up. Slowly. His upper arms trembled as he worked himself into a sitting position. He eased his back against the wall at the side of the bed. The solid support felt good. His head throbbed as blood fought to reach it. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. Miraculously, it did not feel as if any ribs were broken. He flexed his fingers. They were swollen. Maybe he had punched someone. He could not remember. The last thing he remembered clearly was running down the stairs. That moment was so immediate he felt as though he could go back there. Do things differently.

But it would still come out the same, Kannaday realized. Unlike Hawke, he had been predictable. On top of that, there was an unusual dynamic. Hawke was not after something that Kannaday had. He wanted to preserve the hierarchy exactly as it was. But with privileges. And he had succeeded. The fact that the rest of the crew had not come down to check on him was telling. If the cook had come by, Kannaday did not hear him. But he doubted it. Either the crew had been told to stay away or did so from fear.

Kannaday’s body was beginning to accept the pain as a fact of life. It felt as though he had strained every muscle in his arms, torso, and neck. It was that kind of taut, deepmuscle ache. Kannaday knew that the more he moved, the more it would hurt. But he had no choice. He had to get out of here. Somehow, he had to take charge.

The captain waited another few minutes before trying to move again. He shifted to the edge of the bed and put his feet on the floor. He rose slowly. Most of the damage had been done north of Kannaday’s waist. His legs felt all right. He felt a little light-headed as he took a few shuffling steps toward the door. The sensation passed after a few moments. It was not pleasant, but Kannaday had his footing. What he did not have was something just as important.

A plan.

Kannaday reached the door. He turned and leaned his back against it. Standing in the dark, he pondered his next steps, both literally and figuratively. As he did, something occurred to him. The events that had brought Kannaday here could be useful. After all, he made the same mistake twice. He had acted just as Hawke had expected him to.

Hawke would probably expect him to do it again. Especially after the beating he had taken.

Kannaday went back to the bed. He sat down. He tried not to think the way he usually did, as if he were going down a checklist of things to do before leaving port.

He let himself contemplate all the scenarios that would surprise Hawke. And Darling, for that matter. Everything from setting fire to the Hosannah to taking the dinghy and vanishing into the night sea.

How far are you willing to go? he asked himself.

More important than that, Kannaday needed to find out exactly what he wanted.

Kannaday was doing the job he had agreed to do. The crew had suffered a setback because of the sampan attack. Not a dramatic one, but Darling’s reputation for absolute efficiency had been tarnished. Darling would be able to absorb the blow. The gentry knew how to talk to the gentry. He would explain it all to Mahathir bin Dahman. Darling would blame it on the serfs. But Darling would also want to make the head villain pay. Darling had known precisely how Hawke would respond to a threat or challenge. He had sent Kannaday back to be humiliated.

Kannaday realized that he was not interested in recapturing Darling’s respect. He wanted to hurt Hawke, and he wanted to hurt Darling. The question was how to do that without hurting himself.

Or was it?

There is flaw in your thinking, he admonished himself. The question itself made him vulnerable. It cost him the advantage of surprise.

The question itself held the answer.

FORTY-SIX

Cairns, Australia Saturday, 10:04 P.M.

They did things differently in Australia.

Bob Herbert had expected to be at the Darling estate by eight P.M. at the latest.

All they had to do was set the trap around back, go to the front, and knock on the door. But Leyland and Jelbart were not so impulsive. They insisted on taking several passes over the 500-acre estate in the helicopter. They used fire brigade night-vision goggles to study the terrain. They wanted to know where the security posts were and where there were places that could serve as emergency exits. The property was heavily fenced to keep out wild hare and deer. However, they found two spots where the bait could credibly be set inside. The security personnel would know those spots and probably go right to them. Jelbart wanted to time how long it would take for the teams to drive their golf carts to and from that area. Ordinarily, Herbert would have admired their thoroughness. But potential nuclear terrorists were on the run. He wanted to capture them. Herbert said so after they made their second slow pass over the estate. A pass they would explain to Jervis Darling or his security chief when they came to visit.

“We won’t be able to capture anyone if our ruse is exposed,” Jelbart pointed out. “We’ll be the ones being investigated.”

FNO Loh was sitting between Coffey and Herbert in the backseat. “I cannot believe that your government would discipline you. We are pursuing a reasonable lead in a case of some urgency,” she said.

“The government would not bother us if we were pursuing the lead in a reasonable fashion,” Jelbart replied. “We are not. We are invading a citizen’s privacy. The law is very specific about things like that.”

“Specific and constipated,” Herbert said. “Remind me to quote the law to whatever guys are looking to slip nuclear material into populated cities and poison our water supplies.”

“We’re not certain that’s the case,” Coffey said.

“Certain enough to make me want to kick Darling’s ass for quick answers,” Herbert replied.

“And then what? If we become what we behold, then all of civilization goes to hell,” Jelbart pointed out.

“If we don’t, hell will come to civilization,” Herbert shot back. “Don’t take this personally, Jelbart, but I’m getting really sick of our leaders reacting instead of taking preventative action. Am I the only one who realizes that this isn’t the twentieth century anymore?”

“What do you mean?” Coffey asked.

“Somehow, over the last forty or so years, the Western world evolved this screwed-up coddling mentality toward killers and terrorists. That is going to destroy us,” Herbert said.

“This isn’t about coddling killers; it’s about individual voices and dignity,” Coffey said. “And for the record, it came from us. From America. It came after the Vietnam War protests and civil rights movement proved effective. It came when police were required to read criminals their rights. Now everyone on earth wants a share of humanity. And I don’t think that’s a bad thing.”

“That may have worked in the sixties and seventies, but it’s a luxury we can no longer afford,” Herbert said. “We don’t stop eating tuna because a few dolphins get snared.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Coffey asked.

“Yes, what are you suggesting, Mr. Herbert?” Jelbart asked.

“That we hunt down bad guys aggressively,” Herbert said. He was yelling so that they could hear him over the rotor. But it felt good to yell because he was angry. “Once in a while you may grab an innocent. You apologize and make amends. But that’s how you protect the majority of the people.”

“So you think that we should just do away with human rights?” Jelbart pressed.

“No!” Herbert shouted. “The actions can be selective. I suggest we grant exceptional authority in emergency circumstances, like these. We have fanatical racists and radical sociopaths with access to nuclear fuel. We’ve got mass murderers in our high schools. When I was a kid, juvenile delinquents packed zip guns and switchblades. Once in a while they flashed their weapons, and once in a really rare while they used them. Usually on other hoodlums. Usually shitting their pants when they did. Now we have kids packing AK-47s and attitude. They’re cool killers, Warrant Officer. You’re trying to play soccer or football or whatever the hell you call it against a team that disregards referees, fouls, out-of-bounds lines, clocks, and rules. I’m telling you that if we don’t identify and neutralize them, the game is over. With us the losers.”

The cockpit was silent for a long moment. After making a final pass over the estate, Leyland spoke.

“I see a tree we can use,” he said. He made another pass and showed it to the others.

“Maybe we should just hang ourselves from it,” Herbert said. “Save Darling or whoever is behind this plot further inconvenience.”

“You know, Mr. Herbert, I sympathize with you,” Captain Leyland said as the helicopter turned back to the landing pad. “I look at every camper or tourist as a potential arsonist. But that does not make them one. Even if they’re smoking or carrying matches, I can’t go hosing them down. That’s the price we pay for freedom. If we surrender that, we still won’t have security. Not really. We will only have less freedom.”

“Only if you’re extreme about it,” Herbert told him. “Look, we already have the fire. We have a guy who picnicked at the spot that’s burning. He has matches. We should have the ability to sit him down and ask him questions before he can wash away the smell of the smoke.”

“Obviously we agree with that to some extent, or we wouldn’t be doing this,” Jelbart said.

“We’re doing it by sneaking in the back door,” Herbert said. “I prefer a more direct approach.”

“Like beating it out of him?” Coffey asked.

“No, like point-blank asking the guy what the hell’s going on,” Herbert said. “And if his answers don’t match the facts we do know, we take him in. Ask him again. And again.”

“The legal and political fallout would be disastrous,” Coffey said.

“Only if we’re wrong,” Herbert said.

“That’s just it,” Coffey said. “You could still be right and lose. Those confessions wouldn’t be allowed in court. It would cost the state tens of millions of dollars to defend against a wrongful arrest lawsuit, to name just one, and you still wouldn’t have your man.”

“Then he has an accident, as his wife did,” FNO Loh suggested.

“Bingo!” Herbert said. “I like your style. That’s the price of protecting the twenty-first-century world.

The debate ended as the Bell chopper set down. Leyland unfolded a detailed map of the area. He showed Jelbart the road to the area of trees they could use to set the trap. Herbert half-listened while Loh unloaded the wheelchair and helped him from the chopper. He was sick of talk in general. While they were crisscrossing the estate, radioactive material could be making its way to a terrorist factory. Or it could already be en route to Washington or London or Sydney. How stupid would they feel looking for perimeter access if a dirty bomb was built with this material and a few sticks of TNT? How would they live with themselves if 10,000 people died from radiation poisoning? Herbert had no interest in finding out. He would rather risk the wrath of Jervis Darling.

When Leyland and Jelbart had agreed on a place to carry out the first part of the operation, the brigade commander summoned the gangly kid named Spider. The young firefighter was going to help Jelbart with the insertion. Then he would return to his post. That was already one more person than Herbert wanted to be involved.

When Herbert worked for the CIA, the objective was to streamline operations, not to pad them.

It was well after ten P.M. when Herbert, Leyland, and Loh slipped into the brigade’s Humvee and headed toward the front entrance to Darling’s estate. Loh had borrowed civilian clothes from Eva. They were a little roomy, but they would serve their purpose. As the trio left, Jelbart and Spider also departed. They drove out in a jeep to the tree they had selected in the flyover. A tree that was on public land but overhung the wall of the Darling estate.

The tree where they would take Little Maluka, the mascot of the Queensland North Rural Fire Brigade, to play his part in the deception.

FORTY-SEVEN

Washington, D.C. Saturday, 8:47 A.M.

Hood was in his office, waiting for nine A.M. to arrive. That was when he planned to call Daphne Connors at home. While he waited, his phone beeped. He hoped it was the advertising executive. If Daphne called him, that would make his life a whole lot easier.

It was not Daphne Connors. It was Lowell Coffey.

“Well, we just sent two teams on a very unusual mission,” Coffey said.

“Where are you?”

“At the observation post cabin of the Queensland North Rural Fire Brigade,” Coffey said. “We have a new member of the team.”

“Oh?”

“A koala that was burned in a fire,” Coffey said. “They’re sneaking him into the Darling compound through a back entrance. Then the fire captain, FNO Loh, and Bob are going in the front door to try to get him back.”

“Who are Loh and Bob supposed to be?” Hood asked.

“Volunteers with the local International Wildlife Education and Conservation Group,” Coffey told him. “They’re going to position the koala as their local poster child. Tell Darling what bad press it would be if the little escapee was hurt on his property. While they’re inside, Bob is going to try to split from the others to get to Darling’s phone.”

“Has he got a chance?”

“You know I would never bet against Bob,” Coffey replied. “But I have to admit he’s got me worried. Bob’s pretty pissed off.”

“About what?”

“He was getting pretty hot about Darling, about the whole idea of a guy in our sights being innocent until proven otherwise,” Coffey said.

“Hold on,” Hood said. “I’m going to conference in Liz Gordon.”

“Paul, I don’t know if it’s that serious—”

“Exactly,” Hood said. “Let’s talk to someone who will.”

Hood put Coffey on hold and punched in Liz’s home phone. She was there, obviously still asleep. The Op-Center psychiatrist did the Washington bar scene on Friday nights. Not to party, she swore, but to research a book she was writing on the dynamics of human flirtation. Maybe that was true. But Liz certainly sounded hungover when she answered the phone. She recovered quickly when she heard it was Paul Hood on the line. He brought her up to date and then plugged Coffey into the conversation.

“Lowell, Liz is on the line,” Hood said.

“Good morning,” Liz said groggily.

“Late evening here,” Coffey said. “But good morning.”

“Right. Lowell, did Bob seem unstable, impatient?” she asked.

“He seemed fed up,” Coffey replied. “He was disgusted out of proportion with the situation we’re facing.”

“How bad did he lay into you personally?” Liz asked.

“Excuse me?”

“Did he insult you, criticize you, work you over?” Liz asked. “Putting it bluntly, Lowell, is this payback?”

“No!” Coffey said. “Even if he had, I can be objective. Give me credit.”

“Not my job,” she said. “Was there any physical manifestation? Was he pounding things, playing repetitively with anything on his wheelchair?”

“He was in the backseat of the helicopter,” Coffey said. “I couldn’t really see.”

“Paul, was he airlifted from the Beirut rubble?” Liz asked.

“I believe he was,” Hood said.

“This could be subconscious motor memory, the chopper sound and vibration triggering unresolved hostility,” she said. “Bottom line, Lowell. Do you think Bob is dangerous?”

“That may be an overstatement,” Coffey replied. “I mean, you want a guy in that position to be aggressive.”

“So the answer is no,” she said.

“The answer is no, he was sounding almost bloodthirsty,” Coffey replied. “Not quite, but getting there.”

“But he was not violent,” she said.

Coffey said he was not.

“Paul,” Liz said, “were there any reports of Bob overreacting on his last field operation? In Germany, I think it was?”

“It was Germany, and no, there was nothing,” Hood said.

“What this sounds like is displacement,” Liz said. “Shifting anger or desire from an original target to a more convenient one. Possibly triggered by the chopper, possibly by delayed post-traumatic stress. All of it tied together by Bob’s natural frustration with the system and possibly some jet lag. It’s difficult to ascribe exact causes without talking to Bob. But it doesn’t sound as if he’ll flip out on you. People who experience transference usually peak at the onset of symptoms. They’re looking to dump. Something triggers it, and off they go.”

“So we’ve seen the worst of it,” Hood said.

“Probably,” Liz replied. “Unless someone sprays lighter fluid on the fire. Is that likely to happen, Lowell?”

“From everything I’ve heard, Jervis Darling is a pretty cool fellow,” Coffey said.

“What about the people Bob is traveling with?” Liz asked.

“Leyland is pretty lighthearted, and Loh is very quiet and serious, almost catatonic,” he replied.

“That should help keep him in balance,” Liz said.

“So we’re okay to let this play out,” Hood said.

“Given that nothing is ever guaranteed, I’d say yes,” Liz told him. “I don’t see him blowing.”

“Not even if they’re stonewalled?” Hood asked.

“Bob has a self-imposed objective, which is to get data from a telephone,” Liz said. “If he fails to do this, he’ll be angry. But his training will probably keep him in check. He will regroup and try again. The real danger is if he is personally exposed by Jervis Darling.”

“As a spy and not an animal welfare worker,” Hood said.

“That’s correct,” Liz said. “The assumed identity gives him a way of keeping his real feelings inside. If that’s stripped away, he might become the person Lowell described. It’s part of the fight-or-flight mechanism, and Bob Herbert is not prone to flight.”

That was the truth. Hood had never been a big believer in psychiatry. But if he peeled away the jargon, the things Liz said made sense.

Hood thanked her and let her go back to sleep. Then he told Coffey that he was going to let this play out. Whether or not they liked Herbert’s inquisitorial manner, there was no avoiding the bottom line. While there was still a trail to follow, they had to find out who made it and why.

Hood sighed. He no longer felt like calling Daphne. Until Herbert was safe, he did not want any distractions.

At least that was what Hood told himself.

FORTY-EIGHT

Cairns, Australia Saturday, 10:49 P.M.

Monica Loh was accustomed to the dangers she faced at sea. There were storms, collisions, hazardous rescues, even mines dropped by insurgents from her country and its neighbors. Disasters were rare, but she and her crew were vigilant and confident.

The naval officer was alert but extremely uneasy as they pulled up to the massive front gate of the Darling estate. She was going into what the Republic of Singapore Navy classified as a search-and-discover mission. Yet she did not have all the information she needed to feel confident. Loh was posing as an animal welfare worker visiting from Singapore. Beyond that, they had not come up with much of a story for her. Nor did she have a clear idea what she was supposed to do, other than to go out back with Captain Leyland and look for the koala. Leyland expected they would find the animal pretty much where Jelbart and Spider left him. The koala was apparently rather sedentary. Loh also did not know what to expect from Jervis Darling or this man Bob Herbert. The naval officer admired Herbert’s ideas and his courage. But he also seemed edgy and impatient. Would Darling notice that? If so, at the very least, their mission would fail. Loh had not even considered the ramifications if she were exposed. She had not sought authorization for this mission because it would be classified as a shore-based operation. That fell under the jurisdiction of the Defence Executive Command. It would have taken time to second her to the DEC, if the commanding officer would have permitted that at all. The group was highly protective of all landbased activities.

Leyland pulled up to the gate and lowered the window. He looked around for an intercom but saw none. The reason quickly became apparent. Darling did not need one. A jeep pulled up behind the Humvee. Spotlights were turned on the Humvee. Two men got out. Both were armed with Uzis. One guard approached the driver’s side of the Humvee. He shined a flashlight on Captain Leyland. The other guard walked slowly around the Humvee. He checked on top and below, probably searching for explosives.

“What are you doing here?” the guard asked.

“I’m Captain Leyland with the Queensland North Rural Fire Brigade,” Leyland told him. He took a leather holder from his shirt pocket and showed the security guard his badge. “These are volunteers with International Wildlife Education and Conservation Group. We’re searching for an injured koala. We believe we spotted him from the air, out on the property.”

“That was your chopper sailing over before?” the guard asked.

“Yes. Sorry for the disturbance. But it’s rather important that we find the animal, and the night is growing a beard.”

The guard shone his flashlight on the occupants. Then he stepped from the Humvee and pulled a radio from his belt. He turned his back on the occupants as he spoke quietly into the mouthpiece. After a short conversation, he came back to the window.

“The groundskeeper said he’ll go and look for it,” the guard told him. “You can wait here or—”

“I’m afraid that doesn’t work for us,” Leyland said. “The koala is ill, you see. It may spread sickness to other animals on the estate. Dogs, for example. Mr. Darling’s daughter plays with those animals.”

“Are you suggesting that we send a patrol out to shoot the thing?” the guard asked.

“I am not suggesting that,” Leyland snapped. “We do not want him shot. We want him reacquired for study. That is why these people are here. This is very important.”

The guard considered this for a moment. He stepped away again and spoke into the radio. When he was finished, the guard informed Leyland that Mr. Darling’s personal assistant Andrew Graham would meet them at the front door. Then the guard walked to the gate, swiped a card through a slot on the door, and the gate slid aside. Leyland drove through, following the winding, cobblestone drive toward the front of the mansion.

From the sky, Monica Loh had neither been surprised nor impressed by the size of the home. From the deck of her patrol ship she had seen many impressive oceanside and cliff-top estates. This was just one more. As they pulled up to the columned entrance, however, she felt as if she were in the presence of something oddly outdated and supine. Loh was used to oversized ships and aircraft, but they all moved. People worked on and around them. There was a sense of life to them. Not this place. Even the man who came to meet them was strangely inanimate. He was a thin man dressed in a charcoal sweater and black slacks. His actions were stiff, strangely guarded. One would naturally be wary of uninvited guests showing up this late at night. But that should manifest itself as impatience, annoyance. There was none of that in this man.

Loh and Leyland got out of the Humvee. The captain pulled Herbert’s wheelchair from the back and opened it. He stood beside Loh while the intelligence chief swung into the leather seat.

“My sick koala’s got more life than this pie-eater,” Leyland said as the man approached them.

“I was just thinking that,” Loh said.

“He’s being watched,” Herbert said quietly.

“By whom?” Leyland asked.

“I’m not sure,” Herbert replied. He moved between the other two and nodded toward the top of one of the columns. “A small security camera is moving right along with him.”

“I can’t believe the big man himself would be doing that,” Leyland whispered back.

“I can, if he’s hiding something,” Herbert replied.

The trio fell silent as the man neared. They could see him clearly in the clean white glow of spotlights clustered two at either end of the facade. He was a tallish, round-faced, dark-skinned man. In soft, overenunciated tones he introduced himself as Andrew Graham. He said he would show the others to the back, though he made an unhappy face as he looked down at Herbert.

“With respect, sir, it is all grass back there,” he said to Herbert. “It might be difficult for you to navigate. Would you care to wait inside?”

Herbert looked at Loh. “What do you think? Can you handle Little Maluka without me?”

“I handled an orphaned Komodo dragon in Bandung,” she said. “I think I can manage.”

Herbert smiled. “If you need help, beep me.”

Loh said the same, but with a look.

Andrew contacted the groundskeeper via cell phone. The burly young man arrived several moments later in a golf cart. While he drove Leyland and Loh around the side of the estate, Andrew helped Herbert up the short flight of steps into the mansion.

Loh was a veteran naval officer. Her bearings were surest when she was on the sea and, perhaps more important, when she was part of a unit.

Her feeling of uneasiness increased dramatically as their key player went into the house alone.

FORTY-NINE

Cairns, Australia Saturday, 11:12 P.M.

The first thing Herbert did as he entered the long, marble-rich foyer was to look for security devices. There were motion detectors in the corners and a keypad beside the door. Obviously, they were not on now. There were no cameras here, only outside. That was good. If he were left alone, chances were good he could move about without being spied upon. Andrew released the chair as soon as they were inside. He extended a hand toward the living room. Both men began moving in that direction. Herbert felt as though he were entering a museum. It was absolutely quiet, save for the squeak of his wheels and the secretary’s shoes. Large paintings and statues were barely visible in the vast room ahead. Herbert could barely make out other rooms in the dim light beyond.

“May I get you a beverage?” Andrew asked. “Sparkling water or something a bit more potent?”

“Thank you, no,” Herbert replied.

“A snack, then?”

“Nothing, thanks,” Herbert said. “I was wondering, though, if I might impose on you. Is there a phone line I can use? I’d like to send an E-mail to my office in Washington. I’ve been out on this search all night and need to get some information over to them.”

“Of course,” Andrew said. “That is not a problem.”

“I’ll charge the call to my personal account. It won’t cost Mr. Darling anything.”

“I’m certain it would be all right if you called your office directly,” Andrew said.

“That’s very kind,” Herbert replied.

They entered the living room, and Andrew led the way to a study on the left. There were shelves filled with books and tools such as magnifying glasses, whisk brooms, and computer diskettes. The secretary gestured toward a large mahogany desk. There was a phone tucked among dozens of shoe boxes, cigar boxes, and plastic bags.

“Mr. Darling uses that unit for his laptop,” Andrew said. “You can plug into the data port in back.”

“Thank you very much,” Herbert said.

“Not at all.”

Herbert glanced around. “It looks to me like Mr. Darling does a little scientific work.”

“He studies and collects fossils,” Andrew said.

“Fascinating,” Herbert replied. “I also thought I saw the dome of an observatory driving up.”

“Perhaps you did,” Andrew said.

“Is Mr. Darling also a stargazer?”

“Mr. Darling has many interests,” Andrew replied as he turned toward the door.

The intelligence chief already knew that there was an observatory from the dossier on Darling. He was simply curious how forthcoming Andrew would be. The answer was: not very.

“Well, thank Mr. Darling for me,” Herbert said.

“I shall,” Andrew said as he left the room. He did not shut the door.

Herbert booted his computer as he moved himself to the near side of the desk. His back was to the door as he raised the armrest on the left side of his chair and unwound the cable tucked inside. He plugged that into the back of his computer and into the data port on Darling’s telephone. If the magnate did hobby-related research in here, chances were good he took business calls here as well.

Herbert jacked in the six-foot cord and keyed the number Matt Stoll had given him. The link was established quickly through the small, slender antenna on the top right of the wheelchair. The antenna was attached to a booster on the back of the chair. Unlike standard cell phones, it could process high-speed transmissions. Herbert watched on his computer as it began searching Darling’s telephone for the number log.

“That is quite a machine,” said a voice from behind.

The voice was big and carried a mild Australian accent. Herbert did not have to see the speaker to know who it was. The intelligence agent smiled.

“It’s a pretty standard Dell laptop,” Herbert replied.

Darling smiled. “I was not referring to the computer.”

“I know,” Herbert replied. “Good evening, Mr. Darling.”

“Good evening.” Darling walked briskly toward Herbert. He was wearing a gray sweat suit that said Cairns Yacht Club across the chest. His eyes remained fixed on the chair. “Obviously custom made.”

“Yes,” Herbert said. “Designed by me and built by the same people who made FDR his chair.”

The men shook hands. “And you would be whom?”

“R. Clayton Herbert,” Herbert replied with a smile. Inside, though, he was anxious. He was also annoyed at himself. He did not want to give his full name if he did not have to. Darling could find out whom he worked for. But he also did not want Loh or Leyland calling him Bob after telling Darling that he was someone else. He should have given them a heads-up. It was one of those details you occasionally forgot when working with outsiders.

“Andrew said you wanted to send some E-mails,” Darling said. “I don’t want to keep you from that.”

“It can wait,” Herbert assured him.

The computer was still downloading as they spoke. Stoll had told him that once the file was found, it would take only a few seconds to snare the numbers. First, however, it had to make its way through whatever phone software might be piled in front of the log. Speed-dialing, voice-mail programs, call-forwarding, all of that. The search could take anywhere from a few seconds to several minutes. Stoll also said the computer would chime twice when it found what it was looking for. He would explain that to Darling as a reminder of some kind.

“In that case, I’d love to hear about your work with wildlife,” Darling said. “You’re a volunteer, I presume?”

“Yes,” Herbert replied. “Actually, I’m here on a holiday. I was called into this search by my friend Monica. She’s involved with IWEC in Singapore.”

“I see. You’re American, I gather,” Darling said.

“Mississippi born,” Herbert replied. “I live outside of Washington, D.C., now.”

“Are you in government?”

“Personal security,” Herbert said.

“Fascinating field,” Darling said. “What do you think of the security we have at this estate?”

“From the little bit I’ve seen, it’s pretty impressive,” Herbert said. “You’ve got sentries and surveillance outside, motion detectors inside. It’s a difficult combination to beat.”

“Touch wood, no one has,” Darling replied. He leaned forward slightly, squinting. “You appear to have everything you need for personal security and comfort. Your chair has a cell phone, a computer, what appears to be a satellite uplink, a joystick steering mechanism, and even cruise control, if I’m reading the joystick base correctly?”

“Yes,” Herbert smiled. “I can do five miles per hour on the open sidewalk. They disconnect that function when I participate in marathons.”

“Do they really?” Darling laughed.

“They do,” Herbert said. The insincerity of this conversation was killing him. He wished Darling would get a phone call or something.

“Fascinating. You wouldn’t think five miles an hour would be a threat to anyone.”

“It isn’t about the speed,” Herbert said. “It’s the idea of an assist. A marathon is supposed to be about physical endurance.”

“Have you ever won one, Mr. Herbert?”

“I’ve never lost,” Herbert replied.

Darling grinned. “I like that.”

Where the hell is that chime? Herbert wondered.

Darling walked back behind the chair. “I’m curious, Mr. Herbert. That’s a Ku-band uplink on the back of your chair.”

“That’s right,” Herbert said. Alarms began ringing inside his head. This was not good.

“Why do you need an antenna to send E-mail?”

“I don’t,” Herbert replied.

Darling bent slightly to get a better look at the box. “But I notice the light on the power box is lit.”

“Is it?”

“You didn’t know?”

“That must have been from earlier, at the fire outpost,” Herbert said. “I was downloading data.”

“No, that couldn’t be,” Darling said. “It was not on when you arrived.”

The outside security camera, Herbert realized with a jolt. He was watching their arrival.

“I must have turned it on by accident,” Herbert said, smiling again. His soul ached as he reached behind the wheelchair and shut the antenna off. That cut the link to Op-Center. He unplugged the cable from Darling’s telephone. He shut the computer, which would erase Matt Stoll’s program. There would be no evidence it had ever existed.

Unfortunately, the computer still had not pinged. That meant none of the data had been downloaded from the telephone. This whole enterprise had been a freaking waste of time. Or worse, it could hurt them if Darling suspected that they were here for something other than a stray koala. Herbert had had a choice to make. He had made it.

Darling came back around the front of the wheelchair. He folded his arms again and paced back and forth. Jervis Darling suddenly looked as impatient as Bob Herbert felt.

“You know, R. Clayton Herbert,” Darling said, “when people show up at odd hours for unusual reasons, it is typically a reporter hoping to get a story or a business rival trying to collect information. What is your reason, Mr. Herbert?”

“Actually, Mr. Darling, my reason is much more serious than nailing a story about you,” Herbert said.

“Ah.” Darling stopped pacing. He regarded Herbert. “You have the floor. And my attention.”

Herbert hesitated. He was about to put himself, FNO Loh, and Captain Leyland in jeopardy. Their careers, possibly their lives could be ruined. He had the right to do that to himself but not to the others. And what would he gain? Darling would not give him information. If Darling were guilty, talking might cause him to send his operatives deep underground. Or it might cause him to get angry and expose himself. Or it might cause him to have the lot of them shot for trespassing. There was no way of knowing.

Screw it, Herbert thought. He had come here to do a job. That job was to collect information and by so doing, save lives. The primary method had failed. Herbert was obligated to try another. Besides, when pressed, Darling might inadvertently answer one critical question: whether or not he was guilty.

“Mr. Darling, I honestly don’t know jack-shit about animals,” Herbert said. “I don’t even like them much. Though there are some creatures I like even less. I do work in security, however. I won’t tell you who employs me or how I know this. But here’s the bottom line. Nuclear materials are missing from a radioactive waste site, and one leg of the trail leads here.”

Darling did not react. Which, in a way, was a reaction. He did not ask what that statement had to do with him.

“No comment?” Herbert asked.

“Were you jacking into my telephone system in an effort to spy on me?” Darling asked.

“I was,” Herbert admitted.

Darling looked down slowly. His expression was blank. He walked over to the phone and removed the unit from the desk. His slippered feet rubbed the hardwood floors of the study as he made his way to the door.

“Please show yourself out,” Darling said over a very rigid shoulder. “Immediately.”

“You’re not calling the police?” Herbert asked.

Darling stopped in the doorway and turned. “Why bother? I don’t know what data you hoped to glean from this telephone, but it is simply an estate intercom.”

Herbert said nothing. That explained why his laptop did not ping. The phone had no numbers in memory.

“Do we have any other business?” Darling asked.

“Yeah,” Herbert said. “I’ve got a suggestion for you. I know more than I just told you. So do the people I work with. We’re going to get you and everyone you work with. My suggestion is that you cooperate with us.”

“It’s time for you to leave, Mr. Herbert,” Darling said. “You are a man rich with suspicion, not knowledge.”

“And you’re a man with zero conscience,” Herbert said angrily. “You and your associate Mahathir bin Dahman.”

That was it. Bob Herbert had just played the only name he knew, the only other information he possessed. He hoped it was enough to rattle Darling into doing something careless or impulsive, such as attacking him so the fire chief could have him arrested. Or spitting out additional information in a rage. Or even better, cooperating.

It did not.

“Mr. bin Dahman is indeed an associate,” Darling replied affably. “I’m lucky to have a partner of his local and international standing. And you are a sad, flailing fellow, R. Clayton Herbert.” That was the last thing Darling said before he left the room.

Herbert wanted to punch something. Hard. Jervis Darling was guilty as Judas F. Iscariot. By not calling the police he had proved that to Herbert. But the impromptu interrogation had backfired. Herbert had gambled and lost, because now Darling was on guard. He could send his people into hiding, leaving Herbert without the two things Op-Center needed.

One was proof.

The other was the missing radioactive materials.

FIFTY

Cairns, Australia Saturday, 11:27 P.M.

Jervis Darling returned to his bedroom on the second floor. He encountered Andrew on the way and told him to make certain Mr. Herbert left the house and that the others left the grounds as soon as they found their koala. Darling did not doubt the animal was there. They would have made certain of that before coming to the door.

Darling quietly shut the door and went to the back, to a large dressing room. He was numb and furious at the same time. The silence weighed thick and heavy in his ears. Darling sat at the restored Louis XVI desk and rang his nephew. He pulled over the only telephone in the mansion that had the number of the Hosannah in memory. He punched in his personal code, 525, to obtain a dial tone. Obtained by bin Dahman from the Russian air force, the secure phone was named the konsulstvo, or the “consulate.” It was the secure phone in use at Russian embassies around the world. The konsulstvo was a large, square unit with a computer-style keypad on the top and a receiver on the side. The keypad was for writing codes. Hawke had done that before sailing.

“We rescued someone from the sampan.”

Nothing the American had said after that really registered. Darling’s answers had come from some independent, automatic-functioning part of his brain. Kannaday and Hawke had done more than suffer a setback in the Celebes Sea. They had permitted a security breach that led an investigator here. More than one, probably. Darling suspected that the woman who had come with them was with the Singaporean navy. Now that he thought about it, she had that stiff-necked, feet-wide-apart posture of a seaman.

An American and a Singaporean. With Australian officials probably hanging to the rear because they did not want to tangle with Jervis Darling. Not until they had evidence. It made sense. Fortunately for Darling, whatever Mr. Herbert was doing at the study telephone would have netted him nothing. Not R. Clayton Herbert nor the people he worked for, whoever they were. That did not even matter. Any group ferreting around in Darling business was unwelcome. He would find out who they were, and they would be stopped. First, however, Darling had to make sure there was nothing to find. Starting with the Hosannah.

As Darling input the yacht’s number, he burned inside. He wanted to strike out in all directions simultaneously. He was angry at Kannaday and Hawke. Their ineffectiveness caused this security breach. He would deal with Kannaday now, Hawke later. He also wanted to punish Herbert for invading his home. Darling would find a way to punch a hole in his life. And he would end the career of the fire captain who had assisted Herbert. They had not paid their dues on the world stage. Darling would not allow these wage slaves to question or delay him, let alone stop him. He would take this hit and move on.

Marcus was asleep when his uncle reached him. The elder Darling asked to speak with Hawke immediately. Marcus went to the security chief’s cabin and got him.

“Yes, sir,” Hawke said when he came on.

That was John Hawke. Called to the radio late at night for something that was obviously out of the ordinary. Yet his voice was the same flat instrument it always was.

“I want you to do the following as quickly as possible,” Darling said. His voice was not as composed. “Destroy the lab completely and then the radio room. None of the equipment must survive. Then take the yacht to sea and sink it in deep water. There has to be a fire. Start it in the galley. Is there sufficient dinghy space for the crew?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” Darling said. “Get to it.”

“Sir, Captain Kannaday will want to know why this is being done,” Hawke said.

The devious bastard, Darling thought. Hawke had to be curious as well. Once again, the security chief wanted to keep Peter Kannaday between himself and Darling. Unfortunately, that was not going to be possible. Hawke was about to take two punches.

“Tell the captain that his security team failed to kill all of the men on the sampan,” Darling said. “One of them was recovered.”

The radio went stubbornly silent. That had been punch number one.

“It would be best if the captain were lost with his ship,” Darling went on. “I do not want the accident to be perceived as an insurance scam. We do not need additional investigations.”

That was punch number two. Hawke now knew just what the security lapse had caused.

“I will see to all of it,” Hawke replied.

There was no hint of humility in the security chief’s voice. Just determination.

Darling preferred that. He wanted results, not repentance.

Darling hung up the phone. He pushed it away and sat back.

Jervis Darling had spent a lifetime building corporations, amassing wealth and power, and, most importantly, evolving a worldview. He realized that only businessmen had the resources to move the world forward. Governments were too partisan and slow. Armies were too bestial and rigid. Only he and his kind had the vision to motivate the masses. First, however, they had to make themselves indispensible. They had to use mercenaries like John Hawke to surgically strike targets around the world. They would target factories, transportation centers, financial districts, and power plants. Existing governments and terror groups would take the blame. Especially since he would be hiring many of their members. And covering the events in his media outlets. Darling and his colleagues would eliminate competition to make their own resources more valuable. They would use that base to build de facto political power. From there, nothing was off limits.

Darling was still angry. But he was relatively unconcerned about the project or his goals. He had never undertaken a business or political operation that did not experience a few bumps. This was the first one the current action had suffered. He was confident that the undertaking would survive and move forward.

As confident as he was that R. Clayton Herbert would soon be wishing he had gone somewhere else this evening.

FIFTY-ONE

Cairns, Australia Sunday, 12:00 A.M.

“I blew it,” Bob Herbert said over the phone.

“What do you mean?” Hood asked.

“I gave a world-class, standing-room-only performance of how not to gather information.”

“You’re being way too rough on yourself, Bob,” Hood said. “You did the best you could under extremely adverse circumstances.” He was speaking softly but firmly.

“Paul, I created the friggin’ adverse circumstances!” Herbert went on. “You want a list of do-nots that I would have reamed a newbie for? I did not case the site. I went to the wrong phone. And I gave the subject an overview of what we know without getting anything back except a vague confirmation that our suspicions were correct.”

“This isn’t lab science,” Hood pointed out. “You took a huge risk against staggering odds.”

“That’s what the best is supposed to do, and my job title says I’m supposed to be one of the best,” Herbert replied. “The best are also supposed to do one thing more. They’re supposed to succeed.”

“This is just one battle in the war,” Hood replied. “And I’m not so sure we lost it.”

“I’ve won battles before,” Herbert shot back. “This is not what victory feels like.”

Herbert was calling from his cell phone in the Humvee. FNO Loh and Paul Leyland had found the koala. They met Herbert in front of the mansion where they helped him down the stairs. The group left the grounds after conferring with Jelbart by phone. Herbert agreed with the warrant officer’s assessment. Jelbart felt that Darling’s armed guards would be unusually aggressive after what happened. They unanimously decided that the best thing to do was return to the observation base and regroup. Herbert and Loh were sitting in the back. Leyland was driving. Little Maluka was asleep in the passenger’s seat.

“Bob, right now it doesn’t matter how we got here,” Hood said. “Let’s look at where we are and what we’re up against.”

“All right,” Herbert said and took a breath. That seemed to calm him somewhat. “We’re facing a world-class thug who knows he’s been found out. He also knows that at least one of his partners has been identified. And he knows that we have someone who may be able to ID the boat they used to carry the stolen nuclear material. He cannot be happy with any of that information.”

“Agreed. So what does he do?”

“First, he has to make his own involvement deniable,” Herbert said. “His phone records and financial transactions are probably clean. I’m betting it’s the same with bin Dahman and whoever else is involved. Darling has to assume the pirate is heavily guarded and that we already took from him whatever information we want. So he probably won’t bother going after him. The only place our boy’s immediately vulnerable is the boat.”

“We haven’t been able to find the other vessel involved in this transaction,” Hood said. “What chance do we have of finding this one? It may already have been hidden.”

“That’s very possible,” Herbert agreed. “But I want to find it. I really want to find it.”

“You want to get Jervis Darling,” Hood pointed out. “That isn’t the same thing.”

“It will be if we find the boat,” Herbert said. “Damn, I wish that pirate had seen something. At least we’d know what we were looking for.”

“You could have him hypnotized,” Hood suggested, half in desperate jest. “Maybe he’ll remember more.”

“That’s good for quitting smoking, not interrogation,” Herbert said.

“There is one thing,” Loh said.

“What’s that?” Herbert asked. “Paul, can you hear FNO Loh?”

“Barely,” Hood said.

Herbert held the cell phone between them. He asked the Singaporean to speak up.

“The pirates would not have attacked a much larger vessel,” Loh said loudly. “It’s night now. Small vessels tend to go to anchor.”

“How does that help us?” Herbert said. “There are probably a lot of small boats on the open sea.”

“This one would not be stopped,” she said. “If it’s out there, and Darling is afraid of being caught, he would have it running somewhere.”

“Good point,” Leyland contributed. “But that still leaves a lot of area to cover.”

“Not as much as you might think,” Herbert said.

“Chances are pretty good the boat won’t be going toward Cairns. Darling won’t want that ship anywhere near him.”

“What if he wanted to hide it?” Hood asked. “What better place than his own facility?”

“That was probably the game plan before we showed up,” Herbert said. “Now, Darling would never risk it. If there is a hint of radioactivity on board that vessel, it’s as good as a fingerprint. We could identify the source from just a particle of material. Darling has to imagine that someone will come looking.”

“We should get our ships back out to sea,” Loh said.

“I agree,” Herbert said. “But we should also get the chopper in the air and run a zigzag search heading seaward. If the vessel is back, Darling may have to send it out again. Just so he isn’t caught. If it’s not back, it’s going to be racing to a safe haven somewhere else.”

“Is there any kind of electronic surveillance we can do from here?” Hood asked.

“I’m sure the transport vessel is in a silent running mode by now,” Herbert said.

“We can do a GPS sweep,” Loh said.

“Right,” Herbert agreed.

“I didn’t get that,” Hood said.

“Ask Stephen Viens to do a read on the global positioning satellite beacons in the region,” Herbert said.

“The satellites, not the receiver?” Hood asked.

“The receiver itself, on the boat, is a passive site. All it does is tap into a continuous beacon from three satellites—four if you’re adding altitude to the mix, which we are not. We can’t pinpoint the boat by looking for a specific ID number. What we can do, though, is watch for the beacons themselves and triangulate them. Viens will know what I mean. Have him run a scan every minute or so. If we’ve got someone who’s running at twenty-five knots or more, that will be worth looking into. Especially if they’re heading away from Cairns.”

“I like it,” Hood said.

Hood said he would have Viens’s office look into the GPS as soon as possible.

Herbert thanked him and hung up. Then he reached back and put the phone in his wheelchair. He felt a little bit better than before. At least they had a plan. And there was one thing an intelligence officer could always count on. Night was when vermin tended to move about.

“From what I’ve been hearing, that boat was armed,” Leyland said. “What if it has some kind of surface-to-air missiles? Your chopper has no defense. They won’t believe that Little Maluka got lost on his boardie.”

“His what?” Herbert asked.

“His board. Surfing.”

“You’re right,” Herbert said. “But if they shoot at us, we’ll know one thing for sure.”

“What’s that?” Leyland asked.

“We found the right boat.”

FIFTY-TWO

Washington, D.C. Saturday, 11:00 A.M.

The phone beeped, and Hood snapped it up. He had just finished talking to Stephen Viens, who was rushing to the office. In his absence, weekend surveillance staffer Mary Timm was starting up the GPS sweep. It was not a complex operation, and the exchange officer was from the Communications Security Establishment of Canada’s Department of National Defence. That was the branch of government that analyzed and catalogued intercepted radio and various electronic emissions from other nations. The CSE liaised closely with both the United States and Great Britain’s SIGINT services.

“R. Clayton Herbert,” said the deep and smoky voice on the other end of the phone. “That’s Bob Herbert. He’s on your staff, isn’t he?” There was a hint of a Louisiana accent.

Hood did not like calls that opened with questions. Especially when the voice was not familiar. But the caller had access to Hood’s direct line. That meant he had high-level security clearance.

“Who is this?” Hood asked.

“Bruce Perry,” the caller replied.

Perry was the special assistant to the president for democratic elections. It was a post that monitored voting activities in foreign nations. Hood could not understand what Special Assistant Perry wanted with Herbert, or why he used that form of Herbert’s name. He did a GovScan search of Perry’s name. Those personnel files were little more than glorified résumés. They were available to officials who might need assistance in highly specialized areas.

“I don’t believe we’ve ever met,” Hood said, stalling while he scanned Perry’s file.

“You may be correct,” Perry replied. “But then, it isn’t my job to keep track of peoples’ activities.”

Oh, Hood thought. It’s going to be one of those kinds of conversations. And then he spotted the reason Perry was calling. The sixty-four-year-old was a former ambassador to Australia.

“All right, Mr. Perry,” Hood said. “Yes, Bob Herbert is an officer here. You already knew that, or you wouldn’t be asking. What’s on your mind?”

“Mr. Herbert has just been to see Mr. Jervis Darling at his home,” Perry said. “You’ve heard of Jervis Darling?”

“I read newspapers,” Hood said. Darling had obviously wasted no time getting his puppets onstage.

“Newspapers do not tell the full story of this man,” Perry said.

“I’m sure of that.”

“Mr. Darling has put a substantial portion of his personal fortune into countless unheralded charitable activities, which include democratic advocacy programs,” Perry went on. “He is a rock in that region, and Mr. Herbert had no right to call on him.”

“In a democratic society we have all kinds of rights,” Hood pointed out.

“The right to privacy is chief among those,” Perry replied.

“Fair enough. I assume Mr. Darling called you. Did he say what Mr. Herbert was after?”

“He said there was some nonsense about misplaced nuclear waste,” Perry said, chuckling. “The idea that Mr. Darling would know anything about that is completely ridiculous.”

“Why?”

“Because, for one thing, Mr. Darling believes absolutely in the rule of law,” Perry said. He was no longer chuckling. “He also happens to be an extremely moral man.”

“Who may have had his wife murdered,” Hood said.

“Oh, Jesus Lord!” Perry said angrily. “Don’t tell me you believe that old smear!”

“Who would smear him?”

“He spent a great deal of money to find out,” Perry replied. “He discovered that the Singaporeans had spread that rumor to try to keep him from investing in liberal political causes over there. God, Hood. I was with Mr. Darling when he received word of his wife’s death. He was despondent. So was his daughter. The idea that he would have arranged it is frankly insulting.”

“Mr. Perry, I’m not going to dispute what you’ve told me,” Hood said. “Our information differs from yours.”

“Then you are misinformed.”

“You know something, Mr. Perry? I really hope so. I hope we’re wrong about everything from the homicide to the nuclear trafficking. I hope you’re doing this from deep conviction and a sense of honor.”

“Mr. Hood, in the presence of God himself I would swear to everything I told you.”

“You didn’t tell me anything other than your beliefs, not fact,” Hood pointed out. “But I thank you for sharing your perspective.”

“You’re welcome, Mr. Hood. I’d like to share this as well,” Perry went on. “If Mr. Darling is bothered again without overwhelming evidence, charges will be brought against Mr. Herbert and yourself. Legal charges in Australia, ethics violations here.”

“Bruce, you should have quit before you trotted out the threats,” Hood said. “They always stink of guilt.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Perry told him. “You collect intelligence, Mr. Hood. This is intelligence. Use it.”

Perry hung up. Hood shook his head slowly as he replaced the phone. He jabbed the Delete key on his computer. That removed Perry’s file from his monitor. That was the problem with government dossiers. They gave you plenty of data but not the man.

Of course, what intelligence services called 2DD—two-dimensional data, facts without body or analysis—was only one of the problems with government service. What bothered Hood more was how officials had to battle the enemies without while fighting the enemies within even harder. The longer he stayed in public service, the more Hood became convinced that leaders were a burden to society. If they all went away, the people would do just fine. A leader could not be ambitious and still serve others. People were fortunate when the ambitions of a leader, like Lincoln, like Franklin Roosevelt, happened to coincide with the general good.

Hood took a moment to check with Mary Timm. She was already on her second sweep of the region. If someone was on the run, she was willing to bet that they were not using the GPS.

“Which could mean what?” Hood asked.

“That the subject is either very near to land and can sail by eye or compass. Or else they have no intention of going near land, in which case a navigational aid would be extraneous,” Mary replied.

That was not what Hood wanted to hear. He relayed the information to Herbert. The intelligence chief was unfazed.

“Any intelligence is useful,” Herbert replied. “Even if it eliminates possibilities.”

And there again was the paradox of government. Within just a few minutes, Hood’s enemy and his ally had both said virtually the same thing.

And they were both right.

FIFTY-THREE

The Coral Sea Sunday, 1:21 A.M.

Peter Kannaday’s injuries did not prevent him from leaving his cabin. He stayed there hour after hour out of shame.

The captain alternately stood by the porthole or lay on the bed. He replayed the attack endlessly, considering things he should have done. He thought back to the days leading to that point. He wished that he had willingly formed an alliance with Hawke instead of being minimized. To do so now would be cowardly. To have done so before the attack would have been wise. Unfortunately, wisdom was not always there when you needed it. He began to wonder, after several hours, if maybe that was the way it needed to be. Lying on his back in the dark, he thought of the biblical prophets who went into the wilderness. They made the journey in order to be pounded down by the sun and starvation. The prophets bought wisdom by taking on pain, loneliness, and doubt. But the knowledge and self-awareness they acquired came with something else. Something indispensable. It nested atop the fortified backbone they needed to apply it.

Perhaps it was not too late to find courage. Realizing that, Kannaday even saw what form it should take. He had to leave the cabin and take a turn on deck. He had to show the crew and Hawke that he was beaten but not broken. He also needed to be more than just a captain. He needed to regain command.

Kannaday rose from the bed. The now-familiar aches made him wince, but they did not cause him to pause. He could not show hesitation once he left here. He had to be strong.

As Kannaday headed toward the door, he heard a key being turned in the lock. The door was already unlocked. He bolted for the knob and twisted. It did not turn. He patted his back pocket. His key case had been removed. He went to his desk for the spare. It, too, was gone. Kannaday went back to the door and banged once with the side of his fist.

“Who’s out there?” he yelled.

There was no answer. The captain did not waste time or energy shouting. He looked around for something to pry the door open. Possibly the letter opener he had never used. Or one of the hooks from the closet. He would try the letter opener first. He went to the desk, but the opener was gone.

In quick succession Kannaday heard the 220 horsepower Caterpillar engine quiet, idle, then stop. The yacht slowed. This was not a scheduled stop. Then he heard the winches above him begin to turn. The dinghies were being lowered. The floor no longer hummed with the low vibration caused by the powerful motor. What the hell was going on?

Kannaday leaned on the desk. He punched on the intercom to the radio room.

“Marcus, are you there?”

Again, no answer. Which, in a way, was an answer in itself.

Just then he heard a commotion in the hallway. He went to the door and pressed his ear to it. Crew members were coming and going. He heard crashing but no shouts. The men were breaking things, but they were not fighting. It sounded as if they were in the lab.

“Sweet Christ almighty,” he muttered.

They were in the lab. Destroying the equipment. Destroying evidence? But they were not throwing it over the side. They were smashing equipment on the floor. That could only mean one thing. It would be staying on board. And that could only mean one thing.

They intended that the Hosannah never be found.

FIFTY-FOUR

Cairns, Australia Sunday, 1:42 A.M.

Warrant Officer George Jelbart was relieved and hopeful when the Humvee returned.

Hanging around in the observation tower with Spider was not Jelbart’s idea of a fun time. Spider was one of those hard-talking Sydney street kids who were equally at home rock climbing on Cradle Mountain in Tasmania or picking fights with Southeast Asians who frequented the bars of Perth. Spider was not up here because he loved nature. Or because he wanted to protect and serve the people of Queensland. He was here because he loved the danger of fire. In Spider’s eyes it was the ultimate enemy. A force that existed even in the vacuum of space. Jelbart wondered how the edgy, restless young man would react if he knew about the fire his own team was trying to prevent. Fire that could not be extinguished. Fire that was the ultimate deterrent until someone actually used the damn thing. Then it was the breath of hell itself. Jelbart had seen the disaster simulations put together by the American Pentagon. Those were programs that could not properly be called war simulations. After an initial flourish, both sides were effectively crippled. They included death tolls and destructive swaths for nuclear exchanges between India and Pakistan, China and Taiwan, Israel and any of its Middle Eastern neighbors. They included statistics for small, ten-megaton bombs exploded in major metropolises. They also included data for the exploding of small dirty bombs, nuclear material packed with traditional explosives such as plastique and dynamite. The best-case scenario involved the deaths of over 10,000 people.

Spider appeared oblivious to concepts of that magnitude. Nor was there any reason he should be aware of them. But his mano a mano nature seemed naive in the face of what Jelbart and the others were tracking.

Leyland parked the Humvee near the helicopter pad. He set Little Maluka down. The koala returned to the tower. Then Leyland called Eva and asked her to get the pilot from the cabin. The fire warden said nothing about their mission to his two associates.

“I expect you may get some fallout from all this,” Jelbart told Leyland. He realized, after saying it, what word he had chosen.

“I can handle it,” Leyland said. “He can’t prove I knew what you blokes were up to. Besides, what are they going to do? Fire me?” Leyland winked. He had obviously meant to use that word.

“You’re a good man,” Jelbart said, shaking his hand.

Loh bowed slightly to Leyland. Herbert clasped the captain’s hand with both of his. Behind him, the pilot readied the chopper.

“The koala idea was a damn good one, Captain,” Herbert said. “I’m the guy that mucked things up. If they do kick you out, come to Washington. There’s a job waiting for you.”

“Thanks. You’re definitely a bloke to go scrub-bashing with,” Leyland told him.

Loh had opened the door, and Herbert wheeled over. The three climbed into the helicopter. They were airborne in under a minute. Jelbart glanced at the spotlit observation tower as it receded. It tightened the warrant officer’s throat, just a little, to know that there were men like Captain Leyland. Men who did not limit their sense of duty to what was in their job description. That did not diminish Spider. But it certainly elevated Leyland.

Herbert leaned forward as they soared toward the starlit skies. “What the hell is scrub-bashing?” he asked Jelbart.

“That’s when you make your own road through dense brush,” Jelbart replied. “It’s a he-man’s Sunday drive. If you get invited, it means you rate. You obviously made a good impression.”

“Oh,” Herbert replied.

The intelligence chief sat back. He looked confused.

Jelbart had not known Herbert long. But he knew how a man looked when he was frustrated. Herbert had that look. Leyland had to have noticed that, too. That could be why he said what he did, to give Herbert a little boost.

Jelbart smiled as they headed toward the coast. That elevated Leyland a little more.

FIFTY-FIVE

The Coral Sea Sunday, 1:55 A.M.

Captain Kannaday was unable to pry open the cabin door. That was ironic. He did not want to get out when he could. Now that the door was locked, he desperately wanted to be on the other side.

Without access to the radio room, he could not call out. Here in the cabin he had very little at his disposal. A porthole just wide enough for his head. He could not crawl out. There was also the shower. If he plugged up the drain and tore the desk lamp from its cord, he could drop the loose ends into the water. Anyone stepping in the water would get a jolt. But the lamps in the yacht were run off a marine deep cycle battery. The 550 ampere charge would not kill them. He did not even think it would stun them.

And Kannaday would still be trapped in here.

He had a cigarette lighter, but the door was fireproof. He would not even be able to burn through it.

He swore. He could not understand what Darling and Hawke were up to. The captain’s body had adjusted to the pain. He started to pace. He felt as though he were working sore muscles. He paused now and then to kick the door. The cabin had never seemed so small.

Suddenly, he heard a low growl from down the hall. The floor began to vibrate. It sounded as if someone were using an electric drill or router. They were kept in the event the yacht suffered damage in a collision or storm. But the sound seemed to be coming from below. There was a long, narrow crawl space between the deck and the red cedar outer hull. The area was accessible through a trapdoor in the corridor. Cables, extra gear, and emergency equipment such as the tools and flares were kept there.

The ship was in fine shape. There was only one reason to enter the crawl space with tools. They were putting a hole in the outer hull. The Hosannah was going to be scuttled.

“Hawke!” the captain screamed as he pounded on the door again. “Dammit, Hawke!”

Kannaday cursed himself for not having acted sooner. What was happening out there transcended discipline and retribution. Darling would only sink the ship if it could be used against him. Something must have gone wrong somewhere in the network. Darling needed to get rid of the evidence. Hence the smashing of the equipment. Darling also needed someone to take the fall. A corpse could not deny its guilt.

Kannaday was not especially close to the crew. Darling would not have had to offer them much to cooperate.

“You bastards!” he shouted.

Even if the men were listening, no one could have heard him. The winch and whatever tools they were using made too much noise.

The winch stopped. The two boats must be in the water. Kannaday could not be sure. His porthole looked out toward the starboard side of the yacht. A moment later, the rumbling sounds from the interior corridor also stopped. The captain heard voices and hurried footsteps. A few seconds later, all the noises on the vessel were coming from above deck. The men were rushing to the stern. They were obviously getting into the dinghies. Kannaday wondered if his own crew knew he was not coming.

Kannaday screamed in frustration. He ran at the door again. It was reinforced and watertight to prevent flooding. The impact hurt his shoulder, and he backed away.

Rubbing it, the captain paced anxiously in a tight circle. He looked around, trying desperately to think of a way out. There were aerosol cans in the bathroom. Perhaps he could puncture them, cause them to explode. But how, without hurting himself in the process?

Suddenly, the yacht became very still and stable. Kannaday heard the two masts creak. The waves were no longer moving it from side to side. That meant it was bottom heavy.

The yacht was going down.

FIFTY-SIX

The Great Barrier Reef Sunday, 2:09 A.M.

Monica Loh knew that the search for Jervis Darling’s vessel was probably hopeless.

The Singaporean patrol boat was moving at top speed toward the area. It was listening for the ship in a continuous sweep of all radio frequencies. The chopper was watching for the vessel. But a boat running silent and probably dark would be virtually impossible to find at night. Radar was unreliable due to the sheer number of hits they picked up: not just boats but reefs, sea creatures on the surface, even large waves. Modern equipment was occasionally too sensitive to be useful. She was guessing that by daybreak it would be gone completely. And with the ship hidden, they would lose their best chance to track this action to Darling and find the missing nuclear waste.

Jelbart was on the radio with his home base. When he was finished, the pilot contacted the RAAF Airfield Defence Squadron satellite base in Cooktown. That was the nearest refueling point in the region.

FNO Loh did not feel comfortable about the new world in which they were living. She did not yearn for a simpler era. Nor did she doubt her skills or those of her shipmates. They were smart and disciplined. What worried her were the agents who had joined groups like Interpol or the CIA because it seemed glamorous. Many of them did not expect nor ask for the grievous responsibility that had been placed on their backs. Loh hoped their efforts here would be an example to others rather than an exception. The civilized world did not have time to accommodate long apprenticeships.

“I just spoke with General Hopkins,” the pilot informed the group. “He’ll let us refuel there. That gives us ninety minutes of flying time. How do you want to spend it?”

“Warrant Officer, that’s your call,” Herbert said.

“I suggest we follow the reef northeast,” Jelbart said. “HQ said that Darling’s property holdings are mostly in the south and west. That would be out of reach for his boat. And his cove is completely open. My guess is he’ll make a run for the open sea and a foreign port.”

“Perhaps the same port that swallowed the Malaysian vessel,” FNO Loh suggested.

“That’s a reasonable guess,” Jelbart admitted. “So we’ll head north, which we’ll have to do to reach Cooktown. Then we’ll swing out toward the sea in a tight Z pattern and hope we spot our prey.”

“Sirs, General Hopkins has also offered to launch a pair of A3 Mirage fighters if we need them for surveillance,” the pilot added.

Loh waited to see Jelbart’s response. The need for absolute security, to keep any leaks from Darling, versus the need for information.

“It’s getting too late in the day for overcaution,” Jelbart said. “Thank the general and say we would welcome the help. I’ll have a look at the map and give him the air routes we’d like covered.”

“Yes, sir,” the pilot replied.

“I’ll notify my patrol boat of our plan,” Loh said.

Jelbart passed the headset back to her while he took a look at the flight book.

“I wonder if their base might be a tanker of some sort,” Herbert thought aloud. “Something mobile.”

“And protectable,” Jelbart said. “Something that large could be a floating SCUD bank.”

“It sure would be a helluva delivery platform for nuclear-tipped missiles,” Herbert agreed. “Hell, there isn’t a port on earth tankers don’t visit.”

Loh listened to the men as she placed her call. She hoped they were mistaken. It was bad enough contemplating the damage petty despots could do with intermediate-range missiles. Add money and international political clout, and there was no limit to the potential subterfuge.

Even if Herbert and Jelbart were wrong this time, they might not be wrong the next time. Or the time after that. Things were going to have to change radically in the way the military and intelligence services did business.

Fortunately, Loh had an idea where they might start. With a resource that was already in their lap.

FIFTY-SEVEN

The Coral Sea Sunday, 2:09 A.M.

The yacht began to sink toward the stern. Kannaday stumbled back against the bed as the floor tilted. The incoming water was settling in the aft section. The captain heard the clatter of boxes and loose equipment below as the vessel shifted.

The crawl space, he thought suddenly.

Kannaday leaned on the wall. He braced himself with both hands as he stood. The far end of the storage area was directly below the cabin. If he could pry up the floorboards, he might be able to squeeze through.

The captain bolted toward the desk and pulled out the drawer. He did not have a letter opener or knife, but the drawer was held in by runners. He yanked it free, tossed it aside, and looked at the screws. A nail file would work. He went into the bathroom and got his nail clippers from the medicine chest. He flipped out the nail file and used it to work out the screws. There were two in each runner. The first one came free quickly. That was all he would need.

The runner was shaped like a squared-off C. Kannaday went back to the bathroom, unscrewed the metal spray head from the shower, and laid the end of the runner on the desk. Holding the showerhead in his fist, he used it to pound the end of the runner flat.

He had his lever.

Grabbing the runner, the nail file, and the showerhead, he dropped to his knees near the door. The floorboards were epoxy-coated mahogany. He wedged the nail file between two of the planks and dug a small hole between them. He inserted the flattened edge of the runner. Rising on the sloping floor, he used the showerhead to pound the runner down. He did it firmly enough to push the metal in, but softly enough to keep it from bending. It took just four whacks to put the runner through. Kannaday repeated the process along the entire side of the narrow plank. As he worked, the boat continued to shift. First it leveled, then it dipped to port, then the aft dropped again. Kannaday tried not to think about going under. Hawke would have taken them several miles out to sea. The water was an average of two hundred feet deep here. Once the Hosannah went down, Peter Kannaday would not be coming back up.

The captain had gone around most of the first plank when he stood and stomped on it. The plank split from the one beside it and dropped into the crawl space. Kannaday got back on his knees and worked on the ends of the plank beside it. When he had punched through those, he put the runner down, put his fingers into the opening left by the first plank, and pulled on the second. With three sides free, it came up easily.

Kannaday could hear the water rushing in. He did not stop. The batteries were in a watertight compartment, but he did not know how long they would last. If they died, he would be in the dark.

He managed to get the third plank up. Kannaday needed to remove at least six before he could think of trying to get in. As he watched the water rise, he realized that there would not be time to continue this way. Reaching behind him, he pulled his pillowcase from the bed. He wrapped it around his hands. Crouching, he reached into the hole he had made and pulled up on the next plank. He grasped the edge of the wood. The pillowcase prevented him from slipping on the moist mahogany. The wood refused to budge. He screamed in frustration and looked around. There was nothing.

Just then he realized that the contents of the crawl space were settling toward the stern. Swearing at his own stupidity, he got a flashlight from his desk, dropped to his belly, and shone the light in the opening he had made.

He saw the tool kit. It was banging around in the area just beyond the door of his cabin.

Reaching in, Kannaday stretched his arm in that direction. He could not quite reach it. He took the runner, bent the end into a hook, stuck it into the opening, and fished for the metal chest.

He snagged it.

Pulling it inside, Kannaday opened the large box and took out a hammer. Getting on his knees, he slammed it repeatedly into the planks. It took two blows each to crack them, one more to send them tumbling into the crawl space. As the water started to flood his cabin, Kannaday realized that he would have to go in headfirst. The yacht settled again slightly. This might be as level as the vessel got before going down. Taking the flashlight in his left hand, Kannaday lay down, took a long breath, then slid into the crawl space.

There was only about twenty-five feet to the opening cut by the crew. But it seemed much farther because of the debris that blocked Kannaday’s way. There was no room for vertical or lateral movement. He could not shove the flotsam around, under, or behind him. He had to push the containers, equipment, shards of wood, and other objects ahead as he wriggled forward. It was like moving against a dam that grew thicker by the instant. He was finally forced to let go of the flashlight and use both hands. Fortunately, the crew had left the trapdoor open to facilitate the flow of water. The hall lights filtered through the opening in the deck. Kannaday used both hands to shove on the objects clustered in the crawl space. The captain was literally knee-walking forward as the algaethick water rolled through the crawl space and lower deck.

The Hosannah continued to tilt and pitch. The geyser of seawater batted the debris back. He did not think he would be able to get much farther ahead. Kannaday’s arms and chest hurt from the beating, and the exertion strained his lungs. Even though his brain knew it would kill him, his lungs insisted that he inhale. The captain had to fight that impulse. He was less than four feet from the trapdoor. It was like being under the ice-covered surface of a pond. Kannaday was close to freedom yet not quite there.

His temples were pulsing hard, and his vision was beginning to swirl. He did not have much time. The way the debris had piled up in front of him, there was only enough room to extend his right arm. Turning onto his back, he stuck his hand toward the trapdoor, turned his palm up, and grabbed the near side of the opening. He pulled hard. The edges of metal boxes, tools, and the other gear cut into him as he dragged himself up. It would not be enough to get to the opening. It was already underwater. He had to get through it and out of the crawl space.

He needed to breathe. In a few moments he was going to breathe, even if he took in only seawater. He worked his left arm past the pile of equipment, ripping his sleeve and rending his flesh as he stretched it toward the opening. He grabbed the edge and pulled with both hands now. He moved slowly up the side of the mountain of debris. His forehead was near the opening. It went through. His shoulders followed. Now he was pushing on the edge instead of pulling. He was in the water-filled corridor. He bent at the waist, drew his feet out, flipped over, and scrambled ahead.

He half-swam, half-jumped to his feet and gasped at the same time. He took in air. It was salvation, the common made uncommon. All other fears and considerations dwarfed in comparison. He splashed back down and felt for a wall. He found one on the starboard side. It was at a slight angle, tilting away from him. He leaned against it and got his feet under him. He rose, his shoulders rounded, water running from them.

Blood from his fresh wounds mixed with the seawater. The salt in the water stung, but it was not like the pain of the beating. He had earned these wounds by deed. He felt reborn.

Kannaday was just forward of the radio room. The water came up to his waist. At this rate, the boat would be underwater in about a half hour.

Suddenly, there was a snap like a dry twig breaking. The water must have reached the batteries. The lights went out.

The captain turned back toward the trapdoor. He looked down into the crawl space. His flashlight was still on, twisting in the rushing water. He waded back to get it. Now that Kannaday was no longer pushing the debris, it had begun to slide back into the aft depths of the crawl space. It knocked the flashlight around, but he managed to grab it before it drifted away. He turned and balanced himself against the sloping wall as he slogged through the water. There was something he needed. Something he was sure that murderers in the night would not take.

Kannaday entered the radio room. Most of the wrecked equipment was underwater. Smaller pieces, mostly wires and microchips, were floating on the shifting waters. But the box he wanted was still bracketed shoulder-high to the inner wall. The captain knew that Hawke and Marcus would not have bothered with it.

The box was bright red and the size of a lunch pail. Kannaday reached up, flipped the lid, and removed the contents. As the yacht moaned and lurched, he made his way quickly toward the stairs and freedom.

FIFTY-EIGHT

Washington, D.C. Saturday, 12:38 P.M.

Like a federal Darwin exploring survival of the fittest in a bureaucracy, Paul Hood had identified countless functions for the director of Op-Center. Sometimes the job required a quarterback. Sometimes it called for a cheerleader. Sometimes there were other responsibilities. This happened to be one of those rah-rah times.

Paul Hood entered the small, bright room that was Stephen Viens’s work area.

Officially, this area was Op-Center’s internal security department. Viens and his one-person team watched for moles and people who might be tempted to pass secrets on to other nations. That was how it had been described when Op-Center’s accountant Carolina Burdo drew up the annual budget. Unofficially, it was also where Viens used his years as satellite imaging supervisor with the NRO to get priority satellite time for Op-Center.

Viens’s office was the only one in the underground sector that had a window. The window looked out into the corridor, but that did not matter. After years of working for the National Reconnaissance Office, Viens wanted a real-time view, even if it was of more work space. That included Mary Timm’s small cubicle, which was located just outside his door. The young woman was reviewing data being fed to her by various surveillance satellites. She was collating that information and sending it to Viens.

Viens himself was seated with his back to the window. Before him, on a laboratory table, three laptop computers sat side by side. The surveillance expert looked over as Hood entered.

“Sorry to disappoint you, Paul, but we’re not getting anything useful,” Viens lamented.

“Are you getting anything at all?” Hood asked. He stopped beside Viens. There were very different kinds of maps on each monitor. Hood guessed that they were the sections of sea that Viens was studying. This sector of intelligence gathering was relatively new for Op-Center, which used to rely exclusively on the NRO for satellite surveillance.

“We haven’t seen or heard anything that resembles a boat on the run,” Viens informed him. “And we’ve covered a lot of territory along the Great Barrier Reef, the eastern reaches of the Celebes, the entire Banda Sea, and the western and southwestern Coral Sea.”

“You did all that in ninety minutes?” Hood asked.

“Yes, but we had three processes going at once,” Viens said. “Audio, visual, and thermal. One often eliminates the need for the other.”

“How?”

“For instance, we’ve been monitoring the ARCON,” Viens told him. “That’s the Asian Rim Civilian Observation Network. It consists, basically and informally, of whoever is out there. The maritime police and navies in that region use specific frequencies for civilian communication. If the radar on a freighter or a cruise ship saw another vessel barreling through, the night watch would have reported it on an ARCON frequency. Since no one did, our program calculated how far the radar of reported vessels was sweeping. Odds were that our target ship was not moving through that area, so we didn’t waste satellite time looking for it.” Viens made a face. “I don’t like the fact that we’re using technology to figure out where people aren’t, not where they are. But it’s the best we can do.”

“Michelangelo said that sculpting is taking away the parts of the marble that aren’t the statue,” Hood said.

“It also took the man about four years to paint a ceiling, if I’m remembering my Vatican history correctly,” Viens said.

“You are,” Hood told him. He had spent several nights reading about the Vatican during Op-Center’s church-allied mission in Botswana. The Vatican’s wealth included its vast art collection, and facts about it were in the files.

“Stop kicking yourself in the ass,” Hood said. “You’re searching with no idea of what to look for. At least we can tell Bob where not to look.”

“I’ll E-mail the clear zone parameters to your office,” Viens said.

“Thanks,” Hood said.

“But I’m still not satisfied,” Viens said.

“That’s okay,” Hood said. “Just don’t be down on yourself. There’s a difference.”

Viens grunted in what Hood took for agreement. He began collecting the data for Herbert.

Hood left the office. He had not managed to boost Viens’s morale. Worse than that, there had been backwash. The futility of the operation was starting to gnaw at Hood. Viens literally had access to a world of electronic data. He was usually in the forefront of any we-can-dothis movement. If he was worried, then there was real cause for concern.

Hood glanced down at Mary Timm as he passed her desk. He gave her a brave little smile and a wink. She smiled back. It was a big smile. Not just pretty but confident. It was a smile full of youth and uncorrupted hope. Even Mary’s eyes were radiant.

Hood remembered when he used to feel that way. First as mayor of Los Angeles, and then when he first became the director of Op-Center. Even if he were being naive at the time, Hood always felt that things would work out. And invariably they did. Not always without cost, but they had a saying on Wall Street when he worked in finance. If the goods are worth it, the price was worth it.

These goods were worth it.

Things would work out again, somehow. He had to believe that.

Mary’s smile lingered in Hood’s memory. Sometimes just the simplest gesture was also cheerleading.

FIFTY-NINE

The Coral Sea Sunday, 2:39 A.M.

The Hosannah was listing nearly twenty-five degrees to starboard when the captain came on deck. He was hunched forward as he emerged from the companionway. That helped him to keep his footing on the sloped deck. He was carrying the two items he had brought from below.

Kannaday glanced at the stars to get his bearings. He had sailed this region for years and knew it well. The prow of the yacht was facing northeast. The nearest land was probably Cape Melville. That was about a mile to the southwest. The captain turned and swung around the mainmast, then ducked beneath the spar. The dacron sail flapped in the night wind. The fabric made a hollow, mournful sound. Kannaday moved quickly past it. The launch motors were off. The men would be rowing. In the dark, in unknown waters, they were unlikely to be hurrying. Kannaday hoped they had not gone very far.

When the captain was below, drowning seemed imminent. Now that he was above deck on a sinking vessel, drowning also seemed imminent. Yet Peter Kannaday felt invigorated. He had bought himself another opportunity to confront John Hawke. He had a chance to buy back his dignity. Kannaday would rather have that than a life jacket.

The Hosannah took a sudden dip toward the stern just as Kannaday reached the aftermast. He grabbed the thick pole, hugging it tightly with his arms as loose halyards loudly smacked the mast and capstan. In his hands were the two objects he had taken from the radio room.

He waited. The boat would not go down yet. It could not.

It did not.

The vessel listed to port then settled again. Carefully making sure of his footing, Kannaday let go of the mast. He half-walked, half-slid toward the aft rail. The barrier was only knee high. But years on the yacht had taught the captain how to brace himself in unsteady seas. He braced his right knee against the post that supported the flag marking the ship’s registry. Then the captain looked out across the relatively calm sea. A fine spray misted his skin. The salty water soothed his bruised jaw and stung the open wounds on his arms. The sea, the pain, and the joy. Anticipation and a driving hunger for something, whether it was wealth or survival or revenge. All of Kannaday’s life seemed to be encapsulated in that moment.

The captain raised both arms straight ahead. His left arm was nearly perpendicular. His right arm was parallel to the sea. He fired the flare gun in his left hand. The pinkish fire rose on a puffy magnesium-white plume. The small, dark waves of the Coral Sea became a widening expanse of sharp shadow and light. The light areas dimmed as the flare rose in the sky. But the circle of illumination grew as Kannaday stared ahead. Finally, all but despairing that he had lost Hawke, Kannaday saw what he had been hoping for. About three hundred meters away, he saw the dinghies on the edge of the light. The sailors looked up at the light, then back along the high, smoking arc.

Kannaday swung his right arm in front of him. He stared along the barrel of the second flare pistol and fired. The recoil caused his body to twist slightly on the slick deck. Without waiting to see whether the projectile had struck, Kannaday pulled two spare 38mm cartridges from his pocket. He reloaded each plastic-barrel pistol, raised both, aimed, and fired in succession. The twin streaks flashed through the artificial light on a course toward the dinghies.

The first flare had struck its target, landing inside the farthest dinghy. The heat of the projectile quickly melted the inflated neoprene. The dinghy succumbed with a faint pop and a collapse to the right side. Kannaday’s second shot missed both dinghies, but his third and fourth shots both landed in the companion vessel. The flares must have burned through the bottom. In the dying light of the overhead flare Kannaday saw the dinghy fold inward.

He loaded his last two flares and fired them into the sky. The heavens gleamed with white smoke and light. The glow illuminated a scene of a handful of men in the water, fighting to grab the few oars or the remains of the deflated dinghies. Even as the yacht groaned from somewhere under the water, Kannaday could hear their distant yells.

He had done it. Kannaday raised the pistols triumphantly, even as the yacht lurched to the starboard and dipped further toward the stern. He stumbled roughly against the flagpole, dropping the pistols as he fell. He clutched at the pole, nearly swinging over the side. He managed to stabilize his position and remain on deck. No sooner had he steadied himself than he felt a sharp stinging pain in his left shoulder.

He reached for it, simultaneously turning toward the bow. Kannaday gasped as he felt a dart in his flesh. He winced as he drew it out. He did not have to look at it to know what it was.

“A good security chief does not leave a job until it is done,” said a voice from amidships.

A shape was barely visible in the dying glow of the flares. It was the form of a man. John Hawke stepped forward on the sloping deck. He was wearing a life jacket and carrying the wommera in his right hand.

“I heard the fuss you were making and decided I had better stick around,” Hawke said. “All that pounding and hammering.”

Hawke’s right arm swooped back, then snapped forward. A second dart flew toward Kannaday. It hit him in the right thigh. It pinched and the leg buckled. He caught the flagpole to keep from hitting the deck. He hung there while he removed the second dart. The bastard could have hit him harder. He was simply playing with the captain.

“I waited for you at the bow,” Hawke said. “I did not think you would make it out.”

“You waited until I was out of flares,” Kannaday said.

“A good security chief also knows when to make his move,” Hawke replied as he began walking forward. “It’s a shame you sent our men into the water, though. Not everyone has a life jacket, and it’s a long way to shore.” The wiry man leaned backward slightly as he approached. He remained surefooted on the sloping deck. “But it won’t bother your conscience for long. Like many of them, you will drown. There can be no other mortal wound. Otherwise, you would already be dead.”

Hawke was holding the wommera like a club. In a sinking ship, any number of objects could hit a sailor on the head and crack his skull. That was obviously the plan. To knock Kannaday out and then drown him.

Kannaday could not believe that he had underestimated Hawke again.

The captain had a problem and only a moment to solve it. His shoulder and leg had taken muscle damage from the darts. Hawke was uninjured. The security chief could probably overpower Kannaday. But if he turned to climb the rail, Hawke would reach Kannaday before he could get over.

Kannaday knew, of course, what he had to do. He had fought hard to regain some of his self-respect. He refused to surrender that. The captain of the Hosannah would not run.

The security officer was now a silhouette against the vivid splash of stars. Kannaday rested his lower back against the railing and raised his hands like a boxer. He kept his fists close to his chest. If Hawke intended to club him with the wommera, the captain wanted to try to block it. Hawke would probably go for the side he had wounded. That was why he had wounded it. Kannaday would be ready to twist and take the blow with his forearm.

Suddenly, from beneath the men, a third player entered the drama.

SIXTY

Osprey Reef Sunday, 2:46 A.M.

The helicopter was moving in a northeasterly direction when Herbert’s phone beeped. All eyes save the pilot’s turned to him. Herbert could not see the eyes clearly in the dark. But he knew what was in them.

Hope. They wanted information, a shred of intelligence, a place to look. Anything. Jelbart lowered the binoculars he had been using. He and Loh looked to Bob Herbert’s expression for a quick indication of whether Op-Center had learned something.

Herbert listened for a moment, then shook his head once. Without comment, Loh and Jelbart went back to looking out the windows. Ahead of them was Osprey Reef, which lay 210 miles from Cairns. It was a popular shark-watching spot for tourists. Herbert wished that were an omen.

The pilot turned to his passengers. “We’re nearly at the point of no return,” he shouted back. “If we don’t start back in the next fifteen minutes or so, we won’t reach the refueling depot.”

Herbert acknowledged with a nod. He looked past the reef. It was odd. He had never felt trapped in his wheelchair. But he felt trapped now in a fast-moving helicopter unhindered by roads and mountains. That was because he lacked information and the means to get it. Ignorance was not bliss. It was a prison.

Herbert blinked his tired eyes. He raised them to the horizon. It had a slightly ruddy hue. He looked at his watch. It was not quite three A.M. It was too early for dawn.

“People, have a look at the eastern horizon,” Herbert said. “What do you make of that?”

“It can’t be sunrise,” Loh said.

Jelbart turned his binoculars in that direction. “No. There are individual lights out there.” He tapped the pilot on the shoulder and pointed. “Let’s have a look before we go back.”

The pilot nodded and swung the Bell toward the faint glow. Jelbart continued to study the lights with his binoculars.

“You know, those lights are the color of distress flares,” Jelbart said.

Herbert thought the same thing. White flares were for a person overboard. Yellow flares were for working a line-throwing apparatus. Orange meant the user was stranded but safe. The colors were different so that the flares could provide light without needlessly summoning surrounding vessels.

Jelbart lowered his binoculars and pressed the headphones to his ears. He and the pilot were obviously receiving a message.

“One of the planes saw the light, too,” Jelbart said excitedly. “Definitely flares, looks like a ketch is going down.”

“Any fires?” Herbert asked.

Jelbart shook his head.

“Lifeboats?” Loh asked.

“Not that they could see,” Jelbart replied.

“A ketch,” Herbert said thoughtfully. “A boat like that wouldn’t seem out of place here, would it?”

“No,” Jelbart replied. He pulled the chart book from the sleeve on the door. He flipped to the page with the coordinates the pilot had given him. “That area of the sea is two hundred feet deep, with no reefs. Nothing a ship would be likely to strike. Not with enough force to sink it.”

“Why would the smugglers sink their own ship, then send out flares?” Loh wondered.

“Especially so many flares,” Jelbart pointed out. “There had to be three or four to light the sky like that.”

“They are not the kind of projectiles that would selflaunch in heat or in a fire,” Loh said. “They have to be triggered intentionally.”

“Right,” Jelbart said. “Though it appears some of these were ignited close to the water. Not in the air.”

“Perhaps the boat shifted when they were firing,” Loh suggested. “This may have been an act of desperation before it went down.”

“You don’t take a boat to deep water and sink it because you want to be found,” Herbert said.

“Then why fire flares?” Jelbart asked.

“Maybe not everyone liked the idea of the boat being deep-sixed,” Herbert speculated.

“A mutiny,” Jelbart suggested.

“Dissent among smugglers,” Herbert replied. “That’s not a big leap of imagination.”

“True. Well, we’ll have our answers soon,” Jelbart said. He turned to the pilot. “How much time until we get there?”

“About ten minutes,” the pilot replied.

“If we don’t go back for refueling, where’s the nearest place on the mainland to set down?” Herbert asked.

Jelbart checked the map. “Moribura, which is about two hundred kilometers to the southwest.”

“That would still only give us another ten minutes of hovering time,” the pilot pointed out.

“My patrol boat is coming over at full speed,” FNO Loh pointed out. “They should be on site in approximately one hour. They will maintain the integrity of the site.”

“That may not be in time to help the people on board,” Jelbart said.

“I can radio Darwin,” the pilot said. “There’s a Royal Volunteer Coastal Patrol base nearby. In Port Douglas, I think.”

“Thanks, but that wouldn’t help,” Jelbart said. “The RVCP fields a Patrol 5 that does 18.5 knots, and they don’t have air capability. Anyone in the water will be arm weary and damn near freezing before help arrives.”

“I’m crying,” Herbert said.

Jelbart ignored his remark. “Is there anything we can do before FNO Loh’s patrol ship arrives?”

“Not really,” the pilot said. “All I’ve got is an aluminum ladder and not a lot of flying time.”

Herbert watched as the helicopter swept toward the boat. The light from the flares was all but gone now.

“It looks to me as if the prow is underwater,” Jelbart said.

“Where were those flares burning?” Herbert asked.

“Off the stern,” Jelbart told him.

“So that rules out one theory,” Herbert said.

“Yes,” Loh said. “The idea that someone fired across the water’s surface because the vessel shifted. A forward dip would have thrown the projectiles skyward.”

“Exactly,” Herbert said. The intelligence officer was impressed. Monica Loh did not always seem to be listening. But she was. And she was thinking. Herbert had gotten accustomed to the way things were done in Washington. When people were silent, it was always for one of two reasons, both of them bad. Either they thought they had all the answers and were not interested in hearing any others, or they were afraid to speak because then they would have to take responsibility for suggestions that might become policy. Far too many federal employees put personal interest over national interest.

Herbert enjoyed being surprised by a person’s quiet assets rather than by their hidden shortcomings. His wife Yvonne had been like that. When they started working together, the future Mrs. Herbert was always very quiet. Herbert instinctively, chauvinistically, wrongly thought of Yvonne in terms of her pay grade. She was a subordinate. She was backup. But the woman was anything but that. She was usually beside him or several steps ahead. It was odd. When the Beirut embassy was bombed, Yvonne had taken shards of wood and cinderblock in the back. Herbert had no proof of this, none at all. But he went down a moment before she did. He had always imagined that Yvonne became aware of the bomb going off an instant before he did, pushed him to the floor, and dropped on top of him. That was how the couple was found.

Whether or not they were approaching Darling’s boat, Herbert no longer felt quite so trapped.

“It’s too dark to see anything now,” Jelbart said as he lowered his binoculars. “Wish I’d brought the bloody night-vision glasses.”

“We’ll be in range of the spotlights in two minutes or so,” the pilot pointed out.

“We’ll also be in range of any weapons they might have,” Herbert said, leaning toward the pilot.

“I was just thinking that,” Jelbart said.

“Sirs, we don’t have any retaliatory capability,” the pilot noted.

“I noticed that,” Herbert said. “Mr. Jelbart, can you radio General Hopkins and ask to have the Mirages circle the area.”

“Of course,” Jelbart said. “Not that I think we need to worry. A sinking boat is not an ideal firing platform.”

“I’ll still feel better with a couple of fighters buzzing the boat, just to keep them honest,” Herbert said.

“Sir, I’ll try to position the under section of the hull between us and anyone who might still be on it,” the pilot said. “That will make it difficult to target us.”

“Sounds good,” Herbert said.

“There are two things in our favor,” FNO Loh observed. “All the scarring on the sampan was from small arms fire. Our adversaries may not be equipped with anything stronger. Even if they were, they are apparently out here trying to sink the evidence. That would include weapons.”

Herbert nodded. That cinched it. He was in love with this woman.

The intelligence chief sat back and called Op-Center. He did not think Stephen Viens would be able to get useful satellite data in the next few minutes. However, he wanted Paul Hood to know what was going on. He also wanted to tell Hood exactly where they were.

Just in case they were wrong about the heavy artillery.

SIXTY-ONE

Washington, D.C. Saturday, 1:00 P.M.

There was a point, about three years ago, when Paul Hood had identified a third component to his job. There was the quarterback role, there was the cheerleader function, and there was also the color commentator in the booth. The guy whose job was really to play devil’s advocate.

Hood had assembled a team of professionals. Military experts. Intelligence strategists. Psychologists, diplomats, surveillance professionals. He was here to listen to what Mike Rodgers or Darrell McCaskey or Bob Herbert had to say. Whether he agreed or not, his answer had to be, “Yeah, but . . .”

He did that when Bob Herbert called from the Bell. After sitting at his desk and listening to the intelligence chief’s description of the scene, Hood went into his, “Yeah, but . . .” routine. Only in this case his concern was genuine.

“How confident are you that the boat is not a decoy?” Hood asked.

“There wasn’t time to pull that together,” Herbert insisted.

“He had enough time to call the president’s special assistant for democratic elections and get him to gnaw on me,” Hood said.

“Bruce Perry?” Herbert asked.

“Yes.”

“What did he do, give you the ‘Why are you bothering this wonderful philanthropist’ routine?” Herbert asked.

“Pretty much,” Hood said. “There was nothing specific. I wouldn’t be surprised if Perry didn’t know about the smuggling.”

“I agree. Though it’s interesting,” Herbert replied.

“What is?”

“On a scale of executive influence, Perry is what? Two out of a possible ten?” Herbert asked.

“If you’re breaking things down that way, I guess so,” Hood agreed.

“Darling is used to dealing with the top levels of government,” Herbert went on. “Perry is not as high as he could have gone if he had been prepared. He wasn’t. This was the best he could do on short notice. Paul, I think we caught Darling with his trousers around his ankles.”

Hood considered that for a moment. “That’s not the conclusion I would draw,” he replied.

“What then?” Herbert asked.

“I think that Perry may be as high as Darling dared to go,” Hood said. “If he had called the Speaker of the House, and he could have—they’ve golfed together a number of times, according to the files—political survival instincts would have forced the Speaker to ask himself, ‘What if Darling is guilty? Do I really want to go to bat for this guy?’ ”

“Okay,” Herbert said. “That’s another indication our boy Darling has something to hide.”

“Right. But that doesn’t mean Darling was caught off guard,” Hood said. “This could still be a diversion to keep you away from the real transport. Or worse. Have you got night vision?”

“No. Nor weapons.”

“Jesus,” Hood said.

“Him I’ve got. On a chain, right near my heart,” Herbert said.

It took a moment before Hood got the reference. He smiled.

“Look, Paul,” Herbert went on. “We’re almost at the site, and I haven’t heard anything to make me want to turn back. If these guys do tag us with some kind of sucker punch, come back here in force. Dig up the boat, search it ass to chin, and find something to implicate Jervis Darling. Nothing is ever one hundred percent clean. Nothing.”

“Bob, we’ve charged into places before and paid a heavy price,” Hood reminded him. They lost Charlie Squires in Russia, and the bulk of the Striker team averting war between India and Pakistan.

“Yeah. And I paid a toll when I was just standing around an embassy minding my own business,” Herbert said.

“Beirut was a war zone,” Hood reminded him.

“Paul, these days, the world’s a goddamn war zone,” Herbert said. “Anyway, I have no right to turn back. Managing crises is part of the job description. If this is the boat the smugglers have been using, it certainly qualifies.”

Hood was fresh out of “Yeah buts . . .” He had done that part of his job. Now it was time to do the next part. The secondary, more difficult part. To rein in his own natural conservatism. To refrain from overruling his field officer. To let him have his head.

To allow him to risk his life.

“All right. Just keep the phone line open, will you?” Hood asked.

“Sure,” Herbert said. “You won’t hear much, though. It’s pretty damn noisy in here.”

“That’s exactly what I hope to hear, Bob,” Hood replied.

“I don’t follow,” Herbert said.

“I want to hear a very loud helicopter returning from a successful recon mission,” Hood said.

“Gotcha,” Herbert said. “Thanks. We’re getting ready to switch on the spotlight now. And Paul?”

“Yes?”

“If that bastard Perry calls again, put him on hold,” Herbert said.

“Sure. Why?”

“With luck,” Herbert said, “we’ll have some news for you real soon.”

SIXTY-TWO

The Coral Sea Sunday, 3:01 A.M.

The yacht had assumed a life of its own. It seemed like a legendary sea beast as it moved and turned in the dark sea. It became a participant in the struggle between the two men.

As though resenting their entrapment, the waters in the lower deck of the Hosannah shifted. That caused the prow of the vessel to drop suddenly, hurling Hawke back and Kannaday forward. The men collided amidships, then tumbled hard against the mainmast. Hawke lost his wommera, and both men lost their bearings. They continued to slide forward as the yacht’s aft section rose. The arms of both men pinwheeled at their sides. They tried to grab at anything that might break their fall. At the same time, the vessel began sliding deeper into the water. The forward portholes cracked, and large air bubbles popped from the openings. Each one caused the yacht to hop slightly, as though muscles were contracting. They forced the yacht up slightly, but only for a moment. The final, downward slide had begun.

Kannaday lost sight of Hawke. His hands found a flopping halyard, and he held tight. But his body was weak from loss of blood. He hung there while the yacht slid further into the sea. His ear was pressed to the slanting deck. He heard the roar of water as it pounded against the hull.

It was strange, Kannaday thought. He probably had only a minute or two more to live. Yet he felt oddly euphoric. He had returned from the dead to confront Hawke. A life of wandering had ended in a flourish of purpose. It felt good.

Suddenly, through the spray of water, Kannaday saw a light. He wondered if this was the light of the afterlife people spoke of. He watched as the white beacon, sharply haloed with a rainbow, appeared to be growing larger. A moment later, Kannaday heard a drone. The sound rose above the rush of water that was coming from below. As the white light approached, Kannaday realized it was above him. This was not the glow of passing from one world to the next.

It was a helicopter. Perhaps its pilot had seen the flares and had come to investigate. Not that it mattered. There were too many people to rescue, and they were far from shore. He did not think many of these men could stay afloat for the two or more hours it would take for ships to reach this remote point.

Kannaday’s fingers were cramped and trembling. He was holding tightly, but the rope was slippery and the angle of the yacht increasingly severe. The captain began to lose his hold. He moved his feet around. The steeper the angle, the more dead weight his own body became. He was looking for a place to brace himself. He found nothing.

The light floated behind the yacht. Kannaday slipped a little more. He let go with one hand and tried to wrap the rope around his wrist. There was not enough slack to do that. He was losing blood and felt his head swim. His fingers weakened, and he slipped farther down the line. But Kannaday forced himself to hold tight. He wanted to finish what he had started belowdecks. The long overdue reformation of Peter Kannaday. A captain was supposed to resist any effort to mutiny. In the end, he had done that. The unwritten law of the sea also dictated that a captain remain with his ship until passengers and crew had been safely evacuated. Kannaday intended to honor that, too, even though he hoped that John Hawke drowned with him. He knew that Hawke was still somewhere on the deck of the sinking ship. Kannaday had seen the security officer hanging to the bottom edge of the forward hatch. He refused to surrender the Hosannah to him. Even in the end.

Strong winds howled along the sides of the yacht as the vessel slid deeper into the sea. It was rotor wash from the helicopter. The light behind it rose slowly behind the ship. Kannaday saw the Hosannah silhouetted on the restless sea. It was a foreshortened, oblong shape.

Almost like a coffin.

That was the last thing Kannaday saw as the ship went under. It dragged him feetfirst into the cold water. His fingers remained wrapped on the rope as he submerged. He did not hold his breath, and he did not struggle. It did not matter to him what the maritime authorities made of the sinking. What mattered was that Peter Kannaday knew the truth.

He had died a captain.

SIXTY-THREE

The Coral Sea Sunday, 3:08 A.M.

“I think it’s safe to go around,” Herbert said.

The American’s voice was thick with sarcasm as the ship vanished. Jelbart turned his binoculars on the water where the boat had been.

“Did the name of the yacht sound familiar to anyone?” Herbert asked. “The Hosannah?”

“No,” Jelbart said. “But it looked like a typical charter. You see them a lot in this region.”

“There is someone down there,” FNO Loh said suddenly.

“Where?” Jelbart asked.

“On my side,” Loh said. “Floating facedown.”

The pilot turned the helicopter around so Jelbart could see. “You’re right,” Jelbart said. “And there’s someone swimming toward him. Officer Loh, can you get the ladder?”

The Singaporean reached behind her. She unhooked the rolled aluminum ladder from the small storage area.

“There are hooks on the floor,” the pilot said.

“I see them,” Loh replied. She unbuckled her seat belt and dropped to one knee. She fastened the top of the ladder to the steel hooks, gave a hard tug, then undid the nylon bands around the ladder. “Ready,” she said.

“He’s waving to us,” Jelbart said. “It must be someone who did not want the ship to go down.”

“That would be someone we definitely want to talk to,” Herbert remarked.

“If we do get him, we’ll have to leave immediately,” the pilot said. “The extra weight is going to put a strain on our fuel consumption.”

“I understand,” Jelbart said. “Let’s get him.”

The pilot acknowledged. There may be other survivors out there. He did not like the idea of leaving them. Not at night in a cold, tortured sea. But he liked even less the prospect of having to ditch the Bell at sea if they could not reach shore.

“Officer Loh, would you deploy the ladder?” the pilot asked. He turned the chopper around.

Loh held on to the canvas strap beside the door, then opened it. She leaned out. The downdraft was stronger than she expected. She had to brace herself against the other side of the doorway.

The man was treading water beside the other sailor. He had turned the body onto its back. It did not appear to be moving. She used her left foot to kick the ladder out. The man was far enough away so that it would not hit him when deployed. The ladder clattered gently as it unrolled. Loh leaned out again.

“Can he make it without assistance?” Jelbart asked.

“He’s trying,” Loh replied. “He’s swimming toward it but only using one arm. The other seems to be injured.”

“I can’t go any lower or we’ll blow him under,” the pilot said.

Loh watched as the man threw his right arm up. He grabbed the lowest rung and brought his left arm over. He was having trouble raising it. His left arm looked like it might be broken.

“He’s struggling,” Loh said. She turned around. “I’m going down.”

“Officer, take these!” the pilot said. He handed her his gloves. “They’ll help your grip.”

“Thank you,” she said as she pulled them on. Loh backed out the open door and started down.

The ladder vibrated as the naval officer made her way down. There were twenty rungs to the surface of the sea. She took them slowly. The rungs, FNO Loh’s cheeks, and her clothing quickly became damp with seawater. The gloves proved to be a lifesaver.

Every few steps the officer looked down. She wanted to make sure the sailor was still hanging on. He was there, his right arm hooked over the rung. If he went under, Loh knew that she would have to drop in to retrieve him.

The descent went quickly. When Loh was one rung above him, she carefully stepped to the rung he was holding. His expression was tight. He appeared to be in extreme pain.

“Can you put your bad arm around my shoulder?” she yelled down.

“I think so,” he said. He cocked his head to the side. “That man betrayed me! I want his body brought aboard.”

“We can talk about this inside!” she said.

“You don’t understand,” the man said. “He’s a traitor! You need to fingerprint him, find out what else he may be involved in.”

“We’re low on fuel,” Loh told him. “There is a patrol ship on the way. They will collect his remains.”

The officer ducked lower. The man seemed to hesitate. Then, reluctantly, he tried to raise his left arm. Loh reached back with her right hand to pull it around her neck. He clutched her collar with weak, bleeding fingers. She shifted slightly and hefted him a little higher. Then they started climbing. The man was not exactly dead weight, but neither was he as helpful as she had hoped. About halfway up she really began to feel the strain. Each rung was twice as difficult as the one before. The man was trying to climb with her. But each time he reached with his good arm, he rested his full weight on her back. She was surprised at how difficult this was. At the naval academy’s annual fitness review, FNO Loh was still able to climb a rope thirty feet without using her legs. Of course, she did not try the escalade, as it was called, with a man on her back.

“Officer Loh, pass him up!”

Someone was shouting down at her. FNO Loh looked up. Bob Herbert was sitting in her seat. He was holding on to the strap and leaning out. His right arm was extended. She had to climb another three rungs to reach it.

The officer looked ahead and pulled herself up another rung.

“Officer, stop or we’ll lose you both!” Herbert yelled. “Help him climb over your back onto the ladder. I’ll grab him. I promise.”

Loh did not acknowledge. She did not want to give up before the job was finished. That was not how she lived, and it was not how she had been trained. She looked straight ahead, at the landing strut. She tried to climb another rung. Her arms were so weak they were shaking. She stopped.

“Dammit, my legs may not work but I can curl fifty pounds with each arm,” Herbert said.

The man leaned close to Loh’s ear. “I’m going to try to reach your friend,” he said.

“All right,” Loh replied.

The Singaporean officer snaked her left arm through the rungs so her right arm was free. The man shifted to her right side and grasped the rung above her. She used her free arm to help him up. Bob Herbert was right. This was easier than trying to move them both. Meanwhile, Herbert reached behind the man and hooked a hand under his good arm. That gave the man all the extra lift he needed. With Loh pushing from below, he was able to make it into the doorway. Herbert pulled him in. Loh followed.

“You okay?” Herbert asked when Loh climbed in.

“Yes,” she said. “Are you sure there isn’t time to get the other man?”

“Very sure,” the pilot said, glancing at the fuel gauge. “We need to pull out. Now.”

The naval officer understood. She unhooked the ladder, pulled it in, and shut the door. She piled it against the door, then fell into the empty seat across from Herbert. She looked at him as the pilot swung the helicopter to the southwest. “Thank you, Bob.”

“Yes, thank you,” said the new arrival.

Loh and Herbert looked at him. The man was sitting in the seat that Herbert had vacated to help him aboard. He was soaked and shivering. He had his left elbow cupped in his right hand.

“Do you have a towel back here?” Herbert asked the pilot.

“I’m afraid not,” the pilot replied.

“A bottle of water?” Herbert asked.

“I finished it a hundred miles back.”

Herbert regarded the man and shrugged. “Sorry.”

“That’s all right,” he said weakly. “I’m just glad to be here. I thought I was a dead man.”

“How about that arm?” Herbert asked. “We can rig a sling for you.”

“It’s my shoulder, actually,” the man said. “It was hurt when the boat was upended. It will keep.”

“We’ll get that taken care of ashore,” Jelbart said. “In the meantime, talk to us. Who are you?”

“I am Peter Kannaday, captain of the Hosannah,” the man said weakly. “And you people are?”

“I’m Warrant Officer Jelbart. The gentleman across from you is Bob Herbert, and the lady is Female Naval Officer Loh.”

“Australia, America, and—Singapore?”

Loh nodded.

“I thank you all,” the man said with a little nod to each.

“Tell me, Captain. What were you doing out here?” Jelbart asked.

“And who was that individual in the water with you?” Loh asked as she removed the damp pilot’s gloves. She flexed her cold fingers. “You said he betrayed you.”

“He betrayed me, and he betrayed Australia,” the man replied coldly, his eyes fixed on something far away.

“How?” Loh asked.

The man blinked quickly as though waking from a trance.

“Captain Kannaday?” Loh pressed.

“Forgive me,” the man said. Suddenly, he began to sob. “Officers, if you would indulge me. This has been a terrible night. I would like to shut my eyes for just a few minutes.”

“Captain Kannaday, we understand what you’ve been through. But this is rather urgent,” Jelbart said. “I need you to tell us who the man was and why you were out here.”

“His name is Hawke,” the man replied. “John Hawke. And he brought the Hosannah out here to sink it.”

“Why?” Jelbart asked.

The man sat back and shut his eyes. He said nothing.

“Captain?” Jelbart said. “Captain!”

“Officers, I must rest,” the man said. “Please. For just a few minutes. It won’t change anything, I assure you.”

Water dribbled down the man’s temples and forehead, and his head slumped against the window. Loh leaned across the aisle and jabbed him with a finger. He grumbled but did not open his eyes.

“If this were Singapore, we’d wake him,” Loh said.

“If this were Singapore, I’d help you,” Herbert said. “We’ve got a nice, long ladder. What are the international laws about fly-fishing a guy from a helicopter to wake him?”

“It’s called ‘extreme coercion,’ Mr. Herbert,” Jelbart said. “What your legal system would define as ‘cruel and unusual punishment.’ ”

“These are extreme and unusual circumstances,” Loh remarked. Her tone was unsympathetic. She did not respect weakness. Especially from a man whose life she just saved.

“Nonetheless, this man is not the pirate we found,” Jelbart said. “As far as we know, this man has not committed a crime. We have no recourse but to bring him in and question him at his convenience.”

“There are times when we worry about etiquette and protocol too much,” Loh said.

“I’m with Officer Loh on that,” Herbert said. “We have two responsibilities here. One is to the captain. The other is to a few million people just like him. In one case, a guy may be inconvenienced. In the other case, tens of thousands may die. That’s not even a contest to me.”

“We can honor both,” Jelbart insisted. “The captain asked for a few minutes. Let us at least give him that.”

Herbert shook his head, and Monica Loh sat back. She wondered if Jelbart would have been so compassionate if Captain Kannaday had been American. Or Singaporean. Australians were notoriously protective of their own.

Because it was her nature, she also wondered whether Captain Kannaday were really asleep or whether he had been listening carefully to everything they said. Trying to decide what he should say.

She did not know. One thing she did know, however. Soon, someone on board was going to be apologizing to someone else on board for a serious miscalculation.

SIXTY-FOUR

Washington, D.C. Saturday, 1:24 P.M.

Research was job number four for Paul Hood. That came after quarterbacking, cheerleading, and devil’s advocacy.

Hood usually did research only on weekends, when Op-Center had just a skeleton staff. He actually enjoyed it. Searching for information exercised his linear thinking. It gave more logic to those “yeah but . . .” questions. It also shut out his emotions, his fears. He was totally in the moment.

Bob Herbert had left the cell phone open. Hood had put the call on the speakerphone, cranked up the volume, and listened to the conversation between the rescue team and Peter Kannaday. As soon as he heard that name, Hood conducted a computer search through Interpol and FBI files. Nothing showed up. That was good. It suggested the man was telling the truth, that he had been used and shanghied. Hood also did a wider off-line search and came across the registry filing for the Hosannah. There was information about Peter Kannaday. He was the owner of the yacht before it was “sold” to the apparently nonexistent Arvids March. It included copies of his license and dates when the yacht had visited various ports in the South Pacific and the Caribbean. Hood forwarded that information to Herbert’s computer. If the Hosannah had been used to traffic nuclear material, the abbreviated log might help to track pickups or drop-offs.

Hood felt the way Warrant Officer Jelbart did. The man was a guest, not a prisoner. That was very easy to forget in times of high emotion, which occurred with some frequency whenever Bob Herbert was involved.

That’s why you have to hold tight to what you once determined was right, Hood told himself. Otherwise, police officers became bullies, presidents became tyrants, and intelligence officers became both.

Hood sent the Kannaday file to Herbert with an audible prompt. He knew the intelligence chief would be sitting in the cabin, stewing. He wanted to make sure Herbert got the E-mail.

Hood heard the wheelchair beep over the phone. The data file had arrived. He still found it pretty amazing that information could be sent around the world so quickly, so completely, and so secretly. He remembered when he was still in school, and telexes were a big, innovative deal. That was about the time when Pong was the rage at airports and college lounges.

At least most forms of terrorism still had to be done the old-fashioned way. The killing tools of that despicable trade had to be moved slowly, by hand. And like a slug trailing slime across a slate walk, there was no way to erase all evidence of its passage. In days of depressing reality, that was a cheering thought.

It was at once sad and astonishing what passed for hope in the twenty-first century.

SIXTY-FIVE

The Coral Sea Sunday, 3:33 A.M.

Herbert was stewing.

The intelligence chief did not think that Warrant Officer Jelbart was wrong about backing off Kannaday. He just did not think that Jelbart was right.

Captain Kannaday was hurt. Herbert had no doubt that the man was exhausted. But he did not believe the man was asleep. Kannaday’s nap was the Australian equivalent of cover-your-ass. Whatever had happened on the yacht was illegal. Kannaday had said as much. He was not going to say anything else without a barrister or solicitor or whatever they called criminal attorneys Down Under.

It had also been imprudent of Jelbart to mention the pirate. That information had not been made public. If Kannaday were asleep, it would not matter. If he were awake, he might be less inclined to talk. The captain might say things that contradicted what officials already knew from the pirate. That would not be good for Kannaday.

Herbert’s E-mail alert beeped. “Christ,” he said.

“What’s wrong?” Jelbart asked.

Herbert turned and snapped the cell phone from the armrest of the wheelchair.

“Paul, are you still there?”

“I am,” Hood said.

“Sorry, boss,” Herbert told him. “I forgot you were hanging on. What have you got?”

“A file on Peter Kannaday,” Hood said. “I thought you might like to have a look at it.”

“Absolutely,” Herbert said. The laptop monitor was anchored in the left armrest of the wheelchair. Herbert craned around and swung the screen toward him. He punched the On button. It activated with a hiss. He opened and downloaded Hood’s E-mail.

“Do you think the captain is really asleep?” Hood asked.

“Yeah,” Herbert said. “And I’m going to be the next president of the United States.”

“Do you believe anything he said?” Hood asked.

“I don’t know,” Herbert admitted. He was watching the monitor as the file downloaded. “I don’t have enough information.”

“And there’s nothing you or Officer Loh can do to get that information,” Hood said.

“Well, there is—” Herbert said.

“Lawfully, I mean,” Hood interrupted. “Peter Kannaday is an Australian captain working in international waters. He was rescued by an Australian helicopter. They’re going to have the first swing at him.”

“Paul, we’ve got to fight that,” Herbert said. “Maybe Lowell can pull some legal precedent out of his brain pan.” The intelligence chief looked out the window as the computer continued opening the file. It was dark out there. But not as dark as Herbert felt inside.

“Come on, Bob. You know better.”

“Unfortunately, I do,” Herbert replied.

“Even if Lowell got us in to talk to Kannaday, he’s not going to let an interview turn rough,” Hood said.

“He’d rather see some psycho warlord get heavy artillery?”

“The Australians won’t let that happen,” Hood replied. “Give them some credit.”

“In a perfect world, I would,” Herbert said. “But if the authorities find out our other friend may be involved, I’ll tell you exactly what they’ll do. They’ll circle the wagons around the big man. They have to. It would bring down his empire, do damage to the national economy. They’ll scapegoat some secondary guy to keep their national treasure from being sullied. If that happens, we’ll never get all the names we’re after. And we’ll never know if we’ve cut this caravan off completely.”

Herbert did not want to mention Darling’s name in case Kannaday was awake. If the man were going to talk, Herbert wanted him to mention Darling without being prompted. A lie or cover-up could usually be identified quickly. A half-truth was much more troublesome.

“I don’t agree that they’ll protect Darling,” Hood said. “Something this big would leak eventually. They will have to cut a deal.”

“I don’t like the smell of that,” Herbert said.

“It’s done in business all the time,” Hood said. “The alternative is closing your eyes or bringing down the whole system to get one man. In exchange for cooperation, regulators or investigators give executives a degree of immunity and time to turn the companies over to associates.”

“Jesus, Paul,” Herbert complained. “We’re not talking about insider trading here.”

“I recognize that—”

“I don’t want to see this guy have his passport revoked and agree to the equivalent of house arrest,” Herbert said. “That isn’t right.”

“I agree. And I don’t want you to forget that this isn’t about retribution,” Hood said. “That’s why a Richard Nixon resigns and gets a pardon, or a Kurt Waldheim has his visa shredded and any war crimes he may have been involved in are locked in a filing cabinet. It’s about fixing a problem with a minimum of embarrassment, if possible.”

“That’s the solution of a bureaucrat,” Herbert said. “I want this guy’s tanned hide.”

“That is the self-righteous indignation of the Lone Ranger,” Hood replied. “Bob, if Darling is guilty, I’d love to see him get life in prison. But that probably won’t happen. Right or wrong, you can’t just remove a foundation of international industry like that. Maybe over time, but not immediately.”

“Over time people will forget,” Herbert said. “They’ll forgive.”

“That’s possible,” Hood agreed.

“It’s inevitable,” Herbert said.

“Not if he was trying to kill people,” Hood said. “Al Capone was a folk hero until he ordered the Saint Valentine’s Day Massacre. People will cheer someone who beats the establishment. They won’t tolerate mass murder.”

The computer beeped, signaling that the file had been downloaded. Herbert terminated the link and opened the file. He was angry. He was not angry at Hood. He was angry because Hood was right. Jervis Darling would probably survive a worst-case scenario.

“Bob?” Hood said.

“Yeah.”

“You’re unusually quiet.”

“Sorry,” Herbert replied. “I was thinking about what you said.”

“And?”

“Like Mr. Jelbart, you’ve got a point. I just don’t happen to like it,” Herbert told him. “Is that what we do for a living? Risk our lives so we can settle for a compromise?”

“It seems that way,” Hood said.

“It doesn’t seem right.”

“I agree,” Hood said, “but that’s the ante when your opponents are ready to risk their lives. Besides, in our business a trade-off that prevents a war is still better than a loss.”

“I don’t know,” Herbert said. “I never respected football teams that went for a field goal and a tie. That’s not what champions do.”

Hood chuckled.

“What’s so funny?” Herbert asked.

“Your choice of words,” Hood said. “When I was mayor, there was a small bronze plaque in city hall. It was a quote from Daniel Webster that read, ‘This is a hall for mutual consultation and discussion, not an arena for the exhibition of champions.’ I believe that.”

“You would, Paul. You have the patience for talk,” Herbert said. His tone was not disparaging. He admired Hood’s diplomacy.

“Talk works,” Hood said. “If you’re doing that, you probably aren’t killing each other.”

“I can do both.”

“Only if you’re screaming, not talking,” Hood said.

Hood was right about that point. The problem was, Herbert had always liked his way of doing things. It worked. Hood made it sound bad.

“Anyway, it isn’t patience,” Hood went on. “Talk is my weapon of choice. It worked well with voters and with my kids. Now it’s a part of me. I couldn’t change if I wanted to.” He added pointedly, “None of us can.”

Finally, there was something Herbert could agree with.

Hood said that he would call Lowell Coffey and bring him up to speed. Herbert thanked him and hung up the phone. He sat back and thought about what Hood said.

None of them could change.

Hood was right about that. But with that comment came Paul Hood’s tacit acknowledgment that he accepted Bob Herbert as is. That gave Herbert a little wiggle room. He had not been told, expressly, to stay out of the investigation and interrogation.

What it did not give Herbert, immediately, was a place to put his fist. He was furious with Jervis Darling, with the polite but recalcitrant Peter Kannaday, and with the coddling mentality in general. Herbert understood talk. But to be honest, he still preferred war. It took less time and it resolved disputes a lot quicker. Nor were the casualties any heavier, really. Just quicker. The combatants lost to bullets what they would have lost to endless raids and corrosive debate.

Herbert noticed Loh staring at him.

“What are you thinking?” he asked her.

“I agree with you,” she said.

“About?”

“A stalemate,” she said.

Herbert smiled. “I didn’t think you would care for that.”

“Not at all. I would rather fight and lose than feel as though I did not give something my fullest effort,” she replied.

Herbert smiled at her. That iced it. FNO Monica Loh had to become the next Mrs. Herbert. He was betting she had less patience for bullshit and insincerity than he did.

Almost absently, Herbert reached behind him and opened the computer file Paul Hood had sent. The intelligence chief angled the monitor toward him. He considered dreamily how he and Monica would be banned from every party and fund-raiser in Washington, D.C.

The file opened. Herbert glanced at it. His eyes shrank and his mouth widened. He stared at the screen more closely.

And he knew at once what to do with his rage.

SIXTY-SIX

Cairns, Australia Sunday, 3:56 A.M.

The call was late.

Jervis Darling stood in the beige kitchen eating a half cantaloupe from the rind. He was no longer dressed in the gray Cairns Yacht Club sweat suit he had been wearing earlier. He had exercised on his rowing machine for forty-five minutes. Then he showered, pulled on a bathrobe, and sat in front of the television. He moved impatiently from satellite to satellite, watching nothing as the hours passed. At the same time, his mood shifted from disgust to anger to concern. He should have heard from his nephew or John Hawke by now. But the cell phone in his pocket had remained resolutely silent.

Darling finished the fruit. He cut the rind into slices and fed it into the garbage disposal. Things always seemed worse in the dark hours of night. Yet he could not help but think that something had gone wrong. Even if they had failed to sink the yacht, Marcus would have gotten in touch with him. The only thing he could think of was that miserable American.

Other than by dumb, idiotic luck, Darling could not imagine how Herbert might have found the yacht. Or what he might have done to stop Hawke. No one stopped John Hawke. As he finished pulping the rind, Darling began to consider what he should do. Earlier that evening he had called his old college friend Bruce Perry about Herbert. Perry had said he would handle it. The men had not spoken since. Darling did not want to call and ask him how the conversation went. Pressure was as good as an admission of guilt. The only thing that drove away an ally faster was failure.

Darling began to consider his next move. It might have to be a bolder preventative step than simply calling a friend at the White House. This was not a position Darling enjoyed. He was usually the one maneuvering CEOs or politicians into a corner.

Darling felt that he should wake Jessica-Ann and leave the estate. He and his daughter could go to the cove and take the yacht to his retreat in the Sister Islands. Or they could drive to the airstrip and depart by jet. If something had gone wrong, Darling did not want to be easily accessible. Since the Sister Islands were part of New Zealand, that would add another country—and another bureaucracy—between himself and any legal activities. He would let the barristers tackle any issues that might come up.

Though these concerns are premature, Darling reminded himself.

Darling still did not know for certain that anything was wrong. John Hawke could simply be hiding until dawn. He might have had a reason to maintain silence. Or he could be playing a psychological game of some kind. Darling would not put it past Hawke to make him wait. Hawke would do that from spite or to show some muscle. Just enough to be annoying but not enough to threaten. Hawke knew better than to cross that boundary.

After considering the situation for several minutes more, Darling decided that it would be a good idea to leave. He would take the jet to the nearest of his islands in the Sisters. Picking up the house phone, Darling woke Andrew and told him to pack a bag for himself and for his daughter. Next he called his pilot, Shawn Daniels, who lived in a cottage at the far end of the estate. Darling told him to be ready to fly out within the hour. The Learjet was always ready and accessible for unexpected business trips.

Finally, Darling went to wake his daughter. He moved quickly but unhurriedly to the living room and up the winding marble staircase. Jessica-Ann would be groggy, and she would sleep through the flight. She would wake up to invigorating sunshine and clean sea air. Wake from the restful sleep of the innocent. Darling wished that were something he could enjoy.

Not that it matters. Things will look better in the morning, he assured himself.

If they did not, he would have them fixed by the afternoon. Either through talk or through deed.

A man with radioactive materials at his disposal always had options.

SIXTY-SEVEN

The Coral Sea Sunday, 4:01 A.M.

Monica Loh sat in the deep vinyl seat of the helicopter’s dark cabin. She was watching Bob Herbert. His face was in shadow, but his posture was tense, aggressive. He was leaning forward, anxiously pressing a thumb into his palm. Loh did not wonder what he was thinking. She knew. He wanted to get information from Captain Kannaday using any means possible. Herbert had said as much when he was on the telephone.

But then something changed. Herbert glanced at his computer monitor and sat up. His hands relaxed. He turned toward Captain Kannaday and regarded him for a long moment. Then he looked at her.

“Wake him,” Herbert said.

Loh turned and gave Kannaday’s shoulder a firm shake. He opened his eyes slowly.

Warrant Officer Jelbart turned. “What is it?”

“I wanted to ask our guest a question,” Herbert said.

“I thought we had decided to let the captain be for now,” Jelbart said with a hint of annoyance.

“I let him have his power nap,” Herbert said. “Now I want to know something. Something simple.”

“You are free to ask anything you like,” the man replied.

“Thanks. But you’re saying you may not answer,” Herbert said.

“As I said, I am extremely tired. I don’t want to say anything that is inaccurate or may be misinterpreted.”

“I understand,” Herbert said. “How about this, which is pretty tough to screw up. Where were you born?”

The man looked at him.

“What’s wrong?” Herbert asked. “Is that too tough?”

“Are you serious?” the man asked.

“I’ve been accused of that, yeah,” Herbert said. “Have you got an answer for me?”

“I was born here. In Australia,” the man replied.

“In which town?” Herbert asked. “On what date?”

“Why?” The man grinned. “Are you going to buy me a gift?”

“One that keeps on giving,” Herbert told him. “A lifetime sentence in a maximum security prison.”

“Really?” the man said. “For what?”

“I think you know,” Herbert said.

“Bob, we decided we weren’t going to do anything like this,” Jelbart said angrily.

“You decided that,” Herbert said. His eyes remained on Kannaday. “Where were you born and when?”

Loh did not think Herbert would bully someone unless he had a solid reason. Apparently, he did. She watched Kannaday’s reaction. He was unfazed. After a few moments the captain closed his eyes. His head sank back on the seat and was lost again in darkness.

“Bob, why do you want to know that?” Jelbart asked.

“Why?” Herbert replied. “Because this man is not Peter Kannaday.”

“What?” Jelbart said.

“I just saw a photograph of Captain Kannaday,” Herbert said. He angled the monitor toward Jelbart and cranked up the brightness. “There is a picture attached to his license.”

Jelbart looked from the computer monitor to their guest. “I’ll be a nong—an idiot, to you. Bob is right. This isn’t you.”

“Rot,” the man replied without opening his eyes. “There’s obviously a mistake in the file.”

“I don’t think so,” Herbert said. “There were two men on the deck of the yacht. One man dies. The other man assumes his identity.”

“Why?” the man asked. His eyes were still shut. He seemed utterly unconcerned.

“What better way to earn our trust than to pose as a virtuous sea captain fighting smugglers? We give that trust, along with safe passage to shore. Then, as soon as you get there, you slip away.”

“The photograph is as mixed up as you are, Mr. Herbert.”

“Then answer the question,” Herbert pressed. “Where and when were you born?”

Loh was watching the man carefully. He did not flinch. Nor did he tell Herbert what he wanted to hear.

“I’ll tell you what,” Herbert said. “You’re a cheap fake and a lowlife smuggler, but I won’t hold that against you. You’re not the guy I want.”

The man said nothing.

“The man I want is Jervis Darling,” Herbert continued. “You give him to me, and you walk.”

The man opened his eyes slightly. “You can’t offer that kind of deal.”

“You don’t deny that Mr. Darling is behind this smuggling operation?” Jelbart asked.

“Mr. Darling,” the man said with contempt. “You’d call the fallen prince Your Highness,” he suggested.

“Obviously, you do know Darling, then,” Herbert said.

“Only by reputation,” the man replied. He closed his eyes again and settled deeper into the seat.

Loh was surprised. Herbert seemed unusually calm. Like a grand master with a checkmate move that no one else saw.

“You look like the kind of tough monkey who isn’t afraid to face death,” Herbert said. “Much as I’d like to, I won’t threaten to throw you out the helicopter door or anything like that. What I am going to do, however, is change the plan. And since we found you in international waters, I don’t think Warrant Officer Jelbart has the will or authority to object.”

Jelbart nodded. The floor was Herbert’s.

“We are not going to take you to Cairns,” the intelligence officer went on. “We are going to land at Cape Melville where the local police will meet us and hold you. We will turn you over to FNO Loh. When her patrol ship arrives, you will be taken to Singapore, to the military police, and the ultimate justice of the magistrate’s court.”

The man looked at him. “Balls to you,” he replied.

Herbert shrugged. “Suit yourself, tough little monkey. Either way, I get Darling. Pilot? Make the change.”

The pilot looked at Jelbart. The warrant officer nodded.

“We will get the information we want,” Loh added, “because the chief interrogator will have it flogged or drugged from you. The military police have that authority under the Singaporean Nuclear Emergency Response Act of 2002. It defined nuclear trafficking as an act of terrorism. In Singapore, individual rights are suspended when evidence points to imminent deeds of mass destruction.”

Herbert gave her an appreciative look for the added push.

The man opened his eyes. They did not seem quite as relaxed as they were a moment before.

“We’re nearing the coast,” Herbert pressed. “What’s it going to be? Jail here and cooperation, or jail there and electrodes on the earlobes and God knows where else?”

The man looked out the window. The coast was coming into view.

“I’m guessing you’ve been pretty slick till this point,” Herbert said. “But your luck has hit a wall. Trust me.”

The man regarded Herbert. “I won’t go to jail,” he said. “I did not run the ship, and I did not run the operation. I was just a mate.”

“Are you John Hawke?” Herbert asked.

“Yes,” he replied.

“What was your job?”

“Security chief,” he answered unapologetically. “I had no contact with sellers or purchasers, and I did not interact with the contraband. Peter Kannaday ran the ship. Jervis Darling ran the operation. His nephew Marcus operated communications and is back there in the water.”

“Those flares?” Loh asked.

“They were fired by Kannaday to sink the dinghies,” Hawke replied. “He wanted to prevent anyone from getting away.”

“Why?” Herbert demanded.

“Because we were told by Jervis Darling to sink the ship,” Hawke said.

“To hide evidence of what?” Herbert asked.

“A nuclear processing laboratory on board,” Hawke replied.

Herbert smiled.

“But I will not repeat any of this for the record if you send me to prison,” Hawke said. “I go free, or you have no testimony.”

“The deal is this,” Herbert told him. “You talk or you go to Singapore. We’ll encourage leniency, but that’s the best you’ll get.”

“That’s not good enough,” Hawke snarled.

“The only other option is to walk out the door right now,” Herbert told him. “Frankly, I think five to ten years with cable TV is a better deal than a long drop into a cold sea.”

Even in the dark, Loh could see Hawke’s expression tighten. He looked as if he wanted to put a fist through Herbert’s chest. But that would get him nothing. He would still have to deal with Loh and Jelbart.

John Hawke’s mouth sagged into a frown. His eyes lost their cruel luster. The slight man lowered himself back into the seat and looked out the window. He appeared to be lost. Herbert was right. This was probably the first time the man had ever been cornered. And it happened without a blow thrown or shot fired. The security chief had been undone by words.

Just words.

Herbert looked as pleased and surprised as Hawke looked sullen.

SIXTY-EIGHT

Cairns, Australia Sunday, 4:45 A.M.

The sun was beginning to brighten the skies behind the hills as Lowell Coffey waited for the helicopter. The attorney had managed to get a little sleep in the fire station before Hood called to tell him about Captain Kannaday’s rescue. Spider was asleep in the next cot. Coffey stepped into the brisk morning to take the call. When it was done, he breathed in the crisp air.

Washington, D.C., had never tasted like this. Nor Beverly Hills. Both cities were hot and fuel-scented. The only other place the attorney had spent any time was the Middle East. That was dusty and arid.

Queensland was not just soul reviving. It was a treat for the eyes and ears. It was a deep, rich green and silent, save for the occasional bird or cricket and the wind that carried the sound.

“Jesus!”

Coffey jumped when his phone beeped again. He fished it from his belt. It was Bob Herbert, telling him that the helicopter had landed at an air base to refuel. They would be arriving in Cairns by five-thirty. He also wanted to inform Coffey that the man they had on board was not Peter Kannaday.

“It’s a thug named John Hawke, who has confessed to sinking the yacht and helping Jervis Darling smuggle nuclear waste from ship to ship. The yacht even had a processing lab on board.”

“He told you all this on the helicopter?” Coffey asked.

“Right.”

“No attorney?”

“We fished a barracuda from the Coral Sea and used him,” Herbert said. “No, we didn’t have an attorney.”

“And you have no evidence,” Coffey asked.

“No.”

“Then you have no right to hold him,” Coffey replied.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Herbert asked. “We have a shitload of circumstantial evidence.”

“No,” Coffey said. “What you have is a ‘confession’ that he can deny ever having made. Word against word is a hollow legal exercise.”

“Oh, come on!” Herbert said. “Four people heard him!”

“Four people can plot,” Coffey said. “They’re no more valid than one, legally. The Rule of Evidence applies here just as it does in the United States. The Evidence Act was amended in 1995 to link it to the Drugs, Poisons, and Controlled Substances Act of 1981.”

“To do what?” Herbert asked. “Protect drug dealers?”

“To preserve justice,” Coffey replied. “Where is Hawke now?”

“He’s still in the helicopter.”

“Smart.”

“What?”

“He wouldn’t want to get out on a military base,” Coffey said. “If he did, you could theoretically hold him for trespassing.”

“Lowell, this is a joke, isn’t it?” Herbert demanded. “You’re pulling my bum leg.”

“Bob, I am completely serious,” Coffey said.

“That’s not what I want to hear,” Herbert snapped.

“Sorry. But unless you can get someone who will identify Hawke as an accomplice, you have no reason or right to hold him,” Coffey said. “Until you get to the yacht and locate evidence, until you can connect Hawke to smuggling activities or to the sinking, he’s an innocent man. When you land here, he can demand to be released. And you’ll have to let him go.”

“I don’t believe this,” Herbert said. “The prick played me. He fed me what I wanted to keep from going to Singapore.”

“Is that where you told him you’d take him?” Coffey asked.

Herbert said it was.

“That, at least, would have been legal,” Coffey said.

“Wait. What do you mean ‘would have been’?” Herbert asked. “Can’t we still do it?”

“Sure, but it probably won’t do you any good,” Coffey told him.

“Why?”

“You landed in Australia,” Coffey said. “Hawke is Australian. Under international law, that gives the authorities here first crack at him. If you took him to Singapore now, the courts there could not move against him unless Australia first declined to do so.”

“Which they won’t,” Herbert said. “Not if Darling is involved.”

“That’s what your guest is obviously planning on,” Coffey said.

“Shit,” Herbert replied. “We land at the fire station, Hawke walks, Darling helps him get lost, and we don’t have a witness.”

“Except for those people at sea, who probably got no closer to Darling than that koala.”

“I can’t let him go,” Herbert said. “What the hell do I do?”

“You need a witness in order to hold him,” Coffey said. “When is Loh’s patrol boat due there?”

“Any minute,” Herbert said. “But we don’t know what condition the crew will be in or even how many key people survived. So much for words.”

“Excuse me?”

“I took Paul’s advice and talked to Hawke,” Herbert said. “What I should have done was follow my gut.”

“Which told you what?”

“To empty a bullet casing of gunpowder on his tongue and interrogate him with a match,” Herbert said.

“I’m with Paul on that one,” Coffey said.

“I figured.”

“No, Bob. You did the right thing,” Coffey said. “If you had tortured Hawke, he could have landed and had you arrested.”

Herbert was silent.

“The more important thing now is, do you think Hawke was telling the truth about Darling?” Coffey asked.

“I do,” Herbert told him. “He had nothing to lose. Hawke needed to keep me hooked until we reached a nonmilitary landing site. The best way to do that was with the truth.”

The phone went silent. Herbert’s frustration was almost palpable. The tranquillity of the morning was gone.

“You say I need a witness,” Herbert said. “Can we stay at the base until the patrol boat arrives?”

“Yes, but if Hawke suspects anything, he can legally request an escort off the base,” Coffey said.

“How would he get one?” Herbert asked.

“You can’t deny him a phone call,” Coffey said. “Muscling a citizen who is not even a prisoner plays poorly in court.”

“Lowell, you’re not helping me,” Herbert said.

“I’m trying,” Coffey said. “I want to stay focused on the case, not on the fact that Hawke knows how to manipulate the Australian legal system. He’s probably had countless run-ins with the courts. He knows his way around.”

“Now that you mention it, every damn thing Hawke told me implicated someone else,” Herbert said. “Jervis Darling, Darling’s nephew Marcus, Captain Kannaday. According to Hawke, all he did was run security. Yet he never even confessed to firing a bullet.”

“What about other potential leads or witnesses?” Coffey asked. “Do you have anyone on the mainland?”

“No one that I can—” Herbert began. He stopped suddenly.

“What is it?” Coffey asked.

“I just thought of something,” Herbert said. “There is someone who can nail this guy.”

“Who?” Coffey asked.

“Later,” Herbert said.

“Wait, Bob?”

There was no answer.

“Bob, are you coming back to the station?” Coffey asked.

The dial tone returned. So did the external tranquillity of the morning. Inside, however, Lowell Coffey was not happy. He was bothered by the subtleties of his profession. The details were legitimate and necessary, but they could also allow a nuclear terrorist to go free.

Coffey loved the law and admired those who upheld it, in the field and in the courts. He did not think of himself as the barracuda Herbert had alluded to. What he did feel like, however, was a dolphin. Smart and swift.

And powerless.

SIXTY-NINE

Cairns, Australia Sunday, 4:59 A.M.

The Bell rose swiftly from the RAAF Airfield Defence Squadron satellite base in Cooktown. It angled toward the southwest. John Hawke had been silent since his confession. His expression was still dour. He did not make eye contact with anyone on board.

Bob Herbert was less genial than he had been before they landed. Jelbart asked him if anything was wrong. Herbert said there was not.

Bob Herbert was lying.

The intelligence chief was sitting in the cabin, waiting. Figuring out exactly how he was going to play this. After Herbert had spoken with Coffey, he called Stephen Viens at Op-Center to ask for specific satellite intelligence. While he waited for Viens to arrange that, FNO Loh received a call from Lieutenant Kumar on her patrol boat. They had reached the scene of the sinking. The yacht was gone, but seven individuals had been pulled from the sea. The yacht crew had provided their names, but there was no way of knowing whether they were telling the truth. Kumar did not know whether Marcus Darling was among them.

Loh told the patrol boat to return to Darwin. The fate of Marcus Darling worried Herbert. It certainly complicated what he was about to do.

The helicopter finished fueling and took off. Flying time to Cairns was fifteen minutes. That was not a lot of time.

This was going to be tight.

After they had been airborne for three minutes, Herbert’s phone beeped. He answered quickly. Viens was on the other end.

“I’ve got what you want,” Viens said. “Do you have access to your computer monitor?”

“I do,” he said.

“I’ve got the image, and I’m forwarding it to you, real time,” Viens said. “I figured you would know what you were looking at better than I would.”

“Good thinking,” Herbert replied. “Stay on the line. I may need you to relocate.”

“No problem.”

The intelligence chief turned the monitor so he could look at it. If Hawke happened to glance over, he would see nothing. The screen was at an extremely sharp angle.

The satellite image was a fairly tight view of the Darling mansion. The house was at a forty-five-degree angle. In the green night-vision image, Herbert could see that there were lights on upstairs and downstairs. That suggested a good deal of activity in the house.

At five o’clock in the morning.

It only took a kitchen light to make breakfast, and probably not this early. Something was not right.

“Stephen, I want you to go to the Idlewild,” Herbert said. “Got that?”

“The local airfield?” Viens asked.

“Yes. To the northeast.”

Herbert wanted to use a term with which Hawke was likely to be unfamiliar. He did not want to give the man time to think up a new strategy. The original name for New York’s Kennedy Airport seemed a good bet.

“You got it,” Viens said. “I’ll have to walk the satellite over, though. That’s not one of the coordinates we have programmed in.”

“Understood,” Herbert told him. “Just walk as fast as you can, please.”

It had occurred to the intelligence chief that Jervis Darling would expect to hear from either John Hawke or his nephew Marcus after the yacht went down. Absent an all-clear call, Darling might not want to stick around. Embittered former employees might want to talk. Darling would probably want to get out of Australia. Being in another country would add another layer to any legal or political fallout. Herbert could not permit that.

Of course, there was still the question of Marcus Darling. Marcus may have contacted his uncle to say that someone had been snatched from the yacht by helicopter. Perhaps after they were safely aboard the patrol boat. A rescue of Kannaday or even Hawke could be bad news for Jervis Darling.

It took a few seconds for the satellite to begin shifting. The image jerked toward the top right. It changed once every second after that. It was a slow, exasperating process.

How quickly the miraculous has become inadequate, Herbert thought.

Each live picture was a fresh frustration for Herbert. He wanted to see the airport now. He wished the fire tower had a clear view of the field. That would make things easier.

Herbert knew from Darling’s dossier that he had a 1994 Learjet model 31A. The Australian used that for local hops. Darling kept his larger Gulfstream G-V at the airport in Darwin. Herbert would be able to identify the smaller plane with no problem.

A moment later, the small jet appeared on the airport landing strip. At this hour, it was the only active vehicle on the field. It stopped at the end of the runway. The pilot would go through his final preflight check. Then he would request clearance from the tower. A few moments later, Jervis Darling would be gone. The helicopter would never be able to catch him. And Lowell Coffey would definitely oppose scrambling the jets from Cooktown to force the Learjet down. Especially if Jessica-Ann Darling were on board. The media would take huge bites from a story headlined, “RAAF attacks schoolgirl.”

Herbert looked at his watch. It was approximately seven minutes until the helicopter landed in Cairns. They would never reach the airstrip in time. He no longer had time to be subtle. He leaned toward the flight deck.

“What’s the range of the radar at the airstrip in Cairns?” Herbert asked.

Jelbart looked at the pilot. “What have they got there, an EL/M-2125?” he asked.

“I believe so, sir,” the pilot replied.

“They’ve got high-resolution views to the horizon on all sides, from one degree above the surface,” Jelbart said.

“Meaning they’ll see us as we fly toward Cairns,” Herbert said.

“Like they were looking out the window,” Jelbart said.

“What will they do if we come screaming in at them?”

“Buzz the tower?” Jelbart asked.

“I want to make a run toward the field!” Herbert said. “What will the tower do when they see us coming?”

“They’ll shut the field down until they’ve contacted us,” the pilot informed him.

“Then do it!” Herbert ordered.

“You want me to streak the airstrip?” the pilot clarified.

“At maximum drive! Now!” Herbert yelled. “Absolute radio silence.”

As Herbert spoke, he disconnected the telephone receiver from the cord on his wheelchair. He held the plastic receiver in his right hand. With his left hand, Herbert gripped the plastic strap above the door. He did not want to use the seat belt. He needed a little mobility.

Jelbart protested. But his complaint was lost in the roar of the powerful 500 TTSN engine. Everyone was thrown forward or back as the Bell dipped, revved up, and raced ahead.

As Herbert expected, John Hawke was thrown toward him. Herbert swung the telephone receiver at the back of Hawke’s neck. The security officer went down. Just to make sure Hawke was not feigning sleep again, Herbert leaned down and slugged him again. Hawke would have a difficult time proving he did not hurt himself when the helicopter abruptly changed directions.

Monica Loh had had the foresight to buckle her seat belt. That wonderful lady did not miss a thing.

Scooting back up in his seat, Herbert looked at his phone. The receiver was cracked. He would apologize to Viens later for disconnecting him. He would also have to frame the phone and give it to Paul Hood.

In this instance, at least, he and his boss were in complete agreement.

The telephone could be one hell of a weapon of choice.

SEVENTY

Washington, D.C. Saturday, 3:06 P.M.

Hood was looking at the computer monitor on his desk. Stephen Viens had just sent him the same image that Bob Herbert was seeing. Hood saw the gleaming white Learjet poised for takeoff on the end of the runway. The aircraft was just sitting there.

“So that’s Darling’s jet, and Bob’s going to try to keep him from taking off by mucking up the field’s airspace,” Hood said.

“That’s pretty much it,” Viens said.

“And then what? Did he give any clue?”

“No,” Viens admitted.

“He wouldn’t have wanted to say much,” Hood thought aloud. “Not with a suspect in the cabin.”

“I wonder if the Cooktown airbase will scramble jets to try to chase him away.”

“They might, but Jelbart could handle that,” Hood said. He shook his head. “Stephen, this is one of those times when you just have to trust the people you have in the field. But I do have one problem.”

“What’s that?”

“The poor Mississippi kid wants the rich Australian’s hide,” Hood said.

“I see,” Viens said.

“I want the nuclear material,” Hood went on.

Hood continued to watch the monitor. He did not think that Herbert would forget why he had gone to Australia.

And then he saw something on the monitor. Something new. “Stephen, can you bring me in closer?”

“I was just about to suggest that,” Viens replied.

“You see it, too?”

“Yes,” Viens said.

“Can you make it out?” Hood asked.

“Not yet,” Viens told him. “Give me another few seconds to kick up the zoom and resolution.”

The green-tinted image began to change. The Learjet became larger in the lower right-hand corner of the monitor. The white of the fuselage looked irradiated in the night-vision lens. The tarmac expanded. And the black, bloblike object in the upper left became slightly clearer.

Hood stared at it intently. He saw what the object was. And he was very sorry that Bob Herbert’s phone was not working.

SEVENTY-ONE

Cairns, Australia Sunday, 5:07 A.M.

The sun was beginning to brighten the charcoal gray tarmac at the tiny airfield. Inside the sleek Learjet, Jervis Darling sat in a deep, cushioned seat over the wing. The gentle hum of the engines comforted him, as always. He loved the feeling of bridled power. Especially when he controlled the reins. Bundled in his overcoat, his daughter was asleep in the seat beside him. Once they had reached cruising altitude, Darling would carry the young girl to the small bedroom in the back of the aircraft.

As the jet continued to idle, Darling became impatient. He punched a button on top of the armrest. That activated the intercom to the cockpit.

“Shawn, what’s the delay?”

“Mr. Darling, the tower has put us on temporary hold,” pilot Shawn Daniels replied.

“Find out what it’s about,” Darling snapped. “I want to be airborne as quickly as possible.”

“Sir, that may not be possible,” Daniels told him.

“What are you talking about?”

“There’s activity on the tarmac,” he replied.

“What kind of activity?” Darling demanded.

“The tower has not given me that information, sir,” Daniels replied.

“Damn the tower,” Darling said as he unbuckled his seat belt. He moved through the narrow cabin, ducking his head slightly under the low ceiling. He opened the cockpit door. Pilot Daniels and copilot Kristin Bedard moved slightly to either side so he could see out the windshield.

A helicopter was parked at the end of the runway. The rotor was still churning, and a side door was open.

“Do you know who that is?” Darling asked.

“No, sir,” Daniels told him. “It’s a Bell helicopter, but I can’t see the identification number.”

Darling squinted into the darkness. Something was being off-loaded. He could not tell what it was.

“Mr. Darling,” the pilot said. “I could be mistaken, but that looks like a wheelchair.”

“He wouldn’t dare,” Darling muttered.

“Sir?”

Darling ignored the pilot. He continued to look out the window. After a moment, the helicopter rose slowly from behind the object. Darling could see clearly now. It was a wheelchair. The wheelchair of R. Clayton Herbert. And it was coming toward him.

“Can you take off around him?” Darling asked.

“Sir?”

“Can you go around him, over him, through him?” Darling yelled.

“No, sir,” the pilot said. He seemed surprised.

“Ask the tower why no one is coming to take him off the field,” Darling demanded.

“Sir, they’ve plugged me into the cross talk between themselves and the helicopter,” the pilot said. “Apparently, Warrant Officer George Jelbart of the Maritime Intelligence Centre has just commandeered the landing strip for a military action.”

This cannot be happening, Darling thought.

“The tower is asking the helicopter for a reason,” the pilot went on. “The warrant officer is saying there is a question about the cargo of the jet.” The pilot seemed surprised. He glanced back at Darling. “I can cut in if you like, sir. Do we have a response for them?”

“Yes,” Darling said. “Tell the tower I am going out to remove the impediment. If they have a problem with that, they can take it up with the prime minister, whom I intend to wake once we are airborne.”

“I will tell them, sir,” the pilot said.

Darling backed into the cabin. He motioned to copilot Bedard, who jumped from her seat and opened the door. She lowered the retractable stairs.

“Sit with my daughter in case she wakes,” Darling told her as he swept onto the tarmac.

The night seemed endless, but Darling’s patience was not. The new world power structure was inevitable.

It might as well begin here and now.

SEVENTY-TWO

Cairns, Australia Sunday, 5:16 A.M.

A Learjet looks a helluva lot bigger when you’re rolling right up to it, Herbert thought.

That was not the only thought he had, but it was a powerful one. Waves of heat from the turbines were rising in the dawning sun. The machine was hot, volatile, dangerous. The pointed nose was like a lance aimed directly at him. The low hum of the engines was what Herbert imagined tigers would be like growling from behind brush. All it would take was a gentle nudge from someone inside to send the beast charging toward him. The helicopter had moved to an emergency access road beside the tarmac, leaving Herbert alone. Now that the Bell was out of the way, Herbert had no doubt that Jervis Darling would like to run him over. The intelligence chief hoped the pilot and copilot would be disinclined.

As Herbert rolled himself forward, the cabin door of the jet swung open. Someone charged down the steps. Herbert could not see the figure clearly, but it could only be Jervis Darling. He approached aggressively, with a shoulder-driven swagger. It gave Herbert a moment’s hesitation. Darling was not that many generations removed from the people who first cut civilization into the rough terrain here. They were convicts and their keepers, for whom hardship was constant. As he had discovered before, it was going to take a lot to cow him. Hopefully, the extra ammunition Herbert had would give him the kill shot he needed.

“Get out of my way!” Darling said as he approached. “Leave, or I will call the chief constable and have you removed.”

“Call him. Then I’ll have to explain why I was here.” Herbert stopped moving forward. He pressed down on the brake to lock his wheels. There was no wind. He could hear Darling breathing as he approached.

“Your delusions don’t interest me,” Darling said as he stopped in front of Herbert.

“My ‘delusions’ will interest the police,” Herbert said.

“Let’s see,” Darling said. He took out his cell phone.

“Why don’t you start talking, Mr. Darling? It’ll save us a lot of time.”

Darling speed-dialed a number.

“Even if I am removed, you’re not going anywhere,” Herbert said. “The helicopter will see to that. You’re not leaving here, and if you’re planning on going to your cove, the helicopter will get there before you do. And you can’t afford to wait. That’s why you were leaving now.”

Darling turned his back on Herbert. He began walking away, the phone to his ear.

“The reason you didn’t hear from John Hawke is because we rescued him from the yacht,” Herbert went on. “He told us everything he knew about the operation. I’m sure I’ll get more from your nephew. The Singaporean navy scooped him and several others from the Coral Sea. Probably an underachiever, right? I’m willing to bet he’ll finger you to buy leniency for himself. That’s what sycophants do.”

Darling stopped. He closed the phone. He turned.

“What do you want, Mr. Herbert?” Darling asked. “I don’t mean to leave the airfield but to go away. To leave me alone.”

“You can start with the location of the nuclear materials you’ve been shuffling around.”

“They’re in your mind!” Darling said angrily. “We’re not going to talk about your fantasies. Only about the reality of this moment. I’ll ask one more time. What do you want?”

“I just told you.”

Darling shook his head. “Mr. Herbert, I’ve tried to be reasonable with you. I’ve failed. Now I hope you’ll get off the tarmac. Because I can fly that jet, and I intend to take off.”

“You’d run over me?”

“Mr. Herbert, if everything you’ve intimated is true, one more criminal act would not make things worse,” Darling pointed out.

The Australian turned and left. Herbert had one more round in the chamber. It was his silver bullet.

“I did not accuse you of murder,” Herbert shouted. “But only a man who had already committed one would say that he has nothing to lose.”

“I suggest you move!” Darling yelled over his shoulder.

“How will your daughter feel when she learns you had her mother murdered?” Herbert said.

Darling kept walking, but only for a moment. He turned and threw the cell phone at Herbert. It fell short, exploding on the tarmac. The Australian stalked back toward Herbert.

The kill shot had hit its target. Now Herbert needed one more very specific result.

“You shit!” Darling yelled. “You deformed shit!”

There was the verbal abuse. That was the start of the final phase, like Hitler shouting orders in the bunker as his world burned. If Herbert did this right, the rest was inevitable.

“Your ambition is as limited as your mobility!” Darling went on. “You have no eyes, no soul to dream, nothing!”

“You want to talk about a soul? I lost my legs in a terrorist attack,” Herbert said. “I lost my wife then, too. I would give anything to have her back. But you had your wife killed out of vanity. Because it was convenient. Who’s the deformed shit?”

“You don’t know anything about my life!” Darling yelled.

“This may come as a shock, but the world is not Darling-centric,” Herbert said. He was pushing. He needed one more thing.

He got it.

The Australian reached Herbert’s side and threw a hard right backhand across his face. Herbert took the hit.

“You don’t know anything about life itself!” Darling went on angrily. “Go back to your grim little cubbyhole and review reports and study the activities of individuals who make history! But don’t be a spoiler. You have no idea what you’re doing!”

“I do,” Herbert said. “I just got a lunatic to slug me. The tower saw it. My people are calling your friend the constable right now from the helicopter. You’re going to be arrested for assault. Then your government and mine are going to stop you from slipping radioactive material into subways and office buildings around the world.”

Darling shook his head violently. “I was trying to help the world! Why should history be written by America or China? What happens to the rest of us? Where is our place in history?”

“Some of us would have been happy building an international empire and having a couple of jets to tool around in,” Herbert said.

“Which is why you don’t have those things!” Darling replied. “You settle. You dream small!”

“Really?” Herbert said. “I just sank you with a few words. That, Mr. Darling, is not small.”

The sun cleared the horizon, and Jervis Darling seemed to shrink in it. In a moment, his shadow was taller than he was. The billionaire’s arms went slack, and his chin fell.

“Where I come from, everything isn’t about changing the world on an epic, historic scale,” Herbert said. “Some of it is about improving ourselves, becoming better people. Better spouses. Better parents. That is not small either, Mr. Darling. It’s a very big dream and an even bigger project. You ought to try it sometime.”

The Australian looked at the yellow-orange sun. His face was lined, older in the stark light. Head cocked oddly to one side, he turned and began walking slowly toward the aircraft.

“Mr. Darling, where are you going? I need you to stick around,” Herbert said.

“You need to leave.”

“That isn’t going to make the problem go away,” Herbert said. “Too many people know.”

He continued to walk toward the airplane.

“Mr. Darling!”

“One thing you still have to learn,” Darling said, “is that people know what you tell them. I am not finished.”

Herbert frowned. Something was up. Something unsettling.

And Herbert had an idea what it was.

SEVENTY-THREE

Cairns, Australia Sunday, 5:24 A.M.

“The tower saw the attack on Mr. Herbert,” the pilot said to Jelbart. “They’ve called the police, as you requested.”

“Good,” Jelbart said. His own headset was off.

“Now they want to know why Mr. Herbert and Mr. Darling are on the tarmac at all,” the pilot went on.

“I think that should be obvious,” Warrant Officer Jelbart replied. He was watching the two dark figures on the slowly brightening airfield. “They’re having a conversation.”

“The tower recognizes that,” the pilot said. “They want to know why.”

“I took my headset off so I didn’t have to listen to their spew,” he said.

“I understand,” the pilot said. “But the controller has already remarked on the number of Commonwealth Department of Transport safety violations this action embraces. This includes the fact that the Cairns airfield is an emergency landing strip for the region. And that is the only runway.”

“Tell them this is a bloody emergency,” Jelbart replied impatiently.

“Look!” Loh said suddenly. “Darling’s going back!”

The urgency in the female naval officer’s tone was not matched by the billionaire’s slow gait. A moment later, Herbert pointed toward the jet. He began wheeling after Darling.

“Tower, please hold,” the pilot said. He turned to Jelbart. “What are we supposed to do?”

“Block him from taking off,” Jelbart said.

“No, wait,” Loh said. “I don’t think that’s what Bob wants us to do.”

“What are you talking about?” Jelbart said. “That was the plan.”

“I know,” she said. “But it looks as though Bob is pointing to Darling. Give me a minute. I’m getting out.”

“To do what?” Jelbart asked.

“Please, just wait,” she said.

FNO Loh opened the door. She ducked from the helicopter and jogged toward Herbert. The roar of the rotors was like the bellowing of the sea. The tang of burning jet fuel permeated the air. It dominated the smell of the ocean blowing in from the east. In all, it was like the familiar sound and smell of the main deck of her patrol boat, a call to arms.

Herbert saw Loh approach. He motioned toward the billionaire, then grabbed his own wrist.

She was right. He wanted Loh to try to stop Darling.

The naval officer turned toward the jet. She was running hard now. Darling had reached the steps and looked back. He saw her and, without expression, climbed into the cabin. She was not going to get there before he shut the door. Still racing, she turned toward the helicopter. She gestured upward and then toward the nose of the Learjet. The pilot obviously understood. The helicopter took off and rapidly overtook her. The pilot circled wide of FNO Loh to keep the prop wash from knocking her down. He stopped about two hundred meters in front of the jet, some twenty meters above the tarmac. The Bell hovered there. The Learjet was not going anywhere. If it started to taxi, the helicopter pilot could stop it by placing a landing strut on the windshield.

Loh passed the cockpit and reached the wide door. It was just forward the wing on the port side. She could hear the door being locked as she arrived. She pounded on it.

“Mr. Darling, come out!” the Singaporean shouted. “You will not be able to take off!”

The combination of the helicopter rotor and jet engines generated a great deal of noise. Loh was not sure he heard her. She stepped away from the aircraft and peered into the cockpit. The sunlight was glinting off the windshield, making it difficult to see. She shielded her eyes. The Singaporean had intended to signal the pilot to let her in.

But that would not be possible.

The cockpit was empty.

SEVENTY-FOUR

Cairns, Australia Sunday, 5:30 A.M.

When Darling reentered the aircraft, he asked pilot Shawn Daniels to join him in the cabin. The captain exited the flight deck.

“Is everything all right, sir?” Daniels asked as he slipped on his cap and made sure his tie was straight. “Are you all right?”

“I am . . .” he said, but then his voice trailed off. How could he explain to this man what he had just lost? His empire. His dreams. His self-respect.

Copilot Kristin Bedard was already in the cabin. She was sitting with Jessica-Ann. The young girl was awake now and talking to the copilot. They were making up voices for the two prehistoric animals that made up the Darling Enterprises logo. The flying pterosaur and seagoing ichthyosaurus were painted on the bulkhead wall of the Learjet. It had always been Darling’s notion that if you mastered the air and sea, you controlled the land.

Copilot Bedard rose when Jervis Darling arrived. He sat in the seat beside his daughter. Daniels and Bedard moved several feet away. They stood with their backs to the two. Darling touched the tip of his daughter’s nose. He used to do that when she was a baby. He smiled as she twitched.

“Daddy?”

“I’m here,” Darling said. “Did you have a nice sleep?”

The girl nodded. She gently scratched her nose with her forearm.

“I want to ask you something,” Darling said. “I want to know if you are happy, sweetie.”

The girl nodded again.

“What are you happiest about?” her father asked. His voice was soft, hardly more than a whisper.

She was silent. He could not tell if she was thinking or falling back to sleep. Then she suddenly said, “Frenchie.”

“Your pony?” That was not what Darling had meant, but he went with her lead. “Frenchie is nice, isn’t she?”

Jessica-Ann nodded once.

“And the thing that I’m least happy about are the dinosaurs,” she added before her father could rephrase the question.

“Why?” Darling asked.

“They scare me,” Jessica-Ann replied.

“They shouldn’t,” Darling said.

“They do.”

“I told you that a lot of them were very peaceable. Do you remember which ones?”

“The plant eaters,” she said.

“Right,” he smiled.

“But they could step on you by accident,” Jessica-Ann said. She was more animated now.

“They would never have done that,” Darling said. “They had young ones all around. They were very smart, and they were very careful.”

And they are all gone, he thought. They were so successful for so long. Many were large and powerful. Yet they were annihilated. It was an inevitability of nature.

Darling touched his daughter’s cheek with the back of a finger. “I’m glad you like your pony, Jess. But I guess what I really want to know is if you have a happy life.”

“You mean everything?”

“Yes,” he smiled.

The young girl nodded vigorously.

“I’m glad,” he said.

“Now can you tell me something?” she asked, looking up at him.

“Of course,” he replied.

“Where are we going?”

Darling felt tears pressure the backs of his eyes. Tears crept around to the front. He nonchalantly touched them away with his fingertips.

“Actually, sweetie, I’m going somewhere,” Darling told her. “I’ve got a big job for you.”

“Okay.” She made a face. Her brows dipped. “Daddy, I think someone’s knocking on the door.”

“Don’t you worry about that,” Darling said. “What I need you to do right now is go home with Shawn and Kristin.”

“Go home? That’s not a job,” she said.

“It is,” Darling said. “A very important one. You’re to go home with them and tell Andrew something. Tell him that Daddy has to go somewhere, and you could not go.”

“Where are you going?”

“Where do you think?” he asked.

Jessica-Ann thought for a moment. “To visit Mommy?”

Darling started slightly. That caught him off guard. The young girl looked up at him.

“What made you say that?” he asked.

“Your voice sounds the same as it did when you told me Mommy had her accident,” the girl replied. “Are you going to her grave?”

“No,” Darling said. “There’s something else I have to do.” He helped her sit up as he eased from the seat. Still holding her hand, he had her stand on the cushion. “Give Daddy a hug,” he said as he put his arms around her.

She wrapped her lean arms around his shoulders and put her head on his chest.

Darling could smell the shampoo she had used the night before. Apricot, he thought. He remembered when Jessica-Ann was much younger. Her mother would frequently go out for the night, often longer, and he would give their daughter a bath. He would wash her hair. Then he would put her to bed. Now she was doing those things herself.

When had that happened?

What matters is that it did happen, he told himself. That was the wonder of growth and evolution. It took place even without a global cataclysm.

Jervis Darling hugged Jessica-Ann tightly. The changes he had wanted for her world would not transpire. Or she would have to make them happen herself. Perhaps she would. She was his daughter. Darling had been stopped by a man whom he should never have underestimated. Herbert was a functionary. A gear in a machine. But he won, the same way the dinosaurs had been undermined by the tiny mammals that moved underfoot. Darling’s network would be uprooted and stopped. It was ironic. Here he was in his private jet, with the world before him. Yet there was really only one place for him to go.

Darling turned from his daughter without releasing her. He called quietly to Shawn Daniels. The pilot and copilot came over. Darling handed his daughter to the woman.

“I want you two to take her home,” Darling said.

“Yes, sir,” the pilot said. “Will there be anything else?”

Darling grinned humorously. “That remains to be seen.”

He walked them to the door and leaned close.

SEVENTY-FIVE

Cairns, Australia Sunday, 5:38 A.M.

“Please back away,” someone said from inside the Learjet. “We’re coming out with Ms. Darling!”

Bob Herbert had reached the side of the jet. He and FNO Loh moved back several yards. The voice from inside had not belonged to Jervis Darling. Herbert looked along the fuselage at the five windows. He did not see Darling inside. He also did not imagine that Darling would be coming out with the others. Herbert realized what had struck him about Darling’s behavior a few minutes before. It was like the sudden arrival of the hurricane’s eye. This was not over. To the contrary. What was happening now had the feel of women and children being allowed to leave the Alamo before the final assault. But there was nothing Herbert could do. The girl and anyone else who wanted to leave had to be allowed to do so.

“I want my Daddy to come!”

Herbert’s eyes snapped back toward the door as it opened. His feeling had been accurate. Darling was letting the flight crew and his daughter go. Herbert glanced at the cockpit. Someone was moving inside. The intelligence chief bet it was Darling.

The stairs unfolded, and the pilot and copilot stepped out. The pilot was carrying Jessica-Ann. The girl was trying to see around him, into the plane. She was calling for her father.

Herbert heard a police siren over the howl of the jet engines and the beat of the helicopter rotor. They were coming to arrest Jervis Darling. That required Darling to be here.

Herbert was about to tell FNO Loh to rush the stairs. The woman was ahead of him, of course. As soon as the copilot stepped out, the naval officer maneuvered around her. The crew stepped aside as they made their way to the tarmac. Loh entered the cabin.

“He’s in the cockpit!” Herbert said.

Loh nodded. Herbert wheeled to the side so he could see her. She pounded on the door.

“Mr. Darling, we will not let you depart,” she said.

Herbert had watched the crew run off. They had hurried to the small, fenced-in parking lot. Darling’s driver was still there. He was probably instructed to wait until his employer was airborne before departing. Herbert was glad. He did not want Jessica-Ann to see this.

“Mr. Darling! Open the door!” Loh insisted.

Herbert turned back to the cockpit. He could see the top of Darling’s head. He was seated in the pilot’s seat.

The jet began to move.

“Officer Loh, get off!” Herbert cried.

The Singaporean officer continued to hit the cockpit door.

Herbert did not know whether Darling was playing chicken. Even if he managed to get past the helicopter and take off, he would have difficulty maintaining equilibrium with the door open. A jet that size would be impacted by sudden shifts in air pressure, by fluctuations in temperature.

That assumes Jervis Darling is thinking rationally, Herbert thought. For the past few minutes, the Australian had been in the throes of a fight-or-flight response. Reason is not a strong component of that.

Herbert looked up at the helicopter. He gestured for the pilot to move in. The flier expertly maneuvered the chopper closer. He turned the aircraft perpendicular to the jet and lowered the port-side strut toward the windshield. Herbert could see the Learjet wings fluttering from the chopper’s downdraft. The jet continued to move forward, gaining speed. The two vehicles were about ten yards apart. They would collide in moments.

Herbert had never felt so helpless. He wanted to run onto the Learjet and help Officer Loh kick in the door. Instead, he rolled back as the two vehicles hit. The jet slowed with the impact but continued to move ahead. The helicopter was knocked slightly to its starboard. The rotor tilted precariously.

It was surreal, like watching a pair of prehistoric behemoths do battle. The pilot swung away and righted the helicopter. He rose in a tight arc and prepared to drop down again.

Herbert motioned aggressively for him to stop. As much as the intelligence chief wanted Darling, he did not want to damage the jet. Darling might still try to take off. Herbert wanted the man in prison, not in the morgue.

Someone came running from the tower. Two police cars were just entering the airstrip behind the jet. So was another vehicle, with a familiar driver. Paul Leyland was at the wheel with Spider riding the running board.

The fire brigade had been called by the tower, and a squat red rural Nissan Patrol Light Attack fire truck was racing forward. There was a 600-liter water tank mounted to the back. The Queensland firefighters used it to battle blazes away from hydrants.

And that was when Herbert got an idea.

The intelligence chief motioned to the chopper to try again to stop the jet. Herbert lowered his hands slowly, indicating a measured attack. It was risky, but he needed to delay Darling. As the chopper came down, Herbert wheeled quickly toward the fire truck.

“The hose!” Herbert yelled as he rushed past the wing of the Learjet. “Get the hose!”

Spider could not quite hear him. Herbert was dying. He reckoned that he had less than a minute to pull this off.

“We need the hose!” he shouted. He gestured broadly at the canvas hose, which was coiled on the side. Then he pointed to the wing of the Learjet.

Leyland sped up. He overtook the police car and came to a smoking stop beside Herbert.

“Hit the engine intake with water!” Herbert said.

Leyland obviously sized up the situation. He shot toward the Learjet. Herbert did likewise. He wanted to try to get Officer Loh out.

While the fire truck was in motion, Spider shimmied along the running board to the hose in back. Obviously, his ability to cling to the side of a moving vehicle had helped him earn his name. He unhooked the hose, pressed the button to open the tank, and climbed the ladder to the top of the tank. He stood on a small platform there. As the truck neared, Spider leaned forward at a forty-five-degree angle. When the truck was within two hundred meters of the jet, Spider flipped a switch at the base of the nozzle. He pointed the hose toward the rear-mounted engine. Water shot from the hose so forcefully that Spider ended up standing erect. The powerful spray smashed into the back of the jet engine.

The jet was well ahead of Herbert; he was not going to get to it in time. The water was sucked through the superheated turbine. It turned to steam, simultaneously cooling the internal metal components. The engine cracked audibly and crisply, like nearby thunder. Smoke mingled with the wispier steam, first from the front and back and then from cracks in the side. A moment later, shards of silver and white metal shot from the front and back of the engine. Then the engine casing itself burst like a hot dog on a grill. The jet lurched, hopped slightly on the port side, but continued to move forward. The helicopter had approached more cautiously this time. It kept the jet back with repeated nudges rather than a single hit. It was a more successful means of keeping the aircraft from gaining speed.

Spider left the smoking husk and turned his spray on the starboard engine.

That turbine spat and sizzled as had the first one. Herbert continued to wheel himself toward the jet. From this angle, Herbert could see flames lighting up the interior of the starboard engine. They must be coming from a split casing of some kind. They flared for only a moment before the water smothered them. A moment later, the second engine ruptured with a single loud bang. Spider killed the hose as the casing peeled from the center outward, the top and bottom pointing toward the fuselage. The jet coasted for a moment, then angled toward the tower and stopped. Both engines were still smoking, the white smoke turning black.

Spider redirected the hose to the first engine. While he did, Leyland stopped the truck and jumped out. A small oxygen tank and mask were slung over his shoulder. He reached the stairs a moment before Herbert did. They had dragged along the tarmac and were cracked along the bottom. Leyland bolted inside. The cabin was filling with dirty white smoke. Herbert could not see anything.

The next few seconds seemed to pass in slow motion. The helicopter moved away from the jet and set down on the landing strip. Warrant Officer Jelbart emerged and ran forward. The police car arrived. Two officers in sharp blue uniforms emerged. One of them was using his portable radio to summon an ambulance. The air traffic controller arrived, breathless and waving his undone shirtsleeves and shouting profanities. But all Herbert could hear was the dying hiss of the engines. All he could see was the wide, open door of the jet.

Finally, Leyland emerged from the smoke. He was alone. He backed down the steps, peering at the interior.

Urgently, Herbert wheeled himself forward. “Paul, what’s wrong?” he demanded.

Before Leyland could answer, Monica Loh emerged from the roiling cloud. Jervis Darling was beside her. His arm was thrown around her shoulder, and his head was nodding forward. Leyland remained in front of the barely conscious man as Loh walked him down the stairs.

When they reached the tarmac, Leyland and one of the police officers took Jervis Darling from FNO Loh. They carried him to the police car and lay him on the backseat.

Herbert went over to Loh. He scooted sideways on his seat and offered her a corner to sit on. She declined. Her face was covered with sweat. It seemed to make her dark eyes shine even more brightly. As Jelbart arrived, Loh looked at the shattered engines, then down at Herbert.

“That was a very clever backup plan,” she said breathlessly.

“Backup plan?” Herbert said. “What do you mean?”

“I finally got the door open,” she said with the faintest trace of a smile. “Jervis Darling was not going anywhere.”

Herbert loved this woman. God, how he loved her.

SEVENTY-SIX

Washington, D.C. Saturday, 4:00 P.M.

“I’m not sure which took the larger hit,” Lowell Coffey said to Paul Hood over the telephone. “Jervis Darling’s Learjet or Australian statutes for crime and misconduct.”

“How bad is it?” Hood asked.

“For us? Pretty favorable, actually,” Coffey said. “I took Leyland’s car and only just got to the airport, so I’m still catching up. Basically, the Queensland Crime and Misconduct Commission has taken over this case from the local police. They’re flying in an assistant commissioner to investigate.”

“Because of Darling’s involvement?”

“Partly that, but mostly due to the nature of the charges,” Coffey said. “Jelbart briefed them by phone. They’re classifying the destruction of the jet and the attack on the airfield as a single action, and attributing it jointly to the Queensland fire team, Op-Center, the Republic of Singapore Navy, and the Maritime Intelligence Centre.”

“Good God.”

“Yes, but having everyone named is good for us,” Coffey said. “It gives weight to the idea we’ll be putting forth, that there was probable cause to detain the jet. It’s also good that the QCMC is classifying this as a ‘reactive’ investigation, which is a fancy term for ‘after the fact.’ That suggests there may be a valid reason for what we did. It’s not quite as extreme, but it’s like stopping a guy who enters a bank wearing a ski mask and carrying a gun. The act is not considered a crime. It’s called a contravention.”

“I follow,” Hood said.

“The best news is, the QCMC is also responsible for overseeing the transport of hazardous materials through the area. Based on Warrant Officer Jelbart’s report, they’re instituting what they call a ‘proactive’ investigation into the smuggling activities.”

“Which means what, exactly?” Hood asked.

“Basically, it means they can hold Hawke on Jelbart’s say-so,” Coffey said. “They’ve got him in the hospital. He hit his head at some point on the flight to Cairns. It seems he was the only one not wearing a seat belt when the chopper went into some kind of dive.”

This was an open line, so Hood did not say what was on his mind. Not that he had to say it. He was sure the same thought was on Coffey’s mind.

“What about Darling?” Hood asked.

“They booked him for assault, though they’re taking him to the hospital as well to make sure he’s all right. He took in a lot of smoke. He’s extremely disoriented.”

“Have they got solid security for Hawke and Darling?”

“The local police are handling that now, but Jelbart has some of his people flying in,” Coffey said. “They should be here momentarily.”

“At six in the morning?” Hood said. “They don’t drag their feet over there, do they?”

“No, they don’t,” Coffey said. “The efficiency of every division, from the fire brigade to the local police, has been incredible.”

Hood knew why. The Australians were surrounded by nations where the black market was a dominant financial force. Australia itself was mostly open coastline. If they did not maintain a warlike preparedness along every meter of that, it would not take long for corruption to set in.

“That said,” Coffey went on, “we’re all betting that Hawke will get off with minimal jail time.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me,” Hood said.

“He’ll take the brunt of the fall for Darling in exchange for guaranteed early parole,” Coffey went on. “To put Darling on trial would be counterproductive. It would become a circus that would hurt the economy and detract from the main issue, which has to be breaking up the smuggling network and finding the nuclear material. Jervis Darling himself is effectively finished. He’ll be quietly forced to resign the boards of his companies, his not-for-profit companies will be dissected for laundering the nuke payouts, and he may serve some token jail time. After that, he’ll probably go live on one of his islands.”

“With or without his daughter, I wonder,” Hood said.

“The courts won’t have much say over that,” Coffey said. “But Darling will want her to get a great education. That means boarding school in Australia or Europe. They won’t be together much.”

“No mother and an MIA father,” Hood said. “Did she see much of what happened at the airfield?”

“I don’t think so,” Coffey said. “But she had to have heard the engine explosions, the sirens. She knows the plane didn’t take off.”

“I wonder how she’s taking this.”

“I saw her in the small terminal building when I arrived,” Coffey said. “She was sitting with Darling’s copilot and driver. They were talking to her. She looked shell-shocked.”

“I wish there was something we could do for her,” Hood said. There was sadness in his voice, in his soul. He thought of his own daughter, Harleigh, living without him. He could not imagine what kind of man would create a situation that would expose his daughter to this kind of emotional peril.

Then again, this was the same man who reportedly took the girl’s mother from her, Hood thought. Normal values did not apply. The good news was that Jervis Darling would not be taking anyone else’s parents from them. Ever.

“I’m sure Ms. Darling will be looked after in the short term,” Coffey said. “The people who were with her seemed very attentive. Though I have to wonder. Was it fear or affection that made these people loyal to Darling?”

“A little of both, I’m sure,” Hood said. “But it was probably the free pass that had the most impact.”

“What kind of free pass?” Coffey asked.

“I used to get that when I was mayor,” Hood said. “That’s when people are around someone of influence, so they have no problem getting into restaurants or clubs or the most popular attractions at amusement parks. They don’t have to worry about speeding tickets or bureaucracies or bad service. If they get into trouble, strong, decisive help is just a name-drop or phone call away. I’m sure you saw some of that at your dad’s law practice.”

“Yes, only in Beverly Hills it was called kissing cheek, and nobody liked to do it,” Coffey told him.

“You were lucky, though. You had money. You had a choice,” Hood said. “A lot of people don’t. For them, playing the sycophant to a Jervis Darling or a Mayor Hood is like consolidating their debt. The humiliation comes from one place, not dozens.”

“Well, I should probably get back to the others,” Coffey said. “It looks like Herbert and Loh are ready to break huddle. Tell me, though. Did you enjoy having people kiss your ass?”

“I hated it,” Hood said. “I discouraged it. But people kept doing it. That’s one reason I’m here instead of there.”

“We’ll see who sticks by Darling now,” Coffey said. “As the philosopher says, ‘A failure is a stranger in his own house.’ ”

Hood hung up. He stared at the phone.

That was cruel and true, he thought. It was bad enough to fail. But one also had to endure it alone. It was impossible to feel any sympathy for Jervis Darling. But while Hood should be savoring the successful mission, he found himself responding emotionally to the idea of failure. He was uncomfortable by the nearness of it. By the sadness of what Jessica-Ann Darling would have to face. It forced Hood to think about the mistakes he had made with his own family. He wondered if that sense of inefficacy would ever completely disappear.

Maybe it’s not supposed to, Hood decided. Maybe that’s what prevents a man from repeating his errors.

Hood picked up the phone. There was one thing of which he was certain. The antithesis of having his ass kissed was having it kicked. By himself. Neither one of them did him any good.

He had to put the past behind him.

He had to call Daphne Connors.

Now.

SEVENTY-SEVEN

Cairns, Australia Sunday, 7:10 A.M.

John Hawke and Jervis Darling were taken into custody separately. Even after their departure, the helicopter still had a brief delay in Cairns. The pilot wanted to ascertain that there had been no damage to the landing strut.

The report was favorable.

“Metal is still stronger than glass,” the pilot reported proudly to Herbert after examining both the landing surface and pylons.

The team said farewell to Leyland and Spider, both of whom had earned the respect of Bob Herbert.

Leyland waved off the suggestion that he and Spider had acted heroically. “You told us where to go and what to do.”

“Bugger, all we did was pull the trigger,” Spider said.

“Of a bloody hose,” Leyland added. “It’s not like that’s going to put someone’s eye out or anything.”

“You ran down a jet,” Herbert told them. “That took guts. You prevented Darling from taking off and finishing the operation he started. That’s a hero by my yardstick.”

Leyland shrugged. “We really didn’t have much choice, did we?”

“Sure you did,” Jelbart said.

“No, I mean I don’t think Mr. Darling would have believed it if we said we needed to get a koala out of the engine.”

Herbert smiled. He had not known this man very long, but he was going to miss him. Maybe the intelligence chief would stop by and see him when he came back to visit Monica Loh, which he absolutely intended to do.

“Paul, I’ve got just one more question for you,” Herbert said.

“Ask it,” Leyland said.

“Why’d you hire the only female firefighter in the district?”

Coffey rolled his eyes.

Leyland smiled. “The truth is, she was the best firefighter in the district.”

Herbert scowled. Coffey smiled.

“That hair on your chest cost you a prime rib,” Coffey said to the intelligence chief.

Leyland leaned toward Coffey. “And frankly, I like watching her climb the ladder.”

Herbert smiled. “Dutch,” he said to Coffey.

Coffey nodded.

When the pilot said they were good to go, Lowell Coffey took the seat formerly occupied by John Hawke. The flight back was quiet and introspective. Everyone was tired. More than that, they were oddly dissatisfied. Herbert could see it in their faces. No one could call this a Pyrrhic victory. “The good guys,” as he had described the team to Loh, had not suffered any physical losses. But there was a spiritual loss. Business and government had always been closely related. Business and crime regularly crossed paths in money laundering, intelligence gathering, and other activities. Business had even encouraged wars to increase productivity and profits. But this was the first time to Herbert’s knowledge that a small band of businessmen had planned to use nuclear material to change the balance of power. The thought was as sickening as it was disquieting. They would never know if they had nabbed everyone who was part of the operation. Or every pellet of enriched uranium, or whatever substance they were shipping.

“Bob, I want to ask you something,” Monica Loh said after nearly a half hour.

“Sure.”

“Were you really going to let Hawke go before?”

“You mean on the way to Cairns, when I was asking him to rat out his boss?” Herbert asked.

“Yes,” Loh said.

Herbert’s answer was precise, if not articulate. He snickered.

“Now you tell me something,” Jelbart said from the front seat. “I try to stay on top of local laws and such, but I’ve never heard of the Singaporean Nuclear Emergency Response Act of 2002. Is there such a thing?”

For the first time since Herbert had known FNO Loh, she smiled. It was not quite a snicker, but then she was probably not as jaded as Herbert was.

“I thought not,” Jelbart said. “Well played,” he added.

“Now I’d like to ask all of you a question,” Herbert said. “What do you think Darling was trying to do back there?”

“You mean take off or take his life?” Jelbart asked. Herbert nodded.

“I’ve been wondering that myself,” Jelbart said. “He sent his daughter away. That suggests he did not expect to survive.”

“He was moving her out of danger,” Coffey said. “That doesn’t mean anything. He could have sent for her later. His priority was to get out of the country and wage a legal war. He’ll probably do that anyway. This thing smells of a plea bargain.”

“Do you think that’s inevitable?” Jelbart asked.

Coffey nodded. “We won’t be able to prove everything that we suspect, and Darling won’t be able to duck every blow that’s thrown. That will demand a compromise. Besides, everybody will want this over as soon as possible. Darling because he will suffer less damage, the government because there’s always the risk that Darling or Jessica-Ann could be perceived as victims.”

“Not to mention the fact that it will cost a bomb to try,” Jelbart said.

Coffey looked at Herbert. “What do you think?”

“About Darling trying to off himself?” Herbert asked. He shook his head. “When you strip him of the financial armor, he’s a coward. Cowards don’t kill themselves.”

“I disagree,” Loh said. “I would think most individuals who take their lives do so because they are afraid to face adversity.”

“I wonder if the statistics support that,” Herbert said dubiously.

“I don’t know,” Loh admitted.

“When it comes down to it, sucking on a gun barrel is not for the faint-hearted.”

“Life is not for the faint of heart,” Loh replied. “Surrendering that life is, I believe, an act of the gravest cowardice.”

“I think you’re both wrong,” Coffey said. “In law school they teach us that most crimes of passion are conceived and executed in a space of five minutes. Suicide included. I don’t think the brain or backbone play a part in it. Suicide is usually an act of despair.”

“And a rather comfortless topic as well,” Jelbart added.

The cabin fell silent again. Herbert and Loh looked at each other with challenging eyes. Like Herbert, she was obviously a woman who did not like to let things sit. Monica Loh could fight, interrogate, debate, and she looked damn fine. Herbert wondered where the flaws were.

Oh yeah, he thought. She lives in Singapore.

Also, he had no idea what she thought of him. He wondered if he were better off not knowing.

Shortly before landing, Jelbart received a call from Brian Ellsworth. News of what had happened at the Cairns airstrip traveled a lot faster than the Bell 204. International media were waiting for them. So was Ellsworth. He greeted the team at the helicopter. Police kept the reporters away. Ellsworth congratulated them for the job they did, then cautioned the team to ignore the questions being shouted by the press.

“Whatever you say will be reported and distorted, both pro and contra Mr. Darling,” Ellsworth said. “That can only help his case.”

“Prejudice the judicial process,” Coffey said. “Make it look like the government has prejudged Darling.”

“Precisely. One thing I must ask you,” Ellsworth said as he slipped his cell phone from inside his jacket. “The prime minister is waiting to hear from me about the missing cargo. He wants to know what the chances are of getting those materials back.”

“That depends,” Herbert said. “First we have to find the people who distributed the stuff. Then we have to get them to talk.”

“We also have to hope the materials haven’t already been passed around,” Jelbart added.

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” Herbert said. “These guys work like diamond and art thieves. The neighborhood is too hot to try transferring it now. We’ve got a week or two to find out who they are. Everything depends on how you handle Darling, Hawke, and the other members of the crew.”

“You may have to cut them deals you aren’t going to like,” Coffey said.

“I’m not going to like anything that doesn’t have them hanging by their feet over a pit of rattlesnakes,” Herbert said.

“Well, Mr. Coffey, we are sure to be engaged in various dances with Mr. Darling’s legal lancers,” Ellsworth said. “I actually worry about them nearly as much as I worry about the smugglers.”

Herbert understood that. He resisted shooting a nasty look at Lowell Coffey. Ever since an attorney in Lebanon had helped free one of the men responsible for the Beirut embassy bombing, attorneys had been one step above terrorists on Herbert’s favorite-people list.

“With a little forethought, we should be able to find the nuclear material,” Loh promised.

“How can you be sure?” Ellsworth asked.

“Did you ever play volleyball, Mr. Ellsworth?” she asked.

“In school. Why?”

“There are times when you rally for position, and there are times when you spike,” she said. “This is a time to spike. We need to follow the trail while it still exists.”

“How?”

“Give me one of the sailors,” Loh said. “Any one of them, though I suggest a less hardened member of the crew. We will find that trail and the missing materials. We may not even have to take him to Singapore. Just the idea of it seems to make people talkative.”

Ellsworth thought for a moment. “Officer Loh, your vessel has the crew now. You might want to decide which of those men actually fired at your sampan. That would make a strong case for Singapore having the right to arrest and try those individuals.”

“Thank you, Mr. Ellsworth,” she said. “I will communicate that to the lieutenant in charge.”

Ellsworth turned his back on the reporters as he made the call to the prime minister. Loh went to use the telephone in one of the waiting sedans. While they did that, Herbert excused himself. He wanted to have a minute with the pilot. He wheeled himself over to the helicopter cockpit. The pilot jumped out. The man seemed glad to see Herbert.

“I just wanted to thank you for all your help,” Herbert said, extending his hand.

“Thank you for the adventure, sir,” the pilot said.

“You know, I’m ashamed to admit this, but I don’t even know your name,” Herbert admitted.

The pilot grinned. The grin stayed there for several seconds. Herbert was puzzled.

“Did I miss something?” Herbert asked.

“No, sir,” the pilot said. “Actually, my name is Bob Herbert.”

The intelligence chief grinned. “You’re joking.”

“Swear on the Bishop Barker. Only my family pronounces it Erbert,” the pilot told him. “I may have to change that, though,” he added as he saluted Herbert. “It’s been a rare honor, sir.”

Herbert returned the salute, then shook his head with disbelief. He turned to rejoin the others.

Civilization might be in jeopardy, and rats like Darling helped make the world a hell. But that exchange made Herbert feel as though he could fix those problems single-handedly. Men like Pilot Bob Herbert gave him a reason to keep slugging. They also gave him hope.

By God, this war is far from lost, Herbert thought, as he made his way to the waiting sedan.

SEVENTY-EIGHT

Darwin, Australia Sunday, 7:13 A.M.

Herbert and his team were shuttled to Jelbart’s office, where more reporters were waiting. The three sedans entered the building through an underground garage. They rode a freight elevator to Jelbart’s floor. Loh had the feeling, for a moment, that she was on an aircraft carrier. She felt at home and in charge. It was nice. Herbert was such a dynamic character. He had taken command of this mission and not let go. At first Loh thought it was the same kind of male arrogance she had always encountered among soldiers and intelligence personnel. Then she discovered that ego and testosterone had nothing to do with it. Herbert took charge for one reason only.

He knew what he was doing.

There was something exciting and refreshing about that. For that reason alone she was sorry to see this brief operation end.

Upon reaching Jelbart’s office, Loh contacted her patrol boat. It had remained at the site of the sinking. Lieutenant Kumar said he had wanted to secure the yacht before it was swept away by currents or evidence was degraded by the salt water. At the same time, he took the initiative and interrogated the individuals they pulled from the Coral Sea. Faced with the prospect of being taken to Singapore for questioning, Marcus Darling would probably choose to reveal a great deal about the operation. He also spoke expansively about his uncle’s involvement in it. Hearing from Kumar, Loh wondered if Mr. Coffey might be wrong. It did not sound as though Jervis Darling would be in a position to bargain for leniency.

Loh told Kumar that she would be arriving early the next morning. Jelbart wanted to revisit the site with his own ship. He said he would ferry her out there. They would be leaving in about two hours. Loh would clean up and rest on the ship. She had something else she wanted to do before she left. She went to Jelbart’s office to arrange it. Then she headed toward the elevator.

Herbert and Coffey had been on the phone with their superior in Washington. She walked past the conference room they were using. Herbert saw her go. He excused himself and went after her. The intelligence chief wheeled alongside the officer as she walked down the hall.

“Are you leaving now?” he asked.

“At ten o’clock,” she told him. She pressed the elevator button.

“Jelbart sent out for coffee and doughnuts. Do you want to wait with us?”

“There is something else I must do,” she replied.

“By yourself?”

She looked at him. “I would prefer to.”

“Oh.”

“But I was wondering about something,” Loh went on. “I have three weeks’ leave in two months. I have never been to America. I was thinking I might like to fly to Washington.”

“That sounds like a very good idea,” Herbert smiled. “I would love to show you around.”

“I would like that,” Loh smiled back.

“Just make sure to stay away from our deputy director, Mike Rodgers,” Herbert said. “He’ll send you on a mission.”

Loh frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“You will,” Herbert assured her. “I’ll have to introduce you to Maria Corneja. She’ll explain.”

All of this was very confusing. But FNO Loh liked the idea of a world ripe for exploration. She also liked the fact that Bob Herbert seemed genuinely pleased by her suggestion. That surprised her. He had not seemed like a man who would enjoy leisure.

But then, you are not a woman who likes to socialize, she thought. Perhaps all it took was the right person.

The two parted with a long handshake. Herbert held her hand between both of his. They were strong hands, but gentle. She was glad Herbert had taken charge of this, though the good-bye could easily take far longer than expected. And she had something to do. Loh smiled warmly and left quickly.

“Monica!” Herbert called after her.

She turned. “Yes?”

“Thanks for everything,” he said. “And I don’t mean just the crisis management.”

“You are welcome.”

“Good luck with whatever you’re off to do.”

“Thank you,” she said.

And then she went off to do it.

SEVENTY-NINE

The Coral Sea Sunday, 7:45 A.M.

Although the Singaporean patrol ship was not a fully equipped salvage vessel, it did carry air buoyancy bags. These were to be deployed in the event the ship itself suffered a critical breach. Descending well before sunrise, divers placed the bags in the higher stern section of the Hosannah. It was a difficult salvage, due to the darkness. However, Lieutenant Kumar did not want to risk the boat sinking further. The air compressor filled the bags one at a time. Finally, with six bags inflated, the aft section of the Hosannah broke the surface.

However, with the ship’s return came something else. Something the crew did not expect.

A body.

The divers recovered the remains. Kumar went to the cabin, where several of the rescued seamen were being kept. He asked the young man Marcus Darling to come to sick bay and identify the body.

Marcus seemed numb and pale as he looked at the stilldamp, slightly bloated corpse on the gurney.

“Who is he?” Kumar asked.

“That is Captain Kannaday,” Marcus said softly.

“Was he part of the ring?” Kumar asked.

“At first,” Marcus Darling said. “Then . . . something happened.”

“What happened?”

“He changed,” Marcus said. “He turned on Mr. Hawke.”

“I see.” Kumar motioned to the medical officer. The man handed him a white towel. The lieutenant opened it gingerly and showed it to Marcus.

“We found this tangled in the ropes beside him,” Kumar said. “Did it belong to him?”

“No,” Marcus said. “That belonged to Hawke.”

“What is it?”

“A weapon,” Marcus told him. “A wommera. You use it to throw darts.”

“That might explain the wounds on his body,” the medic interjected. “Was there a struggle, Mr. Darling?”

“I don’t know,” Marcus told him. “We were in the water.”

Kumar covered the weapon and set it on the gurney. “It appears as though Mr. Hawke may earn himself a murder charge as well.”

Marcus snickered. “That’s funny. Hawke was always so careful. They all were.”

“All it takes is one active conscience to undermine the cleverest criminal plot,” Kumar said.

“Well, I’m sure that is a real comfort to Kannaday here,” Marcus said. “Instead of being wealthy, he’s dead.”

Kumar looked disdainfully at the man beside him. “I believe it must have been a significant comfort to him. Buddhism teaches that the quality of a moment can be valued more than corrupt longevity. The ripples are felt throughout the world and time.”

“Thanks for the lesson,” Marcus said.

“In fact, Mr. Darling, it was advice.”

“Was it?”

“Yes,” Kumar said. “We have reason to believe that you were one of the men who shot at the sampan.”

“I did what? I don’t even know how to fire a gun!”

“You can tell that to the chief interviewer in the Maximum Security Changi Prison in Singapore,” Kumar replied.

“Changi? You’re not taking me to the logs,” Marcus said.

“I have consulted with my superior, who is with representatives of your government. They agree that it is within our rights to ascertain your innocence,” Kumar replied.

“This is wrong!” he shouted. “I want a lawyer!”

“You will have one, though it may be a few days before he can see you,” Kumar said. “Singapore’s courts are always very busy.”

“I want one of my uncle’s lawyers!”

“I’m told they are going to be fully engaged as well,” Kumar said. “May I suggest a compromise, however?”

Marcus asked what that would be.

“Tell us who your captain dealt with,” Kumar said. “Do that, and we will return you to Cairns.”

“I thought this was about shooting the sampan,” Marcus said.

“It can be,” Kumar said.

“You bloody bullock,” Marcus said.

“I am not bloody,” Kumar replied. “Not yet.”

Marcus huffed for a moment, then said he would have to think about it. On the way back to the cabin, he agreed to cooperate with Kumar. The lieutenant radioed to inform FNO Loh that he had a successful chat with Marcus Darling. The young man seemed willing to cooperate. Kumar also told Loh that they had located the real Peter Kannaday.

Back in sick bay, the medical officer finished cleaning the body of the seaweed that had collected on it. He picked it away carefully, using long tweezers and cotton swabs. Then he covered the body with a sheet and left it on the gurney. There was nothing else he could do. The body could not be touched until an autopsy had been performed onshore. He turned off the light and locked the door. It had been a long night of caring for the halfdrowned sailors. He needed to rest.

Captain Peter Kannaday was alone. He was at sea, where he belonged.

And one thing more.

He was at peace.

EIGHTY

Darwin, Australia Sunday, 7:46 A.M.

Lee Tong had never felt ill or disoriented when he was at sea. Not even the first time on the wonderful old timber carrier. Now he was on land, and it made him sick to move. Anything more than a slow, short breath caused deep waves of nausea. Which was strange, because Tong was also hungry. The young man could not remember the last time he had eaten.

In fact, Tong could not remember much of anything. He remembered closing in on a boat and being shot at. He remembered an explosion. After that, he remembered nothing.

Tong appeared to be in a hospital room. It was white with yellow walls and a large screen of some sort. People came in now and then, but he did not know who they were or what they were saying. Most of the time he did not bother to look or listen. Lying in the cool bed, floating in and out of sleep, was physically less disturbing. Yet even that was not a haven. He dreamed of better times, of a happier youth. The future had never held much promise for him. But when Lee Tong sailed the ocean with his father, at least there was the prospect of success. There was hope. He preferred that to the reality of failure. In the moments after he woke, Tong would wish desperately to go back and try again. But then the truth washed over him. He was here. Hope was gone. People did not get a second chance.

“Lee Tong.”

The young man thought he heard someone say his name. The voice was muffled, but it did not sound like a voice from one of his dreams. He forced his eyes open, just barely. Someone was looking down at him from the foot of the bed. A woman. She had a darker face than the others, but was also wearing a mask and gown. Through his nearly shut eyes she looked gauzy, like a ghost.

“Can you hear me?” she asked.

She was speaking Malay. It was beautiful. He nodded once. The nausea reminded him to stay as still as possible. He obeyed.

“Good,” the woman said. “I am Female Naval Officer Monica Loh of the Singaporean Navy. You are suffering from mild radiation poisoning. It came from the vessel you attacked. But I’ve just spoken with your physician. You will recover. Do you understand?”

Tong nodded once, very, very slowly. The nausea was a little kinder this time. He opened his eyes a little wider. Some of the haze lifted from the woman. She was real.

“Mr. Tong, you were the only member of the sampan crew to survive the explosion,” the woman went on. “We will need you to testify about the nature of the firefight. Whatever you remember, we want to know.” The woman took several steps around the edge of the bed. “But that is not why I came to see you. I know what you were doing out there. We cannot prove you did anything wrong. However, I would like to keep you from doing anything illegal in the future. When you are released from the hospital, I would like to see you about a civilian job with the navy. There are a number of defense technical positions and administrative support positions for which you can be trained. I hope you will consider them.”

Lee Tong was awake. He knew that because he felt queasy. But he thought he heard the woman say she wanted him to work for the navy. He had neither the education nor the kind of background recruiters sought. No one in his family had served in the military. It did not make sense.

“Why . . . ?” he asked weakly.

“Why do I want you?” Loh asked. “It took a great deal of skill to navigate a sampan that far out to sea. We can always use talented men and women, and I don’t just mean the navy.” The woman smiled under her mask. “I heard someone use the phrase ‘the good guys’ to describe us today. I like that. I want you to be one of them, Mr. Tong.”

He looked at her and smiled back weakly. He nodded once. The nausea was worth it.

The woman nodded back and left.

The navy, Tong thought. Even in a civilian capacity, naval service would give him the kind of respect his father had always wanted for him. His only regret was that his shipmates were not here to collect their share of respectability. They were good men and loyal friends. He would miss them.

The young man’s eyes blurred again, this time from tears.

As he slipped back into sleep, Lee Tong’s last thought was that he no longer had to dream of happier times. He could imagine them.

For they were no longer behind him, but ahead.

EIGHTY-ONE

Washington, D.C. Saturday, 6:29 P.M.

Paul Hood was about to leave his office when the phone beeped. The caller ID identified it as Bob Herbert. He picked up.

“Lowell went on to participate in what’s left of his conference in Sydney, then decided to hang with the hostess and her husband,” Herbert said. “But I’m coming home. I’m flying commercial later in the afternoon. First class.”

“I hope you’ve got the frequent flier miles for it,” Hood laughed.

“Nope. Op-Center’s treat. I don’t think chasing Darling’s plane earned me enough to upgrade,” Herbert said.

“I’ll see if we have any money left in our ‘off to save the world’ account,” Hood joked.

“If not, you can dig it out of the goodwill fund. We made some good friends here, Paul. Strong allies. And I have a rotten feeling we’re going to need them all sooner rather than later.”

“I have that feeling, too,” Hood said. “There’s a new world out there with a lot of enemies we haven’t begun to identify.”

“Well, we’ve made a good start identifying a few of them,” Herbert said. “I understand Marcus Darling has caved. He’s reportedly opened his Palm Pilot rogues gallery for the Singapore navy.”

“In exchange for what?”

“Being handed to Australian authorities instead of Singaporean grill masters,” Herbert said.

“Lowell will probably not approve, but nicely done,” Hood said.

“Lowell did not openly disapprove, which is pretty good for him. This thing scared him, too. Speaking of enemies,” Herbert went on, “did you hear anything else from Mr. Perry?”

“Not so much as a snarl,” Hood said.

“Hardly a surprise,” Herbert said.

That was true. Lowell had nailed it before when he said that a failure was a stranger in his own house. The corollary to that is, ‘No one leaves the house faster than a politician.’ Hood toyed with the idea of calling Perry at home and busting his chops. He decided that would not be necessary. Perry was probably anticipating just such a call. That was revenge enough.

“Well, I’m going to be sitting around Jelbart’s office for a couple of hours, helping him write reports. A lot happened, and we weren’t taking notes. What are you up to on what is still early Saturday night?”

“I have a date with a lady,” Hood told him.

“Oh? Is this the advertising lady you saw the other night?”

“I started to call her, but there was someone else I wanted to see tonight,” Hood said.

“And she is?”

Hood smiled. “My daughter.”

Herbert did not say anything. He did not have to. The intelligence officer had just gone through this event with Darling and Jessica-Ann. He would know where Hood was coming from.

“Are you going to see Sharon, too?” Herbert asked.

“Only in passing,” Hood said. “She agreed to switch weekends with me so I could see Harleigh tonight.”

“Nice. Make sure you give her a hug from Uncle Bob,” Herbert said.

“I will,” Hood assured him. “I’ll tell her you’re bringing what? A stuffed koala?”

“It’s a deal,” Herbert said. “And a boomerang for Alexander. I won’t even bill Op-Center for it.”

Hood smiled. “Thanks, Bob.” He looked at the computer clock. He did not want to be late. He wished Herbert a safe flight and left his office. He rode the elevator up one flight.

It is indeed a deadlier and less predictable world than ever, Hood thought, as he stepped into the twilight. But in it was one constant.

Loyalty.

With it, you possessed what was best in men. Loyalty to loved ones, to friends. Loyalty to ideals, to country. With it, you had long, powerful arms that could reach for the heavens.

Or a daughter.

Which worked out fine, Hood reflected, as he climbed into his car. For in the end, who were the heavens for?

Other titles by Steve Pieczenik

THE MIND PALACE

BLOOD HEAT

MAXIMUM VIGILANCE

PAX PACIFICA

STATE OF EMERGENCY

HIDDEN PASSIONS

MY BELOVED TALLEYRAND

For more information on Steve Pieczenik, please visit www.stevepieczenik.com.

Books by Alexander Court

ACTIVE MEASURES

ACTIVE PURSUIT

NOVELS BY TOM CLANCY

The Hunt for Red October

Red Storm Rising

Patriot Games

The Cardinal of the Kremlin

Clear and Present Danger

The Sum of All Fears

Without Remorse

Debt of Honor

Executive Orders

Rainbow Six

The Bear and the Dragon

Red Rabbit

The Teeth of the Tiger

SSN: Strategies of Submarine Warfare

NONFICTION

Submarine: A Guided Tour Inside a Nuclear Warship Armored Cav: A Guided Tour of an Armored Cavalry Regiment

Fighter Wing: A Guided Tour of an Air Force Combat Wing

Marine: A Guided Tour of a Marine Expeditionary Unit

Airborne: A Guided Tour of an Airborne Task Force

Carrier: A Guided Tour of an Aircraft Carrier

Special Forces: A Guided Tour of U.S. Army Special Forces

Into the Storm: A Study in Command

(written with General Fred Franks, Jr., Ret., and Tony Koltz)

Every Man a Tiger

(written with General Charles Horner, Ret., and Tony Koltz)

Shadow Warriors: Inside the Special Forces

(written with General Carl Stiner, Ret., and Tony Koltz)

Battle Ready

(written with General Tony Zinni, Ret., and Tony Koltz)

CREATED BY TOM CLANCY

Tom Clancy’s Splinter Cell

Tom Clancy’s Splinter Cell: Operation Barracuda

Tom Clancy’s Splinter Cell: Checkmate

Tom Clancy’s Splinter Cell: Fallout

CREATED BY TOM CLANCY AND STEVE PIECZENIK

Tom Clancy’s Op-Center

Tom Clancy’s Op-Center: Mirror Image

Tom Clancy’s Op-Center: Games of State

Tom Clancy’s Op-Center: Acts of War

Tom Clancy’s Op-Center: Balance of Power

Tom Clancy’s Op-Center: State of Siege

Tom Clancy’s Op-Center: Divide and Conquer

Tom Clancy’s Op-Center: Line of Control

Tom Clancy’s Op-Center: Mission of Honor

Tom Clancy’s Op-Center: Sea of Fire

Tom Clancy’s Op-Center: Call to Treason

Tom Clancy’s Op-Center: War of Eagles

Tom Clancy’s Net Force

Tom Clancy’s Net Force: Hidden Agendas

Tom Clancy’s Net Force: Night Moves

Tom Clancy’s Net Force: Breaking Point

Tom Clancy’s Net Force: Point of Impact

Tom Clancy’s Net Force: CyberNation

Tom Clancy’s Net Force: State of War

Tom Clancy’s Net Force: Changing of the Guard

Tom Clancy’s Net Force: Springboard

Tom Clancy’s Net Force: The Archimedes Effect

CREATED BY TOM CLANCY AND MARTIN GREENBERG

Tom Clancy’s Power Plays: Politika

Tom Clancy’s Power Plays: ruthless.com

Tom Clancy’s Power Plays: Shadow Watch

Tom Clancy’s Power Plays: Bio-Strike

Tom Clancy’s Power Plays: Cold War

Tom Clancy’s Power Plays: Cutting Edge

Tom Clancy’s Power Plays: Zero Hour

Tom Clancy’s Power Plays: Wild Card

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Acknowledgements

ONE - Georgetown, Washington, D.C. Sunday, 9:22 P.M.

TWO - Washington, D. C. Sunday, 11: 18 P.M.

THREE - Washington, D. C. Monday, 8:02 A.M.

FOUR - Washington, D. C. Monday, 8:20 A.M.

FIVE - Washington, D. C. Monday, 8:24 A.M.

SIX - Washington, D. C. Monday, 9:02 A.M.

SEVEN - Washington, D. C. Monday, 9:27 A.M.

EIGHT - Las Vegas, Nevada Monday, 7:43 A.M.

NINE - Washington, D. C. Monday, 10:59 A.M.

TEN - Washington, D. C. Monday, 11:00 A.M.

ELEVEN - Washington, D. C. Monday, 12: 53 P.M.

TWELVE - Washington, D.C. Monday, 1: 44 P.M.

THIRTEEN - Washington, D. C. Monday, 2:17 P.M.

FOURTEEN - Washington, D. C. Monday, 2: 59 P.M.

FIFTEEN - Charlottesville, Virginia Monday, 4:18 P.M.

SIXTEEN - Washington, D. C. Monday, 5: 22 P.M.

SEVENTEEN - Washington, D. C. Monday, 7: 22 P.M.

EIGHTEEN - Washington, D. C. Monday, 8: 30 P.M.

NINETEEN - Washington, D. C. Monday, 10: 55 P.M.

TWENTY - Washington, D. C. Tuesday, 7:13 A.M.

TWENTY-ONE - Washington, D. C. Tuesday, 7:30 A.M.

TWENTY-TWO - Fallbrook, California Tuesday, 5:45 A.M.

TWENTY-THREE - Washington, D. C. Tuesday, 9:44 A.M.

TWENTY-FOUR - Washington, D. C. Tuesday, 10:00 A.M.

TWENTY-FIVE - Washington, D. C. Tuesday, 10:44 A.M.

TWENTY-SIX - Washington, D. C. Tuesday, 11:50 A.M.

TWENTY-SEVEN - Washington, D. C. Tuesday, 12:10 P.M.

TWENTY-EIGHT - Herndon, Virginia Tuesday, 12:11 P.M.

TWENTY-NINE - Washington, D. C. Tuesday, 12:25 P.M.

THIRTY - Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 2:18 P.M.

THIRTY-ONE - Washington, D. C. Tuesday, 2: 37 P.M.

THIRTY-TWO - Langley, Virginia Tuesday, 3: 44 P.M.

THIRTY-THREE - Washington, D. C. Tuesday, 4:10 P.M.

THIRTY-FOUR - Camp Pendleton, California Tuesday, 2: 21 P.M.

THIRTY-FIVE - Washington, D. C. Tuesday, 5: 43 P.M.

THIRTY-SIX - Washington, D. C. Tuesday, 6: 31 P.M.

THIRTY-SEVEN - San Diego, California Wednesday, 7:01 A.M.

THIRTY-EIGHT - Washington, D. C. Wednesday, 11:33 A.M.

THIRTY-NINE - Washington, D. C. Wednesday, 11:54 A.M.

FORTY - Salt Lake City, Utah Wednesday, 10:17 A.M.

FORTY-ONE - Washington, D. C. Wednesday, 1:29 P.M.

FORTY-TWO - San Diego, California Wednesday, 11:53 A.M.

FORTY-THREE - Washington, D. C. Wednesday, 3: 44 P.M.

FORTY-FOUR - San Diego, California Wednesday, 1:00 P.M.

FORTY-FIVE - San Diego, California Wednesday, 1:16 P.M.

FORTY-SIX - Washington, D.C. Wednesday, 4:42 P.M.

FORTY-SEVEN - San Diego, California Wednesday, 2:02 P.M.

FORTY-EIGHT - Washington, D.C. Wednesday, 5:47 P.M.

FORTY-NINE - Washington, D.C. Wednesday, 6:06 P.M.

FIFTY - San Diego, California Wednesday, 3:45 P.M.

FIFTY-ONE - Washington, D.C. Wednesday, 7:08 P.M.

FIFTY-TWO - San Diego, California Wednesday, 4:29 P.M.

FIFTY-THREE - San Diego, California Wednesday, 4:44 P.M.

FIFTY-FOUR - San Diego, California Wednesday, 5:15 P.M.

FIFTY-FIVE - Fallbrook, California Wednesday, 6:00 P.M.

FIFTY-SIX - Fallbrook, California Wednesday, 6:16 P.M.

FIFTY-SEVEN - San Diego, California Thursday, 8:33 A.M.

FIFTY-EIGHT - Washington, D.C. Friday, 8:22 A.M.

Other Books by Steve Pieczenik

THE BESTSELLING NOVELS OF Tom Clancy

THE TEETH OF THE TIGER

A new generation—Jack Ryan, Jr.—takes over in Tom Clancy’s extraordinary, and extraordinarily prescient, novel.

“INCREDIBLY ADDICTIVE.”

—Daily Mail (London)

RED RABBIT

Tom Clancy returns to Jack Ryan’s early days—in an extraordinary novel of global political drama.

“AN OLD-FASHIONED COLD WAR THRILLER.”

—Chicago Sun-Times

THE BEAR AND THE DRAGON

President Jack Ryan faces a world crisis unlike any he has ever known.

“INTOXICATING . . . A JUGGERNAUT.”

—Publishers Weekly (starred review)

RAINBOW SIX

Clancy’s shocking story of international terrorism—closer to reality than any government would care to admit.

“GRIPPING . . . BOLT-ACTION MAYHEM.”

—People

EXECUTIVE ORDERS

Jack Ryan has always been a soldier. Now he’s giving the orders.

“AN ENORMOUS, ACTION-PACKED, HEAT-SEEKING MISSILE OF A TOM CLANCY NOVEL.”

—The Seattle Times

DEBT OF HONOR

It begins with the murder of an American woman in the back streets of Tokyo. It ends in war.

“A SHOCKER!”

—Entertainment Weekly

THE HUNT FOR RED OCTOBER

The smash bestseller that launched Clancy’s career—the incredible search for a Soviet defector and the nuclear submarine he commands.

“BREATHLESSLY EXCITING!”

—The Washington Post

RED STORM RISING

The ultimate scenario for World War III—the final battle for global control.

“THE ULTIMATE WAR GAME . . . BRILLIANT!”

—Newsweek

PATRIOT GAMES

CIA analyst Jack Ryan stops an assassination—and incurs the wrath of Irish terrorists.

“A HIGH PITCH OF EXCITEMENT!”

—The Wall Street Journal

THE CARDINAL OF THE KREMLIN

The superpowers race for the ultimate Star Wars missile defense system.

“CARDINAL EXCITES, ILLUMINATES . . . A REAL PAGE-TURNER!”

—Los Angeles Daily News

CLEAR AND PRESENT DANGER

The killing of three U.S. officials in Colombia ignites the American government’s explosive, and top secret, response.

“A CRACKLING GOOD YARN!”

—The Washington Post

THE SUM OF ALL FEARS

The disappearance of an Israeli nuclear weapon threatens the balance of power in the Middle East—and around the world.

“CLANCY AT HIS BEST . . . NOT TO BE MISSED!”

—The Dallas Morning News

WITHOUT REMORSE

The Clancy epic fans have been waiting for. His code name is Mr. Clark. And his work for the CIA is brilliant, coldblooded, and efficient . . . but who is he really?

“HIGHLY ENTERTAINING!”

—The Wall Street Journal

Novels by Tom Clancy

THE HUNT FOR RED OCTOBER

RED STORM RISING

PATRIOT GAMES

THE CARDINAL OF THE KREMLIN

CLEAR AND PRESENT DANGER

THE SUM OF ALL FEARS

WITHOUT REMORSE

DEBT OF HONOR

EXECUTIVE ORDERS

RAINBOW SIX

THE BEAR AND THE DRAGON

RED RABBIT

THE TEETH OF THE TIGER

SSN: STRATEGIES OF SUBMARINE WARFARE

Nonfiction

SUBMARINE: A GUIDED TOUR INSIDE A NUCLEAR WARSHIP ARMORED CAV: A GUIDED TOUR OF AN ARMORED CAVALRY REGIMENT FIGHTER WING: A GUIDED TOUR OF AN AIR FORCE COMBAT WING MARINE: A GUIDED TOUR OF A MARINE EXPEDITIONARY UNIT AIRBORNE: A GUIDED TOUR OF AN AIRBORNE TASK FORCE CARRIER: A GUIDED TOUR OF AN AIRCRAFT CARRIER SPECIAL FORCES: A GUIDED TOUR OF U.S. ARMY SPECIAL FORCES

INTO THE STORM: A STUDY IN COMMAND

(written with General Fred Franks, Jr., Ret.)

EVERY MAN A TIGER

(written with General Charles Horner, Ret.)

SHADOW WARRIORS: INSIDE THE SPECIAL FORCES

(written with General Carl Stiner, Ret., and Tony Koltz)

Created by Tom Clancy and Steve Pieczenik

TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER

TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: MIRROR IMAGE

TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: GAMES OF STATE

TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: ACTS OF WAR

TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: BALANCE OF POWER

TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: STATE OF SIEGE

TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: DIVIDE AND CONQUER

TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: LINE OF CONTROL

TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: MISSION OF HONOR

TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: SEA OF FIRE

TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: CALL TO TREASON

TOM CLANCY’S NET FORCE

TOM CLANCY’S NET FORCE: HIDDEN AGENDAS

TOM CLANCY’S NET FORCE: NIGHT MOVES

TOM CLANCY’S NET FORCE: BREAKING POINT

TOM CLANCY’S NET FORCE: POINT OF IMPACT

TOM CLANCY’S NET FORCE: CYBERNATION

TOM CLANCY’S NET FORCE: STATE OF WAR

TOM CLANCY’S NET FORCE: CHANGING OF THE GUARD

Created by Tom Clancy and Martin Greenberg

TOM CLANCY’S POWER PLAYS: POLITIKA

TOM CLANCY’S POWER PLAYS: RUTHLESS.COM

TOM CLANCY’S POWER PLAYS: SHADOW WATCH

TOM CLANCY’S POWER PLAYS: BIO-STRIKE

TOM CLANCY’S POWER PLAYS: COLD WAR

TOM CLANCY’S POWER PLAYS: CUTTING EDGE

TOM CLANCY’S POWER PLAYS: ZERO HOUR

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: CALL TO TREASON

A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with Jack Ryan Limited Partnership and S & R Literary, Inc.

PRINTING HISTORY

Berkley edition / July 2004

Copyright © 2004 by Jack Ryan Limited Partnership

and S & R Literary, Inc.

OP-CENTER™ is a trademark of Jack Ryan Limited Partnership and S & R Literary, Inc.

All rights reserved.

This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form

without permission. The scanning, uploading, and distribution

of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the

permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please

purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate

in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

eISBN : 978-1-101-00370-1

BERKLEY®

Berkley Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

BERKLEY and the “B” design are trademarks

belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

http://us.penguingroup.com

Acknowledgments

We would like to acknowledge the valuable assistance of Martin H. Greenberg, Ph.D.; Larry Segriff; Denise Little; John Helfers; Brittiany Koren; Victoria Bundonis Rovin; Roberta Pieczenik, Ph.D.; Carl La Greca; and Tom Colgan, our editor. But most important, it is for you, our readers, to determine how successful our collective endeavor has been.

—Tom Clancy and Steve Pieczenik

ONE

Georgetown, Washington, D.C. Sunday, 9:22 P.M.

Combat was not easy. But it was easier than this.

General Mike Rodgers stood with a Scotch in his hand, wishing it were a double and that he were free to slug it down. If he were in a dark saloon with Colonel August or one of his buddies from the Department of Defense, he would. Then he would nurse the sweet buzz with a beer chaser. But he was not with his colleagues. He was at a black-tie party in a three-story town house on N Street in the exclusive Georgetown section of Washington, D.C. The first-floor ballroom was crowded with nearly two hundred politicians and socialites, attorneys and foreign dignitaries, business leaders and television news executives.

They were all gathered in small groups. Though actively engaged with the people nearest them, each individual was also listening to what was being said in the groups around them. Rodgers could see it in the way their eyes moved. They always shifted slightly in the direction they were listening. Some of these silver-haired blue bloods possessed recon skills that would be the envy of CIA field ops.

On the battlefield, a man knew who the enemy was. At a party like this, alliances could be made and remade during the course of an evening. That was true throughout Washington, but the density of power brokers from so many arenas made it more likely here. In combat, a soldier knew when the fight was over. In Washington, the conflict never ended. Even at Op-Center, where Rodgers was deputy director, friendships were routinely tested by strong differences of opinion over high-stakes operations. Trust was frayed by competition for assignments. And loyalties were challenged and often destroyed by downsizing and bureaucratic squabbles.

The conditions at Op-Center were the reason Rodgers had come to this party. Since the disbanding of Striker, Op-Center’s rapid-deployment force that had been commanded by Rodgers, the general had been organizing an in-house human intelligence unit. He was not enjoying the work as much as he had hoped. Rodgers was a man of grapeshot and action, not observation and note-taking. The work was essential. It just was not for him. To make things worse, his efforts cut into the jurisdiction of Bob Herbert, Op-Center’s chief of Intelligence Operations. The strain on their relationship was subtle, but the impact was not. There was no antagonism; to the contrary, they were extremely cautious around one another, like outfielders going for a high fly ball and stopping short, letting it drop between them.

When an aide to Texas Senator Don Orr had called to say the senator was interested in exploring professional opportunities, Rodgers agreed to come. So far, the three-term, fifty-eight-year-old senator had not said much more than a big, “Hello, General! Thanks for coming,” before being swallowed by the party. The white-haired rancher-turnedpolitician said that to virtually everyone as he moved from group to group, shaking hands and kissing cheeks. All of them, Rodgers suspected.

Rodgers did not follow him, as several others were doing. Subtly, of course. They wanted to be noticed and introduced to people. They wanted to be legitimized, like made men at a meeting of the dons. Rodgers did not know any of these people, and so he stood near the wet bar, chatting with one of the two bartenders. As a grandfather clock tolled the half hour, a woman approached from the side.

“There is only one thing worse than being a Washington outsider,” she said as she asked the bartender for a Coke.

“What’s that?” Rodgers asked, glancing at her.

“Being a Washington insider,” she replied.

Rodgers smiled. There was a hint of Vietnamese in her strong, cultured voice, but the rest of her was pure Beltway insider.

“General Rodgers, I’m Kendra Peterson, the senator’s executive assistant,” she said, extending a slender hand. “I’ m happy you could make it.”

Rodgers’s smile broadened as he shook her hand. The woman was in her mid-thirties and stood about five foot seven, with dark skin, exotic eyes, and straight black hair. She had the cool poise of someone who knew things. She was dressed in a strapless navy blue satin gown with a wide, translucent sash. Her wardrobe was seductive, but her expression said she was not interested, whoever you were.

“I’m pleased to meet you,” Rodgers said. “I was beginning to wonder why I was here.”

“I knew there wouldn’t be much chance for you to talk to the senator, but I wanted you to get a feel for the kind of people we work with.”

“I see. Care to tell me why?”

“The senator is interested in you,” she said.

“But you’re not at liberty to tell me more,” Rodgers said.

She shook her head once.

“I’ve heard rumors the senator plans to make a third-party run for the White House,” Rodgers went on. “Are they true?”

The woman smiled evasively. “Would you be available to meet with the senator tomorrow afternoon?”

“I might be if I knew why,” Rodgers said. “I don’t like to go into situations unprepared.”

The woman took a sip of her drink and turned toward the room. “This town house was built in 1877, four years after Georgetown was incorporated into the District of Columbia. Do you know what it was worth then?”

“Probably less than this party cost,” Rodgers said.

She grinned. “Somewhat less. Just under five thousand dollars, according to the tax rolls. Seven years ago, at the beginning of his third term, the senator bought it for $2.7 million.”

“Your point being—?”

The woman fixed him with those fascinating eyes. “The house was built by a sea captain who never intended to live in it. He willed it to his granddaughter. He knew it would appreciate far more than anything else he could leave her. That is how the senator feels about his political future. What we start here will increase geometrically over the years to come.”

“With respect, everyone says that,” Rodgers told her.

“The senator has a voting record.”

“I know. I looked it up,” Rodgers said. “It’s conservative and protectionist, with a heavy helping of big stickism.”

“Are those very different from your own beliefs?” she asked.

“Not necessarily,” Rodgers said. “But you knew that, didn’t you?”

“The senator has powerful allies and extensive resources,” Kendra admitted. “General, people have a great deal of respect for you. The senator will need an adviser like you.” The woman leaned close. “Someone who has experience in the field, off the field, and is fearless in both arenas. Someone who also has experience in intelligence. You are uniquely qualified.”

“Thanks,” he said. After weeks of feeling like a bastard son at Op-Center, that was good to hear.

The woman finished her Coke. She set the glass on the counter. “General Rodgers—I’m tired.”

“You don’t look it.”

“I feel it,” she said. “My staff and I put a lot of weeks into this party. Now I’m going to slip away and get some sleep.”

“Actually, I’ll be leaving right behind you,” Rodgers told her. “Can I give you a lift?”

“You’re sweet, but Mr. Carlyle, the senator’s driver, is going to take me home. Besides, you should stay and be seen.”

“Doing what?”

“Talking to people.”

“Your ‘extensive resources’ probably told you I’m not very good at that,” Rodgers said.

“We heard that,” she admitted. “We also heard that you’re a quick study. It would help us all if the power brokers started to associate your face with this group.”

“A soldier who is seen is a target,” Rodgers said. “I prefer high ground or a trench.”

“Even in peacetime?” she asked.

“Is that what this is, Ms. Peterson?” Rodgers asked.

“Kendra,” she said.

“Kendra,” he nodded. “I see a lot of mobilization out there.”

“I suppose there is no such thing as neutrality in Washington.” She laughed. She removed a PalmPilot from her purse. “Would three P.M. tomorrow suit you to meet with the senator and Admiral Link?”

“Admiral Link,” Rodgers said. “I know that name.”

“Kenneth Link, the barrel-chested gentleman speaking with William Wilson,” she said. “Crew cut, red bow tie.”

Rodgers turned. “I see him. I still can’t place him.”

“He’s the former head of Naval Intelligence, later director of covert ops for the CIA,” Kendra said.

“Right,” Rodgers said. “Now I remember. I saw him at a number of NIPC meetings.” The NIPC was the National Infrastructure Protection Center. Based at FBI headquarters in Washington, D.C., it was founded in 1998 to bring together representatives from various U.S. intelligence agencies, as well as experts from private-sector think tanks. The NIPC was chartered to assess threats against critical infrastructures in energy, finance, telecommunications, water, and emergency services. “He was always complaining about special interests and compromise.”

“The admiral does not believe in making concessions where national security is concerned,” the woman replied. “Do you think you would have a problem working with him on a daily basis?”

“Not if we agree that there’s a difference between national security and paranoia,” Rodgers said.

“What is the difference?” she asked.

“One is a door that has a lock, the other is a door that’s completely unhinged,” Rodgers replied.

“I like it,” she said. “That’s something you can discuss together—assuming three o’clock is convenient.”

“I’ll be there,” Rodgers said.

“Good.” She tucked away her PalmPilot and once again offered her hand. “Thank you for coming, General. I hope this has been the start of a long and rewarding relationship.”

Rodgers smiled at the woman as she withdrew. He did not watch her go but turned back to the bar. He replayed their brief conversation as he finished his drink. The young woman had basically confirmed that Senator Orr would be ramping up a new party and running for president. Rodgers would enjoy being a part of that. His own politics were a little right of center. It would not be difficult supporting the Texan’s vision. Rodgers thought back to the early months at Op-Center when he and Director Paul Hood and Bob Herbert moved the newly chartered domestic-crisis organization into a two-story building at Andrews Air Force Base. They staffed the dozen departments with top people like Darrell McCaskey from the FBI, computer genius Matt Stoll, political liaison Martha Mackall, psychologist and profiler Liz Gordon, attorney Lowell Coffey III, and others. They built Striker and recruited the late Lieutenant Colonel Charles Squires to lead it. They saw their initial areas of responsibility expand from a national to an international arena. Those were exciting, rewarding times. There was also a sense of personal evolution for Rodgers. The warrior who had fought in Vietnam and had commanded a mechanized brigade in the Persian Gulf was running special ops missions in North Korea and the Bekaa Valley, rescuing hostages at the United Nations, preventing a new civil war in Spain and nuclear war between India and Pakistan.

He was making a difference.

Now I’m recruiting spies and analyzing data, he thought. It was honorable work, but there was a big difference between commanding and supervising. What was it the Chinese leader Liu Shao-ch’i had said? The true leader is an elephant. The rest are just pigs inserting scallions into their nose in an effort to look like one.

With a nod toward the bartender, Rodgers turned back to the room. There was nothing in here that appealed to him. Not the glad-handing, not the eavesdropping, not the neediness, and not the facades. But Rodgers was definitely beginning to smell onions in his own nose. It was time for a change.

Rodgers would talk to Senator Orr and Admiral Link, but first he wanted to talk to Paul Hood. For there was one concession Mike Rodgers would never make, however bored he became. It was a concept he did not think many people in this room would understand.

Mike Rodgers put loyalty above all else.

TWO

Washington, D. C. Sunday, 11: 18 P.M.

There was a time when the Liverpool-born William Wilson could not have afforded to stay in a landmark hotel like the Hay-Adams, with its view of the White House, the Washington Monument, and Lafayette Park. Or been invited to a Georgetown party hosted by a United States senator. Or been picked up by a woman who looked like this one did.

What a difference two billion dollars makes.

The lanky, six-foot-three-inch Wilson was the thirty-one-year-old inventor of the MasterLock computer technology. Launched five years before, it used a combination of keystrokes, visual cues, and audio frequencies to create hack-proof firewalls. Not content with revolutionizing computer security, Wilson bought the failing London Merchant-Farmer Bank and made it a European powerhouse. Now he was about to go on-line with MasterBank, an on-line service that invested in European businesses. Wilson had come to Washington to meet with members of the Panel of Economic Advisors of the Congressional Committee on Banking Financial Services. He intended to lobby for an easing of foreign direct-investment restrictions that were put in place during the War on Terror. That would remove hundreds of millions of dollars from American banks and stocks. In exchange, Wilson would guarantee an equal investment of hundreds of millions of dollars in American companies. That would keep cash flow circulating in the United States, though the bulk of the profits and tax benefits would still be his.

The stunning young woman had approached him early in the evening, just minutes after he arrived. She was a reporter. After assuring him that she was not angling for an interview—her beat, she said, was the environment and meteorology—the woman asked if she could stop by later in the evening.

“I’m drawn to men who create technological quantum leaps,” she said.

Who could resist a come-on like that?

Two hours later Wilson left the party with his two bodyguards and driver. He had agreed to meet the woman at eleven P.M. There were paparazzi outside, and Wilson did not want to be photographed leaving with anyone. The world was a conservative place. He preferred to remain a champion of the financial and science sections, not a libertine of the gossip page.

Wilson had the top-floor Federal Suite, and his bodyguards had the adjoining Presidential Suite. Motion detectors had been installed outside Wilson’s door and on the floor of the balcony. If anyone tried to enter without being announced, vibrating wristbands would silently wake the bodyguards.

Wilson had ordered a 1970 Dom Perignon from room service and a light gray beluga caviar. He had candles delivered, along with a dozen roses for the bedroom nightstands. He opened his bow tie but left it hanging around his neck and sprayed a hint of Jivago Millennium above the collar. He probably did not need any of that. After all, he had made a technological quantum leap. But growing up the son of a pub owner, it made him happy to smell something other than ale and cigarettes. It made him even happier to be with women who did not smell of them.

His guest arrived on time and was announced. One of the guards met her at the elevator and escorted her to the suite. Wilson met her at the door with a rose. It made her smile. The rose seemed to disappear.

They ate caviar on toast tips. They drank champagne. They stood close on the balcony and looked out at the White House. They did not say much. She seemed content just to be there, and he was delighted to have her. As a distant church bell sounded midnight, they went quickly from the balcony to the authentic Hepplewhite mahogany settee to the bedroom.

The woman blew out the candles on the dresser, set her purse on the night table, and pushed him back on the king-size bed. She was as assertive as she was beautiful. Wilson understood that, and he went along with it. To succeed in her business, at her age, took confidence. She was showing that now.

“What can I do for you?” he asked.

“Just lie there,” she replied as she settled on top of him.

He looked up at her and smiled. She moved her fingers down his arms and pushed them to his side. She placed her knees in his open palms and dragged her long nails across his chest, along the side of his neck, his scalp. Her toned body moved in excited spasms, like a whip. Shining through the window, the lights of Lafayette Park showed Wilson occasional flashes of cheekbone and shoulder.

Lady lightning, Wilson thought. With thunder rolling from deep inside her.

Champagne always brought out the Byron in him. Wilson was about to share his little metaphor aloud when his companion suddenly leaned across his chest and pulled a large, full pillow from behind him. She dragged it across his face and then leaned into it, hard.

“Hey!” Wilson shouted. He repeated the cry but lacked the breath to say more. He shut his eyes and closed his mouth and tried to push up with his head. His neck cramped painfully, and he stopped.

Wilson’s hands were pinned by the woman’s knees. He struggled unsuccessfully to raise them while he wriggled helplessly from side to side. He screamed into the pillow, hoping his bodyguards would hear him. If they did, he did not hear them. He heard nothing but bedsprings laughing beneath his head, his heart punching up against his throat, and his own thick wheezing as he fought to draw breath. His hands throbbed and the flesh of his belly and thighs burned where it rubbed hers. The pillow was wet with perspiration and saliva.

This is a game, Wilson thought hopefully as rusty circles filled the insides of his eyelids. This is what turns her on.

If it was, he did not approve. But he did not dwell on that. His thoughts were not his own. Wilson’s head filled with visual doggerel, images that came from other times and places.

And then, suddenly, the slide show stopped. His face cooled, his mouth opened wide, and his lungs filled with sweet air. He opened his eyes and saw the woman. She was still perched above him, a slightly darker silhouette than the ceiling above. His eyes were misty with sweat. They smeared the woman as she bent close. The park lights sparked off something else, something in her hands. He tried to raise his arms to push her back, but they were still pinned. He couldn’t speak or scream, because he was still desperately sucking air through his wide-open mouth.

She moved closer and put the palm of her left hand against the bottom of his nose. She pushed up.

“What—?” was all he could say as his head arched back. He cried out weakly, but he sounded like a pig calling for dinner.

Or a man having sex, he thought. Christ. The bodyguards would not come, even if they heard him.

A moment after that, Wilson felt a cool sting in his mouth. He felt the weight of the woman leave him. He saw her get up. But that did not help. Within moments a cold, tingling numbness moved down from his ears along the sides of his neck. It filled his shoulders and arms and poured across his chest like an overturned bucket of ice. It tickled his navel and rolled down his legs.

This time there were no mental images, no struggle. The lights, and his lungs, simply snapped off.

THREE

Washington, D. C. Monday, 8:02 A.M.

Op-Center was officially known as the National Crisis Management Center. That was what it said on the charter, on the small brass sign beside the front door, and on the badge Paul Hood had just swiped through the lock to enter the lobby. Which was why Hood felt a little schizophrenic when he arrived and there was no crisis. He felt paradoxically relaxed and anxious.

Roughly half of the seventy-eight employees at Op-Center were dedicated to intelligence gathering and analysis. The other half handled crises that were imminent or had already gone “active,” as they euphemistically described rebellions, hostage situations, terrorism, and other crises. When half the team was idle, Hood worried that someone on the Hill would notice. The intelligence community could learn something from Congress. With nothing more than newspapers, gossip, and intuition, they profiled people and agencies with eerie accuracy. After that came the auto-da-fé. After that, people who once moved through the corridors of power became consultants. Hanging out the shingle saved face. What they really were was unemployed.

Hood did not know what he would do if the Inquisition came for him. Ironically, he knew how to stop it. Prior to joining Op-Center, Paul Hood was a two-term mayor of Los Angeles. He got to know a lot of people in the movie industry, and he learned that many of them were extraneous. If they did not find fault with perfectly fine scripts, there would be no reason for them to be employed. The United States military had somewhat the same mentality. Military intelligence financed “cheerleaders,” as they called them. These were both indigenous and undercover teams that fomented conflict around the globe. “Counterfeit mobilization,” they called it. A world at peace did not need increased military spending. And a downsized military would not be prepared to handle a real war when it arose.

There was some sense to the Department of Defense policy. However, counterfeit mobilization only worked one way for intelligence agencies. You had to pick a foreign national, frame him, and have your guys smoke him out. As much as he hated the sense of entitlement diplomatic plates gave diplomatic personnel, Hood had a problem with that. First, it tied up personnel from watching for real spies and saboteurs. Second, it could begin a pattern of escalation abroad until you actually turned allies into enemies. Third, it was wrong. It was not fashionable in Washington, but Hood believed in the Ten Commandments. He did not always keep them, but he tried. And bearing false witness was one of the You shall nots.

Hood greeted the guard, used his card to access the elevator, then descended one level to the heart of the National Crisis Management Center. There, Hood passed windowless offices that were set off a circular corridor of stainless steel. He reached his own wood-paneled office, near the back. He was greeted by his assistant, “Bugs” Benet, who sat in a small cubicle located to the right of the door. The young man was busy at the computer, logging the reports of the evening crew.

“Morning,” Hood said. “Anything?”

“Quiet,” Benet replied.

Hood already knew that, more or less. If there had been any kind of significant development, nighttime director Curt Hardaway or his deputy Bill Abram would have notified him.

“Did you hear about William Wilson?” Benet asked.

“Yes,” Hood replied. “It was on the radio.”

“Heart attack at thirty-one,” Benet said.

“Sex is among the most strenuous physical activities, up there with full court basketball and rock climbing,” Liz Gordon said as she walked by.

Hood smiled at the psychologist. “I’ll bet you wouldn’t have said that at the Brookings Institution.”

“Probably not.” Liz smiled as she continued toward her office. The thirty-five-year-old woman had given up a post at the independent research and policy institute to take this job with Op-Center. Initially, Hood had not put much faith in profiling. But Liz had impressed him with her insights about leaders, about field operatives, about soldiers, and about Op-Center staff that were bending under personal and professional stress. She had been especially helpful with Hood’s fourteen-year-old daughter, Harleigh. The eldest of his two children had been among the hostages taken by rogue peacekeepers at the United Nations. Liz had given him solid, effective advice about dealing with her post-traumatic stress disorder. The psychologist had also helped Hood reconnect with his twelve-year-old son Alexander after the stressful divorce from Sharon.

Hood shut the door, went to his desk, and input his personal computer code. It was not the name of his children, or his first pet, or the date he started working here. Those were things that a hacker might figure out. Instead, it was Dickdiver, the main character of his favorite novel, Tender Is the Night. It also made Hood smile to key it in. Hood and his long-ago fiancée Nancy Jo Bosworth had read it to each other when they first moved in together. When there was still magic in his world and romance in his heart. Before stolen software designs compelled Nancy to run off without telling him why or where. It took almost twenty years for Hood to find her. It happened by accident, during a trip to Germany on Op-Center business. Nancy told him she had wanted the money for them but grew ashamed. Since she could not return it, she kept it for herself.

Old feelings returned for them both. Though the passions were not acted upon, they helped to undermine what had been a colorless, rebound marriage to Sharon. While Hood was alone now, the F. Scott Fitzgerald novel was still the key to a sublime place, the last time Hood was truly happy. The password was his way of remembering that every day.

Hood started going through his E-mail. He used to come to the office and read the newspaper, then answer phone calls. Now the news was on-line, and the telephone was something you used in the car or at lunch. GovNet, which provided Op-Center’s secure Internet access, was devoting a lot of space to Wilson’s death on their welcome screen. That was not surprising, since his firewalls made it possible for most government agencies to link what had formerly been dedicated lines. They were reporting that he had gone to a party at Senator Don Orr’s town house, left around ten-thirty, and went back to his suite at the Hay-Adams. A woman had come to visit him. According to the hotel, she arrived at eleven and left around twelve-thirty. The concierge reported that she had been wearing a block print coat that came down to her knees and a matching crocheted hat with a black ribbon. The wide brim was dipped low. Obviously, she did not want to be recognized. That was not unusual. Many officials and businessmen had trysts in local hotels. They did not want their guests to be identified or photographed by security cameras. Typically, hotel management respected the desire for privacy by allowing expected visitors to pass without scrutiny.

The Metropolitan Police did not know who the woman caller was. She had given a name, Anna Anderson, which had led them to an elderly woman who was clearly not the perp. She may have selected the name as a joke, a reference to the woman who claimed to be Anastasia, the daughter of Czar Nicholas II. The security cameras in the hotel lobby and on the street showed her leaving unhurriedly and walking down Sixteenth Street, where she was lost in the night. Visitors like her seldom used valet parking. They did not want their license numbers traced. Washingtonians assumed that everyone, from waiters to cab drivers, was looking for a payday from a tabloid newspaper or television show. More often than not they were right. The police assumed that Wilson died after the woman left. Otherwise she could have called 911 and then slipped away. This belief was reinforced by the fact that there did not appear to be anything suspicious about Wilson’s death. He had perspired heavily—presumably from the exertion—and the bed suggested “an active evening,” as one source put it. Though Wilson was young and had no history of heart trouble, many forms of heart disease could slip past a routine electrocardiograph. The autopsy would tell them more.

There was nothing exceptional in the E-mails. A few résumés from agencies and private businesses that were being downsized. Op-ed pieces from the left, right, and center. Requests for interviews, which Hood routinely declined. He was not a self-promoter and saw no benefit to giving out information about how Op-Center worked, or with whom. His E-mail even contained links to passwordprotected web sites of individuals who were willing to provide intelligence from various countries and foreign agencies. He forwarded these to Bob Herbert. Most were con artists, a few were foreign agents trying to find out about Op-Center, but occasionally there were nuclear scientists or biotechnicians who genuinely wanted to get out of the situations they were in. As long as they were willing to talk, American operatives or embassy officials in their countries were willing to listen.

Hood was about to access his personal address for private E-mail when Bugs beeped him. Senator Debenport was on the line. Hood was not surprised. It was budget time on the Hill, and the South Carolina senator had recently replaced Senator Barbara Fox as the chairman of the Congressional Intelligence Oversight Committee. Those were the officials who kept track of what the federal intelligence agencies did and how much it cost.

“Good morning, Senator,” Hood said.

“That may be true somewhere,” the sandpaper-voiced senator replied. “Not in my office.”

Hood did not ask why. He already knew the answer.

“Paul, last night the CIOC Budget Subcommittee agreed that we have to work out a strategic retrenchment,” Debenport told him.

The CIOC’s euphemism for budget cuts.

“We took a four percent hit last fiscal year and six percent the year before that,” Hood told him. “What’s the damage now?”

“We’re looking at just upwards of twenty percent,” Debenport replied.

Hood felt sick.

“The night crew is going to have to cut its staff by fifty percent. I know that’s a lot, but we had no choice,” Debenport went on.

“What are you talking about? You’re the head of the damn committee.”

“That’s right, Paul. And as such I have a duty that transcends my personal feelings about the value of Op-Center’s work,” Debenport said. “It will be my call where to make the cuts, though I want your input and I will rely heavily on it. We would prefer you work backwards. Make your way back to Op-Center’s original configuration.”

“Our original configuration had a military component,” Hood pointed out. “That’s already been cut.”

“Yes, and those funds were reallocated to General Rodgers’s field personnel,” Debenport said. “That’s an area we feel should undergo deoperation. We looked closely at the internal breakdowns of the other intelligence groups. The Company and the Feds have those areas covered. Merge that post with the political officer.”

“Senator, how much are you taking from the CIA, the FBI, and the NRO?” Hood asked.

“Paul, those are all older, established—”

“You’re not cutting them, are you?” Hood asked.

Debenport was silent.

“Senator?”

“If you really want to know, Paul, they’re getting a small bump,” Debenport told him.

“Amazing,” Hood replied. “How much time did they spend lobbying the committee?”

“They did the usual PowerPoint dance, but that wasn’t the key to the increase,” Debenport said. “Those boys grabbed a lot of Homeland Security detail out of the gate. We can write those budget request entries in ink.”

“Because of a buzz phrase,” Hood said. “We might have been in a position to reorient ourselves if our attention hadn’t been on stopping nuclear war between India and Pakistan.”

“Yes, and frankly your success is part of the problem. You’ve shifted the majority of your operations from the United States to other countries—”

“At the president’s request,” Hood reminded him. “He asked us to augment Op-Center’s domestic agenda after we stopped a leftist military coup in Russia.”

“I know the history,” Debenport said. “I also know the future. The voters don’t much care whether Moscow turns Red again or Tokyo is nuked or Spain falls apart or France gets hijacked by radicals. Not anymore. Foreign aid resources are being downsized across the board.”

“Your constituents may not care, but we know that what happens there affects what happens here,” Hood said.

“That’s true,” Debenport said. “Which is why the mandate the president gave you is not being changed.”

“Only our funding. We’re supposed to do the same job but with eighty percent of an already stretched budget.”

“American households are having to do more than that,” Debenport said. “As a senator, I also have a responsibility to help alleviate that burden.”

“Senator, I appreciate your position, but this isn’t right,” Hood said. “I used to work on Wall Street. I run a trim operation, leaner than the agencies that are getting an increase. I intend to request, in writing, a hearing of the full CIOC as permitted under charter—”

“You can have it, of course. But you will be wasting your time and ours,” Debenport said. “This decision was unanimous.”

“I see. Let me ask you this, then. Is the CIOC fishing for my resignation?”

“Hell, no,” Debenport said. “I don’t run when I can pass. If the committee thought you had overstayed your welcome, I’d tell you.”

“I appreciate that,” Hood said. “Did you discuss any of this with the president?”

“That’s my next call. I wanted to tell you first,” Debenport said. “But whatever his feelings, he has no veto power. He doesn’t even have a political majority on the committee.”

“So that’s it.”

“I’ m sorry, Paul.”

Hood was angry, though not at Debenport. He was upset with himself. He should have smelled this one in the oven. He thought the departure of Fox was a signal that things were going to get better. And maybe they had, in a way. Fox did not see why Op-Center was necessary at all. She believed that the overseas intelligence activities of the CIA and the FBI were sufficient to keep America safe. Of course, she was also one of the senators who had put the bulk of America’s spy capabilities into electronic intelligence. That was a huge miscalculation. If there were no operatives on the ground to pinpoint the mud huts, bunkers, apartments, cars, and caves for audio surveillance and spy satellites, a lot of what was called “incipient hostile intent” went unnoticed. That was when surgical covert activity became a War on Terror.

Still, Hood had hoped that Debenport would fight harder to keep Op-Center fully staffed.

The senator hung up, and Paul sat there, looking at the last E-mail he had opened. It was from the CIA Office of Personnel Security, Department of Communication, regarding updated procedures for the evacuation and decontamination of juveniles in the event of a biological attack on child care facilities serving the intelligence community. It was an important document, but it emphasized the gulf between the agencies. Op-Center did not even have a child care facility.

Hood closed the E-mail and brought up the budget file. He called Op-Center’s CFO Ed Colahan and asked him to come to his office. He had come in early. Colahan knew their current fiscal year gave them another six weeks of business as usual. He wanted to be ready for whatever the CIOC decided.

Hood knew he would not be ready for this.

The question Hood had to address was whether to cut personnel from most or all of their ten divisions or whether to eliminate one or two departments entirely. He knew the answer even without looking at the figures. He also knew which departments would get him close to twenty percent. One of them would cost him efficiency.

The other would cost him a friend.

FOUR

Washington, D. C. Monday, 8:20 A.M.

When Don Orr was a little boy, he used to look forward to June 22, the day Miss Clarion’s twenty-two-student school closed down for the summer. He did not dislike school. Just the opposite. He loved learning new things. But the first day of summer vacation was special. He would get up at sunrise. With an olive green baseball cap pulled low over his forehead, he filled his father’s canteen and slung it across a small shoulder. He made three or four peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and pushed them into a knapsack, along with a package of oatmeal cookies and a compass. Then he took a shovel from the tool shed. That was for beheading rattlesnakes if he encountered any. Holding the shovel like a prophet’s staff, he walked out from the family’s cattle ranch in Kingsville, Texas. He walked into the hot, windless plain to think about everything he had learned that year. Being alone like that for a day helped to burn the important things into his brain. He had learned in Bible class that this was what Jesus had done, and Moses before Him. The young boy felt that the walk would help to make him a stronger, better man.

He was right. Don Orr did that for ten years running, from the time he was eight. What he did not know, until years later, was that for the first two years, his father had one of the ranch hands follow him. The tradition ended in 1967, when Orr turned eighteen and joined the air force. Orr knew what it was like to walk and ride. Now he wanted to fly. But the air force had other ideas. They wanted him to work with his hands, like he did on the ranch. Just two years earlier, the air force had established RED HORSE units: Rapid Engineer Deployable Heavy Operational Repair Squadron, Engineering. These were divided into two squadrons: the 555th Triple Nickel and the 554th Penny Short. They assigned Orr to one of these. After nine weeks of training at Cannon Air Base in New Mexico, the young man was sent with the 554th to Phan Rang Air Base in Vietnam. There, his specialty was drilling wells to obtain drinking water, a skill he had learned on the ranch.

Orr did one tour in Vietnam and a second in Thailand. He was sorry he never saw combat. Like breaking a horse, herding cattle, or hauling yourself into the baking summertime wilderness, war was the kind of intense challenge that burned things into a man’s head, muscles, and heart. That was one reason Senator Orr had always gotten along with combat veterans like Admiral Link. Risk-taking had been hardwired into the systems of those men.

It was not risk-taking but a sense of duty that had inspired Senator Orr to found the United States First Party six months before. Each of the two major parties was like a Third World country, a collection of ideological warlords with only one thing in common: an overwhelming dislike for the other party. There was no singular, driving philosophy. It was discouraging. Orr’s idea was simple. The United States needed to become what the Orr Ranch was, a powerful spread run by men of vision. The nation should not be run by parties that burned up their energies playing a tug-of-war for inches. National growth should not be determined by an international consensus or by despots who bullied us with goods, from lumber to steel to oil. The USF Party would provide that. Orr had influence, resolve, credentials, and an American bloodline unmatched by any third-party leader in the past. The effort would also be good for Don Orr. The senator had influence on the Hill, but he did not have control. He was affiliated with good men, but he was not surrounded by them.

That would change.

The senator arrived at his office in the Russell Senate Office Building. Completed in 1908, the Beaux Arts structure was just a short walk north of the Capitol, bounded by Constitution Avenue, First Street, Delaware Avenue, and C Street NE. The senator’s office was just off the magnificent rotunda and had an inspiring view of the Capitol dome. It was also just two blocks from Union Station.

“That proximity gives me a comfortable exit strategy,” the outspoken senator liked to joke with reporters. When Orr first came to Washington, the Dallas Morning News sent him a coach ticket. The newspaper worried that he represented a nineteenth-century Manifest Destiny ideology in a more heterogeneous twenty-first-century world. The Dallas Morning News was wrong. He had nothing against a melting pot. He just wanted to make sure that the United States, and not radicals and petty tyrants, controlled the flame. Orr believed that Americans wanted that, too. On warm spring days, when his schedule permitted, the senator would do a short version of his childhood walk. He would take a brisk walk to the station and just stroll around, listening to what voters were saying. Then he would buy a bottle of water and walk back, letting their comments settle in along the way. It matched the E-mails and letters he received from his constituency. Americans embraced globalization, but they wanted a world that was fair. The United States made other nations rich by purchasing their cars, steel, oil, and electronics. We provided them with free military protection. In exchange, most of those countries gave local manufacturers tax breaks while imposing heavy tariffs on American goods. Even Orr’s family business had suffered. Cattlemen in Australia, Canada, and Brazil paid their hands far less than American workers received. Many of those ranchers fed their cattle with cheap grasses instead of expensive, healthier grains. It was increasingly difficult to conduct business in that kind of marketplace. Orr intended to change that. He would insist on equal access to foreign markets and matching taxes on imports. If he did not get it, the door would be closed. Critics said he was being naive, but Orr believed that princes and prime ministers, presidents and chiefs would find the world a less comfortable place without American markets—and protection.

The senator had been up late the night before, talking to opinion makers, fellow politicians, and business leaders. Most of those people were friends and allies. A few were not. They had been invited to see how Orr and his colleagues felt about their protectionist activities.

One of those outsiders was the late William Wilson.

Orr heard about Wilson’s death from Kat. As his driver moved through the thick morning traffic, Orr phoned Kendra Peterson to discuss the news. They both knew that Orr’s office would receive calls from around the world looking for comments about Wilson’s death last night. The woman was already at her desk helping to answer calls from reporters, commenting about the genius of Wilson’s MasterLock and lamenting his passing. She promised that the senator would have a statement later in the day.

Arriving at the office, Orr discovered that the press were not the only ones interested in speaking with him. Detective Robert Howell of the Metropolitan Police phoned the senator’s office shortly before nine. The senator respected law officers of any stripe. He took the call. Detective Howell sounded tense.

“Senator, we understand that Mr. Wilson attended a party at your residence last night,” the detective said. “Can you tell me anything about what Mr. Wilson did or who he may have spoken with?”

“We had two hundred guests, Detective,” Orr said. “I noticed him chatting with a number of guests, but I did not pay him particular attention. He left alone, around ten-thirty,” Orr said.

“You noticed his departure?”

“Only because he came over to thank me,” Orr said. “The Brits, like Texans, have manners. To save you time, I do not know what he said to other guests and I did not notice if he was drinking or what he was eating. I presume toxicology reports will tell you that.”

“Yes, sir. Do you happen to know if Mr. Wilson arranged to meet anyone after the party?” Howell asked.

“I do not,” Orr replied. “The newspaper said that he entertained a woman in his suite and died of an apparent heart attack sometime during the night. Do you have any reason to suspect otherwise?”

“Not at this time,” said the detective.

“I’m happy to hear that,” the senator said. He did not want a scandal attached to his name.

“But if someone was with him and failed to summon medical assistance—perhaps because she was married and feared publicity—that individual might be guilty of involuntary manslaughter.”

“I see. Don’t you have video from the hotel security cameras?”

“We do, but the woman was extremely careful not to show her face,” Howell told him.

“Which makes you even more suspicious,” Orr said.

“It does make us interested in her,” the detective agreed. “Senator, would it be an imposition to obtain a list of your party guests?”

“It will be an imposition if my guests are harassed by the police or the press,” Orr told him.

“We are only interested in locating the woman who was with Mr. Wilson last night. Our questions will not go beyond that.”

“In that case, my executive assistant Kendra Peterson will provide you with a list,” Orr told him.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Is there anything else we can do for you?” Orr asked.

“Nothing that I can think of right now,” Detective Howell told him. “I appreciate your cooperation, sir.”

“It was my pleasure, Detective.”

Orr hung up the phone and sat at his desk made of rare Texas aspen. It was the same desk the revered Sam Houston had used when he served in the Senate. As Orr had expected, the conversation with Detective Howell was direct but respectful. The D.C. police were good that way. They knew that politicians could shape innuendo as if it were plastique. Investigations were handled with exceptional care. Hopefully, William Wilson’s death did not become a distraction for the media. The senator had a plan, a vision for the United States, the unveiling of which was one of the worst-kept secrets in Washington. For the past several months Orr had been organizing funds and personnel to establish a new force in American politics. In two days he would acknowledge what many had suspected: that he would be making a serious third-party run for the presidency. He would make the announcement at a press conference at seven A.M. the next morning, when it was six A.M. in Kingsville. That was when he had first announced his intention to run for the United States Senate, with a big Texas sun rising behind him. The press conference would include an invitation for all Americans to join him at the USF Party’s first convention, to be held later that week in San Diego. There, they would define the party’s platform and name its first candidates for president and vice president of the United States. Orr did not intend to repeat the mistake of other third-party founders. He was not doing this for personal advancement, for revenge, or to appeal to a radical fringe. The USF was here for people who believed that the interests of America came before the needs of partisans.

Orr looked out the window at the Capitol. It was a bright day, and the 288-foot-high dome gleamed white against a cloudless sky. The senator still felt humbled to see it, to be part of an unbroken chain of leaders dating from the Founding Fathers and the Continental Congress in Philadelphia. The dome was a daily, iconic reminder to him of why he had come to Washington: to serve the electorate fearlessly. To uphold the Constitution with his energy, his heart, and his judgment. If he did that successfully, he would continue to serve here. If he failed, he would go back to ranching.

Either way, Don Orr won.

Either way, he was still an American.

FIVE

Washington, D. C. Monday, 8:24 A.M.

When is a postal carrier not a postal carrier? That was what Ed March had asked his old friend Darrell McCaskey to help him find out.

The two men had been college roommates at the University of Miami. While McCaskey was recruited by the FBI, March was asked to become a police officer with the U.S. Postal Service. For over ten years, March’s beat had been child pornography. Then the Internet virtually ended that use of the mails. He was shifted to Homeland Security activities where most of his time was spent doing the ABCs—alien background checks—of individuals who regularly sent packages to nations that sponsored terrorism. March was currently involved in a stakeout involving a postal carrier who was suspected of helping a certain individual bypass the ABC system by collecting packages from a specific drop box and bringing them directly to the overseas pouches. These were believed to contain materials that could not be sent via E-mail attachments: stolen documents, currency, and possibly computer components.

Right now, March did not want the mailer. He wanted the carrier so he could confiscate the truck before the package could be off-loaded. If the address on the parcel inside was the same that had been found in a terrorist hut in Gunong Tahan, the carrier would be persuaded to turn future packages over to the CIA before they were sent overseas.

March had backup a block away in an unmarked car, but he needed McCaskey to tell him whether he was being watched while he watched the mailbox and carrier. March had been in this location for several days, waiting for another drop-off. It was not uncommon for spies and terrorists to work in partnership with observers. These persons kept a careful eye on nationals in their employ. As often as not, nationals turned out to be double agents. Especially when they had been found out.

Posing as a flag vendor with a small white cart, March was standing on the corner of Constitution Avenue. Mailboxes were potential receptacles for bombs, and this was one of the few locations the USPS had left operational. The postal service police believed that the mailer came over the Potomac from Arlington and dropped it off on his way to work at the Embassy of Malaysia on Massachusetts Avenue. That was ascertained by following the staff members home and seeing who passed this way. There were two potential targets.

One of them had mailed a package at the box forty minutes earlier.

McCaskey was sitting cross-legged on a small bench closer to the Lincoln Memorial. Early-morning tourists and joggers moved by in all directions. McCaskey noticed them all to see if any came by again. That could mean they were watching the mailbox, looking for enemy recon. McCaskey also watched for the glint of binoculars or anyone who had a good eye line with the box.

In McCaskey’s hand was one of the greatest surveillance props ever invented: the cell phone. A user had to concentrate in order to hear, so passers-by assumed the caller did not see them. Pickpockets loved cell phones for that reason. McCaskey missed nothing, even as he pretended to talk to his wife, Maria. In fact, former Interpol agent Maria Corneja-McCaskey was sitting beside him on the bench. That irony was not lost on either of them. McCaskey had always feared that Maria was too wedded to intelligence work to have time for a marriage. That was the problem with McCaskey’s first marriage. He had married a fellow FBI agent, Bonnie Edwards, and had three kids with her. Bonnie quit to be a full-time mother, and McCaskey took a promotion to unit chief in Dallas to pick up the financial slack. A subsequent promotion took him to D.C., which was good for McCaskey but not for the family. In the end, after eight years of marriage, the McCaskeys agreed to a divorce. The children visited their father during school vacations, and McCaskey went to see them whenever he could get away. They lived outside of Dallas, where Bonnie had married an oil executive with three kids. She seemed to like her very Brady life.

The dueling careers had come between McCaskey and Maria once, when they first met in her native Spain. They had reconnected when McCaskey was on a mission in Madrid. Maria had agreed to give it up and move to Washington.

Now his beautiful, dark-haired wife was helping him with a stakeout. She woke up smirking. Though Maria was in character now, pretending to be an artist sketching the Memorial in pastel, the bemused look was still there.

“Honey, I am so incredibly bad at having these fake conversations,” he said into the deactivated phone. “Pausing and pretending to listen to someone.” He paused and pretended to listen. “Then laughing disarmingly.” He chuckled. “I’d rather be in a firefight.”

“You may have an opportunity,” Maria said from the side of her mouth. “Three o’clock, nanny with a stroller.”

McCaskey glanced over as the young woman passed. She had Asian features. She was dressed in a Georgetown University sweatshirt and jeans and was absently rocking a charcoal-colored Maclaren stroller with a hood.

“I don’t think so,” McCaskey said.

“Darrell, there’s no baby in the stroller,” Maria said. She put the ivory-colored chalk back in the wooden carrying case.

“I know,” he replied, still pretending to talk in the phone. “There’s a shopping bag in the stroller. It’s probably got everything she owns. Look at the laces of her Adidas. Broken and knotted, hole on one side. The foam handle of the stroller is torn. It was probably discarded. She’s homeless.”

“Or pretending to be,” Maria said as she selected a navy blue stick to lay in shadows.

“It’s possible,” McCaskey agreed. He looked toward the lawn beyond the path. “I’m more concerned about the guy sitting on the grass with the laptop.”

“The man in the windbreaker?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” Maria asked. “His back is to the mailbox.”

“But the web cam is not,” McCaskey said. “He could be teleconferencing, or he could be watching the mailbox.”

Just then the mail carrier pulled up in his small localhaul truck. A lanky, blond-haired young man emerged carrying a white plastic bin and stepped over to the mailbox. McCaskey continued to talk on the phone as March moved his cart so he was closer to the mail truck. The carrier did not seem to notice. He knelt, opened the front panel with a key from the ring on his belt, and slowly scooped the contents into the container. He appeared to be looking for something. When he found it, he swept the rest of the mail in quickly and shut the box. Evidently, that was all March needed. He stepped from his cart and intercepted the mail carrier. McCaskey saw March show the carrier his badge, but he could not hear what was being said. The carrier made a disbelieving, then angry face and shook his head. March was insistent as he got on his cell phone and made a call. He was summoning his backup.

The mail carrier moved toward the truck, still holding the bin. March grabbed his arm and said something.

“Hey, will someone call a cop!” the carrier shouted.

The man with the laptop turned. So did the homeless woman. The two of them started to rise.

“Are both of them in on this?” Maria said.

“I don’t know,” her husband said. “Stay here.” He got up and walked toward them. He was still holding the phone to his ear.

The man with the laptop had folded it away, slipped it into a shoulder bag, and also walked toward the mail truck. The woman was quickly pushing her stroller toward March. Other people stopped and watched from a distance.

The carrier attempted to pull his arm free. He yanked harder than March’s grip required, upending both the carrier and the bin. The woman with the stroller started running to where mail had been strewn across the street. McCaskey also rushed over. He got there first and, crouching, began pulling mail toward him. Most of it was picture postcards along with a handful of letters. He was looking for an oversized envelope or small parcel with a South Pacific or Far Eastern address. He found one, a fat manila envelope with a Kuala Lumpur address. McCaskey pulled over other letters so this one did not seem to be all that interested him. Maria, sitting close by, was watching the homeless woman.

The mail carrier hurried over. “Thank you, sir. I’ll take those,” he said, reaching for the letters.

“And I’ll take those,” March said as he leaned over the mail carrier and wrapped a thick hand around his key ring. He flipped the small metal latch and pulled it free. The ignition key to the truck was on the ring.

McCaskey released the mail. He stood and watched as the carrier put them back in the bin. Then the young man went to collect the rest of the mail. The homeless woman was on her hands and knees, also gathering pieces. The carrier went to take them from her and, with a snarl, she slapped over the bin and its contents. The package bound for Malaysia went spinning back onto the street. The woman scrambled after it. The mail carrier did not go after her.

McCaskey did.

“Hold on!” McCaskey yelled after her.

The man with the laptop was closer. He intercepted the woman as she tried to get away. March did not see him. He was busy waving over a blue sedan. There was a brief struggle, but the man with the laptop got the mail. The woman sped away as McCaskey arrived.

The large envelope was in the man’s hand, folded in half. “I’ve got it all,” he said to the mail carrier.

“Thanks. I’ll take it,” March said, walking over.

“Glad I could help,” the man with the laptop said. Then he turned and walked away.

McCaskey had an uneasy sense about this. He waited anxiously while March flipped through the few pieces of mail. He reached the envelope addressed to Malaysia. He held it so McCaskey could see. It had been torn open.

“Shit,” McCaskey said.

The carrier was no longer a problem. One of the plainclothes officers had him in custody and was taking him to their car. They had to stop the man with the laptop and the homeless woman.

McCaskey and March exchanged looks. March set out after the man with the laptop. The other plainclothesman followed when the carrier was secure in the sedan. McCaskey turned toward the field that stretched to the Lincoln Memorial. The homeless woman was at the edge of the lawn, digging around in her stroller. If she were stowing the contents of the envelope, they would have a problem. They had no right to search her belongings. If she had a weapon, they could have an even bigger problem. There were hundreds of potential hostages out here.

The former FBI agent walked quickly toward the woman. He still had his cell phone. He pretended to be deep in conversation and walked into the woman. Her stroller was upended, and the contents spilled onto the grass.

“I’m so sorry!” McCaskey said, tucking the cell phone in his pocket as he bent to help retrieve her belongings. Among the clothes and a water bottle were passports from different nations.

“Stay away!” the woman shouted, pushing him back.

McCaskey did not have to yield. Not anymore. He moved to confiscate the evidence of either theft or passport forgery.

With a cry of rage, the woman drew a double-bladed knife from a sheath on her forearm. The leather hilt was in the center with a serrated blade on either side. McCaskey backed away, and she approached him, her legs wide as she slashed left and right. They were not the wild moves of a homeless woman but the centered attack of a trained fighter.

The former FBI agent did not carry a handgun. Only Op-Center field agents were issued firearms, and the shotgun he kept at home for intruders would not be appropriate in a situation like this. He watched as she cut from left to right and back in a dead-horizontal line waist-high. He had to get close to the hand with the knife and do a forearm break. That meant cupping her elbow in the palm of one hand and pushing up and placing another hand on the inside of her wrist and pushing down. The wrist strike would numb her forearm and cause her to drop the knife. The trick was not to get stabbed in the process.

McCaskey kept his hands level with the slashing blade. He did not blink. That had been part of his training. He had to wait for her to do so, then he would—

The homeless woman suddenly flew to her left as a wooden case of pastels smacked into the side of her head. The knife dropped as the woman fell to her knees. Maria was still holding the handle of the box tightly. She brought it back for a second blow, driving the brass hinges into the back of the homeless woman’s head. She fell forward on the lawn and landed on her face.

“I have always felt that aikido works better in the dojo than in the field,” Maria said.

“Not everyone carries a combat-ready art box,” McCaskey said.

The homeless woman’s eyes were shut. McCaskey put an index finger under her nose to make sure she was still breathing. Then he retrieved the knife and passports and motioned for the tourists to move away. Security officers from the Lincoln Memorial were running over.

Maria picked up her art kit. “I knew she was bad when she picked up the letters,” she said.

“Why?”

“Homeless women don’t use apricot-scented shampoo. That’s why I watched you instead of Ed.”

“I appreciate that, hon,” McCaskey said. He looked back toward the street. The plainclothesman was escorting the man with the laptop toward the sedan. The man was complaining loudly. March was walking toward the lawn. When he arrived, McCaskey handed him the passports and knife. March called his dispatcher and asked for emergency medical technicians to care for the woman.

“These are impressive,” the postal officer said. “Thanks. Both of you.”

“Glad we could help. What have you got on him?” McCaskey asked, nodding toward the man with the laptop.

“He didn’t stop when we asked him to,” March said.

“Is that a crime?” Maria asked.

“No. I’ve got a feeling he’s hiding something,” March said. “I want to have a look at the computer.”

“You are permitted to look at his computer files because of a feeling?” Maria asked.

“No,” March said. “We are permitted access to his computer under Section 217 of the USA Patriot Act. Suspected computer transgression, possible web cam surveillance of federal officers near a national monument is a crime. No court order required to investigate.”

“He may not have known you people were federal officers,” McCaskey pointed out.

“Perhaps,” March said. “But we have reasonable cause for suspicion. He handled the parcel from the embassy, and he did not stop when we asked him to, repeatedly. If he’s innocent, it’s a minor inconvenience, and we’ll apologize. If he’s guilty, we may save lives.”

McCaskey made a face as the security officers from the Memorial arrived. March showed them his badge, then asked them to watch the woman. He said an ambulance would be arriving in just a few minutes.

“Look, I’ve got to put this baby to bed,” March said. He offered his hand to McCaskey and Maria in turn. “I can’t thank you enough. If you ever need anything, just shout.”

“I will,” McCaskey said.

Op-Center’s top cop felt as though he should say something more on the man’s behalf but decided against it. Ed March had a point. He also had the law on his side. McCaskey himself had thought the man might be involved in this. That, too, had been a feeling. Sometimes, lawmen had to act on that.

McCaskey had parked on C Street. He walked back with Maria. His wife was scowling and complained that this was what Spain was like under Franco.

“If everyone El Caudillo arrested had actually been guilty of crimes, Spain would have been a nation of felons,” she said.

“The situations are not the same,” McCaskey said. “Franco was a tyrant. Ed is a good officer trying to protect American lives.”

“This is how good officers become tyrants,” she replied.

“Not always,” he said with more hope than conviction.

The American system was not perfect, but as they drove to Op-Center, McCaskey took comfort in a slogan that had been written on the blackboard of a Community Outreach Theory class he once took at the FBI Academy in Quantico. It was a reassuring quote from Jefferson: “The boisterous sea of liberty is never without a wave.”

SIX

Washington, D. C. Monday, 9:02 A.M.

Mike Rodgers pulled into the Op-Center parking lot moments after Darrell McCaskey arrived. Their reserved parking spots were side by side, and McCaskey waited while Rodgers got out. The spots were numbered rather than named. If security were ever compromised and someone rigged a car to explode, the assassin would have to know which vehicle he wanted. That was why Rodgers had started leasing cars every six months instead of buying them. He had made a number of powerful enemies abroad with his Striker assaults. The general was not paranoid, but Bob Herbert once told him that Washington, D.C., had over five hundred freelance “street potatoes,” as they were called. Individuals who watched the comings and goings of government officials and reported the information to foreign governments. That data could be used for everything from blackmail to murder. Changing cars, like alternating the routes Rodgers took to work, was just good sense. Of course, the general half-expected to open the newspaper one morning and read about some poor joker with his last car getting blown up in a driveway or sniped at in a shopping mall. Then again, Rodgers always checked the provenance of his vehicle. He did not want to end up with a car that had been rented by an embassy employee or drug dealer who was someone else’s target.

“Did we both sleep in?” Rodgers asked.

“Nah,” McCaskey said. “Maria and I were on a stakeout for a friend with the postal service.”

“Some careless spy using the same drop box more than once?” Rodgers asked.

“Sort of. He was passing material to the carrier to bypass security inspections,” McCaskey said.

Our own people betraying us, Rodgers thought. Whenever he heard something like that, the general felt every civilized inhibition slide away. He would have no trouble executing someone to whom a payday mattered more than his country. “Did you get them?”

McCaskey nodded. “Maria had the spook spotted from the start. That lady’s intuition is amazing.”

“Jealous?” Rodgers joked.

“No. Proud. I went after a guy who was web camming the Lincoln Memorial. He turned out to be undercover with Homeland Security. I swear, we’ve got more cops here than gangsters.”

“There are still plenty of bad guys to round up,” Rodgers said as they entered the building.

“I know,” McCaskey said. “But when counter espionage units start taking friendly fire, it’s time to rethink our overall policy. We should be doing more of what you’re doing, training personnel to operate abroad and targeting ETs.”

ETs were not just aliens, they were exported terrorists. When Striker had been replaced by a human intelligence unit, the mandate was to infiltrate and undermine foreign operations before they became a real threat.

Rodgers did not disagree. But the intelligence community had spent decades relying on increasingly sophisticated ELINT—electronic intelligence—such as intercepted phone and E-mail messages, spy satellites, and unmanned drones. Human intelligence was deemed too risky and unreliable. Foreign nationals who could not be hired outright had to be blackmailed into cooperating. That was costly and time consuming and required a sizable support system. Even then, the nationals could not always be trusted. Ramping up HUMINT operations also took time and ingenuity. In the interim, United States intelligence operations had assumed a posture similar to the Soviet approach of defending the homeland during World War II. They threw every available body at the problem in the hope of stopping it.

The men emerged from the elevator and went in separate directions along the oval corridor. As deputy director, Rodgers’s office was located next to that of Paul Hood in the so-called executive wing. The only other office in that section was that of attorney Lowell Coffey III. McCaskey, intelligence chief Bob Herbert, computer expert Matt Stoll, psychologist Liz Gordon, and political liaison Ron Plummer were in the operations corridor. That was where all the real work was done, according to Herbert.

When Rodgers passed Hood’s office, Bugs Benet asked the general if he had a minute.

“Sure,” Rodgers said. “What’s up?”

“The chief wanted to talk to you,” Bugs replied.

“All right. When?” Rodgers asked. Hood’s door was rarely closed. It was closed now.

“He said you should go in when you got here,” Bugs told him.

“Thanks,” Rodgers said. He walked past Bugs’s cubicle and knocked on Hood’s door.

“It’s open,” Hood said.

Rodgers went in.

“Good morning,” Hood said.

“Morning,” Rodgers said.

Hood rose from behind his desk and gestured toward a leather sofa set against the inside wall. Rodgers walked over and sat. Hood shut the door, then joined Rodgers. His expression was curiously neutral. Hood was a diplomat, but he was usually open and empathetic. That helped people trust him, and that made him effective.

“Mind if I help myself to coffee?” Rodgers asked.

“No, of course not, Mike,” Hood said. “Sorry I didn’t offer. I’ve been preoccupied.”

“I can tell,” Rodgers said. He went to the coffeemaker on a small, triangular, teakwood corner table. “Want any?”

“No thanks. I’ve already had enough to float a horseshoe,” Hood told him.

“What’s going on?” Rodgers asked as he poured.

“I spoke with Senator Debenport this morning,” Hood said. “He wants me to make deep cuts.”

“More than the four percent we just gave him?”

“Much more,” Hood told him. “Five times more.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Rodgers said. He returned with his mug and took a sip. “You don’t trim that kind of money. You amputate.”

“I know,” Hood said.

“How far from that figure can you move him?”

“He’s not going to yield a dime,” Hood said.

“Balls. Everything is negotiable.”

“Not when you’re a politician in the public eye,” Hood said.

“I guess you would know.”

“I do,” Hood said. “People want to feel secure, and CIOC wants to give that to them in as showy a way as possible. That is where the money is needed.”

Rodgers was starting to get a very uneasy feeling about the direction of this conversation. Hood was not asking questions; he was making statements, as though he were building a case.

“Anything that has a redundancy somewhere else in the intelligence system has to go,” Hood went on.

“My field unit,” Rodgers said.

“Yes, Mike.”

There was something in Hood’s voice that said he was not finished.

“And me?” Rodgers asked.

“They want me to merge the political office and deputy director’s post,” Hood told him.

“I see.” Rodgers took a short swallow of black coffee. Then another. “Ron Plummer is more qualified for my position than I am for his,” he said. “When do you want me to clear out?”

“Mike, we need to talk about this—”

“Talk to Liz Gordon. That’s what she’s here for.”

“No, you and I need to work this out,” Hood said. “I don’t want our friendship to end.”

The sentiment made Rodgers squirm. He was not sure why. “Look, don’t worry about it. I’m probably overdue for a change. The army will reassign me. Or maybe I’ll do something else.”

“Maybe we can outsource some of our intel or recon activities, work with you on scenarios for the crisis sims,” Hood said.

“I’d rather look at other options,” Rodgers replied.

“All right. But the offer stands.”

“Was there an offer?” Rodgers asked. “I heard a ‘maybe.’ ”

“It was an offer to try to find projects—”

“Busywork, you mean,” Rodgers said.

“No,” Hood replied. “Assignments for a uniquely skilled intelligence professional.”

Rodgers took a swallow of coffee and rose. He did not want to talk to Paul Hood right now. He had no doubt Hood fought to keep him. Perhaps he had even threatened to resign. But in the end, Hood chose to stay on and confront his “friend” with hard facts and cold efficiency. “When does the CIOC want me out of here?”

“Mike, no one wants you out of here,” Hood said. “If they did, we would have done this when Striker was officially disbanded.”

“Right,” Rodgers said. “It’s the position that’s being eliminated not the man. I’d like to resign rather than being downsized. That has a little more dignity.”

“Of course,” Hood said.

“How long will Plummer need to take my post?”

“Two weeks?” Hood guessed.

“Fine,” Rodgers said and turned to go.

“Mike—”

“I’m okay,” Rodgers said. “Really.”

“I was going to say that it has been a privilege working with you.”

Rodgers stopped. Screw this, he thought. He was a soldier, not a diplomat. He turned back. “Would it be a privilege to resign with me?” he asked.

“If I thought that would have changed Debenport’s mind, I would have done it,” Hood told him.

“As a maneuver,” Rodgers said. “A tactic. What about standing shoulder-to-shoulder as a point of honor?”

“To me, falling on my sword would be vanity, not honor,” Hood said. “It would be an act of surrender.”

“Backing a friend and coworker?”

“In this case, yes,” Hood said.

“Jesus,” Rodgers said. “I’m glad I didn’t have guys like you watching my ass in ’Nam. I’d be under a pile of rocks somewhere.”

“This isn’t combat, Mike. It’s politics. People fight with words and access. They don’t die. They get marginalized, they get recycled, they regroup. It’s the nature of the beast. Some people do it for ego, and some do it for principle. I took this job to serve the people of the United States. That is sacred to me. I won’t give it up to make a dramatic statement. One that won’t change a thing.”

“Is that how you view loyalty, Paul? As a dramatic statement ? Was I just being dramatic when I helped save your daughter in the UN takeover?”

“That’s not fair,” Hood said. “We’ve been in the line of fire for people we don’t even know. We agreed to do that when we went to work here. We agreed to protect our nation and its interests.”

“I don’t need the sermon,” Rodgers said. “I’ve served the country for my entire adult life.”

“I know, which is why you should understand what it means to work for a government agency,” Hood said. “Op-Center has this much in common with the military. We are impacted by political trends and public whim. Whoever sits in this office has to work with whatever he is given. And with whatever is taken from him.”

Rodgers shook his head. “That’s what the Vichy collaborators did when they capitulated to the German invaders.”

Hood’s expression was no longer neutral. He winced, as though he had taken an uppercut square in the chin.

“I’m sorry,” Rodgers said. “I did not mean to imply that you’re a coward.”

“I know,” Hood said.

An uncomfortable quiet settled upon the room. Hood stood. He walked toward Rodgers and offered his hand. The general accepted it. There was surprising warmth in Hood’s handshake.

“If you need anything, let me know,” Hood said. “Or you can talk to Bob, if you prefer.”

“I’ll talk to you,” Rodgers said.

“Good.” Hood held on to Rodgers’s hand. “Mike, I need you to believe something. This place cost me my family. If it costs me your friendship, I’m going to have to live with that. If it costs me your respect, I’m going to have to live with that, too. But I want you to know that leaving here would have been easier than what I just did. You talked about loyalty. I did what I believe was right for Op-Center, not what was convenient or comfortable or even best for me.”

“I believe you, Paul,” Rodgers said. “I just don’t agree with you.”

“Fair enough,” Hood said. “But you need to know this, too. If there were a resistance movement fighting the CIOC, I would join it.”

“We can start one,” Rodgers said. “I’ll have some free time.”

“I doubt that,” Hood said.

“We’ll see,” Rodgers said and withdrew his hand. He felt much better having taken a swing at Hood’s piety. He saw the man’s point, but he still did not agree with it. Friends stood by friends. Period.

Rodgers left and went to his own office. Or rather, Ron Plummer’s office. He already felt uncomfortable here, like a noncom cleaning out the locker of a dead soldier. He forced himself to look beyond this, to the meeting with Senator Orr and whatever lay ahead.

A little anarchy, Rodgers hoped.

He was in the mood.

SEVEN

Washington, D. C. Monday, 9:27 A.M.

Hood was about to buzz Ron Plummer when his outside line beeped. He glanced at the Caller ID. It was his former wife. He did not feel like talking to her now. The conversations were usually difficult. Sharon was still bitter because he had not been around very much since they moved to Washington. Hood was angry because she had not supported the work he was doing at Op-Center. But none of that mattered. The call could be about the kids.

“Good morning, Sharon,” Hood said when he picked up the phone. He tried to sound pleasant.

“Hi, Paul. Do you have a minute?”

“Sure,” he said. Sharon sounded unusually relaxed.

“I need a favor,” she said. “You met my friend Jim Hunt.”

“The caterer.”

“The home party restaurateur, yes,” she said.

Hunt was someone Sharon had known for years, dating back to when she had her own cooking show. They used to have an occasional lunch together. Now the kids told him they were having frequent dinners together.

“His son Franklin will be studying poli-sci at Georgetown in the fall,” Sharon went on. “The school will give him college credit if he interns in a political institution over the summer. Is there anything he might be able to do at Op-Center? He’s a very sharp young man, Paul.”

Hood’s former wife, who had always resented the hours he spent at Op-Center, was asking him to help the son of her boyfriend get an internship there. And she happened to make her request on a day when Hood had been ordered to lay people off. Bob Herbert once said that CIA stands for Convergent Incongruities Abound. That certainly applied here.

“Does he have any particular interests?” Hood asked. He did not really care, but he needed to think for a moment. Did he really want to do this?

“He is a student of languages and maps,” she said. “He speaks French and is learning Japanese. In fact, he’s been teaching Harleigh basic Japanese grammar. But he would be happy to work anywhere, in any capacity.”

“I’ll ask around,” Hood told her. He would, he decided, though Op-Center rarely used interns, and only then as favors to influential members of Congress. “I just want you to know we had some major cutbacks today. So it may be difficult to place him.”

“He wouldn’t require compensation.”

“I understand,” Hood said. “What I mean is that people are going to be preoccupied.”

“Okay,” Sharon said. By the way she dragged out the second syllable Hood could tell she was not happy with that answer. “Can I have a time frame? If Frankie can’t intern with you, he’ll have to look into other places.”

“Give me a day or two to see how the new landscape looks.”

“A day would be good,” Sharon said. “That will give us time to explore other options. Thanks.”

She did not ask about the layoffs. To her, Op-Center was The Enemy. It had been the rival for her husband’s affection. Now it was like an organ donor, dead except for whatever his former wife needed from it. Sharon had also said “us” not “Jim.” Hood was a little jealous, not because Sharon had found someone but because she was involved in Jim’s life. She was engaged in a way she had never been with Hood’s work, she was simpatico. Even the kids were hitting it off. He should have been glad for them all, but he was not.

They chatted a little about the kids. Sharon said that Harleigh seemed to be doing better and had actually picked up the violin again. Alexander was playing too many computer games, listening to too much rap, and not paying enough attention to his grades. Hood said he would stop by and have a talk with him Tuesday or Wednesday. Sharon said Tuesday would be fine, that she was helping Jim on a catering job that night. Then she hung up.

Hood actually envied Sharon. She had an old friend to go to, someone who had known her even longer than Hood. For all he knew, Jim Hunt may have gotten divorced because he learned that Sharon was free.

Hood sat back and listened to the quiet. A decibel lower, and it would be death. Rodgers probably had not spoken to anyone about what happened, but intelligence people knew when the geometry of a room had changed. That was their job.

Hood wished he had someone to talk to. He had never felt more alone than he did at this moment. And he suspected that there were going to be rough hours ahead, when Lowell Coffey and Darrell McCaskey and especially Bob Herbert found out about the cutbacks. And the loss of Mike Rodgers.

Hood had never been one for self-pity. Adults made choices and lived with the consequences. But he had never been cut off from a support system.

That was how I ended up marrying Sharon, he reminded himself. Nancy Jo had left him, and he married the first woman who made him forget the hurt. Unfortunately, Sharon did not fill the void.

He wanted to talk to someone. Not a professional but a friend.

Hood considered calling Ann Farris. The former Op-Center press liaison had pursued Hood for years. Hood was married while Ann worked there, and after the divorce, there was no danger, no edge to the relationship. There was only Ann’s need. Hood did not care for the divorced young mother enough to be with her, which was why he did not call her now. It would not be fair to Ann.

He thought about calling Daphne Connors. However, several dates with the public relations queen had told him they could never be more than friends. In every restaurant they went to, at the movies, at each bar they visited, Daphne always had one ear on the conversation taking place beside or behind her. She never stopped looking for new accounts or useful intelligence to service existing clients. Hood may be a workaholic, but Op-Center did not come with him when he left the office.

Hood was tempted to call Sergei Orlov, head of the Russian Op-Center in Saint Petersburg. The men had been good friends since working together to thwart the coup against the Kremlin. But Sergei was not the kind of man you talked to over the phone. He was the kind of man you sat down with over a huge bowl of uha—fish soup—and vodka shots taken from twenty-five-gram glasses.

Okay, Hood thought. There’s still a lot of work to do.

Unable to think of anyone he particularly wanted to call, Hood placed the call that had to be made. He asked Ron Plummer to come and see him. Plummer was a team player. He would feel uneasy about Rodgers’s resignation, but he would assume whatever responsibilities Paul Hood asked.

As he punched in Plummer’s extension, Hood found himself suddenly feeling very insecure about his own future. It was in the nature of men to want to build things, not oversee their downsizing. Hood had always envisioned Op-Center as an increasingly vital part of the intelligence and crisis management community. What happened today was not a move in that direction. It was not about making Op-Center more streamlined, about reducing bureaucracy and internal redundancies. The NCMC was being gutted. Hood would still have a great deal of work to do, but how important would that work be? Where would it take Op-Center? Where would it take Paul Hood personally?

“That’s up to you, isn’t it?” he asked himself aloud, to chase away the silence.

Hood asked Plummer to come in. He would deal with the situation one minute at a time. After all, this was what Op-Center was about.

Crisis management.

EIGHT

Las Vegas, Nevada Monday, 7:43 A.M.

The five-story, white-brick Atlantica was one of the older, less flashy hotels on the southern end of the Strip. There were no dancing fountains, no caged jungle creatures, no landmarks re-created half-scale. When the hotel opened thirty-seven years before, it was, as the flashing red neon sign in the window announced, Deluxe! Now it was simply convenient, located close to all the major casinos.

The Atlantica was also relatively inexpensive. Tourists came here looking for a place to drop their stuff before heading to the larger hotels to gamble or see shows. As a result, there were a lot of tourists and constant activity. It was easy to be anonymous here. That appealed to Tom “Melter” Mandor.

The thirty-seven-year-old drove his white Toyota van to the third level of the parking structure. He pulled into a space overlooking the hotel, then undid the seat belt, lit a hand-rolled cigarette, and waited for Richmond. He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. It was idle tapping but not impatient. Mandor was never in a hurry. During the twelve years he had spent working as an oil rig roughneck, Mandor had learned to take things easy. All the workers had. Otherwise, the downtime would have driven them mad, and the bored, isolated oilmen would have torn each other apart. It was during his three years on the Alaskan North Slope that Mandor had met Michael Wayne Richmond, who drove an oil truck for the Trans-Eastern Shipping Company. He shuttled crude oil to ships that went to South Korea and Japan. That was where the men had come up with the business plan for their new line of work.

Richmond’s vintage Thunderbird pulled up fifteen minutes later. The five-foot-ten Mandor left the van and went down the concrete stairs. This was his partner’s contact, and he had not wanted to go in without him.

It was already hot, over eighty-five desert-dry degrees. Even though it was cool and dark when he had left his home on the northwestern shores of Lake Mead, he was glad he had worn Bermuda shorts and a white T-shirt.

Las Vegas was not an early rising city, but the man they had come to see was from Maryland. He was still on East Coast time. There was no one in the small casino of the Atlantica. Mandor waited at the entrance, looking at the slot machines as though he were trying to decide whether to play. There was a large, convex mirror in an overhead corner. It allowed the people at the hotel desk to see into the casino. Mandor used it to watch the lobby. The tall, powerfully built Richmond was on the house phone, beside the small bank of elevators. When he hung up, Mandor walked over.

The men did not acknowledge one another. There were security cameras in the lobby, by the casino. They walked to the elevators, and Richmond touched the button. When the door opened, both men stepped in. Richmond pushed the button for the fifth floor. When they arrived, he turned left. Mandor went right. There was a security camera inside the elevator as well. There were no security cameras in the fifth-floor hallway. When the door shut, Mandor turned and followed Richmond.

“How was the drive?” the bald-headed Richmond asked over his shoulder.

“Sweet,” Mandor replied as he caught up to his partner. He gave him a pat on the shoulder. Mandor liked his old friend, and he respected him. “There was no traffic at this hour.”

“Yeah,” Richmond said. “I made it from Oceanside in four hours flat.”

Richmond lived in a small cabin high in the Coastal Range of Southern California. He built the place himself four years ago. After years of freezing his ass in Chicago—where he was one of five kids raised by a single mother in a one-bedroom walk-up on the South Side—then as a driver in Alaska, Richmond wanted to live in consistently warm sunshine. That had been Mandor’s desire, too, though he had always wanted to be on the water.

Richmond did not know Eric Stone, the gentleman who had contacted them. All Stone said was that they had been recommended by Pete at the oil company. Peter Farmer was the foreman on the last rig where Mandor had worked. Richmond had recorded the conversation, and let Stone know it. Richmond made Stone state that he was not a government agent and this was not a sting.

The men knew what this was not. They did not know what it was. Richmond had called Pete to make sure Stone was legitimate. Pete said he was, though he did not know what the man needed.

They stopped in front of room 515, and Richmond knocked. Mandor pushed his shoulder-length salt-andpepper hair behind his neck. He did not like to wear it in a ponytail. He did not like restraints of any kind. That was how he ended up in the oil business. Back home in Toledo, Ohio, when he was twenty, he had beaten up Noel Lynch’s former boyfriend when he found them together. Rather than face charges and possible jail time, he fled to Mexico and then to Venezuela, where he was hired to work on an offshore rig. He loved the challenge. He actually enjoyed facing the battering winds, the savage cold, the endless hard labor. When that got routine, he traveled to Alaska. When that ceased to challenge him, he and Richmond came up with their new gig. One that had no overhead, was advertised by word of mouth, and was not taxed. They provided muscle for anyone who needed it.

The men had started doing that in Alaska. When environmentalists tried to block the tanker trucks or impede access to the rigs, the two men would cart the organizer away—or his wife, if she had come with him—and persuade them to take their grievances somewhere else. Roughing them up cost less than attorneys and was quicker and more effective. It also circumvented the police, whose arrests merely delayed the protests but did not eliminate them.

The work proved to be lucrative and something more. While Mandor was working in Punta Cardon, he learned that Noel had married the stupid jock he’d taken apart. Probably because she felt sorry for a guy who now had only one functioning eye. Each time Mandor hit someone, he was smacking that swaggering linebacker. Some people would call that sociopathic. To Mandor, it was cathartic. He felt that if everyone enjoyed their work as much as he did, the world would be a better place.

The door opened, and a short, well-dressed man stood inside. He was in his late twenties or early thirties, with straw-colored hair and a baby face.

“Mr. Stone?” Richmond said.

“Yes. You are Mr. Richmond?”

Richmond nodded. Stone looked at Mandor.

“Mr. Mandor?”

“Yeah,” Mandor said. He could not say “Yes sir” to this kid.

“Come in,” Stone said as he stepped aside.

Richmond entered first. “So how do you know Pete?” he asked as he stepped into the small foyer.

Mandor walked in, and Stone shut the door behind him. The room was medium-sized, with a king-size bed, a kitchenette, and a small dining area. The drapes were drawn, and all the lights were on.

“Before I answer, would you mind if I did a Raw scan?” Stone asked.

“What’s that?” Richmond asked.

“A check for radio waves,” Stone said. “I want to make sure you’re not broadcasting to someone on the outside.”

“Fair enough,” Richmond said.

Mandor shrugged.

Stone went to the luggage stand at the foot of the made bed. He removed a device that looked like a small flashlight with an earplug. He put the plug in his ear and slowly shone a cone of pale yellow light down each man in turn. He seemed satisfied with the results.

“Would either of you care for something?” Stone asked. “A beverage?”

“I’m okay,” Richmond said.

“Me, too,” Mandor told him.

“Tell me about Pete,” Richmond went on.

“Peter is an old friend of my employer.” Stone drew a cell phone from the inside left pocket of his tailored black blazer. “You may phone Peter if you wish. He will vouch for us.”

“I already spoke to him,” Richmond said. “He told me you were okay, but he did not tell me who you work for. Or what you want.”

“Or what it pays,” Mandor added. That was the only thing he cared about. If the price was right, he would pretty much do anything for anyone.

Stone sat in one of two wicker chairs beside a small dining area table. He invited the other men to sit. Richmond took the other chair. Mandor perched on the edge of the bed.

“I work for a gentleman who is an intelligence officer and political activist who has a great many supporters in the international business sector,” Stone said. “Peter Farmer is one of those men. When the time comes to tell you more, you will be very proud to be a part of what we are doing.”

“Will we?” Richmond said laconically.

“That’s assuming we decide to become a part of this,” Mandor said. He did not know what Richmond was thinking, but Mandor did not agree to anything blindly. “You want us to trust you, but you’re not trusting us.”

“An employer’s prerogative,” Stone said.

“We’re not employees yet,” Mandor said.

“True,” Stone said. “Let’s see if we can remedy that.”

Stone was smooth, probably a lawyer. Mandor did not like him. The young man smiled confidently as he slipped a slender hand into his shirt pocket. He withdrew a small manila envelope and placed it on the table. The package clanged lightly.

“There are two keys inside,” Stone said. “One of them operates a charcoal gray Dodge van on the bottom floor of the parking structure. The van is in your name, Mr. Richmond. The second key opens a safe-deposit box at the Las Vegas International Trust and Fund Company on Flamingo Avenue. Inside the box is twenty-five thousand dollars in cash. That is half the payment you will receive for what will be three days’ work. Would you like to hear more?”

Richmond and Mandor looked at the envelope and then at each other.

“Why the van?” Richmond asked.

“The windows are dark and bulletproof,” Stone said.

“Go on, Mr. Stone,” Richmond said.

“You have a cabin in the mountains in Fullbrook, Mr. Richmond,” Stone said. “There are no neighbors for acres in all directions.”

“Right. People come up to look at the view from the ridge some nights, but not often.”

“Can they see your place from there?” Stone asked.

“Not at all.”

“Good. In two days, at six in the morning, you will receive a call there,” Stone said. “You will be asked to drive somewhere, pick something up, and return to your cabin. You will wait there until you are told to drive somewhere else. When that is finished, your work is finished.”

“That’s it?” Richmond said.

“More or less. For you.” Stone looked at Mandor. “You will be needed in San Diego. You’ll be working security detail. You won’t need to do anything except sit, most of the time.”

“That is still pretty vague, Mr. Stone,” Mandor remarked.

“We’ve only just met.”

“So all we get is a good night kiss,” Richmond joked.

“Yeah,” Mandor laughed. “I’m assuming it’s outside the law, this thing we’ll be doing.”

“Laws are sometimes inadequate to deal with reality,” Stone said.

“They still put your ass in jail for breaking them,” Mandor said. “Mr. Stone, twenty-five grand apiece is real good money, I’ll give you that. And I appreciate careful security measures. But secrecy bothers me. A lot.”

“Then you have the option of walking away,” Stone said.

“Both of us?” Richmond asked. “Because I’m okay with trusting you.”

“This is a two-hander, a job for men who are experienced and cool under pressure,” Stone said. “I’ve checked both of you out, Mr. Richmond. But if you have someone else in mind—”

“That won’t be necessary,” Mandor said. “I’m in.” A man did not make money by being cautious. If Richmond was comfortable with this, Mandor could live with it.

“I’m glad to hear that,” Stone said. “And don’t worry, gentlemen. As you said, Mr. Mandor, the money is good. Beyond that, however, I must tell you—the upside is truly exceptional.”

“Are you saying there will be more work?” Richmond asked.

“That’s only a small part of what I’m talking about,” Stone assured him. “You can’t appreciate, yet, how significant your contribution will be. When you do, you will be justifiably pleased.”

“It may sound shallow to you, but being well compensated is all the pleasing I need,” Mandor said.

“That isn’t shallow at all, Mr. Mandor,” Stone said. “It’s one of the reasons this nation was founded. So that men would be free to pursue financial achievement.”

Mandor liked the sound of that. Greed as patriotism.

The meeting wrapped quickly after that. Richmond and Mandor chatted briefly as they walked toward the elevator. Richmond had taken the envelope and put it in his shirt pocket.

“Kind of a toady, don’t you think?” Mandor asked.

“Completely,” Richmond said. “Which is why he must be sitting next to some pretty serious power. That’s the only way a toady gets to swagger like he did.”

“I’ m with you on that.”

“Let’s go down separately,” Richmond said. “We can meet at the van he’s giving us.”

“Why? You think this is a setup?”

“I think it’s legit,” Richmond said. “But we still don’t know who he is, or if there are other guys watching him. If there are, they may want to grab us, see what he said. If that happens, one of us needs to be a floater.”

A floater was a roughneck term for a jack-of-all-trades who hovered around a group on a rig. He only pitched in when necessary, usually when someone got hurt or a piece of equipment failed.

Richmond had a good point, so he went down first. Mandor followed a few minutes later. They met by the charcoal gray van.

“How does it look?” Mandor asked.

“As advertised,” Richmond said. “The floor is raised slightly in back. There’s a big hollow space under there.”

“What do you think it’s for?” Mandor asked. “Drugs? Illegals?”

Richmond shrugged. “Does it matter? I’ve gone through the border checkpoint on I-15. No one ever stopped me.”

Mandor leaned close to his partner. “What about a whack?” he asked in a loud whisper.

Richmond was silent for a moment. “Okay. What about it?”

“This is hit-level money. We’ve never gone there. Do we want to start?”

Richmond looked at his friend. “We get caught for some of the other stuff we do, it’s ten to twenty years. At our age, there ain’t much difference between that and a life sentence. I don’t have enough to retire. Do you?”

“No.”

“Then I say what the hell, we do this. We just watch every step and be a little extra cautious along the way.”

Mandor pulled a cigarette from his shirt pocket and lit it. Richmond was right. What did it matter? Mandor asked himself. Every job has its risk. He had faced danger every day on the rig, from fires to pump room explosions to metal fatigue that could have resulted in the breakup of the platform. If he were a factory worker, he would face accidents or being laid off. Every day, every breath carried risks. Very few of them offered these kinds of rewards.

“I’ll tell you what,” Richmond said after thinking for a moment. “Let’s have a look at the cash. That will make you feel better.”

“Okay.”

“We’ll leave the van here for a day,” Richmond said. “I don’t want our friend to think we’re careless or predictable. You can come back for it later.”

Mandor agreed. They went to their own cars, left the parking structure, and drove to Flamingo. Mandor fired up a second cigarette while he made his way through the thin, early-morning traffic.

There was no logical reason not to go ahead. Pete Farmer had effectively vouched for Stone. The guy was trusting them with a lot of cash. All they had to do for the rest—and more to come, apparently—was to follow instructions. It sounded easy, like connect the dots. There was just one thing that bothered Mandor. It bothered him more than the other jobs they had taken over the years. Mandor had liked and trusted those other people, the bookies who sent them to collect overdue debts, the mobsters who needed bagmen. He understood them. Eric Stone was a mystery.

But as Richmond had said, they would move one step at a time. In the end, they had one advantage over Stone.

If things went south, they could always put him in that special storage compartment.

NINE

Washington, D. C. Monday, 10:59 A.M.

It was one of those days. A day when Darrell McCaskey was working for everyone but his employer.

When McCaskey worked for the FBI, the agents and field directors called things like this tactical exchange activities. TEA time was when operatives for one law enforcement agency or intelligence group were loaned to another organization. Sometimes it was an official and open-ended seconding, such as General Rodgers being assigned to Op-Center. More often than not, it was unofficial, for a day or two, such as Darrell giving a hand to the postal police.

Or being asked just a few hours later to help Scotland Yard investigate the sudden death of William Wilson. Detective Superintendent George Daily, of the Special Branch of the Criminal Investigation Division, had been asked by the assistant commissioner to rule out the possibility of any “mischief.” McCaskey and the fifty-seven-year-old Daily had worked together ten years before on an international investigation of the abduction of Chinese-American and Hong Kong women. They were being taken to China to help populate a generation that had been gutted by strict birth control policies. Beijing began to worry that there would not be enough children to staff the military and workforce in the twenty-first century. The ring was broken, though the government officials were never punished.

“I’m sure the D.C. medical examiner knows how to do her job,” McCaskey told his old acquaintance.

“No doubt,” Daily replied. “But questions are already being asked, given Mr. Wilson’s standing. The AC would feel very much better if someone with experience in criminal matters had a look.”

“Do you have information that Mr. Wilson was the target of any particular group?” McCaskey asked.

“There is no such indication whatsoever.”

“So this is a cosmetic application,” McCaskey said.

“Hopefully, yes,” Daily replied. “None of us wants to find evidence of criminal activity in this matter.”

McCaskey looked at his watch. “Tell you what, George. I’ll make some calls and get myself invited over this morning. Do you want me to call you at home when I’m finished there?”

“Please,” Daily said.

“Same number in Kensington?”

“What was it your Western cavalry used to say? They would not be back ‘until the enemy is captured or destroyed.’ I’ll be here until the cavalry drags me away or my wife tosses me out.”

McCaskey laughed. He enjoyed Daily. The man took his cases seriously, but never himself. McCaskey also envied the detective’s relationship with his wife. When they were working in London, Lucy Daily was openly proud of the work her husband was doing. A childhood survivor of the blitz, Mrs. Daily was a strong supporter of law and those who maintained it.

McCaskey hung up, then called his contact at the FBI, Assistant Director Braden, to get him into the coroner’s office. Braden understood the drill and arranged for McCaskey to meet with the medical examiner. The Bureau had a lot of clout with other local offices and set up a meeting for 12:30. McCaskey left his office at once. On the way out, he saw Bob Herbert and Mike Rodgers talking outside Rodgers’s office. Herbert looked uncharacteristically sullen. The intelligence chief had lost his wife and the use of his legs in the Beirut embassy bombing in 1983. Tucked in a high-tech wheelchair, Herbert did everything with passion. He laughed hard, fought doggedly, took field assignments whenever possible, and had an explosive lack of patience for bullshit. To see him this quiet was disconcerting.

“Good morning,” McCaskey said as he passed.

Herbert’s back was to McCaskey. The intelligence chief grunted loudly but did not turn.

McCaskey stopped. “What’s wrong?”

“Obviously, you didn’t hear,” Herbert said. His voice was a gloomy monotone. “Mike Rodgers got canned.”

McCaskey’s eyes shifted to the officer. “For what reason ?”

“I’m budgetary fat,” Rodgers said.

“You’re saying that Paul signed off on that?” McCaskey asked.

“He signed off on it and delivered the message personally, without offering to resign in protest,” Herbert said.

“That would not have accomplished anything,” Rodgers said.

“It would have made me respect him more,” Herbert replied.

“It also would have been easier,” McCaskey pointed out.

Herbert wheeled around. “Are you sticking up for him?”

“I didn’t realize we were taking sides,” McCaskey said.

“We’re not,” Rodgers said with finality.

Herbert continued to brood.

“It may be a stupid question, Mike, but how are you with this?” McCaskey asked.

“I’m a soldier,” he said. “I go where I’m told.”

That was what McCaskey had expected Rodgers to say. The general let you know what he was thinking. But with rare exception, he did not let you know what he was feeling.

“Will you stay with the army?” McCaskey asked.

“I don’t know,” Rodgers said.

“Jesus!” Herbert said. He was no longer brooding. “I can’t believe we’re hanging here, calmly discussing the screwing of a friend and coworker.”

“We’re not,” McCaskey said. “We’re talking about his plans.”

“Darrell, the man has no plans; he was just fired,” Herbert said. “As for you, you’re a company boy, you’ve always been a company boy, and you’ll always be a company boy.” Herbert pushed on the hard-rubber wheels of his chair and turned. “You may be next. You need to grow a pair, my friend,” the intelligence chief added as he maneuvered around McCaskey.

“Really?” The former FBI agent dropped a strong hand on Herbert’s shoulder. He gripped it hard and stopped the intelligence chief from leaving. “Yeah, I’m a team player. Always have been, always will be. Battles are won by artillery working in tandem, not by loose cannons.”

“What is that, a quote from the FBI manual?”

“No,” McCaskey replied evenly. If they both got angry, this would get ugly. “That’s a personal observation from twenty years of stakeouts, undercover stings, field work, and saving the asses of rogue warriors who thought they could handle entire operations by themselves.”

Herbert thought for a moment. “Okay. I deserved that. Now, take your hand off my shoulder before I go rogue warrior on it.”

There was a disturbing absence of levity in Herbert’s voice. He knew he had been the target of McCaskey’s remark and did not like it. McCaskey let go and stepped to one side. Herbert wheeled away. McCaskey would try to talk to him when he got back. Herbert’s temper had a way of subsiding as quickly as it flared.

Other Op-Center personnel had maintained a discreet distance from the three men. They moved through the corridors in silence, their eyes down or facing straight ahead. But this was an intelligence-gathering organization with sharp political hearing. The employees did not miss much.

“Sorry about that, Darrell,” Rodgers said. “Bob’s angry.”

“He’s Bob,” McCaskey replied.

“True.”

“Look, you’ve got things to do, and I’ve got to be somewhere,” McCaskey said. “Let me know when you’re free for a beer.”

“The end of the week should work.”

“Sounds good,” McCaskey said and shook Rodgers’s hand. It seemed a remarkably anticlimactic gesture after all these years and all they had shared. But this was not the time or place for good-byes.

McCaskey hurried down the corridor to the elevator. He got in his car and switched on the new FIAT device, the Federal Intelligence Activity Transponder. It was a chip built into his watch and activated by pulling the stem and twisting it clockwise. The signal was monitored by all mobile metropolitan and state police units. It was basically a license to speed or leave the scene of an accident. It told the authorities that the car was on time-sensitive government business and could not be stopped. The FIATs were introduced two years before so that unmarked Homeland Security officials would not be stopped or detained. Though McCaskey was not on a high-priority mission, Scotland Yard was an important ally. He wanted to get them what they needed as quickly as possible.

Wilson’s body had been taken to the Georgetown University Medical Center on Reservoir Road. That was where the medical officer was conducting autopsies while the coroner’s office was being modernized. McCaskey went downstairs to look at the body with Dr. Minnie Hennepin. The middle-aged woman had red hair and freckles. She was wearing a sharply pressed lab coat.

“I guess this is what the Feds refer to as ‘cover your ass,’ ” the slender woman said as they walked down the concrete stairs.

“There’s a little of that in everything we do,” McCaskey admitted.

“May I ask why Scotland Yard did not simply send over one of their own investigators?”

“The press would have been all over that,” McCaskey said. “It would be positioned as suggesting a suspicion of wrongdoing. British authorities want to put their minds at ease and also be able to tell Wilson’s shareholders that someone with criminal investigation experience had a look at the body.”

“You understand, Mr. McCaskey, that there was no evidence of lacerations or contusions other than what I would characterize as the natural result of an exuberant sexual encounter. We also did a very thorough toxicological examination. I’m not sure what’s left.”

“You checked for every chemical that could produce results consistent with natural organic failure?” McCaskey asked.

“Everything from formaldehyde to pancuronium bromide,” Dr. Hennepin said. “We found nothing.”

“Some of those chemicals dissipate very quickly.”

“That’s true, Mr. McCaskey. But they would have to be of very low dosage and injected relatively near to the heart in order to be potent,” the doctor said. “I did the pathology for that area of the body, looking for evidence of hypodermic trauma. There was none.”

“In the armpit?” McCaskey asked.

“Yes. I also checked the femoral artery, since that would be a rapid delivery system for chemicals.”

“Well, I’ll have a look at the body anyway,” McCaskey said. “You never know what will turn up.”

“Frankly, I’ll be interested to see a nonmedical approach to a cadaver,” the doctor admitted. “Have you done this sort of thing before?”

“I’ve sent a few people to the morgue but never had a look at them after they’ve made the trip.”

They reached the basement, and she turned on the light. The morgue was smaller than McCaskey had imagined, about the size of a bedroom. There were six stainless steel coolers on one wall in two rows of three. Cases filled with chemicals and equipment stood against the adjoining walls, and a lab table with a deep sink and a computer sat along the fourth wall beside the stairwell. Three autopsy tables filled the center of the room, each beneath a lowhanging fluorescent light.

“Do you want him out of the cooler?” the woman asked.

“That won’t be necessary,” McCaskey said. “Do you have a light we can bring over?”

“Yes,” she said.

McCaskey had been around death before. Too much, in fact. But that had been in shoot-outs or entering a drug den when someone had just ODed. However sad, however tragic, there was drama in the exit. It was the last act of a life. The exchange with Dr. Hennepin had been casual, as if they were deciding what to do with refrigerated leftovers. In fact, they were. There were no pyrotechnic or emotional fireworks, no memorable or even unmemorable gestures. Just the muted echo of their footsteps and low voices, and their curiosity, which hung in the air like buzzards.

The doctor pulled the heavy handle on cooler number four. Billionaire Wilson was not even in number one. Leftovers and one notch below the bronze. The morgue was one hell of an equalizer.

There was a rush of cool air and a smell like raw lamb meat. The body had not yet been embalmed. Dr. Hennepin slid the slab from the cooler. Then she got a workman’s light from one of the cabinets and hung it from the handle of the cooler above. It was not an elegant setup, but it did the job. She also brought over a box of latex gloves. They each donned a pair. Starting at the head, she rolled back the white sheet that covered the body. There was a large Y-shaped incision in the trunk. The area well outside the cut was purple. It shaded to surrounding flesh that was yellowish white. Instead of being sutured, the area had been covered with adhesive tape. The cut had been made through the white tape. After the autopsy was concluded, the wound was closed with a series of clasps built into the tape.

“That’s enough,” McCaskey said when she reached the waist. Since she had already looked at the femoral artery, he was not interested in any region that far from the heart. The first thing he did was look at the eyes.

“A drug might have been applied by eyedropper,” he said. “You often find broken blood vessels from the pressure of holding open the lids.”

“This is a little far from the heart,” the doctor pointed out.

“Yes, but a megadose of coenzyme Q10 could have been given that way—”

“Causing an infarction that would impact the heart quickly and directly,” the medical examiner said.

“And Q10 would not turn up on a routine toxological scan,” McCaskey added.

“How did you find out about the coenzyme?”

“I investigated a doctor who killed a patient with whom he was having an affair,” McCaskey told her. “When we had enough circumstantial evidence, he confessed and told us how he did it. In this case, though, the eyes look normal.”

They did not feel normal, however. The ocular muscles had begun to tighten, setting the eyes stiffly in their sockets. It was like working on a mannequin.

“May I borrow your microlight?” McCaskey asked.

“Yes,” she said, taking the tiny, powerful flashlight from her vest pocket. She handed it to him.

McCaskey angled the head back slightly and shone the light up the nose. The veins of the nasal passage were another area where a killer might have made an injection. The skin did not appear to have been broken.

“Do you need any of the cartilage retracted?” the doctor asked.

“No. There would be a small clot if he had been injected here.”

“And you know that because—?”

“Junkies,” McCaskey said. “There are a number of places they inject themselves so the track marks don’t show.”

“Interesting. I had heard of them using the areas between the fingers and toes,” the doctor said.

“Yes, but law enforcement can see those. That would give us reasonable cause to conduct a search.”

“Fascinating,” the medical examiner said.

McCaskey moved to the mouth. He checked the cheeks. There were no scars, nor any along the gums. Then he checked under the tongue. It was swollen with uncirculated blood. That made the veins underneath it particularly visible. One of them appeared to have a prick mark.

“Look,” McCaskey said.

He pinched the tongue between his index finger and thumb and shone the light into the cavity. Dr. Hennepin looked in.

“I see it,” she said.

The medical examiner retrieved a scalpel and a sterile test tube from the autopsy table. She also grabbed a small tape recorder. Narrating her activities for the official autopsy record, she carefully sliced a piece of skin from the area. When she was finished, she clicked off the recorder.

“I’ll get this to the laboratory at once,” she said. “It will be about two hours before I have the results.”

“Thanks. I’m going to keep looking, if that’s all right.”

“Of course,” she said. “Just don’t make any incisions.”

McCaskey said he would not.

The doctor went upstairs to arrange for analysis of the tissue. That left McCaskey alone with the cadaver. The former FBI agent found no other marks on the upper half of the body. He covered Wilson with the sheet and returned him to the cooler. He closed the door.

Wilson was not doing drugs. They would have shown up on the initial lab report. So would injections of insulin or some other medication. Unless the man had nicked himself on a fish bone at the party, this probably meant that someone stuck him under the tongue.

If William Wilson had been murdered, Washington would be turned into a pop-culture Dallas with public and private investigations and endless conspiracy scenarios about who killed the Internet tycoon.

The medical examiner returned. She took McCaskey’s cell phone number as well as his office number and promised to call as soon as she heard something. He thanked her for her help and asked for her complete discretion.

“The autopsy results will be sealed,” she said, “though in my experience that’s as good as saying we have something to hide.”

“In this instance, we may,” McCaskey remarked.

As he left the medical center, McCaskey found something ironic in how this had unfolded. Something that even Bob Herbert might find amusing.

That for a few hours at least, the quintessential team player would be working on this case alone.

TEN

Washington, D. C. Monday, 11:00 A.M.

As the press secretary to Senator Donald Orr, twenty-nine-year-old Katherine “Kat” Lockley typically reached the office around seven-thirty each morning and stayed until seven or eight at night. That was fine with her. She loved her work. But it was intense and exhausting, and a midday lunch break was not a luxury, it was a requirement. She liked to get out of the office, go to the Green Pantry down the street, stock up at the salad bar, and do the New York Times crossword puzzle while she ate. Forty-five minutes. That was all she required to recharge her brain.

She would not be getting away from the office today.

Kat did not care about William Wilson personally. The two had barely made eye contact at the party, let alone spoken to one another. When she turned on the BBC news at six A.M., as she did every day, and learned of his death, Kat’s only concern was for Senator Orr and how the software magnate’s death would impact them. As someone who greatly admired the senator, Kat would have to work hard to keep the focus on politics, not gossip. As the daughter of one of Orr’s oldest friends, Lieutenant Scott Lockley of the RED HORSE unit, it was also Kat’s pleasure to help the senator.

Kat mentally composed a press release as she showered, made notes as she dressed, dictated the final draft as she drove to work, and plugged the digital tape recorder into her computer when she arrived. The voice recognition program transcribed her words, and she edited them while she phoned the senator. It had been a long night of meeting and greeting, and he was still asleep when she called. He listened to the news without comment, a talent good politicians practiced even in private conversations. Kat E-mailed the text of the press release to the senator’s laptop. He approved it, and the short statement was E-mailed to the press by eight A.M.

Although the media reported that Wilson had been with a woman he apparently met at the senator’s party, neither Kat nor Kendra knew who that was. The official party photographer had E-mailed all the images he took the night before, over two hundred of them. Wilson spoke to a number of women. He left alone. That fact was included in the press release.

At the Columbia School of Journalism they called this “drawing first blood.” You did not wait for reporters to come to you. You went to them and established the parameters of the dialogue. Kat had the senator state, “I have never been interested in the private lives of private citizens, so I will only comment on the man as I knew him: through his work.” She had made a point of specifying “private citizens” in case it ever became necessary to attack the personal activities of a fellow politician. Kat did not want to have their moral stand in this instance misunderstood as general disinterest in the morality of public officials.

After sending out the press release, Kat fielded calls literally from A to Z, from Blue Danube Radio in Austria to ZBC Television One in Zimbabwe. There were also interview requests from all the American network morning and evening shows. Kat declined to make the senator available to everyone but CBS Evening News and Nightline . That would give them several hours to find out more about what had happened to William Wilson and to formulate a response. She E-mailed that information to the staff.

Senator Orr sat in his sunny, wood-paneled office with Kendra and Kat and decided that Kat’s plan was a good one. The senator would stick to the day’s schedule. Wilson had not been a friend to the American economy. The only reason the Englishman had been invited to the party was so that key Washington bankers could make his acquaintance and try to discourage him from his Eurocentric banking plans. It was a delicate thing, mourning a man whose invention had improved everyone’s quality of life but whose politics were aggressively anti-American.

“I am curious, though, about who he might have met at the party,” the senator had said. “Any ideas?”

“I had the photographer send over his shots from last night,” Kat said. “He talked to a number of women, most of them married.”

“Which could be why there are no clear video images of her from the hotel security system,” Kendra remarked.

“She didn’t want to be identified,” the senator said. “Well, hopefully, it will not be our concern after today.”

“Which is why I’ve instructed the photographer not to provide any of those pictures to the press,” Kat said. “The fact that he was here shows that you were trying to be a mediator. That’s a good thing. Photographs of Wilson at the party will create a different impression.”

“In what way?” Kendra asked.

“I call it the stink of Pulitzer prize,” Kat replied. “What’s the first thing you think of when I say ‘John F. Kennedy?’ The Bay of Pigs invasion? The Cuban Missile Crisis? Marilyn Monroe?”

“The Zapruder film,” Kendra admitted.

“And what do we remember Dallas for?”

“I get it,” Kendra said, nodding.

“Death resonates, unnatural or otherwise, and pictures reinforce that,” Kat said. “Pearl Harbor, the World Trade Center, the Challenger and Columbia—the emotional power of the end of something overshadows whatever else it stood for. Images strengthen that impact.”

“But there’s something we want to strengthen,” Kendra said. “The difference between what Wilson stood for and what the senator and USF stand for. Wouldn’t this be a good opportunity to do that?”

“It would be convenient, but not good,” Kat said. “There is a certain level of tawdriness in how Wilson died. We want to stay clear of that, especially if it turns out he was canoodling with someone from the gala.”

“Couldn’t we use that to cheapen him and his ideas?” Kendra asked.

“That would cheapen us, I think,” Kat replied.

“Yes, I have to agree with Kat on that one,” the senator said.

Kendra nodded. “Okay,” she said. “I was just asking.”

Kat did not always like Kendra’s go-for-the-throat thinking, but at least the woman did not take the rejection personally. She was here for Senator Orr and the USF, not for herself.

“There is also the chance that late-night comics turn on Wilson and his lover in a day or two,” Kat added. “If that happens, we risk becoming part of the joke right when we are holding our convention.”

“Another good point,” Orr said.

“So how do we exploit the media exposure we’ll have tonight?” Kendra asked. “If the senator condemns Wilson, he’ll appear heartless. If he praises the man, we lose credibility. If he goes into his stump speech, then we’re obviously exploiting the media exposure. Could we move the announcement of a presidential run?”

“Ouch,” Kat said.

“Why?” Kendra asked.

“That would keep Wilson alive,” Kat said. “Wilson’s death and the senator’s candidacy become a run-on sentence, inseparable.”

“I see it as planting flowers in fertilizer,” Kendra said. “Something wonderful coming from shit.”

Kat frowned.

“Who cares if we are linked to Wilson?” Kendra continued. “I see that as a good thing. Wilson’s ideas were very bad for America. The USF is good for America.”

“But we’ll be linked to his death, not his ideas,” Kat said. “We’ll be seen as vultures, opportunists.”

“Just having the senator on one of those shows will be perceived that way, won’t it?” Kendra asked.

“Not necessarily. The senator will be seen as a diplomat. He can say things like, ‘Mr. Wilson and I had a different worldview, but his contribution to technology was invaluable,’ or, ‘Mr. Wilson was embarked on a path I opposed. His genius was in other areas.’ You start with the negative to make an impact, then sugarcoat it so you seem magnanimous.”

“I am magnanimous,” Orr teased.

The women laughed. It was true. Orr was a politician. Typically, that was not a good fit with idealism or philanthropy. All a philanthropist had to do was convince himself that something was worthwhile and make it happen. An elected official had to convince others, and there was often a considerable gulf between conscience and compromise. A man like Franklin Roosevelt may have felt it was the right thing to free Europe from Hitler. But he needed Pearl Harbor to make that happen. John Kennedy may have thought it was a good idea to send people to the moon, but he needed the threat of a Soviet space platform to get the funding. Fortunately, the senator cared more about getting his message across than about winning the White House.

“I agree with Kat,” Orr said. “I don’t want to dance too enthusiastically on the man’s grave. But I do like Kendra’s idea of making some kind of announcement as soon as possible. Kat, what USF personnel are we looking at today?”

“Just two,” Kat said. “A military adviser and an economic guru.”

“The military adviser is General Rodgers, the deputy director of Op-Center?” Orr asked.

“That’s correct, Senator.”

“He took our boys into North Korea, India, Russia, the Middle East to stop things from blowing up,” Orr said. “That’s good. It would make a good counterpoint to what Wilson stood for. Kat, would you give him a call and find out what he thought about the party, see if there’s anything we’ll need to show him or tell him to make him more comfortable?”

Kat said she would do that at once.

The media portion of the meeting was over, and Kat left the senator with Kendra. She returned to her office, pausing only to make sure the other staffers did not discuss William Wilson with the media. Orr’s personal staff of three men and four women were pretty sharp. Kat did not think they would have done that. But the D.C. press corps was smart, too. They had back-door ways of asking questions. “I’m not at liberty to say” could be written as “soand-so refused to comment,” which suggested that there was something to hide. For Orr’s staff, the correct response to all questions about Wilson was, “Would you like to talk to Ms. Lockley?”

Throughout the morning, several people had wanted to talk to Ms. Lockley. She would call back later and tell them that the senator had nothing to add to the statement he had made that morning. Right now she needed to talk to Mike Rodgers. She called his cell phone and introduced herself. The general seemed happy to hear from her.

“Are the senator and I still on for this afternoon?” he asked.

“Absolutely, General Rodgers. The senator is looking forward to it. In fact, he wanted me to call and find out if you need anything. Additional information, a brand of cigar, a favorite beverage.”

“Actually, there are just two things I want,” Rodgers told her.

“What are they?” Kat asked.

“I want to meet a man with vision and the courage to see that vision through,” Rodgers said.

“You will definitely find that.”

“I believe I will,” Rodgers said. “I have read about the senator, and I admire the values for which he stands. The other thing I want to find is a man who is willing to listen to the people around him.”

“General, I just came from a meeting with the senator. I assure you, he listens and he hears.”

“Then I look forward to meeting with him, and hopefully to working with him,” Rodgers replied.

“May I ask a somewhat personal question, General?”

“Sure.”

“Are you eager to make a move at this time?”

“If it’s the right one,” Rodgers told her.

“I’m glad to hear that, sir,” Kat told him. “We all look forward to seeing you again.”

The woman hung up and relayed the information to Senator Orr. He was glad to hear how the general felt.

“He sounds like our kind of fighter,” Orr said.

Kat was glad to hear the senator excited. In a day that offered their first major challenge on the national stage, it was reassuring to find a potential ally.

Now it was time to call back the rest of the reporters who wanted to talk to the senator. First, however, she made another call. One that was more important to her.

She phoned the Green Pantry and ordered a turkey club sandwich.

ELEVEN

Washington, D. C. Monday, 12: 53 P.M.

On the way back to Op-Center, McCaskey stopped at a gas station market for lunch. He got a hot dog and a Mountain Dew. As he stood outside eating, he glanced at a rack of newspapers. The headlines of the Washington Post, USA Today, and a handful of foreign papers were all about the untimely death of William Wilson.

When he was with the FBI, McCaskey attended a class in ATT—antiterrorist tactics. The teacher, psychologist Vic Witherman, was an expert in what he called countdown profiling. Witherman maintained that it was possible to spot a terrorist who was within minutes of launching an attack. There was a dark brightness in their eyes, undistracted purpose in their step, a confident boast in the way they held their head and shoulders. It was the posture of a demigod.

“It comes from three things,” Witherman had said. “One, of course, is adrenaline. Two is the fact that they are out of hiding for the first time in months, maybe even years. But three is the most significant of all. They possess what no one else has: knowledge of the future.”

McCaskey was struck by that observation. But today was the first time he had ever experienced something similar. If he was right, he knew what tomorrow’s headlines would read.

McCaskey’s cell phone beeped as he was getting back into the car. It was Dr. Hennepin.

“It took exactly fifteen minutes for the laboratory to find something that did not belong in a man’s mouth,” she said. “Traces of potassium chloride.”

“Which is used for what?” McCaskey asked.

“Executing criminals by lethal injection,” the medical examiner told him. “It stops the heart.”

“Is there any way our subject could have acquired that substance naturally?” McCaskey asked. He was careful not to use William Wilson’s name, since this was not a secure line.

“Only if he had been eating dog food and certain brands of weight loss bars and dietary supplements,” she said. “I did not find anything in the contents of his stomach that indicated he had eaten any of the above. Moreover, in the case of the bars and supplements, potassium chloride would have been detected in conjunction with potassium citrate or potassium phosphate.”

“The sample you found was pure.”

“Yes,” she said.

“So he was murdered.”

“Unless it was self-inflicted.”

“Which does not seem likely,” McCaskey said. “Who has to be informed about this?”

“I have to send a report to the Metro Police superintendent of detectives and a copy to the MP forensics office,” she replied.

“When?”

“As soon as I can write it up,” the doctor told him. “They should have it within an hour.”

“Can you write slowly?” McCaskey asked. “I have to get back to my office and give Scotland Yard a heads-up. There may be individuals they want watched before the information becomes somewhat public.”

“All right,” she said. “I’ll have them run tests for other coronary inhibitors. That should take an extra hour.”

“Thanks, Dr. Hennepin,” McCaskey said. “Will you be able to forward a copy to me?”

“Sure.”

McCaskey thanked her again.

Op-Center’s top policeman was already on the road before the conversation ended. He did not want to call Op-Center or Scotland Yard from the secure cell phone in the car. He was not thinking about the empowerment he gained by possessing foreknowledge. Right now, the former FBI agent was thinking about everything that would have to be done to find the individual who had gone to William Wilson’s room and apparently assassinated him.

Upon arriving at Op-Center, McCaskey went directly to his office, shut the door, and called George Daily. The detective superintendent was less surprised than McCaskey had expected.

“It’s more credible, frankly, than hearing that he died of heart failure,” the British investigator remarked.

“I’m going to meet with Director Hood as soon as he’s free,” McCaskey said. “Do you want to approach the Metropolitan Police, or would you prefer that we work on your behalf?”

“We’d best do both,” Daily told him. “When the press gets hold of this, we will be pressured to take a direct hand. In the meantime, it would help enormously if you would earmark areas that we will need to examine. Local police can be very territorial about their sources and the interrogation process.”

“I’ll make sure you are represented, Detective Superintendent,” McCaskey promised.

“How long do we have until this news becomes public fodder?” the Englishman asked.

“The medical examiner is going to forward her updated report in about ninety minutes,” McCaskey said. “Fifteen minutes after that, most of Washington will have heard the news.”

Daily sighed audibly. “You know, it used to be panem et circensis, bread and circuses, that kept the populace happy. Now it is cell phones and the Internet. They allow us to savor the blood and pain of others in real time.”

“Not everyone does that,” McCaskey said.

“Indeed we do,” Daily declared. “Some of us don’t enjoy it, I’ll grant you, but most do. Recidivism, it seems, is not just for criminals. Society itself has retreated to barbarism.”

The harshness of the condemnation surprised McCaskey. He did not want to believe that the majority of people were rubberneckers at best and moral savages at worst, that they were no different than killers or molesters who could not be rehabilitated. He had always felt that society was basically sound, that it needed only occasional tweaks from people like himself and Daily to stay on course.

This was not, however, the time to debate philosophy. McCaskey rang Bugs Benet to find out if the boss was free. He was. McCaskey said he would be right over.

As the former FBI agent hurried along the corridor, he realized there was an aspect to foreknowledge that Vic Witherman had missed. Terrorism was easy. All it took was a moment of angry resolve to tear things down. Keeping things together required courage and commitment.

Humanism. That was difficult.

TWELVE

Washington, D.C. Monday, 1: 44 P.M.

Paul Hood called around to find out if the department heads in nonclassified areas needed an intern. They did not. Lowell Coffey said he would be happy to work with a legal trainee. Frankie Hunt did not fit that profile. Kevin Custer in Electronic Communications said he would take on someone with interest in the field. Otherwise, it was a waste of everyone’s time. Other division leaders said more or less the same thing. Hood could have pushed them, but he did not. As he made the calls, he had already decided he did not want the kid working at Op-Center. Someone who helped a friend was “a nice man.” Someone who helped his former wife was “a man with guilt.” Someone who helped the lover of their former wife was not a man at all.

Working behind the scenes at Op-Center instead of in the light at Los Angeles City Hall had tempered Hood’s healthy but modest narcissism somewhat. But it had not quite turned him into a masochist. Sharon, on the other hand, was mossy with fresh self-interest and vanity. She felt her former husband owed her time, effort, and attention, and she was determined to collect.

Hood would wait a few hours before calling Sharon. That would make it seem as if he had made more of an effort than he had. At least he did not have a lot of time to think about it. Hood had spent a lot of time with CFO Ed Colahan working on the budget cuts. There was not a division of Op-Center that would be unaffected. Matt Stoll’s computer division would lose six of its twelve employees, Herbert would lose one of his six intel analysts, and the field force Mike Rodgers had assembled would be eliminated. Operatives like David Battat and Aideen Marley would be recruited on a case-by-case basis. Lowell’s fourperson legal office would be cut to three. Custer would have to release one of his four electronics surveillance people. The night staff would also be reduced. Each time Hood okayed a cut, he knew he was not only affecting an employee but national security. Op-Center had established a singular way of working. Homeland Security could not simply reassign those tasks to the FBI or CIA; Hood and his people had the trust of agents at Interpol, at the Russian Op-Center, at other agencies around the world. Time, personnel, and funds were required to maintain the quid pro quo nature of those valuable relationships. The cuts were going to impact that severely.

Darrell McCaskey walked in just as Colahan was leaving with his laptop.

“How are you holding up, Paul?” McCaskey asked. He shut the door behind him as the CFO left.

“When I was mayor, I had to cut billions from the Los Angeles city budget,” Hood said. “That was politically painful but faceless. Each stroke of a key today was someone I know.” Hood sat back. McCaskey looked preoccupied. “You heard about Mike Rodgers?”

“Yeah. Bob was so mad he nearly ran me over.”

“I haven’t heard from him yet,” Hood said.

“He’s laying low till he cools off,” McCaskey said. “He should be in to see you some time next week.”

Hood smiled. “What can I do for you?”

“Ironically, you’re going to need to loan me out for a couple of days.”

“What’s up?”

“I think William Wilson was murdered.”

Hood’s smile evaporated. “Jesus.”

“Yeah. This is going to be a big one.”

“How did you get involved?”

“Scotland Yard asked me to bird-dog the autopsy,” McCaskey said. “I went to the Georgetown medical center and had a look at the body. The ME missed an injection in the root of the tongue. We sent a skin sample to the lab. There was a concentrated trace of potassium chloride, a drug that can be used to stop the heart.”

“That’s damned impressive, Darrell.”

“Thanks.”

“Have you informed the Yard?” Hood asked.

“I did,” McCaskey said. “They’re going to work through the British embassy to get their own people involved. Until then, they asked if I would be their point man on the investigation.”

“What are we looking at, time-wise?”

“Three or four days,” McCaskey told him.

“That’s when media attention will be at a saturation peak,” Hood said.

“I know. The good news is, public attention got us more money after the North Korean incident,” McCaskey said.

“That was a very different time, when Congress regarded the old institutions as tired, not blue-chip solid,” Hood said. “This is going to be a big, public investigation. If Op-Center is on the news every night, the CIOC may see that as a ploy for fund retrocession.”

“Please. The CIOC can’t be that naive.”

“Not naive, Darrell. Suspicious.”

“Of what? They know we have to help other agencies if we want their assistance,” McCaskey said.

“You’re assuming that we’re supposed to survive,” Hood said. “The CIOC and our older brothers may have other plans.”

“Staggered dismantling,” McCaskey said.

“It’s possible,” Hood said.

“Okay,” McCaskey said. “Assume the other agencies are leaning on the CIOC to cut us back—”

“I don’t have to assume that,” Hood told him. “They are. Senator Debenport told me.”

“In that case, we should not get locked into a siege mentality,” McCaskey said. “We should lean back, put our assets in peoples’ faces. Senator Debenport will probably be thrilled to take a corner of the spotlight. What politician wouldn’t want to be seen as a crusading crime buster?”

“He’ll say ‘Cheese’ and maximize the benefits of that exposure,” Hood agreed. “And when the lights go off, he’ll turn to me and say—prodded hard by the other agencies—that there is obviously too much fat on Op-Center’s bones. He may ask for additional reductions.”

“The electorate wouldn’t stand for that, especially if we’re working on a high-profile case.”

“The voters might surprise you,” Hood said. “They want to know that government agencies are doing their jobs. Our job is crisis management. Finding the killer is a Metropolitan Police matter, not a hostage situation or terrorist threat. Voters also don’t like it when the rich get special attention. Finding the killer of a European multibillionaire who was trying to take money from American banks, and jobs from our shores, is not as important as making sure landmarks and airports are secure.”

“I can’t believe our society has gotten that selfabsorbed,” McCaskey said. “I refuse to believe it.”

“Oh, we have,” Hood assured him. “We once saw endless possibility and opportunity in all directions except down. That was the American definition of beauty. Do you know what happens to the narcissist who stops feeling beautiful?”

“Yeah. He gets botox treatments.”

“No,” Hood said. “He gets scared that he’s going to lose everything else.”

“He does that, or America does that?”

“Both, I suppose,” Hood replied.

McCaskey looked a little sad. Hood did not like where this was going. The next visit would be from Liz Gordon, who would chat and probe and try to determine if he were acting out.

Maybe with good reason, Hood thought. “Darrell, look. I’m not asking you to have a seat in my bunker.”

“I know that, Paul—”

“My personal concerns don’t change the fact that the threat to Op-Center is real,” Hood went on. “We lost a fifth of our budget today. We can’t ignore the possibility that there will be additional cuts.”

“I agree.”

“At the same time, we have to do what we can to help our colleagues,” Hood continued. “All I want you to do is fly as far under the radar as possible.”

“In D.C.?”

“I know,” Hood said with resignation. “Just be careful. If your name gets attached to this, I don’t want any interviews. Make sure your Yard contact understands the lowprofile agenda, and maintain minimal C and C with your colleagues at the Bureau.”

C and C was contact and collaboration. It described the friendly enemy status of relations between rival domestic law enforcement and intelligence groups. Most international agencies got along fine.

“I will go out in stealth mode,” McCaskey promised.

“Good. And when you nail the guy who did this, we’ll have another look at how to play it with Debenport and the CIOC.”

“Bring me the head of Alfredo Garcia, and then we’ll talk.”

“Something like that,” Hood said.

“Sounds good. And chief? I know it’s been a tough morning. If I came on a little hard, I’m sorry.”

“You asked the right questions at the right time,” Hood said. “If I can’t take that, I don’t deserve to be in this chair.”

McCaskey smiled. It was good to see that.

When McCaskey left, Hood told Bugs to hold his calls for five minutes. Then he rubbed his forehead and thought again about the situation with Frankie Hunt. If it were about his son, Alexander, Hood would not have failed to get him an internship. Sharon knew that. So she would know that her former husband had given this minimal effort—if that. Would the little bit of self-respect he gained be worth the little bit of self-respect he could give?

Hesitantly, as though it were a coiled snake, Hood reached for the phone. He began making more calls, in a less ambivalent voice than he had used that morning.

THIRTEEN

Washington, D. C. Monday, 2:17 P.M.

The telephone call came from Detective Robert Howell of the D.C. Metropolitan Police. Kendra Peterson took it in her office. The detective asked to speak with the senator. He would not say why. Orr was working in the sunlit conference room with Admiral Link and Kat Lockley. Kendra conferenced in the senator, then joined them. Orr put the call on the speakerphone. His American flag tie was loose, and his shirtsleeves were opened at the cuffs and pulled back along his forearms.

“Senator, before the news hits the grapevine, I wanted you to know that William Wilson appears to have been murdered.”

Howell said it quickly, efficiently, and unemotionally. The impact was like Franklin Roosevelt describing the day that would live in infamy.

“How did it happen?” Orr asked. He realized he had to take charge of the discussion. Everyone else was too stunned.

“Mr. Wilson was apparently given an injection of a heart-inhibiting drug,” Howell replied.

“Presumably by the woman he met in his hotel?” Orr asked.

“That is our assumption. We’ll require fine tissue analysis beyond the scope of the original autopsy to determine what the heart muscle may have absorbed. That will take several days of extensive circulatory analysis.”

“Detective, this is Admiral Ken Link. Was the new evidence discovered after the autopsy was completed?” he asked.

“Just a few hours ago, Admiral,” Howell said. “The medical examiner tells me that a gentleman from Op-Center had a look at the body and discovered the puncture mark.”

“Op-Center? What were they doing there?” Link asked.

“I don’t have that information, sir,” Howell said.

“And they found this wound in the presence of an ME?” Link pressed.

“Yes. Why?”

“I wouldn’t trust those spy boys to run a fair Bingo game,” said the Oregon-born officer.

“ ‘Those’ meaning from Op-Center?” Howell asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you have reason to suspect they would falsify something like this?” Howell asked.

“Their budget was gutted this morning,” Link replied. “Paul Hood needs something to get back in the game.”

“Including sabotaging a body on short notice?” Howell asked.

“Jury-rigged sabotage is what field operatives do,” Link pointed out. “Detective, I’m not accusing Op-Center of wrongdoing. I am only saying that the timing is suspicious.”

Kat touched the mute button. “Ken, we can ask Mike Rodgers about that when he gets here.”

“That may not be wise,” Link said.

“People, we’re getting ahead of ourselves,” Orr said. The senator deactivated the mute function. “Detective Howell, what kind of scrutiny is this office facing?”

“I honestly don’t know, sir,” Howell told him. “We need to find that woman. If he met her at a bar on the way home, or if he called an escort service some time during the day, then obviously you’re clear. If she was one of your guests, then I’m afraid the paddy wagon will kick up some mud.”

“Understandable,” Orr admitted. “You have the guest list from the party.”

“Yes, sir. We are in the process of interviewing the attendees.”

“Detective, I truly appreciate the call,” Orr said. “If we hear anything about the mystery woman, I will certainly let you know.”

“Thank you, Senator. I will do the same.”

Orr terminated the call. He sat back and crossed his big arms. “Who is she? Any thoughts, guesses?”

No one spoke. Orr was not surprised. When Ken Link worked at the CIA, Op-Center was perceived as a rival. The former admiral had an opportunity for payback and took the shot. There were always potential enemies among allies, and no one wanted to say anything that might backfire. Washington was a town of two degrees of separation. Between the four of them, they had known everyone at the party. Everyone at the party knew virtually everyone in D.C.

“All right then,” Orr went on. “Kat, does this change our strategy for the interviews tonight?”

“Not as far as the comments about Mr. Wilson,” Kat replied. She looked over her notes. “When asked about the death you were going to say, ‘As an inventor, Mr. Wilson left behind a significant technological legacy.’ Two mentions of his credentials as a scientist to suggest that Wilson was no banking genius. I do not see why we need to change that.”

“I agree, but the murder charge is sure to come up,” Kendra said. “The senator will need to address it.”

“I would deflect it with a boilerplate comment about the charges being hearsay or a police matter,” Kat told them. “Get in and out, say something that doesn’t invite a follow-up.”

“Why?” Kendra asked.

The question surprised Kat. “Because the press would love to link the senator or any public figure to a homicide,” Kat said.

“We’re already linked,” Kendra pointed out. “Wilson was dead within two hours of leaving the party.”

“Where are you going with this, Kendra?” Orr asked.

“The USF will have a platform built on the commonsense rights of American citizens. That includes justice for all and a presumption of innocence. Let’s be proactive about that. Tell the interviewer that innuendo is impertinent, intolerable, and eroding our society. That the quest for sensational headlines is counterproductive to the dignity inherent in our judicial system.”

“That’s like trying to reason with a cheetah or shame a snake,” Kat said. “A predator can’t change what it is.”

“Let them hiss. I’m talking about presenting our courage,” Kendra said. “We can’t be afraid to take on the press, and this would be a good time and place to marginalize them.”

“I agree that the point is worth making,” the senator said thoughtfully. “But the immediate aftermath of Wilson’s death is probably not the best time.”

“You’ll have the nation’s ear,” Link said.

The admiral did not usually weigh in unless he felt strongly about something. Orr could not remember a time when his inner circle was this divided. Kendra was sitting ramrod straight, her expression tense. Kat was drumming her pen on her pad. Link was hunched over the table as if he were playing a naval war game, staring at a map and toy battleships. Orr did not know whether it was the pressure of the upcoming convention, the shock of the latest revelation, or both. He could not let himself be affected by either of those. As president, which he hoped to be, Orr would have to respond to greater crises with vision, intelligence, and poise.

“Ken, are you at all concerned that we will appear opportunistic or defensive?” Orr asked.

“Not especially,” Link replied. “Speaking the truth aggressively is a mark of confidence. As for opportunism, it’s the media that is taking advantage of you. You’re only getting this particular airtime because of Wilson’s death.”

“The audience will perceive the media as neutral,” Kat insisted. “They are the medium. We are the message.”

“I agree completely,” Kendra said. “Which is why we have to defend the women who were at our party. Otherwise, we will be perceived as using this misfortune just to get the senator’s face out there.”

“Kendra, none of our guests has been charged with a crime,” Kat pointed out.

“But all of them, you and I included, will be investigated by agents of the law and by the press,” Kendra said.

“Both of which are Constitutionally protected activities,” Kat said. She regarded the senator. “Sir, I agree that there is mutual exploitation going on. We can use tonight as a staging area for the convention and use the convention to build our platform. To do more tonight is ghoulish.”

“That’s a strong word, Kat,” Link remarked.

“Isn’t that what we’re talking about, generating strong reactions?”

Orr could see this getting personal. Kat was very protective of her public relations activities, and both Link and Kendra liked to be involved in everything. Until now, they usually agreed.

The senator looked at his watch. “People, General Rodgers will be here soon. I suggest we do the following. I agree with Kat. I do not want to come on too strong tonight—about Wilson. But I do see one way in. This is a Metro Police matter. A federal agency like the National Crisis Management Center has no business being involved. General Rodgers works for Op-Center. He will know what is going on. That is something we can be aggressive about.”

“Right,” Kat said admiringly. “That will also shift the attention from us onto some vague conspiracy theory.”

“That’s a good one,” Kendra admitted.

“Ken, do you know anything more about this budget cut?”

“No. I saw it in the Congressional Intelligence Oversight minutes.”

“What other agencies were hit?” Orr asked.

“None,” Link told him. “They all received bumps, in fact.”

“So this is a big wrist-slap for Hood,” Orr said. “Kat, research the NCMC and talk to Senator Debenport. He’s the head of the CIOC. See if you can find out, informally, what precipitated the cut. That might be useful in the general election. Debenport will have to explain why he is putting our nation at risk. I’ll find out what I can from Mike Rodgers.”

“Senator, the CBS people will be here in a half hour to set up,” Kat said.

“I’m sure General Rodgers won’t mind a brief interruption.” Orr rose. “Thank you, all. This has been very stimulating.”

The conference room emptied quickly, and the senator went to his office. A sense of order had been restored, but one that was laced with healthy tension. The interns, assistants, and secretaries felt it and stayed focused. This was how Orr liked it. Direction with a whisper of urgency, purpose without desperation.

Of course, things might not remain this way. But that was all right, too.

Senator Orr shut his office door. The heavy silence felt good. He enjoyed it for a moment, then listened to the phone messages his secretary had passed on. He returned just one, a call to his wife. He wanted to tell her about William Wilson before she heard it on the news. Valerie Orr spent most of the year in Texas because she disliked catty Washington society. The senator missed her but was glad she chose the ranch over D.C. If anyone ever insulted her or talked about her, he would give that individual an old-fashioned switch-whipping.

As he sat down to review General Rodgers’s dossier one last time, Orr thought about something his father used to say on the ranch. Whenever money or water were precipitously low, Jeremiah Orr would push an ever-present plug of Red Man chewing tobacco between his cheek and gum, look down at his feet, and say to no one in particular, “I still like our position a whole lot better than the cows.’ ”

Come what may, Senator Orr liked a good challenge. He liked testing his own ideas and hearing the ideas of his team. He liked his position.

He liked it a lot better than William Wilson’s.

FOURTEEN

Washington, D. C. Monday, 2: 59 P.M.

To most outsiders, the Capitol and the office buildings that serviced it defined the phrase corridors of power. For over a century, ideas that had first influenced the world, then dominated it, were debated here. Refined here. Presidents were humbled here or declared war here. Laws were passed or revoked here, causing ripples that affected every life in the nation, through every federal, state, and local court. Art and expression were financed here or restricted here.

What Mike Rodgers saw were not COPs. Whenever he had business here—which was mercifully rare—Rodgers felt as though he were entering an abattoir. Fortunately, until this morning, he had not been a very fat cow, so the blades did not usually affect him. But this was where budgets were hacked, policies were eviscerated, good ideas were whittled to nubs, and wise or well-intentioned men and women were cut down at the knees or decapitated.

Vietnam was lost here, not on the battlefield.

The Capitol was about power in the same way ice hockey was about travel. There was a lot of aggressive, muscular movement but very little progress. It was odd. Rodgers did not even see the white of the dome and columns as much as he saw the dark recesses and shadows that creased and abutted them.

Rodgers hoped that Senator Orr could change those impressions.

Military reservists were stationed outside the building, and Rodgers acknowledged their salutes as he was checked through. He went to Senator Orr’s first-floor office and was buzzed in. He did not need to announce himself. A security camera above the door did that for him.

Maybe they should call it the corridors of paranoia, he thought. He glanced along the hall. Security was an important issue. But he did not think it was necessary to have a camera above each door. The money the government spent on this surveillance system would be better spent on one or two good Special Ops agents who could track and eliminate assassins.

Rodgers refused to let any of this flavor his opinion of Donald Orr. Men could not be held accountable for the transgressions of their peers.

A sharp young female receptionist sat behind a mahogany desk in the small waiting area. The woman had already come from around the desk. She welcomed Rodgers with a large smile and a strong handshake.

“General Rodgers, thank you for coming. The senator is expecting you,” she said. The woman entered a code into a keypad by the six-panel cherry wood door. This opened into the main offices. “May I get you coffee or a soft drink?”

“Black coffee would be good. No sugar.”

She walked him through a short maze of desks and cubicles to the senator’s closed door. She knocked and was told to enter. The big Texan rose and walked from behind his desk. His eyes were squarely on the general.

“The man who prevented World War III,” Senator Orr said. “Twice.”

“I’m hardly that, but thank you,” Rodgers said.

“General, modesty is forbidden on the Hill,” Orr said. “We passed a law against it, I think.”

“I’m only visiting.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Orr said as the men shook hands. “I hear tin horns every damn day. When you’ve got Gabriel’s trumpet, play it.”

Rodgers felt old calluses on the senator’s palm and undersides of his fingers. He knew that the Orr family was in ranching. He was glad to see the senator had not been too privileged to work.

“Besides, I’m hoping we can convince you to stay,” the senator went on. “Please, sit down,” he said, gesturing toward a leather armchair.

The receptionist returned with Rodgers’s coffee. He had not even seen her slip away. She set it on a glass-topped teapoy in front of the chair. Steam rose from a navy blue mug with the Camp David logo in gold. The logo was set facing Rodgers. It was just a cornet semiquaver but unavoidable.

A barrel-chested man entered as the receptionist left. Rodgers recognized him from the party.

“Admiral Link,” Rodgers said, rising.

“Sit,” the admiral said. He shut the door behind him before shaking Rodgers’s hand. He swung an armchair around so that there were three chairs in a circle. “Good to meet you. Sorry we didn’t have a chance to talk last night.”

“Those things are always so unmanageable,” said the senator, taking a seat. “Not like a good cattle drive.”

“You should hand out electric prods,” Rodgers said.

“Best idea I’ve heard in a while.” Orr laughed. It was a genuine laugh, not a performance.

“I heard about William Wilson on the drive over,” Rodgers said. “Has there been any fallout?”

“Not yet,” Orr said. “I have to do a live segment on the CBS Evening News in about twenty minutes, though. I’ll know more after that. Hopefully, you’ll stick around so we can talk more. I don’t want to rush this.”

“Of course,” Rodgers said. “I have to tell you, though, Senator. I’m not really sure what ‘this’ is.”

“A new political party, a new way of doing business in D.C.,” Orr told him. “You have heard this before, I’m sure.”

“So often that I’ve stopped listening,” Rodgers admitted.

“Most Americans have tuned out, General Rodgers, which is why we need to get their attention. We need to make a dramatic new start fast, no wasted time.” Orr leaned forward in his chair. “I am about to announce my candidacy for the presidency. I will be asking the admiral to be my running mate. None of that will surprise anyone. However, what I will be asking for in my acceptance speech will be different from typical convention rhetoric. I will demand what we are calling FAIR change. That’s full American infrastructure reform. Everything from the judicial system to Social Security will be reorganized to serve the people who need them.”

“That’s going to take clout and money,” Rodgers said.

“The funds will come from misguided programs, such as the billions we spend annually in unappreciated foreign aid and foreign products,” Orr said. “If other nations want access to our consumers, it will cost them in tariffs. As for clout, I’ll get that from the people of this country. We’ve forgotten the electorate, General Rodgers. If necessary, we will hold monthly plebiscites to decide issues. Representatives who oppose the wishes of their constituents will become former representatives.”

“It’s a program with hair on its chest, I’ll give you that,” Rodgers said.

Orr sat back. “But?”

“I’m from ‘show me’ Missouri by way of hell,” Rodgers said. “I’m a starry-eyed pessimist.”

“I like that,” Admiral Link confessed.

“Hope for something good but expect the worst,” Orr said.

“I would say ‘anticipate it,’ ” Rodgers said.

“Sam Houston was like that, and look what he accomplished,” Orr said. “He built a state.”

Rodgers grinned. “But then, he was from Texas. I’m from Connecticut.”

Orr smiled broadly. “Texas is a state of heart, not just geography. General, we’re a little different from you, the admiral and I. We are cautious optimists about how FAIR will be received. Regardless, once our campaign is under way, I will need a military adviser, one with chops. A man who has been out there getting his hands dirty and who also understands intelligence work. One who will become the secretary of defense in an Orr administration.”

“You are uniquely qualified,” Link added.

“I’m also a little confused,” Rodgers said. “Are you making me an offer?”

The senator laughed. That one was a short stage laugh. “As I said, Texas is in here.” Orr touched his chest. “I watched how you walked into the office. That’s the way I want my cabinet members to step to a podium.”

Rodgers was flattered and also suspicious. Either Orr was hooking him for some other reason, or he was exactly as he said: a straight-shooting politician.

“General, may I ask how things are at Op-Center?” Link said.

“Why?” Rodgers asked. “What have you heard?”

“Not much,” Link replied.

“In D.C.? That’s unlikely,” Rodgers said.

“He’s got you there, Ken.” Orr laughed, once again for real.

“Touché,” the admiral said. “The truth is, we just heard they’re spearheading the investigation into the murder of William Wilson.”

“Really?” Rodgers said.

Link was watching him. “You seem surprised.”

“I am. Who’s the point man?”

“I don’t know. But whoever it is, he’s good,” Link replied. “He’s the one who found signs of trauma under the tongue that the medical examiner missed. He turned this from a heart attack to a homicide.”

“I see,” Rodgers replied.

That sounded like a street-smart “get” by Darrell McCaskey. Op-Center must have become involved at the request of Interpol or Scotland Yard.

“General, we heard that the CIOC has instructed Op-Center to make budget cuts,” Link went on. “Why would Director Hood take on an outside project like this in an environment trending toward austerity and realignment?”

“You would have to ask him,” Rodgers said.

“Of course,” Orr said. “Ken, you’re asking General Rodgers to breach departmental confidentiality—”

“Actually, it’s more than that,” Rodgers informed the men. “This morning I learned that I am part of those bottom-line reductions. My tenure as deputy director is effectively over.”

“They asked for your resignation?” Orr asked, surprised.

“Two weeks from now I’m either working with you or back at the DoD in some other capacity.”

“Now that’s a kick in the damn teeth,” Link said. “They ship out an American hero, then help to investigate a decadent British billionaire.”

Orr’s phone beeped. He answered, listened, said he would be right there. “I’ m expected in the conference room for a pre-interview with Mr. Dan Rather’s associate producer,” he said. “General, will you be able to stay for a bit? This should not take more than fifteen minutes.”

“Of course,” Rodgers said, rising as the senator did.

Orr left the room and shut the door behind him. Rodgers sat back down. Link was looking at him. Rodgers took a sip of coffee.

“General Rodgers—Mike, if I may—do you mind if I ask you something personal?”

“Go ahead.”

“Do you feel betrayed by Paul Hood or Op-Center?”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Rodgers replied.

“How far would you go?”

That was a loaded question, Rodgers thought, though he was not sure what exactly it was loaded with. He knew at once that this was not idle chat.

“I don’t feel good about the way things happened, but this was an assignment, a tour of duty,” Rodgers replied. “For whatever reason, that job is over. I’m ready to move on.”

“That’s a healthy attitude,” Link said.

“Thanks. Now I’d like to ask you a question, Admiral.”

“All right.”

“Does it matter how I feel about Op-Center?”

“Not in terms of your working with us,” Link said. “It’s more a question of helping them.”

“I’m not following.”

“Paul Hood is moving them into a very dangerous place, not just for him but for us,” Link said.

“Why us?”

“It’s a question of appearances,” Link told him. “If the NCMC is ham-fisted about their investigation, it’s going to slop all over us, all over our guests, and all over our convention.”

“Why do you assume it will be handled badly?”

“Because Op-Center is suddenly very shorthanded,” Link said. “Let’s say that Individual X has taken on this assignment. He still has to perform his other duties, plus whatever new duties he inherits due to the cutbacks. I don’t have to tell you that in a reduced-personnel environment in the military, standard operating procedure is to shoot every door in a house and see which one groans. If Individual X is forced to take that approach here, we may suffer unwarranted hits.”

“Possibly. But the hits should not be serious.”

“When you’re launching a new political party, any stain on your credibility is serious,” Link said. “It scares away donors. Also, I’ve spoken to a number of people on the Hill. They wonder if Hood may be using this action to try to retrench, to fold the idea of international criminal investigation into crisis management. He did something like that before.”

“Actually, we backed into that one by stopping a missile attack on Japan,” Rodgers said. “The president asked us to take on additional responsibilities.”

“I understand that the situations are different,” Link said. “So are the times. The CIA was moving from human intelligence to electronic intelligence. Data was falling through the digital cracks. Op-Center was there to catch it. The Company won’t let that happen this time.”

“Okay. Even if that is true, why is it our concern?” Rodgers asked.

“Because the perception is that Paul Hood may have manufactured a situation,” Link replied.

“Horseshit,” Rodgers snapped. He hoped this perception was not something Link had whipped up. It was contemptible. “I know the people at Op-Center. They would never do that.”

“Other people aren’t so convinced,” Link said.

“What people?”

“Influential people,” Link replied. “People who have the ear of the CIOC and the president. What I’m saying, Mike, is that it is a bad situation all around.”

“Okay, it’s bad. Why share that insight with me?”

“I think you should talk to Hood,” Link said. “Tell him that the way to help Op-Center is to soft-pedal this.”

“Soft-pedal. Do you mean bury?”

“I mean they should let the Brits handle this through channels. They should let the Metro Police work the investigation.”

The Metropolitan Police were efficient, sensitive, and discreet. Their footsteps would not splash much mud. While Rodgers did not believe that Hood was doing this for the reasons Link had stated, there was no doubt that the presence of a crisis management organization would leave a much bigger footprint.

“There’s something else to consider,” Link went on. “The CIOC can effectively dissolve Op-Center tomorrow simply by downsizing the budget to zero. If Hood steps on FBI jurisdiction, that could happen. Be a friend to him. Suggest to Hood that he reconsider his involvement.”

“I’ll think about it,” Rodgers said.

The subject was not raised again.

The men talked a little about the USF and the convention, and Link shared a list of politicians and business leaders who were privately committed to lending support to the party. It was impressive. He also gave Rodgers a CD containing USF press releases and internal directives to bring him up to speed.

Donald Orr returned, and so did a sense of balance. The senator said the interview had gone very well, that he had told CBS that they should wait for an official statement from investigators before speculating about the death of the man he described as “Britain’s gift to Europe.” That was one of Kat’s phrases, Orr said, and he liked the point it made.

As Rodgers conferred with the men, he found himself very relaxed with Orr and very suspicious of Link. The Orr-Link dynamic was not good cop, bad cop. It was more honest than that. Orr was like the white hat sheriff who would face a gunslinger on Main Street at high noon and let him draw first. Link was the deputy who hid behind a window with a rifle, clipped the bad guy in the shoulder, then went over and stepped on the wound until the man told him where the rest of the gang was hiding. Both approaches were strategically valid as long as you were not the target. Rodgers knew where he stood with Orr. He was not so sure about Link. There was a fine distinction between being employed by someone and being used by them. It was up to the integrity of the employer and the dignity of the employee to see that the line was not crossed.

Rodgers left, promising to call the men with his answer in the morning. He wanted to join them. The idea was exciting, and it was a new experience for him. Still, Rodgers was not certain what to do. It would mean leaving the military for something that was wildly uncertain. On the other hand, what in the world was not uncertain? When Rodgers woke this morning, he was still the deputy director of Op-Center.

As Rodgers walked to his car, he found himself feeling surprisingly bitter about his dismissal. Why would Hood fire him, then put a high-overhead individual like Darrell or Bob Herbert on an off-topic investigation? It wasn’t exactly disloyal, but it did suggest some sadly screwed-up priorities. And what about the idea that Hood might use this to help Op-Center? Though he did not for a moment believe that the evidence would have been falsified, as Link suggested, perhaps Hood would in fact seize on this to help redirect an ailing Op-Center.

That’s the beauty about being deputy sheriff, the general decided. The sheriff was the big symbol and the big target. He had to get out in the street and confront the outlaw. He could not snipe at him from safety, and he did not have time to run a psy-ops campaign.

Clearly, Kenneth Link’s years as the director of covert operations for the CIA had not been wasted. As Rodgers drove into the heavy traffic and rust-colored sunlight of late afternoon, he decided he would have that talk with Paul Hood about the William Wilson investigation.

FIFTEEN

Charlottesville, Virginia Monday, 4:18 P.M.

When April Dorrance was a young girl growing up in rural Sneedville, Tennessee, on the Virginia border, her father collected discarded appliances and fixed them for resale. That was the kind of thing a skilled and resourceful African-American man had to do in the South in the early 1970s to feed his family. April loved playing house with the appliances before they were repaired. She also enjoyed watching her father work. She loved seeing his huge hands manipulate fine wire and tools. He always explained what he was doing and why.

“That was how my pop taught me,” Royal Dorrance said one night in their small cabin with its corrugated tin roof.

“And is that how his father taught him?” April asked.

“Yes ma’ am,” he replied.

“Who was the first one who learned it?”

“That would be my granddad, Mr. Walter Emmanuel Dorrance,” Royal told her. “He was a private with the 803 Pioneer Infantry during World War One. Big segregated unit, meaning they only allowed black soldiers. He learned all about engineering when he fought in France.”

“He went to school in a war?” April asked.

“In a way, Precious,” her father said. “He had to learn things to survive and to help his friends survive.”

“Does that mean war is good?”

“Sometimes,” he said. “We’re free because of a war. And a lot of things get invented to fight wars.”

April never forgot the idea that war could be a positive aspect of civilization.

When April was a little older, not quite eleven, she began coming home from school and fixing some of those appliances herself. She loved how proud her father was when he came home with a new truckload of goodies. After his death, she continued in the family business to help support her mother and younger brother. With the help of her high school science and shop teachers, the young woman earned a scholarship to study electronics at the University of Tennessee College of Engineering in Knoxville. April excelled and graduated in 1984 from Cornell University with a Ph.D. in QuASSE—quantum and solid state electronics. She was immediately recruited by the CIA. April agreed to go to work for them because of the challenge, the job security, and the fact that it was close to her mother and brother. She went to work in a secret research laboratory located in Richmond, Virginia. The facility was actually below Alexandria, in a bunker below the University of Richmond. Only the UR president, select members of the board of trustees, and the UR chief of police knew they were there. No one knew what they did there. A large annual endowment bought their disinterest.

And April Dorrance got to learn and grow because of war.

The eleven-person staff of the School, as they called it, tested new forms of electronic jamming, surveillance, and triangulation equipment for use by mobile forces during combat. A university was the ideal place to do that, since computer and telecommunications use on campus was constant and typically cutting-edge. There were always students who brought with them the latest laptops, cell phones, and other portable electronics. The kids owned everything a modern soldier, spy, or terrorist might possess. Probably more. The School staffers liked nothing more than field-testing prototypes on unsuspecting students and teachers. It was like Candid Camera, watching them as they tried to figure out why their cell phones were suddenly talking to them in Bantu, the language of April’s ancestors.

The problem with the School was the burnout factor. It was intense work done in windowless surroundings for long hours. It was impossible to have a social life. It was also difficult to leave. The CIA had control over the kinds of positions one could seek after leaving their employ. They did not want confidential information finding its way into the private sector. An electromagnetic inhibitor that could plant false readings on enemy radar could easily be built into an automobile to befuddle police radar. April did not want to work for a government contractor who would demand the same extended hours and would not have the kind of budget or resources she had at the School. That left teaching. April had bought a house in Goochland, halfway between Richmond and Charlottesville. She simply drove twenty miles in the opposite direction each morning to teach microelectronics at the University of Virginia.

But people who had worked with April over the years often called her to consult on specific projects, and she was happy to do so. The government still possessed the best toy box on earth.

Nonetheless, the call was unexpected.

The caller left a message on her cell phone, which she returned on a more secure landline in her office. It was not the caller who surprised her. Though the two of them had never worked together, they had met on a number of occasions. What surprised April was what the caller wanted. The government had hundreds of these weapons stored in military and intelligence warehouses around the globe. Then again, April understood that they might not have one exactly to these specifications. She also knew that sometimes goods had to be acquired “off the books” because the system had “moles and holes,” as the caller referred to them.

April could deliver it, of course. And she would, because she trusted the caller and their mutual friend.

Besides, it was fun and lucrative. Just like working on the old Formica-topped kitchen table in the cabin in Sneedville.

April was informed that the components would be delivered to her home that evening, and she was to assemble them for pickup the following morning. That was more than enough time. These weapons were increasingly modular. Not like the days when Private Walter Dorrance had to use a mallet and spare train rails to fashion replacement cranks and ballast for the Allies’ twelve-inch Mk4 siege Howitzers. He certainly did not get paid as well as she did, either. This one would buy her mother a new car.

And maybe do some good. Because war could be a force for good.

Even a war that was only one bomb long.

SIXTEEN

Washington, D. C. Monday, 5: 22 P.M.

When Darrell McCaskey worked for the FBI, he nurtured relationships with the press. McCaskey did not believe it was the right of the public to know everything that was going on in law enforcement. But reporters had sources who were otherwise unavailable to the Bureau. Information was the coin of the realm, and to find out what journalists knew, McCaskey often had to trade confidential data. Happily, he was never burned. Trust was the foundation of journalism—between reporter and subject, medium and audience. Throughout his years with the Bureau, McCaskey had encountered a handful of agents he did not trust for one reason or another. Yet he never met a reporter who went back on his or her word. Results were the foundation of crime fighting,

The guest list for Orr’s party, published in the Washington Post, differed from the guest list given to McCaskey by the Metro Police. The newspaper had a list of everyone who was invited. The police had the list of people who had actually showed up, as tallied by the invitations turned in at the door.

There were four names on the invite list that did not show up on the attendance list. Mike Rodgers was on both lists. McCaskey could not imagine why the general had been invited.

Rodgers was out of the office, and McCaskey left a message on his cell phone. Then he called the Washington Post reporter who had covered the event. It would be necessary to talk to everyone who was there and also get an accurate head count; someone might have slipped in through the kitchen or a side door or walked in on the arm of a senator. McCaskey also wanted to find out who Wilson was seen conversing with. That was something a journalist would have noticed.

Bill Tymore was the Post business reporter who had attended the party. He had come as the date of Kendra Peterson, Senator Orr’s executive assistant. Tymore agreed to talk if McCaskey agreed to keep him in the loop, off the record. McCaskey did not have a problem with that.

“Before you ask, I’ve been seeing Kendra for nearly a year, she does not expect preferential coverage, and I left about a half-hour before Wilson did so I could write my article,” Tymore said.

“So you don’t know who might have left to visit him.”

“Or if anyone did,” Tymore pointed out. “I have someone looking into the local escort services. One of the girls might have been paylaid en route and an assassin put in her place.”

“Paylaid,” McCaskey repeated. That was a new one. “You think the escort might have been given a couple hundred bucks to have a cup of joe instead of visiting her client.”

“Right.”

“Did Wilson have a history of calling escort services?”

“Apparently,” Tymore replied. “It was his way of keeping gold diggers out of his bed.”

“What about last night?” McCaskey asked. “Do you recall which women he talked to?”

“He chatted briefly with Kendra and then Kat Lockley, who are on the senator’s staff,” he said. “He also talked with two congresswomen and a senator, Ken Link’s daughter Jeanne, Wendy Fayette from the New York Times, and one of the waitresses. She’s been cleared, though. She was still on cleanup detail when the woman arrived at the hotel. Now I have a question for you, Mr. McCaskey.”

“Okay.”

“What was General Rodgers doing there?”

“I don’t know,” McCaskey said. “That was a surprise to me. Why don’t you ask Kendra?”

“I did. She wouldn’t tell me. My guess is they want him to be involved in the USF Party in some capacity. Is that possible?”

“It wouldn’t surprise me,” McCaskey told him. “Off the record, I think he’s looking to move on.”

McCaskey felt a little deceitful not telling Tymore what he knew. But it was up to Rodgers or Hood to talk about the general’s departure, not him. Trust was important, but it was trumped by loyalty.

“Now you tell me, Mr. McCaskey,” Tymore said. “Why is Op-Center interested in this?”

“We are involved at the request of Scotland Yard,” McCaskey told him. “It’s a common reciprocal arrangement among international agencies.”

“Why you and not the Metropolitan Police or the FBI?” Tymore asked.

“I know the Yard people from my years with the FBI,” McCaskey replied. “It was just a favor. We did not expect to find anything.”

“Can I quote you?”

“You can quote an unnamed source at Op-Center,” McCaskey said.

Tymore agreed.

McCaskey obtained the phone numbers Tymore had collected. Though the reporter had already called the women who had talked to Wilson, McCaskey wanted to speak with them himself. They all denied having gone to see the billionaire, of course, though maybe they would tell McCaskey things they were unwilling to tell the press.

Rodgers phoned before McCaskey was able to place the first call. The general had just returned to Op-Center and was about to see Paul Hood. He asked McCaskey to join them.

“Sure,” McCaskey said. “What’s up?”

“Paul said you’re running the Wilson investigation,” Rodgers said.

“Right—”

“I want to talk about it,” Rodgers said abruptly. “It could be a minefield.”

Rodgers did not elaborate. McCaskey could not tell whether that had been a warning or a threat. He headed to Hood’s office to find out.

Rodgers arrived moments ahead of McCaskey. Ron Plummer was just leaving. The silence exchanged by Rodgers and his replacement was actually heightened by the way they acknowledged each other, with a clipped firstname greeting and nothing more. The soldier and the diplomat never had much in common, but they had always gotten along. This was sad, but what made it worse was that McCaskey expected things were about to deteriorate.

“Ron did not want the job,” Hood said to Rodgers as McCaskey shut the door. “I just wanted you to know that.”

“Did he accept it?” Rodgers asked.

“For the good of Op-Center, yes,” Hood said.

“Of course. We’re all so damn selfless,” Rodgers said. He folded his arms tightly and looked at McCaskey. Both men had remained standing. “Who are you working for now? The Yard?”

“Don’t climb on my back, Mike,” McCaskey said. “You know the drill. We help each other.”

“We do?” Rodgers looked around. “I must have missed the lifeline you guys threw me.”

This was a different Mike Rodgers than Darrell McCaskey had encountered that morning. Obviously, Rodgers had had time to think about what happened and was not very happy.

“Mike, those were my calls,” Hood said. “Where to cut, who to shuffle, and who to help. If you want to vent, do it to me.”

“It’s not that clean, Paul,” Rodgers said. “I’ve been offered a position with Senator Orr’s new political party. The way this investigation is being handled could hurt us. And you.”

“I don’t understand,” McCaskey said.

“People are going to regard your involvement as opportunistic,” Rodgers told them. “Op-Center gets downsized, the director redefines its mission in a very public way, the cuts get restored.”

“I hope you don’t believe that,” Hood said.

“I don’t, but there are people who will,” Rodgers said. “They may try to hit you again.”

“So this is your lifeline to us?” McCaskey asked.

“Partly,” Rodgers said. “I also want to protect the senator. The Wilson death is already big news. The Metro Police are on it. People expect that. I’m worried that when they find out Op-Center is also involved, we’ll start hearing about international conspiracies.”

“And you think that our involvement will kick things to another level,” McCaskey said.

“Exactly,” Rodgers said. “It will bring even more unwanted attention to the senator and his cause.”

McCaskey saw Rodgers’s point. The murder was already crime news and business news. This would make it spy news.

“Mike, what’s the senator’s take on Wilson’s death?” McCaskey asked.

Rodgers pinned him to the wall with a look. “Are you asking as part of the investigation?”

“Nothing we talk about leaves this office,” McCaskey replied sharply.

“The senator had no beef with the man,” Rodgers said. “He didn’t like his banking plans but was going to fight those politically.”

“Does he think someone at the party may have been responsible ?” McCaskey pressed.

“I really don’t know,” Rodgers said. “I didn’t see anything unusual while I was there.”

“I didn’t realize you were there,” Hood said. He seemed genuinely surprised.

“They asked me over for a meet and greet, and then made the job offer,” Rodgers said.

“Now I see why you’re uncomfortable about this,” Hood said. “You’d be a great asset to any team.”

“But we can’t just drop this.”

“Why? It’s a police matter.”

“We’ll be sharing information with the Metro Police, and we can shift the bulk of our load to them over the next few days. Hell, we have to do that. Darrell is needed elsewhere. But Scotland Yard asked for our help. Darrell found the evidence. For better or worse, we have to show London and the world some follow-through.”

“Or else?”

“Key alliances may be hurt, and we can’t afford that now,” Hood said. “We’re going to need to outsource more foreign recon than before.”

“You should also realize that the deeper you get, the more difficult it will be to ease out,” Rodgers said. “There will be a turf war with the police, and then you’ ll have to see this through or come off looking weak. People will wonder why you were involved in the first place. They won’t get the quid pro quo side of our business. They’ll think you were grandstanding.”

“Perhaps,” Hood said. “I’m hoping there’s a middle ground and that we can find it.”

“You know, there might be a way to satisfy everyone with a minimum of fuss,” McCaskey said. “Mike, how receptive do you think Senator Orr would be to meeting with me?”

“I don’t know. To what end?”

“To show his goodwill. An interview would acknowledge Op-Center’s role in this investigation. That could be our big, public flourish. It would allow me to tell the press and Scotland Yard that I met the man, found him blameless—I presume—and would like to hand this investigation to the police, where it belongs. We can still be the Yard’s eyes and ears but from a distance.”

“I don’t know if the senator would have a problem with that, but his associate Admiral Link might,” Rodgers said.

“Why?” Hood asked.

“He has openly wondered if this whole thing is a ploy to get our—I mean your—budget cuts restored,” Rodgers said. “He might see this as a way for Op-Center to get attention.”

“Is Link running the show?” Hood asked.

“No,” Rodgers said. “But he was at the Company for years, and I would not want to invoke retaliation needlessly.”

“If Link has it in for us, visiting the senator probably won’t change things,” McCaskey said.

“It might,” Rodgers said. “He does not seem to be the kind of man who likes to be cornered.”

“Who does?” McCaskey asked.

“My point is, Link has the influence and resources to get uncornered,” Rodgers said.

“That’s a potential problem,” Hood admitted. “But we’re in this thing now, and that’s a real problem.”

“How do you position it so that Senator Orr doesn’t appear to be a suspect?” Rodgers asked.

“I’m not going over there to find out what he did, only what he might have seen and heard,” McCaskey said. “We can even say he asked for the meeting. That would make him seem eager to cooperate.”

Rodgers considered the proposal. “I’ll call him,” he said after a moment. “Kat told me that Senator Orr is going to do Nightline. That may be a good platform to announce something like this.”

“It would help everyone,” McCaskey agreed.

The general excused himself. Hood and McCaskey exhaled.

“That was . . . strange,” McCaskey said, after searching for a better word but not finding one.

“Yeah.”

“I guess we’re the enemy now.”

“I didn’t get that,” Hood said.

“Oh? I heard a serious threat with Ken Link’s name attached.”

“That was an advisory,” Hood said. “Mike is hurting, but he’s looking out for Op-Center. My head is the only one that might interest him.”

The men discussed other Op-Center business until Rodgers returned. He looked like a catcher who disagreed with an ump’s call but knew better than to say so.

“I just had a conference call with Senator Orr and Admiral Link,” Rodgers said. He regarded Hood. “The senator has declined to see Darrell but said he would meet with you as a courtesy.”

“As a courtesy?” Hood declared.

“This is a criminal investigation, not a press conference,” McCaskey said.

“The senator does not want to give the impression that he is being interrogated,” Rodgers replied. “He told me he will gladly answer Paul’s questions about the case but insisted that he does not have much to say.”

“Right. And when I go there, this immediately becomes more about us than about him,” Hood said. “It looks like I’m making a personal headline grab, which will call into question our motives—which Link has already done—and undermine everything Op-Center has or will contribute to the investigation.”

“Mike, I just don’t get it,” McCaskey said. “I damn near agreed to exonerate the senator and back away. Why wouldn’t he want that?”

“My guess is he isn’t guilty of anything,” Rodgers said.

Hood rested his elbows on his desk. He dug his palms into his eyes. “I think it was Twain who said that when all else fails, do what’s right.” He looked up. “Gentlemen, we were justified getting into this, and we have a valid reason to see it through. Mike, please thank the senator for us and tell him we hope it won’t be necessary to accept his generous offer when the investigation is further along.”

Rodgers did not respond. He looked at McCaskey, gave him a half-smile, and left the office.

“Not ‘strange,’ ” McCaskey said when Rodgers was gone. “That was disturbing. How did we end up on different sides of the barricade?”

“I’m not even sure how the barricade got there,” Hood said.

“I swear, I should have just ignored the goddamn wound under Wilson’s tongue,” McCaskey said.

“No!” Hood replied, a hint of anger in his voice. “That would have been a lot worse than disturbing, Darrell. When it becomes wrong to seek justice, we should all turn in our suits.”

Darrell could not dispute that. But he was not ready to agree that the goal was more honorable than what it might take to get there: going to war against an old friend.

SEVENTEEN

Washington, D. C. Monday, 7: 22 P.M.

It was not supposed to happen the way it did. The death of William Wilson was supposed to be news for a day or two and then go away. It was supposed to be recorded as a heart attack, not a homicide. Now it was not going to go away, and she had to change the focus.

She dressed the same as last time, only this time she wore a scarf instead of a wide-brimmed hat. And big, dark sunglasses, pure Audrey Hepburn. All the fashionable people wore them at night. She went to another fashionable hotel, the Monarch on M Street NW, in the upscale West End district. She sat by a courtyard fountain, her back to the hotel, her feet on the ground, her purse and a package of Kleenex in her lap. She thought of the death of her father, something that always brought tears. She wept into one Kleenex and then another for practice. Then she stopped crying and waited. She told herself not to worry, everything was going to go down perfectly.

A white stretch limousine pulled up. A couple got out. She ignored them. They ignored her. A few minutes later, a cab arrived and two men emerged. One of them attempted to talk to her. He was a lobbyist for the recording industry. Close, but not worth the effort. She did not cry. She did not continue the conversation.

The third limousine was a black stretch. A gray-haired gentleman emerged with a young aide. The older man was about sixty and dressed in Armani. He was wearing a wedding band and a deep tan. He obviously lived in a sunny climate. He was tall and trim and apparently worked out.

She started to sob. With a glance her way and a tug on his cuff links, the older man excused himself from the younger man and walked over.

“Is there something wrong, miss?” he asked.

Southern accent. Deep south. He touched her shoulder. She looked at his hand and then at him. The hand appeared soft, except for chafing around the crook of the thumb. From a golf glove and too-hard grip, she imagined. There were three clear one-carat diamonds in the cuff link and a Rolex on his wrist.

“Thank you, but I—I don’t want to trouble you,” she said.

“It’s no trouble to stop a pretty girl’s tears,” he replied.

She smiled up at him. “You’re sweet. But really, I’ll be all right just as soon as I find someone to teach my husband a lesson.”

“Where I come from, looking after the honor of a lady is not only a duty, it is a privilege,” the man said. “May I ask what the problem is? Perhaps I can help.”

“I was here to meet a friend for drinks,” she said. “I was sitting here, and he came in with one of his coworkers. He was all over her. He was supposed to be at a conference. He did not even see me.” She started sobbing again.

The man handed her his handkerchief. It was monogrammed. “May I ask your name?” he said.

“Bonnie,” she said.

“How utterly charming,” he said. “I am Robert Lawless. Bob to my friends. If you like, we can talk about this further.”

“Mr. Lawless—”

“Bob,” he said softly.

“Bob,” she said, “I appreciate your kindness, but I think I’ll just sit here a while and then go home.”

“To a scoundrel?”

“For now,” she said. “I will see about having him relocated in the morning.”

“I am not without connections here,” Bob said, patting her shoulder. “Perhaps I can help. If you’d like, we can still have that drink.”

She shook her head vehemently. “No! He’s still here, and I don’t want to see him again—”

“In my suite, then, if you like,” Bob said. “I will be a gentleman.”

The woman dabbed her eyes and looked into his. “Well . . . I don’t feel like going home, and it is chilly.”

“That is to be expected when you sit beside a fountain,” he pointed out with a smile. “Your shoulder is damp with spray. We can set your coat out to dry.”

She smiled back. “All right, Mr. Lawless—Bob. Thank you. I would be delighted to join you for a drink.”

Bob walked back to his aide and finished up their conversation. He sent the young man off in the limousine, then returned. He offered her his arm. She put on sunglasses—to hide her bloodshot eyes, she said—then took it. Less than two minutes later they were in his penthouse suite.

They sat in the living room, and he poured drinks from the minibar. He removed her damp jacket for her. He sat on a separate chair, though he did move it over to be close. She asked what he did. He said he was one of the largest commercial real estate brokers in the Carolinas. He told her he spent a great deal of time in Washington lobbying for tax incentives so that companies would stay in the United States instead of moving to Mexico or the Far East.

She felt bad. Bob Lawless was her kind of guy, except for the fact that he obviously had a wife and did not care. But she was here, and they needed this kill.

He had moved in closer while he was speaking and fixed her with his pale blue eyes. She responded to his “gentlemanly” advance by crying and then taking his hand for support and allowing him to put his arm around her. He kissed her damp cheek. She turned and hugged his neck and put her hands behind his head. She let her fingers loose in his longish hair, and he began kissing her neck. Without breaking their connection, she slid from her chair and bent over him, still holding him tight.

He was sitting and she was standing. She put her lips gently against his ear and continued to kiss it while she released her embrace and moved around him.

“You are a wonderful man, Bob Lawless,” the woman whispered as she shifted behind him.

“And you are a beautiful woman,” he replied. “One who should never know this kind of pain.”

“You are so sweet, so gentle.”

She sniffled hard to show that her tears were coming to an end. Then she eased her right arm around his throat. She slid her fingertips gently along his throat to the left, so that her forearm went across the front.

“Your neck, your shoulders, they’re so strong,” she said.

“That comes from a lot of golf and tennis,” he told her. “I also work out with a trainer.”

“It shows,” she said. Her eyes ranged over his torso. “Broad shoulders, graceful motion, strong hands.”

Her fingers moved to his ear. A moment later, his chin was near the crook of her arm.

“I like outdoor games,” she said. “Indoor, too.”

“Oh? What kind?” he asked slyly.

Suddenly, the woman pulled her forearm back toward her, hard. Before Bob could react, she put her left hand against the left side of his face and pushed to the right. That drove his throat deeper into the wedge of her elbow.

This particular choke hold blocked the air supply instantly and completely. It also cut off the flow of blood to the brain. Unconsciousness typically came in less than ten seconds. That was not even enough time for the skin of the neck to bruise.

Bob Lawless gasped silently while tugging and then clawing desperately at her arm. He kicked out with his unscuffed Ferragamos as the seconds lengthened. The shiny black shoes moved like windshield wipers, in and out, in and out, before falling to the plush plum carpet. An instant later, Bob’s shoulders drooped, his arms went slack, and his head rolled to the right.

Cautiously, the woman relaxed her hold. Bob’s head dropped forward, his breathing barely audible.

“What kind of games do I like?” the woman said. “The kind where I make the rules.”

The woman went to a lamp and angled the shade so the light hit Bob in the face. Then she retrieved her purse from a nearby coffee table. She removed the syringe and the handkerchief he had given her. She used the cloth to grip his tongue, raising it and working the needle underneath She poked the tip into the large vein at the root and injected ten milliliters of potassium chloride. Then she stepped back. She watched, listened as his respiration went from shallow to none.

She tucked the handkerchief and syringe in her purse, retrieved her jacket, then undid one of the buttons of Bob’s shirt. She slid her right hand inside and felt his chest. There was no heartbeat. She stood back.

“Sorry, Bob,” she said. “But at least you died advancing a cause you believed in.”

Bob had removed her scarf. She used it to wipe fingerprints from the solid surfaces she had touched—the drinking glass and the wooden armrests of the chair. Then she slipped it back on her head. The woman removed a pair of white gloves from her purse and put them on, along with her sunglasses. She left the room and returned to the elevator, careful to keep her face downturned. All that the cameras in the elevator would see was her jacket and the top of her head.

Just like the night before.

Hopefully, no more killings remained.

EIGHTEEN

Washington, D. C. Monday, 8: 30 P.M.

Darrell McCaskey came by to see Rodgers after the meeting with Hood. He invited Rodgers for a drink but the general declined. He said he needed to be alone, to think about the job offer from the senator. In fact, Rodgers did not feel like socializing with anyone from Op-Center. It was nothing personal, but the odor of disloyalty hung about the place and its people. Rodgers hoped it would pass. He liked McCaskey and Bob Herbert. But he needed to get away from it now. He spent a few hours cleaning his office, deleting personal files from his computer, and storing them on disks.

He reached his ranch-style home in Bethesda, Maryland, at seven-thirty. He removed his jacket and dropped it over the arm of the sofa. Then he poured a drink and sat down at the small dining room table. As he went through the mail, he sipped the small “medicinal dose” of Southern Comfort, as his grandfather used to call it. It was exactly what he needed to heal his wounded soul.

The mail was all catalogues and bills, no letters. Not that Rodgers was surprised. He could not remember the last letter he received. He remembered what it meant to get letters in Vietnam, to read words that had made a journey from hand to hand. It was immediate and intimate, like looking over someone’s shoulder as they gave something of themselves. Opening an envelope that contained an offer for a 0 percent credit card or discount coupons from the local strip mall did not have the same effect.

Then something nearly as good happened. Rodgers got a call from Kat Lockley. She was not calling about business.

“I’m sorry I did not get to see you before,” she said. “It was a very press-intensive day. And it’s not over. We’ve got Nightline coming up.”

“I understand completely,” he said. “Are you going with the senator to the Nightline broadcast?”

“Actually, I’m not. I had a meeting outside the office about the convention. He went with his attorney, David Rico. Dave had some concern about what Koppel might ask and wanted some ground rules about the homicide.”

“Understandable.”

“So, since I’m free, and since it looks like we’re going to be working together, I was wondering if you felt like grabbing dinner or a snack or a drink,” she said.

“Actually, dinner is a good idea,” he replied. “I didn’t have time for lunch. Where are you?”

“In my car, on Delaware Avenue.”

Rodgers thought for a moment. “How about Equinox, 818 Connecticut Avenue NW?”

“Perfect,” she said. “American cuisine.”

“That’s why I suggested it,” Rodgers said. “I’ll be there in thirty-five or forty minutes.”

“I’ll be at the bar with a vodka martini,” she said. “By the time you get there, it will be my second.”

“I hear that,” Rodgers said.

He hung up, left his own unfinished glass in the sink, snatched his jacket from the sofa, and headed out. The call from Kat was more healing than the Southern Comfort. It was reassuring to feel part of a team, especially when a woman was right there in the huddle. It occurred to him that he did not even know if she was married, engaged, dating, or straight. Right now, the camaraderie was more important.

The roads to D.C. were lightly trafficked, and Connecticut Avenue NW was virtually empty. Rodgers made the drive in a half-hour flat. The dark bar was crowded with staffers from the White House, which was nearby, along with a cross section of Washington power brokers. Kat was at the end of the bar, talking to a slender, very attractive woman. The woman was holding a small beaded purse in her left hand and a glass of red wine in her right.

“Mike, I’d like you to meet Lucy O’Connor,” Kat said as he approached. It was loud in the bar, and Kat had to shout to be heard. No wonder nothing ever stayed a secret in Washington.

The woman put her drink on the bar. “Delighted,” she said as she shook Rodgers’s hand.

“Lucy writes about the Hill for the American Spectator and has a syndicated radio show,” Kat said. “How many markets now?”

“Forty-seven,” she said.

“Impressive,” Rodgers said.

“Not compared to what you have done,” Lucy said.

Rodgers rolled a shoulder. “I was in the wrong places at the right time.”

“A true hero, taciturn and modest,” Lucy remarked. “But since you’ve very happily fallen in my lap, General Rodgers, tell me, in as few words as you like. Is Op-Center busy redefining its mission?”

“If having your budget whacked is redefining, I suppose the answer is yes,” Rodgers replied.

“I heard about the cuts, but that isn’t what I meant. I’m talking about the Wilson investigation.”

“Wow, that’s really the talk of the town, isn’t it?” Rodgers asked.

“Everything is the talk of this town,” Lucy said.

“The Wilson investigation is a fluke,” he said.

Rodgers leaned past the reporter and ordered a Samuel Adams. He hated being pushed, and he hated being pushed by journalists even more. They attacked the front door, the back door, the windows, and when that did not work, they crawled under the front stoop and waited like snakes.

“Is that what you two are here to discuss?” Lucy asked.

“Good guess, but no,” Kat told her.

Lucy frowned. “You’re not going to tell me it’s purely social.”

“Actually, it is,” Rodgers said as the bartender handed him his beer. “I was at the senator’s party last night. Ms. Lockley wanted to meet me and called. Here I am.”

“Why were you at the party?”

“Free food,” Rodgers said.

Lucy smiled. “All right, General. I won’t press. But Kat? I want a half-hour window if there’s any news. That will give me time to put it on my web site.”

“And give you bragging rights for being the first,” Rodgers said.

“That’s what gives a reporter heft,” Lucy replied. “You remember those days, don’t you, Kat?”

Kat said she did and agreed to give Lucy a scoop if there was one to be had. The reporter left the bar to scout for leads elsewhere. Kat picked up a shopping bag that was beside the stool, and Rodgers escorted his date and his beer to the restaurant atrium for dinner.

“Sorry about all that,” Kat sat as they were seated. “She got there right before you did, so there was no time to disengage. I hope it wasn’t too painful.”

“Define ‘too.’ ”

“Enough to make you not want to work with us,” Kat said. “We have to be much more accessible than the key people at Op-Center.”

“It will take getting used to, but I’ll survive,” Rodgers said. “All I need to do is keep up that Gary Cooper facade.”

“That may be even more appealing,” Kat pointed out.

“Maybe, but at least there are only two words to the script,” Rodgers said. “ ‘Yup’ and ‘nope.’ I can handle that. But how about we do what we told Ms. O’Connor. Keep this social.”

“Good idea,” she said, just ahead of a smile that was the first one he could recall seeing.

“Anything interesting in the bag?” Rodgers asked.

“A present and my Nikes,” Kat said. “Heels get tiring.”

“I can imagine,” he said. “You want to change? I won’t say anything.”

“Not appropriate in here. When I leave.”

“So tell me. How did you come to work with the senator ?” Rodgers asked.

“Well, as you probably gathered from Lucy, I used to be one of them,” she said. “I graduated from Columbia and was hired by the Wall Street Journal as a reporter for the Washington Bureau.”

“Were your folks reporters or politicians?”

“They were New York City cops. Both of them. So was my older brother. The Lockley family defined the word tough.”

“Was there any pressure for you to go into law enforcement ?”

“Not directly.” She laughed. “Unless you consider taking martial arts and gun safety classes instead of ballet and playing with dolls to be pressure. I didn’t mind, though. We did it as a family.”

“Sounds pretty well-adjusted,” Rodgers said.

“It was.”

“Then where did journalism come from?”

“Our other family activity was watching the news on TV,” Kat said. “The local news always had a lot of police stories, and I loved watching the reporters. They got to hang with police officers and firefighters and soldiers, so I started doing my own newscasts with our video camera and interviewing my folks and their friends. I loved it, and it stuck.”

The waiter came over, and they took a moment to look at the menu. They decided to order several appetizers and share.

“So,” Rodgers went on. “Did you go directly from the Journal to becoming the senator’s press secretary?”

“Pretty much,” she said. “I made some stabs at getting into TV, but you need connections, fangs, or both. All I had was an interest in reporting news. Dad and the senator were old buds. When I was assigned to cover Don Orr’s last campaign, he offered me a job. He said it wasn’t nepotism. He told me I had ‘the goods.’ ”

“You do,” Rodgers said.

“Maybe.” She shrugged. “I figured if nothing else, I’d pick up TV connections for the future.”

“Smart. Looks like you anticipated everything.”

“Not quite,” she said. “In a high-profile position like this one, you have to watch everything you say and everything your boss says.” She gestured toward the bar. “As you saw back there, self-censorship is a constant process, and you suffer a complete loss of privacy. I did not appreciate the degree to which that would happen.”

“Maybe you need to come up with an alter ego,” Rodgers suggested. “Get a wig, a pair of sunglasses, black lipstick.”

“I have all of those.” She laughed. “It’s my Goth side.”

“Pardon?”

“Goth. Gothic. You know—vampires, black lace and leather, sharpening your teeth with a file and dying your skin white.”

“People do that?” Rodgers asked.

Kat nodded. “It’s a large and growing subculture.”

“I had no idea.”

The age difference of some twenty years suddenly became very apparent to Rodgers. He still thought the rock group KISS was over the top. At the same time, Rodgers’s respect for Senator Orr grew. The Texan was even older, yet he had dared to hire a twenty-something who brought different ideas to the staff. Though it was alarming to think of vampires as a potential voting bloc.

“It’s funny,” Kat said as the food arrived. “I’m the journalist, yet you’re the one asking the questions.”

“I don’t have access to a dossier of your entire life,” Rodgers pointed out.

“Touché,” she said, smiling again.

The two talked a little about Rodgers and then about the problems of mounting a national campaign. It was an open, intelligent talk. Rodgers did not know if it had been part of Orr’s plan, but by the time they were finished, the general had decided to accept the employment offer.

While they were having coffee, Lucy O’Connor returned. She was making notes in a PalmPilot as she weaved through the crowded restaurant and made her way directly to the table. Upon arriving, she fixed her eager eyes on Kat.

“There’s been another killing,” she said breathlessly.

“Who?” Kat asked. She seemed unusually alarmed. Or maybe she was tired of talking to reporters.

“A big shot Southern realtor named Robert Lawless,” Lucy said, reading from the PalmPilot. “A woman went to his hotel room—at the Monarch, this time—and left a few minutes later. Sometime between, she apparently poked him under the tongue with a hypodermic. The only difference between the Wilson and Lawless incidents is that this killer went up with him.”

“Did the security cameras get anything?” Rodgers asked.

“Same as yesterday,” Lucy replied. “A woman whose features were hidden, this time by a scarf and sunglasses.”

“How did you hear about it?” Kat asked.

“Someone in hotel security saw the woman in the elevator, thought she looked suspicious, and decided to check on Mr. Lawless. I was in the bar, networking, heard the fuss.”

“But they didn’t hold the woman,” Kat said.

“They were a few steps too late,” Lucy said. “She got off on the mezzanine, not in the lobby, and walked out a side door. The good news, I guess, is that it seems to take your soiree out of the spotlight. Lawless wasn’t on the invite list.”

Kat looked at her watch, then excused herself. She said she was going outside to call the senator. This was something he should know before he taped the show. “I owe you,” she said to Lucy as she left.

“I’ll want a comment from the senator,” Lucy said.

Kat nodded as she walked away. The reporter smiled and took the seat across from General Rodgers. The thirty-something woman had short blond hair, pale skin, thin red lips, and a hungry look.

There were all kinds of vampires in Washington.

“Lucky you were there,” Rodgers said.

“My middle name is Kay,” the reporter said. “My folks gave it to me so I could add it to Lucy whenever I wanted.”

“Cute,” Rodgers said.

“So, General,” Lucy said. “What about these rumors that Op-Center is being phased out?”

“Intelligence fund reapportionments are cyclical,” Rodgers said. “Op-Center got a boost five years ago, now they’re being cut back. They’re still beefier than they were when they started.”

That was longer than “nope.” Mike Rodgers was proud of himself—but only for a moment.

“They?” Lucy said.

That was a slip. Rodgers should have been more careful.

“General, are you going to work for Senator Orr and the USF?” Lucy asked. “Is that why you were at the party last night?”

“Nope,” he said.

“Nope?” Lucy said, her mouth twisting.

“Nope.” Words were a reporter’s oxygen supply. Cut it off, and they died.

“Sir, I am on your side, their side. I can help. The more leads I get, the more credibility I have, the more favorable press the senator gets. Are you sure there’s nothing you want to tell me?”

“Yep,” he said.

She frowned. She reached into the PalmPilot carrying case and handed him a business card. “When you feel like talking, call me first.”

He tucked the card in his shirt pocket. He said nothing, though he did smile politely.

Kat returned then and said that the news had reached the senator right after he left.

“How did he hear about it?” Rodgers asked.

“From Nightline,” she replied. “They wanted him to know that they were going to go easy on the questions about Wilson because of this.”

Lucy got up to give Kat the seat. “Well, I’m going to get online and coin a name for our serial killer before someone else does. It will make an incredible book title one day.”

The reporter left while Rodgers and Kat finished their coffee.

“Well, that was a strange end to a very unusual day.”

“Strange in what way?”

“It started with me denying that Op-Center would ever fake evidence to get publicity and ended with me sitting here wondering if a reporter would kill people to get a book deal.”

The woman laughed. “Lucy is aggressive. But I don’t think she’s a killer.”

“Was she at the party last night?”

“Yes,” Kat said. “That was why she came over to me at the bar. To guarantee continued terrific coverage of the USF for continued A-list status.”

“Will you give it to her?”

“I said I’d talk to the senator,” Kat said. “But I’ll probably give it to her. Otherwise, she might become homicidal.”

Kat insisted on picking up the tab, after which Rodgers walked her to her car. There was no sexual tension, which was fine with him. It had been a long day. He was looking forward to catching Nightline and going to bed.

And for the first time in his life, General Mike Rodgers realized how utterly, sadly accurate the maxim about old soldiers truly was.

NINETEEN

Washington, D. C. Monday, 10: 55 P.M.

Darrell McCaskey was sitting in bed, reading and waiting for Maria to finish taking a shower. His wife had spent most of the day with Ed March, helping him investigate the Malaysian connection. March had taken her to dinner to thank her. McCaskey had been checking on Orr party guests and had been unable to join them.

Maria had just entered the bedroom when the phone beeped. It was Dr. Minnie Hennepin.

“The police are bringing in another apparent hotel homicide,” she told him. “They found the same kind of puncture wound as Mr. Wilson.”

“Who was it?” McCaskey asked as he put his book on the night table. He reached for the TV remote control and put on the local news.

“A Southern businessman. That’s all I heard.”

“Do the police have any information about the killer?”

“Apparently they have no more information than they had on the first one,” she said.

“Doctor, I appreciate the call,” McCaskey said.

Maria lay down beside her husband. He kissed his wife, then cradled her while he checked his cell phone for messages. There were no missed calls. He rang his office phone and found no messages there, either. That was going to make his next step an extremely difficult one.

The death of the businessman, Robert Lawless, was the lead story on the news. They listened to an interview with Lawless’s aide and watched a video shot from the security camera of the woman emerging on the mezzanine. She was careful to hide her face from the camera.

“What does your gut tell you about all this?” McCaskey asked his wife.

“She’s a professional.”

“Yeah. This is not some angry escort turning against men.”

“But what individual would have access to hypodermic needles and drugs?” she asked.

“Potassium chloride is readily available from chemical supply firms, and syringes are easy to come by.”

“Did you learn anything from the party guests?” she asked.

“Unless we’re dealing with a cover-up, all of the women had alibis,” McCaskey said.

The phone rang as they were talking. McCaskey muted the TV and checked the Caller ID. It was Paul Hood.

“I assume you’ve heard,” Hood said.

“Yes,” McCaskey replied.

Maria took the remote and punched up the sound. McCaskey put a finger in his ear so he could hear.

“Not to be cold about it, but how does this impact us?” Hood asked.

“I was just thinking about that, and it looks like a loselose-lose situation,” McCaskey said. “The Metro Police have not called to ask for our input. If we force it on them, we’re going to come off as aggressive. If we don’t, we’ll appear weak. If we investigate independently, we’ll seem isolated and high-handed.”

“What if we officially bow out?” Hood asked.

“Bailing is our best option,” McCaskey said. “Scotland Yard will squawk, but it’s unlikely anyone will hear. The trick is what spin do we put on it?”

Maria poked his side. “You can’t leave.”

McCaskey frowned.

“You stand a better chance of finding her than the police,” Maria went on.

“Hold on, Paul,” McCaskey said. He turned to his wife. “Why do you think we can find her?”

“She is not a killer. She is an assassin.”

“Why would an assassin go after a successful but relatively unimportant businessman like Lawless?”

“Exactly,” she said.

“I don’t follow.”

“Unlike the death of William Wilson, this murder was an afterthought,” Maria said. “Someone wanted Wilson out of the way, so they hired a very skilled individual who made it look as if he had died of natural causes. They did not want a murder. Otherwise, they could have hired a sniper to shoot him from Lafayette Park. When you destroyed that scenario, they were forced to target someone else, to make the Wilson death seem like the first high-profile strike of a hypodermic serial killer who was chasing down wealthy businessmen. Lawless happened to be the man she picked.”

“What makes you think that Lawless was an arbitrary choice?” McCaskey asked his wife.

“Look at the dissimilarities in the approach to the death,” the former Interpol agent told him. “William Wilson had bodyguards. The assassin had to approach him as a lover to get past them and make sure they stayed away. And because she was the lover of a high-profile individual, the hotel staff would have made a point of paying her very little attention. She came to the hotel, they did their business, she left—all of it relatively invisible. Tonight was different. Listen to these interviews,” she said, pointing at the TV. “The woman spoke with another man in the courtyard but never looked up at him. The dead man’s assistant noticed her, but she did not let him see her face. She was being very cautious.”

“Right. She did not want to be identified, because she was waiting to kill him,” her husband said.

“No. After the killing, she got off on the mezzanine,” Maria said. “She had already cased out the hotel, knew how to leave with minimum visibility. Why do that and then go back outside and expose herself to all of this scrutiny? If Lawless had been the intended target all along, she could have posed as his wife or daughter and gotten into the room. She could have ambushed a housekeeper and taken a master key. She could have knocked on his door after he had gone in. Who would not admit a young woman? She could have used a syringe to inject hydrochloric acid into the lock to dissolve it. She took none of those safer routes because our assassin did not know Lawless was going to be her victim. Not until she spoke with him, found out he was successful enough to fit the serial killer motif she—or whoever hired her—had invented, and learned that he was staying in the hotel alone.”

McCaskey was silent while he processed everything his wife had said. “You’re saying that making this appear to be a pattern actually underscores the uniqueness of the first hit,” McCaskey said.

“That is how I see it,” Maria replied.

“It’s possible,” he muttered after a long, long moment. “Dammit, it really is. Brava, my love.”

She smiled at him.

“Paul, did you hear any of that?”

“I did, Darrell, and I’m still processing it,” Hood told him. “But tell Maria ‘well done.’ ”

“Thank you!” she said from under her husband’s arm.

“It sounds like we’re going to have to stay involved with this, then,” Hood said.

“Maybe even deeper than we were before,” McCaskey said.

If Maria had nailed this, they were not looking at a vengeful escort or industrial espionage. They were looking at something strongly reminiscent of what the FBI called an IOS, an improvised operational scenario. One in which the carefully devised plans for a strike team, undercover personnel, or sometimes both had to be quickly and effectively reconfigured because something had gone wrong.

An operation that was traditionally handled by seasoned intelligence personnel.

TWENTY

Washington, D. C. Tuesday, 7:13 A.M.

Paul Hood had gone home for a long sleep, shower, then returned to Op-Center. He was wiped out from a day that was spent mostly with Ron Plummer, reviewing the restructuring of Op-Center. The investigation was also draining. It was not just a chess game but a chess game on multiple levels. Overinvolvement to help Scotland Yard might damage relations with the Metro Police. A concession to the police might weaken Hood’s credibility not just with the Yard but with other intelligence agencies. Spending money on a non–core operation might hurt Hood’s standing with the CIOC and with Op-Center employees who were going to be hard-pressed to do their existing jobs. In one sense, it was a hell of a challenge. In another, it was daunting and exhausting.

The previous afternoon had been so full that Hood did not have an opportunity to call his former wife. When he finally did have the time, it was nearly eleven P.M. Sharon would probably be asleep or with Jim Hunt. In any case, Hood preferred to talk with her when he was fresh. It helped him deal with whatever feelings of entitlement or bitterness she might spray his way.

Ironically, just before he phoned her, Matt Stoll called. He said that he understood the staff cuts and could do a lot of the maintenance work, paperwork, “the gruntwork” himself. But he said he needed at least another set of hands to help him. Cheap hands. “Monkey hands,” he said.

There was something about that image which amused Hood. He knew a chimp they could hire.

He was disappointed with the crankiness in his soul, but the hurt was there and it wasn’t going away. As long as he didn’t communicate that to Sharon, no harm was done.

Sharon was rushed, as usual, when he called. She was going to work out, and her trainer—another addition to her new life—did not like it when she was late. She was also polite but formal, as Hood had come to expect. He got the words out quickly. Otherwise, he would have changed his mind about telling her that he had found an internship for Frankie Hunt.

“It’s with Matt Stoll,” Hood told her. “He’ll be working on put-the-square-peg-in-the-square-hole stuff. Inventory and routing software and hardware upgrade notifications.”

“Great,” Sharon said. “Thanks.”

She really did sound grateful. That made him uncomfortable. Sharon was happy because he was helping his goddamn replacement. There was a point at which a good soldier became an idiot. He felt he had crossed that.

“E-mail me his contact information,” Hood told her, continuing because he had no choice. “I’ll order an expedited background check, and we can go from there.”

“Will do,” she said. “Frankie is a good kid.”

“I’m sure he is,” Hood said pleasantly. It was filler, but he could not think of anything else to say. Anything civil, that is.

Since the children had already left for school, the call ended with a pair of unsentimental good-byes. Hood sat there for a moment, looking at the phone. He wanted to slam his fist on it but did not. The phone was not his enemy. He was. Mr. Cooperative, the mediator, the nice guy.

The idiot.

As with Senator Debenport the day before, an early-morning phone conversation ended with Hood feeling as if he had been someone’s stooge. He hoped this did not become a pattern. It might make him insecure, and crises did not yield to men of caution. At the same time, Hood could not afford to become overly bold and push Op-Center deeper into areas where it had no legitimate business.

Both extremes were tested when Darrell McCaskey arrived. McCaskey came to see Hood with something that had been on his mind all morning: the name of the only individual who fit Maria’s quick-sketch profile.

“Admiral Kenneth Link,” McCaskey said. “He’s a former head of covert ops with the CIA, he’s got an anti-European agenda, and he knew where William Wilson was staying.”

“Okay, so Link did not like the man’s policies,” Hood said. “What does he gain by removing Wilson?”

“I’m not sure,” McCaskey admitted. “But I can’t dismiss the possibility.”

“Fair enough. Talk it out.”

“A prominent Brit dies abroad after a sexual encounter,” McCaskey said. “The Fleet Street tabloids are all over that. Wilson’s death not only cripples and probably terminates the new banking venture, it affects the stock price of his company. The tawdriness of what happened hurts the value even more. In short, Wilson’s death shuts down a potential threat to the American economy.”

“Right,” Hood replied. “But doesn’t that help the current administration and not Senator Orr?”

“Just the opposite, I would think,” McCaskey said. “If the rumors about Orr are true, he is going to come out and effectively promote a strong policy of isolationism. Wilson’s death gives the senator a salacious, Eurocentric target, someone the president’s endorsed successor can’t hit.”

“Because, like us, the president has overseas alliances to protect.”

McCaskey nodded. “Orr wouldn’t care about that. His only concern is the American electorate.”

“That might also be a rival’s concern,” Hood said. “Someone could be looking to frame Link and stop a credible threat to the two-party system.”

“It’s possible,” McCaskey admitted.

Hood shook his head. “One problem I have with your theory, Darrell, is that Wilson was as viable a target for Orr alive as he was dead. In fact, if Wilson were alive, his European banking operation might have won Don Orr even more support.”

“But we’re not talking about the senator,” McCaskey reminded him. “We’re talking about Admiral Link.”

“I understand that. But I’m still not clear what he could possibly gain. Why would he want to hurt Orr’s rhetoric by eliminating William Wilson?”

“That is the big question,” McCaskey said.

“It’s also one I’m not sure Op-Center needs to answer,” Hood said. “We agreed to stick a finger in this for Scotland Yard. The more I look at it, the more it does not seem like a crisis.”

“That depends on your definition of crisis,” McCaskey said. “I see a person or persons who were able to move quickly when their killing was exposed. That suggests a conspiracy, one that may involve the office of a United States senator. Give me a little more time to research this, Paul. Let me take a closer look at Kenneth Link and Orr’s staff.”

“What about Mike?” Hood asked. “Would you involve him?”

“I’m not sure,” McCaskey said.

Neither man said what was obviously on both of their minds. Would Mike give his loyalty to the old team or the new? Was it even fair to put him in that position?

A chess game with multiple levels, Hood thought.

Hood called Liz Gordon’s office. She was not in yet, and he left a message for her to see him when she arrived. He wanted her to whip up a quick-sketch profile of Link. Then he turned to his computer and brought up the Senate’s secure home page. The staff directory was accessible only to government officials. Hood looked up Orr’s office staff. Admiral Link was not there, of course, since he was only involved in the United States First Party.

“Do we know anything about Katherine Lockley and Kendra Peterson?” Hood asked.

“A little,” McCaskey said. He leaned over Hood, typed his password on the keyboard, and opened the file he had collected on Senator Orr’s staff.

“Lockley was a journalist before joining Orr,” McCaskey said, looking at his notes. “I checked her bylines, her college records. She checks out. Peterson was a Vietnam war baby, Marine dad, came to live here when she was a kid. She’s a gymnast, a national champion in her early teens who missed out on the Olympics because of tendonitis in her fingers. She joined the Marines and managed to pass the physical, though the tendonitis returned, and she ended up working in Camp Pendleton on the DANTES program.”

“Which is?”

“Not as ominous at it sounds,” McCaskey told him. “It’s the Defense Activity for Non-Traditional Education Support certification program. She pushed paper to make sure qualified Marines got a good shot at civilian jobs.”

“Is that all she did?”

“It’s the only job on record,” McCaskey said. “When her enlistment was up, Ms. Peterson used her DANTES connections to get herself a job as a clerk in the U.S. embassy in Japan. That often means a spook.”

“Did she pick Japan?”

“That was what the Military Outplacement Specialty Office came up with,” McCaskey said.

“No obvious red flags there,” Hood said. “Who else is on the senator’s staff?”

McCaskey went through the remainder of the list and what he had gathered about each individual. No one stood out.

Hood sighed as McCaskey walked back around the desk. “I don’t know, Darrell. You’ve shown me how Link is qualified to mastermind this but not a single reason why he would.”

“Why was Wilson at that party?”

“According to the news reports, so that Orr’s friends could make a connection, try to temper his plans,” Hood said.

“Is that easier to believe than the fact that Wilson was being set up?” McCaskey asked.

“Frankly, yes. I don’t see the trail of bread crumbs that leads from Wilson to Link. Senator Orr is wealthy, and he has extremely wealthy friends. They could have set up a program to challenge Wilson. In fact, that would have made a very strong campaign plank. Even if Link wanted to sabotage Orr’s campaign for some reason, make it appear that he was behind the murder, why kill a second businessman? No,” Hood said, “I don’t see how they connect.”

“Okay. Here’s a reason Link might have wanted Wilson dead,” McCaskey said. “Publicity for Orr. Guilty by innuendo, then exonerated by the second murder.”

“Possibly.”

“Or maybe Link is a sociopath who misses the thrill of undercover operations,” McCaskey said. “I know I do.”

“You were stopping transgressions, not instigating them,” Hood pointed out.

“Whether you snort, smoke, or inject, danger is a tonic,” McCaskey said. “Look, Paul. I don’t know why he would do this. I only have a feeling that there’s something here.”

“How much time will you need to explore this feeling?”

“Forty-eight hours?”

Hood frowned. “Take a day and see where it leads. I can’t promise you more than that.”

“All right.”

“You also have to decide about Mike,” Hood went on. “Until I have his resignation, he’s still working with us.”

“What do you think?”

“Tough call. If he finds out, he’ll think we couldn’t trust him. But he’d also feel obligated to tell Link. Best to give him plausible deniability for now.”

“Good call. Speaking of calls, I’m going to let Maria know what’s up. She might have some ideas.”

“Good idea,” Hood said. He thought for a moment. “Mike is an honorable man. He may not like what we’re doing, but if he smells something wrong, he’ll act.”

McCaskey smiled.

“Did I miss something?” Hood asked.

“The smile, you mean? Yeah. You never leave us out to dry.”

“You lost me,” Hood said.

“You said that Mike may not like what we’re doing,” McCaskey told him as he turned to go. “You don’t pass the buck, Paul.”

Hood did not realize he had done that.

When McCaskey had gone, Hood went to his E-mail. He just stared at the monitor. He had just received another pat on the shoulder for being a good and responsible man. If Paul Hood was so good and responsible, how did he get to this place in life? Rationing McCaskey’s hours like they were water in the desert, working as cabin boy on the Good Ship Sharon and Jim, playing defense instead of offense with the CIOC and the William Wilson investigation. When Hood was the mayor of Los Angeles, he used to feel that fighting the city council or one of his commissioners to a draw was unsatisfactory. Right now, a stalemate sounded sweet.

“Knock, knock.”

Hood looked up. Liz Gordon was standing in the doorway. Her dark eyes were large and owl wise, framed on three sides by short brown hair. They were set in a wide, open face that invited trust.

“Come in,” Hood said.

Liz entered.

“Have you ever heard of Admiral Kenneth Link, former head of covert ops for the CIA?” Hood asked.

“No,” Liz said. “Former head? So what is he doing now?”

“Helping Senator Donald Orr launch the new USF Party.”

“That’s the one Mike is going to work for, correct?”

Hood snickered. “I’m glad to see the Op-Center grapevine hasn’t been affected by cutbacks.”

“There are cheap, unlimited minutes on that network,” Liz joked.

“I saw an online news flash that Orr should be holding a press conference now,” Hood said, looking at his watch. “The word is that Link will serve as Orr’s vice presidential candidate. Darrell believes Link may be connected to the deaths of William Wilson and this other gentleman, Robert Lawless. I need a quick, rough profile.”

“Sure, but I can tell you what it will probably look like,” Liz said. “How long did he run covert ops?”

Hood looked up his file. “Twelve years.”

“That’s a long time,” she said. “Did he go right from that job to this one?”

“Within a few months.”

“Classic. How often do you hear about former presidents, generals, quarterbacks, and CEOs retiring and playing golf?”

“I don’t know—though right now that sounds like a damn fine idea,” Hood admitted.

“Precisely. People who run high-performance teams in pressure cooker situations get fried over time,” Liz told him. “They rarely go back to that kind of operation. Chances are good that if Admiral Link got out, he did not jump back in. Would the killings have had an elective quality for him?”

“You mean, did it have to be Wilson and did it have to be now?”

Liz nodded.

“We’re not sure. What about Link leaving intelligence work and missing the risk factor? Darrell seems to think that might be significant.”

“Moving from behind a curtain at the CIA to center stage in a national political campaign is a pretty big risk,” Liz said. “Which brings us to the X factor.”

“Which is?”

“A political ticket would be subjected to scrutiny by the press and public,” Liz said. “Orr and Link have no control over where those eyes and fingers go probing. A man used to being in charge of things might want to set up a few sidelines that he could control, just to enjoy some familiar ground.”

“Including something this bold?”

“Well—that’s the unknown quantity,” Liz explained. “I’ll have a look at Link’s file, but I’m not optimistic. A dual murder seems a little extreme for someone who just moved from an organization where that kind of activity was at least acceptable, if not encouraged.”

Hood said he would E-mail the file to Liz. Before leaving, she asked if he was all right.

“Sure, why?” he asked, though he knew the answer.

“The situation with Mike,” she replied.

“That wasn’t easy,” Hood admitted. “But hiring and firing are part of the job description.”

“Does he know you’re investigating his new colleague?”

“No. At least, no one told him. I don’t know what he might surmise or suspect.”

“So everything’s under control here,” she said.

Hood picked up a paperweight Alexander had made in the first grade. It was a blue and white glazed lump of clay that was supposed to be Earth. He held it in his fist. “I’ve got the whole world in my hand, Liz,” he said.

“Like Atlas,” she said.

“He had it on his shoulders,” Hood pointed out.

“Like Atlas,” she repeated.

Hood thought about that, then smiled. She got him. He put the paperweight down. “What do you do when you feel like your life and career are on a parallel course in the wrong direction?”

“That depends,” Liz replied. She shut the door. “If you’re patient, it’s like moving around that globe. Learn what you can on the journey, enjoy the scenery, and eventually, you come back around.”

“What if you feel like you’re running out of fuel?”

“Ride the winds.”

“I have been,” Hood told her.

“And?” The psychologist moved toward the desk. “Talk to me, Paul.”

Hood hesitated. He was not good at this. He did not like to complain or to seek help. But Liz must have sensed that something was wrong. The woman was responsible for keeping psychological files of the staff, and her antennae were always extended. Decisions made in these offices could affect millions of people. If Liz felt that someone were under too much stress, either personal or professional, she could order them to take time off. She had done that with Mike Rodgers after his Striker military unit was decimated in India.

“Truthfully, Liz?” Hood said. “I feel like those winds have been blowing me all over the damn place, mostly away from where I need to be.”

“Do you know where you need to be?”

“Not doing this,” he said. “Not cutting personnel and pulling back from missions. Not kowtowing.”

“That’s negative space,” she said in a careful, nonjudgmental voice. “You can’t define what you should be doing by what you’re not doing.” She leaned on the desk so their eyes were level. “First tell me this, Paul. Are we talking about home or about Op-Center?”

“Both,” he admitted.

“So you feel like your backsliding in two areas.”

“Yeah. At the same speed and gaining momentum.”

“Do you wish you were back with Sharon?”

“No,” he said without hesitation.

“Are you upset that she’s getting her life together?”

Liz was Harleigh’s therapist, so Hood was not surprised that she knew this.

“No,” he answered truthfully.

“You said you were kowtowing. To Sharon?”

Hood nodded. “To her, to the CIOC, to Scotland Yard, and when you leave I’ll probably feel like I was kowtowing to you.”

“Then tell me to go.”

Hood hesitated.

“The only way to stop backsliding is to dig down with your heels.” She stood. “Do it, Paul.”

“Okay. We’re done,” he said.

“Not good enough. That isn’t an end. It’s neutral.”

“I don’t see the difference,” he confessed.

“I’m still here. I’m still talking, aren’t I?”

Hood grinned. “Get out,” he said sharply. “Now,” he added.

Liz smiled. “One more thing?” she asked.

Hood could not tell whether or not this was a trap. “One,” he said firmly.

“Everyone is disoriented and retrenching,” Liz said. “Sharon, the intelligence community, the nation. You’re being pushed, but it isn’t personal—it’s partly fear, partly a sense of renewal.”

The intercom beeped. It was Bugs Benet’s line.

Liz turned to go. “Don’t be afraid to push back,” she said. “Aggression externalized is preferable to aggression internalized.”

“Isn’t that how wars start?” Hood asked as the intercom beeped again.

“No,” Liz said. “Was the American Revolution about tea? Was the Civil War about slavery?”

“In part—”

“Bingo. War is never about one thing,” Liz said. “It’s about one thing that was never addressed and became two things, then three, and finally exploded and consumed everything.”

She was right. “Thanks, Liz,” Hood said as he picked up the phone.

“Anytime,” she said.

Hood nodded gratefully as he took the call. “What is it, Bugs?”

“Chief, the White House just called,” Bugs said. “The president wants to see you in two hours.”

“Did he say why?”

“No,” Bugs said.

Being asked to see the president was not unprecedented. However, if Hood had any doubt about the wisdom of Liz’s advice, it evaporated when he asked who else was going to be there.

“Senator Debenport,” Bugs replied.

TWENTY-ONE

Washington, D. C. Tuesday, 7:30 A.M.

With the flags of Texas and the United States as his backdrop, the dome of the Capitol between them, bright morning light causing his gray eyes to sparkle, Senator Donald Orr announced his candidacy for president. A crowd of some two-dozen supporters cheered. Half as many reporters recorded the moment.

Mike Rodgers stood well off to the side with Kat Lockley. He had called early to tell her he was going to accept the job offer and she told him Orr would appreciate having him at the announcement. Rodgers was glad to be invited. Admiral Link stood anonymously among Orr’s supporters with Kendra Peterson. Explaining the presence of Rodgers or Link was not a concern. Kat had told the gathering ahead of time that there would be no questions. The press secretary had looked directly at Lucy O’Connor when she said that. Rodgers was not in uniform, and it was unlikely that any member of the press corps would recognize him, either as the deputy director of Op-Center or from the news coverage of the UN siege or the assault in India. Those stories had been about Op-Center, not about him. Rodgers had wanted to be here so he could see how his future boss operated in public. He was certainly impressed with the way Orr had handled himself in his two television appearances. Rodgers routinely taped both the Evening News and Nightline appearances on his digital recorder. The senator was a master of working the camera. He addressed issues directly and with clarity. When he was not speaking, he used a lowered eyelid, a raised brow, a slight pursing of the lips, or a slant of the head to express himself. Orr knew the difference between communicating and mugging.

“This will not be an ordinary campaign,” Orr promised after making his introductory statement. “It will be inaugurated—and I use that term with an eye on the future,” he said with a big wink, pausing for applause from his supporters. “It will be inaugurated under the banner of a new party with a new vision for the nation. The United States First Party, working for a new independence.”

There were cheers and strong applause from supporters.

Kat leaned toward Rodgers. “That’s the slogan,” she said.

“I figured,” Rodgers replied. “It’s a good one. Yours?”

She nodded, then turned her attention back to Orr.

“Our independence will be built on a framework that already exists but has been marginalized by legislation and special interests: the Bill of Rights and the American Constitution. Other nations do not understand our passion for these documents. They do not understand our passion for the freedoms they protect. They are accustomed to being dominated by kings or czars or warlords. We threw off a foreign king. We will not tolerate the dictates of other nations. We will not put their needs above our own. We will no longer be part of a globalization process that finds our values and our way of life reprehensible.”

There were more cheers and a few raised fists. Granted, these were the converted. But Rodgers liked what he heard. He could imagine that a majority of American voters would, too.

“Our party will be holding its first convention later this week in San Diego,” Orr went on. “Just as the USF will not be an ordinary party, ours will not be a business-as-usual convention. The doors will be open to all. Everyone who attends will have a vote. That is the American way.”

The group roared its approval.

Rodgers leaned toward Kat. “I assume you have a plan to fill the convention center,” he said. “What are there, about ten thousand seats?”

“Twelve thousand,” she said. “Four thousand people are being bused from Texas alone. We have a lot of support in Orange County less than an hour from the convention center—”

“John Wayne country.”

“That’s right. Our people there have organized a Freedom Freeway caravan to drive to San Diego,” Kat told him. “That should bring us another three thousand. We have smaller groups coming from other parts of the country, and we believe individuals will come just to be part of something new and exciting.”

“The press likes caravans of ordinary folks,” Rodgers observed.

Kat smiled. Like her namesake, Rodgers thought.

Orr continued speaking. Rodgers just now noticed that he barely consulted his note cards. He had taken the time to memorize his speech. He was using the silences to make eye contact with the crowd.

“There may be voters in my great home state who feel abandoned by this change in party affiliation,” Orr continued. “To those people I say, only the label has changed. The Texan is still a Texan. Don Orr is the same man. He is still a champion for the young who want to work and the elderly who don’t want to retire. He believes that service to the nation, to its industry and its economy, should be honored. To those Americans who do not yet know me, I ask that you listen to what we have to say over the next days, and weeks, and months. We are not vainglorious politicians interested in power. We are not puppets controlled by special interest groups or special interest money. We are proud Americans who want to restore our nation to what it was and can be again. A country of scholars and adventurers. A land of bounty, not just in food and natural resources but also ideas. A launching pad of extraordinary new goals worthy of an exceptional people. A nation of justice and equality for the wealthy and those less fortunate, for the healthy and the infirm, for people of all ages.”

“Leave no vote unharvested,” Rodgers whispered to Kat.

“Perhaps, but the senator isn’t pandering, General,” Kat said. “He means it.”

“I believe he does,” Rodgers said. “In fact, I’m counting on it.” The general was doing more than that. He was responding to it. Whether it was his own situation with Op-Center or a general frustration with bureaucracy, politics, and a fragmented national focus, he was becoming enthusiastic for the first time in years.

“And finally, a few words to our friends abroad,” Orr said. “United States First does not mean United States only. We believe that a strong and vital America is essential to the health and prosperity of the world. But we believe our role should be as a beacon, not as a bank. We will be trailblazers, not nursemaids. The world is best served by a United States of America that is not a crutch but a foundation, strong and unshakable. This is the platform of our party, one that is designed to serve the proud people of our nation. Ladies and gentlemen, I thank you for your gracious attention today and in the days to come. God bless you all, and God bless these United States.”

As the crowd cheered, Kendra maneuvered the senator from the podium and reporters. Questions were being shouted about William Wilson, but they were being ignored. Kat was making notes in a PalmPilot about who was asking the unfriendly questions. Those reporters would probably find access to the senator restricted until that was no longer an issue.

Link had gone ahead to a waiting sedan. Kendra tucked the senator into the back of the black limo and slid in beside him. When they drove off, Rodgers followed Kat toward a table where beverages and snacks were available. They grabbed two cups of coffee before the reporters came by, then walked slowly across the lawn behind the Capitol.

“You know, if a major party candidate had said all that, they’d call it bluster and rhetoric,” Rodgers told her.

“That’s the difference between Senator Orr and the others,” Kat said. “Do you disagree?”

“Not a bit. I found it inspiring,” Rodgers said.

“Really?” Kat asked.

“Yeah. Especially the part about people not getting retired.”

Kat smiled. “You know, I didn’t even think of that.”

“I am curious, though. Why was Kendra running interference over there instead of you?”

“We wanted to make the senator’s departure seem like a security concern rather than blocking the press,” she said.

“That makes sense,” Rodgers said. At least in an imagesensitive Washingtonian way. “Meanwhile, what’s happening with the Wilson matter?”

“You mean did the other murder take the pressure off?” she asked. “Somewhat, though a few reporters privately wonder if we were responsible for both.”

“Were you?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Kat replied dryly. “This whole thing is like a homicidal ‘House That Jack Built.’ This is the candidate who hired a killer to slay the realtor to cover the assassination that got him the attention for the campaign that Kat built.” The young woman shook her head. “There are always—always—going to be three groups of reporters and commentators. Those who think you’re guilty of something, those who think you’re innocent, and those who think the topic is a sideshow. You only need the last two groups to stay in the race.”

“As far as public relations are concerned,” Rodgers said.

“Right. It doesn’t help if you’re actually guilty.”

Lucy O’Connor caught up to the two. She looked tired. Rodgers noticed the red light on her microcassette recorder was on. The tape was still turning.

“Good morning,” the reporter said. “That was a terrific speech.”

“Thanks. I’ll tell the senator you thought so,” Kat replied.

“Is anything new, on or off the record?” Lucy asked. She looked at Rodgers, and he looked at her. She repeated the question with her eyes.

“Apart from the senator running for president of the United States? Nothing,” Kat said. “What are you hearing?”

“A lot of backlash from the rush-to-judgment mentality everyone had yesterday,” Lucy replied.

“Did people really think Senator Orr was behind the assassination ?” Rodgers asked.

“I would categorize it as a perverse hope,” Lucy replied.

Rodgers shook his head. “Perverse is a good word.”

“A story like the Hypo-Slayer is where above-the-fold by lines and book deals come from,” Lucy added. “Speaking of stories, General, are you ready to tell me what you’re doing here?”

“There will be a press release at the appropriate time,” Kat told her. “You will have it early, of course.”

“Any word on a likely running mate?” Lucy asked. “I noticed Kenneth Link was here.”

“The ticket will not be announced before the convention,” Kat said.

“Come on, Kat. Off the record. I promise.”

“Sorry,” Kat replied.

Lucy turned to Rodgers. “What about the Op-Center investigation, General Rodgers?”

“What about it?”

“I hear that a gentleman named Darrell McCaskey is on his way over to talk to Admiral Link.”

“What?” Kat said. She stopped, took her cell phone out, and speed-dialed the admiral’s number.

“How do you know that?” Rodgers asked.

“Friend of mine with the postal police was talking to him. McCaskey wouldn’t tell him what it was about. Ed thought I might know.” Lucy smiled. “He wanted to help.”

Kat had turned her back to the others. She was only on the phone for a few seconds when she snapped it shut. “I’ll see you later,” she said to Rodgers and Lucy, and hurried off.

“Come on, Katherine,” Lucy said, running after her. “I just gave you a major heads-up—”

“I know that, and I appreciate it.”

“Show me!”

“When I can,” Kat promised.

That did not make Lucy happy. Rodgers started after Kat, and Lucy tugged his arm. “General, I can help you,” she insisted.

“Thanks.”

“It doesn’t work like that,” Lucy said, giving him another tug. “You have to help me, too.”

Rodgers withdrew his arm and started walking after Kat. Lucy followed him. Her persistence did not bother him. That was her job. What frustrated him was something that was roiling in his gut.

“General, talk to me. Just tell me what you’re doing with Senator Orr. Are you working for him or for Op-Center?”

“What do you think?”

“I think that if you were working for Op-Center, Kat would have known about the Darrell McCaskey interview,” she said.

“Makes sense,” he said.

“I know. That’s a direction, but it isn’t a story. Give me something I can use. Anything. A lead, an off-the-record observation, a quote I’ll attribute to an anonymous source—”

“The Hypo-Slayer,” Rodgers said.

“Beg pardon?”

“Is that what you came up with last night when you said you needed a name for the killer?”

“Yes,” Lucy said. “It was the best I could do before deadline.”

“It’s good,” he said.

“Thanks. Now, how about it? Lend me a hand here.”

Rodgers stopped. “You know what? I’m out of the hand-lending business. It’s nothing personal, but I helped Japan. I helped the United Nations. I helped the entire Indian subcontinent. Do you know what it got me?”

“Not a lot of personal press.”

“I don’t care about that,” he said. He was about to cross the fail-safe point but did not care. “It got me downsized.”

“You were released from Op-Center?”

“Released is what you do to a wounded condor or a seal with a coat of crude oil. I was canned, Lucy.”

“Jeez. General, I’m so sorry. May I quote you?”

“Why not? You can also quote me as saying that loyalty is missing in action, along with honor and integrity. Not just at Op-Center but throughout society. Real service is rewarded with lip service, and opportunists are calling the plays. I’ve been invited to join the senator’s team in some capacity to try to change that. I plan to accept because I trust in the American people to see the difference between arrivistes and people of character and principle. Close quote,” he added.

“Would you mind if I asked Paul Hood to comment?”

“No,” Rodgers said. “But Lucy?”

“Yes?”

Rodgers hesitated. He wanted to tell her not to make him sound bitter. However, he did not know how to say that without acknowledging that he was bitter.

The reporter seemed to read his thoughts. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll make it come out right.”

Rodgers smiled softly.

Lucy thanked the general and left. Rodgers stood there for a moment, not sure how he felt. He had not planned to say those things, but then he had not planned on being downsized, either. Or losing Striker in the field. What was it Trotsky had said? The more time you have to plan, the more mistakes you’ll make. This came from the heart.

Rodgers jogged after Kat. He wanted to let her know what he had done, though he did not think she would mind. His comments were not about Orr; they were about Mike Rodgers and Op-Center. Besides, there was a benefit to what he had just done.

He was with them now, mind and soul.

TWENTY-TWO

Fallbrook, California Tuesday, 5:45 A.M.

For Tom Mandor, it was about the money. For Wayne Richmond it was about the money, but it was also about the danger. That was why he had gone to Alaska to drive a rig. That was why he came back to work as muscle.

At five A.M., he had left his cabin and had walked a quarter mile east, into the cold, dark hills. He did that once or twice every week in the late spring, summer, and early fall. That was when the peak was a place of perfect danger. Here, Richmond could confront as much danger as he wanted. He chose more than he needed just to test himself. Life should be a constant series of trials. It was the only way to grow, to be alive rather than simply act it. It was a way of controlling your adversaries and, thus, have a measure of control over your own life.

Wearing high tan western boots and carrying a finely honed Bowie knife, Richmond walked through the windy predawn darkness. He was dressed in a heavy denim jacket and black leather gloves to protect him from the nearfreezing temperatures. Here, nearly four thousand feet up, there was even occasional sleet and snow. As he neared the ledge, he saw the dimly lit tops of white clouds a thousand feet below. Above there were still only stars and navy blue sky. When the sun finally began to rise over the sharp, curving ridge and warmed the rocky ledge, danger also wakened. That was where the diamondback rattlesnakes lived.

The snakes nested in a line of boulders right at the edge of a cliff. Each season there were hundreds of them to be harvested. The first light of dawn woke the poikilotherm quickly, raising its blood temperature to the temperature of the new day. The triangular-headed snakes, anywhere from one to three of them, would move out in search of field mice, wild hares, early birds, or any small animals they could devour. It was not necessary for them to see their prey, which was why they could hunt before the sun had fully risen. The pits on the head of the rattlesnakes sensed the warmth of a living creature while their extended tongues could taste the prey on the air, the equivalent of Richmond smelling cooking in the kitchen. It allowed the snakes to pinpoint prey with deadly accuracy. An average adult diamondback was four to five feet long and could leap nearly that far.

The snakes were the color of dirt, invisible to the casual observer until their distinctive rattle warned potential attackers away. It sounded like the buzzing of a large hornet unless the snake was coiled to give it height and striking distance. That position raised the rattle completely off the ground, making it sound more like a pepper grinder. The coiled position also brought the snake’s head up in two or three seconds.

The diamondbacks were defensive rather than offensive creatures. Typically, they minded their own business and sought to avoid confrontations with larger animals like bobcats, coyotes, and humans.

That was why Richmond liked to poke them first with the end of his fifteen-inch blade. He did not want them to shy from a confrontation. He usually crouched and touched the tip of the knife to the tail. Most of the time the snakes moved away. If they did, he circled widely and blocked their retreat. He forced them to coil, which gave him the fight he wanted.

This morning, as Richmond sat on a rock and watched the dawn, he saw two snakes emerge from the rocks. One was fully grown, and the other was about ten inches long. Parent and offspring, out for a hunt. The smaller snake stopped behind a rock and curled into a tight spiral. It obviously was not happy with the chilly wind. The other snake continued to move away from the nest.

Diamondbacks are born live, and Richmond figured the smaller one to be about two weeks old. There were probably more in the nest. They would feed on whatever insects passed by, perhaps click beetles. Richmond decided he would kill them both, starting with the youngster.

Richmond moved from the large, cold rock. He did not carry a cell phone on these excursions. If he were careless enough to get bitten, Richmond felt that he deserved to die. Besides, calling 911 would be pointless. By the time an ambulance or helicopter reached him, he would be dead. The venom would instantly cause hemolysis, the destruction of red blood cells, preventing tissue oxygenation. That caused the major organs to shut down. He would be dead within ten or fifteen minutes.

The smaller snake sensed his approach. It moved closer to the rock, uncoiled, and slid onto the opposite side. Richmond smiled. He put the sole of his right boot on the top of the rock. It was a pyramid-shaped rock about a foot high and relatively flat. He waited until the tail disappeared then tipped the rock over. It landed on the snake, pinning it in the center. The tongue shot in and out and the tail wriggled angrily, but it was helpless. Richmond checked to see where the other snake was. Its beaded skin reflected the first yellow rays of sun as it moved from the ledge. The creature was intent on feeding, not on aiding its spawn. Richmond stepped on the rock, putting his weight on it, to make sure the smaller snake was truly pinned. Then he went around front, crouched in front of it, and drove the knife straight down into the tapered area behind its head. The head dropped off, the tongue still flicking for several moments as the black soil swallowed the blood seeping from its body.

Richmond wiped the knife blade on the dirt. Then he rose and went after the other snake.

That was when he heard it. Richmond turned back to the ledge. He crouched and listened.

There was a fire road to the east, a narrow, rain-rutted dirt path he could use to escape in case the only paved road were ever blocked by a blaze. Below it, about two thousand feet down, was a housing development. Occasionally, people hiked here to look out over the valley. They rarely walked up this early to watch the sunrise because they would have had to set out in the dark. But once in a while they drove out to see the sunrise. What he had heard sounded like a car.

Richmond moved toward the fire road. There was a Jeep parked on a landing. The vehicle was black with a gold star on the side. There was a lone occupant, a sheriff’s deputy. He probably had the night shift and had come up here before heading home. The deputy opened a thermos.

The lawman would be up here for a few minutes at least. That was good. Richmond had an idea. He doubled back, slipping the bowie knife into the leather sheath attached to his belt and removing his windbreaker as he walked. He passed the dead snake, lying on the ground muddied with its blood. He continued after the larger one. His eyes moved slowly from side to side. He paid special attention to stones and underbrush.

The snake was in a narrow gully, cut by erosion and filled with rocks that had washed down the slope. There was a gopher hole hidden among the small stones. The snake was going to warm itself on the rocks while it waited for breakfast to emerge. At least, that was apparently the snake’s plan. Richmond had a different idea. He walked alongside the gully and lay his windbreaker on the rocks. He knotted the ends of the sleeves, spread them out flat, then went back behind the snake. Scooping up a handful of stones, he began tossing them at the reptile one at a time. They hit the animal in the tail and body, and it moved ahead, rattling. Richmond followed. He continued to pelt the snake, driving it toward the windbreaker. As he expected, the snake crawled into the only shelter nearby: one of the two sleeves. Once the creature was inside, Richmond quickly grabbed the sleeve at the armpit. The snake had tried to coil itself inside. As a result, it was completely within the sleeve. Richmond carefully folded the body of the jacket around the sleeve so the diamondback did not slip out. Then he put his left hand around the sleeve and moved it toward the snake’s head. He held tight as the snake squirmed to get loose, its body twisting and undulating inside the sleeve. When the diamondback finally relaxed, Richmond untied the mouth of the sleeve with his right hand. If he released the head, the snake would drop free. Richmond then wrapped his right hand around the rattle. The creature was now his silent prisoner. Without removing his hands, Richmond hugged the windbreaker toward his belly and walked forward. Having the snake beside him, a captive, was almost like carrying a gun. The snake was just as potent, just as feared. Even better, Richmond realized, was that the snake would take the blame for the killing.

Richmond reached the rocky ledge. The sun was well above the distant mountains now. In the distance, a trio of hawks had begun to search the hillsides for small animals. He never tired of watching them circle as their wings and tail feathers shifted this way and that as they rode the changing thermal currents. Whenever a bird saw a potential meal, it called to the others, then pulled in its wings and plummeted like a lawn dart. Unlike the defense-minded snakes, the offense-oriented birds were nature’s most perfect hunting machines.

Defense and offense, Richmond thought. What looks inherently dangerous on the dirty ground is not. What seems graceful and beautiful in the blue heavens is lethal. Appearance is rarely an accurate yardstick for danger.

Richmond started down the fire road toward the Jeep. The driver’s side window was open.

“Good morning, Deputy,” Richmond said as he approached.

The deputy glanced into the side mirror. “Morning, sir.” He regarded Richmond a moment longer. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, why?”

“Looks like you got your arm bundled up.”

“No, no, I’m just collecting birds’ eggs for my aviary,” he smiled. He was speaking in a soft, fair voice. Laying a trap was part of the fun.

“Collecting eggs—with a bowie knife?” the deputy asked.

“That’s for snakes,” Richmond said as he reached the window.

“I thought so, though I suggest next time you bring a firearm. Carrying anything larger than a pocket knife is a felony.”

“But not a handgun?” Richmond said.

“No, sir.”

“Lord bless the NRA,” Richmond said.

The deputy took a swallow of coffee, then replaced the cup on top of the thermos. He was wearing a wedding band. He could not have been more than twenty-six. Richmond wondered if he came up here to slack off in secret or to contemplate the universe. Was he deciding whether to leave his wife or wistfully remembering how they used to come up here at night to make out? Richmond tried to guess how far ahead this young man had planned his life. To the next day? To the next promotion? To his first or next child?

“I’m Wayne Richmond, by the way,” the man said.

“Andy Belmont,” the deputy said. He extended his hand, then withdrew it when he remembered the bundle of eggs. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Richmond replied. “I walk here often, but I haven’t seen you here before.”

“I was transferred from Southwest Station last week,” Deputy Belmont told him. “I thought it would be a good idea to familiarize myself with the area in case I’m ever called up here.”

“Good thinking,” Richmond said. “Tell me, Deputy, is this the start or end of your shift?”

“The end,” the deputy said. “I get the morning babysitting chores so my wife can go to work. Then her mother relieves me so I can go to sleep.”

“Really? It must be difficult, working different hours like that.”

The deputy smiled. “I don’t know. It sort of makes us appreciate the time you do have together.”

“I guess that would be true,” Richmond said. He looked down at the young man’s exposed lap. All he had to do was empty the windbreaker sleeve and grab the radio from the deputy’s left shoulder. It was within easy reach, by the window. Deputy Belmont would die where he sat.

The deputy put his thermos in the cup holder between the seats. He turned his headlights back on. “Have a good day, sir, and don’t forget about the knife.”

Richmond had bent forward to talk to the deputy. He straightened so that his waist was even with the window. “Thanks. I won’t.”

He stood back. The deputy waved as he started down the path. Richmond nodded after him. And with his fingers tightening around the snake’s neck, he twisted it in a complete circle. The snake, which had begun wriggling again, trembled for a moment and then was still. Richmond shook the sleeve lightly. The snake did not move. He dumped it from the sleeve and jumped back.

The snake hit the ground and lay there. It was dead. Richmond left it for the crows, then turned and started back toward the ledge.

The day had begun better than Richmond could have imagined. Two snakes were dead, and he had spared a deputy. Three lives had been his. More, if he counted the wife and child.

To risk or not, to kill or not. Choice was the heart of control, control was the engine of power, and power was the key to a rewarding life. Wayne Richmond did not know how rewarding the rest of his life would be. But this day, at least, had begun very well indeed.

TWENTY-THREE

Washington, D. C. Tuesday, 9:44 A.M.

Darrell McCaskey was not what his FBI coworkers would have described as “badge heavy.” He did not bully suspects, subordinates, or anyone else. But when he wanted results, he usually got them. He was earnest. And if the earnestness failed to register, there were always his squared shoulders, unyielding eyes, and commanding manner.

McCaskey was dressed in a leather jacket instead of his usual tweedy blazer. He felt the battered old bomber jacket looked street-smart, a little more intimidating. He arrived at the Russell Senate Office Building and showed his Op-Center ID to the security guard. McCaskey instructed the young woman not to call ahead. He wanted to send a signal to the admiral. This was an investigation, not a fishing expedition. McCaskey would be courteous and respectful during the interview, but he would not be servile. The Bureau referred to this as the LAT approach—legal authority tactics. Suspects had rights under the law. So did police and Bureau interrogators.

McCaskey walked quickly to the senator’s office. The receptionist directed McCaskey to the conference room. Political parties are not permitted to have unelected representatives working on federal property. There were no regulations governing unaffiliated advisers.

Admiral Link had just returned from the press conference and was checking E-mails on his laptop. He appeared slightly unsettled.

“You don’t waste time,” Link said without looking up from the computer.

“Not when I’m on the taxpayers’ clock,” McCaskey said.

“Civic responsibility. A sad exception, not the rule,” Link said. “Would you like coffee or tea, Mr.—?”

“McCaskey, and no thanks,” McCaskey interrupted. He took a notebook from the inside pocket of his jacket. “I just wanted to ask you questions about some of your activities at the Company.”

Link smiled. “I have two things to say, Mr. McCaskey. First, you’re aware that I am not permitted to discuss any of the work I did, even with a member of an intelligence service.”

“Technically, that isn’t true.”

Link finally glanced up. “What do you mean?”

“The standard CIA employment agreement says that a former employee may not reveal information that might compromise ongoing operations,” McCaskey said. “You signed such an agreement without riders. I checked. My questions involve personnel you may have worked with who are either no longer with the Company or may be assigned to the D.C. area.”

“You abrogate the spirit of confidentiality, Mr. McCaskey.”

“People have said worse things about me, sometimes in English,” McCaskey replied. “What is the second thing you wanted to say?”

“Sidestepping the question of whether you or anyone else has reasonable cause to insist on this interview, I’m curious,” Link said. “By what chartered authority is Op-Center here to question me?”

“By the International Intelligence Cooperation Act of 2002,” McCaskey replied as he sat at the table across from Link. “A British national has died, Scotland Yard has requested an investigation, and we were the agent they selected. By law, I am permitted to ask questions of potential witnesses to the crime or events leading up to it. The senator agreed to an interview with Director Hood, which establishes his understanding of the validity of the IICA. Do you object to my questioning you?”

“Yes, and I also question your interpretation of the law,” Link said. “But I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt—for the moment.”

“Thank you. Admiral Link, have you personally hired anyone for the United States First Party?”

“No,” Link replied.

“Have you recommended anyone for a staff position, paid or interned, for the United States First Party?”

“Eric Stone, the young man who is managing the convention,” Link said. “That’s Eric with a c.”

“How do you know Mr. Stone?” McCaskey asked as he wrote the name in his notebook.

“He was my assistant at the Company. Eric is a very good organizer.”

“Does he have field experience?”

“As a certified public accountant,” Link replied. “Chicago office.”

“Have you hired or recommended anyone else?” McCaskey asked.

“Not yet.”

“What about the senator’s staff?” McCaskey asked.

“I brought in Kendra Peterson,” Link said.

“How do you know her?”

“She was a field agent based in Japan but working in North Korea and Taiwan,” Link said.

“One of yours?”

“Yes. Strictly ROO.”

ROO was recon only operative. However, McCaskey knew that even passive field agents were sometimes used in offensive operations. There was a case in Russia in 1979 when CIA operative Genson Blimline had been exposed by a Soviet mole. Rather than pull him out, the Company sent an observer in to watch the men who were sent to watch him. When they moved against Blimline, the ROO moved against them. Both the ROO and Blimline were able to get to a safe house in Moscow.

“Ms. Peterson’s name came up as a possible contact when Striker went over there,” said a voice from behind McCaskey. “I can get you that file.”

McCaskey turned. Mike Rodgers was standing in the conference room doorway.

“May I come in?” Rodgers asked Link.

“Absolutely,” Link replied.

Rodgers entered. His eyes were fixed on McCaskey. “What’s the latest on the witch-hunt?”

“I wouldn’t call it that,” McCaskey replied.

Rodgers did not reply.

“Mr. McCaskey, if you have more questions, would you please get to them?” Link said. “I have real work to do.”

Link’s smugness was starting to piss McCaskey off. “Admiral, this is a serious inquiry,” McCaskey said. “It would be a mistake to think otherwise.”

“Sir, you are taking it seriously, which is not the same thing,” Link told him. “But then, I have an advantage you do not, Mr. McCaskey.”

“And that is?”

“I know that I am innocent of any wrongdoing or complicity in wrongdoing. Now, what’s your next question?”

As much as McCaskey disliked Link, he reminded himself that he was here to get information, not to make a new friend.

“Are you aware of anyone who might possess the skill to talk their way into a man’s room, kill him by lethal injection under the tongue, and leave virtually undetected?” McCaskey asked.

“A woman, you mean.”

“Or a man who might have trained a woman.”

Link acknowledged the correction with a nod. “Only Kendra.”

“That woman is a font of hidden talents. Where did she get her training?” McCaskey asked.

“From the United States Marines,” Link said. “She spent several months as a 91-W, a health care specialist. She had to transfer out because of a problem with her fine motor skills.”

“Related to tendonitis?” McCaskey asked.

“I don’t know,” Link said. “Would you care to ask her?”

“Not at present,” McCaskey said. He wanted time to research Kendra’s file before talking to her.

“You may not get another chance,” Link advised him.

“Why not?”

“Because when you’re finished here, I intend to see that neither you nor anyone else from Op-Center get back in,” Link told him.

“That sounds like a warning and smells like guilt.”

“Only to a group of very desperate intelligence operatives,” Link said. “Paul Hood is already having difficulties with the CIOC. Senator Orr can see that he has a great many more.”

“Oh? Under what theory of Congressional authority?”

“Harassment of a private citizen,” Link told him. “Look, Mr. McCaskey. I don’t want to be difficult. We’re on the same team. Two businessmen have been murdered, and I would like to see their killer found and punished. But you have very odd suspicions about me and no evidence. Now you want to heap some of that vague conjecture on Kendra Peterson. I will ask her to join us in the spirit of cooperation, not because I believe the interview to have merit or cause. I would take that opportunity while the spirit is willing.”

McCaskey looked from Link to Rodgers. “No, Admiral. If I want something from Ms. Peterson, I will be in touch.”

Link laughed. “I haven’t decided whether you’re confident, proud, or obtuse, Mr. McCaskey. But you are selfrighteous. If I have not made it clear, you will not be coming back.”

McCaskey rose. “Thank you for your time, Admiral.” He looked at Rodgers. “I’m sorry this has been difficult for you, Mike.”

Rodgers did not reply with words. His hard expression was enough to convey his anger.

McCaskey looked back at Link. The admiral had already turned his attention back to his laptop.

“One more thing, Admiral,” McCaskey said.

“All right.” He did not look up.

“How do you feel about Mr. Wilson’s death?”

“Inconvenienced and torn,” Link replied without hesitation. “A man enjoyed the senator’s hospitality, returned to his hotel, and was murdered. That’s a sad, lawless, unjustifiable act. But he happened to be an individual whose economic ideas would have been detrimental to our nation. You can see my dilemma.”

“Some people would call it something else. A motive.”

“If only the world were so black-and-white,” Link said, “men like you would be ringmasters instead of sweeping up after the elephants. I’ll tell you one last time, Mr. McCaskey. You are misguided and doing both yourself and your organization a disservice.”

McCaskey showed himself out of the senator’s office. He wondered if Link were being sincere. Years at the CIA had given the man one hell of a poker face. And he had been extremely forthcoming about Kendra’s background. That is not something a guilty man was likely to do. McCaskey also wondered if he himself was being stubborn—“obtuse,” as Link had put it—by not interviewing Kendra Peterson now. McCaskey decided he was not. He wanted to have a look at photographs from the party, at photographs from Kendra’s file. He wanted to compare them with the indistinct pictures from the surveillance cameras. If there were no similarities, McCaskey might not have any reason to talk to her. Besides, if he had accepted, he would have been probing blind. He also would have been surrendering Op-Center’s authority by acknowledging Link’s control. Either Op-Center had the right to seek this information, or they did not. If Senator Orr could stop them with a phone call, McCaskey might as well give up the investigation now.

The former FBI agent put the process aside for now to consider the data. Senator Orr had three former CIA employees on his staff. Admiral Link had spent several years at the Company. He knew a few good people. This could be nothing more than that. Yet at least two of those people, Link and Kendra, had the skills, opportunity, and probably the resources to have targeted, cornered, and executed William Wilson and Robert Lawless. Link’s caustic dismissal aside, his dislike of the man’s fiscal policies could have moved him to murder. McCaskey knew of at least two instances when business concerns were said to have inspired CIA-organized TDs—terminal directives, the euphemism for assassinations. Patrice Lumumba, the first democratically elected leader of the Congo, was assassinated in January 1961 to protect American and Belgian business interests. In 1979, South Korean President Park Chung Hee was shot by CIA-backed personnel who feared that the economic boom was putting the nation too deeply in debt to Japanese lenders.

Perhaps William Wilson had been planning to contribute substantial monies to a USF rival. Scotland Yard might be able to find out for him. That would have rid both the party and the United States economy of a potential threat.

McCaskey did not have a lot of information. But he did have more than when he arrived. For all of Link’s bluster, the interview was a success. The only thing he had not anticipated was the presence of Mike Rodgers. The men had a lot of history between them, and he hoped they could get past this.

If not, McCaskey would survive. He was only an agent of policy, not the one who designed it.

Paul Hood was the man in the crosshairs.

TWENTY-FOUR

Washington, D. C. Tuesday, 10:00 A.M.

It was a warm, clear day, and the world around him white and blue. Hood’s eyes went from the gleaming monuments that dominated the Washington skyline to the clear sky that dominated the monuments. Many of the city’s significant landmarks were visible from the White House, enhancing the already strong sense that this was the center of the globe.

Hood pulled into the heavily barricaded parking area on the north side of the White House. Being outside, warmed by the sun, Hood should have enjoyed a burgeoning sense of well-being. He did not. President Lawrence and Senator Debenport belonged to the same centrist section of the same party. Between them, they controlled Op-Center’s charter and Op-Center’s funding. If the two men had an agenda, Hood had no avenue of appeal. What he did not know was whether Lawrence and Debenport had called him here to expand the downsizing of Op-Center or whether they wanted him to work on some partisan intrigue.

On one level, it did not matter. Whether it was a mugging or a hazing, Hood knew it would hurt.

Hood passed through the security checkpoint at the west gate. Since he was not carrying anything, that meant a wand search from the security guard. A Secret Service agent met Hood at the security vestibule and escorted him to the office of the president’s executive secretary. Senator Debenport was already in the Oval Office. Hood was told to go right in.

Debenport was standing with his arms folded. President Michael Lawrence was seated on the edge of a desk that had once belonged to Teddy Roosevelt. That was the spot from which the president preferred to conduct meetings. He stood just over six feet four inches tall. This put him eye level with most of the people who came to see him. The president’s sharp blue eyes shifted from Debenport to the door as Hood walked in. Lawrence’s expression was warm and welcoming. The two men had always enjoyed a good rapport. That bond was strengthened over a year before, when Op-Center protected the president from a coup attempt. Unfortunately, politics were governed by a single rule: “What can you do for me now?” If Hood and Op-Center were a liability, the president would be hard-pressed to help them.

“Paul, thanks for coming,” the president said, extending his hand.

“My pleasure,” Hood replied diplomatically. It was not as if he had a choice. He turned to Dan Debenport. “Good morning, Senator.”

“Paul,” the senator replied.

Debenport was a slope-shouldered man of average build. He had thinning straw-colored hair and a quick smile. He was not smiling now.

The president gestured to a chair. Hood sat. The president returned to the edge of his desk. Debenport remained standing.

“Please tell Mr. McCaskey it was a hell of a piece of detective work, finding that wound under William Wilson’s tongue,” the president said.

“I will, and thank you, sir.”

“I second that, Paul,” Debenport said. “Are there any new developments?”

“Off the record?” Hood asked. He was tempted to ask Debenport if he and the CIOC were impressed enough to reinstate the budget cuts. But he had a politician’s sense that there was another reason he was here.

“Everything we say here now is off the record,” the president said.

“Well, we did a sketchy profile of the killing scenarios,” Hood said. “There is a very sketchy fit with Admiral Kenneth Link. Darrell is talking to him now.”

“An ambush interview?” Debenport asked.

“More or less,” Hood said. “We may not have a lot of time on this, and Darrell did not want to be stonewalled.”

“Good thinking,” the president said.

That made two compliments back to back. Hood was convinced that the president wanted something.

“Going to talk to Link is a very encouraging development,” Debenport said. “Is there any suggestion that Senator Orr might have been involved?”

“Senator, we’re not sure whether there was anything for Donald Orr to be involved with.”

“You probably need to find that out,” Debenport replied.

That was unexpected. It was also a potential violation of district privacy statutes. “If it becomes necessary, and if Op-Center has the manpower to spare, we will,” Hood told him.

“That’s just the point,” Debenport said. “It is necessary to expand the investigation.”

“On what grounds?” Hood asked. He did not like where this was headed. “Do you have additional information?”

“Not as such,” Debenport replied.

“Then—I’m confused.”

Debenport paced for a moment before continuing. “Don Orr announced this morning that he will be running for president on the United States First Party ticket. Did you hear any of the senator’s speech?”

“No,” Hood answered.

“Don Orr intends to promote an extreme form of isolationism,” Debenport went on. “It may sound appealing to voters, but it will be terribly destructive.”

“The United States cannot disentangle itself from the global economy and international resources,” the president said. “Even if we wanted to replace oil with nuclear or solar power and make all our computer and automobile components stateside, the tooling up period would take years.”

“It would also be extremely expensive,” Debenport added. “Union workers and factories are not inexpensive.”

“All right,” Hood said. “Senator Orr is misguided. I’m still not clear what justification Op-Center has to involve him.”

“Paul, the senator is not only misguided, he is dangerous,” Debenport said. “Voters, God bless them, tend to respond positively to protectionist ideas, however unworkable they are.”

“That’s their prerogative, God bless ’em,” Hood pointed out. “Using a legitimate investigation to fling mud is also dangerous.”

“Well, there you get into the question of rights versus responsibility,” Debenport replied. “Consider the judge who overrules a jury that has been manipulated by a skilled attorney. A skilled politician can do the same thing. He can sell a catastrophic agenda. We need to take dramatic steps to undermine a seditious platform.”

“What’s wrong with debates?”

“You were in politics,” Debenport said. “It’s very difficult to fight someone who is selling feel-good tonics in a red-white-and-blue package. It usurps patriotism and unplugs the brain by appealing to the soul.”

“Look, Paul,” the president said. “We don’t think the United States First Party has a chance of winning this election. But we believe that Senator Orr can rally the unions, the unemployed, and a chunk of the middle class and take twenty-five to thirty percent of the vote. Neither I nor the vice president is running. That means whoever wins will be a new president and quite possibly a minority. They will also have the senator stuck in their side, pushing his policies.”

“Will you be running, Senator?” Hood asked.

“I have not yet made that decision,” Debenport replied.

Anything that was not a firm no meant yes, and even those were subject to revocation.

Hood shook his head. “Senator, Mr. President—you’re working hard to convince me that something wrong is right. What if I don’t agree?”

“Then we get someone who does agree,” Debenport replied flatly. “Nothing personal, Paul.”

“Oddly enough, I believe you,” Hood said.

“Also, we strongly disagree that what we are asking is wrong,” the president told him. “Orr is the one who is being immoral. He is using the flag for a power grab. We are trying to prevent him from dismantling a successful national and international economic balance. You know me, Paul. Whoever wins, I will be going back to American Sense. I would not be involved in this if I did not believe in it.”

American Sense was a Washington-based think tank the president had founded between his two terms. The nonpartisan organization was a well-respected source of geopolitical expertise.

“Answer this, Senator,” Hood said. “Did the CIOC downsize Op-Center so we would be more inclined to take this assignment?”

“Do you believe that?” Debenport asked. “Because if you do, nothing I say will change your mind.”

Hood laughed. “That’s an old ploy, Senator, avoiding a question by suggesting it’s out of line.”

“There was a confluence of events,” Debenport replied. “This was one way the momentum could turn.”

“I guess it’s better to be an opportunist than a conspirator,” Hood said.

“Paul, that’s getting personal,” the president warned. “Senator Debenport has already said that he does not want to cause you distress. There’s a proposal on the table. Either you accept it or reject it. There are no hard feelings either way.”

“You mean, sir, I could go work for your think tank?”

“You would be an asset.”

“Think of this another way, Paul,” the senator said. “If this undertaking is a success, the new president might consider you for a different post. An ambassadorship, perhaps.”

That should not have been unexpected. Embassies were political coin, the medium for payback. They were the ultimate pedestal for a bureaucrat, and Hood was surely that. Still, when he heard the proposal—the hypothetical phrasing was simply the language of barter—everything changed. Against Hood’s will, his indignation deflated. He no longer viewed cooperation as capitulation. It was part of the job.

It was business.

“Let me talk to Darrell when he gets back,” Hood said. His voice was low and conciliatory. “I’ll see what he found out and where he thinks this can go. Then I’ll call you, S enator.”

“It sounds as if we have an understanding,” Debenport said hopefully.

Hood did not want to say yes. “I understand,” he replied.

“We can accept that for now,” the president interjected. “When do you expect to hear from him?”

“I’ll call him on the drive back. If he is finished with the interview, I will call the senator immediately.”

“Sounds good,” the president said. He offered his hand to Hood. “Paul, I know this is not easy. But I believe we all want the same thing. A prosperous and secure United States of America.”

“We do,” Hood agreed. He wanted to add, With the Bill of Rights intact. But he did not. And he knew, then, that he had agreed to help them.

Hood left the Oval Office in something of a daze. Debenport was right. The men did have an understanding. Not that this plan was perfect or legal, only that it would go forward. Maybe it would move by inches at first, but it would proceed because there was no clearly defined ethic.

In an ideal world, men would fight ideas with other ideas, Hood told himself. But this was far from a perfect world. Every weapon in the sociopolitical arsenal had to be used.

Including rationalization? Hood asked himself.

Is that what this was?

On one level, what the senator and the president had asked him to do was wrong. They wanted him to broaden a legitimate but still very young investigation. They wanted him to pepper it with innuendo, to create gossip and not justice. Yet on another level, while their reasons were political, their argument was not wrong. It did not matter whether Donald Orr’s vision was heartfelt or manipulative. It was impractical at best, dangerous at worst.

Hood reached his car. It was hot from sitting in the sun. In a way that was fitting. He had just made a pact with the devil.

Hood had been seduced intellectually and professionally. Though he hated himself for succumbing, he had to be honest: he was not surprised. Hood had felt distant from Op-Center, from friends, from his family for so long that it was nice to be plugged into something.

And there was something else, something the one-time golden boy mayor of Los Angeles did not like to admit. Idealism was great in theory but unwieldy in practice. In the end, Hood was like the world itself: a compromise; a surface of attractive, sun-hungry green and inviting blue concealing a hot, muddy interior; an imperfect paradox.

Hood turned on the car, cranked up the air-conditioning, and set the secure cell phone in its dashboard holder. He slipped on the headset and autodialed Darrell McCaskey’s number. As he pulled from the parking area, Hood did one thing more.

He prayed that McCaskey found just one reason to continue the investigation.

TWENTY-FIVE

Washington, D. C. Tuesday, 10:44 A.M.

“How did it go, Darrell?”

After punching in the number, Hood grabbed a can of Coke from a cooler under the glove compartment. He always kept one there for emergencies, beside an ice pack he replaced each morning. The caffeine helped him focus. Once in a while he also reached for the ice pack. That was for meetings that ran too long, got too loud, and went nowhere. Presidential meetings were invariably very direct.

“The interview went all right,” McCaskey said. “Mike was there, which was rough. He is not happy.”

“No one is,” Hood said. He could not concern himself with Mike Rodgers right now. “What about Link?”

“I have to say, Paul, the admiral was pretty forthcoming. The nutshell: Link did not like William Wilson and does not care that he’s gone.”

“Not a surprise but also not damning,” Hood said. He took a long swallow of Coke. Motives could be elusive and misleading. He wanted to stick to the mechanics of the assassination itself. “Is there any evidence that Link has the assets to carry off these kinds of missions?”

“Evidence? No. Potential? Yes. Link has two former Company people on staff. One is a guy named Eric Stone, who is running the convention. He was Link’s assistant and supposedly is a very efficient organizer. The other individual with intelligence credentials is the senator’s executive assistant, Kendra Peterson. It turns out Kendra had medical training in the Marines.”

“That’s not in her file, is it?” Hood said. His head was still in the Oval Office, on the decision he had to make. Dossier data was swimming, anchorless, in his memory. He took another hit of Coke.

“No, it isn’t,” McCaskey said. “Kendra spent several months working in health care but left because of tendonitis in her hands. Presumably, the affliction was temporary. If a disability had been noted in Kendra’s record, it might have impacted her career in the military and afterward. The staff sergeant probably let her transfer without remarking on what was a very brief tenure.”

“Or her medical experiences may have been deleted more recently by a really efficient organizer who had access to them,” Hood pointed out.

“It’s possible. The point is, one of the first skills Kendra would have learned over there was how to give an injection,” McCaskey said.

“I’ll have Matt Stoll run a comparison on images captured by the security camera and at this morning’s press conference,” Hood said. “That may tell us if Ms. Peterson goes on the suspect list. What was your impression of Link himself?”

“He’s very confident and a bit of a bully,” McCaskey said. “He also made it clear that he feels extremely inconvenienced by our investigation. It’s difficult to tell whether he’s guilty or whether he just resents the hell out of our probe.”

“Or he may just have it in for Op-Center,” Hood said. The NSA and the NCMC had experienced a few run-ins over the years, including the exposure of former operative Ron Friday as a double agent. “If you had to guess, which is it?”

“That’s tough to say, Paul. Link definitely views the investigation as politically motivated,” McCaskey said. “He thinks Op-Center is using it to try to roll back the budget cuts. Truth is, I think we’re going to hear a lot of that as long as we’re involved in the Wilson killing.”

“When have we ever worried about what people think?” Hood asked. It was ironic, though, Hood thought. Link could end up being right for the wrong reasons. “I’m going to get Matt Stoll working on that image comparison. What are the codes for the hotel image files?”

“WW-1 and RL-1,” McCaskey replied. “I’m going to call Bob Herbert and pick his brain, then pop over to the British embassy. I rang George Daily. He’s setting up a conference call with their security chief here. He was going to see if the Brits have anything on file about Wilson being watched, stalked, or threatened.”

“Good idea. We’ll talk more when you get back.”

Hood hung up and called Bugs Benet. He asked him to access the online news photo services. He wanted images of Kendra Peterson, including this morning’s press conference. They should be appearing online by now. Hood asked to have the pictures sent to Stoll’s office along with Darrell’s image files on the Wilson and Lawless killings. When he reached the office, Hood went directly to Matt Stoll’s office.

The corridors were unusually quiet. There were fewer personnel, of course, and those who were there did not seem to be making eye contact with Hood. Maybe it was his imagination. Or maybe it was a variation on what they learned in elementary school. If they did not look at the teacher, they would not get called on. If they did not look at the director, they would not be fired.

Matt Stoll’s office was different from the others in the executive level. The computer wizard had originally set up the Computer and Technical Support Operations in a small conference room. Hood had always intended to move the CATSO, but Stoll quickly filled the room with a haphazard arrangement of desks, stands, and computers. As Op-Center’s computing needs grew, Stoll simply added to the original disarray. Within a few months, it would have been too much trouble to move it.

There were now four people working in the rectangular space. Stoll and his longtime friend Stephen Viens, Op-Center’s imaging expert, worked back to back in the center of the room. Viens had previously managed the spy satellite access time schedules at the National Reconnaissance Office. Whenever the military or a spy agency needed images from space-based resources, they scheduled it through Viens. After Stoll’s old college mate was scapegoated for a black ops funding scam, Hood hired him.

Before yesterday morning, three other individuals had worked in this office: Mae Won, Jefferson Jefferson, and Patricia Arroyo. Seven other technical experts worked in an adjoining office. Stoll had been asked to lay off five of the techies and one of these three people. He had selected Patricia Arroyo, who had the least seniority. She and the others were gone within the half hour. That was standard procedure in government agencies. Otherwise, disgruntled personnel could sabotage equipment or programs or walk off with sensitive material. Hood had made an exception in the case of Mike Rodgers. That was not a chance he could take with the others.

Hood greeted the solemn group and told them why he was there. Stoll did not wait for Bugs to send him pictures. He went to a raw news feed from one of the networks, grabbed images of the press conference, and isolated Kendra Peterson. He opened Darrell’s files of the hotel security camera images. He opened his 3-D ACE file and left-clicked each of the images to drop them in the file. ACE stood for Angular Construct and Extrapolation, a graphics program Stoll had written. It created 3-D images based on a very little amount of information. Though it could not construct an entire face from a nose, it could show the nose from all angles. These could be superimposed over other photographs to see if they matched.

The only distinctive images they had of the assassin showed gloved hands, a chin, and a portion of one ear. Everything else was under a hat, a scarf, in boots, or beneath loose-fitting clothes. Even the skin color was unreliable. Kendra was a very light-skinned Asian woman. The woman in the elevator had a dark chin, but that could have been caused by the shadow of the hat.

“This lady sure knew what she was doing,” Viens said. He had walked over to have a look.

“Darrell figures she cased the hotels before going in,” Hood said.

“I don’t think so,” Viens said. “At least, not in the way that you’re thinking.”

“Why not?”

“She knew where the cameras were, and she apparently knew what kind of lens they were using,” Viens said. “She would not know that simply by eyeballing the cameras, since they were probably behind a two-way mirror.”

“What kind of lens were they using?” Hood asked.

“The elevator at the Hay-Adams was using a thirty-seven millimeter wide-angle lens,” Viens told him. “It foreshortens the center of the image and distorts the periphery so you can cover one hundred and eighty degrees of vision.”

“A fisheye lens,” Hood said.

“Colloquially, yes,” Viens replied. “Elevator security uses either regular or wide-angle lenses, depending on the size of the carriage, the lighting in the corners, and whether the hot spot for crime is in the doorway or in the corners. There are also privacy issues about camera placement. Some counties will only allow a straight-down view on the top of the head. The way our lady is standing, the brim of the hat is positioned to block as much of the camera’s view as possible.”

“I’m still not sure what you’re saying,” Hood told him. “Wouldn’t you stand the same way regardless of the lens?”

“No,” Viens said. “A regular lens would not have fattened the brim to cover the nose this way. It’s very likely that our assassin saw actual security images generated by this camera.”

While the men spoke, Mae Won made a phone call.

“And it probably was not Ms. Kendra Peterson,” Stoll declared. The thumbnail 3-D constructs were complete, along with the superimpositions. There were some two-dozen pictures. Stoll set up a slide-show presentation of the full-size images. “There is a match total of six percent based on available security cam viewing surface of seven percent of her anatomy.”

“Does that mean there is not enough to go on or that she is not the one?” Hood asked.

“It isn’t her,” Stoll declared. “We have a series of click points,” he said. He used the cursor to highlight parts of the visible physiognomy. “There are small bulges in bone, cartilage, flesh, even minute wrinkles. Some of them we can see, some of them we can extrapolate from the shadows. Ninety-four percent of these two faces is dissimilar in just the small area we can see. Unless she had facial surgery, the woman in the elevator can’t be Ms. Peterson. And she did not have surgery, since I took a few of the older images that Bugs sent over and compared them to the lady at the press conference this morning. Those are identical.”

“Mr. Hood?” Mae Won said.

“Yes?”

“Hay-Adams security says they only save those camera images for two days,” the young woman said as she hung up the phone. “They already did their own comparison of the images. I thought if we scanned that picture library we might see which of the women went to the hotel.”

“Can’t we find out who visited the security office?” Stoll asked. “Politicians have benefits in the hotel ballroom. They must send advance security teams to check out the cameras.”

“Actually, Darrell has already looked into that,” Hood said. “The Hay-Adams does not keep a record of visits by Congressional advance staff. Even if they did, that might not help us. There could be a chain of people involved in passing information to the actual assassin.”

“Including Ms. Peterson, if she is involved in any of the senator’s security,” Stoll pointed out.

“Possibly,” Hood agreed.

The phone beeped. Mae Won answered it. “Sir, it’s for you,” she said to Hood. “It’s Bugs.”

“Tell him I’ll be back in a minute,” Hood said. “Matt, we still need to ID the woman in the photographs. Is there any way to construct a face from what we have? Bone structure from the chin, a jawline, anything?”

Stoll shook his head. “Not with any software I have.”

“What about mug shots?” Viens asked. “The FBI has a file online. It might be worth comparing the chin we have with those.”

“We might as well, though I don’t think our assassin is a contract killer,” Hood said.

“Why not?” Viens asked.

“Because they were too smart to end up on a camera,” Hood said. “I doubt they have ever been inside a police station.”

“This is weak,” said a voice from behind.

Hood turned. Bob Herbert was in the doorway.

“What is weak, Bob?” Hood asked amiably. This was not the time to get defensive. Herbert was still in a volatile mode, and they had a case to solve.

“I’ve been sitting here listening to you guys play Junior Crimestoppers.” Herbert rolled his wheelchair into the office. “You should have folded your intelligence chief into this, people. I’ve known hookers who were too smart to get caught on security cameras. That doesn’t de facto make them potential assassins.”

“Our intelligence chief removed himself from circulation yesterday,” Hood remarked. “I thought it was best to let him return on his own. I’m glad he has. What’s your take, then?”

“I talked to Darrell a few minutes ago, and my take is simple,” Herbert said. “The killer has to fit two criteria. Otherwise, he isn’t the killer. First, who stands to gain by Wilson’s death? Second, who has the chops to pull it off? The only guy we have on that short list is Link. That leaves us two options. One: we waste resources looking for people who may also fit the criteria. Or two: we lean on Link with everything we can muster. Squeeze him like a lemon and see if we get juice. If not, then we move on.”

“How would you squeeze him?” Hood asked.

“Thanks for asking,” Herbert said. “We have to do what we used to do with suspected moles or double agents. We go right up and say, ‘We think you’re a rat. We’re gonna be all over you until you crack.’ Invariably, they look to get the heat off themselves. I believe these guys did that once by killing Robert Lawless. If we lean on Link, he’ll either do that again or shut his operation down. In any case, he’ll have to contact his cohorts to do that. When he does, we’ll be all over them.”

The room was emphatically silent.

“Who would make that call?” Hood asked.

“Darrell just did,” Herbert replied. “That’s why Bugs was calling you. To tell you that Darrell was on the line.”

“It was the right decision,” Hood remarked.

“He knew you’d think so,” Herbert said.

“What did Link say?”

“He thinks you’re desperate, and this proves it,” Herbert replied. “Darrell told Link he was wrong. It was all the usual back-and-forth up-front bluster. Just like the United Nations. The real work is going to take place behind the scenes. Darrell has Maria on the way to help. Matt’s poking around computer files to find out more on Stone.”

“Sounds good,” Hood said.

“Yeah. Thanks. I’ll let you know what turns up,” Herbert said.

The intelligence chief turned and left the room. Hood let him go without comment. The silence was even deeper now. Hood broke it by thanking the team and leaving. Stoll hurried after him.

“Chief?” Stoll said.

Hood turned. “Yes, Matt?”

“Bob was a little out of line there—you handled that well.”

“Thanks.”

“But the truth is we’re hearing a lot of conflicting things about Op-Center and the CIOC,” Stoll said.

“Hearing from whom?”

“Okay, we’re not actually hearing it,” Stoll said. “We’re sort of hacking it from Company and FBI internal E-mail.”

“They should have used Mr. Wilson’s firewalls,” Hood said.

“They do,” Stoll said.

“And you broke through?”

“Not exactly,” Stoll told him. “There’s a serious flaw in MasterLock, one that hackers would have had to plan ahead to exploit. Two years ago I sent E-mails to the agencies with a virus. A time bomb. What it does is lurk in the software and reset it to a previous systems checkpoint on my command. It’s like sending the computer into the past for as long as I need, then restoring the current programs. If someone is on the computer, they are unlikely to notice.”

“Matt, that’s brilliant.”

“Thanks. I figured the best way around increasingly sophisticated firewalls was to go in before they were raised. The point is, according to internal E-mails, there are folks who say we’re grandstanding by working on this Wilson thing, and others who say we’re going down and desperate for attention.”

“Neither of those is true,” Hood said.

“Then what is true?”

“We were downsized, period,” Hood told him. “Right now I’m working to see if we can’t get some of our assets restored.”

“Oh? What are the odds?”

“Pretty fair,” Hood said. “I’ll let all the department heads know when I have more information.”

“Sweet. We could use a lift.”

Hood gave the younger man’s shoulder a squeeze, then went back to his office. He had never felt so torn in his life. His position made him unavailable for office gossip, let alone the gossip of other offices. Nor had Op-Center ever been a place where workers had a reason to gripe. There had been sadness and setbacks, but always due to missions. There was never a sense that the organization itself was in jeopardy. Certainly no one ever believed that Op-Center would be blindsided by the CIOC and other government agencies. Like Paul Hood, the National Crisis Management Center was the golden child of intelligence.

They thought.

Hood reached his office and shut the door. He stood inside, staring at his desk. If Hood accepted the president’s offer, he would be participating in the spoils system he had always fought. His guiding principle would not necessarily be what was right but what was right for Op-Center. He would no longer be Pope Paul, as Herbert and the others sometimes called him in jest, but Apostate Paul.

But was anything so clear cut anymore? It did not matter whether the president was right or wrong about the threat Senator Orr represented. That was psychological spin-doctoring. What mattered was hanging on to men like Matt Stoll and Darrell McCaskey. Hood would not like everything the new NCMC was asked to do. But this was not about his comfort zone. This was about preserving enough of Op-Center so that their important primary mission of crisis management could continue.

Hood went to the phone to call Senator Debenport. He would agree to the terms Debenport and the president had presented. He would ask for guarantees, not to be made an ambassador but to protect the existing staff.

He would make his deal with the devil.

TWENTY-SIX

Washington, D. C. Tuesday, 11:50 A.M.

Kenneth Link sat alone in the conference room, reviewing a computer file of layout plans for the convention floor. Eric Stone had E-mailed a suggestion for the location of the podium. He felt the stand should be moved fifteen yards closer to the north side of the convention center. That put the speakers closer to the right when people entered the arena through the main gate. Link felt the change was gimmicky and declined to approve it.

Or maybe Link was just being contrary. He was not sure. The interview with Darrell McCaskey had left him in a sour mood. It had not gone the way he had anticipated. The admiral believed that by being forthright about his team and his dislike of Wilson, he would convince McCaskey of his innocence. Instead, something about their talk had caused Op-Center to harden its position. Link was a naval officer and a former head of covert operations for the CIA. He would not permit the tinsel-eyed former mayor of Los Angeles to hunt him. Or, even worse, to judge him.

Throughout his career, Link had always found the struggle between need and protocol, between expediency and restraint difficult to rectify. Right and wrong are subjective. Legal and illegal are objective. When the two forces are in conflict, which one should be followed? Especially when a legal wrong has the potential to rectify countless moral wrongs.

Link invariably put self-determination above regulations, which meant honoring right above legal. It meant more than that, though. Working in national defense was not a job for the fearful. It also was not a job for the unprepared. A man needed resources. Fortunately, Link had them. He was loyal to people, and people were loyal to him.

This matter of William Wilson should never have become the problem it was. Everything had been done the right way and for the right reasons. Looking under the man’s tongue was on the medical examiner’s checklist, but the tiny needle left no obvious trauma in the soft, veinal undertissue. Only someone who knew that anatomy well would have picked it up. Wilson’s death should have been news for two days. After that, he would have been fodder for the weekly news magazines and monthly financial magazines for an issue or two. Most importantly, his banking scheme would have been forgotten. Others could have moved in with different opportunities for investors. Domestic opportunities that would be part of the USF platform. A program based on investments in American technology, manufacturing, and resources. A program that would have put money into the economy and given citizens deep and extensive tax benefits.

A program that would have really put the United States First Party on the political map.

In all their planning, no one had ever imagined that an intelligence service would get involved. Until this morning, Link had not thought they would stay in this for more than another day. He had thought the hiring of Mike Rodgers would discourage them, and the publicity about opportunism would be embarrassing. He had obviously underestimated Paul Hood. Link did not know if the investigation was a result of the man’s fabled idealism, Hollywood-bred narcissism, or a combination of both. Regardless, the admiral could not let it get in his own way. There were still actions to be taken, and Op-Center would interfere.

There was a point in intelligence and military operations when there was no longer any benefit to being clandestine. When a covert assassination fails, the strategy must shift to a Bay of Pigs scenario—albeit one that is designed to work. When the so-called architect group reaches that point, the question is no longer whether people suspect you did it but whether they can prove it.

Kenneth Link went to a floor cabinet in the far corner of the conference room. There was a safe inside. He opened it and removed a STU-3—a Secure Telephone Unit, third generation. He jacked the all-white phone into a socket behind a regular office phone on the conference table. The STU-3 looked like a normal desk set but with a cryptoignition key that initiated secure conversations. This model interfaced with compatible cell phones, which is what he was calling now.

Bold action had to be taken. The action would be condemned, but it would also discourage others from pursuing Link. The police would look elsewhere for the Hypo-Slayer, as the media had taken to calling it. Before long, the investigation would all but disappear. The killer would not be found. The public would lose interest.

Besides, there would be other news to replace it.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Washington, D. C. Tuesday, 12:10 P.M.

Mike Rodgers felt like Philip Nolan in The Man Without a Country. Whereas Edward Everett Hale’s protagonist had been exiled for his part in the treasonous activities of Aaron Burr, Rodgers felt as if he had been banished by timing and circumstance. He was still employed by Op-Center, which had betrayed its charter. The general believed that Paul Hood was pursuing what the military described as a directed service agenda. That was a program masquerading as patriotism that was designed to help the branch itself, like starting a war to test new weapons or burn through old ordnance. Op-Center had a marginally legitimate reason to look into Wilson’s death. Now they were pursuing it beyond that original mandate for self-serving reasons. Ironically, part of Rodgers understood those reasons. It had obviously hurt Hood to ask for Rodgers’s resignation. He wanted to make sure there were no more firings. But part of Mike Rodgers also wanted to go to Op-Center and call Hood out, challenge him for the sludge he was flinging on Rodgers’s new employer.

Instead, Rodgers sat down with Kat Lockley and Kendra Peterson and reviewed the plans for the convention as well as Senator Orr’s platform. Now and then, they solicited Rodgers’s opinion. The women were responsive to the handful of suggestions he made. The staff had spent so long knocking ideas around just between themselves, they were happy to have a new set of eyes. The experience was a good one for Rodgers. It was nice to be heard.

When the meeting was over, Rodgers asked Kat Lockley to lunch. She said she could get away in about a half hour. Rodgers said he would wait for her on Delaware Avenue. That lifted his spirits even more. At Op-Center, he had to remain detached from the women because he was the number-two man. He did not want to be emotionally involved with someone he might have to overrule or send into combat. It was pleasant to get in there and push around ideas, especially among young women who had energy and fresh ideas. And, yes, killer smiles. Bob Herbert had once described a meeting with young women at some university mock think tank as “PC.”

“Not politically correct,” Herbert said. “Pleasantly coercive.”

This meeting was definitely PC.

On the way out, Rodgers bumped into Admiral Link. The future vice presidential candidate did not look happy.

“Is your friend Mr. McCaskey usually so bullheaded?” Link asked. “I don’t mean that meeting,” he added. “McCaskey called back to tell me we were going to see some rising tide on this investigation.”

“What?” Rodgers said. “That doesn’t sound like Darrell at all. Someone must be holding his feet to the flame.”

“Is Hood usually this reckless?” Link asked.

Rodgers shook his head firmly. “This budget crisis must have really shaken him up. Do you want me to talk to him?”

“I don’t think so—”

“I don’t mind,” Rodgers said. “I was thinking about going over there anyway and kicking up dust.”

“No,” Link said. “Hood is going to do what he wants. Let him. Why fight a battle we’re going to win anyway?”

“Because I’ve got rockets in the launcher, and I’ve flipped open the safety cover,” Rodgers said.

Link smiled. “Save them for the campaign, General. This is a sideshow. That’s all it is.”

Rodgers reluctantly agreed. There were times when he simply wanted to engage the enemy, and this was one of those times. Link thanked him for his support and went to see Kendra. Rodgers walked out to Delaware Avenue, sat on a bench, and let the sunshine wash over him. It was amazing how different the same sun felt in different parts of the world. It was searing in the deserts of the Southwest where he had once trained a mechanized brigade, impotent in the Himalayas, slimy in the humid Diamond Mountains of North Korea. It was full of warmth and vitamins in the South American plains, an outright enemy in the Middle East, and comforting here, like freshly brewed tea. Individuals and institutions had almost as many colors as the sun. Everything depended on the place, the day, and the circumstances.

There was a time when Op-Center had nourished Rodgers, too.

While the general sat there, he checked his cell phone for messages. There was one call from psychologist Liz Gordon, checking to see how he was, and one from Paul Hood asking him to call as soon as it was convenient. Hood sounded annoyed. Rodgers smiled. He could guess why. He speed-dialed Hood’s direct line. Apparently, he was going to get his confrontation after all.

“ ‘Loyalty is missing in action, along with honor and integrity,’ ” Hood said angrily, without preliminaries. “Mike, did you give that quote to a reporter named Lucy O’Connor?”

“I did,” Rodgers replied.

“Why?”

“Because it is true. And don’t take it too personally, Paul. I told her it was missing everywhere, not just at Op-Center.”

“How I take it doesn’t matter,” Hood said. “It’s how the rest of the team takes it. Mike, I thought we had discussed the circumstances surrounding the budget cut, that you understood—”

“Paul, this is not just about me getting shit-canned,” Rodgers said. “It’s about this whole stinking investigation of Admiral Link.”

“Stinking in what way?” Hood asked.

“It’s harassment for gain,” Rodgers told him.

“You know us better than that, dammit.”

“I know Darrell better than that,” Rodgers said. “I’ m not so sure about you anymore, and I can’t believe he did that without your okay.”

“Yeah, I approved it,” Hood told him. “Hell, I encouraged it, and with good reason. I didn’t suggest the ramping-up, though. I shouldn’t be telling you this, but that was Bob Herbert’s idea.”

“Bob?”

“Bob,” Hood said.

That took Rodgers by surprise. It also stripped him naked. He looked around with slow, probing eyes. His gaze moved along the avenue, across the street, peered into parked cars and the windows of office buildings. Rodgers knew all the tails Op-Center used. He half-expected to see one of them watching him from behind a hamburger or a paperback book. The thought was also a disturbing reminder of how quickly an ally could become an adversary.

“Look, I’m not going to get into a howling contest in the press,” Hood went on. “I told Ms. O’ Connor that I disagree with your view and left it at that. But I do want to remind you that Op-Center is my first concern—”

“I have my dismissal to remind me, thanks,” Rodgers interrupted.

“I thought you understood what went down,” Hood said.

“I do. I thought you understood that I did not like it.”

Both men snapped off the conversation. The crackling cell phone silence was heavy, but it did not hurt. Rodgers felt that Hood was out of line. As he sat there, his eyes continued to search for familiar faces. Aideen Marley, Maria Corneja-McCaskey, David Battat, some of the others that Rodgers himself had trained. His heart ached over what they must be feeling.

“Mike, we both want the same thing,” Hood said. “Whichever way it goes, we want this to be over as soon as possible. So I’m going to ask you to cooperate by letting Bob’s people work—”

“Christ, you don’t have to ask that,” Rodgers said. “I know the drill. Just don’t put any of them on me.”

“Of course not.” Hood said. He sounded as though he had been wounded.

Too bad.

Rodgers clicked off the phone. He decided he was not angry with Bob Herbert. Yes, the intelligence chief was just doing his job. More importantly, though, Rodgers believed that Herbert had involved himself for the reasons Hood had stated: to put this crippled bird in the hangar. Unlike Paul Hood, Herbert was looking out for his friend’s interests.

Rodgers tucked the cell phone back in his pocket. Because he was not technically on duty, he was not in uniform. It seemed strange wearing a blazer instead of his uniform. It was also liberating. Mike Rodgers and General Mike Rodgers had been the same person for so long, he was looking forward to discovering what it was like to be a civilian. Starting with having the freedom to talk back to a commander who had betrayed him.

Rodgers stopped looking for spies. He enjoyed the respite, and when Kat finally showed up, breathless but smiling, he knew he would enjoy his lunch as well. They set out toward a café with open-air seating, put their names on the waiting list, and talked about the morning. Rodgers let her out-gas as they rather unromantically called it in the military. But he made Kat promise that once they were seated, she would not discuss the campaign, the investigation, or anything else pertaining to Senator Orr. He wanted to hear about her life.

She agreed to tell him.

It was good to be a civilian but, more important, it felt good to be a man. Hood had done him a favor. He tried not to let his mind go to a place where it desperately longed to be, to a future where Senator Orr was President Orr and Mike Rodgers was the secretary of defense. A future where a spoils system appointee took over the CIOC from Senator Debenport. A future where the first act of the new chairman was to ask for Paul Hood’s resignation.

Rodgers did not let himself go there because revenge was not a good primary reason to do anything. It caused rash, often counterproductive behavior, like the prizefighter who looked to put away a hated rival in round one and tired himself out.

Rodgers would take a more measured approach.

Revenge would not be an atom bomb. It would be fallout.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Herndon, Virginia Tuesday, 12:11 P.M.

For more than a century, the Washington & Old Dominion Railroad was a lifeline to the nation’s capital. Nicknamed the Virginia Creeper in honor of its speed—or lack thereof—the train moved northwest through Virginia to points beyond. The track still passes through the center of town, where an underground garage stands not far from the W&OD museum. Two hundred feet long by seventyfive feet wide, and fifteen feet deep, the garage used to have track over it. Now there is only high, wind-rustled grasses. Once covered by removable wooden slats, workers would use the garage to get underneath the cars and conduct repairs.

Today, the garage has a much different use. It is the workplace of Art Van Wezel. It is where the CIA employee runs three key facets of the black ops infrastructure, what he calls “ways, means, and most definite ends.”

Commandeered by the OSS during World War II and covered with concrete, the Garage—that became its formal code name—was originally used as a secret listening post. Fifth columnists working in and around Washington, D.C., would often go into the countryside to meet fellow operatives or send radio messages to waiting submarines. Because of the wires already in place for the railroad, the OSS did not have to erect additional antennae. The rails also gave them train and hand car access to the entire region, allowing for furtive counterespionage activities. After the war, the Garage was transformed into a storage facility for equipment used by the successor to the OSS, the newly formed Central Intelligence Agency. During the Cold War, the CIA leadership used the garage for decatalogued weapons and chemicals. These were produced for the sole purpose of arming field agents. They were stored in the Garage because, officially, such armaments did not exist. In the 1980s, the CIA converted the Garage to a warehouse for covert ops equipment. It was staffed by two former navy men: Jason Harper and Art Van Wezel. When Harper retired, only Van Wezel remained.

Van Wezel was still there.

When Kenneth Link took charge of covert ops at the CIA, he spent a lot of time in the Garage. Part of that was spent organizing it into a world-class repository for new and specialized ordnance. Part of the time was also used to shift deactivated matériel from the Defense Supply Center in Richmond, Virginia, to the Garage. His rank gave him access to everything the navy was no longer using. Many of these weapons were prototypes that were either abandoned or actually went into production. Van Wezel made sure the weapons were kept in working condition. He also made sure that most of them were reported to have been destroyed. Link countersigned those reports. The admiral held on to them.

The admiral also held on to Van Wezel. Link made certain he was promoted to increasingly more lucrative pay grades. Link gave Van Wezel friendship and job security in an insecure world.

During Link’s stewardship, the Garage appeared in fewer and fewer internal CIA memos. Over time, the warehouse virtually became Link’s own private black ops repository and staging area.

The fifty-year-old Van Wezel was devoted to Admiral Link. Together, over the years, they built a small network of off-the-books counterespionage agents code named Mechanics. Most of them were former SEALs loyal to the former admiral. Today, the Mechanics remained on the Company’s stealth payroll. But they were available to their friend and mentor for special jobs. They knew his heart, and they knew that it belonged to an uncompromising patriot. They recognized that Kenneth Link would never ask them to do anything that was not in the nation’s best interests.

One of these people was Jacquie Colmer, a former captain on the admiral’s staff. The thirty-six-year-old woman was fearless. When Link shifted to the CIA, he made certain that she was appointed the new navy liaison with the Garage. She and Van Wezel got together once a week to review inventory. That list was sent to Link, along with the whereabouts of the Mechanics. Jacquie also went out on the rare local jobs Link requested. Most of those were surveillance. A few were more hands-on.

Link had informed both Van Wezel and Jacquie about this new operation he needed done. The job was risky, and it was extreme. Both of the Garage veterans had grave reservations about the target. But they had read the newspapers. They understood what was at stake.

They would do what the admiral asked.

Van Wezel had two other functions at the Garage. One was intentionally visible. He maintained a small fleet of nondescript vehicles. These were “the means.” The trucks and vans were owned and operated by the Herndon Road Services Company, a shell company controlled by the CIA. The HRSC rented vehicles to local firms in order to appear legitimate. Van Wezel wore white coveralls and could frequently be seen taking care of his half-dozen vehicles, washing and servicing them and waving to the locals when they passed.

Van Wezel’s third job was to give operatives “the ways” to do their jobs. He maintained a large computer database of logos from utilities and local companies. He used these to make photo ID badges for the field ops. More often than not, he had the right one for the right job already at hand. He regularly checked the web sites of the firms to make sure the design had not changed.

For this particular mission, Van Wezel needed a badge for the Country-Fresh Water Corporation. The CFWC had a contract to provide water to the coolers in all local government agencies. He had called the CFWC, pretending to be the client, to make sure this was not a regular delivery day. It would be disastrous if the real provider showed up while Jacquie was there. Then he called the client to schedule a delivery for today. Van Wezel already had a badge prepared for another agent. It was an easy matter for him to put Jacquie’s photograph on that ID. He also had a small sign with the CFWC logo. He slipped that into a frame on the side of the van. If the guard asked, this was a loaner while the real truck was being repaired.

Van Wezel was confident about the ways and means. He also had the “ends,” one that was developed by the Air Force for air drops into power plants. It would accomplish the admiral’s goal with a minimum of event-injuried allies. Despite their differences, the men and women of Op-Center were also Americans. Link had no desire to hurt them. He had only one objective: to stop them.

TWENTY-NINE

Washington, D. C. Tuesday, 12:25 P.M.

Like dinner the evening before, lunch with Kat was a welcome respite from angry thoughts. She was a sophisticated young woman with an eye firmly on the future but also a critical eye on the past. She had not only been influenced by her police family, but her journalistic background had given her broad political exposure. Kat Lockley knew how the system worked. More importantly, the New York native obviously knew how to work the system.

“Being New Yorkers, how did you ever hook up with the senator?” Rodgers asked. “You said he was an old friend of your father. . . .”

“Army days. They drifted later, but never far or for long. When my dad was on the police force, he helped set up a program called Vacation Swap, when kids from the city went to some other place and vice versa,” Kat said. “He and one of their other army buddies, Mac Crowne—a Park Avenue dentist, fittingly—took kids out to the Orr Ranch a couple of times a year. They were as different as could be, which is probably why they got along so well.”

“Did you ever go?”

“A couple of times,” she said. “Good thing, too.”

“Why?”

“Senator Orr says he would never entirely trust a person who was uncomfortable around horses,” she replied.

“The admiral does not strike me as an equestrian,” Rodgers noted.

“He isn’t. But he hunted sperm whales as a teenager in Newfoundland, before it was banned. That registered big on the Orr machismo scale.”

“I hope the senator realizes I have nothing to offer along those lines—”

“But you do,” Kat commented. “Tanks. Big beasts, difficult to tame. To the senator, tank warfare is like a medieval joust. Very manly.”

“I see,” Rodgers said.

Kat was absolutely a good person to have on the team. Experienced, enthusiastic, energetic. It was not just Kat, though. The entire conversation felt good. It was full of insights and compliments, camaraderie and hope. When it was over, Rodgers decided to go back to Op-Center and clean out his desk. Though he was still technically on the payroll, he wanted no part of the organization. He did not want to hold on to the anger Hood had made him feel. He would say his good-byes to those who wanted to hear them, and then Mike Rodgers would do exactly what Kat Lockley was doing: use the considerable experiences of his lifetime to look ahead. Rodgers could not imagine that Paul Hood would want or need him for anything over the next few days.

He walked Kat back to the office building, then drove out to Andrews Air Force Base—possibly for the last time. Mike Rodgers was not sentimental that way. Yet he did wonder if, on the whole, this had been a positive experience. So much good had been done but at an extraordinary cost. For himself, the sadness of the people he had lost would probably be stronger in his memory than the goals they had achieved. He also believed, as he had since Op-Center was chartered, that he would have done a better job running it than Hood had done. He would not go so far as to say that good things had happened in spite of the director. But he would say that Hood had not been as proactive as he would have been.

Hell, I was the one who assigned myself to the North Korea mission, Rodgers thought.

If he had not, Hood might have refused to let Striker act as aggressively as it did. His CIOC-friendly methods may have allowed Tokyo to vanish under a barrage of Nodong missiles. Waiting for approvals and charter revisions was the way to build a legal and clean-living entity, not necessarily the most effective one. It would be like soldiers in the field asking the president or secretary of defense to okay each maneuver. Rodgers always felt it was better to ask for forgiveness than for permission.

The air force guard standing near the elevator saluted smartly. Rodgers saluted back. Nothing in the young woman’s eyes betrayed knowledge of what had gone on below. Perhaps she did not know. Op-Center’s grapevine tended to grow, and remain, underground.

The initial discomfort of employees in the executive section had passed. They greeted Rodgers warmly as he made his way to his office. Rodgers told Liz Gordon and Lowell Coffey that he had decided to accept Senator Orr’s offer and would be working on the campaign. Both wished him well. Rodgers did not know how he would respond to Hood if he saw him. The general could—and would—ignore his replacement, Ron Plummer. The political liaison had not won that job, it had been granted to him by default. That made Plummer neither enemy nor rival, just a man with a catcher’s mitt. Paul Hood was a different matter. He was the one who had made the default call. Rodgers imagined everything from ignoring him to grabbing the front of his lightly starched white shirt, slamming him against a wall, and spitting in his wide, frightened eye. What stopped him, when they did meet, was the realization that Hood was finally doing what Rodgers had wished he would do for years: telling the CIOC to screw its own rules and doing what he thought was best for Op-Center. It was only too bad his newly found courage came at Admiral Link’s expense.

Hood was talking to Bob Herbert in the intelligence chief’s office. The door was open as Rodgers walked by. He offered only a peripheral glance inside. Eyes on the future, he reminded himself. Now that he thought of it, that mantra would make a terrific campaign slogan.

Neither man called after him nor hurried into the hallway. Rodgers felt relieved for a moment. There would be no confrontation with Hood. He would not have to listen to Herbert explain why he had joined the assault. Then Rodgers felt offended. Who the hell are they to ignore me ?

He should have known Pope Paul better than that. The man was a diplomat, and diplomats could not leave situations unresolved. Even without the blessings of their governments, they usually employed back-channel routes to try to defuse crises. Maybe they needed to do good. Maybe they needed to meddle or to be loved. The motives were too complex for Rodgers to fathom. All he understood was soldiering. Until he came to Op-Center, that was all Rodgers needed to know. Inevitably, after the talks had broken down or bought only a temporary respite, it took spilled blood to grease the wheels of civilization.

Hood knocked on the open door as Rodgers was taking citations and photographs from the wall.

“I would like to change the date when I’m officially relieved of all responsibilities to Op-Center,” Rodgers said. He did not look at Hood.

“When do you want to leave?”

“Today,” Rodgers said. “Now.” He put the framed pictures and documents on the desk then went and got two shoulder bags from a small closet in back. He stood behind the desk and carefully placed the mementos inside. He did it without sentiment or nostalgia about leaving. A soldier’s life should be portable. The only item from his tenure here was a photograph of himself with Lieutenant Colonel Charlie Squires and Striker. It was taken after the team had been assembled, about two months before they went to North Korea.

“Is this how you want it to end, Mike?” Hood asked.

“You mean, without a parade or a twenty-one-gun salute?”

“I mean with this barrier between us,” Hood said. “I want to give you that salute, Mike. Not just because you deserve to be honored but because Charlie once told me why it was created. Weapons were discharged to show that the military was granting safe passage to a trusted visitor.”

“I told him that,” Rodgers said wistfully. He could still see himself and the strapping officer sitting by the pool near the Striker quad when he asked about that. They had just come back from drilling and had heard a volley in the distance. “Twenty-one guns for the number of states in the union when the navy began the tradition. An old military tradition, just like something you reminded me of yesterday. Something I had overlooked for years.”

“What was that?”

“We called it ‘the faith and bullet rule’ in Vietnam,” Rodgers told him. “When you meet a politician, only put one of those in him.”

“You know, Mike, tactics are easier when the objectives are clear, when you know what hill or town you have to take and what resources are available to do it. Politics is a war without rules of engagement or the immediacy of gunfire. Sometimes you don’t realize you’ve been hit until days later or until you read it in the newspaper.”

“I guess I should be grateful my executioner looked me in the eyes when he pulled the trigger,” Rodgers replied.

“I did not say that,” Hood insisted.

“Then I’m confused,” Rodgers told him. “Are we talking specifically about us or are we having a philosophical discussion about what my grandfather used to call ‘follytics’ ?”

“I’m trying to apologize,” Hood said.

“For what? Firing me? Placing my new boss under a magnifying glass?”

“Neither. We’ve been over those. I’m sorry there’s nothing I can do about any of it.”

Rodgers buckled the first bag. Before he loaded the second, he regarded Hood. “That’s another difference between soldiers and politicians,” he said. “No can do is not in our vocabulary. Neither is surrender.”

“That may be,” Hood said. Now there was a bit of steel in his voice. “I’ll tell you this, though, Mike. If I had made a stand on these points that obviously offend your sense of honor, the battlefield would be hip deep with corpses. And I still would have lost the battle.” Hood extended his hand. “I won’t be offended if you don’t shake it. I’ ll only be sad.”

Rodgers had not yet started loading the second bag. He began putting the keepsakes inside.

“I can’t,” he said.

“You mean you won’t,” Hood said.

Rodgers snickered. “Politicians play with words, too.” He held up his right palm. “I mean this hand just took down a photograph of a man who gave his life for this place. It can’t, and won’t, clasp the hand of a guy who was afraid to lose his job. And by the way, Paul. A battlefield littered with war dead is not the same as a job market having to absorb some bureaucrats. Don’t ever compare them.”

“I wasn’t,” Hood said. “I was only trying to connect with you somehow.”

“Well, you failed.”

“I can see that.” Hood lowered his arm. “If you change your mind, the hand is still extended.”

“I appreciate that.”

“And I do wish you well,” Hood added.

“I appreciate that, too,” Rodgers said with a little more formality.

Hood left, shutting the door behind him. Rodgers looked around. The office seemed both bigger and smaller because of the naked walls. Men are small, but their deeds are large.

Rodgers did not regret what he had just done. Unlike Hood, he did not even feel sad. All he felt was a sense of pride that he had lifted himself from the battlefield and soldiered on. He finished packing the second bag, then went to his desk and removed the few personal items that were still there. A leather bookmark with the NATO logo, a letter opener from the king of Spain in gratitude for the way Striker had helped prevent a new civil war.

A memorial card from the service of Bass Moore, the first Striker killed in action.

Rodgers was convinced that he had done the right thing by rejecting Hood’s hand. As he left his former office, the general was convinced of something else. That there was probably nothing on God’s sweet earth that would ever make him rescind that decision.

THIRTY

Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 2:18 P.M.

Though the military police would never acknowledge it, security was rooted in the two Ps: preparedness and profiling. It had to be done that way. The kids manning the gates and checkpoints at bases around the world lacked street smarts and experience. They required checklists.

Jacquie Colmer did not fit any of the terrorist profiles. She was fair-skinned, and she was a woman. That eliminated religious extremists and white supremacists. She was also disarming. She smiled a great deal, which terrorists tended not to do. Most were anxious young amateurs, fearful of being captured and disappointing their sponsors. Jacquie was not a novice. The key to successful penetration of an enemy target was what Jacquie had always called the seduction factor. Her job was not to muscle people into submission but to coerce them. She used femininity, compliments, small talk, and invigorating observations to make herself welcome. “Look at that sky!” she would say, or “Smell that rain!” She drew attention to the moment to hide what lay beyond.

While the Herndon Road Services Company was not the usual Country-Fresh Water Corporation vehicle, she had the proper documentation. The Andrews Air Force Base guard went through the antiespionage checklist, which he knew by heart. There were only containers of water in the back, and the front-to-back mirror view of the underside revealed nothing. The young, expressionless guard looked under the hood with a flashlight. He saw only the engine.

Jacquie was allowed to drive on.

The woman parked her van away from the sight line of the base sentry. She withdrew a hefty five-gallon container and hoisted it onto her right shoulder. She saw through the tinted glass that the guard booth inside the lobby was on the left side. She had made it this far. The guard by the elevator at the National Crisis Management Center would not give her much trouble. Especially a woman holding a large plastic bottle of water. A bottle that was tinted deep blue to make the water appealing.

And to hide what was in the neck of the bottle. What the tint did not conceal, Jacquie’s glove and the bottle’s neck did.

The sentry was a husky woman who held the rank of corporal. Her name tag said Vosa.

“Corporal Vosa, did you know that water coolers consume four billion kilowatt hours a year, which produces an annual level of pollution equivalent to the emissions of three-quarters of a million cars?” she asked the guard.

“I did not, ma’ am,” said the NCO.

Playing the nerd was also a useful tactic when one wished to get in and out of a place quickly. No one liked to talk to a chatterbox. They liked it less when they were addressed by name. It made the individual feel as though their privacy had been invaded even more.

The guard checked her papers quickly.

“It says here you have a delivery of eleven bottles,” the corporal said. “You only have one.”

“With me, right now,” Jacquie replied. “The cart only holds ten. I figured I would take this one first, then go back for the rest. Easy before hard, that’s my motto.”

The guard called down to Mac McCallie in Ed Colahan’s office. The CFO’s group was in charge of supplies and the scheduling of deliveries. McCallie informed the guard that CFWC was indeed expected. The sentry used the remote keypad at her station to summon the elevator.

“That four billion kilowatt hours a year is three hundred million dollars worth of utility bills,” Jacquie added. “You ought to mention that to your superiors. Not that I want to see these guys lose business, but I’m a taxpayer, too. Maybe we can help cut the military budget by eliminating water coolers.”

“It’s a thought, ma’am,” the guard said charitably. She wrote out a pass and handed it to Jacquie. The delivery woman slapped the sticky ID on her Herndon Road Services delivery uniform.

The elevator door opened. Jacquie saluted casually with her left hand and walked on. “See you in a few minutes,” Jacquie said.

The elevator took the woman downstairs, where she was met by McCallie. A former marine, judging from his posture. No one stood as straight and tight as the semper fi boys. He also offered to carry the bottle, another giveaway. She declined. He took Jacquie to the water cooler and stayed with her the entire time. She put the bottle beside the cooler, then went to go and get the other ten.

Which, of course, she would not be doing.

Jacquie went to the van. She drove away, waving to the guard as she left. He would not know she had failed to complete the delivery.

As she drove away, Jacquie pulled off the blond wig she was wearing. She allowed her long black hair to cascade out. In less than one minute a wristwatch-size timer inside the bottle cap would activate the flux compression generator that Art Van Wezel had placed in the long bottleneck. The FCG consisted of a tube stuffed with explosives inside a slightly larger copper coil. The coil would be energized by a bank of capacitors, creating a magnetic field. Five seconds later, the timer would detonate the explosives. As the tube flared outward, it would touch the coil and create a short circuit. The short circuit would cause the magnetic field to compress while reducing the inductance of the coil. The result would be an electric shock that broke free as the device self-destructed. The shock would only last a few microseconds, but it would produce a current of tens of millions of amperes.

The resultant electromagnetic pulse would make a lightning bolt seem like a flashbulb by comparison. It would turn Op-Center into an electronic graveyard. The pulse would also cover her tracks for her by erasing the videotapes fed by the security cameras. The military police and FBI would be looking for a talkative blond. One with blue eyes. She popped the colored contact lenses from her eyes and put them in the pocket of her uniform.

When Jacquie was a mile from the base, she pulled over on a narrow back street off Allentown Road. She was just a quarter mile from the Capital Beltway. It was important that she get there as quickly as possible. First, though, there were several things she had to do.

Jacquie slipped the water company signs from the sides of the van. She replaced them with signs she pulled from under the driver’s side floor mat. They read, Interfaith Good News Mobile. She put a bow in her hair and a Bible on the passenger’s seat. She placed a different license tag on the back of the van. The police would not think to stop her. No one would.

The wind was blowing hard, and she did not hear the blast when it came. But she knew the e-bomb had gone off. The rich blue sky over Andrews Air Force Base took on a brief, magnesium-white glow. It arced low just above and through the canopy of oak trees, a man-made aurora borealis that swiftly shaded to yellow, then green, then blue again as it vanished.

Jacquie smiled as she got back into the van. She drove to the highway, careful not to exceed the speed limit. She would return the van to Herndon, then stay in her house for several days. She would say she was sick with the flu while she waited to see the police sketch of the Op-Center bomber. She would be dieting while she was home. If the sketch happened to look like her now, it would not by the time she “got better.”

Ironically, the government would benefit in one way because of what she had done.

The budget for water coolers would go way down.

THIRTY-ONE

Washington, D. C. Tuesday, 2: 37 P.M.

It sounded as though someone had popped a very large balloon. Hood’s first thought was that one of Op-Center’s emergency generators had exploded.

Paul Hood was sitting at his desk, his office door closed. He had been looking absently at the computer wallpaper, a crayon drawing of Los Angeles City Hall that Harleigh had done when she was four. He had been replaying the argument with Mike Rodgers, wondering if it could have gone differently, when he heard the burst from down the hall. It was loud enough to make him wince and to clog his ears for several seconds. A moment later the fluorescent lights above began to glow brightly. In front of Hood, the computer wallpaper was replaced by a strange, milky luminescence.

Hood rose slowly. As his ears began to clear, he heard coughing and shouts from beyond his closed door. He heard the people but nothing else. Not the hum of his computer nor the whir of the air conditioner or even the faint electric buzz of the coffee machine. Hood’s left wrist felt warm. He glanced at his watch. The LCD was blank. So was the screen on his cell phone. He removed the watch. Faint ribbons of smoke curled from the battery compartment and also from the cell phone.

“No,” Hood said. He suspected that what had hit Op-Center was not just a burned-out generator or a simple power failure.

He hurried to the door and opened it. The corridor beyond Bugs’s cubicle was filled with wispy, yellowish smoke. The air was rich with the pungent aroma of ozone mixed with the foul smell of melted plastic. He later learned that these were from charred outlet plates, electric wires, and telephone lines.

Bugs was standing in the corridor, fanning away smoke, trying to see. He looked back when Hood emerged.

“What happened?” Hood asked.

“Something blew up in the lounge, I think,” Bugs said. “I tried to call the gate to seal the perimeter, but the phones are fried.”

“Emergency power is gone?” Hood asked.

“Everything.”

“Do we know about casualties?”

“No.”

“Are you okay?” Hood asked.

“Yes.”

“Start getting people toward the stairwell,” Hood said.

“Mike is doing that,” Bugs said.

“Help him,” Hood said.

“Sure,” Bugs said. “Be careful.”

Rodgers and Ron Plummer were the heads of the emergency evac team. The thought of them working together did not fill him with hope but with pride and respect. Differences among Americans always vanished when it mattered.

Hood gave Bugs a reassuring pat on the back just as Matt Stoll appeared from the mist. He was heading in the direction of the blast. Hood went with him.

“Can you tell me what happened?” Hood asked.

“We got kilned,” Stoll said angrily.

“Sorry?”

“Superheated. The only thing I know that could do this is an e-bomb.”

“Are you sure?” Hood asked.

“The glow of the lights, the monitors, is like a fingerprint. Nothing else could cause that.”

“Was it inside the building or out?” Hood asked.

“Inside. I stopped by the Tank, and it was fine. I left Jefferson there to call for help. He was able to raise the front gate, which means they were not affected.”

While all of Op-Center was secure, the Tank was the equivalent of an electronic fallout shelter. The conference room was protected from eavesdropping, hacking, and all manners of attack, including electromagnetic pulse. Stoll had designed it to be a large-scale Faraday cage, a hollow conductor that spread a charge along the outside of a system without producing an electric field inside. That would include a burst from an electromagnetic pulse. Ironically, Hood had believed that the only way they would be affected by an e-bomb is if an Air Force test at Andrews went sour.

Until now.

The smoke and the smell grew stronger as they neared the lounge. Stoll covered his mouth with a handkerchief, but Hood did not. The smoke was not too acrid, and he did not want to appear weak or impaired. That was important in a crisis. The men rounded a corner and entered the lounge.

The small room was clogged with yellow gray smoke. Without ventilation, it hung there, virtually impenetrable.

“Is anyone in here?” Hood shouted.

There was no answer.

“The smoke is from the explosive that triggered the EM burst,” Stoll said. The portly scientist shuffled across the tile so he did not trip over any debris. While Stoll moved deeper, he waved his left hand to help clear the smoke. “The explosion was extremely low yield.”

“How can you tell?” Hood asked. He was following behind, waving both hands and looking for victims.

“For one thing, the explosion did not have to be large to trigger the pulse. For another, I can see the base of the water cooler. The left side is gone. The bomb must have been beside it.”

Hood saw a body. He knelt and bent close. Ugly, twisted pieces of the water cooler base were lodged in the man’s chest. Blood stained his blue shirt thickly. He was not breathing.

“Who is it?” Stoll asked.

“Mac McCallie.” Hood went to where he knew the candy and soda machines were. He fanned away the smoke. The vending machines were damaged, but not badly. Hood continued to feel his way around. There were upended tables and chairs, their legs twisted and surfaces peppered with shrapnel. From below. He felt the tops. They were spotted with blood. That meant they were still standing when McCallie was struck. Stoll was correct. The bomb was probably beside the cooler. Mac must have been here checking on the scheduled water delivery. Bloody damn government contracts like that were public information. Anyone could have gotten it. Hood took a slightly singed dishcloth from the sink and lay it gently across the dead man’s face.

“This was designed to stop us, not kill us,” Stoll said.

“Tell that to Mac,” Hood said.

“Chief, I’m sorry,” Stoll replied. “He was in the wrong place. All I’m saying is that whoever created this wanted to shut Op-Center down.”

Jefferson Jefferson appeared in the thinning smoke of the doorway. “The base has been sealed, and an emergency rescue team is on the way.”

“Thanks. Now get yourself out of here, but wait for the ERT at the top of the stairs,” Hood said. “Tell them to come here.”

“Yes, sir,” the young man replied. He remained in the doorway for a moment looking at the body on the floor.

“Go,” Hood said.

Jefferson turned and left. Hood heard his footsteps as he retreated. Except for distant voices and Matt’s strained breathing, Hood heard nothing else. Op-Center seemed as lifeless as poor Mac. It was strange. He was able to compartmentalize the death of the man. It was a terrible event, but Hood would mourn later as he had Charlie Squires, Martha Mackall, and too many others. It was much more difficult to get his brain around the idea that Op-Center was a marble-silent tomb. This facility had given his life purpose, the only direction he seemed to have. Absent that, Hood felt as dead as Mac. Except he was still breathing.

Mike would say that means there’s still hope, Hood thought. Maybe that would follow. Right now, all Hood felt was helplessness bordering on fear. He knew he had to get that under control. He had to focus.

Hood went over to Stoll. The computer scientist was squatting beside the jagged ruins of the water cooler and the adjoining debris field. Stoll had removed a penlight from his shirt pocket. He had taken it from an emergency supply kit in the Tank. He was examining the floor closely without touching anything. He looked like a boy studying an anthill.

“Does this tell you anything?” Hood asked.

“The bomb was not homemade,” Stoll said.

“How can you tell?”

“They used eighteen-gauge clear sterling copper wire,” he said through the handkerchief as he pointed with the penlight. “That gives an electromagnetic device a bigger pulse than standard twelve-gauge gold copper wire. But that is only true if the copper is free of impurities. A bomb maker needs some pretty sophisticated thermographic and harmonic testing equipment to qualify wire of that size.”

“I assume the military has that capability,” Hood said. “Who else?”

“A university laboratory, an aircraft or appliance manufacturer, any number of factories,” Stoll told him. “The companion question, of course, is in addition to having the technical wherewithal, who would have the logistical chops to put an e-bomb inside a water bottle?”

“Or a reason,” Hood said, thinking aloud.

“Yeah,” Stoll replied, rising. “I don’t imagine that Chrysler or Boeing has it in for us.”

The emergency rescue team arrived then, their flashlights probing the misty air. The smoke had achieved a consistency that made visibility a little easier. Mike Rodgers was the first man to enter. Seeing him, in command of the team and the situation, gave Hood a boost.

“Be careful where you step,” Rodgers said. “This is a crime scene.”

The four men who followed turned their lights on the floor. They walked carefully to the body of Mac McCallie and tried to revive him.

“Are you two all right?” Rodgers asked Hood and Stoll.

Hood nodded. “Did everyone get out?”

“Yes,” Rodgers said. “Bob complained, but the blast killed all the electronics on his wheelchair, so he did not have much choice. The wheels locked when the servomechanisms got fried.”

“Jesus, what about Ron Plummer?” Hood said, suddenly alarmed. “He has a pacemaker—”

“He’s okay,” Rodgers said. “We took him up with Bob. The med techs got to him right away.”

“Thank God,” Hood said. It seemed strange to thank God in the midst of this carnage. But Hood was grateful for that one bit of good news.

Hood, Rodgers, and Stoll moved aside as two of the rescue technicians carried Mac away on a stretcher. They moved quickly, even though there was no need. The other two ERT personnel went deeper into the facility to make sure there were no other injuries or individuals who might have been overcome by smoke.

“The base commander put a team to work getting a generator running,” Rodgers said.

“Matt, how long until the computer monitors and fluorescent lights go dark?” Hood asked.

“It’ll take another ten or fifteen minutes for the internalsystem gases to lose the electromagnetic charge,” Stoll said.

“We should probably get out of here, let the cleanup crew draw out the smoke,” Rodgers said.

Hood nodded. The cleanup contingent of the ERT would be moving in with large potassium permanganate air purifiers. These big, fifty-pound units would clear eight hundred cubic feet of air per minute.

The three men headed toward the stairwell. Op-Center looked ghostly, with only the milky glow of the dying overhead lights and monitors.

“Matt, I don’t suppose any of the hardware outside the Tank would have survived,” Hood said.

Stoll shook his head. “Most of the files are backed up there, so at least the data is secure. But it’s going to cost a bundle to replace the nuts and bolts. The computers, the phones, the PalmPilots, the CD and DVD data disks people were using. Even the coffeemakers and minifridges. Hell, we must have at least a thousand lightbulbs that are useless now.”

“You’ve still got your team,” Rodgers said. “And that includes me, Paul. I did not get around to changing the date on my resignation.”

Hood was not a sentimental man, but that one choked him up. He thanked the general, though the sound came out more gulp than word.

“Getting back to who had the ability to pull this off,” Stoll said, “I have to ask if either of you has any idea who might have done this.”

Neither man spoke.

“I mean, it may not be the most tactful question to ask, but could it have been the guys we are investigating?”

“It could be any number of individuals or groups,” Hood said. “Maybe the New Jacobins in Toulouse looking for a little revenge.”

“Forgive me again, but that doesn’t fit,” Stoll went on. As ever, his pursuit of knowledge was chronically unencumbered by tact. “Like I said back there, this could have been designed to produce far more fatalities than it did. The New Jacobins and some of the other people we’ve crossed swords with would have been happy to reduce us all to binary digits.”

“Matt’s right,” Rodgers said. “I know what it’s like to lose a man, Paul, but this was designed as a flash-bang not as a kill shot. Someone wanted to blind us.”

“Who?” Hood asked diplomatically.

The general did not answer. The question became rhetorical rather than leading. The men reached the narrow stairwell. They started up single file. Stoll was in the lead with Rodgers behind him.

“What we should do is plan to meet in the Tank as soon as possible,” Hood went on. “Put all the possibilities on the table and cross-reference them with known modi operandi.”

“I don’t think we’ll be able to go back down there today,” Rodgers said. “Which is just as well, because I want to do some nosing around.”

“Need any help?” Hood asked.

“No,” Rodgers said firmly.

Hood left it at that. What was implied was far more important than what was said. Rodgers wanted to make sure that Op-Center’s investigation of Admiral Link had not hit a nerve.

The men reached the parking lot on the south side of the building. There was a small picnic area with tables. Op-Center employees stood and sat around them, alone and in very small groups. A few were smoking, even fewer were talking. It was strange to see no one using a cell phone or laptop. The blast had destroyed them all. There were misty clouds inside the cars parked nearest to the building. Their electronic components had also been burned out.

Most eyes turned to Hood when he emerged. The team knew, intuitively, that he would be the last man out.

Hood moved among the group to where Bob Herbert was sitting. He wanted to make sure his colleague was okay. Herbert said he was. He said it without emotion, which bordered on disinterest to Hood. But at least there was no anger. That was progress. Hood then told his team about Mac McCallie. There were a few moans of disbelief and several quiet oaths. Mac could be a severe pain in the butt who damn near counted every staple. But he was a professional who put in long hours. If employees needed something to do their job, he made sure they got it, ASAP. Hood also promised that they would find whoever had infiltrated their organization and planted the bomb.

The 89th Medical Group was stationed at Andrews, and ambulances began arriving to give each of the dozens of employees an on-site examination. Installation commander Brigadier General Bill Chrysler also arrived by staff car. Hood stepped from the group to meet him.

It was just now hitting the director that his facility had been e-bombed. Op-Center had been virtually destroyed. Hood felt violated, overwhelmed, and demoralized. Paradoxically, he was also starting to feel what Liz Gordon had once called “impotent rage,” the desire to lash out in the absence of a target. Worse, he knew he had to stifle every one of those feelings. Unless the team was very lucky, this would not be a quick fix nor an easy one. And finding the perpetrator was not the only immediate problem. Hood also had to make sure that the CIOC or the press did not start positioning this as a publicity stunt or a grab for additional funding. He also had to make certain that the CIOC did not decide that it was easier to shut down Op-Center than to fix it. After what Hood hoped would be a brief meeting with Chrysler, his top priority would be to get in touch with Debenport and let him know that Op-Center was vigorously pursuing the investigation of the USF Party.

After all, they had something that they did not have before : a very personal reason.

THIRTY-TWO

Langley, Virginia Tuesday, 3: 44 P.M.

Darrell McCaskey had spent several unproductive hours at the British embassy and then at FBI headquarters. He had been looking for suppressed criminal records pertaining to any of his key players. He was searching, in particular, for someone who might have sold drugs or had a drug habit at one time. Someone who would have known how to inject William Wilson under the tongue.

There was nothing.

Dispirited, McCaskey was en route to Central Intelligence Agency headquarters in Langley, Virginia, when Maria called to tell him the news about an explosion at Andrews Air Force Base.

“Are there any details?” he asked.

“Only that eyewitnesses reported seeing a glow over the northwest corner of the base.”

“That’s where Op-Center is,” McCaskey said.

“Which is why I phoned,” she told him. “I tried calling Bob Herbert and Paul, but I only get a recording from the phone company saying there is a problem with the number I dialed.”

McCaskey thanked her and tried calling them himself. He got nothing. He phoned the office of Brigadier General Chrysler and was told about the explosion. It appeared to be an electromagnetic pulse weapon. Everyone was still there except for Rodgers. McCaskey decided not to return. If there were a plot against Op-Center, it was best to keep the resources disbursed. If there were a plot against the investigation, McCaskey refused to let this stop him. He had called in a favor with Sarah Hubbard, a friend at the Company’s Central Intelligence Crime and Narcotics Center. McCaskey wanted to see a medical director at the Directorate of Science and Technology. There was an aspect of the murders that troubled him, and he needed answers. Hubbard said that Dr. Scot P. Allan was the man he wanted. She set up the appointment for four P.M.

McCaskey parked and went to the main entrance of the new headquarters building, a commanding white brick facade topped by a high, proud, hemispherical archway. The roof of the enclosed arch was made of panes of bulletproof glass. Compared to this showplace, Op-Center was downright homely. McCaskey went through the security checkpoint, where he was given a color-coded day pass to stick on his lapel. Then he waited for someone to come and get him. The former FBI agent felt a stab in his soul when he saw the sun slanting through the glass. The white stone gleamed, and there was a healthy sense of purpose to the men and women who moved through the corridors beyond. McCaskey thought of Op-Center and how badly the building and its occupants must have been wounded. He was glad, then, that he had not gone right back to Andrews Air Force Base. He needed time to process the fact that his home for the last six years had been invaded and disfigured.

A clean-cut young man arrived promptly to take McCaskey back to Dr. Allan’s office. There was no conversation as the two men made their way along nondescript white corridors. This was the Central Intelligence Agency. People were trained to listen, not to speak.

Dr. Allan’s book-lined office was toward the rear of a wing that included several laboratories, computer centers, and offices. Sports memorabilia was tucked between the volumes and hung on the wall between the diplomas. There were family photos in hand-painted frames, probably made by a daughter or son decades before. Compared to Matt Stoll’s little tech hut, this was Mount Olympus.

Dr. Allan was a powerfully built, outgoing man in his late fifties. He had a long gray imperial beard at the end of a long face, full white eyebrows, and longish gray white hair. His brown eyes were dark with purpose. He looked like Uncle Sam dressed in a white lab coat with red stains on the sleeves. The all-American icon covered with blood.

“It’s toluidine,” the physician apologized, noticing McCaskey’s gaze. “Working on a red dye.” He did not tell him what it was for; this was the CIA. Allan motioned McCaskey to have a seat. He shut the door, then sat behind his desk. “I don’t have a lot of time, Mr. McCaskey, but our mutual acquaintance said this was urgent.”

“Yes, Dr. Allan. Thank you for seeing me.”

“I had no choice,” Allan informed him. “Ms. Hubbard wields a great deal of power here.”

“She does?”

“Your friend controls the block of Redskins tickets.” Allan smiled. “It’s important to stay on her good side.”

“She always had an angle.”

“That is what government service is all about,” Allan remarked. “Access and control. Now, what can I do for you?”

“Sir, I believe that Ms. Hubbard forwarded verification of my security clearance,” McCaskey said.

“She did. She also told me that you were investigating the murder of William Wilson for the NCMC.”

“That’s right,” McCaskey said.

“Speaking frankly, why did you want to see me? Do you suspect that someone here was involved?”

“Not someone who is presently employed here,” McCaskey said.

“Good,” Allan said. “I never discuss coworkers without their knowledge, especially with outsiders.”

“We are part of the same team,” McCaskey reminded him.

Allan just smiled.

“Doctor, I recall reading a top secret white paper about Company assassination policy in the 1960s,” McCaskey went on. “It discussed the twenty-five-year-long moratorium instituted after the failed attempt to kill Fidel Castro using toxins in a cigar and poison in his beard.”

“That is commonly known,” Dr. Allan remarked.

“Yes. But there was a footnote I found interesting. It said that all of the Company’s past and recent chemical attempts on high-value targets involved cyanide-based compounds. I need to know if that is true.”

Dr. Allan suddenly seemed less relaxed. “Mr. McCaskey, the Redskins have a shot at the Super Bowl this year.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I do not want to jeopardize my chances of seeing the game in person. That said, you are poking a finger in extremely sensitive areas.”

“Sir, I know this is a very difficult question—”

“Difficult? You’re asking me to explain what I may or may not do to abet murder,” Dr. Allan said. “That is not a routine question.”

“I appreciate that, but there is some urgency involved. Someone just attacked Op-Center—”

“What do you mean, attacked?” the doctor asked.

“They hit the place with an explosive device of some kind,” McCaskey told him. “I have not been able to talk with my colleagues to get specifics. I’m guessing it relates to this investigation, and I need to find the people who are behind it. Any information you can provide may help.”

Dr. Allan tapped his fingers anxiously on the desk for a few moments. Then he folded his hands. “Mr. McCaskey, I really wish you had not dropped this at my feet.”

“I’m sorry, sir. But there it is.”

“Yes,” Allan said. He thought for another long moment. “Aw, hell. We’re on the same team, Mr. McCaskey, and if you ever try to quote me, I’ll deny everything. I think you are on the wrong trail.”

“Why?”

“For one thing, the lethal injection described in the news accounts of Mr. Wilson’s death. Potassium chloride is not a compound that we use for the purpose you just described.”

“Do not or would not?”

“Both,” Dr. Allan replied. “It just isn’t anywhere on our radar. For the purpose of incapacitating an enemy, potassium chloride is too unpredictable. Individuals have different levels of tolerance. A dose that would kill one person might end up giving another nothing more than an irregular heartbeat.”

“If that’s true, why would someone have used it on William Wilson?” McCaskey asked.

“Three reasons. First, the compound is readily available online. Doctors routinely prescribe is as a counteragent for potassium depletion caused by high blood pressure medications. Finding out who ordered it, and from what national or international source, will be virtually impossible. Second, as you saw, potassium chloride is far more difficult to detect than cyanide. Third, the killer obviously had time to make certain the compound worked.”

“Would you think a military medical technician would be familiar with its use?” McCaskey asked.

“Almost certainly.”

“Do you happen to know, Dr. Allan, where on the human body field agents are told to give lethal injections?”

“In the muscles,” he said.

“Not in veins?”

Allan shook his head.

“Why?”

“Muscle fiber has a very dense network of blood vessels and delivers drugs in just a few minutes,” the physician told him. “The entry point is clearly visible, but that is the trade-off to a quick, efficient injection. That’s another reason I do not believe your killer is a Company alumnus.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Most of the people we send into the field are survivalists,” Allan told him. “They are not scientists or doctors. Techniques are dumbed down as much as possible to give agents as little to worry about as possible. It is easier to inject an individual in the buttocks or thigh than in the arm or a more exotic spot, such as between the toes. An injection in the root of the tongue is relatively precise, not to mention dark and slippery. The person giving it cannot be a novice. In this case, maybe you should look for someone with dental training. The underside of the tongue is an entry point for a number of drugs used in oral surgery.”

“I’ve already done that,” McCaskey said. “Getting back to this question of novices, the Company has used precision assassins in the past. Poison in the tip of a blind man’s cane, formaldehyde on a hero sandwich in a victim’s refrigerator, even the abortive attempts on Castro.”

“Yes, and those efforts against Castro are the reason today’s killings are outsourced,” Allan said. “Assassins can make millions of dollars a hit. Why would they work for salary and an inadequate pension?”

“Patriotism?” McCaskey asked sincerely.

“God and country cannot overcome greed,” Allan replied. “When we engage in field work of this kind, it has to be successful. Often, it also requires plausible deniability, as you know. When we need it super clean, we go into a for-hire mode.”

McCaskey had no more questions. But something the doctor just said did interest him. He stood. Allan also rose.

“Sir, I appreciate your time and counsel,” McCaskey said.

The men shook hands across the desk.

“I am truly sorry it could not be more,” Allan said.

“To the contrary,” McCaskey told him. “This was very helpful, though I have to ask you, Doctor, to satisfy my own curiosity. What is it that drives you? Patriotism or greed?”

“Neither. I’m here for the difference in conjunctions,” Allan replied.

“I don’t follow.”

“I asked myself that very question for years,” Allan told him as they walked toward the door. “I deluded myself into thinking I came to work here out of civic spirit. Then I realized that, at the heart of it, I enjoyed more power than any other physician I know. I have power over life and death. That’s and, Mr. McCaskey. Not or.”

The difference in conjunctions.

McCaskey left the doctor’s office. He was glad to go. The office that had seemed warm and personal when he arrived now had a pall about it, a subtle chill, like the waiting room of a slaughterhouse. Murder was conceived here, plotted with cool, impersonal efficiency.

The young aide was still waiting outside the door to escort McCaskey back to the lobby. They walked in silence. This time, though, McCaskey’s head was filled with noise. There was the sound of his own voice as he cherry-picked what had been said by Link and others. He played out an evolving monologue in his mind as he sifted through the last few days for clues.

He confronted his own shortcomings in his approach to the murder.

Maria always said her husband was naive. In a way, he was. He had always been an idealistic, self-denying G-man, Harry Hairshirt. In this instance maybe they were both right. Any crime could be approached two ways: with facts or with philosophy. McCaskey had been looking mostly at the facts. That was useful but narrow. A good commander could cover his tracks, as the assassin had done, but not his philosophy.

Greed versus patriotism versus power. One or more of those could well be the motive in this case, but to what degree and in what combination?

McCaskey had contemplated possible reasons behind Wilson’s assassination, possibly a warning to investors that they should bank American. Perhaps the truth was much bigger than that.

Mike Rodgers had spent time with these people. The admiral himself was a military man. If Link were behind this, Rodgers might have thoughts about which of those values applied. McCaskey had to get in touch with him and the senator.

There was an out-of-service response from the general’s cell phone, and no answer at his house. That left one place for McCaskey to try.

He slid into his car and headed toward Washington. McCaskey decided not to call Senator Orr’s office but simply to go over. Rodgers might not like it, and the senator might like it even less. McCaskey had only two words for that, words he was prepared to back with his own show of greed and power.

Too bad.

THIRTY-THREE

Washington, D. C. Tuesday, 4:10 P.M.

Mike Rodgers knew that he had already made a complete mental break from Op-Center. Since the Mondaymorning meeting with Hood about budget cuts, Rodgers had not worried about unfinished NCMC business, about future activities, or about the operational status of his field agents.

After the blast, however, Rodgers suspected something else: that he had also divorced himself from Op-Center emotionally. He felt sad for the team members, who were hardworking and diligent, and for Mac’s family, of course. But the carnage itself had not affected Rodgers. At least, not yet. Perhaps his brain had gone into survival mode. Ignore the pain, deal with the problem. Maybe, though, the blast was an outward expression of what he had already done inside. He had trashed Op-Center in his mind, angrily and violently. He had used a blowtorch to burn the place from every crease in his brain that might have cared. That was how Mike Rodgers had learned to deal with loss. It was cold, but it worked.

That did not mean Rodgers condoned this abhorrent attack. Therein lay the problem for him. If it were executed by a member of the Op-Center staff, the bombing was a repugnant way to manipulate policy. Rodgers did not believe Hood or any of his team were capable of doing that. If the bombing had been committed from without for political reasons, either by a domestic or foreign agency, the perpetrator would be uncovered. Someone would talk. Washington, D.C., had the most fertile grapevines this side of Northern California. Secrets were kept with the same care and sacred diligence as marriage vows.

And if Rodgers found out that anyone associated with Admiral Link or the USF Party had been responsible?

The general did not want to believe that. But if it turned out to be the case, Rodgers would make sure the perpetrators learned that truth and justice could not be suppressed. Not on his watch.

Rodgers did not remain in the parking lot with Paul Hood and the others. He spoke briefly with the base commander and Hood, then borrowed a Jeep to go into Washington. His own car had been one of those destroyed by the pulse. Rodgers felt a chill when he contemplated what had happened here. Electromagnetic pulse weapons were still in their infancy. The bombs were small, with a limited range. The problem developers faced was to generate a sufficiently wide-ranging pulse before the explosive trigger destroyed the weapon itself. But the impasse was nearly beaten, and within a year the Pentagon expected to deploy the first EMP devices. The navy would use the powerful microwave pulses of e-bombs to knock down antiship missiles ; the army would pack pulse generators into artillery shells to neutralize the mechanized forces, field headquarters, and telecommunication capabilities of enemy troops; and the air force would load pulse weapons in bombers, fighters, missiles, and unmanned drones to shut down the infrastructure of enemy cities and take out aircraft. The latter could be particularly devastating. Unlike conventional explosives, which destroyed a plane in the air, an e-bomb would simply shut the engine off and drop the plane, its fuel, and its bombs on whatever was below. An enemy bomber taking off could be used to cripple its own air base. Tactical e-bombs could be fired air-to-air. A single fighter would be able to destroy entire enemy squadrons and their payload. Mini e-bombs, smaller than the one used against Op-Center, could become effective antiterrorist tools. In a properly shielded nuclear power plant, dam, or passenger aircraft, an electromagnetic pulse could be employed to shut down timers and thereby defuse bombs.

Of course, the reverse was also true. E-bombs could be used against American military assets and domestic infrastructure, just as it was today in Op-Center. Nuclear war had never really been an option. An EMP conflict, a war against binary digits, was probably inevitable.

And we may have just fought the first battle against ourselves, Rodgers thought. There was something unpleasantly biblical about that. It was a new world, and not necessarily brave. Combat would be waged via monitors and grids, not face-to-face or vehicle-to-vehicle. Maybe that was better for the psyche, and soldiers would be better adjusted. Post-traumatic stress would be reduced to a level of disappointment equal to losing a video game.

Rodgers wondered whether the senator’s office had already heard what happened. Not that it mattered. A first reaction would not tell him whether or not they had been involved. He was more interested in going there, integrating himself in the activities of the late afternoon, and watching the people. Rodgers would be looking for exchanged glances when something about the attack was mentioned, or whispered phone conversations. Then there was the best information-gathering technique at all: the direct question. What was said was often less revealing than what was not said. His last talk with Paul Hood was evidence of that. The director of Op-Center knew exactly where Rodgers was going but did not offer advice. There was trust, caution, hope, and even gratitude in Hood’s silence.

The senator’s office seemed no different than it had been before. Kendra Peterson was standing outside her office, talking to an assistant. When the woman saw Rodgers, she stopped what she was doing and went to him. Her slender face reflected deep concern.

“General, did you hear about Op-Center?” Kendra asked.

“I was there,” Rodgers told her.

“Sweet Jesus.”

“How did you find out?” Rodgers asked.

Kendra took him by the elbow and led him to a corner, away from the intern pool. “The senator received a call from Dan Debenport at the CIOC.”

“Why would Senator Debenport call here about that?”

“To say that he would request emergency funding so that Op-Center could continue to function,” she replied. “Senator Orr is Chairman of the Senate Subcommittee on Short-Term Funding.”

“That makes sense.” Rodgers wondered if it was also a warning to Senator Orr that the investigation of William Wilson’s death would continue. He could not understand why Debenport would be interested. Perhaps it was nothing more than backroom drama taking a turn in the footlights. “Is the admiral around?”

“Actually, he is not,” she told him. “He left for a meeting with network producers about covering the convention. Do you need to talk to him? His cell phone is on.”

“No, I’ll talk with him later,” Rodgers said. “What about Kat?”

“She’s in. How well did you know the man who was killed?”

“Not very,” Rodgers said. “He was a good man, a hard worker.”

“That’s a fine enough epitaph,” Kendra said. “Do you or Director Hood have any idea who was responsible?”

“I don’t, and if Paul Hood suspects anyone, he did not share that information with me,” Rodgers told the woman.

“Is there a reason he would not?” Kendra asked.

“I’m sure Paul was preoccupied,” Rodgers replied. He did not want to discuss the attack with Kendra. Not if there was a chance that she was involved. “What about you? Have you or the senator heard anything else?”

Kendra shook her head. “This is one of those things our country is going to have to watch out for more and more,” she said solemnly. “The senator was saying that he wants to push for a new division of Homeland Security, one that would concentrate exclusively on the technology sector. He does not think he will have much trouble getting the funds after what happened today.”

He could not tell whether Kendra had avoided the question or had instinctively and innocently slipped into stump speech mode. Just sell the preapproved ideas, nothing more. If you stick to the script, you cannot get into trouble.

“Well, that’s always the way, isn’t it?” Rodgers asked. “Get shot first, ask questions later.”

Kendra smiled. “I like that.”

“By the way, what are the senator’s travel plans?”

“He is leaving for the convention tonight on his private jet,” Kendra told him.

“Who else is going with him?”

“You’re just full of questions,” she observed. “I am going. Kat and the admiral will take a commercial flight tomorrow morning.” She hesitated. “We had hoped you would be joining us in San Diego. Will that be possible now?”

“I don’t know,” the general replied.

“You’re not part of the investigation, are you?” She added after a short pause, “Of the bombing, I mean.”

“No. I am not.”

His answer was as specific as her question. Kendra looked at him. She seemed to be waiting for him to elaborate, to say he was not part of any investigation. He did not want to lie to her so he said nothing. Yet once again, saying nothing was probably as informative as Yes. I am.

The woman smiled tightly, knowingly, then excused herself. Rodgers went to talk to Kat. He was annoyed with himself. He felt clumsy and exposed. He wondered how Darrell or Bob would have handled that differently.

Well, there is no turning this around, he told himself. The only thing to do is move forward.

Kat was in her office, on the phone, when Rodgers walked up. She smiled and motioned him in. Rodgers shut the door behind him and sat on the small sofa. A moment later, Kat hung up. She exhaled loudly.

“That was Lucy O’Connor—”

“Let me guess,” Rodgers said. “She wanted to know if the senator had any reaction to the attack on Op-Center.”

Kat nodded.

“Does he?”

“He thinks it’s awful, as we all do,” Kat said. Her warm eyes settled on his. “Were you at the NCMC at the time?”

Rodgers nodded.

“I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

“Surprisingly, yes. I lost my car and my work cell phone, and I’m guessing my credit cards got scrambled. But all of that can be replaced.”

“I assume Hood and the others are pretty shaken.”

“They’re on autopilot, but they’ll get through this,” Rodgers replied. “I’m more interested in who was behind this.”

“Of course. Any thoughts on that?”

He hunched forward. Now that Kendra was suspicious, there was no reason to be discreet. “I need to ask this, Kat, and I hope you’ll keep it between us. But is there any chance that Admiral Link was involved?”

The woman did not seem surprised by the question. “A chance? Sure. A likelihood? No. Think what the admiral would stand to lose if he were caught.”

“For what? Attacking Op-Center or having William Wilson killed?”

That one came out sounding more like an accusation than a question. This time Kat was openly disapproving.

“I surely hope you do not believe the admiral was involved in either of those,” Kat said.

“I want to believe that,” he said truthfully.

Kat’s phone beeped. She answered. She listened for a moment, said she would be right there, then hung up.

“That was reception,” she said. “Your friend Mr. McCaskey is here. He insists on seeing the senator.”

“Let me talk to him,” Rodgers said.

“We’ll both go,” Kat replied flatly.

Tension had descended like sleet, heavy and cold. The two walked through the office. Though it was nearly five o’clock, none of the workers was preparing to leave. Rodgers heard pizzas being ordered for dinner. There was excitement in the air, energy in the staff’s activities, a sense of purpose on youthful faces. Here he was, embarking on a new career and trying to find out who bombed his old office. Yet he felt none of what these people felt. It was not a virtue of age but of attitude. For the first time in his life, Mike Rodgers did not know which side he was on.

McCaskey was pacing in the carpeted reception area. That was unusual. He was usually Mr. Patient.

“Hello, Mike,” McCaskey said thickly. “I’d like to talk to you.” He regarded Kat. “I also want to see the senator.”

“That is not possible,” she replied. “He is out.”

“Then I’ll go wherever he is,” McCaskey told her.

“Don’t waste your time,” she said. “Senator Orr has already said he would only speak to your superior, and then as a courtesy, nothing more.”

“My superior had his office fried—” McCaskey said.

“We were very sorry to hear that.”

“I’ll pass that along when I see Paul. Meanwhile, I want to discuss the attack with the senator.”

“In what context? And by what authority do you come here and even make a demand like that?”

“Section 611 of the NCMC Operational Code,” McCaskey replied. “I quote, ‘If an ongoing operation is impeded by a tactical strike, the NCMC has the responsibility and the authority to investigate the person or persons who were a target of said operation.’ Said operation is the investigation into the murder of William Wilson. Said target is Senator Orr. As the chief law enforcement officer for Op-Center, it is my duty to speak with him.”

“From the start, Mr. McCaskey, I have believed this investigation to be politics, not police work,” Kat said. Her gaze shifted from the former FBI officer to Rodgers. “General, you are still this man’s superior. Would you, perhaps, suggest a less inconvenient and obvious avenue of harassment?”

“That is not what this is about,” McCaskey insisted.

“No, not to you,” Kat replied. “I believe you are an earnest man, a knight being moved on a chess board, convinced of his virtue but blind to the endgame. This whole thing, first the death of Wilson and now the attack on Op-Center, is clearly being hung on the senator by someone who does not want him to become president. That is what this is about. Hey, why don’t you interview Lucy O’Connor ? Her journalistic career is going to benefit a great deal from all of this.”

“Ms. Lockley, I don’t think I’m the one who needs a reality check—”

“Hold on, Darrell,” Rodgers said.

“No, Mike. Someone hit us. I have the obligation and the right to question people who may have knowledge of the event.”

“William Wilson was a guest at the senator’s party!” Kat exclaimed. “That is the extent of his involvement with this situation!”

“Wilson was a guest just hours before he was murdered by someone who understood covert operations. That makes Admiral Link a suspect and throws a shadow on Senator Orr,” McCaskey said. “Ms. Lockley, I cannot make it any more concise than that.”

“You’ll have to,” Kat replied. “The senator has made it clear that he will not see you.”

“Darrell, why don’t you let me handle this?” Rodgers said.

“Handle what? The investigation or getting me in to see the senator?”

“There is nothing to handle,” Kat said. “This is a nonstarter, Mr. McCaskey. The interview is not going to happen.” She turned to go.

“Ms. Lockley, I am prepared to ask our attorney to seek a writ of mandamus. That will order Senator Orr to make himself available,” McCaskey said. “If the writ is granted, and it will be, the senator will not be permitted to leave the District of Columbia until I see him.”

“We have attorneys, too,” Kat said over her shoulder.

“Darrell, I said I’ll take care of this,” Rodgers told him.

“Really? If you had helped before, we might have nailed the perps before Op-Center was tagged.”

Rodgers moved McCaskey toward a corner, away from the receptionist. “That isn’t fair,” the general said.

“Like hell. You were off licking your thorny paw because Paul Hood hurt your feelings.”

“Darrell, you’re stressed. This is battle fatigue talking—”

“No. This is what I should have been doing from the start. Pushing. Maybe then the attack would not have happened.”

“We’ll never know. Look,” Rodgers said. “I will go to San Diego with the senator and his staff. If they are involved, I will find out.”

“Maybe.”

“Okay, maybe,” Rodgers agreed. “But pushing like this, in Washington, may not get you anything. Lowell is very good, but the senator has friends and influence. That’s better.”

McCaskey exhaled through his nose. “I’ve never played good cop, bad cop, Mike. I don’t like manipulating people, or the law.”

“That isn’t what we’re doing,” Rodgers told him. “We’re playing by the rules of the system.”

McCaskey leaned closer. “Do you think they’re involved ?”

“I don’t know. I belong to the school of innocent until proven guilty,” Rodgers said.

“Your gut, Mike. Mine says yes. What does yours tell you?”

Rodgers looked into the main office. Kat was helping Kendra organize computer files for the trip. He could not tell if she was watching him. That was the great thing about the military. He knew who the enemy was.

“My gut tells me the same thing it told me before,” Rodgers said. “To proceed with care, but definitely to proceed. I want the guys who hurt Op-Center as much as you do, Darrell. If they were responsible, I’ll find out. I give you my word.”

“What if I went with you?” McCaskey asked.

“That would be overkill,” Rodgers said. “This needs to be finessed.”

McCaskey sighed again. He seemed a little more temperate now. “You could have ordered me off. You didn’t.”

“I won’t.”

“When will you leave?”

“Kendra is leaving tonight with the senator and wants me to go with Link and his group tomorrow morning,” Rodgers told him. “That should work. It will give me a chance to smooth things over with Kat.”

“All right, Mike,” McCaskey said. “I should probably get over to Op-Center anyway. Do you know exactly how bad it was?”

Rodgers told him. McCaskey was sorry to hear about Mac but relieved and also surprised that there were no other casualties.

McCaskey left, and Rodgers went to make a phone call. He would use a pay phone, not one in the senator’s office. He did not want the call to be logged. He no longer felt like the Man Without a Country. He felt worse, like a wayward apostle.

“No man can serve two masters,” Rodgers reminded himself. Yet here he was, the man who prized loyalty above all, preparing to spy on his future colleagues to help his former teammates. Fortunately, there was another biblical quote that gave the general comfort: “The righteous man escapes trouble, and the wicked man falls into it in his stead.”

Rodgers chose to believe that one. It was easy.

There was no other choice.

THIRTY-FOUR

Camp Pendleton, California Tuesday, 2: 21 P.M.

Two-star Marine General Jack Breen was listening to his voice mail when a name from the past appeared. Breen smiled. He remembered the name, all right. He remembered the day he first heard the name. It was February 18, 1991.

And he sure as hell remembered where he was when he first heard the name.

Their initial meeting was the result of a very unusual multiservice action in the first Iraq war. Then-Colonel Breen was the commander of a ten-man SWEAT “hogs” unit—Special Warfare, Elite Advance Troops. The men had been air-dropped into Iraq six days in advance of the planned main Marine invasion. An Iraqi transmission tower was located in a mountain four thousand feet northeast of the city of Ad Najaf. Breen’s mission was to set up a satellite interface that would intercept Iraqi communications. Before the 2nd Marine Division moved in, Central Command wanted to know in which villages or underground tunnels enemy troops might be hidden. Those sites would be bombed ahead of time or avoided, if possible.

The SWEAT unit found one of those enemy bands. Or rather, the Iraqi band found them.

It happened in the foothills, at midnight, shortly after the Marines had landed. It was a cool night, in the midfifties, with a dry wind blowing down from the mountaintop. Because of the wind howling through their helmets, it was difficult to hear but not to see. All of the men were wearing khaki-and-green mountain camouflage uniforms and night-vision goggles. Four Marines were on parachute detail, burying the shrouds. The other six had formed a perimeter secure line. The PSL, which was actually a circle, sought to establish the outward parameters of the safe zone. They had landed on a gently sloping hill, with clear visibility below and short bluffs and boulders above. The high sites would need to be examined and secured before the group could proceed. Their target was on the opposite side of the mountain. Access was along a narrow dirt path, two thousand feet up, which girdled the peak. Satellite reconnaissance had revealed a cave toward the end of the route, near the tower. The men had until sunrise to reach it. The plan was to wait there until dark, then go out and set up the compact satellite dish. When the men were finished, they would retrace their steps, radio their base in Kuwait, and wait for an Apache to extract them.

The plan was changed by the United States Air Force.

The men had secured the area by 0027 hours. They were able to walk up the peak rather than climb, and moved in a relatively tight formation known as the flying geese. The point man of the wedge watched the ground for mines, the next two watched the terrain ahead, the next two watched the sides, and the next pair kept an eye on the skies. The two who followed covered the group, and the last man hung back to protect their flank. If they were attacked, they would drop and crawl in opposite directions to widen the wedge. It would be easier for the enemy to pick them off if they stayed in their close ascent phalanx.

The hogs were on the dirt path when Breen heard a whistle. It sounded like the wind. In fact, the noise was coming from a Sukhoi Su-7, a single-seat ground attack aircraft that was a standard tactical fighter-bomber in the Soviet Air Force for nearly forty years. Saddam had thirty of them in his air force, each armed with two 30 mm NR-30 guns, seventy rounds per gun. Pylons under the wings carried two 742 kg or two 495 kg bombs or rocket pods.

This particular aircraft had been on patrol in what would later be known as the southern no-fly zone. The fighter was screaming toward the ground, illuminated by its own flames after taking a hit from a United States Air Force F-15E Strike Eagle. The F-15E had been searching for mobile Scud missile launchers and had not been informed about the Marine presence. Breen ordered the hogs to drop and cover, which was all they could do before the fireball ripped into the mountainside. It impacted well north of the Marines, about a quarter of a mile, but it sent flaming debris and rock in their path. Worse, the crash was sure to attract Iraqi troops.

Breen sent two men ahead to check the route, to see if there was some way to get around the wreckage. There was, but they would have to go back down the mountain and around the base. According to the topographic map, that would take them twice as long. They would be moving around in daylight.

Breen decided to try to complete the mission.

The mountain was steep in their present location, so they backtracked a half mile to a point where the map said they could walk down. Breen double-timed the unit, keeping the wedge formation as they descended. They slowed as they reached the base of the foothills, partly to conserve energy and partly to watch for shepherds or farmers who might be up early. Unfortunately, they were stopped by something they did not anticipate: the hogs found the mobile Scud for which the F-15E had been searching. It was sitting under an outcropping of rock, about three hundred yards below them. The tractor was hidden beneath a camouflage tarp. Iraqi soldiers were busy covering it with brush before sunrise.

Breen halted the unit. The men did not carry explosives, but they had M9 9 mm side arms and a single M249 light machine gun. They also had surprise. The hogs could probably take the Scud then slag it with fire in the fuel tank. However, the Iraqis might have time to call in backup. If the Marines were hunted, that could doom the primary mission, not to mention the team itself.

Reluctantly, Breen decided to continue with the original plan. However, he did break radio silence to call in the location of the Scud. Centcom agreed to hold off an attack until the hogs had time to get out of the area.

Unfortunately, it did not work out that way. The Iraqis had intercepted their signal. The Scud commander had no idea what had been said, but he had a good idea why it was said. He decided to relocate and called for air cover.

A joint dogfight, ground skirmish was not something Centcom wanted. It had the potential of becoming a flashpoint for the war before the coalition had a chance to put all its assets in place. Instead, the hogs were ordered to continue. The Scud would be dealt with by a mechanized army unit that was already in Iraq. The small tank group, nicknamed the Jolly Rodgers after their commander, was being prepositioned to help the 2nd Brigade move against the Iraqi 29th Mechanized Brigade’s security zone. They had the satellite uplink and artillery range that would enable them to target and take out the Scud.

Breen and his hogs moved on to their target. Everything went well until the return trip. The Marines reached the cave early in the afternoon and hunkered down until sunset. Then they moved to the communications tower, spliced in the satellite interceptor, and went back along the original route. They had to circle wide around the still-smouldering wreckage of the Su-7, but the Iraqis did not see them.

Unfortunately, a sudden sandstorm had grounded the Apache fleet. The hogs had two choices. They could stay in the foothills and wait for as long as it took for flying conditions to improve, or they could hitch a ride back with a tank that was going to lead part of the charge into Iraq as the hidden Jolly Rodgers advance team picked off advancing Iraqi armor.

Breen did not want to ride back with army personnel, but it had been an arduous trek, they were very low on supplies, and there was no telling how long the sandstorm would last. He put the safety of his team above pride. The Marines agreed to a nearby rendezvous point and left after sunset. They connected at midnight, forty-eight hours after jumping into Iraq.

The man who drove the hogs back was then-Colonel Mike Rodgers. The Marines rode on the outside of the M1A1 Abrams. The trip took six hours, and it was the bumpiest, dustiest journey Breen had ever experienced. The men alternately sat and lay belly down on the rear of the turret or on the forward armor, over the fuel tank. They each had a canteen and foil-wrapped turkey jerky to sustain them. Even worse than the ride, though, was the fact that Colonel Rodgers was an absolute gentleman. He did not rag on the Marines for accepting a lift from the army. In fact, he commended the hogs for sticking to their planned objective instead of going for the trophy Scud.

“You saved a lot of lives,” was Rodgers’s final comment.

When they reached the staging area in Saudi Arabia, a Marine troop transport truck was waiting to take them to their own home base. Colonel Rodgers walked them to the vehicle.

“I’ll see you when this is over,” Rodgers said, saluting the Marine and then clasping his hand. “Where can I reach you?”

“Pendleton,” Breen said. He grinned as his men climbed into the truck. “I’ll probably be with the base chiropractor getting my back realigned.”

It was then that Rodgers took his one and only jab at the Marines. “You semper fi guys are proud of your sea legs. I’ve always found a strong army ass to be much more valuable.”

“We’ll have to test that one day,” Breen said. “What about you? Where are you going?”

“I’ve been overseas half my life. I’d like to find something stateside.”

“Let me know where that is,” Breen told him. “When we get together, dinner’s on me.”

“Not dinner,” Rodgers told him. “Never dinner. I’m like Don Corleone. I hold out for favors.”

“You’ve got it,” Breen replied.

The men did get together after the war, right after Rodgers had accepted a deputy directorship at the newly formed Op-Center. They had a great night on the town in Washington with one of Rodgers’s new coworkers, Bob Herbert. Op-Center picked up the tab. Rodgers never called in his chit.

Until now.

The voice mail message did not tell Breen what Rodgers needed, only that he might require intelligence-gathering support in nearby San Diego. Whatever it was, Mike Rodgers would get it. And when this little adventure was all over, General Breen would provide Rodgers with something he had been waiting fifteen years to give him: a high-speed ride on the bumpiest, wettest motorized rubber raft he could find.

THIRTY-FIVE

Washington, D. C. Tuesday, 5: 43 P.M.

At this moment, Alexander Hood’s bedroom was more technologically capable than the bulk of Op-Center. That thought demoralized Paul Hood, though it was not as if they were starting from zero.

The exception was the Tank. Hood was there now. He was not helping to get the facility marginally operational. He was not helping the search-and-dispose team from Andrews look for other explosives. He was taking calls from officials and from friends. The president had called, followed by a chat with Senator Debenport. The senator asked if Hood thought the USF was responsible. Hood told him that possibility was being investigated. Debenport informed him that the CIOC was going to provide him with emergency reconstruction funds. Hood was appreciative, even though he knew why Debenport was getting him the money.

He spoke briefly with a reporter from the Washington Post, the only interview he gave, and with his occasional date Daphne Connors. Now Hood was talking with Sharon. His former wife had heard about an explosion from a friend at the Pentagon. She called to make sure Paul was all right.

“We lost one man and most of our electronics,” Hood said.

“I’m sorry. Will you be able to get the facility running again?”

“That’s being assessed now,” Hood told her. “With enough money, though, anything can be fixed.” He hesitated. Except our marriage, he thought. He wondered if Sharon noticed the pause and thought the same thing. Probably. She still knew him better than anyone.

“Is there anything I can do?” Sharon asked.

“Just let the kids know what happened,” he said. “I’ll try to call later.” That, too, was probably the wrong thing to say. He used to say that all the time when they were married. The time they had been apart seemed to evaporate. It did not feel good. “I think the worst thing about this is that I’ve also seen the future, and it scares me,” he went on quickly. “I can’t imagine the fears our kids will have to live with.”

“It sounds like you’ll have to, if you’re going to try to minimize them,” Sharon replied.

Now that was different. A turnabout. Hood had expressed reservations about his job, and Sharon had encouraged him to work harder. It was as though the world itself had been rewired.

“I’ll let the kids know you weren’t hurt,” Sharon went on. “I’ll also tell Frankie that there may be a change of plans.”

It took Hood a moment to remember who Frankie was. The intern. The son of his replacement.

“Don’t tell him that,” Hood said. “If he has a car that works and won’t mind running errands, we can probably use him sooner rather than later.”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t mind,” Sharon replied.

Hood thanked Sharon for the call and said he would get in touch with Frankie as soon as possible. In the midst of electronic chaos it was nice to be grounded by humanity. Ironically, that fact reflected something Mike Rodgers and Bob Herbert had been saying for years. Life, like intelligence operations, relies too much on electronics and too little on people.

Hood had written Frankie’s cell phone number on a leather-bound notepad he carried in his shirt pocket. It had been a Father’s Day gift from Harleigh several years before. Hood had not bothered to transfer the data to his computer. Another irony. Hood would have trouble digging the home number of his Russian counterpart Sergei Orlov from the data dump Matt Stoll had created in the Tank. But he possessed the number of intern Frankie Hunt.

Then again, Hood thought, the way you’ve been handling crises lately, maybe you should give the kid your keys to the kingdom. He could not do a worse job. He wondered what would happen if they turned over every aspect of government to newcomers for just a day or two. Would that bring their best or worst instincts to the fore? Would power destroy their innocence, or would they know, intuitively, to handle it with extreme care? Would they crush lives and careers simply because they could, because it was more convenient, more expedient than open debate, or would their angel natures guide them to higher ground?

Hood called Frankie, who said he could be available that night. Hood said the next morning would be fine. Frankie Hunt sounded wildly enthusiastic. He did not ask if there was any danger. He even addressed his new boss as “sir.” Maybe Hood would not have to work as hard as he anticipated not to hold the “sins” of the father against the young man.

McCaskey came to see Hood while he was still on the phone with Frankie. Hood motioned him in. The FBI liaison had obviously taken a tour of the facility. He had been putting a lot of hours into the case and looked drawn. Now he looked a rung above beaten.

“By my soul, Paul, I do not want to find out that Americans did this to Americans,” McCaskey said. “We don’t make war on one another. Not anymore.”

“Sure we do. We chew each other up with politics every day of every week,” Hood said.

“Someone died here,” McCaskey said. “That’s different.”

“I know, and I don’t want to minimize that,” Hood said. “But I’ve just been sitting here thinking how everyone in this town is a killer. Every damn one of us. We just don’t use that word. We call it politics.”

“Forgive me, Paul, but nuts to that,” McCaskey said. “I believe that we’re the good guys, Op-Center and most Americans. Our response mechanisms get triggered when something is wrong.”

“Wrong by what yardstick?”

“This one,” McCaskey replied, touching the left side of his chest.

Hood looked wistfully at McCaskey. He had not intended to discuss the new situation with his staff just yet. But maybe it was time. He shut the door of the Tank and returned to the conference table. He sat beside McCaskey.

“What if I told you that Op-Center’s triggers had changed?” Hood asked.

“Changed how?”

“What if the only way the National Crisis Management Center can survive is by catering to partisan interests? By handling crises as before, but also by executing domestic black-ops activities?”

“Paul, what the hell are you talking about?” McCaskey asked. “What else happened that I don’t know about?”

“We were hit with a different kind of bombshell,” Hood told him. “It seems the president and Senator Debenport have decided that the USF represents a threat to this nation. They have requested that we use Op-Center and this investigation to stop Senator Orr.”

“Are they insane?” McCaskey yelled. “This isn’t the 1950s. I’d rather shut the door than—”

“Than do what, Darrell?” Hood asked. “Spy on Americans ? The FBI and CIA do it all the time.”

“With one difference,” McCaskey said. “Reasonable suspicion. We cannot use the investigation to impede a Constitutionally protected process.”

“The problem is, we can,” Hood replied. “It’s a legitimate investigation—”

“Of a homicide. What you are suggesting is a completely different beast. It isn’t ethical, Paul.”

“Tell me which is the greater morality,” Hood asked. “Do we let ourselves get squeezed a little so we can continue doing good in other areas? Or do we put up a Going Out of Business sign with our pride intact, allowing God knows how many crises to slip by Homeland Security?”

“That’s an old argument, Paul. Does a commander sacrifice one life to save ten? What do you do for the greatest good?”

“It’s an old argument because there is no clear-cut answer,” Hood said.

“Sure there is. If you have to think about something in order to justify it, the thing is probably wrong.”

“No,” Hood insisted. “Sometimes you have to think about things because your initial instinct is to run. That’s fear, not courage.”

“That’s rationalization.”

“That’s reality,” Hood countered. “A reality in which Americans do fight Americans, whether we like it or not. Tell me, where does Darrell McCaskey end up if he walks out of here or the CIOC shuts us down? Back at the Bureau ? At the Company, where national security is the meal and morality is the garnish? All you would be doing somewhere else is losing yourself in the system. The corruption would still be there. You just would not be able to see it.”

McCaskey said nothing.

“We had it good,” Hood said. “Maybe too good to last.”

“We could tell them no.”

“Sure. And do you think Debenport would get us funding to replace the equipment we lost?”

McCaskey just stared at his old friend. “I hear what you’re saying, Paul, but—forgive me—it still sounds like sophistry. I’m disappointed the president even put you in this position, after all you’ve done for him.”

“He has his bosses, too. Every job has you shovel some shit. In this case, at least, we can still do our job. Maybe even better than before, because more money will be available to us.”

“At what price, though?” McCaskey asked.

“Compromise,” Hood said.

McCaskey shook his head. “I don’t think I can go along with this.”

“That’s your choice,” Hood said. He was sad but not surprised to hear that. “But it explains what I said before about dying. When I was at the White House this morning, I listened to Senator Debenport’s bloody damn deal. I left, I had a long think, and I made my choice. But it cost me, Darrell. A part of my soul died before that electromagnetic pulse bomb was even detonated.”

McCaskey looked as though his grip on the last rung had slipped. This was not how he had planned his life, how he ran his life.

“May I make a suggestion?” Hood asked.

“Please.”

“Continue the work you were doing for the reasons you were doing it. We can worry about the rest of it later.”

“Self-deception,” McCaskey said.

“Will you feel better if a killer and possibly a bomber gets away?” Hood asked with uncharitable bluntness.

“That’s a helluva choice,” McCaskey said, his voice low, his eyes flat.

“Maybe it’s just old age, but I can’t remember a time when options were easy or clear.”

McCaskey nodded gravely. “We agree on that, at least.”

“I’ll take it,” Hood said with the hint of a smile.

“What I do not understand is how the hell we got here, Paul. Mike is gone, the building has been gutted, our integrity is no longer impervious. Even you would have to admit that.”

“I do,” Hood replied sadly.

Integrity had always been the center’s hallmark. Integrity had also been Paul Hood’s personal hallmark. Now, even if he draped an albatross around his neck and preached virtue like the Ancient Mariner, Hood would never have that quality again. What upset him more than the deal with Debenport was the fact that he had not seen this coming. He thought he was smarter than that.

“I’ll have to get back to you on how we got here,” Hood said. “Right now, I’m more concerned about where we are going and who is coming along. Can I count on you?”

“I’ll finish what I started,” McCaskey said.

“That’s all I need. Thanks.”

McCaskey headed toward the door. “I told Mike I would wait to hear from him before leaning any more on Orr and Link,” he said. “In the meantime, I’m going to see if the Metro Police have anything. They’ve been concentrating their efforts on the second murder.”

Hood nodded. “Thanks again,” he added.

“Sure,” McCaskey said.

The former FBI agent left, and Hood was alone once more. Alone in the Tank, the brain of Op-Center encased in its electromagnetically protected skull. Alone while his staff struggled to put the other organs together again. There was one, however, that Hood wondered if they would ever be able to retrieve. The one they needed almost as much as the brain: the heart.

THIRTY-SIX

Washington, D. C. Tuesday, 6: 31 P.M.

Darrell McCaskey picked up two things on his way to the Metro Police. The first was a cheeseburger. The second was his wife.

Maria had not asked to be involved in the investigation. But McCaskey knew she enjoyed getting her hands dirty, and in his mind this was as dirty as things got. Politics and murder. As old as Genesis. McCaskey did not tell her about Hood’s conversation with Debenport. It was important that he convey the information objectively. He wanted her opinion, not her reaction to his own upset.

The murders were being investigated by the Metro Police First District Substation at 500 E Street SW. Lieutenant Robert Howell was leading the Focused Mission Unit, which consisted of four sergeants on loan from homicide.

McCaskey had phoned ahead. Howell said he would still be at the stationhouse when they arrived. He greeted the McCaskeys in his small, clean, second-floor office. The men had spoken on the phone the day before, after District Commander Charlie Alterman agreed to let Op-Center run the Wilson investigation. That meant Howell got to keep the case, which otherwise would have shifted from FMU to Homicide. The murder of Lawless was added to the FMU “dig,” as they referred to forensics investigations, since the team had already been fielded.

There were photos of his parents and himself and framed diplomas from the Florida State University School of Criminology on the office wall. McCaskey was not surprised. The thirty-something lieutenant looked like a “college cop,” as they used to call them in the FBI. He was a lean, clean-cut, tightly wound man with short red hair and deep-set eyes. His voice had the hint of a Southern accent. His white shirt was heavily starched so it did not wrinkle. Wrinkles suggested perspiration, and perspiration suggested worry or insecurity. Those were conditions that schooled detectives were taught to avoid. Howell did not sit until Maria had been seated. He was polite. That did not mean he would be cooperative. McCaskey had made his team look foolish and also had stolen their assignment.

As the men sat, Howell expressed both concern and genuine outrage about what happened at Op-Center.

“Officially or not, our resources are at your disposal,” Howell said.

The detective’s words gave McCaskey a whisper of hope. Men with vastly different interests could still find common ground in their response to horrific acts. Maybe the rest of what they did—the jockeying and the politics, the bargains made and assurances broken—was just not important enough to worry about.

“I very much appreciate your offer,” McCaskey said. “Actually, I came by because I did not want you to think the attack has slowed our work on the Wilson case. It was based mostly on fieldwork, which is ongoing.”

“Have you made progress?”

“Possibly,” McCaskey said. “I’ll be checking with one of my operatives in a few hours.” He did not want to tell the detective about Mike Rodgers’s full-court press against Orr’s team. The job of the Metro Police was to protect and serve. The reality was they protected and served government heavyweights with special care. Their budget came from Congress. They would not appreciate Op-Center’s more intrusive methods. “Do you have anything to freshen the mix?”

“We have what may be a nail polish and fiber sample from the second crime scene,” Howell told him. “But that does not help because, first, Lawless may have picked those up somewhere else and, second, we do not have a suspect.”

“Meaning there is nothing to compare it to,” McCaskey said. “Where did you recover it?”

“From Lawless’s silver-link watch band,” Howell said. “It may have snagged the hem of her sleeve or lapel when he tried to defend himself.”

“Do you have the specs?”

Howell nodded and went to his computer. He brought up the laboratory data. “The nail polish is a silky beige manufactured by a Chicago firm, Niles Polish. It’s sold in shops nationwide, so it’s unlikely we’ll find the buyer. We cross-referenced charge card purchases with Senator Orr’s guest list, but that turned up nothing.”

“She probably paid cash,” McCaskey said.

“That, and she could have done so anywhere in the country. As for the fiber, that is satin, navy blue, just like the dress we saw in the security camera video. The dye was manufactured by the Fuchun River Chemical Corporation of China, which does not tell us anything about the garment itself.”

“One of those things did not come from the killer,” Maria said. “Unless she has a terrible fashion sense.”

“That was our conclusion,” Howell said. “Mr. Lawless might have picked up the nail polish from a handshake or making a purchase. Hypodermic needles are easy enough to come by. We have been looking into individuals who would be qualified to have given both victims an injection. But there are over three hundred female dentists and hygienists alone in the metropolitan region. Then there are literally thousands of other medical doctors, nurses, even veterinarians. Besides, the killer might not even be from this area.”

“I believe she is,” McCaskey said. “I’m convinced the murder of Robert Lawless was organized quickly to cover our discovery that William Wilson was murdered. If that’s true, then the assassin was still in the neighborhood.”

“Reasonable,” Howell said. The detective turned his pale poker face from the computer monitor. “Does the possible progress you mentioned a minute ago have to do with Senator Orr?”

“We would like to clear the senator if we can,” McCaskey answered.

“Does that mean he or someone in his office is a suspect ?” Howell pressed.

“No,” McCaskey replied. If he had said yes, Howell would have informed the detectives on his team, and they would have told others. McCaskey did not want to be responsible for starting rumors. “Detective, I don’t want to keep you from your dinner plans or family any longer than I have to. Are there any leads besides the nail polish and satin fiber?”

Howell shook his head. “I have to admit it has been tough getting off Go on this one. The security camera images have not helped, no eyewitnesses have come forward to tell us about the killer’s movements, and our profiler has not found a hook to hang a psychological sketch.”

“Did the medical examiner find anything unusual about Lawless’s body?” McCaskey asked.

“Nothing,” Howell said. “He died exactly as Wilson did.”

“Was any hair recovered from either scene?” Maria asked.

“Plenty,” the detective told her. “Blonde, brunette, black, red, white, even green. Hotel rooms are cleaned but not that thoroughly. We have thirty-seven different strands. Six of those match the housekeeping staff. We are checking with previous guests in the room. That will take time. If our killer was wearing a wig, that may make her untraceable.”

As the detective was speaking, McCaskey suddenly flashed on something that made him want to kick himself. Hard. “Actually, Detective, now that I think of it, there is something the Metro Police could do for me. Do you have a computer I could borrow for a few minutes?”

“Sure. You can use mine,” Howell said. He swung toward the keyboard. “Is there something I can look up for you?”

“Thanks, but I need to do this myself,” McCaskey said. “Op-Center security.”

“I see.”

“We’ll lock up, if you want to leave—”

“I can’t do that,” Howell said. “We have security procedures. But I will step outside.”

“Thanks. I should only be five minutes or so.”

The detective left without shutting the door. McCaskey went behind his desk.

“Shall I close it?” Maria asked, indicating the door.

“No,” her husband replied. He typed in the address of the Op-Center web site which was backed up in a secure Tank. Thanks to software designed by Stoll, any subsequent addresses he typed into this remote keyboard would be unrecorded. He went to the District of Columbia personnel files. These were accessible to intelligence agencies in order to do quick security checks in the event of a crisis.

Maria stood behind him. “What was so important it had to be done now?” she asked.

“There is one woman I overlooked. Minnie Hennepin, the medical examiner. She would know how to give an injection and she would be in a position to overlook the puncture wound.”

“She could also be an incompetent who got her highpaying job through—what is the word?”

“Patronage,” McCaskey said. “That is certainly possible. We may know more after checking her background.” He accessed the medical examiner’s file and read her curriculum vitae. “Red flag number one,” he said. “She graduated from the University of Texas Medical School.”

“So did thousands of other men and women,” Maria said. “That does not mean anything.”

“Do me a favor, hon? Don’t play devil’s advocate right now,” McCaskey said as sweetly as possible.

“Why? You told me you needed extra eyes and another brain working on this problem.”

“I do. But that doesn’t mean shooting down everything I say.”

“That was not everything. It was one thing.”

“Okay,” he said. “I’m sorry. Let’s just drop it.”

“If I say something contrary, will you think I am covering for her? Will I become a suspect then?”

“Don’t be extreme,” McCaskey said, looking back at his wife. “I was just thinking out loud. I don’t want to hit a speed bump every time I open my mouth. Look, just forget I said anything.”

“You are the one being extreme. I was simply pointing out that coming from Texas may be a false blip. Each of Senator Orr’s senior staff members comes from a state of the union. Would they all be flags as well?”

McCaskey turned back to the computer monitor. He intended to let the subject drop. He hoped that she would, too. He did not want to explain to the Spanish-born lady that Texans shared a special bond, that they helped Texans, that he would not be surprised to learn that Senator Orr had promised her the surgeon general job if she helped him. Yes, it was a leap. But that was what detective work was about.

McCaskey heard Maria breathing heavily through her nose. He tried to ignore her as he continued to read. Following her internship at the Cambridge Medical Center in Minnesota, Dr. Hennepin went to work at the Walter Reed Army Medical Center Department of Clinical Investigation. She was eventually promoted to assistant chief and placed in charge of the team performing oversight of research involving human, animal, and laboratory-related studies. When Hennepin was passed over for directorship of the division, she filed a discrimination complaint with the medical center and the United States Equal Employment Opportunity Commission. Three weeks later, she went to work as the assistant medical examiner. Within the year, Dr. Hennepin had the top spot. There was no indication that anyone, Senator Orr included, had helped her. Of course, that was the kind of information that might be deleted if Dr. Hennepin were planning on becoming an assassin.

“Well? Did you find any other red banners?” Maria asked.

“Flags. And I’m not sure.”

“I learned to give injections, too,” Maria said testily. “My little sister Penelope is a diabetic.”

“You were with me last night,” McCaskey said. “Listen, hon. I said I’m sorry. Can we please just let it drop?”

“With pleasure,” she said.

McCaskey could hear the angry pout in her voice. This was not going to be buried until he put a stake in its heart. And maybe that was his responsibility. Some of the useful speculation in this case had come from her. He closed the Op-Center site, turned back to his wife, and took her hands.

“Maria, I do need help, your help,” he said. “We have a different idea what that entails, but I was wrong. I should have deferred to you.”

“Are you just saying that?”

“No. I got defensive. This whole situation, this whole goddamn week has been a nightmare. Forgive me?”

Maria hesitated, but not as long as she would have if she were really angry. “All right,” she said. “Then let me ask you something that I have been wondering.”

“Shoot.”

“Are you sure the killer was even a woman?” Maria asked.

“You mean, could it be a man dressed as a woman?”

“Yes.”

“That was one of the first things I considered. I asked Detective Superintendent Daily whether Wilson’s interests went in that direction. The Yard keeps track of such things about prominent citizens because potential blackmail could adversely impact the national economy. They also do not want the crown to be embarrassed by announcing a knighthood for someone who is trafficking pornography. They insist that Wilson is heterosexual.”

“Wilson may not have known his date was a man,” Maria replied. “Some of the ‘women’ who party at Los Pantalones Para Vestir a Club, in Madrid, are extremely convincing.”

“That is a possibility,” her husband agreed as he glanced into the hall. Detective Howell was hovering there like a buoy in rough seas. “Come on,” he said, still holding his wife’s hands. “Let’s get coffee and think about a next step.”

“I already have one, if you’ll consider it,” she said.

“I’m listening,” he said as they left the office. He thanked Detective Howell and said he would be in touch.

Maria stopped before Howell returned to his office. “Detective, would we have access to your laboratory if we need it?”

“Of course.” He went back to his office, wrote the number on a pad, and handed it to her.

“Thank you,” she said. She put the paper in her back pocket. “I am not sure it will be necessary, but this is good to have.”

The McCaskeys walked toward the stairwell.

“What was that about?” her husband asked.

“The dress is the key,” Maria said as they started down the concrete stairs to the first floor.

“I agree. That’s why I sent the security camera images to designers in the area, asked if they recognized it—”

“We will not learn the identity of whoever bought it,” she said, shaking her head. “You said that yourself about the nail polish. What I am saying is that we need to find the dress itself.”

“I have one man on that full-time. He had trash bins searched, fountains, and even a duck pond near the Hay-Adams dragged,” McCaskey told her.

“It would not have been discarded,” Maria said.

“How can you be sure?”

“Those were the first places you searched,” Maria said. “Our assassin—”

“Is experienced,” McCaskey said. “Fair assumption. Still, it might have been burned in a fireplace or stuffed in an incinerator.”

“An incinerator is not a guarantee of total destruction,” she said. “But I agree that it might have been consigned to a fireplace. Who among your potential suspects has one?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Even if we find out, we would need a reason to get a warrant. ‘They have a fireplace’ is just not good enough.”

“A warrant may not be necessary,” she said. “We may not even have to go inside. Not yet.”

“I don’t follow.”

“I know,” she smiled. “You should learn.”

“Ouch,” he said.

“Let’s go home,” Maria said. “We will need to do a little research before going out again.”

McCaskey agreed to the plan, but not just because debate would have been pointless and not because his wife was a sharp field op—something exhaustion and frustration had caused him to forget. It was simple math. A woman had sent the men of Scotland Yard, Op-Center, and the Metro Police into a dark alley with no discernable exit.

Maybe a woman was what they needed to get out.

THIRTY-SEVEN

San Diego, California Wednesday, 7:01 A.M.

Short, stocky Eric Stone had always been ambivalent about history. He could not affect it, and whatever impact it was going to have had already occurred. Moreover, he did not believe people could learn from it or, failing that, were doomed to repeat it. There were always nuances that made events different. Caesar was not Napoleon who was not Hitler who was not Stalin. Anyway, what was important in one era did not matter now. How many people, old and young, could name one thing Calvin Coolidge had done? Or who he was, for that matter.

While tourists and visitors to the convention center gathered around the time line of San Diego, Stone went about his business. He checked booths where attendees received their badges, made sure the media was present and able to set up their gear, determined that there would be a sufficient number of buses to run delegates to and from the nearby hotels. He did not care that hunting peoples of northeast Asia had crossed the Bering Ice Bridge and migrated to the south to hunt caribou, bison, and mammoth some twenty thousand years ago. It did not matter to him that Juan Rodríguez Cabrillo was the first European to visit the region, sailing from Mexico into San Diego Bay in 1542 and claiming the region for Spain. It was unimportant that sixty years later, Sebastian Vizcaino sailed from Mexico and named the region after the Spanish saint San Diego de Alcalá. The natives could have been hunting dodos, the Spanish men could have been French women, none of it mattered. The thirty-year-old was unapologetic about his interest in the present. That grew from spending time with his father, Phil, back in Indianapolis, when the fifty-year-old was dying from amyotrophic lateral sclerosis. Lou Gehrig’s disease. Not just dying from it but being disintegrated by it. His limbs folding in on themselves as his muscles atrophied, his organs failing. In a lucid moment before he succumbed entirely to living decomposition, the elder Stone told his only son that he regretted so much in his life. Becoming a mechanical engineer instead of a painter. Not spending more time with Eric instead of bowling and drinking with the guys.

“I had a guy,” the older man whispered. “The best guy.” He touched the top of eighteen-year-old Eric’s head with a hand whose fingers would not fully uncurl. “I could have had a better life.”

That was the last thing Phil Stone had to say before the muscles of his face stopped working. He spent the last month of his life with his jaw hanging slack and his eyes staring at an aluminum bed rail and whatever memories he could find in his drug-hazed brain. Eric Stone resolved, then, to regret nothing. To live in the moment. That meant having power.

The elder Stone’s illness devoured their savings and kept the young boy from graduating with any distinction. The only way he could get an education was by enlisting in the military. Having spent his life landlocked in the agricultural belly of the nation, he joined the navy, where he caught the eye of then–Rear Admiral Link. It was in San Diego, after the Persian Gulf War. There was a reception for the vice president of the United States at the Space and Naval Warfare Systems facility. SPAWAR provided more than half of the tactical and nontactical information management technology the navy used to complete its operational missions during the war.

To help pay the bills at home, Eric had worked as a waiter for a catering company. He was ordered to work the windy al fresco party. Something about his manner captured Link’s attention. His intensity, perhaps. He handled a tray as carefully as he would nitroglycerin. The wind stirred the fabric of his dress blues, but he did not lose a single drop of champagne.

Eric Stone lived in the moment.

Link had Stone transferred to his own Department of Focused Sensing and Data Acquisition. This embraced intelligence-gathering operations through photographic, electromagnetic, acoustic, seismic, olfactory, visual, or other means. It relied on everything from satellites to aircraft to sensor fields arrayed on the ground in the form of probes and microtechnology. Stone went to work in the accounting division. At Link’s request, he found ways to get better deals from suppliers so there was more money to spend on other things. There was no kickback, no padded invoices, no black-ops funding, no dishonesty. It was all about making FSDA/SPAWAR run more effectively. Link made sure that Stone got the schooling he needed. There was strong mentoring throughout the three years they were together.

SPAWAR was Link’s jumping-off point to the Company. Before accepting their offer to run Far Eastern Intelligence from CIA headquarters, Link told Stone to get in touch with him when his hitch was up. Stone did that and went to work in the inspector general’s office. There was an opening for an information system auditor, conducting efficiency analyses of CIA programs and activities. While Stone worked there, he attended classes in accounting at the University of Northern Virginia. He had his master’s degree within three years. He transferred to Link’s personal staff that same year, with GS-15 pay status and toplevel security clearance. Stone’s first job was making sure money reached field agents in Asia, which was Link’s area of command. Within two years, Stone had become the admiral’s executive assistant. The men did not socialize outside the office. On the job, however, they were as close as father and son, watching each other’s backs in the shadow of a ruthless and complex bureaucracy and making sure the department ran smoothly.

Stone had never thought of the admiral as a political activist. Like the younger man, Link seemed to be absolutely focused on the moment, on whatever job needed to be done. It came as a shock when, six months ago, Link called him into his office and shut the door.

“Senator Donald Orr of Texas is going to be starting a new political party and making a serious run for the presidency,” Link had said. “I’m going to find a way to work with him.”

“Why?” Stone had asked.

The answer surprised him. “To stop him.”

Link had met the senator at a Congressional Intelligence Planning Committee briefing several months before. The Texan was impressed with Link’s grasp of the threat represented by terrorist cells relocating from the Philippines, Malaysia, and Indonesia to China. Implicit in the presentation was the notion that if Beijing could control international terrorism, it would give the Chinese a powerful tool to use against Western aggression. Paul Hood of Op-Center was also at that meeting, reporting on the recent efforts of the NCMC to try to contain Chinese expansion into the diamond market in southern Africa. Link had proposed a comprehensive “Quiet War” against Beijing, stirring student dissatisfaction from within, encouraging fringe provinces to move toward independence. Keeping the Chinese busy with domestic unrest would give them less time to worry about the United States and Europe.

The Quiet War was approved and funded. After the meeting, Orr took Link aside. He said he actually wanted to go further. He wanted to train CIA operatives to execute acts of terror in foreign capitals in what he called an “anticivilian strike option.” These ACSO units would attack the societal infrastructure with more devastating efficiency than terrorist attacks had been executed anywhere in the world. In a subsequent meeting, Link learned that half of the twelve-person CIP Committee was appalled at the notion of attacking civilian targets such as banks, communications centers, and landmarks. The other half thought there was merit to the idea and named a subcommittee of six congressional representatives to study it.

Link was horrified. It was one thing to monitor terrorists and take preemptive action against them. It was another thing to use that security apparatus to foster what Orr was calling “aggressive isolationism.” But Link was too good an intelligence officer and too seasoned a bureaucrat to let Orr know what he was thinking. To the contrary. He encouraged Orr to talk. It was important to know what a potential opponent was thinking. Link resolved to take no steps against the top secret ACSO program until it moved from subcommittee to recommendation.

That never happened. The subcommittee decided the downside of ACSO made it too risky: the chance that a slip up could lead to the discovery that Congress had authorized strikes against civilian targets. Link was bothered that they did not react on moral grounds. It was all about personal preservation.

Orr accepted the setback with his courtly Texas grace, but he did not abandon the goal. ACSO and aggressive isolationism became obsessions with him. He privately enlisted Admiral Link in his crusade, assuming that a military man and intelligence director would see the wisdom of his goal.

Link confided in Stone that he did not. The admiral stayed close to Donald Orr because he wanted to know what the senator was planning. He believed Orr to be a dangerous man: a man with bad ideas and the charm to sell them.

It was a typically brisk morning on San Diego Bay. Stone’s curly blond hair danced against his forehead. The salty sea wind was ribboned with the faint smell of diesel fuel. The unique gas-and-steel tang, the odor of latent warfare, was coming from the naval station just southeast of the convention center. The sounds of traffic moving along Harbor Drive mingled with the cries of sea birds and the roar of jets that landed every few minutes at the airport a few miles to the north. It was sensory chaos, but none of it bothered Stone. He was a source of calm in the midst of political and environmental anarchy. He had to be. What they did here would alter the course of world history.

An ironic destiny for someone who did not care to be a part of that stream, Stone thought. All the young man cared about was securing the goals Kenneth Link had set for them both. They were unusual ends, and it would take extraordinary means to get there. But they would succeed.

They had to.

Stone showed the security guard his pass and entered the convention center. A huge American flag hung on the south side of the room; the banner of the USF was suspended from the north side. Both were being steam-ironed to remove the wrinkles. Then they would be rolled and dropped when the convention got under way. Below them, rows of chairs were still being set up, their backs draped with gold and blue covers. Those were the colors of the convention. They signified a new dawn in a clear sky. The slogan of the convention was, “A New Day for America.”

That it would be. But not in the way that Don Orr imagined.

Stone went to the podium to see how work on the sound system was progressing. Texas Congresswoman Nicolet Murat was there, waiting to run a sound check. Nicolet would be giving the keynote address the next day. She came from oil money and was in line to become Treasury secretary in an Orr administration. Stone smiled a crooked smile as he greeted Congresswoman Murat and her executive assistant. It was exciting to be part of a big machine with its parts and pieces nearly ready to engage. And not in the way its designer imagined.

The lopsided smile broadened.

How could dead history compare to rich, explosive life?

THIRTY-EIGHT

Washington, D. C. Wednesday, 11:33 A.M.

The McCaskeys did not work very much when they got home.

They sat on the bed, pulled the laptop between them, and reviewed the list of possible suspects: Kendra Peterson, Kat Lockley, Dr. Hennepin. Mike Rodgers had mentioned a reporter, Lucy O’Connor, who covered Congress and arrived very soon after both murders. The McCaskeys had looked up her background. The résumé of everyone who had security clearance to the Capitol was filed online in the eyes-only section of the congressional web site. She wrote for the American Spectator and had a moderately successful syndicated radio talk show. She was a Pittsburgh native who had majored in communication at Carnegie-Mellon University.

“She also took their Interstellar Communication course and grabbed several credits from the Robotics Institute at the university’s School of Computer Science,” McCaskey remarked.

“What does that tell you?” Maria asked.

“She likes to think outside the coconut,” he replied.

The couple went back to the police station. Howell’s people had been doing some of the legwork they needed now. The Metro Police had obtained the addresses, license numbers, and make of car driven by each individual on their list of potential suspects. They also charted the location of security cameras closest to these people: parking garages, apartment lobbies, convenience stores, gas stations, banks, and traffic intersections. The latter were monitored for speeders and potential terrorists moving through the capital. Once the McCaskeys had these sites, they intended to go back out and visit them, borrow the tapes, and have a look for one of those women returning home after the crime.

They fell asleep instead. The days of youthful “forced march” crime-fighting were a thing of the past. The McCaskeys needed rest.

Maria got up at five-thirty the next morning. She showered, made coffee, then woke her husband. McCaskey was not happy to have passed out like that. He joined her in the kitchen at six-thirty. They had coffee and whole wheat toast. By seven o’clock, they were on the road.

McCaskey had not done patrol work since he was a debutant. That was Bureau slang for a first-year agent. He forgot how tiring it could be. Or maybe how much older he was. That aside, it was rewarding work made more so by Maria’s enthusiasm. She loved police work and had an eye for detail unlike anyone he had ever met. She had decided that the killer would have driven from the murder sites. A woman alone, on foot, after dark, was likely to stand out. She might have been noticed from a bar or restaurant or by a passing motorist. That could have helped police determine her direction. If she had taken the Metro, she definitely would have appeared on a security camera. A taxi or limousine service was out of the question. Drivers paid attention to the people who got into their cars. Part of that was fear and part of it was bragging rights in case they happened to pick up a celebrity.

Assuming the killer was driving, she would have done so slowly. She would not have wanted to risk being stopped by the police. They might ask where she had been. If the killer had shared a drink with Wilson, the police might have smelled it and insisted on a sobriety test.

There were a great many assumptions in their scenario. But experience, deductive reasoning, and good instincts could be as important to an investigation as facts, especially in a case such as this where there was very little hard data. McCaskey was thinking about that as they drove from site to site. His Op-Center ID got him access to the videotapes or digital records. None of them proved to be helpful. There was no sign of the cars they were looking for.

Maria was at the wheel. As McCaskey watched familiar storefronts and offices slip by, he had a troubling thought. A century ago, the booksellers, diners, attorneys, government offices, and banks would have been especially vulnerable to fire. Today, it was a new kind of fire that could destroy them. The kind that had crippled Op-Center. He wondered if there would ever be a time when people did not have to fear life as much as they feared death.

Not the way we do things now, he told himself.

Funds to fight these dangers were allocated by political need instead of by threat assessment. People like himself, Maria, and Detective Howell could not do the job America was counting on them to do.

“Do you think the killer might have rented a car?” Maria asked.

McCaskey looked at his wife. “I’m sorry?”

“The killer,” Maria repeated slowly. “Do you think she might have rented a car?”

“I would be very surprised if she did,” he said. “Assassins don’t like to leave a paper trail.”

“This assassin did not expect to be exposed,” Maria pointed out.

“That is true.”

“And she certainly would have gone in with a fake ID,” Maria went on. “An experienced killer would have several, I’m sure.”

“I suppose we can try that search if this doesn’t get us anywhere,” McCaskey said. “But there have got to be hundreds of rental facilities in the D.C. metro area. It will take days to visit them all, and what do we tell them when we do?”

“We show them pictures of all the women and see if they look familiar. Or better yet, we can see if any of them show up on security cameras. None of those women would have had a reason to rent a car.”

“Yes, we could do that,” McCaskey said.

That was another difference between today and his days as a rookie G-man. Twenty-odd years ago, at least a dozen agents would have been assigned to a case like this. Now there were two.

“Darrell, were you all right a minute ago?” Maria asked.

“Sorry?”

“You went away from me.”

“Yes,” her husband said. “I was thinking, that’s all.”

“What about?” Maria asked.

“The pork barrel,” he said with a little laugh.

“Is that a restaurant?”

“In a manner of speaking,” McCaskey replied. He loved his beautiful, sweet, Spanish wife. She was so worldly, so tough, and so very linear. “A person of influence takes a lunch tray to his senator and gets plates full of federal funds. It’s another name for patronage.”

“I see,” Maria said. “It is the same as what bookmakers in Madrid call el roulette del amigo.”

“That’s exactly what it is. The roulette wheel of a friend,” McCaskey said. “The fix is in, the outcome predetermined.”

“Why were you thinking about that?”

“Because Op-Center was a victim of pork barrel politics. Maybe Paul is right, doing what he’s doing. If we had played the system better, we would have more people looking for a killer. And that should be our bottom line, should it not? Protecting law-abiding citizens.”

“That is my religion,” she said simply.

“Well put.” McCaskey looked out the window again. He noticed they were nearing Lafayette Park. “We’re near the Hay-Adams. Why don’t we go back there? Walk around, see if there is anything we may have overlooked.”

“All right,” she said.

That was the beauty of having married a cop. He might have to explain colloquial English to her, but he did not have to explain the intangibles of their lives and work. She got that.

They drove to the hotel, its tawny facade gleaming warmly in the morning light. They parked and decided to walk along Farragut North. The White House shone through the trees of Lafayette Park. McCaskey could see the press corps gathered in tents on the east side. The president was probably heading to the airport. It was too early in the week for Camp David. He remembered when the press looked for stories instead of handouts. There was a time when someone would have sniffed out the new relationship between the White House and Op-Center, exposed it, and not been afraid to write about it. Access to newsmakers. A different kind of pork barrel.

McCaskey took his wife’s hand. She gave it an encouraging squeeze. She seemed to sense the frustration he was feeling with this case and with the situation at Op-Center.

“We’ll get her,” Maria said.

“Thanks. I believe that,” McCaskey replied.

Maria stopped suddenly. She looked ahead. “No, I mean we will get her.”

“I don’t follow.”

“I was just thinking about the assassin, what I would do if I had just killed someone at the hotel,” Maria said. “I would be undistracted by conscience or the late hour. My only concern would be getting away quick and clean. That means I would be parked as close to the hotel as possible, on a relatively dark street.”

“Of course.”

“I would also have parked where there are the fewest eyeballs,” Maria said. “Where would that be?”

“The side of the hotel by Lafayette Park,” her husband said, “near where we parked.”

“Yes. Darrell, do you think any of the White House reporters might have been there? Maybe one of them doing a live report for CNN?”

“Very possibly,” he agreed. “But they would have been facing the White House, not the park.”

“Perhaps they turned on their cameras early.”

McCaskey looked in that direction. He did not think there was a chance of that, though he could not rule it out. Then something occurred to him. Something that made the pact with the devil suddenly seem more inviting.

“We may not need them,” he said.

“Why not?”

“Because if the killer came this way, someone else may have gotten a good look at her,” McCaskey said.

Without saying anything else, he borrowed Maria’s cell phone and walked briskly toward the park.

THIRTY-NINE

Washington, D. C. Wednesday, 11:54 A.M.

Yuri and Svetlana Krasnov might have imagined their own fate. They possessed the genetic Russian quality of dissatisfaction, inherited from their peasant parents. What they could never have imagined was the destiny of their son.

The young couple moved to the United States during the Cold War. They lived in Arlington, Virginia, and worked in the Soviet embassy. She was a stenographer, and he was a translator. Svetlana was also a cryptographer and helped to interpret intercepted military and governmental communiqués. Yuri translated messages from Americanborn spies. One morning, three months after arriving, they were approached by a CIA officer. He offered them a chance to work with the Agency. The agent wanted to know who was giving them intelligence so that the CIA could distribute disinformation to the Kremlin. In exchange, when it came time for the Krasnovs to be rotated back to the Soviet Union—after eighteen months, to make sure they did not become overly comfortable with the American way of life—they would be given asylum if they chose to stay. If their collaboration were ever discovered, the Krasnovs would immediately be taken into protective custody and relocated.

The couple had learned a great deal about the United States since moving here. They liked what they saw. What’s more, they had a six-year-old daughter and fouryear-old son and wanted them to grow up in a land of opportunity. A land without breadlines or restrictions on what they could say and think.

The Krasnovs were found out seven months later. A floater agent, one assigned to spy on spies, read a mole’s report and resealed it before it was turned over to Yuri for translation. The deception was discovered. The Krasnovs fled. The family was relocated to Wisconsin and given the new last name Brown, chosen by Svetlana. She was a big fan of the Peanuts comic strip.

Young Fayina and her brother Vladilen grew up American, and no one could have been more of a patriot than Vlad. He joined the marines as soon as he turned eighteen and proved to be remarkably skilled with the M-14. His proficiency was the result of the years he had spent hunting with his father in the woods. Implicitly, the elder Brown wanted to be ready in case the KGB ever came looking for them. Fortunately, the collapse of the Soviet Union made that unlikely.

Vlad was so good with weapons that the Marines appointed him to a special reaction team at the Marine Corps Air Station in Iwakuni, Japan. As part of his assignment he was sent to Camp Foster, Okinawa, to train with the new Designated Marksman Rifle. The DMR was an urban combat rifle. Before being certified, Vlad had to be able to make a moving head shot from two hundred yards and hit a stationary thumbnail-size object from the same distance.

He placed number one at the base, and among the top 1 percent of all Marine marksmen nationwide. Shortly before the Iraq War, Captain Vlad Brown was reassigned to special duty at the White House. Along with two other men, Vlad spent his nights on the roof with infrared glasses, watching for potential attackers. His DMR was worn across his back in a loose leather sling. He could have the rifle unshouldered and aimed in less than three seconds. His orders were to report any suspicious movement within three hundred yards of the White House. Vlad wore a three-ounce video camera on his left shoulder, where it would not get in the way of his DMR. The camera relayed images to Secret Service On-site Command based in the West Wing. If the SSOC determined a threat was real, Vlad would be ordered to neutralize it.

The post was quite a journey for the son of Russian defectors, unthinkable a quarter century before. The young man took some ribbing because of his very Russian name, but not too much. That was the one area where Vlad Brown was self-conscious and extremely sensitive. Though the captain passed the monthly psych evaluations, which were required for armed individuals with presidential access, his fellow marksmen sensed his name was an area to avoid. There were some things team members picked up on that psychologists did not.

Vlad was rarely called to the White House during the day. Marksmen required seven or eight hours’ sleep to be their sharpest and, besides, he did not like to be out much during the day. After seven months on the job, his eyes were accustomed to night, his body to the pleasant night air, his ears to the sounds of the evening and early morning. He did not want to do anything to upset that balance.

But the president’s chief of staff said it was important, so Captain Brown put off going to sleep, called up a staff car, and had himself driven from the Marine Barracks at Eighth and I to the White House. Upon arriving, he went directly to the SSOC office and was introduced to Darrell and Maria McCaskey of Op-Center. The former Russian citizen felt an immediate empathy with Mrs. McCaskey. Obviously, she was not a native to these shores.

Secret Service Agent Stephen Kearns—the son of Greek immigrants—offered Vlad a seat in the small office. He declined. Mrs. McCaskey was standing, and the officer would not sit in her presence. Her husband introduced himself to Vlad. He looked as tired as the marine captain felt.

“Thank you for coming,” McCaskey said. “Captain Brown, we are investigating the assassination of William Wilson at the Hay-Adams Hotel. I assume you’ve heard about it?”

“I have, sir.”

“We understand from Agent Kearns that you wear a small video camera equipped with night-vision capabilities,” McCaskey said. “We would like to look at the images from that night.”

“We believe the individual we are seeking walked past the park, past your observation post,” Mrs. McCaskey added.

“Agent Kearns, do you have any objection?” Vlad asked. Because of the cooperative arrangement between the Secret Service and the marines, dual releases were required before a third party could examine White House security tapes.

“Mr. and Mrs. McCaskey have been cleared by the office of the chief of staff,” Kearns informed him.

“Then you have my permission, sir,” Vlad told the Op-Center officer.

“Thank you,” McCaskey said.

Agent Kearns had booted the digital videodisc on which the images were stored. The SSOC officer swung the monitor toward the McCaskeys. The couple must have friends in high places to have been given access to these images. Few people even knew they existed.

The image was time-coded and bookmarked in fiveminute chunks. Kearns jumped directly to the times the McCaskeys wished to see. Vlad stood back while Darrell and Maria bent very close to the monitor and to each other. There was something touching about it.

A woman walked past the screen.

“Hold on!” Darrell McCaskey said. “Can you hold the image and enlarge it?”

Agent Kearns obliged. A blurry green image of a woman filled the screen. She was walking away from the hotel toward Pennsylvania Avenue. Mr. McCaskey pointed at the monitor with his pinkie. He traced what appeared to be a faint smudge of dress beneath the woman’s long jacket.

“See the line under the hem?” McCaskey asked his wife excitedly.

“Yes,” Mrs. McCaskey said.

“What do you think?”

“That could be satin,” she replied.

“Sir, if you give me a minute, I’ll extrapolate the color information and sharpen the image,” Kearns said.

“Please do,” Mr. McCaskey said.

No one spoke as the computer did its job. Though the image was entirely in tones of green, the image processor was capable of matching a color to each particular shade. The saturation of green corresponded to the comparative brightness of a color. By removing the green and matching the remaining light intensity to a color, the image could be accurately colorized. At the same time, the computer scanned the picture to differentiate between legitimate information and pictorial noise such as blurred motion, video snow, and other artifacts. It removed these flaws by replicating information from adjoining pixels.

Within two minutes, the woman looked as if she had posed for a profile picture in daylight. The McCaskeys studied it for a minute, then asked Agent Kearns to print the image. He obliged. He handed the eight-by-ten to Mr. McCaskey.

“Do you recognize the individual?” Kearns asked.

“Yes,” Mr. McCaskey replied. “Gentlemen, you have been of immeasurable assistance. Thank you.”

Mrs. McCaskey smiled. It was formal but sincere. For Vlad, it was worth coming back to work. One day, when his assignment ended and the pressure of his job was behind him, Vlad hoped to find a woman like that. A woman with poise, intensity, and beauty.

The captain returned to his car and driver. Vlad had to admit it was encouraging how people from four nations had just worked together to solve the death of someone from a fifth country. There was probably a lesson in that for the United Nations and the world in general. But he was too tired to search for it. And maybe it was not worth analyzing. As Yuri used to say with a dismissive wave of his hand, “It’s politics. My keeshkee cannot take it anymore.”

Maybe the Krasnov gene pool and intestines were averse to chaos in general. It was lunch hour, and Vlad found the traffic disturbing. It was thick with growling buses, limousines, and Washingtonians who honked at tourists who slowed as they passed each familiar landmark. Vlad shut his tired eyes, and the comfort of darkness returned. Along with a troubling realization.

He shared a love of nighttime with someone else. Someone whose values were the antithesis of his own: the assassin.

Vlad nudged this thought from his mind. It was way beyond his pay grade. Besides, the gene pool that disliked chaos also gave him something else. Something with which there was no debating. A part of him that did not want to think about this: his keeshkee.

FORTY

Salt Lake City, Utah Wednesday, 10:17 A.M.

Mike Rodgers was changing planes when he checked the personal cell phone he had bought to join the twenty-first century. He never took the phone with him to work, so it had been unaffected by the electromagnetic pulse. There was a call from Maria McCaskey and plenty of time to return it. The connecting flight to San Diego did not leave for another sixty minutes.

The flight from Washington had been routine. Routine for Rodgers, anyway. That invariably meant planning for conflict. The difference was that for the first time in his life, he was sizing up Americans. He was talking to Kat Lockley, trying to find out what she knew and what she might be hiding. Either she was very good at deception, or she was very innocent. He could not decide which. He was hoping it was the latter. In fact, he hoped this entire thing turned out to be a misunderstanding of some sort. Being away from Washington made him inherently less distrustful. The murderer of William Wilson was probably a former lover or a business rival. The EM attack on Op-Center may have been long planned, the timing coincidental. He still believed it was executed by a group or nation the NCMC had crossed. At least, Rodgers wanted to believe that. One of the failures of Homeland Security was that it presumed when the moat was drawn, only good guys remained in the castle.

Kat planted her ear to her cell phone the instant she left the plane. She said she had to talk to Eric Stone and to Kendra to see how everything was going. The senator had no plans for that morning. The convention opened in the evening, but the senator’s big night was not until the next day. He would make a speech and then, on Friday, the convention would select a candidate. Kat said she wanted to make sure that everything was going as planned.

Rodgers walked away from where Kat was sitting. He went to a quiet corner at an empty gate and stood with his back against a wall. It felt good to stand after being in the crowded plane. People were rushing about, but the general felt disconnected from their urgency. He had always felt that way in combat, too. There was a tightrope strung between himself and the outcome, with potential enemies everywhere. He had to be very attentive to each step. This investigation was like that in a way because of what the outcome meant to him personally and professionally. Rodgers felt apprehensive as he punched in the number. He did not think Darrell or Maria was calling to find out if Kat had told him anything. Rodgers would have called from a phone on the airplane if he had intel. The call probably meant the McCaskeys had information for him. Maybe they had found the killer, an angry former employee or maltreated valet.

The information Darrell had was not what Mike Rodgers wanted to hear.

“A woman from your circle was at the second crime scene,” McCaskey told him. “The time is right, and she was wearing a dress that matches the color of fibers found in the room.”

Since this was an unsecured line, McCaskey would not tell Rodgers how he found that out, but the former FBI agent was a conservative man; he would not have made such a conclusive statement if he weren’t sure.

“Who is it?” Rodgers asked.

“The reporter.”

Lucy O’Connor. Rodgers felt relief, doubt, and renewed concern in quick succession. The relief was because the killer appeared to be outside the group. The doubt was because it seemed unlikely Lucy would have conceived the one murder alone, let alone a second murder and possibly the bombing of Op-Center. In the little time he had spent with Lucy, she did not seem to have the patience for murder. And concern because, if all that were true, Lucy had to be in league with someone. That still did not clear Link or his people.

“What about the hat with the big brim?” Rodgers asked. “Is that a match?”

“Not worn in this image,” McCaskey said. “But it could have been stuffed into a shoulder bag.”

That made sense. If she were caught on a security camera outside, there would be one less element to connect her to images from the hotel.

“What do you want me to do?” Rodgers asked.

“I think you should tell your traveling companion and see how she reacts,” McCaskey said.

“I agree. We leave for San Diego in less than an hour. I’ll try to call back before then.”

Rodgers hung up. He flipped the phone shut and started walking toward Kat. She was still sitting there, her eyes fixed on nothing, her index finger in her open ear as she talked on the phone, conducting her business. But which business? And how was he going to find out? He was a soldier, not Morley Safer.

The seat beside Kat was open. Rodgers took it. She did not attempt to conceal what she was saying.

“. . . only CNN talks to him before the press conference. That’s the deal we made for a prime-time spot,” Kat was saying. She was silent for a moment, her shoulders straight and stiff, her mouth a tight, unemotional line. Then she said, “I understand, Diane. But Larry was the only one who offered that. What about this: you get the first talk with the ticket. I would want ten minutes in the eight o’clock hour of the morning show.” She was silent again. “Yes, an exclusive sit-down at the senator’s home in Georgetown.” Kat smiled slightly as she listened. “Good. I will present it to the senator, but I am certain it will be okay. Thanks. Say hi to Mike.” Kat punched the Off button and slumped into the seat. “Well, this is what I worked for. Now I’ve got it.”

“What is that?”

“A hungry press,” Kat replied. “Before Wilson, Senator Orr was only on the radar of the all-news networks. Now everyone wants him, especially if they can shoot at the party house.”

“Lucky break for us,” Rodgers said.

Kat looked over. “I’m too busy for sarcasm.”

“Okay. Let’s try it straight up.” Kat had given him a clean shot, and he decided to take it. Maybe that was the best way. “What do you say to Lucy O’ Connor being at the Hay-Adams when Wilson was murdered?”

“I would say she was trying to get an interview,” Kat replied. She speed-dialed another number.

“Or maybe trying to make news,” Rodgers suggested.

“What are you talking about?”

Rodgers looked around to make sure no one was listening. For all he knew, Lucy O’Connor had been on their flight. “There is an image of Lucy leaving the Hay-Adams shortly after the murder. The dress she had on is the same color as the one the assassin was wearing.”

Kat terminated the call. “That hardly makes her a killer or even an accomplice,” she said. “Maybe they bought it off the same rack.”

“That’s a reach,” Rodgers said.

“So is your idea of what constitutes a murder suspect,” Kat said. “You’ve got a hungry reporter. A reclusive newsmaker. Of course she would be at the hotel after the party, trying to intercept him.”

“You’re defending her pretty adamantly,” Rodgers observed.

“This is America. Lucy is still innocent. Besides, she doesn’t deserve to be pilloried. Nor does Senator Orr,” Kat said.

“Is that what you think is happening?” Rodgers asked.

“Yes. You or someone at Op-Center has obviously made up their minds that we are guilty of murder, or worse.”

“No one has made that determination,” Rodgers told her. “This is an investigation.”

“Yours or Op-Center’s?”

“Until my resignation takes effect, I am working for Op-Center by assignment and command of the undersecretary, Department of Defense Security Cooperation Agency,” Rodgers replied.

“Then I suggest you get back to Washington and complete your assignment there,” Kat said.

“For the record, I have spent most of my career in the field, protecting America and the rights of its citizens. I have condemned no one, either openly or in here,” Rodgers tapped his right temple. “You, on the other hand, have made up your mind that I am out to get you. If that were true, I would have turned this over to Paul Hood and his bulldogs.”

Kat’s expression returned to neutral. She looked at her phone and tapped it in her open palm. “It sounded like an attack,” she said.

“I’m a soldier. A lot of things I say come out like that.”

“Not always.” The young woman regarded Rodgers. Neutrality suddenly looked more like exhaustion. “General—Mike—I really don’t know about what Lucy did or did not do. And I do not want to be defensive. It’s just this whole thing has been a distraction at the worst possible time. Part of me believes it was designed that way by a person or group that does not want to see the senator become president or even have a voice in this election.”

“Do you have any idea who that might be?”

“Sure. Every lobbyist and politician from the center to the left. Political rivals like Senator Debenport and Governor Jimmy Phyfe of Ohio, both of whom want President Lawrence’s job.”

“Do you have specific information that either of those men may be involved in the assassination?” Rodgers asked. “If you do, even if it’s just a suspicion, this would be the time to tell me.”

“There are rumors that Debenport and Lawrence are using the presidency to attract allies for partisan activities, but we have no proof of that,” Kat told him. “Anything you can imagine is possible in Washington, but I don’t even want to believe that.”

Rodgers had always felt like a resistance fighter, risking his life to stop oppression. At the moment he felt like a collaborator, dirty and small. He moved closer. “You just said that anything you can imagine is possible. I have never done a lot of abstract thinking, Kat. I look at maps, at facts, at logistics. Since this thing started, I have been taking one small step at a time, just as I did whenever I led a unit against an enemy position. The difference is, I am accustomed to knowing who my opponent is. This is new ground for me and for Op-Center.”

“For all of us,” Kat said. “I have never been part of a murder investigation.”

“At least your involvement is peripheral at best,” Rodgers pointed out. “For that matter, the spotlight is on Lucy now, not any of your coworkers.”

“I still do not believe she had anything to do with it.”

“Why? Talk to me.”

“Let me ask you something first,” she said. “You’ve killed people. What does it take to do that?”

“Unless you’re a textbook sociopath, all it takes is the first kill to commit the second and third,” Rodgers told her.

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s like skydiving or eating snake,” Rodgers said. “You’ve already made the determination that it’s something you need to do. What you need then is something to kick you over your gag reflex. One of my Strikers, Corporal Pat Prementine, had to think of a high school bully he hated the first time he lobbed a grenade.”

“What did it take for you?”

“Economy.”

“What?”

“Two weeks after I arrived, my platoon was doing recon in the southern region of the Central Plateau,” Rodgers said. “We bumped into a large ’Cong encampment. They tried to surround us, and we knew we would have to punch hard and fast to secure an exit route. I was ordered to hunker down behind a rank-smelling tree trunk and cover a small clearing. I did. My soles were deep in muck, bugs crawled over my boots, and I was hot as hell. I heard gunfire start to crack in sporadic bursts. It was a hollow, distant, lonely noise that shut all the birds and insects up. I never experienced such silence once the shooting started. I knew the guys with guns would be coming my way soon enough, and I had to face the fact that I could die. I was okay with that. I made mental good-byes and said some quiet I-love-yous to my folks. While I was doing that, I saw an opportunistic target. Five ’Cong moved into position about two hundred yards away. They did not see me. I remember staring along my M1 thinking it wasn’t fair to clock them from hiding, without warning. I even thought, Hell. This is their home. What business do I have shooting them? Then I saw one of them pull a bamboo stick grenade from a pouch. That was highly explosive, very deadly ordnance. I couldn’t see our guys, but obviously Charlie could. Otherwise, he would not be going for the grenade. And at that moment it hit me. If I tag him, he’ll drop the pestle—that’s what the grenade looked like, a pharmacist’s pestle—and it will blow all five of them to snake food. The’Cong were crouching, and this guy stuck his head up for a last look. I had done the math, it worked, and I took the shot. It was clean, through his temple. The other four guys shouted and scrambled, I ducked behind the tree, and the pestle blew. I sat there with my back against the damp trunk as the smoke and the sharp smell of the explosive charge rolled by. I held my breath so I didn’t start to cough and reveal my position to any backup they might have had. After about a minute, I swung around to look at the clearing. I saw a couple of ’Cong crawling through the smoke to try to find whoever had fired the shot. I picked them off.”

“The second group was easier to kill?”

“Not just easier. Easy. Once you cross that line, you’re not worried about damnation anymore.”

“Like women and sex, I guess,” Kat said.

“Killing. The male virginity,” Rodgers said.

“Do you regret that experience?”

“How can I?” Rodgers asked. “It allowed me to do my job in Vietnam, in the Persian Gulf, and at Op-Center.”

“A job whose legitimacy you questioned the first time you did it,” the woman pointed out.

“I was nineteen.”

“That did not make you wrong,” Kat said.

“Okay,” Rodgers said. “Now I’m the one who doesn’t understand. Are you justifying what Lucy may have been involved in?”

“No. I’m questioning what appears to be your own convenient morality. Killing is okay in the first person, if you do it, but not if someone else does it.”

Rodgers had opened himself up to Kat, hoping she would do the same. He had not expected that response. He also did not appreciate it.

“You’re looking at me like I’m holding a pestle in a clearing,” Kat said.

“No. You already lobbed it,” he replied.

“Touché,” she said. “It was not my intention to attack you. I’m just trying to understand what drives the man who may be the next secretary of defense. But we’re obviously getting ahead of ourselves. I do not know about Lucy O’Connor’s activities that night, and I do not believe she is capable of what happened at the hotel or at Op-Center. I can only suggest that your people talk to her.”

“I am sure they will,” Rodgers said.

There was a poorly concealed threat in her comment about “getting ahead of ourselves.” If Rodgers did not join the team, he would become a free agent.

“So where does that leave us?” Kat asked as she picked up the phone.

“I’m not sure,” he admitted. “I feel like I’ve crossed a line here, but this is an unusual situation.”

“I agree,” Kat said. She crossed her legs and moved her right foot anxiously. “Let me make this really simple, because I still have calls to make. I want this relationship to work. You’re an exceptional man, and you would be a great asset to the party and to our team. But the core group should be able to watch out for each other. We should not have to watch each other.”

“I can’t argue with that,” Rodgers said. “That’s why I said I am not sure where this leaves us.” The way Kat was sitting then reminded him of seeing her on the bar stool at the Equinox in Washington. Her foot bouncing as it did now, Kat wired at the end of a long and stressful day. How much different the world and his own future seemed just a few days ago.

“You should let Admiral Link know,” Kat said. “That’s only fair.”

“Sure. Just one more question, though,” Rodgers said. “What would you do if you found out someone in the core group was behind this?”

“You’re really pushing me, General.”

“Would you watch their back?” he demanded.

“Until they were proven guilty, yeah,” she replied. “This is America.” She went back to her cell phone.

Rodgers walked over to a refreshment stand and ordered a black coffee. Thinking about the Equinox dislodged something in his memory. Something that had not seemed unusual at the time but did now. Rodgers took his black coffee and went back to the corner of the empty gate. He sat down, sipped the coffee for a moment, then took out his own cell phone. He called Darrell.

There was something Rodgers needed him to check.

Fast.

FORTY-ONE

Washington, D. C. Wednesday, 1:29 P.M.

Darrell McCaskey was in the car with his wife. They were about to get onto 395 when McCaskey’s phone beeped. It was Mike Rodgers. The general asked if anything was new.

“Maria and I just did a UPS on the reporter,” McCaskey told him. “Her apartment, her car, and the radio station were clean.” A UPS was an unsanctioned prescreen, meaning the two Op-Center agents had a look around without the benefit of a search warrant. That was necessary when law enforcement did not want an individual or group to know that new evidence had surfaced. Op-Center wanted time to get agents on her trail. Until then they wanted to make sure she continued talking to the same people as before. “We’ve got the Metro cops picking through the dump right now, looking for signs of the dress. We were about to join them.”

“I don’t think they’ll find it,” Rodgers said.

“Talk to me,” McCaskey said.

“The night after the murder, I had dinner with my traveling companion,” Rodgers told him. He was being nonspecific because of the unsecure line. “When I got there, she was talking with your target. My companion had a shopping bag. She told me it contained comfortable shoes, Nikes, which she never put on. She is wearing high heels now as well. I’m thinking—”

“She may have given her the dress for disposal after I exposed the crime,” McCaskey said.

“Correct.”

“That was the night of the second crime,” McCaskey said.

“Also right.”

“Got a name on that shopping bag?” McCaskey asked.

“Grove burn,” Rodgers said. “Yellow plastic, red rope handles.”

“We’ll look into it at once,” McCaskey said. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and find the hypodermic there as well.” He turned the car around and headed toward Kat’s apartment on the corner of New Hampshire and N Street. “One more thing. What is her attitude about all of this, Mike?”

“She is acting more offended than guilty,” Rodgers said. “If she is worried, she’s being very cool about it.”

“An operation like this would not hitch its wagon to a bunch of Jittery Janes,” McCaskey said. “Mike, thanks for this. I’ll leave a message if we find anything. Meanwhile, watch your back.”

“Never been good at that, Darrell,” Rodgers said. “Good or bad, the future’s in front of you.”

Rodgers hung up, and McCaskey handed the phone to Maria. “Mike is getting philosophical,” McCaskey said. “That means he’s worried.”

“Mike is always worried,” Maria said.

“True,” her husband replied. “But most of that is usually on the surface. This is coming from inside.”

McCaskey briefed his wife, who asked what he thought Rodgers might be worried about.

“That Kat could be guilty,” McCaskey told her.

“Of what? Does he think she could have masterminded it?”

“I don’t know if he believes that,” McCaskey said. “My own feeling is that someone like Link had to be involved. Not only because of the sophistication and coordination of the kills, but because it would be difficult to execute without someone covering for them inside Orr’s office.”

“Which brings me back to why,” Maria said. “Could this really be all about money, about Wilson’s plans for boosting European investments?”

“It could,” her husband replied. “We’ll know that when we talk to the people who did it.”

“Assuming we get them,” Maria said.

“We will,” McCaskey said confidently.

“At Interpol Madrid, our success rate solving homicides was a little over sixty percent.”

“We did a little better than that at the Bureau, but not enough,” McCaskey said. “That was one reason I joined Op-Center. Results change when people like you, Mike, and Bob Herbert are added to the process.”

“Your tactics also have changed,” Maria pointed out. “We just did a break and enter.”

“That is true, though I look at it as exploratory surgery. It sounds more benevolent than criminal.”

“Sweetheart, there is nothing criminal about what we are planning,” Maria said with absolute confidence. “We have a clear objective and will limit ourselves to that. Ms. Lockley will never know, unless we find something, in which case we will be in a position to step back and build a stronger case.”

“We are still invading her privacy,” he said. “We are still ignoring the Bill of Rights.”

“What we are planning is less of a crime than those committed against Mr. Wilson and Mr. Lawless,” Maria replied. “If we can stop a third homicide, then it is a risk worth taking.”

“Obviously, I agree, or I would not be doing it,” McCaskey said as he turned onto N Street. “But I am not going to pretend it is legal.”

“To me, legal is less important than moral,” Maria said. “My conscience is not going to bother me tonight, whatever we find.”

There was no explaining to Maria the American idea of personal rights. That was as pointless as arguing against Maria’s logic. One was an absolute, the foundation of a national philosophy, the other was airtight. The only way to sidestep either was by embracing the other. McCaskey had made his choice.

The apartment building was a three-story, white brick structure. There was an outside door with a lock, a foyer for mail, and an inside door that led to the apartments. They would have to go through two locks before they reached the apartment. That would not be a problem. McCaskey carried a magnetic snap gun in his car. The original snap gun was developed in the 1960s so that law officers who were not trained lockpicks could open doors using something other than traditional raking techniques—that is, inserting a pair of picks and searching for the proper combination to turn the lock. The snap gun generated torque that simply muscled the lock back. It also tended to bend or destroy the lock, evidence that someone had forced their way in. The magnetic gun generated a powerful magnetic force in whatever direction the user indicated. It popped the lock and any interior dead bolts in an instant.

McCaskey and his wife approached the door. They had decided, if asked, that she was looking for an apartment and he was a broker. He put the point of the palm-size unit into the keyhole. He used his thumb to adjust the directional vector to the right. The lock opened immediately. The couple moved into the foyer, where they got a free pass. A resident was just coming out and opened the door. McCaskey dropped a pen and stooped to pick it up as the man passed. He did not want his face to be seen. Then McCaskey and Maria went inside. Since the elevator had a security camera, they took the stairs to Kat’s third-floor apartment. There were five other apartments on the floor. While Maria watched the doors, her husband took a palm-size disk from his jacket pocket. He put it against the doorjamb. It was an ampere detector. If the door were wired with a burglar alarm, this would show current. He watched the digital readout. There was nothing. Although there could still be a motion detector inside, most urban apartments, especially newer buildings such as this one, had been prewired for perimeter entry. McCaskey used the snap gun to open the knob lock and dead bolt. McCaskey put the snap gun in his jacket pocket and removed a pair of leather gloves. He pulled them on so he would not leave fingerprints. The couple went inside.

The shades were drawn, and the apartment was dark. There was a small penlight attached to McCaskey’s key chain. He flicked it on. Neighbors might know that Kat was away. He did not want them seeing lights behind the shades.

They were in a small corridor that led to the living room. McCaskey swung the light across the floor to look for pet hair. If Kat had a pet, she might also have a walker, someone to come by and take it out. He saw no traces of fur, nor did they hear anything. They started forward.

“I do not smell a fireplace,” Maria said.

“I know,” her husband replied.

They entered the living room. There was no fireplace there or in the master bedroom. They searched Kat’s closets for the bag Rodgers had described.

“That’s a good sign,” Maria said after they had finished looking in the kitchen cabinets.

“Why do you say that?”

“Those are the kinds of bags women save,” she said. “They make good gift bags or tote bags. Ms. Lockley had other bags in the broom closet. She obviously got rid of this one.”

“Intriguing but circumstantial,” her husband replied. He looked around. He went to the bookshelf and pulled down her college and high school yearbooks. He flipped through them, looking for a name that might have come up during the investigation, a possible collaborator. There was none.

“We should have brought Matt to get into her computer,” Maria said, pointing to a desk near the window.

“I’m sure that anything important is on a laptop, and I’m just as sure it is with her,” McCaskey said.

He heard running water. It was coming from the kitchen. It was just the freezer. The ice maker was making ice.

“That’s odd,” he said.

“What is?” Maria asked, joining him.

“Ice makers only fill up when they’re low.”

He went to the stainless steel unit and opened the door. The engine was humming loudly, amplified by the close walls of the small kitchen. McCaskey flipped up the ice compartment. He dug through the new ice to the cubes below. He broke several chunks free and pulled them out.

“Damn.”

Maria moved closer. “What is it?”

“There are blue stains in the ice,” he said, holding a cube up to the freezer light. “See them?”

Maria nodded. “She had the dress in the ice compartment. That’s a very good hiding spot.”

McCaskey nodded. He set the ice down carefully on a shelf and used his pocket knife to poke around inside, just in case the hypodermic was there as well. It was not. That was probably in the milk, he thought only half in jest.

“If the dress was here this recently,” McCaskey went on, “it means she may have taken it with her.”

“Isn’t that risky to have evidence on your person?” Maria asked.

“It would have been riskier to leave it here or to have destroyed it when you are on a short list of suspects,” McCaskey replied. “Think about it. Where would the garment be safer than in the hands of airport security? My guess is she will dispose of it as far from the crime scene as possible.”

Maria went back to the freezer. She stopped. Her husband smiled and handed her a spoon from the dish rack. He had wrapped it in a dish towel so they would not leave prints. She stuck it through the handle and pulled the door open, so as not to leave, or smudge, any fingerprints. She looked in the ice compartment.

“Why wouldn’t she have taken out all the ice as a precaution ?” Maria asked. “Dress fibers may have become stuck to them.”

“That would have put them in plain view in the sink,” McCaskey remarked.

“She could have washed them away.”

“The FBI routinely checks drainpipes for evidence,” McCaskey replied. “Whoever was behind this would surely have known that.”

Maria made a face and looked down. She crouched. Her husband shone the light on the tile floor.

“Find something?” he asked.

“Maybe. Look at this,” she said.

McCaskey squatted beside her. Maria was pointing to several slightly off-color stains.

“This limestone has no shine, which means it has not been sealed,” Maria said. “The tile is extremely porous. It soaks up water.”

“Okay. Some of the ice fell and was not picked up. It melted. It stained the limestone—”

“Darrell, the dampness stays in the tile for about an hour, then it evaporates,” Maria told him.

“You’re saying that someone was here within the hour,” McCaskey said. He did not like the sound of that.

“It seems so,” Maria said.

“It could have been a housekeeper.”

“I don’t smell any cleaning agent,” Maria said.

“There’s pineapple smell—”

“An air freshener,” Maria said, pointing back at the bathroom. “I saw it earlier when we looked in the bedroom.”

Damn, she is good, McCaskey thought. But that still did not convince him. It was still a big leap from a few damp spots on the floor to someone having been here in the last hour. McCaskey looked up. The ice dispenser in the freezer door was directly overhead. He ran his gloved finger along the inside of the plastic lip. “It’s moist. The stains could have come from dripping condensation.”

“That is possible,” Maria agreed. “It is also possible that Ms. Lockley is being framed.”

The realization was like a punch in McCaskey’s gut. If it were true, it meant something else as well. Something that became clear when they heard movement in the hallway.

They had been set up.

FORTY-TWO

San Diego, California Wednesday, 11:53 A.M.

It had been a two hour flight from Salt Lake City. Kat did not talk to Rodgers the entire time. He was not surprised, but he was inconvenienced. If she were innocent of wrongdoing, they should be talking about who might be involved. Instead, she just worked on her laptop and shut him out.

Rodgers checked his cell phone voice mail as soon as they deplaned. There was a long message from McCaskey. It was not very encouraging. McCaskey’s urgency was underscored by the fact that he was not being circumspect, even though this was an open line.

“Mike, we found dye from what we believe to be the dress in Kat’s ice dispenser,” McCaskey said quickly. “We believe that someone was here in the last hour, perhaps to remove the dress. If they didn’t, Kat may have packed it in her luggage. You have to find out. Tell her what happened here. Make her tell you what she knows. If she really knows nothing, someone may be framing her. Meanwhile, we’ve been baited and bagged. I can hear the police in the corridor. They are waiting for the superintendent to let them in. If we’ve been picked off, that means the attack on Op-Center was almost certainly tied to this case. Three men have died so far because of this. Don’t underestimate these people. I’m going to leave Paul a message in the Tank. If you find out anything, coordinate through him. Take care, buddy.”

Rodgers had stopped walking without realizing it. He stood near the gate as passengers rushed past him, as the world moved around him, as events unfolded that affected him. Yet he felt as though he were not a part of any of it. He put the phone away and looked around for Kat. She was well ahead of him. There was only one exit from Terminal One, and he rushed to catch up with her. They walked past the security checkpoint together.

“We really have to talk,” Rodgers said.

“I know.”

“No. You don’t.”

“This is not a good fit,” she said.

“I agree. Where I come from, we follow the laws of the land.”

She rolled her eyes. “That mantra is getting tired.”

“How about a shot of caffeine, then,” he said. “Either you were involved in a couple of murders or someone may be trying to pin them on you.”

“Yeah. Op-Center.”

“No!” Rodgers exclaimed. “Just listen to this.”

“To what? Another one of your convoluted theories?”

“No!” Rodgers said. He pulled out his cell phone as they reached the baggage area. While they waited beside the nearest of the three carousels, Rodgers accessed McCaskey’s message. He handed her the phone. With an expression that was more contemptuous than interested, she listened to the message. When it was finished, she fired Rodgers a look.

“Your people entered my apartment?” she said with a voice like sharp steel. “Did you know this was going down?”

“I thought they might,” he admitted.

Kat smiled tightly. “That’s worse,” she said. “Much worse. The fact that you knew and didn’t tell me.”

“We can deal with that later,” Rodgers said.

She shook her head. “You and I have nothing to deal with at all,” she said. The steel had superheated and turned molten. “I will take this entire matter up with our attorneys back East.” She turned away.

“That is not going to work,” Rodgers said, grabbing her arm.

She yanked it away. “If I get loud, airport security won’t give a red hot damn about your rank, General.”

“You won’t do that,” Rodgers said. “The papers will want to know what it was all about. I’ll tell them.”

She relaxed her body but not her expression. The carousel started to turn behind her. “What do you want?”

“I need to convince them of your innocence.”

“Them or yourself?”

“Both,” he said.

“Since my word is not good enough, what gets me an acquittal?”

“First, what happened to the Groveburn bag?” he asked.

“I left it at the office for Lucy.”

“Why? The night you had it, you told me your Nikes were in it.”

“They were,” Kat said. “I also told you it contained a gift. Lucy wanted me to hold it so her boyfriend didn’t find it. They live together.”

Rodgers could not remember if she said it contained a gift. Maybe she had. “Is it still at the office?”

“I’m in San Diego,” Kat said. “How the hell would I know?”

“You can call,” Rodgers said.

“Right now.”

“Yeah.”

Kat’s jawline tightened as she took out her cell phone. She called the senator’s receptionist and asked about the bag. A moment later, she hung up.

“Lucy came by for it shortly before nine this morning,” Kat said.

“After you left the apartment,” Rodgers said. “She could have put it inside.”

“Right. She just flew in the window like Peter Pan,” Kat said. “Was there anything else?”

“Yes. When we get to the hotel, I want to be there when you empty your luggage,” Rodgers said.

“Boy, you’re pushing this.”

“Sorry. I need to know that the dress is not here.”

“I could have put it somewhere else, like a safe-deposit box.”

“If necessary, we’ll get to that later.”

“And when you don’t find anything anywhere, Op-Center will come up with some other idiotic notion to implicate me,” she said. “The admiral is right. Your people are good at that.”

That was it. Now she had gone too far. “Our people? You don’t know us at all, Kat,” Rodgers said. “We’re good Americans, part of Senator Orr’s America. We have died so people like you can shoot off your mouth. I asked for your help before, and you didn’t want to give it. So, yes. We went behind your back. We found a problem, and I presented it to you. And by the way, it looks like someone ratted out ‘my people.’ The police apparently followed them into your apartment.”

“Do you think the police were watching them?” Kat asked.

“Doubtful,” Rodgers said. “They know McCaskey is former FBI and that he might have spotted a tail. More than likely they were watching your place.”

“Why? How would they have known?”

“I’m guessing that whoever may have put the dress in your freezer, then removed it, tipped them off. Presumably, that someone is Lucy.”

“So Lucy O’Connor picked the bag up, put the dress in the ice compartment so it would stain the ice, then removed it,” Kat said. “Just so your guy would find the dye and blame me.”

“It looks that way,” Rodgers said.

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

Luggage started sliding down the ramp. Kat turned to the carousel. Her indignation was gone, replaced by introspection. Rodgers stepped beside her.

“You really are puzzled by all this,” Rodgers said.

“Puzzled, angry, distracted, and trying to get a bead on who is playing who,” Kat said. “I know someone is.”

“That’s true. And accepting that there is a problem here is a start.”

“I’ve known Lucy for years,” she said. “I cannot believe she would do this. Hell, I looked in that bag. There was a gift, all wrapped up.”

“To make sure you wouldn’t open it,” Rodgers said.

“Maybe.”

Kat reached for her luggage. Rodgers helped her with both bags. His own followed quickly. They went to the taxi stand and stood under a cloudless, rich blue sky. A cool wind blew from the harbor. Rodgers looked toward it. He saw the statue of Charles Lindbergh that stood outside the terminal. It was ironic: a bronze statue of an aviator, and it was free of birds. The world surely was out of kilter.

The line was short, and they were hotel bound within a few minutes. Kat did not speak, and Rodgers did not push her. He would rather have a willing ally than a reluctant one. Five minutes later, they were at the Bay Grand, a mile from the convention center. The lobby was crowded with conventioneers and press. Rodgers and Kat went to the USF registration table and picked up their keys and ID at the VIP station. They were on the same floor, just below Orr’s penthouse. The elevator was packed, and the silence between Rodgers and Kat continued. A young reporter from the Washington Post recognized the general from the coverage of the United Nations attack. Rodgers said he was here in an advisory capacity to Senator Orr. The reporter asked for a comment about the attack on Op-Center. Rodgers said it was abhorrent. He declined to say more. It was fascinating to him how the other conversations in the small carriage winked out as the journalist asked his questions. The delegates did not handle eavesdropping with the slick, multitasking skill of a Washingtonian. A veteran politician or journalist or society kingpin could be at a restaurant or party and not miss a syllable of his own conversation while skimming half a dozen others that might be going on around him. It was not a talent Rodgers had ever admired. He preferred the wide-eyed silence of his fellow passengers.

Kat turned to him when they reached her door. Rodgers’s room was two doors beyond it.

“I still think this whole thing is ridiculous. There is some other, very simple explanation,” Kat told Rodgers. “But if you want to go through my luggage, I won’t stop you.”

“Thanks. But there is something I want more than that,” he replied. “I want your help. I want to find out if anyone on the USF team is behind these crimes.”

Kat laughed humorlessly. “General, I just said I thought this was ridiculous. Why would I want to be part of it?”

“You’re already part of it,” he pointed out.

“Because some former G-man busted into my apartment and found blue ice?” she asked. “Because the police may have been following him and are likely to arrest him? Detective Howell is a friend of our office. He was not happy to see the case turned over to Op-Center.”

That remark took Rodgers by surprise. “What do you mean, he’s a friend of your office?”

“The detective admires Senator Orr. He did not approve of the way hearsay had become Op-Center’s marching orders,” she said.

“Has Howell been promised anything?” Rodgers asked. “Directorship of the FBI, anything like that?”

“No, though the defense secretary post might be vacant real soon.”

Rodgers ignored the dig. “Are you sure he has been offered nothing?”

“Yes. Some people do things out of principle.”

“In D.C., very few. You happen to be talking to one of the two I know.”

“Am I?” She inserted the key card in the lock. “The man I’ve gotten to know, General, is suspicious bordering on paranoid. I’m beginning to wonder how you ever passed the Op-Center psych evaluation.”

“We’re paid to be paranoid,” he replied. “That’s what allows people like you to sleep nights.”

“I sleep fine,” she said as the green light flashed. She opened the door.

“How is Howell when he calls? Comfortable? Surreptitious ? Vague?”

“Cautious,” she replied. “That is certainly not uncommon in Washington.”

“I’m missing something here,” he said. “Some connection. Was Howell in the navy?”

“I don’t know,” Kat said as she hefted her bags into the room. She turned on the light and held the door open for a moment. Kat had obviously had enough. “Was there something else?” she asked. “You want to frisk me, go through my luggage?”

“You have anything to hide?” he asked, nodding at the bags.

“I’m not hiding anything from you right now,” she said contemptuously.

Rodgers hesitated. Even if he found the dress it wouldn’t prove anything. The luggage was brought to the airport in one van. Someone could have placed it there. “General Rodgers, please call if you need something. Something that has to do with the USF. That is, if you’re still interested in working with us.”

Rodgers looked at her. Her bright eyes were sad as she shut the door. He started toward his own room. He noted the stairwell was right beside his room with a security camera above it. He wondered if Link had put him here on purpose, so the admiral could watch him.

Rodgers hoped not. He hoped a lot of things. He hoped he was wrong about Howell. Maybe the Metro Police detective was just sucking up to someone in power. That was prevalent in D.C. But then why would he have been watching McCaskey? Professional jealousy? A turf war? Or maybe he was just watching Kat’s apartment and happened to see McCaskey go in. Howell may have known about the reporter being at the hotel that night.

Chances were good he would not be able to talk to McCaskey. Instead, Rodgers went to his room, sat on the bed, and entered a stored number on his cell phone. There was only one person he trusted to figure this one out.

The other man of principle Rodgers knew.

FORTY-THREE

Washington, D. C. Wednesday, 3: 44 P.M.

Bob Herbert was delighted to hear from Mike Rodgers. It was the only familiar aspect in a suddenly surreal situation, and for a moment, just a heartbeat, it sounded and felt like old times.

“How am I?” Herbert said in response to Rodgers’s question. “I’m sitting in the parking lot, breathing non–machine-filtered air, which I happen to prefer to that dry, metallic-tasting crud in the Tank, working on a laptop I borrowed from—get this—the head cook in the Andrews commissary cafeteria. I had to create my own files between the Tuesday lunch menu and the recipe for Brigadier General Chrysler’s favorite pie. Which is cherry, if you were wondering. My calls are being routed to a cell phone belonging to Jason Shuffler in accounting. He was parked outside the hit zone, and it was in his car. A bonus to being a peon.”

Herbert was rambling, and he knew it. But it had been a long, rough day with no time to vent. Under the best of circumstances there was no one he felt completely comfortable with other than Mike or Darrell, and Darrell was not available. So Mike got the first big hit. Herbert took a short breath to calm himself, sucked his self-styled debriefing back down, and went to the above-the-fold news.

“Meanwhile, the cops have Darrell and Maria at the precinct,” Herbert told Rodgers. “They were arrested for breaking and entering.”

“I heard.”

“Darrell made his one call to Paul, who shipped Lowell over there to get him out. Paul briefed me. Anything new out there?”

“My sixth sense is tingling,” Rodgers said. “I need to know more about Detective Robert Howell.”

“Funny you should ask.”

“Why?” Rodgers asked.

“I happen to have his dossier on the computer,” Herbert said. “I was looking for something in his background, something we might use to help get Darrell and Maria out of the cooler.”

“What possible tie could he have to Link or the senator?”

“Maybe he’s just a senate groupie,” Herbert suggested.

“That’s what Kat said,” Rodgers told him.

“But you don’t believe her because—?”

“She said it.”

“Great. But do you have a better reason?” Herbert asked.

“No. Like I said, just a feeling.”

“Okay,” Herbert said. He adjusted the screen so it was angled away from the sun. “The detective is not married, he did not come from Texas, he has a record that would make Baden-Powell jealous. He served in the coast guard and—”

“Not married,” Rodgers said. “Is he divorced?”

“No.”

“Girlfriend?”

“There’s nothing in the file,” Herbert said.

“Shit,” Rodgers said.

“What?” Herbert asked.

“I wonder if it could be blackmail.”

Herbert scowled. “That’s a pretty big leap.”

“I’ve been told I make a lot of those,” Rodgers said. “Is there anything in the dossier that is listed as eyes only?”

“No.”

“So it may not be part of his civilian record. Can you get Howell’s military records? If I go through channels, it will take days.”

“I can probably go through Andrews—”

“That will take time,” Rodgers said. “We don’t have that.”

“—or I can ask Matt,” Herbert replied. “He’s working on getting things running downstairs.”

“Please do,” Rodgers said. “This is important.”

“I’m all over it, like ugly on an ape,” the intelligence chief told him. “I’ll call you back.”

“Thanks.”

Like ugly on an ape? Herbert thought as he clicked off and called downstairs to the Tank. Either he was severely overtired or the fresh air was doing funny things to his head.

Herbert asked Bugs Benet to send Matt Stoll up to parking spot 710. Stoll was upstairs in five minutes. He was grateful for the fresh air.

“The smell of fried copper wire is still pretty thick down in the sulfur pit,” the portly scientist complained.

Stoll accessed the United States Coast Guard secure personnel files in ten minutes. Shortly after that, he pulled up an eyes-only file for Lieutenant Robert Howell. It was from 1989, a formal report by a hearing officer regarding an incident on the newly commissioned cutter Orcas stationed in Coos Bay, Oregon.

“Holy Christmas,” Herbert said as he read the file.

“What have we got?” Stoll asked.

“A Get Out of Jail Free card for the McCaskeys, for one thing,” Herbert replied.

The intelligence chief thanked Stoll and sent the reluctant wunderkind back to the sulfur pit. He immediately got on the phone with Mike Rodgers. The “suspicious” Mike Rodgers. The big-leap-taking Mike Rodgers.

The correct Mike Rodgers.

FORTY-FOUR

San Diego, California Wednesday, 1:00 P.M.

Eric Stone had told the reception desk to let him know when Mike Rodgers arrived. Stone had not met Rodgers. But Kat had called to say she was concerned about his loyalties. That amplified the discomfort Stone felt over the fact that the general was still working with the people who were investigating the USF. Rodgers was a patriot, but not of the extremist mold like Senator Orr. Stone wanted to have a talk with him. More importantly, he wanted to look into Rodgers’s eyes and see where his loyalties lay. Stone was very good at reading expressions. It was a talent he discovered while working as a waiter. He knew the exact moment there was an opportunistic break in a conversation so he could offer a tray of hors d’oeuvres. He knew from partygoers’ expressions, from the way their eyes moved, who liked their egg rolls crispy, their meat skewers rare, and who did not like sushi. He could tell from the vaguely embarrassed manner who was going to take more than one or two cocktail wieners. He evolved those skills working for Admiral Link, watching the fearful or indignant or occasionally dangerous expressions of the servicemen and dignitaries, politicians and civilians who came to visit. Mike Rodgers was an unknown quantity to him.

Until Stone saw him in the corridor of the hotel. The general was just leaving his room. Stone wanted to get a quick sense of what he was about. From appearances, Rodgers was one hundred percent military. Admiral Link was that way, too. But the admiral was offense, and this man was defense. Stone could tell from the set of his head. It was not upright but tilted back slightly, presenting the chin. He was expecting a blow, yet the square set of his shoulder said he was ready for it.

“General Rodgers?” Stone asked as he approached.

“Yes?”

“Eric Stone,” said the young man.

“Pleased to meet you, Eric,” Rodgers said.

Stone offered his hand. The general shook it firmly though not too hard. He was a man who did not have to prove his strength.

“Did you have a good trip?” Stone asked.

“Yes, thank you.”

Rodgers is formal, guarded, Stone thought. He wondered why. “You know, General, I have a bunch of steaks on the grill right now, so I can only stay a minute. But I hope we will have a chance to talk before things get under way.”

“I look forward to that,” Rodgers replied.

“I also hope all of this will be a positive experience for you, a welcome distraction,” Stone went on. “I heard what happened at Op-Center. Just terrible. How long before operations can be resumed?”

“They’re running now,” Rodgers replied.

“At full capacity?”

“Full enough,” Rodgers replied. “Op-Center has always been about the people, not the technology.”

“Heart, not hardware,” Stone remarked.

Rodgers nodded once in agreement.

“That’s good to hear. We believe in that, too,” Stone said, raising a fist in a show of solidarity, “which is why the senator and the admiral are convinced you will be an enormous asset to the party and to a future Orr administration. I hope you are still enthusiastic.”

“More than ever,” Rodgers replied.

“Truly?” The general’s tone seemed a little too affirmative. It almost seemed like a challenge or a threat.

“Don’t interpret quiet observation as disinterest,” Rodgers said. “Contemplation moves power from here,” he held up a hand, “to here,” he touched a finger to his temple. “It does not lessen a man’s strength.”

“Ah. That is the scholar talking,” Stone observed. He knew that Mike Rodgers held a doctorate in world history. The general had obtained it after two combat tours of Vietnam.

“To tell the truth, Eric, it’s more of the soldier in me,” Rodgers said. “I have participated in a number of wars and conflicts. I learned that if one moves too enthusiastically, he could put his foot on a land mine.”

“I guess I was lucky,” Stone said. “When I wore my country’s uniform, we were at peace. We were always wary but unafraid. We were also optimistic, whatever the situation, whatever the alert status.”

“I am always optimistic,” Rodgers assured the younger man.

“Really?” Stone clasped him on the shoulder and laughed. “Forgive me, General, but you look as though you came for a funeral.”

Rodgers fixed his eyes on Stone. “Actually, this is not my funeral face,” he said. “If you want to see that, you will have to be with me on Saturday.”

“Saturday? What is happening then?” Stone asked.

“We bury Mac McCallie,” Rodgers said. “He died in the e-bomb blast at Op-Center.”

“Oh. I am sorry,” Stone said, removing his hand. “I have been rather tied up here. I had not heard there were casualties.”

That was a lie. Stone knew everything about the explosion he had ordered. And he was furious at himself for the funeral comment. It proved Rodgers’s point about careless haste causing problems. It gave the general a moral victory.

It gave Mike Rodgers first blood.

“As for being unafraid, Eric, fear has never driven me to be cautious or watchful,” Rodgers went on. His tone was more aggressive now. What had begun as Stone sizing up the general had been turned around, like a classic military counteraction. “The apparent lack of chaos does that. It is always there, hidden. Disraeli said that peace has occasioned more wars than the most ruthless conquerors. Peace makes us complacent. We stop looking over our shoulder. One job of any leader is to sniff out that lurking danger. To stir it up if necessary, to free it so it can be crushed.”

“That sounds like warmongering,” Stone said.

“It is,” Rodgers replied proudly. “I have always felt it is better to flush out the enemy before he has a chance to power up.”

“While you are sniffing and flushing, do you also look over your shoulder?” Stone asked. “Do you know what is behind you right now?” His own tone was slightly confrontational now, but he did not care.

“I do know what is there,” Rodgers said. “A fire escape and a hotel security camera.” He smiled. “I like to know where the exits are.”

Stone did not like this conversation or the turn it had just taken. He could not tell if Rodgers was still being philosophical or whether he was baiting Stone with references to the chaos of the past few days. What Rodgers did not say was also informative. He had mentioned nothing about Op-Center’s investigation or the arrest of Darrell and Maria McCaskey. He knew, of course. When Detective Howell arrested the couple, he noted that the last number dialed on McCaskey’s cell phone belonged to Mike Rodgers. Stone wanted to find out more about that if he could.

Quickly.

“You know, General, this is not the conversation I expected to have the first time we met.” Stone laughed. “But it does interest me. In fact, if you have a minute, all I need to do is grab my laptop from the room. Then we can go over to the convention center together. I would appreciate your input.”

“I would prefer to meet you there,” Rodgers said. “There are a few things I have to do first.”

“I can wait if you’d like.”

“Your steaks will burn,” Rodgers said. “I’ll catch up with you. Maybe we can have a drink later.”

“I would like that,” Stone replied.

The convention manager continued down the corridor to his room. As he opened the door, he glanced to his left. Rodgers went to Kat’s door and knocked. He did not attempt to conceal it. Was that innocent or meant to inspire concern? Stone could not be sure, and that frustrated him. More than the conversation, Stone did not like the man himself. Rodgers had launched salvos from his moral high ground. When Link spoke, it was with persuasive authority. This man lectured, as if there was no correct opinion other than his own.

Not that it mattered. He had learned what he needed to learn.

Mike Rodgers was not an ally. And if he was not an ally, then moderate or not, war hero notwithstanding, there was only one thing he could be: an enemy.

FORTY-FIVE

San Diego, California Wednesday, 1:16 P.M.

When Mike Rodgers was thirteen years old, a local Connecticut YMCA organized chess games against a local grand master. Rodgers got to play one of those games, and won. The reason he won was simple: apart from knowing how to move the pieces, Rodgers had no concept of chess strategy. As his opening move, he developed the pawn that sat in relative anonymity in front of the queen’s rook. He liked rooks—or castles, as he preferred to call them. That sounded more militaristic. He liked their sweep, their power. He wanted to get them out of their corner and ready for the fray. The grand master responded with Sokolsky’s opening. But Rodgers’s unorthodox move, located so far from the center of the board, unbalanced virtually every classic attack pattern for black. The grand master resigned the match after sixteen chaotic moves.

As Rodgers knocked at Kat’s door, he had to admit that what Eric Stone had just mounted was the clumsiest, most amateurish psy-ops probe he had ever experienced. In and of itself, it made Rodgers doubt that these people could be responsible for any kind of conspiracy. Yet, in a way, that was also what made them dangerous. They fit no profiles. They were unpredictable.

Kat answered the door. She was impatient, from her eyes to the cock of her hips. “Yes, General?”

“I need to talk to you,” he said. He walked around her and entered the room.

“By all means,” she said sarcastically. “Come in.”

“Sorry, but I did not want to stand there discussing this with Eric Stone watching and possibly listening.”

Kat let the door shut. “Why would Eric be listening? Could it be he is worried that you’re a loose cannon, dangerous to have at the convention?”

“No. He thinks I am concealing information. And he’s right.”

“What information?”

“That Detective Howell is being framed, and Stone may be involved in that,” Rodgers said.

“Framed how, and to do what?”

“He was tipped off to be at your apartment,” Rodgers said. “As for how—about fifteen years ago, he had an affair with a fellow coast guard cadet.”

“So he’s gay. Who cares?”

“That isn’t quite the entirety of it,” Rodgers said. “The other young man obviously had second thoughts and claimed he was seduced. Howell took the rap. Because Howell had seniority, the affair was deemed consensual by virtue of force majeure, a mild reprimand, but it went on Howell’s psych profile, which was sealed.”

“Until someone opened it.”

“Yes,” Rodgers said. “Someone who had access to military files.”

“Meaning Admiral Link.”

“Perhaps,” Rodgers admitted. “Since I doubt the admiral would tell us whether this is true, there is only one way to find out. We have to ask Detective Howell.”

“Why do you need me to do that?” Kat asked.

“I am not convinced he is playing entirely on Op-Center’s side,” Rodgers said. “If I call him, he probably won’t say anything. If you call, he may. Especially if you call saying that you decline to press charges against Darrell McCaskey and his wife.”

“Why would I do that?” Kat asked. “They broke into my apartment.”

“They did not really have a choice,” Rodgers pointed out. “They thought you might be involved in this.”

“And now they don’t? You don’t?”

“I am hoping you are not,” Rodgers said. “This would be a good way to strengthen that hope.”

“You know, I was supposed to be downstairs five minutes ago, meeting with reporters about the campaign,” she said. “But you made me so upset I couldn’t even do that. Now you want me to help you with this mad chase of yours. I really wish all of this would just go away.”

“Me, too,” Rodgers said. “I was supposed to be downstairs auditioning for secretary of defense. Instead, I’m up here begging you to help me fight a battle that is not even mine.”

“Nor mine, General,” Kat said. With an angry huff she walked to the bed and fished her cell phone from under her coat. “Let’s be done with this damn thing. What is Howell’s number?”

Rodgers pointed to the phone on the night table. “Would you mind using that one, on speaker? I would like to hear.”

“Fine,” she said. “Why the hell not? Let’s really humiliate the guy.”

Rodgers gave her the main switchboard of the Metro Police, which was the only one he knew. They put her through.

“Detective Howell, this is Kat Lockley,” she said. “I’m on a speaker phone. General Mike Rodgers of Op-Center is here with me.”

She made a point of emphasizing Op-Center, to show the general that she did not consider him to be on her team. Rodgers had taken many rough knocks in his career. He would survive this one.

“Ms. Lockley, I was going to call you,” Howell said. “I suppose you have heard we found two Op-Center agents in your apartment. We arrested them for breaking and entering.”

“Yes. I do not think I want to press charges, however,” she said.

“Pardon me?”

“We can discuss that later. Right now, the general feels there is something more important we need to talk about.”

“What is that?”

“Please excuse me for asking, Detective, but General Rodgers says he has reason to believe that you are being blackmailed.”

There was a long, guilty hesitation. Kat looked at Rodgers. She was sitting on the pillows beside the nightstand, and he was standing at the foot of the bed. The distance had seemed vast a few moments ago. Now it evaporated.

“General, I have another call,” Howell said. “Can you give me a moment?”

“I can.”

Whether there was or was not another caller did not matter. Rodgers gave him the “moment.” Howell returned in under half a minute.

“What makes you think I’m being blackmailed?” Howell asked.

“Are you?” Rodgers asked.

“Would you answer my question, sir?”

“We wondered about the snare Mr. and Mrs. McCaskey walked into,” Rodgers said. “The timing was too neat. Someone went to the apartment with evidence to frame Ms. Lockley, our team entered, then you showed up.”

“You assume we were not watching the apartment.”

“If you were, you would have nabbed the first person who went in,” Rodgers pointed out.

“General, this is not a conversation I wish to have.”

“I understand,” Rodgers said. “But you have to understand something as well. Op-Center was attacked. A coworker died—”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Others have died as well. We are going to stop this. I do not have to tell you what will happen if you are implicated in any way.”

There was a soft snicker on the other end. “Who was the one just asking me about blackmail?”

“This is internal affairs followed by due process,” Rodgers said. “That’s very different.”

“Detective, I have always thought highly of you. I need you to tell me something, truthfully,” Kat said suddenly. “Is General Rodgers hallucinating, or am I the one who is not seeing reality? Am I involved with bad people?”

For the third time, Detective Howell was silent. Kat’s brow creased, and her mouth sagged at the edges. Rodgers shifted his eyes to the painting over the bed. It was a lithograph of a Spanish vessel in San Diego Bay when it was still a Spanish settlement. There were people gathered onshore as a bumboat approached. The name of the painting was Aguardar Noticias Del Hogar.

Awaiting News from Home.

Rodgers marveled at how different the world was, how different life was, when people had to wait weeks for an answer to a question like that. It was the reason men of great wisdom and even greater instinct had to be put in the field.

“I think that answers my question,” Kat said sullenly.

“Detective, talk to us,” Rodgers said. “If Ms. Lockley is correct, let us help. Whatever this is, we can fix it.”

“No,” Howell said. “I made my choices. I will live with them. But I do want you to know that I had no idea Op-Center was going to get hit.”

“Did the same people do it?” Rodgers pressed.

“I don’t know,” he admitted.

“What do you know?” Kat asked.

“Only that someone, a man, phoned one day.”

“When?” Rodgers asked.

“Two and a half weeks ago. He had information about my service record that could have ended my police career if it were revealed. I was told the information would be removed from my record if I cooperated.”

“What did this cooperation entail?” Rodgers asked.

“He didn’t say,” Howell replied.

Of course not, Rodgers thought. That might have made him an accomplice to murder, far less desirable than a career scandal. “What did he ask for when he did say?” Rodgers asked.

There was a final silence, but it was brief. “At first, just a level-one autopsy,” Howell replied.

“What is that?” Kat asked.

“The body goes in and out, no fine-tooth comb,” Howell said. “Your people wanted Wilson off the slab and out of the country, Ms. Lockley. They said it was to get attention from the senator as soon as possible. That sounded reasonable. It was apparently a heart attack. I saw no harm in helping to rush things along.”

“You said ‘at first,’ ” Rodgers pointed out.

“Yeah. I did that one as a favor. Then your Mr. McCaskey came along and found out it was murder,” Howell said. “At that point, I had already committed a departmental infraction. I might have been able to smooth that one over. But then they hit me with the other thing.”

“The service record,” Kat said.

“This is a scary town,” Howell said. “You both know that. I did not want to end up a small-town sheriff somewhere, and I hoped—no, I prayed—that Darrell McCaskey could smoke these boys out.”

“He still can,” Rodgers said. “Ms. Lockley isn’t pressing charges. Let him go. Help him.”

“How?”

“That depends. Did you get the sense that these crimes were part of a larger operation?”

“Probably,” Howell said. “They told me I would be informed when my ‘interface,’ as they put it, was no longer required. I received no such notification.”

“So more killings may be planned,” Rodgers said. “Detective, are you able to contact them?”

“No. I don’t even know who I was talking to. Their ID was blocked.”

“It was someone who had access to your service record,” Rodgers said.

“Correct.”

“So that means it could have been Link,” Rodgers said. He did not think the admiral was the point man, however. That would be too risky. “When was the last time you spoke with this person?”

“Just now,” Howell said. “He wanted to know if anyone had been asking about the case.”

“How recently is ‘just now’?” Rodgers asked.

“Right before you called,” Howell said. “I hung up on him to talk to you.”

Rodgers felt a chill. It was not fear. It was like an electrical current flowing along his neck as his brain started making connections. He wished that he had a firearm. Or an EM bomb, something that would shut everything down until he could have a thorough look around.

“Detective, did you tell the man that we were on the other line?” Rodgers asked.

“Yes,” Howell replied. “He asked.”

“All right. I need two favors, Detective,” Rodgers said. “I need you to release the McCaskeys.”

“I cannot do that without the proper documents,” Howell said. “I will fax them to Ms. Lockley—”

“There is no time for that,” Rodgers protested. “Come on, Detective. You know they are not criminals. Call it a false arrest and let them go. Say they had permission to be on the premises.”

“They did,” Kat said impulsively. “I said it was okay.”

“All right,” Howell said. “What is the second favor?”

“If your guy calls back, try to find out who he is,” Rodgers said. He started moving toward the door. “Let Darrell know.”

“I will,” Howell said.

“Thanks. Talk to you later.”

Kat terminated the call as Rodgers jogged along the short entranceway. He stopped by the front door and listened. He heard nothing. Kat had followed. She stood at the other end of the small hallway.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“I’m not sure. I want you to stay here,” Rodgers said.

“Why?”

“Because I’m going out, and there may be trouble,” Rodgers said. “If there is, I need someone who can bail me out.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“I have no idea,” Rodgers said as he cracked the door. “But there is one thing I do know. What happened in Washington was just the preliminary. The big show is going to be here.”

FORTY-SIX

Washington, D.C. Wednesday, 4:42 P.M.

There is an impunity that comes with being onceremoved from danger. A lock on the door. A police officer on the beat. A man of influence standing between you and those who want to hurt you.

In each case, it is an illusion. Darrell McCaskey knew that from his years at the FBI. He was betting that the young and inexperienced Lucy O’Connor did not. Before the afternoon was over, she would.

McCaskey and his wife had been released from the holding cell at the First District Substation. Detective Howell personally drove them to their car, which had been taken to the DMV impound lot at 65 K Street NE. The detective called ahead to have it released and waiting.

Howell was surprisingly forthcoming about what had happened. McCaskey felt as though he had suddenly been drafted as father confessor. Not that he minded, as long as he did not have to keep any of the intelligence a secret.

McCaskey did not judge the man. Fear and selfpreservation always colored people’s reactions. On the FBI he had seen countless crimes of passion that were conceived, executed, and regretted within the space of five minutes. That did not absolve the perpetrator, but McCaskey understood the drive.

McCaskey was sitting beside his wife in the backseat of Howell’s car. When the detective was finished, McCaskey asked him what he expected in exchange for his cooperation.

“A way back out,” Howell said plaintively.

“That may not be so easy. When we get these people, you know they will finger you,” McCaskey pointed out.

“I know they’ll try,” the detective said. “I’ve been thinking. I can pretty much cover my own actions. If you two will say that I was working undercover and feeding you information from the start, that will neutralize their charges.”

“When you cornered us in the apartment, you did not give us the option to explain things to you,” Maria said angrily.

“They had me on a leash,” Howell said. “I’m sorry.”

“If General Rodgers did not call, we would be standing in front of your district attorney right now instead of driving to our car,” she went on.

“I would have found a way to make this go away,” Howell said.

“You say that as if it is an upset stomach,” Maria said. “This would have been with us the rest of our lives.”

“Yes, but in fairness, you did enter the woman’s apartment unlawfully.”

“We picked a lock to get a leg-up on something big and ugly,” McCaskey interjected. “On the Richter scale of crimes, that is one point zero.”

“Look, I already said I screwed up,” Howell told him. “Hell, I screwed up in the military, too, which is what got me in this fix. What I did then wasn’t even a crime. The tribunal made it one to give some punk kid absolution for feeling guilty about consensual sex.”

“A punk kid,” Maria said. “You mean a boy? A man?”

Howell nodded as they pulled up to the lot. “I took the hit for him because I knew what he was going through. I cared about him. I could have appealed the decision, but I didn’t. Then these bastards dig it out and throw it back at me. I felt—only for a moment, but that was long enough—that I had earned myself a free pass for one future misdeed. This one. If I thought it would grow into what it did, I would never have agreed to help them. It was wrong. If you help me, I can make amends through continued public service. I’ve done a damn good job till now. If not, I’ll atone in prison, which doesn’t help anyone.” He looked back at McCaskey. “The blue line, Darrell. Stick with me on this one. Please.”

McCaskey opened the door and stepped out. He walked around to the driver’s side. Howell rolled down the window.

“If I did what you asked, I would not be able to look Mac McCallie’s widow in the eyes,” McCaskey told him. “I will fight for you, Detective, I promise. But I will not lie for you.”

Howell’s face flushed, but he did not reply. He simply rolled up the window and drove away.

Maria took her husband’s hand. “You did the right thing,” she said. “I am proud of you.”

“Boy, I wish that made it all better.” He sighed. He watched the detective’s car as it turned the corner.

As afraid as Howell had been when he made that decision, McCaskey imagined it faded to insignificance beside the fear and loneliness he was feeling now. He wished there had been another way out. Maybe he should have bucked it up to Paul.

“Or maybe he should have behaved himself,” Maria said.

“What?”

“I know you,” Maria said. “You are standing there wishing this all could have been different. Detective Howell made his choices. People died. He has to live with the consequences.”

“I know,” McCaskey said. “You know, I love what I do, but I there are times I hate what I have to do.”

Maria gripped his hand more tightly and gave him a quick, reassuring smile.

The couple went and got their car. They nosed into the thickening traffic of rush hour.

There was little McCaskey could do for Robert Howell but, ironically, there was still one thing he could do for Mac McCallie. And McCaskey intended to do it.

He would find and punish the people who put this tragedy in motion.

FORTY-SEVEN

San Diego, California Wednesday, 2:02 P.M.

No sooner had Rodgers entered the hallway than Kat ran after him.

“General, I have work to do,” she said. “I can’t stay here.”

“You have to,” he said. “I don’t know who is at risk and, more important, by helping someone, you may be an accessory to a criminal conspiracy.”

“I cannot believe the senator is behind this.”

“You cannot prove he is not,” Rodgers said. “Please. I don’t have time to debate this. I need to do some checking.”

“I’ll wait an hour,” she said. “No more.”

Rodgers did not answer. For all he knew, Kat Lockley would leave the room as soon as he was out of sight. Rodgers did not know whether she was truly blameless or just feigning innocence. Before heading downstairs, he stopped and pounded on Eric Stone’s door. There was no answer. He did not know where the convention manager was or what he might be planning. There was a lot Rodgers did not know. Too damn much, in fact.

Rodgers took the stairs to the lobby. That was not a consideration for personal security. If McCaskey called, Rodgers did not want to be standing hip-to-hip with nosy USF delegates.

The general reached the courtyard, which was encircled by tall, slender palm trees and brilliantly lit by a peachcolored sun. People were moving in all directions, and cars were stacked two deep in the sweeping entranceway. This was not the way to find Eric Stone. He went back inside to the registration desk and asked if anyone there had seen him. They said they had not. Rodgers did not believe they would have been told to lie. Stone had not come this way. He thought of checking the hotel security camera but decided that knowing where Stone had been was not going to help him right now. Rodgers had to find out where Stone was going.

Rodgers went back outside. He looked over at the convention center. It was probably a circus by now, with conventioneers arriving for free lunch followed by the opening speeches. Mobile media vans were outside, recording the event. It might be possible to use their multiple camera feeds to try to spot Stone. Since it was all Rodgers had, he decided to give it a try.

“General?”

Someone was standing behind him. He turned. It was Stone. He was holding a walkie-talkie and wearing a smile. Faint but sharp-edged voices crackled from the handheld device, the cross-talk of convention workers.

There was a move in the chaos gambit, Rodgers thought. An unexpected move that took control of the board. What Rodgers did not know was whether it was the luck of a novice or the seasoned improvisational skills of a professional.

“I understand you were looking for me?” Stone said, smiling.

“I was,” Rodgers said.

“What can I do for you?”

Rodgers looked around. “First of all, how did you know where I was?” the general asked. He was trying to spot the nearest surveillance camera or a tail.

“General, there was nothing conspiratorial.” Stone laughed. “The desk supervisor said you went this way. I knew what you were wearing and got lucky.”

Rodgers did not buy that. One of the hundreds of people surrounding them could have been watching him. Perhaps someone in a hotel window.

“So what is it you wanted?” Stone pressed.

Rodgers regarded the younger man. He looked at his posture, at his expression, at his hands. “I spoke with Detective Howell of the Metro Police in D.C.,” Rodgers informed him. “He told me he is being blackmailed by someone in your camp. I want to know who and why.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Stone said. “The detective bungled an investigation. He needed someone to blame. He picked us. Maybe someone is putting him up to it; maybe he has a personal vendetta. All I can tell you is that he is wasting our time. Now, if that is all you need to know—”

“No, there’s more. I want to know what the endgame is.”

“To elect a president,” Stone replied. He frowned and looked around. “Where is Kat, by the way? Did you see her?”

“I saw her.”

“She’s supposed to be with reporters, talking about the campaign.”

“She’s taking some personal time,” Rodgers said. He moved closer. “Talk to me, dammit.”

“I am.”

“No. You’re playing. There’s smug in your smile, in your eyes, but you’re still lying to me.”

“Excuse me?”

“Tension displacement. When you’re wound tight, it has to come out somewhere. Your fingertips are white. You’re squeezing that walkie-talkie like it’s a rubber stress ball. The pressure of all those steaks, is that what it is?”

“Yes, General. Look, I’ll have to talk to you some other time—”

“You will talk now,” Rodgers said.

“What you’re doing makes no sense, do you realize that?” Stone protested. “Think about it. If I were guilty of a terrible crime, would I stand here and confess to you? Do you think you’re that good a bully?”

“I can be,” Rodgers said.

“Security would have your face pressed to the asphalt in about ten seconds,” Stone assured him. “And I would have you incarcerated for assault, with no sad sack detective to bail you out.”

Rodgers’s gaze sharpened. “How did you know that?”

“What?”

“That Howell let the McCaskeys go.”

“I didn’t,” Stone said.

It hit Rodgers a moment before he heard it. Voices were shouting from the walkie-talkie, inarticulate in their shrill and overlapping communiqués.

Stone raised the unit. “This is Stone. What’s going on?”

“Something happened,” someone said.

“What?”

“The admiral,” the speaker said. His voice was hesitant, uneasy. “He left the hotel from the back exit, but he never made it to the convention center.”

“It’s only a mile!” Stone said. “Have you called the driver?” he asked as he reached for his own cell phone.

“We did. There’s no answer. The admiral doesn’t answer his phone, either.”

“Is security on this?”

“They called 911 and asked for an aerial search to see if they can find the limousine.”

“Tell security I’ll be right there,” Stone said angrily. He speed-dialed a number as he started jogging back toward the hotel.

Rodgers followed, also running.

“Kat, it’s Eric,” he said after a moment. “Something has happened. I need you to get downstairs and run the press.”

The men entered the lobby. Word of a possible abduction was spreading. People had stopped whatever they were doing and were looking around, asking anyone with a Staff badge for information. Stone ignored them all as he rushed by. The men walked past the elevators to a corridor lined with shops. The rear entrance was at the end of the carpeted hallway.

As Stone briefed Kat, Rodgers examined the feeling he had experienced just before the walkie-talkie came to life. A sense that had suddenly changed Rodgers’s perception of what he thought was beginner’s luck, a chaos gambit.

He no longer believed that Stone was an amateur. Neither was his boss, whoever that was. Someone had profiled Rodgers. They had understood exactly how the general would act and react to everything they did. Stone knew that Rodgers would seek him out in San Diego. He knew that, after their first talk, after McCaskey’s arrest, Rodgers would tell Kat to stay out of the way for a while. Stone also knew that when he finally presented himself to Rodgers, the general would push for information.

In short, the son of a bitch Stone had been stalling him.

FORTY-EIGHT

Washington, D.C. Wednesday, 5:47 P.M.

The sun was sinking low, and there was a chill in the air. The odor of diesel fuel wafted thinly from the aircraft at the base. It reminded Herbert of when he and his wife, Yvonne, used to be at a military airfield in some foreign land, waiting to be airlifted to or from a mission for the Company.

The light, the smell, the taste of the air reminded him in particular of the field at the U.S. air base in Ramstein, Germany. That was where he and Yvonne had their last meal before heading to Beirut, where she died and he lost the use of his legs. They had gone to the base commissary, grabbed a couple of sandwiches and coffees, and took a card table onto the field. It was a little too windy for candles, so they used a menorah the quartermaster had in storage. It was the best grilled cheese and coleslaw Herbert ever had. Yvonne never looked more beautiful and heroic to him. What a role model she had been. Always pushing him and herself to do a better job. She was convinced that whatever they did in Lebanon could help to bring peace to the region.

It did, to the nearly three hundred U.S. troops who died in the embassy bombing. Including Yvonne.

It was difficult for Herbert not to crash, burn, and smoulder for hours whenever that day came upon him—typically by surprise, like a mugger. It could be a song Yvonne might have been listening to on the trip over. It could be a feeling in the air, like now. Even the smell of grilled cheese took him back. All Herbert could do was swallow the awful lump, concentrate on what he was doing, and get the hell out of that bittersweet place. Yesterday’s EM explosion made the feeling even more immediate.

Stopping bad guys usually worked. That was what Herbert was trying to do now. The problem at the moment was not just wrestling down memories of Yvonne but fighting off the desire to hurt Paul Hood. As his grandfather used to put it back in Mississippi, he wished he could “sock him in the snot box and shake loose some intelligence.” The firing of Mike Rodgers offended him like nothing else in the past quarter century. When this was over, Herbert would have to decide if he could still work with the man. The way he was feeling, maybe he and Mike should open their own version of Murder, Inc. Something like, Revenge, Inc. He even had the slogan. “You pay, then they pay.” That would give them both a chance to act out in grand style.

For now, though, he had to find out what he could about Lucy O’Connor. Darrell had called to say that he and Maria were headed to her apartment. If she was not there—and McCaskey did not expect her to be—he needed to know where she could have gone.

“There is one thing about her you should know,” Herbert told him.

“What is that?” McCaskey asked.

“She was busted while she was a student at Carnegie-Mellon,” Herbert informed him.

“For what?”

“Riding the horse,” Herbert said.

“Lucy was a heroin addict?”

“That’s what the Pittsburgh PD records say,” Herbert said. “Did six months in the pokey, where she went through rehab.”

“Impossible. That would have showed up on her background check,” McCaskey said. “She never would have been allowed near Congress.”

“Unless someone had the file buried and told her one day there would be payback,” Herbert said. “A real-life Don Corleone.”

“Orr or Link,” McCaskey said. “So how did you find the record?”

“I didn’t,” Herbert said. “Routine check of her college years turned up a bust at the frat house where Lucy lived. Her name wasn’t mentioned. I called one of the kids who did time. She said, hell, yeah, Lucy was with her in the clink.”

“She would have known how to give the injections,” McCaskey said. “That’s one more reason to believe she is the killer.”

“Most likely. You’re an aspiring journalist who screwed up, someone rescues you, gives you all kinds of access—there are people who would kill to protect that,” Herbert said. “There are people who have killed for less.”

“True, though I’m not going to sign on to that until I talk to the woman,” McCaskey said.

“I agree.”

“Speaking of which, if we don’t find her at home, you have any suggestions where we should try next?” McCaskey asked.

“I sent Stephen Viens over to the NRO,” Herbert said. “He’s got an hour on the Auto-Search program in the Domestic Surveillance Platform.”

The DSP was a new Homeland Security satellite. It was located in a geostationary orbit and kept pointed on the metro D.C. area. It had the ability to pinpoint cars by shape, weight, and the specific configuration of the dashboard electronics. Once spotted, the onboard camera could zoom in to read the license number. If suspicious individuals were seen getting into a particular vehicle or renting a specific car, the DSP could find and track them with relative ease.

“How did Viens swing time on that?” McCaskey asked. “The DSP is Homeland’s baby.”

“All I know is that Paul made a call,” Herbert told him. “He got us the hour.”

“Impressive,” McCaskey said.

“I guess someone figured they owed us one or else felt sorry for us,” Herbert said. “Anyway, Ms. O’Connor drives a red Mustang convertible. If she is on the road, we will find her.”

As Herbert was talking with McCaskey, he got an instant message on his borrowed laptop.

Viens1: We have your car. It is just crossing the Woodrow Wilson Memorial Bridge headed west.

“Darrell, we’ve got your perp,” Herbert said. “She’s on 95 crossing the river. She could be headed to the airport.” The irony of Lucy O’Connor being on a bridge named W. Wilson was not lost on him.

“We’re on 395 east now,” McCaskey said. “I’ll turn and go for an intercept. Can Viens stay with her?”

Herbert forwarded the question to Viens, who wrote back that the NRO’s Homeland Security liaison, Lauren Tartags, said he could take the time, barring a crisis. Herbert told Viens to thank Ms. Tartags for her generosity. Op-Center’s imaging expert wrote back:

Viens1: It’s not kindness. She says she has no choice.

That was odd, but Herbert did not worry about it now. The intelligence chief told McCaskey to remain on the line. He said he would forward any new information immediately.

Through the open line Herbert could hear McCaskey and his wife conferring. The mutual respect he heard in the exchange made him smile. Maria was a tough, swashbuckling, headstrong, old-school law officer. She was the kind of cop who did not knock on doors but kicked them in. She was a perfect counterbalance to the more meticulous McCaskey.

He was happy for them. And he envied them.

Despite receiving data from the new satellite, Herbert felt as if he were back in the technological Stone Age. Before the electromagnetic blast, he would have been sitting in his office looking at the images being forwarded directly from the DSP. He could do that in the Tank, but that would mean hanging with Paul Hood. That was something he did not want to do right now.

Especially when he could still do his work out here and let the mechanized odor of the parking lot transport him to another time and place. To a point in his life when he had the best team a man could have, a wife who was his devoted personal and professional partner.

Maybe that was why Paul Hood did not understand the bad judgment call he had made. He never had an Yvonne in his life. He did not understand the meaning of partnership. Maybe that was why Herbert had judged Hood so harshly. Because he did have that perspective.

And here, in the breezy quiet, where memories took form in the dark shadows beside the buildings, he had her still.

FORTY-NINE

Washington, D.C. Wednesday, 6:06 P.M.

Darrell McCaskey never thought he would be grateful for rush hour.

The highway was clogged in both directions as he picked his way through the slow-moving traffic. Herbert kept him posted on Lucy’s progress. The two cars were converging, albeit slowly. As a precaution, McCaskey called Detective Howell to have someone go to Lucy’s apartment. He wanted to make certain she was not there, that the person in the car was not a decoy. Howell dispatched a squad car without comment. His emotional neutrality was not surprising. It would not have served his cause to challenge the request or to attach it to demands or guarantees. The detective was still a professional.

As McCaskey got onto 95 heading east, he was informed that Lucy’s apartment was empty. She was almost certainly in the car. A minute later, Herbert came back on the line.

“You’re about two klicks shy of her position,” he said. “If I can make a suggestion, she has no more exits between where she is and your current position. You can get out of the car and cross the guardrail north of Springfield—”

“I know the place,” McCaskey said. “I can see it ahead.”

The car was moving a little less than twenty-five miles an hour. He looked into the oncoming traffic as he hooked the phone on his belt. He left the line open.

“Maria, I’m going to intercept Ms. O’Connor and get her to pull over,” McCaskey said. “We’ll wait for you on the shoulder. I need you to get off at the next exit and swing around.”

“You are assuming she’ll stop,” Maria said.

“She will,” her husband said. “If she doesn’t brake willingly, I’ll stop the car in front of her.”

“What if she’s armed?” Maria asked.

“I’ll keep my mouth shut tight,” he replied.

Maria frowned disapprovingly. “With a gun, not a hypodermic.”

“I’ll watch myself,” McCaskey assured her. “Crossing the highway will be the tough part.”

McCaskey did not usually crack wise in situations like this. Something about Maria’s gravity had touched and amused him. This was not like Madrid, where they had been former lovers as well as grumpy and reluctant allies. This was not even like the stakeout for Ed March on Monday morning. This was the first case they had worked together since getting married. Maria was showing concern. He had wanted to try to minimize that.

He kissed her cheek as he put the car in park and opened the door. Maria maneuvered herself over the armrests and took the wheel. McCaskey ran in front of the car and waved an arm as he scooted across two lanes of traffic. Cars braked and horns whined. He swore as he reached the guardrail. The Mustang was about five hundred yards ahead, in the passing lane. He saw the passenger’s side. She was traveling about twenty miles an hour, then suddenly stopped. McCaskey hoped that Lucy had not heard the commotion and saw someone coming toward her. He did not want her trying to get away on foot. She would have a considerable head start.

“Darrell, can you hear me?”

McCaskey snatched the phone. “Yeah, Bob!”

“We’re getting a thermal spike from the DSP,” he said.

“Meaning?” McCaskey asked just as he heard horns in the oncoming lane. Cars around the Mustang were stopping. “Never mind,” he said. “I can see it. She torched the damn thing!”

“What?”

“There’s smoke coming from the closed windows!” McCaskey said. “She must have snuck out when the car stopped. Can you get a visual on her?”

“No,” Herbert said. “We’ve got cloud cover on the natural-light camera.”

“All right. Call 911. I’ve got to find her.”

McCaskey started running. People who could not maneuver away from the Mustang were leaving their cars and hurrying away on foot. A man in a Ram 1500 had pulled off on the shoulder, five car lengths back. He was rushing over with a fire extinguisher. Just then, McCaskey saw red lights flash behind him. He turned and saw Maria standing on the roof of their car. She was tossing road flares, trying to get his attention. His wife must have noticed the smoke and stopped. She was gesturing toward the Ram. Through the smoke McCaskey could just make out someone climbing into the cab. That had to be Lucy. The Ram had a 5.7-liter HEMI Magnum engine. It was a truck with cojónes. The vehicle would take the driver through cars and off road with no trouble.

Flames curled from the tops of the windows of the Mustang. The Ram driver hit it with a blast from the fire extinguisher. As he did, the windshield cracked from the heat, the spiderweb pattern shooting out from the center. A fire started with a cigarette lighter and whatever was lying around should not have gotten so hot so fast. She must have used an accelerant—

She was going to the airport, McCaskey realized. She had sprayed the contents of an aerosol can, hairspray or deodorant, in carry-on luggage.

McCaskey jumped the rail and grabbed the man about the waist and pushed him down just as the can itself exploded. It blew out the fragmented windshield and sent a small fireball rolling across the hood. Pieces of singed black Tumi luggage floated on the smoke like black snow. Former junkies might not be slick, but they knew household chemicals. They also knew how to distract the law.

McCaskey rose from the asphalt. “You all right?” he asked the other man.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

McCaskey was bruised but intact. He jumped around the front of the burning automobile. The Ram was coming toward them, along the shoulder. He tried to get in the back of the pickup as it passed, but he missed it.

Maria did not.

His wife had gotten back into the car and jabbed her way through traffic. When she was just a few yards from the oncoming Ram, she drove the car hard into the guardrail. The metal did not break, but it bulged just enough to clip the fender of the Ram, tearing it free on the passenger’s side. The chrome dug into the spinning front tire. At the same time, Maria accelerated against the guardrail, bending it more and locking the fender into the tire.

The Ram’s 345-horsepower engine screamed as the driver tried to push through the impasse. Before she could succeed, McCaskey was at the driver’s side door. He yanked it open and looked up at the face of desperation. He saw a woman who was crying so hard there was as much sweat along her scalp as there were tears on her cheeks. She was a woman so far over her pay grade that she was trembling all over, everywhere but her hands. Her fingers were bone white and locked around the steering wheel. She looked down at McCaskey.

“It wasn’t going to be like this,” she said, her voice an unsteady whisper. She looked back out the front window.

McCaskey climbed onto the step. He reached past her and turned off the ignition. With fire engines screaming behind him, it was difficult to hear. He leaned close. “What was not going to be like this?” he asked.

“They told me I would get exclusives,” Lucy said. “That’s all I wanted.”

“Who said that?”

She did not appear to hear. “They said I was putting him to sleep. They said that was what they wanted. They wanted me to mess up his room, make it look as if he had partied hard. They said he would be discredited.”

“Wilson, you mean,” McCaskey said.

Lucy did not answer. McCaskey turned her face gently toward him. “You gave William Wilson the injection.”

“Yes.”

“So you would have exclusive access to stories?”

She looked into his eyes. “They told me he wouldn’t be hurt. Not like Meyers.”

“Who is Meyers?” McCaskey asked.

“Richard Meyers. He was my boyfriend. We were on the beach three years ago in Corpus Christi. I gave him a speedball. He died.”

“They knew about this?” McCaskey asked.

“I ran.”

“They found out?” McCaskey asked.

“Yes.”

“So there was blackmail,” McCaskey asked.

Lucy nodded once.

The young woman, a junkie, had been in Texas. Someone must have found out and kept that information for future use. For blackmail. These guys must have been building their plan, their operation, for some time. “What about Mr. Lawless?”

“I did that, too,” Lucy replied. “I had to. They said they would turn me in if I didn’t. And then I had to put the dress in Kat’s apartment.” Lucy started to cry. “I didn’t want to hurt Kat. I like her.”

“Who told you to do all that?” McCaskey asked.

“She told me I would have to write only good things about them or I would go to prison for murder,” Lucy said. “I got stuck. I didn’t know how to get out.”

“Lucy, who did you speak with? Admiral Link? Senator Orr? Someone who works for one of them?”

“A woman.”

“Do you know which woman?”

“No,” Lucy said.

“What number did she call?”

“My cell phone,” Lucy said.

“Okay,” McCaskey said. “Now I want you to stay here. Someone will come for you. You have to believe I’m going to try to help you, all right?”

“All right,” she said blankly.

McCaskey gave her a reassuring pat on the back of her tense hand. Then he stepped back onto the highway. The police were making their way through traffic. Maria was standing there. Behind her, the airbag of the car had inflated.

“Nice move,” he said. “Are you hurt?”

“No. You?”

“No.”

McCaskey kissed his wife on the forehead and reached for his cell phone. It was gone. Poor Bob was probably mad with concern and madder with confusion. McCaskey hurried ahead. He needed to get a phone so he could call the intelligence chief. He showed one of the police officers his Op-Center ID. The man loaned him his phone. McCaskey said he would return it later.

McCaskey did not call Bob Herbert’s phone because the line was probably still open. Instead, he called the Tank. Bugs Benet answered. He asked Hood’s assistant to have Herbert find out who called Lucy O’Connor’s cell phone within a half hour of the murder of William Wilson.

“Will do,” Bugs said. “How can we reach you?”

“Don’t worry about me,” he said. “Keep an ear to the ground for Mike.” McCaskey wasn’t being heroic, just practical. He had a feeling that whether he was about to resign or not, Mike Rodgers was the one who would have to carry this ball in for the touchdown.

FIFTY

San Diego, California Wednesday, 3:45 P.M.

Inevitably, out of chaos comes order. The only two questions are when and at what cost?

Chaos evolved quickly in the hotel lobby, as it always does. One convention-goer carried it to three who carried it to nine. When chaos spreads, Mike Rodgers knew that the most important thing was not to try to contain it. Security had called the police, and reinforcements were on the way. Their presence would emphasize what was already an extraordinary situation and remove whatever remained of normalcy. That would merely put the same amount of tumult in a more confined space. And chaos tended to leap whatever firebreaks were placed around it. The task at hand was to eliminate the cause, not to contain the result.

The cause was shock about the apparent abduction of Admiral Kenneth Link and uncertainty about who did it or why. Mike Rodgers wanted to get on the problem right away. And not just to help eliminate the panic. Apparently, this was related to whatever the hell had started in Washington just four days ago.

Rodgers walked over to a relatively quiet corner near the magazine stand. He called the office of General Jack Breen at Pendleton. Breen said it was good to hear from his old friend.

“Where are you?” the marine general asked.

“San Diego,” Rodgers replied.

“San Diego? I hear there’s noise in that area. Yours?”

“Indirectly,” Rodgers said. “Jack, I need air recon ASAP. Something with eyes and teeth. We believe Admiral Kenneth Link has been kidnapped from the hotel here.”

“Details?”

“He was in a limo, that’s all I know. I don’t know what kind. I wouldn’t trust anyone to give me the right information anyway,” Rodgers said.

“I’m requisitioning an Apache on the e-command link as we speak,” Breen said. “Do you think there will be a ransom request or is this a GAT?”

GAT was grab and terminate. It was a military adaptation of the Mafia acronym SAW, snatch and whack.

“I don’t know, which is why we need to try to find the limo,” Rodgers said. “Can they pick me up somewhere around here?”

“Roof of the convention center, ten minutes,” Breen said. “What kind of manpower do you need?”

“Full suit?”

That was thirteen men. Breen said he would provide that.

“Perfect,” Rodgers said. “I’ll be there.”

“We’ll plan to cover the routes east,” Breen said. “The police will have plenty of resources deployed north along 405 headed up to Los Angeles and south to Mexico,” Breen said. “I doubt kidnappers would want to get into the traffic or border check along that corridor anyway.”

“Agreed,” Rodgers said as his phone beeped. That meant there was an incoming call. “General, I’ll see your boys in ten.” Rodgers jogged from the lobby as he switched to the other call. “Yes?”

“Mike, it’s Darrell.”

“Have you got something?” Rodgers asked.

“Yes. It sounds like you’re running.”

“I am,” Rodgers told him. “I’m organizing recon. It seems Admiral Link was just kidnapped.”

“He was? That’s surprising.”

“Why?”

“Because we just busted Lucy O’Connor,” McCaskey told him. “She confessed to giving those men the injections. Within a half hour of the first, she received a call from Admiral Link’s office phone.”

“Who did Lucy talk to?”

“She doesn’t know,” McCaskey said. “Only that it was a woman.”

“I’m not sure if that means anything,” Rodgers said. “Anyone could have used his phone.”

“Not without his authorization code,” McCaskey said. “We checked. No one in the office has that except Link.”

“Were there calls after the second incident?” Rodgers asked.

“No, they were being very careful then,” McCaskey said. “The criminal nature of the first action had already been uncovered. The perps would have been much more cautious the next day.”

“Would they really have been that cavalier about murder?” Rodgers asked.

“Yeah,” McCaskey said. “They had plausible deniability. Lucy could have gone up there and done it for a story.”

“Okay. But why do it at all? Does Lucy have any idea?”

“Lucy appears to be suffering from a mild form of narcosis, probably due to something in the barbiturate family,” McCaskey said. “I used to see the same speech and slowed reactions in the street.”

“Could someone on Orr’s staff have been providing her with drugs?” Rodgers asked. “That might have provided them with leverage.”

“We checked. She scored those on her own, an old connection. We found the guy through his parole officer.”

“What’s your guess, then?” Rodgers asked.

“You mean a unified theory?” McCaskey asked.

“As unified as you can be over an open line,” Rodgers said.

“Mike, I wish I knew. Someone in the senator’s office wanted the first victim dead. Then they killed some random tourist to make it look like the first murder was not related to the big man or his party. Our reporter friend was in it for perks and as a patsy, if necessary. If I said anything beyond that, I would be making pretty big assumptions.”

“Make them,” Rodgers said as he ran along Harbor Drive. The wide road bordered the bay. The convention center was just ahead. In the distance he heard the unmistakable bass thumping of an incoming helicopter.

“Mike, what is homicide or abduction always about? Power. Revenge. Jealousy. Money,” McCaskey said. “At the Bureau we used to assign a team to each of those and follow it back to a source.”

“I don’t have a team,” Rodgers said. “Hell, when this is over, I may not even have a job.”

“I know.”

“Darrell—a hunch. Give me something.”

McCaskey sighed. “We’re talking about a politician who is already wealthy, who has never had a scandal attached to his marriage, who has the respect of his colleagues. If he is behind it, I am guessing it is for power.”

“And the admiral?”

“You know him better than I do, Mike,” McCaskey replied. “But think about it. He has had control over intelligence. That is real power. He knows what it tastes like.”

The sounds of the chopper and his own hard breathing made it difficult for Rodgers to hear. Since McCaskey had access to the national news and the FBI pipeline, Rodgers asked him to call at once if he heard anything about a ransom demand. Barring that, Rodgers said he would call as soon as he had a lead or even a new idea. The general vowed he would get one if he had to dangle Eric Stone from the open hatch of the Apache.

Which is not the worst idea you have had today, he told himself. Assuming he could find the bastard. Stone had vanished within moments of the report.

Rodgers could hear the higher-pitched whir of the police helicopters moving along the San Diego Freeway. Two hovered above Lindbergh Field in case the limousine had gone there, and two more from the Harbor Patrol were moving out to sea. Perhaps the kidnappers intended to fly Admiral Link from the area. There were sirens on the Pacific Coast Highway, which paralleled Harbor Drive. Convention security personnel were running here and there, shouting into walkie-talkies and trying to keep order around the convention center itself. They were apparently being told to keep people in the area. Having another four or five thousand attendees in the streets would only complicate rescue efforts.

Rodgers reached the eastern entrance of the convention center as the Marine helicopter landed. He showed one of the security guards his USF ID as well as his Op-Center ID. He was allowed inside. A wide, sunlit, concrete-heavy gallery circled the massive convention area. It was thick with refreshment stands, media booths, and USF vendors. People were standing around, just as they were in the hotel lobby, trying to pick up information and voicing theories as to who might be behind this. “Damn foreigners” was the expression Rodgers seemed to hear most.

It would be ironic if that were the case. International enemies of the USF Party were something Mike Rodgers had not even considered. Or someone seeking revenge for William Wilson, perhaps?

No, Rodgers decided. Something like this would have been planned for some time. The abductors would have had to know Link’s schedule, been able to get to the limousine driver and take him out, and had a hideout or escape route ready. The kidnappers would have made dry runs.

Rodgers started up the concrete stairs that led to the top of the convention center. He was tired, but years of training with Striker had kept him in top physical condition. The door to the roof was a fire exit. It was unlocked. Rodgers stepped out. The chopper was about fifty yards away. Rodgers waved to the pilot, who acknowledged with a salute. The general ran toward the Apache, ducking into the heavy prop wash.

Suddenly, Rodgers stopped.

The abduction needed a plan, he thought.

Was the answer right in front of him? He looked out at the city from the top of the convention center. Red and blue police lights spotted the main roads and highways. Helicopters were being swallowed in the smoggy inland skies. A great security machine was in motion.

But would it be enough?

With renewed urgency, Rodgers resumed his sprint toward the chopper.

FIFTY-ONE

Washington, D.C. Wednesday, 7:08 P.M.

Reluctantly, Bob Herbert had moved his laptop operation to the Tank. McCaskey had informed him about the latest developments and he wanted to be directly involved in the operation. Besides, the winds in the parking lot had picked up, and there was an unpleasant chill on his back. And, as the engineers from Andrews put it, they needed someone to test the elevator with a load inside. Everyone else was still using the stairs. The tech boys had been working on the lift for three hours and told him everything seemed to be functioning. None of them had ridden it yet because they did not have the proper security clearance. Most of Op-Center had been fried, but protocol was still protocol.

Before heading downstairs, the intelligence chief phoned Stephen Viens. The surveillance operations officer was still at the NRO. Herbert asked him to see if any of the navy satellites had picked up the limousine in back of Link’s hotel. Security recon was pretty thorough in the region because of the naval station, the naval submarine base, and the many inland operations facilities such as Fleet Technical Support Center Pacific and the Intelligence and War-Sim Center in nearby Riverside County. Viens said he would report back if he found anything.

Herbert was happy to test the elevator. It was strange. He had ridden this elevator thousands of times, but this was the first time he paid attention to the sounds, to the little bumps and jolts. Were those mechanical groans of pain or the yawns of waking machinery? He was very aware of the thinness of the air, which was being forced in by a portable, battery-powered pump on the top of the carriage. In a way, the carriage reminded Herbert of how he had been after Beirut: hurt and shut down for a while, then struggling back into service. That was an advantage Herbert had over his Op-Center colleagues. The rebuilding process was miserably familiar territory to him.

The elevator was a little sluggish, but it reached the bottom of the shaft.

Better too slow than fast, Herbert decided.

He wheeled himself out, reached back inside to send the carriage upstairs, and headed to the Tank. The skeleton team at work throughout Op-Center was sharp and focused. That did not surprise Herbert. In a postcrisis situation, work was an intense, short-term involvement that kept trauma from settling in. It was like an emotional gag reflex. The full impact of what had happened would not hit these people until they put down the armor of responsibility.

Hood was the only other person in the Tank. The reunion was surprisingly relaxed, at least from Herbert’s perspective. The intelligence chief had kept Hood up to date and had nothing to add. He plugged the laptop into the dedicated power source in the room and rebooted it. He wanted to be ready if Viens called with information. The map from Homeland Security showed traffic patterns, air lanes, and even possible terrorist targets such as nuclear power plants, electrical grids, dams, transportation centers, and shopping malls. Overlays with different access routes could be added to the image if necessary.

The McCaskeys arrived shortly after Herbert. They brought dinner, which was welcome. It marked the first real break anyone had enjoyed since the attack. In the case of the McCaskeys, it was the first real time-out they had enjoyed since the death of William Wilson. Hood asked about Rodgers. Both McCaskey and Herbert told him what the general was doing.

“I meant, how is he doing?” Hood asked.

“I think he is kind of in limbo, waiting to see how this all turns out,” McCaskey told him.

“It is odd,” Maria said. “Mike Rodgers is out in the real world, but you say he is in limbo. We are in a badly wounded facility, yet we are supposedly connected to the world.”

“I suppose everything depends on your attitude,” Hood replied.

“Knowing you have a job helps,” McCaskey said.

“Elected officials and appointees learn to live with flux,” Hood said. “I still say it’s the inside defines the outside.”

“You mean like us,” Maria said. “The shell of Op-Center is broken, but we are still functioning.”

“Exactly,” Hood said.

Herbert did not involve himself in the conversation. He busied himself with taking bites from the roast beef club sandwich the McCaskeys had brought, pulling up a map of San Diego County on his laptop, and jacking his borrowed cell phone into the Tank system. As a rule, pep talks bored the intelligence chief. Herbert was self-driven. Usually because there was a throat he needed to get his hands around. That was all the motivation he needed. This particular conversation had a fringe of wide-eyed sanctimony that made him angry. Maria had her spouse alive and well and at her side. Hood still had an organization to run and a résumé that would keep him circulating through government employ as long as he wanted. It was easy for them both to be optimistic.

Maybe you really ought to join Mike out there, Herbert thought. Start a consultancy of some kind, maybe for private industry. Security in a nonsecure age. It was something to think about.

The call from Stephen Viens came before Herbert had to listen to very much more of the chat. He was surprised to hear from the surveillance operations officer so quickly.

“We just got a call from the California Highway Patrol, San Diego Command Center,” Viens told the intelligence chief. “They found what they think is your missing limousine.”

“What makes them think it’s the one?” Herbert asked.

Herbert did not ask why the CHP had called the NRO. The Department of Homeland Security had linked all the nation’s highway patrol offices into the NRO’s Infrastructure Surveillance System. The ISS gave local law enforcement offices unprecedented access to observe possible terrorist activity through military, weather, and other observation-equipped satellites.

“The limousine was abandoned in a lot off Highway 163, which is just east of San Diego,” Viens said. “The original driver was found tied up in the trunk. He said he was hit on the head in the hotel parking lot, and that’s all he remembers. The kidnappers obviously switched vehicles. The CHP wants the NRO to look through the back-image log, see if they caught a parked vehicle in the area.”

“How long will that take?”

“Not very,” Viens said.

“What do you mean?”

“The satellites that watch Naval Base Coronado and the inland flight training center do not overlap,” Viens said. “They follow Highway 15 east. It looks like the limousine pulled over in a blind spot. They are double-checking now.”

And who would know that better than a former head of naval intelligence? Herbert asked himself.

“It is possible that the Interceptor-Three border patrol satellite picked something up, but that may be a little too far south to have seen this activity. The FBI monitors that one and is looking into it.”

“I’ll let Mike know,” Herbert said. “Thanks, Stephen.”

Herbert updated the others while he punched in Rodgers’s number.

“Why would the admiral organize his own abduction?” Maria asked.

“That’s the key, isn’t?” Herbert said.

Rodgers picked up the phone. The general said he was just about to board the Apache but waited while Herbert briefed him. Rodgers listened without comment. With the sound of the helicopter pounding in the background, Herbert was not even sure Rodgers could hear.

“Did you get all that, Mike?” the intelligence chief asked when he was finished.

“I did,” Rodgers said.

“Any thoughts?”

“Yeah. I think we’ve been had,” Rodgers said. “Big time.”

“In what way?”

“I’ll let you know when I’ve checked something out,” Rodgers told him. “I’ve got to run. I’ll call you as soon as I can.”

“Go get ’em,” Herbert said and hung up. He lowered the phone and looked at the others.

“Go get who?” McCaskey asked.

“Mike didn’t say,” Herbert said. “He told me he’ll call in thirty minutes or so. The only thing I know for sure is it’s ironic.”

“What is?” Hood asked.

Herbert replied, “That the man who is in the best position to put this one away doesn’t really work for us anymore.”

FIFTY-TWO

San Diego, California Wednesday, 4:29 P.M.

The news of the abduction shocked Kat Lockley. It also concerned her. Senator Orr would never have organized that, and she could not imagine who would. Someone from the outside, perhaps. Maybe Rodgers?

That was not important right now. What mattered was the senator and his safety. After talking with Stone, Kat jabbed the elevator call button. While she waited to take the carriage to the penthouse, she phoned the senator and told him what had happened. She asked him to stay in his room and said she would be there in a minute or two. Senator Orr agreed, at least until security could be organized for him to go downstairs. He felt it was important to talk to his people as soon as possible, to let them know that he was all right and the convention would go on. Kat said she would see to that. Her second call was to Pat Simcox, head of security. She wanted to make sure he stayed at his post outside the senator’s room and did not join the detail searching for Admiral Link. Simcox said he had no intention of leaving. He told her not to worry. If this were a plot against the USF, no one would get through to the senator.

She believed him. The truck driver turned security man was tough.

The elevator arrived, and guests streamed out. There were concerned looks and questions for Kat. She told them the senator was all right, then excused herself and entered. On the way up, she was joined by Kendra Peterson.

“Eric called to tell me what happened,” Kendra said. “I just spoke with the senator. He said you suggested he stay put.”

“I did. Is there a problem with that?”

“No,” Kendra insisted. “I think that’s a good idea.”

“Good.”

Kat was glad. She did not feel like having it out with Kendra over this issue. The elevator opened, and Kat went to the senator’s suite. She knocked on the door, and it opened. She stepped through.

Into something she did not expect.

Pat Simcox was standing in the entrance of the suite. He was pointing a 9 mm Glock model 19 handgun at Kat Lockley. A Gemtech SOS silencer was fixed to the barrel.

Kat stopped. Her eyes snapped from the gun to Simcox’s brown eyes. “Pat, what are you doing?” she asked.

“Welcoming you,” he replied.

“Why the gun?” she asked.

“Just go in!” Kendra snapped.

Kat turned angrily. “What the hell are you doing?”

“We’ll discuss that when Eric gets here,” Kendra said.

Kat walked into the living room. Senator Orr was sitting on a divan near the terrace. He was staring ahead, his breathing shallow. His arms were hanging limp, his hands lying palm-up in his lap. There was a glass-topped coffee table in front of him. An open bottle of ginger ale sat beside a half-empty glass. The senator’s bodyguard was standing nearby.

“Senator?” Kat said. “Is he all right?” she asked the bodyguard.

He did not answer. Kat ran to the senator’s side and squatted in front of him. She took one of his hands in hers. It was cool. “Senator Orr, are you all right?”

“He can’t answer,” Kendra said. “Mr. Simcox put several drops of sodium thiopental in his drink.”

“What is that?” Kat asked.

“A mild anesthesia,” Kendra replied. “It should keep him still for about ninety minutes.”

“Why?” Kat demanded.

There was a knock at the door. Kendra waited. The knock was followed by two others. Kendra opened the door to admit Eric Stone. The young man walked in. His expression was serious but unworried.

“How is everything?” he asked.

“Perfect,” Kendra said. “What is it like downstairs?”

“Mild disorder and growing,” Stone replied. He walked over to Simcox and took the gun. “Get him dressed please, Thomas.”

“Yes, sir,” the bodyguard replied.

“Thomas?” Kat said.

“Thomas Mandor,” Stone replied. “A longtime acquaintance of Admiral Link.”

“What is he, an assassin?”

“No, Kat. We do not want to kill the senator,” Stone assured her. “We want to get him away from here and have a long talk about William Wilson and about the future. We want to make sure we all have an understanding.”

Kat rose and approached Stone. He held up his free hand for her to stop.

“Eric, what is this?” Kat asked. “What are you doing?”

“We are helping to save the country,” he replied.

“What are you talking about? The senator is a patriot. And what about Admiral Link? You know him—”

“The admiral is not the issue. What concerns me right now is Donald Orr,” Stone said. “He is a killer, a belligerent nationalist who appeals to the basest fears of the electorate. He nurtures the kind of suspicion that will one day make us turn on ourselves, on anyone who is different than he is.”

Mandor returned with a hat, sunglasses, and windbreaker. He began putting them on the senator.

“Please,” Kat said. “Stop this. Stop before it’s too late.”

“We are.” Stone moved closer to Kat. “My question to you is this. Will you come with us, or do we leave you here?”

“Come with you where?”

“That is not important,” Kendra interjected.

“Away from here, ostensibly to keep the senator safe,” Stone said. “Yes or no, Kat? Are you coming or staying?”

Kat looked at the gun. “You wouldn’t shoot me. Not here, not now.”

“No one will hear,” Stone assured her. “Your answer, please.”

The woman did not know what to say. The silent barrel of a pistol was more persuasive than Stone’s arguments. The sight had a way of short-circuiting the brain and weakening the legs. It was one thing to believe in an ideal. It was quite another to perish for it. But there was a stubborn part of her soul that did not want to be bullied. Especially when she and the senator had worked so hard to get here.

The brief, internal debate was resolved a moment later when a third option presented itself.

One that no one had anticipated.

FIFTY-THREE

San Diego, California Wednesday, 4:44 P.M.

The low hum, more tangible than audible, came upon them suddenly. The windows began to wobble before anything else. That caused the drawn drapes to shake. A few moments later, everyone felt the vibrations.

The nearly sixty-foot-long AH64-D Apache Longbow helicopter lowered itself sideways beside the hotel. The sun threw its stark shadow against the drapes. The Longbow looked like a mosquito, with its slightly dipped rotors and stubby wings set against a long, slender body, a large General Electric T700-GE-701 turboshaft engine mounted high on each side of the fuselage.

The helicopter rotated slowly so that its 30 mm automatic Boeing M230 chain gun was pointed toward the room.

“Christ in heaven,” Stone muttered as the aircraft turned.

He started toward the door just as the knob and lock popped loudly, and the door flew in along the hinges. Mike Rodgers stepped through the acrid smoke of the C-4 blast. He was followed by a small complement of marines. The marines were all carrying MP5-N assault rifles. Several of them moved toward Thomas Mandor and Kendra Peterson. They directed the two toward the bedroom. Neither of Stone’s companions protested. Two of the marines remained with Mike Rodgers.

“Put your weapon down!” Rodgers ordered as he walked toward Stone. He had to shout to be heard over the beat of the Apache that had ferried them to the rooftop. Rodgers expected to be using it again shortly.

The USF officer hesitated, but only for a moment. He turned the gun from Kat to Senator Orr.

“Don’t!” Kat screamed.

“You are leaving me no choice!” he replied.

“I am,” she said. She edged toward the senator. “We can talk about your concerns. We’ve done that before, all of us.”

“It’s too late,” Stone said.

“Eric, have you actually killed anyone?” Rodgers asked as the marines filled the room.

“No,” he admitted.

“Then don’t start now. I know you think there’s no other choice. People in an emotional situation often think that. But it isn’t true.”

“You don’t understand!” Stone said. He gestured angrily at Orr with the gun. “This man is evil!”

“This man is a United States senator, and you are not his judge!” Kat yelled.

Slowly, the woman sat beside Orr. She was obviously attempting to place herself between the handgun and the senator. That was a sweet gesture, but at this range, Stone would take both of them out before Rodgers could reach him. That left just one option, and the general did not want to use it.

“Kat is right,” Rodgers said. “You may get jail time for whatever you’ve done till now, but it beats having these boys cut you down.”

“You tell me not to kill by threatening to kill me?” Stone laughed. “You’re as twisted as Orr!”

Rodgers continued to move closer to Stone. The young man was standing sideways, the gun aimed down. He scowled, angry, cornered. In hair trigger situations like this, it was important to be determined without being overly aggressive.

“Let’s stop thinking about who can kill who,” Rodgers suggested. He extended his left arm slowly and opened his hand. “Let’s do as Kat suggested and talk this thing over. Give me the weapon so we can start to ratchet this thing back.”

Stone said nothing. Often, that meant the individual was ready to capitulate. It was usually noticeable in a softening of the tension around the mouth and eyes, in the sinew of the neck. Unfortunately, none of that was happening here. The thumping of the helicopter probably was not helping Stone to think straight.

“I’ll tell you what, Eric,” Rodgers said. “I’m going to have Lieutenant Murdock, who is standing right behind me, get on the radio. He’ll send the helicopter away. It will be easier to talk.”

“I don’t want to talk!” Stone cried. “I want to finish what we started!”

“What who started?” Rodgers asked.

“The admiral, Kendra, and myself.”

“What did you start?”

“The counterprocess,” Stone said. “That was the code name the admiral devised. It was his idea, and it was the right idea!”

The young man was under both internal and external stress. More than intent and desire, physical strain could cause the handgun to discharge. Rodgers had to take precautions. He held his right arm straight down, the index finger pointed toward the floor. That was a sign to the marines. If the general crooked his finger, that meant to ice the target. If he raised his arm again, it meant to stand down.

“Talk to me about the counterprocess,” Rodgers said.

“It was conceived to work within the senator’s plan.”

“Like a virus or a mole,” Rodgers said.

“Yes.”

“What was the senator’s plan?”

“To kill his enemies,” Stone replied.

“That’s a lie!” Kat shot back.

“Let him talk!” Rodgers cautioned.

Rodgers watched Stone’s grip on the handgun. There was no change. The general continued to walk toward him.

Stone turned slightly to address Rodgers directly. “Killing William Wilson was Orr’s idea,” Stone said. “Kat fleshed it out. It was a way of drawing attention to a problem and solving it at the same time.”

“The problem of anti-American economic activities,” Rodgers said.

“Exactly.”

“How do you know the senator was behind the killing of Mr. Wilson?” Rodgers asked. He wanted to draw Stone deeper into conversation, focused on him and not on the senator.

“Orr told the admiral, and the admiral told me,” Stone said.

“Did you ask the senator yourself?” Rodgers asked.

“Why bother? He would have lied to me. Anyway, the admiral never lied. Not to me.”

Rodgers was just a few paces away. “If this is true, I need you to tell me everything. Then I can pass it along to Op-Center.”

“Op-Center!” Stone snarled. He turned a little more. “They were the ones who screwed this up for all of us—”

Rodgers saw an opening and took it. Stone had raised his arm slightly so the Glock was pointed away from both Donald Orr and Kat Lockley. Rodgers reached across Stone and grabbed the man’s right wrist with his own right hand. He forced the gun toward the floor as he simultaneously swung his left hand toward the gun. Rodgers pressed left with his right hand, against the back of Stone’s forearm, and right with his left hand. Stone’s wrist snapped audibly. The gun hung loosely in his trembling fingers, and Rodgers snatched it.

The marines moved in. One of them secured Stone by pushing him facedown on the carpet. The other ran to look after Kat and the senator. He told Kat to call downstairs for the hotel physician. Rodgers picked up the Glock.

“You don’t know what you’re doing!” Stone said.

“Saving you from death by lethal injection, I think,” Rodgers replied. He motioned for the marine to let Stone sit up. Then the general crouched beside him. “Where is Admiral Link?”

“I don’t know,” Stone replied.

“I don’t believe you,” Rodgers replied. “You were filibustering outside the hotel while his limo was being hijacked. You wanted to keep me from seeing anything.”

“That doesn’t mean I know where he went,” Stone said.

Rodgers shook his head. “Don’t you get it? The counterprocess is over. Whatever it is, whatever it was supposed to be, this whole thing is done. Cooked. The only way you save any part of your own ass is by cooperating.” “I believe that what we have done is right,” Stone replied. “And I won’t rat out my boss. Neither will Ms. Peterson.”

“This gentleman says he will,” said a voice from the bedroom door.

Rodgers looked over. The other male member of Stone’s party was standing there. His short marine guard was behind him, the assault rifle lowered. There was something contrite in the manner of the big man.

“Who are you?” Rodgers asked, rising.

“Thomas Mandor, sir.”

“What is your role in all this?” Rodgers asked.

“Just muscle,” Mandor replied.

“He was hired by Admiral Link’s staff, supposedly as a personal security officer for the senator,” Kat said bitterly.

“I was hired by Mr. Stone, but to escort the senator to another location,” Mandor said. “And I happen to know where Admiral Link is.”

“I’m listening,” Rodgers replied.

“My partner has him. If I tell you where they are, can we cut some kind of deal?”

“No,” Rodgers said. “If you don’t, I’ll do my damnedest to make sure the state of California adds obstruction of justice to whatever else you may have done.”

Mandor considered that for just a moment. Then he told Rodgers where Kenneth Link had gone.

FIFTY-FOUR

San Diego, California Wednesday, 5:15 P.M.

Rodgers and his marine unit charged back up the stairs to the roof of the hotel. They left Stone, Kendra, and Mandor in the custody of the local police. The three were charged with assault, a felony weapons charge, and conspiracy to kidnapping. Kat remained with Senator Orr and the hotel physician. Rodgers had questions for Kat, but this was not the time or place to pose them. He needed more information and suspected that only Kenneth Link had it.

Thomas Mandor had directed them to a cabin in the mountains of nearby Fallbrook. The pilot phoned the address to the county sheriff. The marine explained that they needed to get to the site without the chopper being seen or heard, which meant landing some distance away. He said that he did not need backup, just a spotter, someone to point out the residence. The sheriff sent Deputy Andy Belmont ahead to meet them. He said the young man would be waiting in an open field at elevation 1963 feet, three miles due northwest of the Mission Road exit in the foothills of the Coastal Range. That was just a quarter mile or so from the target. The dispatcher said that Deputy Belmont was familiar with the area and also had met Mr. Richmond. He would be able to point out the cabin. The pilot was told to look for a black Jeep with a large white star on the hood.

The Apache flew over Highway 163 and then followed 15 east. The pilot kept the helicopter under five hundred feet. Navy fighter pilots trained along this corridor, and he did not want to risk a collision. He ascended when he reached the foothills. Rodgers was sitting behind the pilot, watching for the deputy’s Jeep. There was one marine to his right and three more in the snug jump seats behind them. They were actually more like paddles, recent additions to the Longbows that allowed them to shuttle small special ops units into hostile territory. The seats, even the fixed ones, vibrated like those old quarter-fed motel beds, and removing the headphones was guaranteed to leave a passenger’s ears ringing for a week. This was not an aircraft designed for comfort. As the pilot proudly put it, “The Longbow was built for roughing things up.” In addition to the chain gun, the helicopter could be equipped with air-tosurface Hellfire missiles on four-rail launchers and air-to-air Stinger missiles. This particular Apache did not carry Stingers. Part of that was a virtue of the quick launch protocol the crew had used to reach Rodgers as quickly as possible. Part of that was to protect the civilian population in the event technical failure brought the chopper down.

The pilot spotted the Jeep first and swung toward it. He set the Apache down two hundred yards away. Rodgers opened the door and ran over. The deputy climbed from the Jeep and offered his hand.

“You must be General Rodgers,” the deputy said.

“That’s right.”

“It’s a pleasure, sir,” Belmont told him. “What do you need from me?”

“Tell me about the target,” Rodgers said.

“It’s a traditional log cabin set back about three hundred yards from a ridge,” the deputy told him. “There are oaks all around—a real firetrap, but shady. May I ask what’s going on there?”

“Hostage situation,” Rodgers replied. “What is the best way in?”

“Are you looking to surround and siege or charge it?” Belmont asked.

“We’re going in.”

“There are more windows on the north side, the ridge side,” the deputy told him. “You’ll be safer coming in from the south.”

“Is there someplace closer to set down for extraction?”

“There’s a three-acre clearing off the point, just above the cabin,” Belmont told him. “Good surveillance point, too.”

“Great. Can you walk us there?”

“It will be an honor,” Belmont assured him.

Rodgers gave the deputy an appreciative clap on the shoulder, then ran back to the Apache. Gathering his team, Rodgers told the pilot to get airborne and remain over the field. As soon as the marines had secured the cabin, one of them would direct the pilot to the point. If Link were here, as Mandor had said, Rodgers wanted to get him into custody as soon as possible. The way people were getting drugged, the general wanted to make sure he had at least one live and conscious USF official.

Hopefully, it was one who could be convinced to tell him what the hell was going on.

FIFTY-FIVE

Fallbrook, California Wednesday, 6:00 P.M.

Eric Stone had said that based on the photographs he had seen, the isolated mountaintop cabin reflected the personality of the owner. Like Michael Wayne Richmond, it was rough, uncomplicated, and a little dangerous.

The two-room structure was small and dark. The hardwood floors were warped from groundwater that percolated from below and the old, beamed ceilings were stained from seeping rain. The many framed oil paintings of trucks, done by Richmond, were lopsided due to regular seismic activity. In the front, the four-pane windows looked out on a thickly weeded field that ran to a private dirt road. In the back, the windows offered views of steep slopes spotted with huge, precariously balanced boulders. A strong Santa Ana wind caused the branches of oaks on the sides of the house to scratch the roof insistently.

There were field mice in the attic. They had become active since the sun started to set. There was mostly beer, processed meat, and cheese in the refrigerator. The bread was stale. When it was dark, Kenneth Link would send Richmond out to get real food. Richmond would take his SUV, not the van they had used to get here. That was in the freestanding garage. If anyone had seen Richmond transfer his “captive” from the limousine, investigators would not find the other vehicle. Certainly not before the next night, when Link would manage to get away. He would leave here while Richmond was placing a call to the press, claiming to represent Far Eastern extremists. That would represent the first blow against the USF. The last thing Americans wanted was to make new enemies among radical terrorists. His hands bound, Link would make his way down the mountain path. He would run, fall, and scrape himself to make it look as if the escape had been a daring one. When Link finally reached the freeway, he would be saved. Then, after a manfully short hospital stay, the admiral would address the USF convention. He would ask the attendees to pray for the well-being of Senator Orr. When that was done, he would sit down with Eric Stone. If Orr had agreed to retire from the USF, he would be released. If Orr refused to cooperate, there would be widespread mourning about his disappearance and presumed death. In either case, Kat Lockley and Lucy O’ Connor would be implicated in the deaths of William Wilson and Robert Lawless. He had no doubt that Kat would fall on her sword to protect Orr. The only one Link felt bad for in all this was poor Lucy. She had been used. But then, she had let ambition fog her judgment.

Following Kat’s murder confession, the USF would lose even more credibility with the voting public. Donald Orr would return to the senate and then, when his term was over he would retire. A few months from now no one would remember that the USF had ever existed.

Link and his abductor were both in the main room of the cabin. Richmond was in a rocking chair. He was sitting forward, not rocking. Link was in a frayed armchair. They had just turned on the local news. The kidnapping was the lead story. The reporter said that Senator Orr was reportedly in his suite, under guard. The USF spokesperson, a local organizer who worked for Stone, said he hoped that the senator would have a statement to make within the hour.

“I hope that isn’t true,” Richmond said. “Orr should have been hauled out of there by now.”

“I’m sure he has been,” Link replied. “Eric may not have wanted to say anything yet. Perhaps he has not heard from Mandor.”

“Yeah. Tom could be afraid to use the cell phone. Maybe he’ll wait till he gets to Vegas.”

“That phone is secure,” Link said.

“They could have gotten held up somewhere, at a roadblock or something,” Richmond said.

That, too, was not likely. The cover story was that the senator was being moved for his own safety. The police would have no reason, or right, to overrule Orr’s own security chief.

“Why don’t you call Mr. Stone?” Richmond suggested.

“I’ll give him a little more time,” Link replied. He continued watching the TV. There were interviews with shocked and worried convention attendees and with the chief of police. Link was pleased and proud that his own abduction had gone so well, and he took some comfort in that. He told himself the second half of the operation had also gone off, and it was the reporters who were behind. He switched to CNN to see how the national news services were playing this.

Link suddenly became aware of something. The mice in the attic had stopped moving around. Perhaps they had gone outside to forage for food. Or maybe there was a predator outside. This was the time of day when rattlesnakes came out to feed and coyotes and owls began their hunt.

Or maybe they had visitors.

A moment later, the windows on either side of the room shattered, and two canisters of CS tear gas exploded in the room.

FIFTY-SIX

Fallbrook, California Wednesday, 6:16 P.M.

The effects of chlorobenzylidenemalononitrile gas are instantaneous. It inflames the soft tissue of the throat, causing it to burn and swell. Within seconds, victims begin to experience dizziness and acute nausea. And it causes the eyes to water and sting. Even if an individual could keep his eyes open, the finely dispersed particles hung in the air like a thick, slow-moving fog.

Rodgers and his marines were wearing goggles to protect their eyes. They did not bother bringing breathing apparatus from the Apache. They had determined that the winds up here would clear the room quickly once the windows were shattered. They would hold their breath and remove the occupants, carry them some distance from the cabin.

Approaching the structure had been easy. With the deputy’s help, the men moved along the sides that had no windows. Lieutenant Murdock used a MiFOP, a miniature fiber optic periscope, to look into the room. A suction device the size of a large housefly contained a small camera. Once that was attached to the window, the user could back away to a secure location. The fiber-optic lens relayed an image to a receiver that was the size of a computer mouse. Each of the marines was able to study the room and the position of the occupants before moving.

While Rodgers and five of the men crept toward the front door, the other two men positioned themselves to hurl the gas. In less than a minute, Kenneth Link and his companion were outside. Two marines secured the kidnapper with double-lock handcuffs while Lieutenant Murdock called for the Apache to come to the ridge. Rodgers used a secure point-to-point radio to inform Jack Breen of the rescue. He told him not to notify anyone else until they were airborne. He did not want reporters converging on this site until after they had left. When Rodgers was finished, he borrowed a canteen from one of the marines. He indicated for two of the men to stand off to the side as he led the admiral toward a nearby tree stump. Link sat, and the general handed him the canteen. Wheezing, the admiral took a short swallow and then poured water into a cupped hand. He rinsed each eye in turn.

Rodgers was glad that he was not holding a weapon. He had a feeling he was not going to like what Link had to say.

“Thanks for the save, Mike,” Link said.

“Not a problem.”

Link blinked hard to clear his vision. “How the hell did you locate me?”

“The kidnapper had a partner,” Rodgers informed him. “He told us where you were.”

“I figured this guy could not have been acting alone,” Link said. “Where did you find him?”

“In Senator Orr’s suite,” Rodgers said.

Link took a longer swallow of water. “Is the senator okay?”

“He’s fine,” Rodgers said.

“Good.”

Rodgers crouched beside the stump. “He did not have you tied up in there,” the general said.

“No,” Link said. “He said he had a gun, that he would shoot me if I tried to get away.”

“Admiral, why don’t we mothball the bullshit and talk about what happened?” Rodgers suggested.

“Sure.”

“No, I mean what really happened,” Rodgers said.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that Stone told us everything,” Rodgers said.

“Oh? What did he tell you?”

“How all of this was a plot to stop Senator Orr’s candidacy, an operation to kill the USF.”

Link looked at Rodgers. “Did he?”

Rodgers nodded.

Link glanced around. The two marines were standing twenty or so yards behind him. The tall, yellow grasses hissed lightly, and wind filled the field with a low yawn that would mask their conversation. The admiral looked down.

If a man is lucky, there is at least one moment in his life that Rodgers called the cornerstone. It is when a man has to make a decision based on principle not on personal security. It was a single building block that shaped the rest of his life. It was a moment he would look back on with pride or with regret. Rodgers had seen cornerstones in combat, when the decision was typically more one of instinct than a deliberative process. Some men froze under fire, others put the risks behind them and charged. The ones who choked never got over it. The ones who acted felt like gods for however many decades—or seconds—remained of their lives.

Admiral Kenneth Link was facing a cornerstone. Rodgers could see it in his bloodshot eyes. He was trying to decide whether to finish the lie he had just begun, which he might or might not be able to make stick. Or whether to embrace the truth and acknowledge the war he had apparently been fighting.

“Did Stone tell you that Senator Don Orr and Kat Lockley planned the murder of William Wilson?” Link asked.

“He did.”

“Do you believe him?”

“I’m not sure,” Rodgers admitted. “Why would the senator and Kat have done that? And why would he have confided in you?”

“We were his staff, his close advisers,” Link said. “And he felt that his plan left him bulletproof. As for why he would do it, hate, for one thing. Politics for another. Orr felt that a tawdry death, a heart attack in the middle of sex, would destroy not just the man but the head of steam people had built for his fiscal plans. He believed that having it happen right after the Georgetown party would call attention to the USF. It would give him a platform to enunciate the differences between himself and the other Euro-friendly presidential candidates.”

“But Op-Center screwed that up.”

Link nodded. “Orr did not anticipate that Darrell McCaskey would discover the puncture wound. The son of a bitch wanted attention, not a murder charge.”

“If you knew this, why didn’t you go to the police?” Rodgers asked.

“We did,” Link said. “Detective Howell was reluctant to move against Orr without conclusive evidence.”

“He could have seen the wound.”

“That would not have implicated Orr,” Link said. “Just Lucy, who was doomed anyway because she gave Wilson and Lawless the injections. Besides, Howell was being blackmailed—”

“The gay date rape charge.”

“Yeah.”

“You could have gone to the FBI, or given the information to Scotland Yard,” Rodgers said.

“Lucy still would have taken the hit,” Link said. “And if she pointed fingers, Kat would have been implicated. Willingly, I might add. She is devoted to the senator. Orr might have been splashed with blood by association, but maybe not enough to derail him. Which voters would have mourned an arrogant, successful, anti-American British entrepreneur ? No, Mike. We needed to stop Orr permanently.”

“And how would you have done that? By killing him?”

“If necessary,” Link admitted. “You don’t understand, Mike. I’ve been watching this guy since I was in naval intelligence. I used to sit in on hearings of the Senate Armed Services Committee. The man I saw in these meetings was not the benign Texan ordinary Joe he presented to the voters. He reminded me of Joseph McCarthy. Xenophobic, suspicious, aggressive. He said that whenever he went home, he took walks in the desert and had visions of what he thought America should be. ‘Fortress America,’ he called it. Our national borders not just secure but closed, our resources maximized, our enemies cut off from financial aid, crushed, or left to beat each other to death. What he was selling to the American public was a cleaner version of that. But I knew he intended to accomplish that by any means necessary.”

“So he was McCarthy and Stalin,” Rodgers said. “Neat trick.”

“You don’t believe me? Ask anyone who was at those meetings,” Link went on. “Ultimately, I was the only one in a position to do something about it. I watched him with the help of Kendra and Eric. When the mood of the country turned isolationist and Orr saw a real opportunity to win the presidency, he took it. That was when we made our move as well.”

“You got close to him in order to stop him.”

“That’s right,” Link said. “I had two options. I could have taken him out before he hit Wilson, but that would have made him a martyr to like-minded isolationists. So we chose to let him hook himself, then just reel him in. At the Company we ran operations like this worldwide.”

“I understand all that,” Rodgers said. “What I don’t understand is why you tried to run this on your own.”

“How many people do you let in on a top secret operation?”

“That depends,” Rodgers said. He was growing angry. “If my option was to trust someone like Paul Hood or blow up his goddamn organization, I’d trust Paul Hood with my secret.”

“But you were also working with Orr and Kat!” Link said. “You went out with her. We didn’t know how you felt about them. If we told Hood, he might have told you, and you might have told the senator. You and I weren’t exactly getting along, Mike. I was pushing to find out where you stood.”

“Talking would have worked better.”

“Maybe.”

“Not maybe,” Rodgers snapped. “Your decision killed one of my people!”

“I’m always sorry about collateral damage!” Link shot back. “But politics is war, and in wartime, people die. Innocent people. I read your file, General. You have seen that firsthand. We’re soldiers, and our primary job is to defend our nation. Sometimes decisions have to be made quickly. They have to be made by people under stress, by people who are trying to keep one eye on the endgame and one eye on the best way to get there. That is what I did.”

“You rolled a tank over your own soldiers,” Rodgers said.

“That happens, too, doesn’t it?” Link said.

“In retreat, when the battle plan is in disarray,” Rodgers said.

“Whatever disarray we experienced was Op-Center’s doing!” Link said, raising his own voice. “We needed a few more days to carry this operation out, to make sure that Orr was stopped. I made a command decision about Op-Center. We used the EM bomb instead of conventional explosives because we didn’t want casualties. Your man was not supposed to be in the room when it went off.”

“Another indication that you made the wrong decision,” Rodgers said.

“We stopped Orr, didn’t we?”

“Sure.” Rodgers motioned the marines over. “Can you stand, Admiral?”

Link rose. “Where are we going?”

“I’m taking you to the San Diego PD,” Rodgers said. “This is for them to sort out with the D.C. Metro Police.”

“Right. I would like to know one thing, though. You do understand what we did, don’t you?”

The marines arrived, and the admiral suddenly seemed like a different man. It was not uncertainty in his voice, or regret. Perhaps it was a hint of fear as the reality of his situation settled in.

“Why does it matter what I think?” the general asked.

“Things didn’t exactly work out the way I planned,” Link replied. “I’ve got one hell of a drop in front of me. A lonely drop.” He grinned uneasily. “You’re a scholar. Who was it who said that solitude is great if you’re a wild beast or a god?”

“Francis Bacon said that,” Rodgers told him. The general moved in closer. “Admiral, I understand what you did. I just don’t agree. A nation is defined by its laws, not by vigilantes and rogue operations. You hurt people to enforce your own vision of the greater good.”

“What about saving the nation from a tyrant? You don’t think that was a worthwhile goal?”

“It has been one of the greatest goals of some of the greatest men in history,” Rodgers said. He was trying to give the admiral something. “I just don’t agree that the shortest path is always the best one. The singular thing about this nation is that we make mistakes but invariably correct them. Maybe Orr would have become a political force. He might even have become president. But the national mood would have shifted. We are a rough and impatient people, but we ultimately do the right thing.”

Link’s grin turned knowing. “So you would have ratted us out to Orr, wouldn’t you? Talking instead of pushing—is that what you would have preferred?”

Rodgers did not answer. He did not know.

“I am content, then,” Link said. “I did the right thing.”

The Apache had landed in the clearing, and Rodgers told the marines to escort the admiral toward it. The general followed them. He thought about Link’s question as he walked.

He had a feeling he would be thinking about it for quite some time.

FIFTY-SEVEN

San Diego, California Thursday, 8:33 A.M.

The Apache landed at Pendleton, where Link was handed over to the military police. They, in turn, made arrangements to have him transferred to the San Diego police. The charge, for now, was fraudulent claim of kidnapping. It was based entirely on Rodgers’s report that Link had maintained the deception for roughly one minute after he had been rescued. It was a very minor charge, but it was all they had for now. More would follow after Eric Stone had seen an attorney and made his own statement. He and Kendra were also in custody of the SDPD.

After the admiral’s arrest, Rodgers returned to Senator Orr’s suite. Kat and the senator were still there. The senator had recovered somewhat and was lucid enough to thank Rodgers for his quick action.

“I hope you don’t believe any of Eric’s ranting,” Kat said.

“Yes,” Orr added. “I understand he was quite out of his head.”

Rodgers said no, of course not. This was obviously a plot created by Admiral Link, who had a long-standing grudge against the senator. They agreed that Senator Orr would not attempt to speak to the convention until the next day. Kat went down and, from the podium, told the attendees that the situation was still being investigated but that Link had been recovered and Senator Orr would speak to them the next day. Rodgers went with her to make sure she did what she said she was going to do. While Orr rested, Kat went back to her suite to write Orr a speech. Hotel security was stationed outside their door to protect them against further attacks.

And to make sure they stayed in their rooms.

Meanwhile, Rodgers called Darrell McCaskey. Rodgers brought him up to speed and told him what he needed to tie this one up.

The following morning, at Rodgers’s suggestion, he met Kat and Orr for breakfast in the senator’s suite. There was a knock on the door, and Kat went to answer.

“I’m starving,” she said with a big smile.

The smile crashed when she opened the door. Detective Robert Howell was standing there with a detective and six officers from the San Diego Police Department. He was holding two manila envelopes. The local detective stepped forward. She was a young woman with steely eyes and a gentle but insistent voice. She was also holding a pair of envelopes.

“Ms. Kat Lockley?”

“Yes.”

“I am Detective Lynn Mastio. We have a warrant issued by Judge Andrew Zucker this morning in the county of San Diego ordering your detention on the suspicion of planning and abetting two acts of homicide.”

Senator Orr stepped forward. He looked from Detective Mastio to Detective Howell. “Bob, does this young lady know who I am?”

“I do, sir,” Detective Mastio replied. “You are Senator Donald Orr. I have a warrant for your detention as well, Senator.”

“Detention?” Orr snapped. “Are you saying we are under arrest?”

“No, Senator. Formal charges will not be filed until we have had a chance to further review the evidence that has been presented, Senator,” Mastio replied.

“We have a convention to run!” Kat said. “You have no right to walk in with accusations based on hearsay and interfere with our work.”

“I’m sorry,” Mastio told her. “We do have that right.”

Orr turned back to Howell. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I have extradition papers,” Howell said. He raised the envelopes. “If you are arrested for crimes that may have been committed in our jurisdiction, we will be bringing you to D.C. for arraignment.”

“This is the most outlandish and offensive thing I have ever heard!” the senator barked. “I am the one who was assaulted here! Link and his accomplices are the ones you should be talking to!”

Orr seemed anxious to turn away, to throw his position and reputation against the problem and make it go away. Howell seemed equally determined to prevent that. When Rodgers had called McCaskey to suggest the detective fly out, Op-Center’s top law officer seemed eager to make that happen.

“I find it odd that neither of you asked who was murdered,” Rodgers said, stepping forward.

“I assume this has to do with that idiot Englishman,” Orr said.

“What this has to do with are the rights of a murder victim,” Rodgers said.

“How dare you lecture this man about rights!” Kat yelled. “He defended his nation in Vietnam and has spent a lifetime legislating on behalf of citizens like us, improving the standard of living for all Americans and for women in particular.”

“The senator’s patriotism is not at issue,” Rodgers said. “Robert Lawless was an American,” Rodgers remarked. “What happened to his rights? Lucy O’ Connor is an American woman. Did she have any idea what she was getting into?”

Kat turned on Rodgers. “You are the worst of them all. We took you in when you had nothing. I was responsible for Lawless and for Lucy. The senator had nothing to do with this.”

“Admiral Link tells a different version of the story,” Rodgers said.

“Ms. Lockley,” Mastio said, “would you please turn around?”

Kat glared at her. “What? Why?”

Mastio removed handcuffs from her belt.

“You’re handcuffing us?” Kat screamed.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Detective, I am not going anywhere without my personal attorney,” Orr said. “I will call him and wait here until he arrives.”

“I’m sorry, Senator, but that is not how it works,” Mastio told him. “You will have to come with us. All of you.”

“This is ridiculous!” Orr huffed.

“No,” Rodgers said. “This is the system you took a vow to uphold.”

“You have the right to remain silent and refuse to answer any questions,” Mastio said to them. “Anything you say may be used against you in a court of law—”

“Please don’t do this to the senator,” Kat implored. “His office demands some measure of respect.”

“It’s like a bank account, Kat,” Rodgers said. “The more you invest, the more you earn.”

As Mastio finished reciting the Miranda warning, Kat turned again and glared at Rodgers, then at the others. Fierce, angry glances from the senator and his aide were met with resolute looks from the others. It was only a moment, but it was like nothing Rodgers had ever experienced. This was not like political views or tactical opinions clashing in an office or command center. Those were about ideas, and they were expressed in words. This had become a primal, unspoken confrontation, something closer to the apes than to the stars.

The young San Diego detective broke the tension. She provided an edge of humanity, a touch of the dignity Kat had requested.

“Senator, Ms. Lockley, if you agree to come peaceably, I will remove restraints,” Mastio said. “My officers will gather your things and bring them to the stationhouse.”

She agreed. “The press is downstairs,” Orr said. “Will I be allowed to speak with them?”

“Actually, Senator, we will be leaving through the underground delivery level,” Mastio said.

“The basement?” Kat declared.

“Yes,” the detective replied. “We do not wish to upset the senator’s supporters and risk a riot.”

“You deserve one,” Kat said.

“They don’t,” Mastio replied, impatience flashing for the first time. “Innocent individuals might be hurt.”

There was no further discussion. The senator went to put on a necktie. Kat stepped into the hallway. She grabbed a banana from the room service cart. It had arrived during the debate and was left behind. One of the police officers made sure she took only the fruit and not a knife or juice glass.

While they waited for the senator, Detective Howell took Rodgers aside. The men stood beside the foyer closet.

“General, I want to thank you for asking me to come out,” Howell said.

“It seemed the place you should be.”

“You know I screwed up on this,” Howell said.

“I’ve heard rumors,” Rodgers said. He smiled. “Just rumors.”

“Thanks. I want you to know I’ll make it right with the department,” Howell said. “I’ll resign or take a bust-down or whatever disciplinary action they want.”

“Detective, I have a feeling your testimony is going to be important in this case,” Rodgers told him. “You’re going to take heat for what you did, and there’s going to be exposure on aspects of your personal life. Whatever dues you need to pay will get paid. I would be surprised if the Metro Police asked for more than that.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“People are pretty compassionate, when you get down to it. They’ll understand the kind of crap you were under from the start. If you hang tough, you’ll be okay.”

“Thanks.” Howell smiled. “Just having Darrell make the call meant a lot.”

“He’s tough but fair,” Rodgers said.

The senator arrived, and the group left, save for three police officers. Hotel security was called, and under the eyes of two house detectives, the trio of officers packed up Senator Orr’s belongings and had them taken downstairs. Then they went to the rooms of Kat Lockley, Kenneth Link, Eric Stone, and Kendra Peterson and did the same. The suitcases were placed in a police van and driven to the station.

Mike Rodgers did not join them as they closed up the suites. He had a job to do. Ironically, with everyone else gone, General Rodgers was in fact if not in name the ranking official of the USF. He decided to go down to the convention hall and address the attendees. Though he was not one for public speaking, he was remarkably calm as he stood at the podium and said simply that the events of the past day had forced the USF to reevaluate its launch plans. He suspected the senator would have a statement to make within the next day or two but had no additional information or insights to share at present. He did not answer questions shouted from those near the stage.

“As of now,” he said in closing, “the party is over.”

The double meaning did not appear to be lost on anyone. Slowly, thousands of people made their way to the street. Some went to their hotels to change flights, others waited for the downtown bars to open, and still others picked up discounted souvenirs from vendors.

By early afternoon, as word of the arrest and extradition of Senator Orr spread through the city, the USF banners were already coming down. Soon, all that was left of the USF were discarded state placards and crumpled flyers tumbling from overstuffed trash cans and blowing down the Pacific Coast Highway.

FIFTY-EIGHT

Washington, D.C. Friday, 8:22 A.M.

It was a bittersweet meeting for all.

Stuffy, with a hint of smoke still hanging high in the air, the Tank was what it would never be again: home to all the surviving, original members of the Op-Center command team: Paul Hood, Mike Rodgers, Bob Herbert, and Darrell McCaskey. Hood had seen the men talking in the hallway and invited them in. Only Martha Mackall, who was slain in Madrid, was not present. Lowell Coffey, Matt Stoll, Ron Plummer, and Liz Gordon had joined later. All were involved in getting Op-Center running again. Coffey was talking to Senator Debenport about appropriations, Stoll and his team were installing new equipment, and Liz was talking to the staff to make sure there were no postpulse fears about being downstairs in a sealed environment, in a place where one of their coworkers had been killed.

Hood had expected there to be tension between himself and Rodgers, between himself and Herbert. Instead, there was a sense of triumph. Darrell McCaskey had started an operation that they had seen to the finish line, all of them carrying the load part of the way. Hood was glad that it was Mike who had gotten to carry it home. He deserved to go out with a victory. If Bob Herbert held any bitterness about the downsizing of Op-Center, he had put it aside for now. Or maybe it was forgotten. The Mississippi native was like magnesium: a quick, bright burn, and then it was over. Just a few months before, Herbert had been angry at Rodgers for taking on an intelligence unit after the disbanding of Striker.

Or maybe he is just exhausted from pushing his wheelchair around, Hood thought. Herbert had ordered a spare motor, phone, and computer from the base quartermaster, but they would not be delivered until the next day.

“Detective Superintendent George Daily is a very happy man,” McCaskey said as they settled in around the conference table. He looked at Rodgers. “Mike is a hero in the London press.”

“Maybe Scotland Yard will give me a job,” Rodgers replied.

“Whatever you do, go someplace where there is a window that opens,” Herbert said. He was fanning himself with an intelligence briefing from Andrews. Until his own division was functioning again, Herbert had to rely on data from other OSARs, offices of surveillance and reconnaissance. “The flyboy engineers said it could be a day or two before they get the motor working again.”

“Don’t believe them,” Rodgers said. “Military engineers always say things will take longer than they should. That way, when everything is up and running, we think they’re miracle workers.”

“I thought I was cynical,” Herbert said. “Someone’s been in the military way too long.”

“You know, you could always run for president,” McCaskey said. “I hear the USF has an opening.”

“That is not for me,” Rodgers said.

“The job or the philosophy?” Hood asked.

“The mantle of Donald Orr,” Rodgers said. “I don’t think the USF will survive. If it does, it will be a fringe organization. If what Kenneth Link said about Orr proves correct, he will become a poster boy of the lunatic far right.”

“It’s very true,” Herbert assured him. “Whatever job you take next, Mike, let me handle the due diligence. I looked at the minutes of some of those closed sessions Link told you about, the ones Orr attended. USF should have stood for Under a Serious Fascist.”

“Gentlemen, Link is a name I do not particularly want to hear right now,” Hood interjected. “Not after what he did here.”

“In the name of patriotism, no less,” McCaskey said.

“The sick thing is, who can deny that Senator Orr was a threat?” Rodgers said.

“Me,” Herbert said, raising his hand. “Who can deny that William Wilson was a threat to the American economy?”

“No one, but that doesn’t justify murder,” McCaskey said.

“Why not? We’ve fought wars over economic issues,” Herbert said. “Lots of people died in those, all of it wrapped in flags and served with apple pie.”

“So we should just kill people who threaten our wallets ?” McCaskey asked.

“That is way too big a thought for me,” Herbert said. “I’m in intelligence, not wisdom.”

Rodgers smiled.

“Look, I’m not defending Orr,” Herbert went on. “If nothing else, he was a coward for sending a gullible kid like Lucy O’Connor to do his crap work and lying to her about what would happen. He was a scumbag for blackmailing Detective Howell. All I’m saying is that this happens routinely as a matter of national policy. In that respect, Orr’s mistake was that he was the only member of Congress to vote on the issue. If war had been declared on England and Wilson were the only casualty, this whole thing would have been legal.”

“I always believed that one should try to fight harmful or restrictive policies with better, more creative policies,” Hood said.

“Sure. And when that fails, guys like me come in and set it right,” Rodgers said.

“Bingo,” Herbert said.

“I don’t know,” McCaskey said. “My older sister used to take part in sit-ins and be-ins in the sixties. They were pretty effective.”

“Very,” Rodgers said. “They cut the aid and support me and my guys needed to beat the Vietcong,” Rodgers grumbled. “Only at that, Darrell.”

There was a short, uncomfortable silence. The sense of a bittersweet reunion had passed. The balance was way off now, even among the men who were remaining with Op-Center.

“I think we’re all still a little close to this situation,” Hood said. “We should probably table the political debate.”

“I agree,” Rodgers said. “I just came by to thank Darrell and Bob for their help on this, and also Maria. She did great.”

“I’ll tell her,” McCaskey said. He regarded Rodgers for a long moment. “So. What are your immediate plans?”

“Professionally, I have none,” Rodgers said. “Personally, there’s something I have to do. A question I have to answer.”

“Need help?” Herbert asked.

“I thought you were short on wisdom,” Rodgers said.

“That was false modesty,” he replied.

“No,” Rodgers said. “It was something the admiral asked me while the marines were taking him away. One of those lady-or-the-tiger things that I want to think about. Preferably while I’m rock climbing or baking on a coastline somewhere.”

“You earned those breaks,” Hood said. He was hurt by the fact that Rodgers had singled out the help of the others but not him. It seemed petty. But he let it pass. Hood was not in Rodgers’s position and did not know how it felt.

The meeting broke up, McCaskey and Herbert leaving to help reboot Op-Center. Hood and Rodgers stood. The general faced his longtime associate.

“Have you spoken with the president about what went down?” Rodgers asked.

“Late last night,” Hood said. He hesitated. He wanted to say more about the new arrangement, solicit the input of a valued confederate. He decided against it. “The White House was happy and very appreciative.”

“That’s good.” Rodgers said. “Is that all?”

“What do you mean?”

“You looked like you wanted to say something else,” Rodgers said.

“No,” Hood assured him. “No, I just remembered there’s an intern who I need to check in with.”

“An intern? After all this, you’re worrying about an intern. Can you say ‘micromanage’?”

“It isn’t that,” Hood told him. “He’s the son of Sharon’s new squeeze.”

Rodgers made a face. “And you’re taking him on?”

Hood nodded. He felt like the high school nerd who had joined another club because they needed a chess player or debater.

“Always a difficult tightrope to walk, isn’t it?”

Hood smiled. “Hopefully, my low-yield form of diplomacy will work.”

“That wasn’t a knock earlier, about talk ending in combat,” Rodgers said. “It was a lament. I don’t like war any more than you do. I’ve lost too many friends.”

“I know.”

The general’s eyes softened and moistened. For a moment, he seemed to be near tears.

“I also didn’t want you to think I was ignoring you before, when I thanked Bob and Darrell for their help. One of the things I was thinking on the flight back was some of the decisions Orr and Link made. It isn’t like the military, where you have a target and a limited number of ways to reach it. Where everyone in your unit is identically armed and trained and you know pretty much how they’re going to react. There is nothing predictable and no one reliable in politics.”

“Some of us try; most of us fail,” Hood admitted.

“You tried harder than most,” Rodgers said. “I haven’t always bought what you were selling, and I’ve been pretty vocal about that. But I can’t fault your efforts. I guess you were the right man for this job.” He gestured behind him to indicate all of Op-Center. “You listen, your instincts are damn good, and you have a good heart. And, hell. You had the White House nipping at one ankle, me kicking at the other, and a bomb that tore a hole through your middle. You still got us through and beat the bad guys.”

“We all did,” Hood reminded him.

“You were the coach. You get first champagne.”

“Thanks,” Hood said. It seemed a frail word for what Hood felt. But the feeling behind it was sincere.

“Well, I’m going to get myself out of here,” Rodgers said. “Start that long furlough.”

“You earned it,” Hood said. “And I hope you find the answer to whatever the question is. You know where to come if you need advice.”

“Yeah,” Rodgers smiled.

The men shook hands, then embraced. It was a tough good-bye. The men had been through loss and triumph together. This was the man who had saved the life of Harleigh Hood. Though Hood expected that they would see each other again, an era of shared victory and pain was ending.

Rodgers broke the embrace with a sharp salute, then turned and left. He walked quickly and proudly into an uncertain future.

Hood went back to the conference table. His own future was also cloudy. There was rebuilding to be done, not just at Op-Center but inside Paul Hood. He did not question the decisions that had brought them to this point, the loss of Rodgers and other staff members, as well as the new alliance with the White House. But Hood did regret them. He always would.

Hood did not know his own future, of course. But he hoped that Rodgers was right about one thing. Hood hoped that unlike Donald Orr and Kenneth Link, he knew the difference between what was moral and what was not. And that he had the strength to stand up for what was right. The coming weeks would be a test, not just for him but for Op-Center.

Suddenly there was a hollow cheer from somewhere along the air ducts. That was where the group of air force mechanics had been working. A moment later, cool air began to circulate throughout the underground complex. Whether the engineers had misled Herbert or whether they had worked a wonder was not important. Only one thing mattered: Renewal, Hood thought. You can never write it off.

Never.

Other Books by Steve Pieczenik

THE MIND PALACE

BLOOD HEAT

MAXIMUM VIGILANCE

PAX PACIFICA

STATE OF EMERGENCY

For more information on Steve Pieczenik,

please visit www.stevepieczenik.com and www.strategic-intl.com

Novels by Tom Clancy

THE HUNT FOR RED OCTOBER

RED STORM RISING

PATRIOT GAMES

THE CARDINAL OF THE KREMLIN

CLEAR AND PRESENT DANGER

THE SUM OF ALL FEARS

WITHOUT REMORSE

DEBT OF HONOR

EXECUTIVE ORDERS

RAINBOW SIX

THE BEAR AND THE DRAGON

RED RABBIT

THE TEETH OF THE TIGER

SSN: STRATEGIES OF SUBMARINE WARFARE

Nonfiction

SUBMARINE: A GUIDED TOUR INSIDE A NUCLEAR WARSHIP ARMORED CAV: A GUIDED TOUR OF AN ARMORED CAVALRY REGIMENT FIGHTER WING: A GUIDED TOUR OF AN AIR FORCE COMBAT WING MARINE: A GUIDED TOUR OF A MARINE EXPEDITIONARY UNIT AIRBORNE: A GUIDED TOUR OF AN AIRBORNE TASK FORCE CARRIER: A GUIDED TOUR OF AN AIRCRAFT CARRIER SPECIAL FORCES: A GUIDED TOUR OF U.S. ARMY SPECIAL FORCES

INTO THE STORM: A STUDY IN COMMAND

(written with General Fred Franks, Jr., Ret.)

EVERY MAN A TIGER

(written with General Charles Horner, Ret.)

SHADOW WARRIORS: INSIDE THE SPECIAL FORCES

(written with General Carl Stiner, Ret., and Tony Koltz)

Created by Tom Clancy and Steve Pieczenik

TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER

TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: MIRROR IMAGE

TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: GAMES OF STATE

TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: ACTS OF WAR

TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: BALANCE OF POWER

TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: STATE OF SIEGE

TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: DIVIDE AND CONQUER

TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: LINE OF CONTROL

TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: MISSION OF HONOR

TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: SEA OF FIRE

TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: CALL TO TREASON

TOM CLANCY’S NET FORCE

TOM CLANCY’S NET FORCE: HIDDEN AGENDAS

TOM CLANCY’S NET FORCE: NIGHT MOVES

TOM CLANCY’S NET FORCE: BREAKING POINT

TOM CLANCY’S NET FORCE: POINT OF IMPACT

TOM CLANCY’S NET FORCE: CYBERNATION

TOM CLANCY’S NET FORCE: STATE OF WAR

TOM CLANCY’S NET FORCE: CHANGING OF THE GUARD

Created by Tom Clancy and Martin Greenberg

TOM CLANCY’S POWER PLAYS: POLITIKA

TOM CLANCY’S POWER PLAYS: RUTHLESS.COM

TOM CLANCY’S POWER PLAYS: SHADOW WATCH

TOM CLANCY’S POWER PLAYS: BIO-STRIKE

TOM CLANCY’S POWER PLAYS: COLD WAR

TOM CLANCY’S POWER PLAYS: CUTTING EDGE

TOM CLANCY’S POWER PLAYS: ZERO HOUR

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Acknowledgements

ONE - Charleston, South Carolina Monday, 4:57 A.M.

TWO - Charleston, South Carolina Monday, 5:01 A.M.

THREE - Washington, D.C. Monday, 7:33 A.M.

FOUR - Alexandria, Virginia Monday, 8:11 A.M.

FIVE - Washington, D.C. Monday, 8:29 A.M.

SIX - Durban, South Africa Monday, 3:10 P.M.

SEVEN - Washington, D.C. Monday, 9:11 A.M.

EIGHT - Washington, D.C. Monday, 10:40 A.M.

NINE - Beijing, China Monday, 10:46 P.M.

TEN - Beijing, China Monday, 11:18 P.M.

ELEVEN - Taipei, Taiwan Monday, 11:49 P.M.

TWELVE - Washington, D.C. Monday, 1:01 P.M.

THIRTEEN - Washington, D.C. Monday, 1:13 P.M.

FOURTEEN - Beijing, China Monday, 2:27 A.M.

FIFTEEN - Arlington, Virginia Monday, 2:44 P.M.

SIXTEEN - Washington, D.C. Monday, 3:18 P.M.

SEVENTEEN - Taipei, Taiwan Tuesday, 4:22 A.M.

EIGHTEEN - Washington, D.C. Monday, 5:00 P.M.

NINETEEN - Beijing, China Tuesday, 4:40 A.M.

TWENTY - Washington, D.C. Monday, 7:00 P.M.

TWENTY-ONE - Beijing, China Tuesday, 8:11 A.M.

TWENTY-TWO - Arlington, Virginia Tuesday, 8:12 A.M.

TWENTY-THREE - Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 8:48 A.M.

TWENTY-FOUR - Beijing, China Wednesday, 5:22 A.M.

TWENTY-FIVE - Beijing, China Wednesday, 5:23 A.M.

TWENTY-SIX - Zhuhai, China Wednesday, 11:00 A.M.

TWENTY-SEVEN - Washington, D.C. Wednesday, 2:00 A.M.

TWENTY-EIGHT - Washington, D.C. Wednesday, 2:16 A.M.

TWENTY-NINE - Beijing, China Wednesday, 2:00 P.M.

THIRTY - Yu Xian, China Wednesday, 2:11 P.M.

THIRTY-ONE - Taipei, Taiwan Wednesday, 7:32 P.M.

THIRTY-TWO - Beijing, China Wednesday, 8:00 P.M.

THIRTY-THREE - Beijing, China Wednesday, 8:22 P.M.

THIRTY-FOUR - Alexandria, Virginia Wednesday, 8:41 A.M.

THIRTY-FIVE - Beijing, China Wednesday, 8:44 P.M.

THIRTY-SIX - Washington, D.C. Wednesday, 9:38 A.M.

THIRTY-SEVEN - Washington, D.C. Wednesday, 9:51 A.M.

THIRTY-EIGHT - Zhuhai, China Wednesday, 10:00 P.M.

THIRTY-NINE - Beijing, China Wednesday, 11:08 P.M.

FORTY - Washington, D.C. Wednesday, 12:00 P.M.

FORTY-ONE - Beijing, China Wednesday, 12:33 A.M.

FORTY-TWO - Washington, D.C. Wednesday, 2:55 P.M.

FORTY-THREE - Shanghai, China Thursday, 4:42 A.M.

FORTY-FOUR - Beijing, China Thursday, 5:11 A.M.

FORTY-FIVE - Zhuhai, China Thursday, 7:18 A.M.

FORTY-SIX - Zhuhai, China Thursday, 8:02 A.M.

FORTY-SEVEN - Xichang, China Thursday, 8:55 A.M.

FORTY-EIGHT - Xichang, China Thursday, 9:14 A.M.

FORTY-NINE - Xichang, China Thursday, 10:22 A.M.

FIFTY - Xichang, China Thursday, 10:28 A.M.

FIFTY-ONE - Xichang, China Thursday, 10:31 A.M.

FIFTY-TWO - Zhuhai, China Thursday, 10:49 A.M.

FIFTY-THREE - Xichang, China Thursday, 11:00 A.M.

FIFTY-FOUR - Washington, D.C. Wednesday, 11:11 P.M.

FIFTY-FIVE - Xichang, China Thursday, 11:20 A.M.

FIFTY-SIX - Xichang, China Thursday, 11:33 A.M.

FIFTY-SEVEN - Xichang, China Thursday, 11:40 A.M.

FIFTY-EIGHT - Xichang, China Thursday, 11:49 A.M.

FIFTY-NINE - Xichang, China Thursday, 12:02 P.M.

SIXTY - Zhuhai, China Thursday, 12:18 P.M.

SIXTY-ONE - Beijing, China Friday, 10:00 A.M.

SIXTY-TWO - Washington, D.C. Friday, 10:22 A.M.

SIXTY-THREE - Washington, D.C. Friday, 10:43 A.M.

SIXTY-FOUR - Washington, D.C. Friday, 3:48 P.M.

Other titles by Steve Pieczenik

THE BESTSELLING NOVELS OF Tom Clancy

THE TEETH OF THE TIGER

A new generation—Jack Ryan, Jr.—takes over in Tom Clancy’s extraordinary, and extraordinarily prescient, novel.

“INCREDIBLY ADDICTIVE.”

—Daily Mail (London)

RED RABBIT

Tom Clancy returns to Jack Ryan’s early days—in an extraordinary novel of global political drama.

“AN OLD-FASHIONED COLD WAR THRILLER.”

—Chicago Sun-Times

THE BEAR AND THE DRAGON

President Jack Ryan faces a world crisis unlike any he has ever known.

“INTOXICATING . . . A JUGGERNAUT.”

—Publishers Weekly (starred review)

RAINBOW SIX

Clancy’s shocking story of international terrorism—closer to reality than any government would care to admit.

“GRIPPING . . . BOLT-ACTION MAYHEM.”

—People

EXECUTIVE ORDERS

Jack Ryan has always been a soldier. Now he’s giving the orders.

“AN ENORMOUS, ACTION-PACKED, HEAT-SEEKING MISSILE OF A TOM CLANCY NOVEL.”

—The Seattle Times

DEBT OF HONOR

It begins with the murder of an American woman in the back streets of Tokyo. It ends in war.

“A SHOCKER!”

—Entertainment Weekly

THE HUNT FOR RED OCTOBER

The smash bestseller that launched Clancy’s career—the incredible search for a Soviet defector and the nuclear submarine he commands.

“BREATHLESSLY EXCITING!”

—The Washington Post

RED STORM RISING

The ultimate scenario for World War III—the final battle for global control.

“THE ULTIMATE WAR GAME . . . BRILLIANT!”

—Newsweek

PATRIOT GAMES

CIA analyst Jack Ryan stops an assassination—and incurs the wrath of Irish terrorists.

“A HIGH PITCH OF EXCITEMENT!”

—The Wall Street Journal

THE CARDINAL OF THE KREMLIN

The superpowers race for the ultimate Star Wars missile defense system.

“CARDINAL EXCITES, ILLUMINATES . . . A REAL PAGE-TURNER!”

—Los Angeles Daily News

CLEAR AND PRESENT DANGER

The killing of three U.S. officials in Colombia ignites the American government’s explosive, and top secret, response.

“A CRACKLING GOOD YARN!”

—The Washington Post

THE SUM OF ALL FEARS

The disappearance of an Israeli nuclear weapon threatens the balance of power in the Middle East—and around the world.

“CLANCY AT HIS BEST . . . NOT TO BE MISSED!”

—The Dallas Morning News

WITHOUT REMORSE

The Clancy epic fans have been waiting for. His code name is Mr. Clark. And his work for the CIA is brilliant, cold-blooded, and efficient . . . but who is he really?

“HIGHLY ENTERTAINING!”

—The Wall Street Journal

Novels by Tom Clancy

THE HUNT FOR RED OCTOBER

RED STORM RISING

PATRIOT GAMES

THE CARDINAL OF THE KREMLIN

CLEAR AND PRESENT DANGER

THE SUM OF ALL FEARS

WITHOUT REMORSE

DEBT OF HONOR

EXECUTIVE ORDERS

RAINBOW SIX

THE BEAR AND THE DRAGON

RED RABBIT

THE TEETH OF THE TIGER

SSN: STRATEGIES OF SUBMARINE WARFARE

Nonfiction

SUBMARINE: A GUIDED TOUR INSIDE A NUCLEAR WARSHIP

ARMORED CAV: A GUIDED TOUR OF AN ARMORED CAVALRY REGIMENT

FIGHTER WING: A GUIDED TOUR OF AN AIR FORCE COMBAT WING

MARINE: A GUIDED TOUR OF A MARINE EXPEDITIONARY UNIT

AIRBORNE: A GUIDED TOUR OF AN AIRBORNE TASK FORCE

CARRIER: A GUIDED TOUR OF AN AIRCRAFT CARRIER

SPECIAL FORCES: A GUIDED TOUR OF U.S. ARMY SPECIAL FORCES

INTO THE STORM: A STUDY IN COMMAND

(written with General Fred Franks, Jr., Ret.)

EVERY MAN A TIGER

(written with General Charles Horner, Ret.)

SHADOW WARRIORS: INSIDE THE SPECIAL FORCES

(written with General Carl Stiner, Ret., and Tony Koltz)

Created by Tom Clancy

SPLINTER CELL

Created by Tom Clancy and Steve Pieczenik

TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER

TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: MIRROR IMAGE

TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: GAMES OF STATE

TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: ACTS OF WAR

TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: BALANCE OF POWER

TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: STATE OF SIEGE

TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: DIVIDE AND CONQUER

TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: LINE OF CONTROL

TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: MISSION OF HONOR

TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: SEA OF FIRE

TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: CALL TO TREASON

TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: WAR OF EAGLES

TOM CLANCY’S NET FORCE

TOM CLANCY’S NET FORCE: HIDDEN AGENDAS

TOM CLANCY’S NET FORCE: NIGHT MOVES

TOM CLANCY’S NET FORCE: BREAKING POINT

TOM CLANCY’S NET FORCE: POINT OF IMPACT

TOM CLANCY’S NET FORCE: CYBERNATION

TOM CLANCY’S NET FORCE: STATE OF WAR

TOM CLANCY’S NET FORCE: CHANGING OF THE GUARD

TOM CLANCY’S NET FORCE: SPRINGBOARD

Created by Tom Clancy and Martin Greenberg

TOM CLANCY’S POWER PLAYS: POLITIKA

TOM CLANCY’S POWER PLAYS: RUTHLESS.COM

TOM CLANCY’S POWER PLAYS: SHADOW WATCH

TOM CLANCY’S POWER PLAYS: BIO-STRIKE

TOM CLANCY’S POWER PLAYS: COLD WAR

TOM CLANCY’S POWER PLAYS: CUTTING EDGE

TOM CLANCY’S POWER PLAYS: ZERO HOUR

TOM CLANCY’S POWER PLAYS: WILD CARD

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

Penguin Group (Canada), 10 Alcorn Avenue, Toronto, Ontario M4V 3B2, Canada

(a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England

Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)

Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia

(a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)

Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India

Penguin Group (NZ), Cnr. Airborne and Rosedale Roads, Albany, Auckland 1310, New Zealand

(a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196,

South Africa

Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: WAR OF EAGLES

A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with Jack Ryan Limited Partnership and S & R Literary, Inc.

PRINTING HISTORY

Berkley edition / June 2005

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions. For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

eISBN : 978-1-101-00371-8

BERKLEY®

Berkley Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

BERKLEY is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

The “B” design is a trademark belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

http://us.penguingroup.com

Acknowledgments

We would like to acknowledge the valuable assistance of Martin H. Greenberg, Ph.D.; Larry Segriff; Denise Little; John Helfers; Brittiany Koren; Victoria Bundonis Rovin; Roberta Pieczenik, Ph.D.; Carl La Greca; and Tom Colgan, our editor. But most important, it is for you, our readers, to determine how successful our collective endeavor has been.

—Tom Clancy and Steve Pieczenik

ONE

Charleston, South Carolina Monday, 4:57 A.M.

When Jesse Wheedles was a young man stationed at the Charleston Naval Base, he had a very precise and accurate job description. The Athens, Georgia, native was chief mess management specialist. He was proud of that position. Wheedles was more than just a cook, more than just a bagger who put together MREs—meals ready to eat—for consumption by sailors in transit. Wheedles was a craftsman. His job was to make certain that whatever their rating, whatever their taste, when someone sat down in his mess hall, he or she had the best soup, hottest entrée, and finest cookies and coffee in the United States Navy.

He had a paper napkin signed, “Amazing food!” by Undersecretary Sabrina Brighton proving just how well he had succeeded.

Wheedles wondered what life would have been like had he stayed with the navy. After his hitch, he took over the family restaurant, a roadside diner that was struggling to survive in the face of fast food and coffee bars. They hung on ten years, after which his dad sold the property to a developer, divided the profit among his three sons, and called it a day.

Wheedles lost his share of the $90,000 in an Internet start-up.

Now both the former mess chief and the naval base were doing something else. The base had been there for nearly ninety-five years, ever since President Theodore Roosevelt visited Charleston for its bicentennial celebration and decided that it would be a more suitable location for a naval facility than Beaufort. His decision didn’t sit well with the citizens of that city, who sent a wreath and their condolences when the base finally closed.

Southerners forgave, but they did not forget.

The military presence here had a long and significant history. During the American Revolution it had been the site of a major British siege. The fall of Charleston resulted in the single greatest loss of troops for the American cause and had effectively left the Southern colonies in the hands of the Crown. The proud port had also been one of the lifelines of the Confederacy, dry dock for the submarine H. L. Hunley, and the home base for ironclad blockade runners.

Fort Sumter, the flash point of the Civil War, was located here. The martial history of Charleston, built and shaped by sinew and soul, was too important to end with the cold, blind judgment of a computer.

But so it had.

The facility had been shut down in 1996 as part of the Base Realignment and Closure Program. That was a day of great mourning for the city. There was concern at the time that the loss of the fleet and four thousand support jobs would kill the harbor and drag Charleston with it. But federal agencies and commercial enterprises sailed to the rescue, filling the base with tenants and barely causing a skipped beat in the economic pulse of the city.

The redevelopment project even saved the struggling career of thirty-seven-year-old Jesse Wheedles. Thanks to his former navy CO who was on the harbor renewal advisory board, Wheedles got a job as the morning manager of Teddy R’s, a new waterfront restaurant that catered to freighter and tanker crews arriving or departing on the early morning tide. It was a great position, because he got to do something he enjoyed and was good at, and he loved arriving before sunup to turn on the grill and get the deep fryer bubbling. He loved the feeling of literally firing up his day almost as much as he enjoyed the taste of the night sea air. Unlike the navy, where everyone had been groomed and uniformed in a kind of hive look and personality, the men who came to his restaurant were multicultural. They looked, spoke, and even smelled different. He welcomed the opportunity to experience a little bit of Bulgaria or Hong Kong, of Venezuela or Great Britain right on his doorstep. Wheedles was also delighted by the fact that when he left work at two in the afternoon there was still warm daylight to enjoy with his wife and young twins.

There was just one thing Wheedles had never anticipated: that one day a freighter might explode in the predawn blackness, destroying a significant section of the dock, Teddy R’s, and ending his life.

TWO

Charleston, South Carolina Monday, 5:01 A.M.

Charleston PD Harbor Patrol Sergeant Al Graff had the wheel of his small white patrol boat. His partner, Officer Randy Molina, was in the well. He was scanning the mouth of the Ashley River with night-vision goggles, watching for small vessels. Over the past few months drug dealers from the Caribbean had been making drops along the Southeastern seaboard, meeting local distributors who brought the narcotics to shore in rowboats. Graff and Molina had not had a piece of that action yet. They hoped they would. The snakes who piloted those boats were generally not good swimmers. Especially if one of the oars accidentally struck them on the head.

It was a warm morning with a soft westerly wind. The eight-year veteran was about to turn back toward the mainland when something exploded a half-mile behind them. Both men turned. The blast lit the historic waterfront rooftops and the ornate spire of Saint Phillips. The rolling cloud itself blew much higher, spawning a spray of yellow and magnesium-white tendrils. They tumbled to earth tracing hot, jagged paths in the sky as the smoke roamed outward, thinning and growing darker. Within moments the surface shock wave of the blast had reached the boat, causing ripples that heaved the small vessel violently from side to side.

While Molina simultaneously radioed the Coast Guard and the CPDHP dispatcher for assistance, Graff swung the patrol boat toward the rising crimson cloud. It was obvious that a freighter had exploded. Graff could see the outline of the hull against the flames. The vessel was spilling oil into the harbor, which fueled the fire. There wasn’t a lot of it, since the ship had just arrived and not yet been refueled for the return trip, but there was enough to keep the area around it flaming.

A pair of CPDHP helicopters arrived within minutes to drop fire-retardant foam around the outside perimeter of the blaze to form a floating barricade that would keep it from reaching other ships. Big canvas hoses were rushed over by the harbormaster’s dock crew to keep embers from igniting buildings or wooden structures on neighboring vessels.

It appeared that only two structures had been damaged on the waterfront: the Southern Bells music shop and Teddy R’s. It looked to Graff like the restaurant had taken the bulk of the hit.

Trucks from the Charleston Fire Department, North Battalion, arrived just a few minutes later to help hose down the remaining structures and to mount an immediate search and rescue for survivors in the freighter or in the two burning buildings. The joint CPD/CFD antiterrorist task force was next on the scene, arriving moments after the main firefighting unit. While specialists from Fire Station 3 used their mobile hazmat lab to test for signs of radiological, bacteriological, or chemical agents, their CPD counterparts rushed to secure and search other vessels. The highway patrol blocked roads around the sector to keep perpetrators from escaping, while spotters directed patrolmen to buildings that had a direct line of sight with the afflicted vessel. If this was a rocket-propelled grenade, they might be in time to stop the attacker from leaving.

It was a slick, tightly coordinated operation that had been rehearsed numerous times. There were no rivalries, no competition between the departments. Everyone knew exactly what to do, and they did it with unflinching courage.

Graff and Molina had two jobs: to watch the coast to make sure this wasn’t a distraction created by smugglers, and to search for anyone who may have survived the explosion.

A quick circuit of the blast perimeter did not produce any survivors. It did produce body parts, however, limbs with charred skin and remarkably clean, unblemished white bone bobbing on the choppy river. There were pieces of clothing that did not sink with the rest of the ship and tangled mats of hair and fresh blood. Graff was not equipped to retrieve the evidence, but he did photograph it, along with the target itself.

The pictures, taken with a sat-link digital camera, were automatically sent to the CHP and to the FBI field division in Columbia and to Bureau headquarters in Washington, D.C. There, the images would be compared to a database of shipyard attacks to look for similarities. The remains and clothing would be studied to try to isolate distinctive national, cultural, or obvious blast characteristics. If this were a deliberate event, laboratory examination would determine the nature of the explosive used. If they found a fragment of the container used to house the explosive, scientists might be able to locate and read skin cells shed by the individual who had placed it. That would not tell them his identity, but it would tell them his ethnicity.

Graff documented the scene unemotionally. He did not know who these people were or what they were doing on the vessel or dock. He did not know which of them had families. Since terrorism had become a daily possibility on every American calendar, Graff’s default setting was to protect the harbor, the city, and the nation. He was emotionless about his work but passionate about his responsibility. He was also thinking back as he took pictures, running through the first two hours of his shift to make sure there was nothing he might have seen that did not seem suspicious at the time: a light on the water, an unusual sound from the hull of the freighter, movement somewhere along the dark wharf.

Molina informed him that the “scoop sloop” would be there within a quarter hour. That was the patrol boat with the nets and freezers required for evidence recovery. Graff acknowledged the update as he stood on the prow and continued to take pictures. He took each one twice, one through a night-vision lens and another with a flash. Comparing the two would help forensics experts construct a true-color image of the remains, something that would help them to pinpoint skin tone.

As they neared the hole in the vessel, Graff saw something that punched through the professional detachment. Something that put the nature of the vessel, if not the explosion, in context.

He saw a little bead bracelet floating on the choppy waters.

With a little girl’s hand still attached.

THREE

Washington, D.C. Monday, 7:33 A.M.

The call came as a surprise to Paul Hood. He was just sitting down with a cup of coffee and a power bar when his assistant put through Lorraine Sanders, chief of staff to President Dan Debenport. The forty-six-year-old director of Op-Center was being asked to breakfast in the Oval Office at the White House.

He ate the power bar anyway. The china at the White House was Jacksonian—old and delicate—and the less he used the happier he was.

This was obviously not a crisis. That was not something a new president discussed over bran muffins. Also, an official car usually arrived within moments of the call. It was also not a social visit, since those invitations typically came with more than ninety minutes’ advance notice. It was certainly not a get-to-know-you meeting, because Hood knew Debenport well. The senator had been chairman of the Congressional Intelligence Oversight Committee, the group that controlled the budget of Op-Center. The fact that it was being held in the Oval Office indicated that it was to be a working breakfast. Moreover, the timing could hardly be coincidental. The White House knew what was happening this morning.

As an intelligence officer, Hood knew when he was in what analysts called “the twilight zone.” He had enough information to stay engaged but not enough to tell him why or with what. Op-Center’s FBI liaison once described it as working on a crossword puzzle where you have scattered answers but not enough connective tissue to help solve the damn thing.

Which is pretty much the state of American intelligence, Hood thought. Traditionally reactive, using the military fist to squash an enemy instead of surgical subterfuge to cut him out. Destroy the entire puzzle, and you don’t need to worry about this one across or that one down.

Maybe it was just as well Hood did not know what was going on. He would find out soon enough and, besides, he was too exhausted to think. Hood was not just sleepy but sapped of energy, of imagination. It had been a long and difficult nine months since an electromagnetic pulse explosion had all but destroyed the National Crisis Management Center. Hood and his staff had not only been working around the clock to repair the facility and protect national interests, they had been looking for ways to streamline and economize, to reinvent Op-Center in the wake of severe budget cuts.

Hood also had a personal mission. He needed to find a way to fall in love with his job again. Op-Center was not just a place but the beating heart of American crisis management. Hood had been present for its birth, when the mission was uncorrupted and clear, and opportunity was boundless. He was also there for death and loss in Korea, Russia, Spain. It was odd. Triumphs, of which there were many, were short-lived. That was what professionals were supposed to achieve. Failures, of which there were fewer, hit harder. These included the deaths in the disbanded military unit Striker and the assassination of political liaison Martha Mackall.

It also included the painful budget-induced firing of Hood’s number-two man, General Mike Rodgers, over a half year before.

Hood had done the best he could; he knew that. He had a shattered marriage to prove it. What he felt was that this place had somehow let him down. Like a child you love and raise and who falls short of what you expected or wanted or did not know you needed.

Hood had not seen the exhaustion coming. Rodgers had, though. Before he left, the general suggested Hood read about the British officers who had been hunting the German battleship Bismarck during the Second World War. Hood went on-line and found out why Rodgers had recommended it. In May 1941, when aerial reconnaissance informed the British commanders that the modern, fast, and very powerful vessel was in Grimstadfjord, Norway, they knew they could not afford to let it slip into the open sea. Despite the ultimate toll of hardware and manpower, the officers of the Royal Air Force Coastal Command and the Royal Navy threw every plane and ship they could muster at the Bismarck. They did not rest for the six days until it was sunk.

Those men knew the kinds of decisions, effort, loss, and attention that combined to flatten a man’s spirit. Rodgers had seen it coming better than Hood had, the work it would take to resuscitate Op-Center. The effort required to inspire the people doing two or three jobs instead of one, learning new equipment, being unable to turn to associates who were no longer there. But then, Mike Rodgers had been in bloody battlefield combat. He understood sudden, often debilitating loss. Hood had only been in politics, the kind of combat where injuries could be repaired or ignored.

Scholarship had been Rodgers’s way of putting the world in perspective, and it was valuable to Hood during the years they had been together. Op-Center’s intelligence chief Bob Herbert had a different way of seeing things. Herbert fired from the lip, which was hot-wired to the seat of his pants. Early in the rebuilding process, Herbert put Hood’s life and labors in sharp perspective as only the candid, politically insensitive Mississippian could.

“You know what a bombshell can do,” Herbert reminded him. “With just a look she can both fog your brain, clear your eyes, show you reality, and inspire a new one. But a bomb, Paul. That’s pure destruction. It will break your spirit and body and will resonate through your soul. You’ll hear the explosion and feel the shock wave every day for the rest of your life.”

Like Rodgers, Herbert knew what an explosion could do. The former CIA field operative had lost his wife and the use of his legs in the Beirut embassy blast of 1983. But Herbert was right about the damage the bombshell could cause as well, and there was a reason he made the comparison. Several years before, Hood happened to meet his former fiancée, Nancy Jo Bosworth, in Germany. The great love of his life had turned Hood’s head, literally, and when he looked back at his life, it was no longer the same, no longer comfortable or satisfying. It took a trauma—a United Nations hostage-taking involving his daughter Harleigh—and a few more years for his marriage to Sharon to end. Bitter though it was, at least there was time to adjust, to make the inevitable crash landing as gentle as possible.

The impact of the EMP was much different. It took everything from Op-Center in a flash. And the explosion didn’t just necessitate the long and difficult rebuilding of Op-Center. The power of the electromagnetic disturbance showed Hood and his colleagues how vulnerable modern technology was to a lone gunman with the proper tools. They realized how important it was to get all of American security resources up to speed to protect the nation. That weakness made the rebuilding process seem even slower.

Now Op-Center’s reconstruction was done, and however tired Hood felt, the real work was just beginning. Though he was eager to undertake it, he was also struggling to motivate himself for what was coming next, the Monday morning senior staff meeting. There was a curious and surprising conflict taking place in Hood’s head. The NCMC had done some significant work over the years, but that was in reaction to events, not prevention. Running Op-Center was like bailing a rowboat. Success still left them deep in cold water with the sea pouring in.

Hood was unreasonably, inexplicably angry at Op-Center for that. Nothing like this had happened when he was mayor of Los Angeles. He got frustrated, yes, with the city bureaucracy but never enraged. But then, his staff in city hall were mostly career politicians more dedicated to themselves, to advancement and power, than to their responsibilities. The people of Op-Center were different. They had to be: they were ready to die for their work. It was as if their dedication, their sacrifice, had given this place sentience, a soul. A target for his frustration.

Op-Center was not supposed to get sick. The NCMC had been designed to be a constant in a world of changing dynamics and new challenges, with experts in every field and the technology to support their activities. Hood’s people were devoted, and they were the best, but they required a support structure. They rallied after the explosion, but they were not able to do their jobs effectively for over half a year.

Not that Hood had discussed this with them. It was all rah-rah as technical genius Matt Stoll supervised the electronic recovery and upgrades. There were heavy doses of can do as they borrowed intel and data from other agencies so they could watch national and international hot spots. But through it all Hood was crying inside. Staff psychologist Liz Gordon probably would have told Hood that he was having a serious bout of transference, laying what he felt about his failed marriage onto Op-Center. Sharon Hood had let him down, too, in his mind. She had failed to support his dedication to his career, his responsibility to the staff and the nation.

Maybe it was true that Hood was shifting his feelings from one situation to the other. It did not change the fact that Op-Center had taken on water, and the man in charge was angry and disappointed.

To make matters worse, the bailing pail was smaller now. Fewer hands, less money. All Hood had wanted to do this morning was get the place on its feet and running. Instead, he finished his coffee, told his assistant Bugs Benet where he was going, and headed toward the elevator.

Benet rose inside his cubicle. “Do you know when you’ll be returning?”

“I don’t,” Hood said. “Tell Ron to start the show without me.”

“Yes, sir. Good luck.”

“Thank you.”

Op-Center was housed in a two-story building at Andrews Air Force Base. During the Cold War, this nondescript, ivory-colored structure was a staging area for flight crews known as NuRRDs—nuclear rapid-response divisions. In the event of a nuclear attack on the nation’s capital, the job of the NuRRDs would have been to evacuate key officials to secret bunkers built deep in Maryland’s Blue Ridge Mountains. With the fall of the Soviet Union and the downsizing of the Air Force’s NuRRDs, evacuation operations were consolidated at Langley Air Force Base in Virginia. The building at Andrews was given over to the newly chartered National Crisis Management Center.

The two floors of upstairs offices were for nonclassified operations such as finance, human resources, and monitoring the mainstream news services for possible hot buttons, seemingly innocent events that might trigger crises. These included the failure of Third World governments to pay their troops, accidents such as a submarine ramming a foreign fishing vessel or yacht—which might not be just a fishing vessel or pleasure cruise, but a spy ship—the seizure of large caches of drugs that could harm the black economy of local provinces, and other potential domino-effect activities.

The basement of the former NuRRD building had been entirely refurbished. It no longer housed living quarters for flight crews. It was where the tactical decisions and intelligence crunching of Op-Center took place. This executive level was accessible by a single elevator that was guarded on top twenty-four/seven.

Hood acknowledged the guard with a nod. The red-cheeked kids were rotated every week to keep any of them from being tempted by foreign agents looking for access. Ironically, it was an individual with seemingly perfectly legitimate credentials who had been able to deliver the EMP bomb. In an era when a smart teen with a computer could shut down power grids, phone systems, banks, and military installations, passwords and swipe cards seemed quaint relics of a very distant time.

Hood stepped into the parking lot. The day was warming quickly. It helped to invigorate him. Hood knew it was partly a radiant effect of all the asphalt on the base, but he let himself think it was the sun. And it was a glorious spring morning, one in which the scent of the flowers that lined the security fence was actually stronger than the smell of the jet fuel coming from the airstrips.

Hood hoped the day stayed warm and welcoming.

In Washington, the weather had a way of changing unexpectedly.

FOUR

Alexandria, Virginia Monday, 8:11 A.M.

Morgan Carrie always regarded her career as a classic good news–bad news situation.

One year before, at the age of fifty-three, Carrie was the first woman to earn the rank of three-star general in the United States military. It was a low-key promotion. The army wished to promote a woman without calling attention to it. As her husband, Georgetown University Hospital neurosurgeon Dr. T. H. Albert Carrie, put it, “They wanted to break the glass ceiling without the sound of shattering glass.” That was all right with the woman. Since she was a kid playing war games with her four older brothers—she was usually the nurse, only occasionally the French Resistance fighter Mademoiselle Marie—she wanted to be the officer she had become. She outranked two of her brothers, both of whom were in the Navy.

At the same time, the career intelligence officer was passed over to head the National Security Agency in the new president’s administration. Carrie had spent most of her career in Army General Staff, familiarly G2, the last five years as its head. Her office was concerned with all aspects of intelligence gathering, counterintelligence, and security operations. On paper she was more qualified than the man who got the job to oversee the organization that coordinates and executes the activities that protect American information systems and sources and generates foreign intel. But General Ted Dreiser was Air Force, and the new vice president, Bruce Perry, was former Air Force.

End of story.

Or so General Carrie had thought.

At eight P.M. the night before, the woman had received a call in her home in Alexandria, Virginia. She was being summoned to the White House for a short meeting with the president, the vice president, and Chairman of the Joint Chiefs Raleigh Carew. All she was told was that the president had a question for her.

A student of the history of American intelligence, Carrie knew that presidents rarely asked idle questions. At the very least, every query they made caused a snap-to ripple down the appropriate chain of command, just in case he decided to follow through. Sometimes, seemingly simple questions caused more dramatic responses. In 1885, President Grover Cleveland summoned Adjutant General R.C. Drum to the Executive Mansion to ask him a question about a foreign military installation. The officer was mortified to admit that he did not possess the information the president required, though he promised to get it. Drum did so and immediately organized the Military Information Division, which quickly grew from a single officer and four clerks to fifty-two officers, twelve clerks, and sixteen attachés. The MID collected data on geography and foreign armies and gave spying instructions to the attachés. The material the MID collected on military assets in Cuba, Mexico, and Samoa saved countless American lives during the Spanish-American War of 1898.

Carrie’s driver took her to the West Wing, where she met with the three men for a total of ten minutes. There was, as promised, just one question. The president gave her until this morning to answer it. The question was a little larger than she had anticipated, but General Carrie took some comfort from the fact that she had five hours more to answer it than Adjutant General Drum had.

General Carrie was up before her husband, who was himself an early riser. That was when the doctor usually read his medical journals, from about five A.M. to six-thirty. The sixty-year-old Johns Hopkins graduate believed that a doctor was like a general: having a lot of degrees, like having a lot of soldiers, wasn’t what made you effective. The trick was having the right ones, the best ones. Dr. Carrie was always on the lookout for those.

As requested, the general had responded to the president, in writing, by seven A.M. The letter was faxed to the White House and to the Pentagon. Original copies would be hand-delivered later in the day. For now, President Debenport had the answer he wanted. And General Carrie had a little more history in her dossier.

At seven-fifteen, Carrie received a call from the vice president’s chief of staff. A new driver, a civilian driver, would be coming to get her at seven forty-five. He would be carrying instructions in a sealed envelope. She would have two days to get her footing before meeting again with the president.

It was all very quick and definitely very gratifying. And through it all, as ever, her husband of thirty-eight years held her sure and steady, as he held a scalpel.

A nondescript navy blue sedan pulled into the driveway at exactly seven forty-five. The tall, lean neurosurgeon had delayed going to the hospital to hug his wife before she left. The woman, five foot seven and jogging-slender, pressed her head to his chest. He put a big hand around her short-cropped white hair. Morgan Carrie had earned a bronze star for her work with the 312th Evac unit in Chu Lai, Vietnam—where she met her husband—and later ran special intelligence ops behind enemy lines in the Persian Gulf. Yet when her husband held Carrie like this, she felt like an alabaster doll, fragile and fair, and not a commander of fighting men and women. Which was fine. When her husband sat on the sofa with her and watched Italian operas on DVD, he was not a confident surgeon but a teary schoolboy with trembling hands. Forget sex: this comfort level was really what marital intimacy was about.

The doctor gave his general a parting kiss on the forehead and wished her well. She grabbed her leather briefcase from its spot beside the door. There was nothing in it but pens and a notepad and the originals of her letter. She knew it would not be so empty when she came home. The general stepped into the bright morning. The driver was standing beside the car and opened the door. He introduced himself as Angel Jimenez and told her there was an iced tea in the cup holder in the backseat.

“How did you know that is my drink, Angel?” the general asked.

“I sent the question up the ladder until someone knew the answer,” the young man replied.

“And that person was?” she asked.

“Actually, General, no one knew. They called your military driver.”

“I see.” She smiled. “Well done.”

“Thank you, General,” Angel replied.

General Carrie slid into the unfamiliar car.

“There is a folder on the seat for you,” the driver said.

“I see it. Thank you.”

The general picked it up. She tore the red paper seal with an index finger. After years of riding in a Cutlass, the Saturn seemed small. Certainly the leather seat needed breaking in. But she did recognize the heavy-bottomed ride as the result of armor plating and the thick windows as bulletproof. She did not know if she were more or less a target than before, but she understood that the precaution was necessary.

General Carrie looked at the folder. The outside said Eyes Only. Inside were sealed manila envelopes. Each contained a concise dossier on the personnel of her new command. She flipped through them, looking for familiar names. As expected, there were only two: Bob Herbert and Stephen Viens. She knew Bob and his late wife Yvonne from the Middle East, and Viens from his years with the National Reconnaissance Office. Both were solid professionals, though she had heard that Herbert was more of a loose cannon than ever.

No matter. President Debenport wanted her to reconfigure Op-Center, to run a tighter command. Either Herbert would fall in, or he would be replaced.

Carrie started scanning the files to familiarize herself with the personnel she would be meeting today. Former political liaison, now deputy director Ron Plummer. FBI liaison Darrell McCaskey. Director of Tech Operations Matt Stoll. Psychologist Liz Gordon. The evaluations written by Paul Hood and his former number two Mike Rodgers suggested that they were all rather individualistic, what the army called rogues.

Hood seemed to like and encourage that. Rodgers did not. Carrie sided with Rodgers.

It would be a challenge to bring them around, but that was what Carrie had been waiting for her entire career. She did not intend to blow it. Besides, the general was representing more than just women in her new position. She was also a standard-bearer for the military. It was flattering, it was terrifying, and it was invigorating, all at once. And the only way she would get through this was to remember something her dad, a newspaper editor in Pittsburgh, had told her when she went off to enlist. He knew her better than anyone when he said, “The job is not about you or having something to prove, honeypot. It’s about serving your nation.”

She began reading the dossiers in greater detail as the car merged smoothly onto the Capital Beltway.

FIVE

Washington, D.C. Monday, 8:29 A.M.

There was an unusual calm in the West Wing as Hood arrived.

The offices and corridors were never as busy as they were fictionalized on TV, people dashing here and there with purpose bordering on panic. But there seemed to be a bubble around Hood as he made his way through the security checkpoint and was greeted by the president’s assistant executive secretary. Eyes would come near him and then slide away, like sand off a beach ball.

Maybe it was his imagination. Or paranoia. In D.C., those were not hindrances; they were tools.

Hood was taken directly to the Oval Office, where Chief of Staff Lorraine Sanders was leaning over the desk, talking with the president. Debenport waved Hood in, and Sanders disappeared into an adjoining office. When she returned, she was followed by a man in a white jacket. He was wheeling a two-tiered brass cart into the room. The wheels squeaked loudly.

The president rose and offered Hood his hand. Debenport was a slope-shouldered man of average build. He had thinning straw-colored hair and a quick smile. He looked like a country pastor. His centrist views and unflappable nature made him a dramatic contrast to his predecessor, who was tall and dynamic—and had come close to a psychological breakdown from which Op-Center had rescued him. Hood and the NCMC had also been instrumental in helping Debenport get elected, fighting off a threat from corrupt third-party candidate Donald Orr. That battle had earned Op-Center the deadly EMP attack.

“It belonged to FDR,” the president said, nodding his chin at the cart. “I’m told the president wouldn’t let his staff oil the wheels. They made his own wheelchair seem quieter, more presidential.”

Hood believed it. On such details were image and power built.

“Sit,” the president said, gesturing toward a red leather armchair.

Hood did so. The president waited until Sanders sat before he did. With any other president that would have been a power move. The equation was, “The taller the figure, the greater his authority.” With the former South Carolina senator, it was simply good manners.

The president asked Hood about his children as coffee was poured and the tray of pastries was uncovered. More politeness, Hood suspected. Until the server was gone, they could not discuss national security matters. Hood told him that Harleigh and her younger brother Alexander were doing well.

“I can’t believe it’s been over two years since the United Nations siege,” Sanders remarked. She was a lean five-footer with a frowning and intense look. “I was deputy director of the State Department’s New York office at the time. We were working with the FBI to put a SWAT scuba team into the East River when you and General Rodgers ended the siege.”

“Mike was really the one who ended it,” Hood said. “I was just trying to get my daughter out.”

Hood’s voice choked as he spoke. He and Rodgers had been through a lot. He owed the general a lot. The men had not spoken for six months, ever since the general had become the head of the military-industrial firm Unexus, an international cooperative formed by Australian, British, Russian, and American interests.

The server left, and the door to the other room was shut. The president took a sip of tea and leaned forward.

“Paul, I asked you here because I need a favor,” Debenport said. “I need you to take on a project for me.”

The president had a talent for personalizing things. That made it difficult to refuse a task without insulting him.

“Mr. President, do you need Paul Hood or Op-Center?” Hood asked.

“I need you, Paul!” Debenport replied. His exuberant tone was the equivalent of a slap on the back. “I would like you to become special envoy to the president. The position entails international intelligence troubleshooting, unaffiliated with any group but with access to the resources of all of them. Your office would be down the hall from this one, and you would report directly to me through Ms. Sanders, not through the executive secretary.”

Hood thought the last six months had been a lot to process. This was complete information overload. Hood found himself with a lemon pastry in his hand. He did not remember reaching for it.

“Mr. President, I’m flattered,” was all Hood could think to say.

“Then you’re on board?” the president pressed.

“I’d like to think a bit, sir. This would be a big change.”

“I need someone now, Paul,” the president told him. “Someone I can rely on. I want it to be you.”

“What about Op-Center, sir?”

“No longer your concern,” the president replied bluntly.

“Excuse me, sir?”

“I have given the post to General Morgan Carrie, formerly of G2,” the president said, leaning forward. “Her commission is effective immediately.” Debenport spoke now with some of the steel Hood remembered from his days as chairman of the CIOC. The pastor was gone, replaced by a higher authority.

“You’re saying, Mr. President, that either I accept reassignment, or I’m fired,” Hood said.

“Not at all, Paul,” the president told him. “You can resign, effective as of eight-thirty A.M. this morning. You can say it was always part of your plan to get Op-Center on its feet and move on.”

“At the risk of belaboring something you want to see over and done, sir, are you saying you need me here, or are you saying you need me out of Op-Center?” Hood asked.

“Both. Paul, the military is not happy with some of the budget initiatives this administration is taking. I have to equal the ledger.”

“By giving them Op-Center?”

“In a word, yes.” The president leaned back. “You’re not a neophyte, Paul. You know that this is how things work. As for the new position, that’s my way of maintaining balance. I need someone who will continue to interact with Op-Center on a personal level and who will form close relationships with personnel at other intelligence agencies here and abroad.”

“You are saying, sir, that you want a personal intelligence officer.”

“Cabinet level without the title,” the president said. “And don’t look so glum, Paul. That’s a promotion.”

“I understand, sir. Doesn’t that interfere with the NSA and their mission?” Hood asked.

“You’ve met General Carew,” the president said. He looked at Sanders. “How did the vice president describe him?”

“He said the general has brass ballistics,” she replied.

“That’s right,” the president said. “And Vice President Perry ought to know. They served together in Vietnam. The point is, whatever Carew knows, the DoD will know.”

“That doesn’t answer my question, sir,” Hood said. “How will General Carew take my being here?”

“He will like it about as much as General Rodgers liked serving under a civilian,” the president replied. “But he will have to live with that. Your only contact with the general will be when you require information from the NSA. You will not be at their disposal.”

“I see. What about staff, sir?”

“We have budgeted two assistants, both off premises,” Lorraine Sanders replied. “We felt it best to have your telephones and computers located in a less trafficked area. We have assigned them space in the renovated basement of the Winder Building at 600 Seventeenth Street.”

“The U.S. trade rep has offices there,” Hood said.

“Correct.”

“But the basement,” Hood said. “Isn’t that also where they held prisoners during the Civil War?”

“As I said, it’s been renovated,” Sanders replied.

“Right.” Hood had gone from one basement to another. “Have you already hired the staff?”

“No,” Sanders replied. She smiled. “We want you to be comfortable with your associates.”

“This office will not be looking over your shoulder,” President Debenport assured him. “What do you say? I need my own intelligence resource, my own confidant. I need Paul Hood.”

Damn him, Hood thought. Damn the president for making something expedient sound desirable. And damn him for leaving Hood unemployed if he declined the offer. He had alimony and child support. Hood would not let indignation over the process affect his responsibilities.

“I accept the post,” Hood told him.

“Thank you,” the president replied, rising.

Debenport sounded sincere, which was something. It made Hood feel marginally better about having been shanghaied. Besides, the president was right. This was Washington, and Hood would have been lucky to make a lateral move, let alone enjoy an upkick in a new administration.

It still had not really hit him that he would not be returning to Op-Center, that the responsibility of running it—and the privilege—had been taken from his shoulders. Unlike the ending of his marriage, there was no sense of relief to counterbalance the sudden, encroaching emptiness.

Hood forced himself not to dwell on that. He had just accepted a new job. That was where his attention must go.

Hood and the chief of staff rose. Sanders told the new special envoy that she would show him to his office and come back around three, after she had arranged for help to organize and equip the Winder Building space. He thanked her while the president was still within earshot. Hood may have come from Los Angeles, but he had good manners as well.

As they walked down the corridor, the sense of avoidance Hood had felt earlier was gone. It had been replaced by a sense of courteous attention. Maybe it was all in his imagination, or maybe it was something palpable in his walk or his carriage, a stalwart if unconscious evidence of his new access to power.

Whatever it was, Hood resolved to ignore it. Yesterday he was the director of Op-Center. Today he was a special envoy to the president.

Tomorrow he could be indicted over a cheese Danish.

As they neared the area where the vice president had his small office, Hood felt one of his two cell phones vibrate. It was the one on his right hip, the secure STU-III unit he carried for Op-Center business. He slipped it from the loop on his belt and checked the number.

Hood replaced the phone without taking the call. He felt guilty about that, but it was the right thing to do.

Whatever Bob Herbert had to say would probably be better spoken—and heard—when it had cooled.

SIX

Durban, South Africa Monday, 3:10 P.M.

The Gold Coast of Africa is no longer the gold coast of Africa.

The honor of being one of the richest, most profitable, and fastest-growing regions on the continent has passed from western Africa along the Gulf of Guinea to the eastern coast of South Africa, with the city of Durban as the anchor. Because of the subtropical climate, with high temperatures and significant amounts of rainfall, the area has always been a perfect environment for growing. Beginning in the middle 1850s, thirty years after the British first established a major port there, significant sections of arable land were earmarked for sugarcane. The crop was easy to cultivate and export, much in demand, and produced significant profits.

Over a century and a half later, sugar continues to play a prominent part in South Africa’s agriculture, with Durban as the biggest sugar port in the world. Tourism has grown as well, with miles of beachfront having been developed into one of the most popular and celebrated vacation spots in the world. Along the Golden Mile, where summer lasts all year, the beautiful beaches are protected by shark nets, there are swimming pools with water slides, and there is an array of markets and merry-go-rounds, shopping centers, and world-class restaurants, nightclubs, and five-star hotels, all a few steps from the ocean.

Ever since the late nineteenth century, when a railroad was built to give inland regions access to the port, workers from the rest of the continent and from as far as India have come to work in the fields. Investors from other nations have come as well, creating an international mix unparalleled in most of Africa. Some of those individuals used the port and its resources to smuggle goods and receive cash. Men like the infamous drug lord Yakuba Balwon moved heroin through Durban, then laundered the money through the London-based Windsor Global Securities Bank. Others sold Rophy tablets, which was short for Rohypnol, an addictive relaxant that was most popularly used as a date rape drug.

Because of Durban’s multinational nature, and because it has been an economic lifeline to blacks and whites alike, the city has been spared much of the violent racial tension that devastated other regions. None of the local workers, black or white, lived as comfortably as the plantation owners, investors, or tourists, but there is always money in everyone’s pocket, and the end of apartheid, when it came, was peaceable. The only noticeable difference is the number of British and Afrikaner businessmen who are selling their interests in the port and portside concerns to financiers from India, Germany, France, and China.

Something that has not changed over the years are the sugar silos. Stuffed with raw brown sugar, they stand side by side in clusters across the landscape. Once made of brick and stone, the fifty-meter-tall towers are now constructed of aluminum and steel with a ceramic veneer to help control the temperature. They are connected at the top by enclosed bridges, which allow workers to move from one to the other with stampers, jackhammer-like devices with round bottoms that are used to compress the contents. The silos are rated by tonnage, not volume. Even if they are full, there is usually room for more sugar.

The air smells sweet around the structures, like cotton candy. Despite the presence of inner and outer doors, large, rough granules spill from hatches and cover the ground and the raised walkways. Like ants, the sugar is nothing by itself. En masse, however, the power of these twenty-five-ton mountains is immense. The silos are akin to the revered seven pillars of wisdom of many local faiths. South Africans regard the towers as the sentries of prosperity. They ensure economic security for this area, its investors, and its workers.

The largest of the sugarcane repositories are located along the Maydon Wharf. The workers here, mostly from Kenya and Nigeria, have unusually strong legs, the result of having to forcibly lift their feet hard when they move along the sticky walkways. They work in ten-hour shifts, with a half hour for a brown-bag lunch and two other fifteen-minute breaks. Their job is to see that the raw sugar stems move from truck or train to processing plant to silo to freighter in a timely and efficient manner with as little spillage as possible.

Twenty-two-year-old native of Durban Moshood Azwe was not concerned about losing a little “sweet gold” here and there. The silos attracted flies, and the loose grains kept the insects low to the ground, away from his face. That made him a more efficient worker as he directed trucks to the elevators that carried the sugar to the tops of the silos. These dump trucks backed up to funnels, which had filters to catch cane or other debris the processing plant had missed.

There were few deliveries at this hour. Most were made in the morning, before the heat and dampness could affect the unsiloed sugar. Azwe was beginning to think about going to the João Tavern with his buddies when a dump truck arrived. It did not have a familiar logo from the de Gama Company or KwaZulu-Natal Shipping Associates, the firms that usually transported sugar to the silos. There was a loosely fitted tarpaulin stretched across the top of the truck to keep the sun off the cane. It would not be necessary to remove it. The flap in back would simply ride up on the sugar as it was dumped into the bin below.

Azwe was standing on the ramp that circled three-quarters of concrete bay three. It was located beside the centermost of the six silos in this section. As the truck backed in, Azwe held up his big hands so the driver could see. He was not supposed to allow anything to be off-loaded without first checking the bill of lading. The young man jogged over to the driver and jumped from the ramp to the driveway. He did not put his hand on the ramp lest the oil in his skin pick up sugar. The glaze was like glue, extremely difficult to wash away.

Azwe was a tall man. He put a hand on the side view mirror and dipped his head into the open window.

“May I see your documents?” he said. His voice had a clucking quality that was native to the region centuries before the arrival of the Europeans.

The driver, a young man who looked Madagascan, turned to another man who was sitting in the passenger’s seat. The second man handed the driver a clipboard. He gave it to Azwe.

“Thank you,” Azwe said as he looked at the document. He frowned deeply as he flipped through sheet after sheet. They were pages torn from the South African edition of Time magazine. “What is this?” Azwe demanded as he looked back into the cab of the truck.

The young Durban did not have time to react before a silenced Beretta that had been concealed beneath the clipboard put a raw, red hole in his forehead. He gasped softly as he dropped to the ground between the front wheel of the truck and the side of the bay. He was twitching at the wrists and hips as blood spat from the wound in the front of his skull. Azwe’s eyes were open, blinking incongruously as red drops fell on them. After a few moments, they shut.

The man in the driver’s seat jumped out. He stepped over the oddly angled body of the bay foreman and hurried to the back of the truck. The passenger also got out. He went to the elevator control box, which hung from a thick cable at the rear of the bay. As he pressed the blue button that opened the elevator door, the driver went to the back of the dump truck. He reached under the flap and removed a cooler. He popped the lid. The plastic container was packed with C-4. He pulled a detonator from his jacket pocket, set it for four minutes, and jabbed it into one of the explosive bricks. Then he took the open cooler and put it on the elevator as it rose from the floor.

He and the other man quickly removed four other coolers from the back and opened them. They contained a half-dozen bricks of C-4 each. He set the timers to blow five seconds after the initial blast.

When the explosives had been off-loaded, the elevator was sent back into the silo. It would travel under the ramp, then up an external chute before being dumped into the top of the silo.

The two men hurried back to the truck. They had watched the silos for several days from a motorboat and from the nearby Victoria Street Indian Market. The entire process would take three minutes. That would give them enough time to get away. When the blast occurred, it would not just impact the silos, it would destroy the security cameras and the shack where the videotapes were recorded. Nothing would be left to attach them to this action. All investigators would find was the abandoned truck, the Beretta with its serial numbers filed off, and a torn copy of Time magazine.

One hundred seconds after the truck drove from the bay, the men were outside the chain-link fence that surrounded the silos. Moments after that, the C-4 exploded. The blast blew out the top of the silo as if it were a party favor. Steel and ceramic tile were flung outward, along with huge pieces of fused sugar. The jagged sheets caught the late afternoon sunlight and flung it in all directions—up, down, and around. The explosion sent the other coolers tumbling along the covered bridges on either side. They detonated as they reached the other silos, blasting out the sides and driving chunks of debris into the silos that were facing them along the northern side. Multiple booms echoed through the harbor. They were joined by sharp cracks as massive pieces of shrapnel ripped into the second row of towers, ripping off the tops and sending them into the water as powdery rain. Cracks appeared in the sides of all six silos, some hairline, some like vast geologic fissures. The three most heavily damaged silos on the south surrendered first, dumping sugar and pieces of themselves onto the ground and against the adjoining structures. The impact caused the smaller fractures in the northern towers to expand, bringing them down within seconds.

In less than a minute, the familiar Maydon Wharf landmarks were six distinct mounds of rubble beneath a cloud of smoke that smelled like roasting marshmallows. Though there were only a few small fires in the wreckage, firefighters rushed to the site to search for survivors. The KwaZulu-Natal Metro Police also arrived to search for clues. The silos were not heavily protected locations, because no one benefited from their destruction.

Until now.

SEVEN

Washington, D.C. Monday, 9:11 A.M.

Nothing ticked off a career intelligence officer more than not having intelligence. And right now, Op-Center’s intelligence director was extremely ticked off.

The people who glided past Bob Herbert’s open office door would not have known anything was wrong with the forty-eight-year-old officer. Their quick, questioning glances and hushed conversation suggested they knew there was something amiss at Op-Center, though no one knew exactly what that was. They may have heard rumors from Bugs Benet or seen the new arrival when she strode through the hall. But no one knew what it meant.

Including Herbert.

The intelligence chief sat quietly behind his desk in his new, state-of-the-art wheelchair. His expression was neutral. He appeared to be a man very much in control. But physical peace was a hair-trigger condition that rested, like crustal plates, on a molten sea of emotion. And Herbert’s emotions were bubbling.

Herbert had come to work a half hour before, after spending a long night overseeing the software setup of Op-Center’s lean but crackerjack intelligence division. He had arrived expecting to experience an exciting start-up with his colleagues, the culmination of six months of team effort, Sunrise at Campobello. Instead, Herbert found something much different.

A few minutes after Herbert had passed the upstairs guard—who logged him as present, information that went to the computers of all the division directors—Bugs Benet called to inform him that there was someone in Paul Hood’s office, a three-star general. A woman. She obviously had the creds to get downstairs, she had an ID card that gave her access to Hood’s office when she swiped it through the lock, and she told Benet to call a meeting of the senior staff for ten A.M. in the Tank, the conference room at Op-Center. Then she shut the office door.

“That was the last I saw or heard of her,” Benet told Herbert. “I’m calling you first.”

“Where is Paul?” Herbert asked.

“At the White House,” Benet said.

“Oh?” That did not sound good. Washington had a singular way of removing an individual from power and assuring a continuity of command. This was it. “Did you try calling him?”

“No. That will go on the phone log.” Benet lowered his voice. “If Paul has been dismissed, his security status may have changed. I don’t want to be accused of passing operational data to an outsider.”

It was a valid point. Paranoid, but valid. Herbert asked to be put through to the general.

The woman took the call. She introduced herself as General Morgan Carrie, the new director of Op-Center, and said she would brief Herbert and his colleagues at the staff meeting. When Herbert asked what that meant for Paul Hood, she told him she did not have that information and would see him in forty-five minutes.

And hung up.

Herbert tried to call Hood, but he did not answer his cell phone. Ticked off quickly became pissed off as frustration and consternation grew. Darrell McCaskey called, and Herbert told him what he knew. Liz Gordon suggested that they track him down using the GPS and intercept him somewhere.

“If he’s been dismissed, we don’t know what he might do,” the staff psychologist said.

“I don’t think Paul is the kind of guy who would off himself,” Herbert said.

“Actually, those are exactly the people you have to worry about, the über-steady souls who guide you through a crisis, then don’t have a place to put their key,” Gordon countered. “Like soldiers who come back from war. The job is finished, the purpose is removed from life, it’s time to check out. Though that’s not what concerns me about Paul.”

“What does?” Herbert asked. The intelligence chief was half-convinced that this was displacement, that Liz Gordon was upset and disoriented and looking for a place to put her key.

“He might turn his anger outward, at the thing he perceived has hurt him,” Gordon said.

“The president?”

“Op-Center,” she replied. “He could go to the press and complain, visit an old friend and divulge secrets without thinking, just get himself into a lot of trouble.”

“I think Paul is a little steadier than that,” Herbert replied.

“Do you.” It was a statement, not a question. “Remember what a chance meeting with an old girlfriend did to him?”

“Liz, that was the love of his life.”

“And what is Op-Center? This place is his life.”

Liz had a point there. Herbert still thought the soul of her concern was psychobabble, and he was not ready to hunt Paul Hood down and put a tail on him. Still, Herbert agreed that they should revisit this question after the staff meeting. Hopefully, by that time, General Carrie would have more information about her predecessor or Hood himself would have gotten in touch by then.

Hood had to know they would be concerned.

The emotionally impervious Matt Stoll called to ask if the rumors of a new director were true and how Herbert thought this would impact his own staff and operations. Herbert said he did not know, but he was perversely relieved that someone, at least, was concerned about Op-Center and not about its people. It reminded him that, like it or not, they had a job to perform, a nation to serve.

And then it was two minutes to ten o’clock. Time to get intelligence.

Assuming, of course, that any of them still had jobs.

EIGHT

Washington, D.C. Monday, 10:40 A.M.

At first blush the Tank struck General Carrie as a relatively spartan and unwelcoming chamber. The wood paneling was dark, the drop-down fluorescent lights were cold, and the rectangular table that dominated the room was heavy and plain.

The Tank got its name from the protection it afforded all electronic activity that was conducted within its walls. The room was completely surrounded by a barrier of electromagnetic waves that generated static to anyone trying to listen in with bugs or external dishes. The phone and computer lines were similarly protected. It was the only section of Op-Center that had survived the EMP blast, and it served as the field headquarters for its reconstruction.

General Carrie had selected this room for the meeting because it was impersonal. Though the director’s office was large enough to accommodate everyone, there were photographs of Paul Hood’s children on his desk and pictures of Hood and various individuals on the wall. That would have been a distraction. She was having Benet box those and messenger them to Hood.

Anyway, she told herself, people make a room. If these people were as sharp and stimulating as their dossiers suggested, the austerity of the place would not matter. She set her folder and notepad on the table. Although there were computers in the highly secure conference room, she would not be needing one.

The general had arrived precisely on time and nodded once at the guarded, unfamiliar faces. She had chaired hearings and run briefings countless times. Frequently, there was a percentage of officers or politicians in attendance who felt uneasy or amused to have a woman in charge, the sense that what she had to do or say was somehow less important than if she had been a man. And a white man at that. Carrie had no doubt that African-American and Latino officers experienced unspoken reserve similar to what she had always felt.

All General Carrie saw right now was concern in the faces of the five men and one other woman sitting around the oblong table. Some of that was probably about their own futures, and some of it was certainly worry about Paul Hood.

The general recognized the key tactical department heads from their photographs. Technical Director Matt Stoll was to her left, Op-Center attorney Lowell Coffey III was beside him, and Darrell McCaskey was next to him. Bob Herbert sat at the foot of the table with Deputy Director Ron Plummer to his left and Liz Gordon beside him.

There was a pitcher of water beside her computer. The general poured some into a glass. She asked anyone else if they wanted any. Only a few people answered to say no thank you. As usual, Carrie did not sit. She preferred to stand, not because it made her taller than everyone else but because it allowed her voice to carry. She did not have a classic baritone bark, as they called it at the Army General Staff. She put her hands together in the small of her back and looked out at the room.

“I am General Morgan Carrie,” she said to the group. “At the request of the president I assumed the directorship of Op-Center commencing at eight-thirty this morning. Unfortunately, I have no information regarding the disposition of former-director Hood. Perhaps one of you has spoken with him?”

Most eyes looked down. A few heads shook slowly.

“I will be pleased to share whatever information I am provided about Mr. Hood,” Carrie said.

“We had our differences, General, but he is our friend,” Bob Herbert said.

Carrie looked at him. “I am happy to hear that, Mr. Herbert. It gives me something to shoot for.”

“That isn’t why I mentioned it,” Herbert replied. “When General Mike Rodgers was dismissed six months ago, Paul Hood was up front about it. He was unhappy. He was apologetic. And he was sensitive to the fact that none of us was going to like it. This team has never relied on information that was ‘provided’ to us. We dig it up. I want to make sure we know what happened to Paul, why, and how.”

“Or else?” General Carrie asked. There seemed to be a threat in Herbert’s tone. She did not like being challenged any more than she liked being patronized.

“Think of it as the intelligence equivalent of leaving one of your troops behind in battle,” Herbert told her. “Leave unanswered questions lying around, and you will have a command, but you won’t have trust or respect.”

“That would be my problem,” she replied sharply. “Your responsibility will be to do your job, not mine.”

“My job description includes advising the director,” Herbert said, unfazed. “I believe I have just done that, General Carrie.”

Carrie unfolded her hands and leaned on the table. The annual evaluation Hood had written of Bob Herbert included a notation that the intelligence chief tended to challenge everyone. Hood saw it as an “often productive if frequently exasperating exercise.” Hood had not understated the case.

“Do you have any other advice for me, Mr. Herbert?” she asked.

“None at present, General.”

“Good. Then I have some for you. There is a line between advice and criticism, and you just crossed it. Sometimes it’s a word or a phrase; sometimes it’s a tone. But cross it again in my presence, Mr. Herbert, and I will be able to tell this team exactly what happened to the former intelligence director of Op-Center.”

The general took a moment to study their reactions. She felt like the new Medusa: they were six faces cut in stone. Even Herbert. The irony was that she did not disagree with what Herbert had said. In the military, information was passed down through channels, not dug up. Op-Center was a civilian agency, more aggressive, more contraceptive than reactionary. She would have to get used to their way of doing things. But on her timetable, not his.

“I will be meeting with you all individually as time and responsibilities permit, starting with Bob.” She looked at him. “Perhaps we can scroll things back and start fresh.”

Herbert’s cheek twitched, and he dipped his forehead quickly as though he were a base coach giving signals. She took that for a “Go.” Lowell Coffey and Liz Gordon both smiled slightly. The general’s attempt to reach out to Herbert apparently had scored points with them. Either that or they knew she was wasting her time.

She would find out soon enough.

“In the meantime, I need your help,” General Carrie went on. She made that sound as conciliatory as possible without sounding weak. She opened her folder and looked at a printout. “There was an alert on my computer from Hot Button Operations upstairs. They looked into a pair of explosions that occurred this morning, one in Charleston, South Carolina, at five A.M. and the other in Durban, South Africa, at around five P.M. local time. The HoBOs suggest the attacks may have something in common. According to the Charleston Police Department, the ship that was blown up in their harbor was carrying illegal Chinese workers. The attack overseas three hours later destroyed sugarcane silos owned by a Chinese firm. The HoBOs suggest the second explosion was too swift to be retaliation, but both may be first shots in a broad war of some kind.” She looked across the table. “Suggestions?”

“We had evidence that the Chinese were becoming increasingly involved in African affairs nearly a year ago,” Ron Plummer said. “They were involved in diamond operations in Botswana.”

“That was part of the attack on the Catholic church there?” Carrie asked.

“Yes. We believed at the time that some faction of the Chinese government would have benefited from destabilization in the region,” Plummer said.

“We filed a formal white paper through our embassy in Beijing,” Coffey told her. “Our ambassador received a response from the director of the International Security Committee of the National People’s Congress. She strongly denied that Beijing was engaged in official activities on the African continent outside their embassies, and also disavowed any private misdeeds that might be going on.”

“I should point out that the Chinese are usually pretty forthright about their involvements abroad,” Plummer added. “When they feel possessive about something, such as the oil deposits in the Spratly Islands, they go after them openly.”

“Which doesn’t mean much in this case,” Coffey said. “The letter from the DISC didn’t preclude the involvement of private individuals inside and outside the government.”

“You’re talking about a black economy,” the general said.

“Not just that,” Plummer replied. “Many wealthy Chinese invest overseas because constraints on ownership of businesses and property are much less restrictive than in the PRC.”

“But the illegal workers would have been what you suggest, General, a black market,” Darrell McCaskey said. “They get smuggled in for an average price of two hundred grand each. They stay indentured, working as prostitutes or cheap labor, until that sum is repaid. Since half the money they earn is sent to relatives in China, they are effectively enslaved for life. The FBI has been playing catch-up with these undocumented Chinese workers for decades. The Bureau has actually been losing ground since resources have been shifted to Homeland Security and the tracking of illegals from Malaysia, the Philippines, and the Middle East.”

“Maybe we need to change the way the search is carried out,” the general said.

“What are your thoughts?” Herbert asked.

The intelligence chief sounded challenging rather than beaten. Carrie wondered if Bob Herbert knew the meaning of the word defeat. Or humility.

“HoBOs says that Chinese-Americans represent four percent of the national population,” Carrie said. “Most of those people are concentrated in cities like New York, San Francisco, and Philadelphia. Those are not areas in which we want to see a potential conflict spread. I suggest we have a look to see if there’s a war brewing. Who takes point on that?”

“That depends where we want to run the operations,” Herbert said. “Two of our stringers, Dave Battat and Aideen Marley, are familiar with Africa. One of our local people can shoot down to Charleston.”

“That’s catch-up,” she said. “I want to get ahead of this. What kind of resources do we have in Beijing?”

“A few stringers,” Herbert told her. “Our contact with the Chinese has been in proxy settings.”

“Korea and Vietnam redux,” Plummer said.

“Well, we know how those turned out,” Carrie said wistfully. “Maybe it’s time to change the dynamics.”

“Excuse me, General, but did you see action in Vietnam?” Liz inquired.

“Yes. Why do you ask?”

“It’s the first time you looked away from the table,” she said. “Like you were looking back.”

Carrie felt exposed but decided that was not necessarily a bad thing. It told the group a little about her past, something that might start to earn her the respect Herbert had spoken about. Liz Gordon was wearing a slightly satisfied look, one that suggested it was exactly why the psychologist had asked the question.

The general leaned forward again. “Bob, maybe you can canvass the team and your resources, and we can have our sit-down over lunch in my office. We can go through whatever thoughts you have then and pin down a course of action.”

Herbert nodded, this time more affirmatively.

The general closed the folder, then took a sip of water. “If there’s nothing else, I want to thank you all for sharing your time and thoughts. I also want to assure you that we will never forget or slight the contributions of those who came before us—Paul Hood, Mike Rodgers, and especially the men and women who gave more than just their time and industry—Martha Mackall, Lieutenant Colonel Charlie Squires, and the heroes of Striker.”

Darrell McCaskey pounded the table lightly with the side of his left fist, a gesture of tribute echoed by everyone else in the room.

Including Bob Herbert.

And for a moment, the Tank seemed almost like home to General Carrie.

NINE

Beijing, China Monday, 10:46 P.M.

The twentieth-century Chinese Communist leader Liu Shao-ch’i once said that there could be no such thing as a perfect leader in China. The nation was too large, its population too diverse.

“If there is such a leader,” the philosopher-politician posited in a collection of his writings, “he is only pretending, like a pig inserting scallions into its nose to look like an elephant.”

Balding, stocky Prime Minister Le Kwan Po was not sure he agreed that China was ungovernable. But it was true that leading this nation of provinces with vastly different histories and needs required an individual of uncommon wisdom and resourcefulness. There is a tale told about the last dowager empress of China, Tz’u-hsi, whose reign was marked by the rise and fall of the turbulent Boxer Rebellion. The insurrection was named for the men at the center of the revolt, the secret society of the Righteous Harmonious Fists, which was founded in 1898 and fought to keep China from falling under the undue influence of foreigners. The empress approved of the modern conveniences brought by British, Russians, Japanese, and Americans, devices such as telegraphs and trains. But she disapproved of missionaries and foreign influence over Chinese affairs. It was a difficult balance to support them both.

One morning, a Boxer was captured after murdering a British businessman on his way to the embassy. The Boxer beat him to death in his carriage, the businessman’s Chinese driver having run off at the sight of the attacker. One of Tz’u-hsi’s advisers wanted the Boxer beheaded. Another counselor warned that to do so would only encourage the Boxers to hit harder. The empress allowed the execution to take place, though not for the attack on the foreigner. In her decree she stated that the man’s actions had set one of her ministers against the other and disturbed the tranquillity of the morning. For that crime, and that only, he was to die.

Le Kwan Po contemplated the complexities of gestures and appearances as his state car pulled away from the government building at No. 2, Chaoyangmen Nandajie, Chaoyang District, in Beijing. His own life was full of such careful maneuvers. For example, the prime minister had two cars. One was a Chinese-made Lingyang, the Antelope, and the other a more comfortable Volkswagen Polo manufactured at the German-run plant in Shanghai. He rode the Antelope in Beijing, the Polo in the less populated countryside.

Always a balance for appearances, he thought. Please the nationalists while holding something out for potential foreign investors.

Except for the driver, the prime minister was the only passenger in the chauffer-driven car. Typically, an aide and a secretary rode home with the sixty-six-year-old native of the remote Xizang Zizhiqu province near Nepal. But the prime minister felt like being alone tonight. He wanted to reflect on the disturbing events of the day.

He looked out the window as the car drove past the lighted monuments and palaces surrounding Tian’anmen Square. It was a hot and rainy night. Large drops ran down the window. They smeared the lights of the city—fittingly, on a day when nothing was clear. The driver guided the small sedan through narrow side streets. At this hour, in this weather, the lanes were sparsely populated with the carts and bicycles that filled them during the day. The vehicle moved quickly toward Le Kwan Po’s nearby Beijing residence on the top floor of the exclusive Cheng Yuan Towers apartment complex. The prime minister had another official home, a weekend retreat in the Beijing suburbs at the foot of Shou’an Mountain near Xiangshan Park. During the week the prime minister preferred to remain in the city. That allowed him to work as late as possible. It also permitted him to stay synchronized with the pulse of Beijing.

It enabled him to watch those who wanted his job or sought to remove him as a thoughtful, mediating influence.

The prime minister enjoyed the tranquillity of the countryside, yet that scenic, agrarian world was China’s past. The future was in the increasingly cosmopolitan capital and cities like Shanghai, with their proliferation of students and businessmen—many of them from rich Taiwan, the supposed enemy. That was another act for an acrobat greater than any the Beijing Opera had yet produced: solving the Taiwan question. Chinese businesses were growing enormously due to investments coming across the strait. The Chinese military was being held to the budgetary levels of previous years as the threat from both Taipei and Russia was diminished. That did not make high-ranking career officers happy. Fewer commands meant fewer promotions. It caused grumbling up and down the ranks.

Though Le Kwan Po knew what the empress experienced a century ago, he did not have her wisdom. He had not fought wars and rivals, dealt with prejudice against his gender and heritage, nor had to guard against or formulate regicidal plots. He was simply a conservative career politician, the son of a schoolteacher mother. His father had been a village magistrate at twenty-one and had risen regularly to positions in town, county, municipality, province, and finally the central government. He was not the prime minister solely because of his experience in government. He was here because, unlike his colleagues, he had not made any serious missteps. His background was spotted and propped with careful alliances and cautious agendas.

Even more important than the ruthless will of the dowager empress, however, the prime minister did not have her unilateral authority to act. In addition to the president and vice president above him, there was a cabinet with very powerful and ambitious ministers and the National People’s Congress with its proliferation of special interests, both local and personal.

The current struggle between Chou Shin, head of the secretive 8341 Unit of the Central Security Regiment, and People’s Liberation Army hero General Tam Li was outside the prime minister’s experience. According to reports Le Kwan Po had received from the Ministry of State Security—the Guojia Anquan Bu, or Guoanbu—the two rivals had begun a long-simmering face down today in two foreign ports. And that was just part of the problem. Tam Li was one of those officers who was unhappy with the lack of growth in the military. If his two displeasures converged, and he wished to express them at home, he could be a formidable threat to the stability of the nation.

It was just like it was in feudal times, when every man of importance had centuries of hate behind him. Then, even if a man was willing to look past personal differences with another, the shadow of their ancestors would not allow it.

It was quite a burden, the prime minister reflected.

It was also easier to defend clan honor centuries ago, when a man was surrounded by like-minded individuals, and vast distances made confrontation an occasional matter. Today, the few men who harbored different loyalties, who had different goals, were in very close proximity. For the most part they managed to work together in the name of nationalism.

But not always.

The rain tapped on the roof. The prime minister reached into the vest pocket of his white trench coat. He withdrew a case of cigarettes and lit one. He sat back. Whenever China finally managed to reverse the trend and spread its influence around the world, there were two things he hoped. First, that his people would learn to make a car as good as a BMW or a Mercedes. And second, that they could produce a cigarette as soul-satisfying as a Camel.

The prime minister did not know how he wanted to pursue this conflict between proud, stubborn, influential members of the government. It was not a matter he wished to present to the president or vice president. Disputes between officials, even those with international ramifications, were the responsibility of the prime minister. He was supposed to be able to settle them.

Le Kwan Po wished that securing peace was as easy as sacrificing a minor third party, the way the dowager empress did with the Boxers. Of course, that only delayed the inevitable, having to deal with the rebellion itself. The foreign powers sent their own armies to China to crush the nationalists. Not only did the empress decline to stop them, she embraced their Western ways.

China did not.

The dynasty fell shortly after Tz’u-hsi’s death. Nationalist forces were so upset with her legacy that they blasted open the royal tomb, stole the riches, and mutilated her remains. The anti-imperial backlash allowed Dr. Sun Yat-sen and Chiang Kai-shek to come to power, each espousing a form of Western-style republic that opened wounds and created political and ideological chaos. It was not until Mao Tse-tung and the Communists came to power in 1949 that order was truly restored.

That had been a proud time, centuries in the making. Le Kwan Po remembered hearing his father read of the events from newspapers that were published in a tiny print shop in their small village of Gamba. The prime minister’s uncle set type there in the evening. During the day, he worked in a quarry that was literally in the shadow of Mount Everest. The young Le could still vividly remember the joy in his father’s voice as he read about the end to the civil war that had tortured a nation already bleeding from the long war with Japan. He was almost giddy about the victory of the Communists over the republicans—who had the temerity to call themselves nationalists—certain it would help those who had to work all day, every day, just to support a small family in an extremely modest lifestyle.

When the newspaper was closed by the new regime, Le Kwan Po’s uncle was asked to stay on to typeset a new weekly publication, Principles from the People’s Administrative Council. The young boy was as proud as he could be when he attended the new school that the Communists opened in Gamba, and he was selected to read the first issue to the class.

The senior members of the current government—this prime minister included—remembered the taste and feel of disorder. They did not want to see it return, not as a result of student demonstrations in Tian’anmen Square or from disagreements among powerful members of the government.

The prime minister exhaled smoke through his nose. He thought about the fake elephant of Liu Shao-ch’i. Somehow, he would have to convince the warring forces that he was a dragon. That the only way to defeat him was to put their differences aside and join forces.

Le Kwan Po did not know how he was going to do that. All he knew was one thing.

That it had to be done, and done quickly.

TEN

Beijing, China Monday, 11:18 P.M.

Chou Shin, Director of the ultrasecret 8341 Unit of the Central Security Regiment, sat in his fifth-floor office of the old Communist Party Building. It was located in the shadow of the Forbidden City, site of the palaces of the deposed despots who had run China for centuries. The six-story-tall brick structure had been built in the 1930s on the site of the Yuan Chung Silver Shop, one of the oldest banks in the city. The Communists had torn down the pavilionstyle institution to prove that the old ways were gone and a new era had begun. It was in Chou’s very office that the war against Chiang Kai-shek was planned and executed.

The structure itself had brick walls, copper ceilings, and pipes that groaned with their inadequacy to cope with the demands placed on them. There were several small windows along one wall, but the shades were drawn, as always. The director had the heat turned on, not only to chase out the chill of the stormy night but to generate white noise. It helped to befuddle any listening devices that might be present.

The seventy-one-year-old Chou was waiting for an intelligence update from an operative in Taipei. What they were planning was dangerous. But as the day had proved, so was inactivity.

While he waited, Chou reviewed what he called his cobblestone data, intelligence that was pulled from the street. This collection was done by a combination of paid informants, operatives who habituated bars and restaurants, hotel lobbies, and train depots just watching and listening, and electronic eavesdropping. Vans from the CSR drove through the streets of Beijing listening to cell phone conversations and intercepting the increasing number of wireless computer communiqués. Although the CSR had sifters on the staff who went through the raw data, what ended up crossing his desk had still managed to double in the course of a year. He could not imagine what it would be like two or three years hence. Perhaps, like the American CIA, they would be forced to listen for just key phrases like terror plot or bomb threat and let the rest go by.

Years ago, the CSR list would have been a short one. During the late 1950s when Chou was recruited for the organization, the primary task of the 8341 Unit was to see to the personal security of Mao Tse-tung and other Communist party leaders. But the elite division of the People’s Liberation Army was more than a bodyguard unit. It also ran a nationwide intelligence network to uncover plots against the chairman or senior leadership. Chou himself, a former telephone lineman in the PLA, was part of the team that had discovered electronic listening devices in Mao’s office, hidden in the doorknob. The young man’s first promotion was to the counterinsurgent unit, assigned with executing surveillance of Mao’s rivals. The 8341 Unit was a key participant in the 1976 arrest of the Gang of Four, the group that attempted to seize power after the death of Mao. After that, the unit was officially disbanded. Mao’s successor, Teng Hsiao-P’ing, wanted to make a point of “decommunizing” the nation and its institutions. However, hard-line Communists like Chou resisted the change. Unlike many leaders before him, Teng decided it was prudent to acknowledge the wishes of the Chinese people and not just the Chinese elite. The deputy premier quietly but quickly reinstated personnel and organizations he had removed. Most immediately, the one that was responsible for his personal protection.

Today, the 8341 Unit was responsible for uncovering plots against the regime. Their sphere of activity centered upon China and the breakaway republic. Since the Tian’ anmen Square uprising in 1989, few dissidents had undertaken public displays against the government. Private activity was still relatively abundant but unthreatening, limited to pockets of philosophers, failed entrepreneurs, foreign-born firebrands, and disenfranchised youths who wanted fashionable Western clothes. At present, none of them represented a serious threat against the government. The only potential source of danger was the PLA, where one reckless, ambitious man might control the loyalty of tens of thousands of troops.

A man like General Tam.

Unlike the prime minister with whom he had just been meeting, Chou had no patience or sympathy for those who would betray the nation or the philosophies set out by Chairman Mao. Le Kwan Po was a mediator. He was a man committed to equilibrium, to compromise. Chou liked the prime minister and believed he was a patriot. But Le wanted to rule a China that was unified at any cost, even if it was a heterogeneous one and not a Communist one. Chou did not agree with him on this very significant point. The director still seethed when he thought of the beloved chairman’s late wife, who was one of the treasonous Gang of Four. She and her three fellows had coerced members of the military to help cleanse the nation of ideologues. The Communist Revolution had been an uprising of ideas. They were good and necessary ideas. In the 1930s and 1940s, the military was called upon by Mao to defend the right of the people to hold those ideas. Jiang Qing corrupted that. She used the vicious Red Guard to enforce her ideas. Iron boot education never produces long-lasting results. It produces slaves, and eventually slaves turn on their masters.

That was something the Gang of Four learned during their long, televised trial in Beijing.

It was something General Tam Li would also learn.

The computer beeped. The short, bespectacled intelligence director closed the white folder and put it in a drawer. He looked at the monitor. The cursor prompted him to enter a password. He typed in the Chinese characters for eagle and talon and waited for the file to download. Chou had a collection of ivory dragons on a shelf in his office. He enjoyed them and had collected them since he was a boy. But they were also there to mislead his adversaries. Anyone who came into his office and tried to access his computer files would naturally search for dragon-related passwords. No one would ever think to look for another powerful predator.

It was a report from one of Chou’s field agents in Taiwan. The CSR director had been expecting the information.

General Tam Li had gone into this day with a plan he had hoped would undermine the resolve of the man who was watching him closely. The general seemed to have thought that violence and the threat of personal exposure would turn the eyes of Chou Shin elsewhere.

Tam was not just wrong, he was decisively wrong.

As he would discover in less than an hour.

ELEVEN

Taipei, Taiwan Monday, 11:49 P.M.

Lo Tek had a wonderful life. Part of that was due to the freedom he enjoyed, and part of it was the respect he had. Part of it was also due to the quaint simplicity of his world.

Born Hui-ling Wong, Lo Tek was a name given to him by his associates because he refused to use any sophisticated electronic communications devices. He believed in being surreptitious, and one could not work in the darkness with all the electronic lights of the modern age. Most days and nights the thirty-two-year-old spent on his ninety-fourfoot ketch with its artful crew of three, sailing the waters of the Yellow Sea and the East China Sea. For the most part, his navigation was done the old-fashioned way, by wind and by starlight. His belief was that if it worked for his ancestors, it would work for him. Though he used a computer and DVD player for onboard entertainment, communication was conducted entirely with point-to-point radios.

Lo Tek rarely left the sea. That was where he found refugees—men, women, and youngsters attempting to go from wherever they were to anywhere else. Mostly they were trying to get out of Indonesia or the PRC and trying to get to Taiwan, Hong Kong, or Japan. More than half of the nearly fifteen thousand who set out each year perished on the water due to overloaded or inadequate boats, inclement weather, insufficient supplies, or pirates who robbed them of their few possessions, assaulted then killed the women, and sank the boats. Of the seven thousand or so souls who managed to survive on the seas, four thousand were turned away by coastal patrols, arrested, or sold by corrupt police to slavers who worked the docks. Typically, those were young women. Occasionally they were young boys. Invariably, they were never seen again.

Less than one thousand individuals managed to make it ashore. Of those, fewer than two hundred managed to find employment. The rest became thieves, prisoners, or corpses.

Lo Tek had a very special business. His agents ran shipping services that “helped” refugees achieve their goals. The boats brought the cargo to Lo Tek, who brought the finest of the women on board and sold them to high-priced brothels in Taiwan, Thailand, Japan, and Hong Kong. In exchange for their silence, Lo Tek made sure the rest of the passengers reached their destination.

In return for giving his boats safe passage from Chinese ports, Lo Tek made sure his contact in the PLA was well-paid. General Tam Li had been a valuable asset for many years and a frequent guest on his ketch.

The young man felt no guilt about what he did. As they had sailed the seas, the ancient Chinese also dealt in human cargo. It was an old and legitimate profession. Statistically, without him most of these girls would be dead within days or weeks. Lo Tek never abused them himself and left the training to the professionals ashore. He felt that he was doing the young ladies a favor, placing them in situations where they would be warm, fed, and given regular medical care. They would even earn money to send to their families, which was the reason most of them had left their homes.

When Lo Tek came ashore, he liked to visit the clubs with whom he did business. They always treated him like nobility. Excellent food and drink and a reunion with one or more of his women. For the orphaned son of peasants, who had sold his twin sister to soldiers and dockworkers in Shanghai for ten fen each, that was quite an accomplishment. He still sent her half the money he earned, which she used to run an orphanage back in Shanghai.

The Top of the World club at the new Barre Crowne Tower was actually a legitimate nightclub with dinner, entertainers, and dancing. Only select guests knew to ask for special treatment. There were elegantly appointed rooms on the floor below for men with the time and money for what the club called “exceptional treatment.” These rooms could only be reached by a private elevator.

After two weeks at sea, Lo Tek was in the mood for very exceptional treatment. During that time the Chinese native had gathered a total of thirty women for clients along the Pacific Rim, including one private collector living in the Philippines who liked his companions tall and very young. Lo Tek arrived at the tower, was announced by the streetlevel doorman, and was greeted with an embrace from the manager when he reached the fortieth floor.

“You should have called ahead!” the manager said. “We would have had a lounge ready for you.”

“You know how I work.”

“Well just once, you know?” the manager said. “Give me a half hour, and I will have things arranged for you.”

“Thank you,” Lo Tek replied.

The men walked arm in arm as they went down a circular staircase into the main nightclub area. The manager, Chin Teng, was a thin man who wore heavy glasses and a film of perspiration across his forehead. Lo Tek imagined that he had the metabolism of a mouse, which would be fitting, given all the running around he did, attending to clients.

It was dark in the club, with a semicircular bar in the center and high tables scattered throughout. There was a raised dance floor behind the bar. The windows were floorto-ceiling and covered 160 degrees of the circular room. They offered a commanding view of the city and the hazy lights of the harbor. Because it was still early, the club was relatively empty. Most of the customers arrived between midnight and one A.M. and stayed until dawn. A disc jockey was playing Asian pop standards from a booth overlooking the floor. Lo Tek knew that there were also security guards up there, watching through the smoked glass to make sure everyone behaved. There were two couples on the dance floor, three men and a woman in a group at the bar, and two young men bent over tall beers at one of the booths in the back of the room, away from the window. It looked like they had had a long day.

“What would you like to eat and drink?” the manager asked.

“I would like orange juice, freshly squeezed, no ice,” Lo Tek replied.

“I’ll get it at once,” the manager said as he showed him to a booth in the corner, near the window.

Lo Tek slid into the deep leather cushion. The swaying of the sea had become natural to him. It felt odd being on solid ground.

A stunning young waitress in a short black skirt brought him water, macadamia nuts, and a brilliant smile. He smiled back. That was something else that happened onshore: he did not look at a woman and wonder what kind of price she would bring. He saw her simply as a person.

The manager brought Lo Tek his drink, then left to check on “the rest of your order,” as he put it with a wicked wink. Lo Tek took an appreciative sip of the juice. His mouth felt alive. He took another as he looked out at the club. He absently folded the cocktail napkin into a little sailboat. Origami was a hobby of his, something he had mastered to amuse and distract the younger girls who were briefly guests on his ketch.

He watched as the two men at the booth tossed several bills on the table and left. Neither of them carried a briefcase or backpack, which seemed unusual. He noticed, too, that both beer bottles had napkins around them. They were wrapped entirely around the glass, as though both men did not want to leave fingerprints.

Lo Tek wondered if that meant anything, or if his naturally suspicious nature were getting the best of him.

That was the last thought the slave trader had before his eardrums exploded, followed by the rest of the room.

A bomb had been left in a briefcase under the table and was triggered remotely. It consisted of six sticks of TNT bound with electrical tape and capped with a detonator. The sticks were packed in a bed of sugar.

From Durban.

The explosion fused the sugar into tiny shards, blowing them around the room like fireflies. The small table was shredded as the explosion slammed through the room. The force of the blast did not just pulverize objects and people, it knocked them about like a force five hurricane. Blood and alcohol were dashed against the walls, first by the TNT and moments after that by the exploding CO_2 canisters behind the bar. There were a few screams from below as the dance floor of the nightclub was shoved down into the exclusive rooms on the thirty-ninth floor. Moments later there were cries from the streets as the big picture windows flew outward. Particles of glass rained down thickly, like hail, clattering off rooftops, cars, and the street. Twisted barstools, along with broken bottles and glasses, were hurled toward the exterior wall. Most of the window frames were bent and dislocated, hanging at odd angles over the street. Some were still dropping larger pieces of glass to the pavement as dark gray smoke churned through them. The winds carried it over the harbor, an added pall on the already steamy night. People who were caught in the lethal rain were knocked to the pavement, some writhing with minor wounds and others utterly still, impaled by the larger pieces of debris.

The maelstrom lasted for less than five seconds. Sirens broke the muffled silence that followed, wailing nearer from all directions as scraps of paper and clouds of powdered pasteboard and brick continued to drift earthward. Some of the debris ended up in the harbor.

Including, fittingly, the paper boat Lo Tek had made.

It sank quickly.

TWELVE

Washington, D.C. Monday, 1:01 P.M.

After Paul Hood was shown to his office, a young female intern who did not look much older than his daughter came in and cheerfully showed him how to work his computer. The lady—Mindy, from Texas money, he knew from her accent and her Armani suit—dutifully looked away after telling him how to program his personal password.

“A master program maintains a record of all your Web stops, Mr. Hood,” the slender young woman informed him. “The president has asked us all to be circumspect about where we go.”

Hood could actually hear the Southern-born president using a word like that, imbuing it with the proper balance of danger and piety. The young intern sounded very mature indeed, carrying forth that word from the commander in chief. At Op-Center, Hood used to tell people the same thing. It took him two words, though: “No porn.”

Mindy showed Hood how to work the telephone and gave him a swipe card for the men’s room. She was very professional about that, too. After the young woman left, Hood sat alone, with the door shut. Chief of Staff Sanders said she would come by at three. She wanted to review her thoughts with Hood on how the new office might work. She assured him, however, that the decision would be his, and he would have full autonomy on the final setup.

As long as you agree, Hood thought. Otherwise, the new special envoy would be removed, and someone else would get the job. That was how things worked in the nation’s capital.

It was difficult to process everything that had just happened. Hood looked around and smiled mirthlessly. About the only thing today had in common with yesterday was that Hood still did not have a window.

Just an exit, if he needed it.

Hood felt alone, despite the people he knew were just a few feet away. He was at the seat of power, yet he felt strangely powerless. It would be odd not to receive hourly intelligence reports from the research rooms upstairs. It was frustrating not to have anyone of a Bob Herbert or Darrell McCaskey caliber to consult.

That is not entirely true, he reminded himself. Hood owed Bob Herbert a phone call.

It took a moment for Hood to remember how to work the telephone. He had to press nine, enter his department code, then punch in the number he wanted. At Op-Center it was the other way around.

“Paul, what the hell is going on?” Herbert asked after Hood had said hello.

“More changes,” Hood replied.

“That’s obvious. The phone ID says you’re calling from the White House.”

“I’m the new special envoy to the president,” Hood replied.

“Special envoy to where?” Herbert asked.

“Everywhere. I am still an international crisis manager,” Hood replied.

“Did you know that this was coming? Any of it, including the changing of the guard over here?”

“No,” Hood said.

“Neither did I. And we’re intelligence professionals.”

“An attack always comes from somewhere you’re not expecting it,” Hood pointed out.

“Is that what this was?” Herbert asked.

“What do you mean?”

“An attack?” Herbert said. “Hell, I thought we were all on the same side.”

The remark caught Hood like a palm-heel strike to the side of the head. Herbert had a point. Hood was obviously not pleased with how this had gone down, and he was not sure why. Not everyone got “fired” to the White House. He should be flattered, not angry. Maybe it was the idea that he was now working for someone. He had never done that in his career, not as the mayor of Los Angeles, as a financial adviser, or as the head of Op-Center. Though the Congressional Intelligence Oversight Committee watched what the NCMC was doing and how the money was spent, Hood was the superior officer. He did not report to one. The question he had to answer, truthfully, was whether he considered the president an enemy.

No. Lorraine Sanders, maybe, he decided. She struck him as being extremely territorial.

“How is everyone taking the change?” Hood asked.

“I don’t know,” Herbert admitted. “Numb, I guess. We had a staff meeting this morning, and everyone was pretty quiet. But I haven’t really talked to anyone. I’ve been looking into this situation we have.”

“Can you talk about it?” Hood asked. He wanted to put on his professional hat as soon as possible. Dwelling on personal issues was not going to get him anything but deeper into them.

“Sure,” Herbert replied. “You’ve still got your security clearance, right?”

“Yeah,” Hood said. Herbert was not joking. That bothered Hood, but like everything else, he was not sure why. Herbert was just doing his job, following a protocol that Hood had helped to establish.

“Someone out there is capping Chinese interests abroad,” Herbert told him. “There have been three incidents in one day. General Carrie wanted to know if they are connected or if we need to be concerned about that.”

“Do you?” Hood asked.

“It’s too early to say,” Herbert replied. “Charleston police report finding the remains of Chinese stowaways in the harbor. An hour ago there was an explosion at a nightclub in Taipei. Special guests received special treatment there—”

“From mainland Chinese girls,” Hood said.

“You see where this is going,” Herbert replied. “We do not believe that someone is attacking men and women who leave China. We suspect the target is the enabler, whoever is helping them to get out and making money from their sale in Taipei or the United States. Darrell just got off the horn with a friend in the Taipei Municipal Police Department. The Section Four Bomb Squad, attached to the Xihu Police Substation, was at the site within minutes. They found a badly wounded fellow who has since been identified as Hui-ling Wong, a suspected slaver. He died on the way to the hospital, but they found his boat in the harbor.”

“Did they get any phone records, computers?”

“Nada,” Herbert said. “The guy never used any of those. He had a nickname, Lo Tek. All his deals were conducted in person or arranged via ship-to-ship or ship-toshore communications.”

“Sensible.”

“The harbor police did get his radio operator, though. They’re hoping he’ll be able to tell them something.”

“Do you think Hui-ling was the target?” Hood asked.

“No,” Herbert said. “It would have been just as easy to take out his ketch. He was probably just a bystander who happened to deserve what he got.”

“So the business was the target,” Hood said.

“Yes, but Ron and General Carrie both think there might be a proxy war being fought here. I’m inclined to agree.”

Those words were not a slap. They were worse. Hearing Herbert mention Ron Plummer and General Carrie in the same sentence was like hearing his former wife talk about her new boyfriend. It reminded Hood, painfully, that forces beyond his control had wrested him from people and events that had defined his life. It was an effort to speak, let alone to speak unemotionally.

“Why do you think that?” Hood asked flatly.

“The PRC has an enormously high rate of illegal emigration,” Herbert said. “In terms of sheer numbers, it’s higher than that of any other nation. Those refugees were the people Wong reportedly hunted. He would not have been able to pluck people from offshore vessels without the tacit approval of the People’s Liberation Navy. Not in a ketch that size, in those waters, in a perpetual state of silent running. That alone would have caught the attention of every radar station along the coast. Wong had to be paying people off.”

“Do you have any idea who?”

“Not yet,” Herbert said. “But we may have a back door to that information. The attacks in Charleston and Taipei bookended the bombing of sugar silos in South Africa. According to public records in Durban, one of the investors in that refinery is the Tonkin Investment Corporation, a group of Vietnamese shipping entrepreneurs who have close ties with members of the Chinese government. Specifically, they handle official government investments managed by Chou Shin, who is the vice chairman of the Chinese Communist Party’s United Front Relief Fund. The Chicom UFRF manages funds for the survivors of soldiers who died in the struggle to put the Communists into power and keep them there. Chou is a hard-liner, an acolyte of Mao who also happens to be the director of the 8341 Unit of the Central Security Regiment.”

“I’ve heard of them,” Hood said. “They’re extremely low profile.”

“Very. Their job is to spy on political and philosophical enemies of Chicom at home and abroad. Chou has deep files on students, radicals, black marketeers, and plutocrats.”

“A kind of anti–J. Edgar Hoover,” Hood suggested.

“Exactly,” Herbert said. “Chou also has the resources to attack the trade in illegal émigrés.”

“For what reason?” Hood asked.

“Defense. Spite. The profits could be used to finance rival factions in Beijing, or maybe he has a grudge against some minister or general. What’s interesting is the timing of the events. The first two, the blasts in Charleston and Durban, happened relatively close together.”

“You mean someone might have had the silo scenario primed in the event of an attack on the émigrés.”

“Right. But the blast in Taipei came significantly later—possibly a response to the bombing in Durban.”

“That isn’t a proxy war,” Hood said. “It’s gods hurling thunderbolts at one another.”

“Not giving a damn about collateral damage, I know,” Herbert said. “In any case, Maria has Interpol connections who deal regularly with the National Security Bureau in Taipei. They’ve got people inside Beijing. We’re trying to find out who is on the top of Chou’s hit list, someone who might have the resources to have the counterstrike in Durban ready and waiting.”

Maria Corneja McCaskey was the Spanish-born wife of Op-Center’s FBI liaison Darrell McCaskey. She had retired from Interpol to come to the United States with her new husband. She had not settled comfortably into domesticity and was retained by Op-Center to interface with the global police agency and its affiliates.

“So who are we rooting for?” Hood asked. “The slavercapitalist or the repressive spy who’s watching out for war widows?”

It was a rhetorical question, and Herbert took it as such. “The sad thing is, people end up suffering either way,” the intelligence chief remarked.

“I hope there’s something you can do to minimize that,” Hood said.

There was a short silence as Hood worked through another painful moment. In the past that would be the start of a discussion between Hood and one of his senior staff, not the end.

“Are there any resources you can bring to bear?” Herbert asked.

“I’ll find out,” Hood said. “Hell, Bob, I’m still learning how to work the telephones.”

“Didn’t they give you an assistant?”

“I get to hire two,” Hood said.

“Hey. That’s a step up from Op-Center.”

“Not really,” Hood said. “I have no idea where to find them.”

There was another short silence. It grew into a long one. Herbert was not one for small talk, and Hood felt as if the intelligence chief had been extending the conversation unnaturally.

“I guess I’d better let you go,” Hood said.

“Sorry,” Herbert said. “I was just checking my caller ID. There’s an incoming call I’d better take.”

“Sure,” Hood told him. “I’ll have a look into this Chinese situation and get back to you.”

“Thanks,” Herbert said. “Hey, Paul, have you heard from Mike lately?”

“I haven’t spoken to him since he left Op-Center,” Hood told him. “Why?”

“Because that’s who is calling me,” Herbert replied.

THIRTEEN

Washington, D.C. Monday, 1:13 P.M.

“Hello, Mike Rodgers,” Herbert declared as he took the call. “How are things deep in the heart of Unexus?”

“The company is doing well, and so am I,” Rodgers replied.

The firm for which Rodgers worked was located in Arlington, Virginia, not far from the Pentagon. The two men had last spoken a month before, when they met for dinner at the Watergate. The 600 Restaurant was one of Herbert’s favorites, as much for where it was located as for what they served. The hotel was a monument to presidential arrogance, to the notion that the nation was still a democracy. That thought gave Herbert a warm feeling. It reminded him of the values he himself had paid such a high price to uphold.

“Is there something quick and dirty I can help you with, or can I give you a shout in about an hour?”

“Both,” Rodgers said. “What are you hearing about China?”

Herbert had been playing with a loose thread on his cuff. He stopped. “Why do you ask?”

“We’ve got a very important project about to launch with Beijing,” Rodgers told him. “I was wondering if the explosion in Taipei is an isolated event.”

“Do you have any reason to think it wasn’t?” Herbert asked.

There was a brief silence.

Herbert smiled. Rodgers knew the drill. Herbert’s first obligation was to Op-Center. Their job was to put puzzles together, not provide the pieces for others. Not even for an old friend, a trusted friend. With Herbert that was not a territorial imperative. It was his definition of professionalism.

“All right. I’ll go first,” Rodgers said. “Unexus has designed a Chinese telecommunications satellite that is going to be launched on Thursday. The prime minister has asked the head of the Xichang space center to provide him with an overview of security operations. Director Lung says that has never happened before.”

“Is this the first job you’ve done with them?”

“Yes, but that does not seem to be what is driving the prime minister’s caution,” Rodgers told him.

“Will the telecommunications satellite be used for civilian purposes only?” Herbert asked.

“We don’t know,” Rodgers said.

“Plausible deniability,” Herbert replied.

Rodgers ignored the remark. “The prime minister has asked that the security information be sent by courier, directly to him. Ordinarily these matters are reviewed by the Guoanbu.”

“The Ministry of State Security,” Herbert said.

“Bypassing them in a review of this nature is very unusual,” Rodgers said. “Director Lung was also instructed to make sure that one of the guests be accompanied by a Xichang official at all times.”

“What guest?” Herbert asked.

“General Tam Li of the PLA,” Rodgers told him.

“Is the army involved with the launch?”

“Only as observers,” Rodgers said. “We hope to be doing more business with them in the future, though I’m not at liberty to say more than that.”

“Is there any reason at all to think that this General Tam Li is a threat?” Herbert asked.

“That’s why I’m calling,” Rodgers said. “The prime minister must think so.”

“When did the prime minister request the security plans?” Herbert asked.

“Saturday morning, Beijing time,” Rodgers said. “Now tell me. Is there anything you can add?”

“Is this for your ears only, or will it get back to the prime minister of the People’s Republic of China?” The question tasted like ash. But Mike Rodgers had new employers now, and he had always been a good and loyal officer.

“Do you even have to ask, Bob?”

“Unfortunately I do, Mike. You’re a good friend. You’re also a private citizen working with the government of a foreign power, possibly with the military of a foreign power. My boss would scowl at swapping spit with the enemy.”

“Tell Paul I am the same man I was—”

“Paul Hood is not my boss,” Herbert said. “Not anymore.”

It took Rodgers a moment to process the information. “What are you talking about?” he asked.

“I wish I knew,” Herbert admitted. “I came to work this morning and found out that Op-Center had a new director, effective immediately. General Morgan Carrie. Do you know her?”

“I know of her,” Rodgers said. “First woman to earn three stars.”

“That’s the one,” Herbert said. “From what I gathered, Paul was ‘invited’ to work for the president in some new capacity.”

“Classic occupation ploy,” Rodgers said.

“Excuse me?”

“The German army used to roll into a village and appoint a puppet government from among the population,” Rodgers said. “The new leaders and their families would get preferential treatment as long as they did Nazi dirty work, like ordering searches and ratting out resistance fighters. When that leadership had been squeezed dry, they would be executed.”

“I’m not sure I see the parallel, Mike.”

“The CIOC had Paul cut Op-Center back, then turned the knife on him,” Rodgers said.

“True, though I wouldn’t equate a West Wing job to being terminated,” Herbert said.

“Did Paul sound happy?”

“He sounded uncertain, dislocated—” Herbert said.

“That’s as good as it’s going to get for him,” Rodgers said. “If you’re not part of the inner circle to start, you aren’t likely to get in. That’s the same as a political execution.”

“I don’t know if I agree, and I don’t think Paul is concerned about that,” Herbert said. “He cares about the work.”

“Bob, that’s how the work gets done there,” Rodgers said. “Whether it’s at 10 Downing Street, in the Kremlin, in Beijing, or in Havana, it’s all about having the sympathetic ear of the core group. If I were to cold-call the CIA, do you think I’d get someone at your level willing to talk to me?”

“I hope not,” Herbert said. “You’re a patriot, but you’re still a civilian.”

“Exactly. It’s about access, Bob.”

“And trust,” Herbert reminded him. “Access gets a Bob Herbert on the telephone. Trust is what gets you information. And whatever I—we—think about Paul Hood personally, he has never been dishonest or unreliable.”

“No,” Rodgers agreed. “And Robert E. Lee disliked war. That didn’t prevent four years of ferocious bloodshed.”

This conversation was taking them down a rutted path Herbert did not want to travel. The men had never really discussed it because they did not want to let loose the resentment they both felt. But here it was, sneaking out the back door. Herbert had not approved of the cutbacks Hood had made or the effective dismissal of Mike Rodgers as deputy director. But those issues, those emotions, did not need to be on the menu right now.

“We can talk about precedent over a cup of joe,” Herbert told Rodgers. “Meanwhile, here is what I can tell you about the Chinese. It isn’t much, but I’m working on it. General Carrie called a meeting first thing this morning. She introduced herself and asked us to look into two, now three, incidents involving targets with a Chinese connection. The freighter that blew up in Charleston harbor, a sugar silo that was attacked in Durban, South Africa, and an explosion at an upscale brothel in Taipei that sent body parts sailing into the harbor.”

“Do you think those are all related?”

“Slave labor was involved in the harbor and brothel attacks,” Herbert said. “A spymaster, Chou Shin, apparently ran holdings in the sugar processing facility that was destroyed.”

“I’ve heard of Chou,” Rodgers said. “He’s a real hard-liner.”

“That he is. Have you heard anything else about him?”

“Not really. His name showed up a lot in a white paper on the Tian’ anmen Square uprising.”

“You remembered it just from that?”

“Oh yeah,” Rodgers replied.

“Why?”

“He was out there running plays for the police, pointing out individuals he wanted for interrogation,” Rodgers said. “They call him the ‘eagle’ because of the way he just looked down from a balcony and plucked people from the square.”

“I don’t understand,” Herbert said. “Why would a diehard Red invest in capitalist enterprises?”

“The Unexus think tank was all over that question when we got involved with the Chinese,” Rodgers told him. “There are parallels regarding Middle Eastern, Colombian, and Japanese investments. What we view as naked capitalism Beijing regards as a means of control. Think about it. How does a foreign country gain influence in the United States? Through real estate holdings, owning businesses, even laundering money through banks. They help to drive our economy. That helps elected officials stay elected. It gives you their very attentive ear. How does a foreign government make money for those often extravagant enterprises? They invest in something people will always need, like sugar or tobacco, diamonds or gold.”

“I guess that makes a kind of lopsided sense,” Herbert admitted. “As long as you don’t become what you seek to destroy.”

“You know as well as I do that a lot of sleeper agents and fifth columnists are seduced by a better life and a big bankroll,” Rodgers said. “That’s always been a problem when foreigners infiltrate the United States. They try to recruit sociopaths and ideologues, but those kinds of people tend to stand out.”

“Okay. I understand why Chou might have invested in a sugar refinery,” Herbert said. “What I don’t understand was whether this attack was against the silos, the investment, or Chou himself.”

“I have no idea,” Rodgers said. “I just don’t want to worry that our satellite is in jeopardy.”

“Do you expect China to be a big part of your business in the future?”

“We hope so,” Rodgers said. “But that’s not my biggest concern.”

“What is?”

“The satellite has an RTG,” Rodgers told him.

Herbert grunted. An RTG is a radioisotope thermoelectric generator, a lightweight, very compact system that provides energy through the natural radioactive decay of Pu-238. Though the plutonium is encased in a lead-ceramic alloy that would survive a crash or explosion, there was always the chance of an accident. One that could spread lethal radioactivity across a wide swath of the countryside.

“Is it a DoE component?” Herbert asked. Before plutonium-powered spacecraft were banned, the Department of Energy had built all of the RTGs used on American missions.

“No,” Rodgers said. “We built it.”

“So nuclear power is going to be a part of what Unexus offers in the future.”

“I can’t really talk about that, Bob.”

“I understand. It’s too bad you’re not tighter with the prime minister,” Herbert said. “You could put the question to him.”

“Do you think Paul might want to take a swing at that?” Rodgers asked. “You said he’s looking for something to do, and the White House has ways of communicating with the prime minister that we don’t.”

“Good point. Call him,” Herbert suggested.

“I will,” Rodgers said.

The intelligence chief did not want to phone Hood and say, “I was talking to Mike, and we were wondering . . .” That would seem like charity. It would carry more weight if Rodgers broke six months of silence with the request.

“Meanwhile, I’ll see what else Darrell and our overseas allies have come up with,” Herbert said. “Hopefully, the prime minister is just being cautious.”

Rodgers thanked him, and they made a dinner appointment for the following week. Herbert hung up feeling very strange. Here he was, doing his duty at Op-Center, while the guys who left were in a much better position to set the world on fire—one of them literally.

Obviously, doing the right thing is not the way to get ahead in the world, he thought. You had to leave government service and shit-can your friends to do that. But then you abandon the principles for which your wife died and you gave up your legs.

To hell with that. Bob Herbert picked up the phone and called Darrell McCaskey.

He had a job to do.

FOURTEEN

Beijing, China Monday, 2:27 A.M.

Prime Minister Le Kwan Po went home to his wife and a late snack of tea and apricots. Ever since he was a child he had liked dipping fruit in tea. The apartment in Beijing was a privilege of office. The very tart Mongolian apricots were his one indulgence.

They had also been an education.

The delicacy had taught him the joy of mixing elements to produce something new. It had showed him that different blends produced different results. It had proven to him that two of anything is superior to one. What he had still been puzzling over was how to convince Chou and Tam Li of that fact.

The prime minister sat across the table from his wife Li-Li. They were in a small dining alcove off the kitchen, Beijing spread below them. The rain had stopped and the streetlights shone like candles in the misty night.

Li-Li was a handsome woman with a round face framed by long, gray hair worn in a bun. She was dressed in a red silk robe and matching scarf. She was smoking a cigarette. When Le Kwan Po finished his apricots, he would join her in another smoke. Throughout Le Kwan Po’s adult life, Li-Li had been his most valuable and trusted friend and adviser. She possessed a calm wisdom that was characteristic of those who had been raised in a temple. In the case of Li-Li, it was the seventeenth-century Qingshui Yan Temple in the state of Fujian. Her widowed mother cooked meals for the priests, the acolytes, and the pilgrims. The women lived in a very small room behind the mountainside structure. Some might have described it as a boring life. To Li-Li it was a reflective life. She met her future husband when he came through the region with fellow soldiers. The mountain unit stayed at the temple for nearly three weeks while they pursued remnants of the Guomindang, the nationalists who were hiding in these remote regions. “The soldier and the lady,” as her mother called them, quickly discovered they shared a love of two things. One was the mountains. They enjoyed being where they could look up at the sun yet down upon the clouds. They enjoyed the grandeur of the sharp-edged peaks and the flora that dug its roots into the rock to thrive there. Li-Li marveled that such a small, delicate tendril could split stone.

Just as the revolutionary ideology of Mao did in 1919. He did not work and study in Europe as all the other Communist leaders did. He moved among the peasants to invent his own form of government. He put small roots in the rich soil of the Chinese working class where they grew into a powerful nation.

A hybrid, like apricots and tea.

The other thing Li-Li and Le Kwan Po enjoyed was a lively discussion. She was always confident, soft-spoken, but very, very sure of her point of view. Some would say smug. Perhaps that was because Li-Li was raised in an environment where rules were incontrovertible. Le Kwan Po was more balanced in his thinking, more willing to listen to all sides.

The prime minister and his wife had been discussing the radical differences between the two men. She believed her husband should work behind the scenes to undermine the men.

“Remove their support structure, and they will fall,” she counseled. “What you must do is relocate their aides, their allies, their confidants.”

“This does not need to be so complicated,” he replied dismissively.

“Not this,” she agreed. “But you are not doing it just to stop these men. This situation is about the future. By undermining their network of conspirators, you will discourage others.”

“Fear is not a deterrent,” Le replied. “Even overwhelming force can be resisted, if not at the moment, then over time. The only thing that causes a permanent change is reason.”

“We have had this discussion before,” the woman reminded him. “The stakes are higher now. Do you believe you can convince these men that compromise is better than whatever they are after?”

Le nodded once. “They want power. But apart from that, men want to survive.”

“You just said fear does not work.”

“Not the act,” Le replied. “But the threat. That is different.”

Li-Li took a long puff on her cigarette. “What can you do to threaten their security? You cannot dismiss them. You cannot demote them.”

That was when De Ming Wang, the minister of foreign affairs, called on the prime minister’s cell phone. De Ming informed him about the explosion in Taipei. Le was not happy to learn of the disaster nor to hear of it from De Ming. The foreign minister wanted very much to become prime minister. Typically, De Ming withheld information to make rivals look ineffective. If the foreign minister were providing information, it was to maneuver someone into a situation that could prove difficult or embarrassing.

“Three incidents in one day,” De Ming said in conclusion. “We need to contain this situation immediately.”

His motives did not change the fact that the foreign minister was right. Which is what made him a danger.

“Was this Chou’s doing?” Le asked. “Those clubs in Taiwan host disreputable sorts—”

“This was very elite, and it employed girls from Guangdong province. The freighter this morning carried workers from Guangdong.”

That was not proof. But it was not a good sign.

“I will handle this,” the prime minister said.

“What can I do to assist?” De Ming asked solicitously.

Le lit a cigarette, blew smoke, and thought for a moment. This was a delicate situation. If De Ming were directly involved in any talks, he could sabotage the prime minister’s efforts at peacemaking. If De Ming were not involved, and those efforts failed, the foreign minister could go to the National People’s Congress and ask for a noconfidence vote on the prime minister. In a situation like this, Le felt it might be best to keep his enemy close.

“I will call Chou and Tam Li and arrange a meeting,” the prime minister replied. “I would like you to attend.”

“Certainly. When would you like to meet?”

“I will let you know,” Le replied cautiously. He folded away the phone and tapped it as he looked across the table at his wife. He told her what had happened. “War between these two men will force others to take sides,” he concluded. “I need to do something about it.”

“You are anxious. You should wait until morning before contacting them,” Li-Li suggested softly.

“I cannot afford to let the situation escalate.”

“You are also tired,” his wife insisted. “Mao said that a dull-witted army cannot defeat the enemy.”

“They are tired as well.”

“Not so tired that they won’t perceive this as what it is,” Li-Li said.

“Oh? And what is that?”

“Desperation, not strength. Wait. And let the foreign minister wait.”

Le Kwan Po shook his head. “There is a difference between someone who is desperate and someone who is decisive. I have to find out if either of these men were involved in the attack.”

“Why would they tell you?” Li-Li asked. “You were reluctant to pressure them earlier.”

“I have no choice now,” the prime minister said. “The foreign minister will use this against me.”

“Then you are desperate.”

Le took two quick puffs, then reached for his phone. “I am motivated,” he replied.

“What will you say to them when you meet?”

“I will reason with them,” he replied. “That is what I do.”

“Please. If you must, call them now but see them tomorrow,” Li-Li urged. “If you sit together tonight, they will say nothing or throw charges at one another. You will simply be a mediator.”

“What will I be tomorrow?”

“More in control of the situation,” she replied. “They will wonder why you waited to see them.”

“They will wonder with good reason. I myself don’t see the sense of it,” Le protested.

The prime minister was not comfortable playing these psychological games. His success in politics was due to evenhandedness. He possessed a tireless devotion to the party but a willingness to allow that what worked in the twentieth century could not be cleanly adapted to the twenty-first.

Still, Li-Li was correct. These were very different circumstances. Chou and Tam Li had always fought for position and influence, but they had never resorted to murder or attacks on one another’s holdings.

But silence? he thought. The prime minister regarded his wife. How does one turn silence into a perfect weapon? he asked himself. Silence is like clay. Others can read into it what they wish. The question Le had to ask himself was whether his wife was correct, and the men would perceive it as strength. Or whether he was right, and they would regard it as weakness. He continued to look across the table. Li-Li looked back. Her sweet face was visible through the snaking smoke of their cigarettes, through the fainter mist of their tea. Her eyes were impassive, the thin lips of her mouth pulled in a firm yet delicate line. Le did not know for certain what she was thinking. He assumed it was critical of haste.

You assume the worst based on her silence. That supported what his wife had been saying about the value of silence. But you know her, he reminded himself. You already know how she feels.

Unfortunately, the men he was dealing with would regard his silence as indecision. He had to confront them.

Le crushed his cigarette in the ashtray and picked up his telephone. He scrolled through the stored listing of cell phone numbers.

“You are calling them,” his wife said.

“Yes.”

“To meet when?”

“Now,” he replied.

“To reason with them?”

“At first.”

Li-Li stubbed out her own cigarette. “They will not listen. And what will you do if it fails?”

Le Kwan Po regarded her before accessing the first number. “Three nations suffered covert attacks today. As the prime minister of China, I have ways of passing information to those nations. Information such as the names of the people who organized the bombings. I need never soil my hands.”

Li-Li smiled as she rose. “I like that reasoning,” she said as she left the small kitchen area to give her husband privacy.

FIFTEEN

Arlington, Virginia Monday, 2:44 P.M.

Since his days as a military commander in Vietnam, Mike Rodgers maintained that there were two phases to any operation. This belief was borne out during his tour of duty at Op-Center, where the general was both deputy director under Paul Hood and commander of the elite rapid deployment military unit Striker. It was also proving to be true at Unexus.

The first stage of a project was the booster phase. Whether it was a military incursion, a research program, or even a business deal, it always started with heavy lifting. Someone had to have and then sell an idea. Once it was successfully off the ground, it entered the pitch-and-yaw phase. That was a time of fine-tuning. The project had a life of its own. All the creator could do at that point was make sure it did not crash or self-destruct.

In science, the pitch-and-yaw rockets were on different sides. That was how the projectile kept its balance. In every other venture, opposing forces were not always beneficial.

The Chinese operation, as Rodgers called it, was in the pitch-and-yaw stage. The scientists had specific requirements, the investors in Europe and the United States had needs, and now the Chinese had concerns. Some of them conflicted, such as the propulsion engineers needing access to the booster and the Chinese not wanting them entering the gantry area without Chinese scientists, who had their own ideas about how things should be done.

Rodgers was kept from addressing the launch security matter as he worked to settle these problems. He was aided by fifty-one-year-old Yoo-Jin Yun, his translator, who had the most singular background of anyone he had ever met. She was the daughter of a suspected North Korean spy who was repeatedly raped by her South Korean interrogators. Her mother was fifteen years old at the time. Yoo-Jin was born nine months later. She was raised to believe that communication was the key to world peace—and to survival. Mandarin and Cantonese were two of the twenty-seven Pacific languages and dialects she spoke. The short, trim woman sat in the office next to Rodgers’s on the top floor of the six-story Unexus tower. Just being around her gave Rodgers a sense of world access he had never before experienced. And meeting her mother, Ji-Woo, had also enriched him. The older woman lived with her daughter and often drove her to work. She had relocated to Seoul in 1955 and raised her daughter on her own, cleaning office buildings at night and the Sangbong bus terminal by day to put her through school. Ji-Woo had nursed the beauty that had come of tragedy. Bob Herbert could take lessons from her about living with adversity.

So could I, Rodgers had to admit. Testosterone had a way of overpowering intellectual equanimity and good intentions.

Rodgers rose from behind his opaque glass-topped desk. He went to a small stainless steel refrigerator hidden in a dark corner of the office and got himself a ginger ale. He was dressed in shirtsleeves, a tightly knotted black silk tie, and Bill Blass slacks. His sharply pressed suit jacket hung on a wooden hanger behind the door. Rodgers always wore it when the door was open or whenever he was videoconferencing. He felt strangely powerless without a uniform of some kind. The retired general had come to this job after serving on the abortive presidential campaign of Senator Donald Orr of Texas. It was the murder of a British computer magnate, William Wilson, that precipitated the senator’s downfall. The founder of Unexus, industrialist Brent Appleby, knew Wilson well. Appleby attended the trial and was impressed with Rodgers’s frankness and composure. He asked the retiring general to become president of the new operation. Rodgers accepted with a handshake on the steps of the District of Columbia Federal Circuit Courthouse on Madison Place NW.

Rodgers returned to his desk with the can of soda and a cork coaster. In addition to the usual distractions, Mike Rodgers was not sure how he felt about calling Paul Hood. Rodgers had been allowed to resign from Op-Center after it was downsized. Though the cutbacks were not Hood’s fault, Rodgers felt the director had not fought hard to keep him. He understood why. Paul Hood had the larger picture in mind, the continuation of Op-Center in the wake of severe budget cuts. Striker had been decommissioned after a successful but costly intervention in Kashmir. At that time there was not a great deal for an army general to do.

But understanding and forgiving were not the same.

Now Paul Hood had been replaced. Maybe the White House position was better for Hood in some ways. But it was still a very sudden take-it-or-leave-it offer, not the kind of move that fattened a man’s ego. Rodgers did not need to gloat. That was in Bob Herbert’s nature, not his own. However, he also did not want to be a friend to Hood. That was a status Hood had never earned.

As soon as there were no other emergencies to handle, Rodgers was finally able to call the White House switchboard. They put him right through. That was how Rodgers knew that Hood was reporting to the Oval Office. He had been given cabinet-level treatment. Someone had literally walked his extension information to the switchboard rather than E-mailed it, where it might go unattended for hours. The name Paul Hood had been placed before the bank of operators so they knew who he was, where he was, and what his title was.

It also puts the president’s fingerprints all over Hood, Rodgers reflected. Unlike Op-Center, where a man was measured by his abilities, Hood’s fate was tied to that of the new chief executive. Whatever Hood himself did, he could be elevated or scapegoated at the whim of Dan Debenport.

“This is Paul Hood.”

“Christ, Paul. Didn’t they even give you an assistant?”

It took a moment for Hood to place the voice. “Mike?”

“It is,” Rodgers replied. “Bob told me where to find you.”

“Jeez, I’m glad he did! How the hell are you?”

“I’m doing terrific,” Rodgers assured him. “The change has been good for me.”

“I can imagine,” Hood said. “Unexus ain’t small potatoes.”

“No. Lots of starch here,” Rodgers joked, glancing at his jacket.

“How does it feel being in the private sector for the first time?”

“I’m happy, and my bank account is happy,” Rodgers admitted. “Speaking of changes—”

“Yeah. This is a big one. A sudden one,” Hood said.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m tucked in the corridors of power without an assistant,” Hood said. “I’m told there will be a couple of them waiting in my other office down the road. An office that has a window, I hope.”

“That would be nice,” Rodgers said. He had a fleeting screw you moment as he looked out his own large floor-toceiling window. The Washington Monument rose in the distance, stone white against a cloudless blue sky.

“Bob tells me you’re enjoying what you’re doing,” Hood went on.

“I’m still fighting with powers from across the sea but usually with less bloodshed,” Rodgers said. The banality of this conversation was painful. Still, after six months of silence the quasi-hail-fellow-well-met dialogue was necessary. “So what can you tell me about this new position of yours?”

“Not a hell of a lot, yet,” Hood said. “New is the operative word. The job is just some five or six hours old.”

“Has it got a title?”

“A lofty-sounding one. I’m special envoy to the president.”

“Which is what, exactly?” Rodgers asked.

“Well, I’m still a bit unclear about that,” Hood admitted. “The position was described as ‘an international intelligence troubleshooter, unaffiliated with any group but with access to the resources of all of them.’ ”

“What about political access through the president?”

“You mean working heads of state?” Hood asked.

“Exactly. In particular, I wonder if that includes getting the ear of the Chinese prime minister?”

“I don’t know. Does it pertain to intelligence troubleshooting?”

“It does,” Rodgers said.

“Impacting the private or public sector?”

“Public there, private here.”

“ ‘Here’ meaning Unexus.”

“Right,” Rodgers said.

“Maybe you had better give this to me from the top,” Hood suggested.

Paul Hood had never been an evasive, cover-your-ass bureaucrat, and that was not what was happening here. He sounded like a man who really did not know the mechanics, let alone the parameters of his job. Since it had only been in existence for one morning, that was understandable.

Rodgers told him what had happened with Le Kwan Po and the Xichang space center and the exclusion of the Guoanbu from the equation. Hood seemed surprised to hear that. Unlike Washington, Chinese intelligence agencies shared information with each other and with the impacted ministries.

“What you really need to know is whether the prime minister has specific information or concerns that your satellite may be a target,” Hood said.

“Their satellite, our subcontract,” Rodgers said.

“Right. Sorry. I thought we could shorthand it.”

“I’m a little sensitive about that,” Rodgers said. “When I was a general, they were the enemy.”

“Aren’t they still?” Hood asked. “Or is North Korea funding its own nuclear program?”

“I’ve got a new office, Paul, one with a window,” Rodgers replied. “Things look different. They have to.”

The comment came out more explosive than illuminating. Rodgers might still be looking at things from a general’s perspective if Hood had not forced him to change offices. He decided to ignore his own minioutburst.

“It’s three days until launch,” Rodgers continued. “I’m hoping the prime minister is just being cautious. But I would like to know.”

“What does Bob say about all this?” Hood asked.

“He’s going to sniff around from downwind,” Rodgers said. “But you know what our HUMINT resources are like.”

Like most intelligence agencies, Op-Center had cut back on expensive human intelligence and relied primarily on ELINT, electronic intelligence. That was fine, as long as adversaries used cell phones and E-mails, or spoke in public places where the agencies had VARDs—videographic or acoustic reconnaissance devices. If not, the analog fish slipped through the digital net.

“Lorraine Sanders will be here in a few minutes,” Hood said. “Let me talk to her about this, see what she thinks.”

“She’s a smart lady,” Rodgers said. “I assume she’s helping you to integrate into the system.”

“That, plus I’ll be reporting to the president through her,” Hood said.

Rodgers was surprised. “Does she have veto power over your operations?”

“No. Only the president, to whom I report.”

“But if the chief of staff controls the flow of information—”

“Conveying information in a timely fashion is part of her job description,” Hood replied sharply. “Mike, is there something we need to talk about? Apart from this, I mean?”

“No,” Rodgers said. “Why?”

“Because that’s the second kick in the ass you’ve given me in as many minutes,” Hood replied.

“That was not my intention,” Rodgers assured him. “I’m sorry if it came out that way.”

“This isn’t easy, Mike. Being here, talking to you, none of it. The six months of silence—that wasn’t something I wanted.”

“Okay,” Rodgers said. “But out of curiosity, Paul, if you didn’t want the silence, why the hell didn’t you pick up the phone?”

“Embarrassment? Discomfort? Maybe a little envy because I left the high road and you still had it?”

“You could have talked to me about that,” Rodgers said.

“We talked when you left. It didn’t change anything,” Hood said. “I wasn’t happy about the way things went down. Who could be? Then it became awkward because so much time did pass.”

“And now?” Rodgers asked.

“Has this been easy for you?”

“No,” Rodgers admitted.

“There’s your answer,” Hood said. “Look, I’ve got Sanders coming, and I want to get into this situation of yours. I’ll be in touch after the meeting.”

Rodgers thanked him and hung up.

Conflicted did not begin to describe how Rodgers felt at the moment. It began to look as if Hood had been demoted upward. Part of Rodgers felt bad for him. A smaller, more insistent part of him did not. Yet what had been the oddest part of the conversation had nothing to do with that. It happened when they were talking about Herbert and his limited HUMINT capabilities.

Rodgers had called them “our” resources.

Even six months later, it was difficult not to think of them all as a team. Hood, Herbert, and Rodgers had gone through a lot together, more than most men got to experience in a lifetime. The deaths of coworkers, family crises, fighting the clock to prevent civil wars and nuclear attacks. Maybe Op-Center was an idea as well as a place. Maybe it was hardwired, like Rodgers’s need to wear a uniform of some kind even if it was a suit. Perhaps they always would be a team, despite working from different places toward different ends.

And perhaps what the sage once said of divorce was also true of Mike Rodgers and Paul Hood. That going separate ways wasn’t a sign two people didn’t understand one another but just the opposite.

An indication that they had begun to.

SIXTEEN

Washington, D.C. Monday, 3:18 P.M.

Of all the people General Carrie had met at Op-Center, the one she had enjoyed the most was Liz Gordon. The two women sat in facing armchairs in front of the desk. Carrie felt it might make these talks less intimidating than if she were behind the desk. Liz was the only one who moved her chair, turning it so that she was facing the new director rather than sitting at an angle. The staff psychologist also offered her viewpoints without having to be asked. She was the only one who did not say exactly what she thought the new director wanted to hear. They talked about Paul Hood and his impact on the organization before moving on to the existing personnel.

“The senior staff is going to want to please you,” Gordon told Carrie a few minutes into their informal chat. “But they will also resent you.”

“Because I replaced Paul Hood or because I replaced a man?” Carrie asked.

“Both,” Liz said. “And also because you were given the job most of them would have wanted.”

“I earned this position,” Carrie replied. She jabbed the desk with an index finger. “I also earned the three stars I’m wearing, something no other woman ever accomplished.”

“You see, General, that is part of the problem,” Liz replied. “You are a woman with three stars. I know Bob, Darrell, Lowell, Ron, and Matt. I know them very well. To the first two, at least, your promotion represents a bone to our gender and not a real accomplishment.”

“That would be their problem, not mine,” Carrie said. “Do you think they will work less for me than they did for Hood?”

“As I said, they still need the director’s approval if they want to keep their jobs. I’m sure they feel as if they are all on probation.”

“They are,” Carrie replied.

They were interrupted by a call from Bob Herbert. He brought Carrie up to date on the conversation with Mike Rodgers. Rodgers had also spoken with Paul Hood and had phoned to tell Herbert about that. Hood was going to see what he could do about getting intel from the Chinese prime minister.

Carrie thanked Herbert and hung up. There was a very strange mix of resentment and suck-up in Herbert’s brusque but meticulously complete briefing.

“None of them is in danger of being dismissed, and I don’t care whether they like me or not,” the general went on. “But I want to be sure I can count on them to give the job everything they’ve got.”

“You can,” Liz said confidently. “Bob and Darrell are competitive with each other and themselves, so they will always overreach—”

The conversation was interrupted by a beep on the intercom.

“Yes?” Carrie said.

“General, Darrell McCaskey and Matt Stoll are here to see you,” Bugs Benet informed her.

“Thank you. Send them in,” Carrie said.

“I’ll leave,” Liz said, rising.

“I appreciate your input, Liz. We’ll finish this later.”

“I look forward to it,” the psychologist replied.

Liz stepped out as McCaskey walked in. Carrie noticed McCaskey fire the psychologist a short, narrow look. It was the kind of look soldiers going into interrogation gave to soldiers leaving interrogation: Did you crack? Did you tell them something I should know about?

The moment passed quickly. As McCaskey entered, he was back on the job. Matt Stoll came in behind him. Carrie had not yet met the scientist alone. The MIT graduate was a lumpy man with eyes that saw elsewhere. Stoll struck her as a man who used his senses to guide him through this world while his mind lived in another, far more interesting place. He was carrying a compact disk on his index finger.

Carrie stood and went behind her desk. She did not want to be an armchair general when she received an official update.

“We may have caught a break,” McCaskey said. He stopped in front of the desk and remained standing. “There was a man at the club who Interpol and the Taipei police were watching. He was a reputed slave trader by the name of Hui-ling Wong, aka Lo Tek. He died in the blast. The coastal patrol had seen his boat arrive, and officers were dispatched to all the clubs he usually frequents.”

“Why didn’t they arrest him en route?” Carrie asked.

“Because they have no evidence,” McCaskey said. “The agents were at the nightclub with acoustic devices, hoping he would say something that would give them a reason to arrest him.”

“Did he?” Carrie asked, looking at the CD.

“No,” McCaskey replied. “But the agents were wearing wide wires, digital, wide-frequency recorders that collect every sound in a room and send it to a central location where the extraneous noises are removed.”

“That’s the only way to collect specific conversations without using a parabolic dish,” Stoll said.

“The agents were killed in the blast, but everything they recorded was sent to a mobile unit not far from the club,” McCaskey said. “Through my Interpol connections we got a copy.”

Stoll held up the CD on his finger.

“The explosion destroyed everything within one hundred yards of the epicenter,” McCaskey went on. “The bombers would have known the blast radius and made sure they were beyond that. But they would have had to be within three hundred fifty yards to detonate a radiocontrolled device. Matt executed a thorough acoustic search in that window and managed to pick up the very faint trigger ping, the signal sent to activate the bomb.”

“We got the guys talking on the stairwell, Madam General,” Stoll said, “They were breathing hard, moving real fast, and speaking Cantonese.”

“So they were probably from the mainland,” the general remarked. “What did you get?”

“Until the blast killed the wide wires, we managed to pick up their names,” Stoll told the general. He smiled a little for the first time. “More important, we got remarkably clear voiceprints.”

“There was no one else in the stairwell at that point,” McCaskey noted.

Like fingerprints, voiceprints were unique to every individual. Stoll placed the CD on the general’s desk.

“We passed those charts back to Interpol and the Taipei police,” McCaskey said. “They’ve mobilized all of their ELINT units, including those of the military. They’ve sectored the city and are scanning every cell phone call being made. Which, at this hour, is not a lot.”

“They don’t actually have to listen to the calls,” Stoll explained. “All they need is to find a frequency that matches either voice.”

“Yes. I’ve worked with voiceprinting before,” the general said.

“Sorry,” Stoll said.

“So we have PRC bombers working in Taiwan,” Carrie said. “Hired hands?”

“We believe so. The working theory is that it’s the Tong Wars redux, right down to fighting of brothels and the trafficking of slave girls,” McCaskey said. “Foot soldiers working for gang leaders. In this case, though—and it’s the worst-case scenario—the leaders could be Beijing heavyweights. It will be tough to get to them.”

“Maybe,” General Carrie said. “Do you remember how Jack Manion dealt with the tongs?”

“Not actually, General.”

“His background was required reading when I went over to G2,” the general said. “In 1920, a gentleman named Dan O’Brien took over as San Francisco’s chief of police. He put his childhood friend Manion in charge of the Chinatown Squad. Inspector Manion recruited Chinese to infiltrate and inform on the warring factions, on shipments of heroin, on contracted hits. He made sure his men were there to intercept and interdict. He even came up with early electronic surveillance devices, such as electrified doormats to let him know how many people were inside a room. Manion also made protecting his sources a high priority. He always had his own men on the street where spies could go with information or for protection. Not only did Manion end the violence, but after ten years in the precinct, the grateful Chinese refused to let him leave. He stayed there until his retirement in 1946.” She leaned forward. “We need that here.”

“In China or in general?” McCaskey asked.

“Both. Our immediate concern will be making sure that we’ve got a blast shield for whatever is blowing up in China,” Carrie said. “I don’t care if they kill each other. But like Manion, I don’t want that spilling into the streets. Not the streets of Charleston or the streets of Taipei.”

“I still don’t see how we’re going to get close to the Chinese leaders,” McCaskey said. “We don’t have a deep well of HUMINT personnel and none over there. Are there resources you can call on?”

“There may be,” she said. “Let’s wait and see what the CA patrol turns up over there.”

CA was a chase and apprehend mission. In Carrie’s experience it was more often than not a full-fledged CAT operation: chase, apprehend, and terminate. Most spies and enemy infiltrators did not like to be apprehended.

McCaskey and Stoll left. Carrie slipped the CD into the computer and listened to the exchange between the bombers. The back-of-the-throat sound of the Chinese language was strikingly unfamiliar, but it was clear that both men were talking. They were definitely equals. They had been hired by someone else.

The prospect of facing a crisis this big on her first day in the director’s seat both scared and invigorated the general. She could not help but wonder if someone at the Pentagon or the White House had anticipated this.

“Toss it to the chick with three stars. See how she handles the long ball. . . .”

She would handle it just fine. Not only because her career depended upon it but because of something more important.

Lives did.

SEVENTEEN

Taipei, Taiwan Tuesday, 4:22 A.M.

Senior Inspector Loke Chichang and Lieutenant Hanyu Yilan were partners at the Taipei Municipal Police Force CID—Criminal Investigation Division. Chichang was a twelve-year veteran, Yilan a five-year man. Chichang came from a family of soldiers and had extensive training in judo and marksmanship. Yilan was a graduate of the Central Police University with a doctorate in criminology. Chichang was a wide, burly man with muscle stacked on muscle. Yilan was barely 115 pounds of bone. Chichang had a wife and three children. Yilan did not.

But both men had at least one thing in common. A passion to protect their homeland.

They had been at home when they heard the explosion in the harbor. They immediately went to the stationhouse, fearing that Taiwan might be under attack. That had been ruled out by the time they arrived—not through detective work but because nothing else blew up. A report from Interpol provided additional information: the bombing was the work of two men. Listening squads in vans were being positioned about the city, scanning cell phone conversations to find a match for their voice patterns. Chichang and Yilan joined one of the units, sitting in patrol car seventeen behind a van. The precinct commander wanted a police presence around the city. That was not just to reassure the population but to force the perpetrators to hide.

To compel them to use a wireless phone.

Voiceprints, radio triangulation, and similar technologies both impressed and frightened Chichang. The forty-year-old reasoned that if the police could watch lawbreakers, criminals could also watch police. That was one reason he did not use a cell phone. When he needed to call home, he pulled over to one of the increasingly rare pay phones and put his coins in the slot. The other reason was that he already had enough gear hanging from his belt, from his gun to his radio to pepper spray and a baton. Moreover, he did not want to carry something that might beep or vibrate as he moved into a hazardous situation. His point-to-point radio was easy to turn off with just the press of a button. After that, it stayed silent and still.

“We’ve had a hit in the Daan District,” the CID dispatcher said over the phone. “One hundred percent match over a cell phone.”

Yilan was at the wheel. He pulled the patrol car from the curb and quickly headed west.

“The target is in the Cho-Chiun Hotel,” the dispatcher went on. “Cars three, seventeen, twenty, and twenty-one are closest. There is an underground parking structure. That is the rendezvous location. A bomb squad and backup are on the way, coming in silent, headlights only. Everyone else is to be turned away.”

That was not just for safety, of course. One of the incoming cars could be the bombers’ ride.

Chichang removed his snub-nosed .38 from its shoulder holster. He checked his weapon. Taiwan was not a society accustomed to guns and shoot-outs. Even among the police, pistol craft was a low priority and infrequently needed. Most crime was committed by thugs with clubs or knives. Homicide was relatively rare because it was difficult to get away from the crime scene and from the island nation. Chichang was a rarity, a true marksman. He had recently scored a 98 percent, the department’s highest ever, in the yearly handgun test. The examination involved eight points of ability: decision shooting against pop-up targets, reduced-light shooting, hitting moving targets, the use of cover when under fire, shooting to disable, alternate position shooting, reloading drills, and malfunction drills. The inspector would have earned a perfect score if a pigeon had not flown onto the range. Chichang did not think the bird was part of the test, but he could not be sure. He chose to shoot it. It was the wrong choice.

The gun was loaded, the safety was off, and the hammer mechanism was functioning free and clear, as his father used to describe it. The former army officer was the one who first taught his son how to shoot. Chichang slipped the weapon back into the holster as his heart began to speed up. The inspector had discharged his gun only once in all his years on the police force. That was during a raid on a drug factory in a harbor warehouse. He had wounded a pusher in the shin when the individual swung an AK-47 toward him. The victim was fifteen. He was sentenced to the same number of years in prison. Chichang was commended for his restraint.

The patrol car tore through the misty morning. They reached the hotel in under five minutes. Two of the other cars had already arrived. They parked in the small underground garage. As the ranking officer, Chichang was in charge of the operation. He told the two hotel security men to make sure all the exits were locked, including roof and cellar doors. Then he went to the front desk. According to the concierge, 418 was the only room in which two men were registered. Chichang asked the bellman to describe the layout of the floor. The room was relatively near the elevators. The two men might hear the bell if he went up that way.

The hotel was one of the older structures in the district, and there was only one stairwell. There were two windows, which overlooked the rooftop of a small grocery store. It was a two-story drop. Chichang instructed one of the police officers to go to that roof. He had one of the housekeepers go with him to point out the window of 418. If either of the men tried to escape, the officer was to open fire. His goal was to keep them inside, not to kill them.

The inspector took a master key from the desk and ordered Yilan and two other men to come with him. He sent one of the men to the fifth floor so the bombers could not go up. He left the other man on the third floor to block their descent. He and Yilan exited on the fourth floor. Yilan’s job was to make sure that if the two men got past him, they did not try to get into another room and take hostages. The bombers had taken a corner room beside a linen closet. The room on the other side was occupied by a couple from England.

“I’m wondering if we should wait for the bomb squad and body armor,” Yilan said. “They may have more explosives.”

“If we’re quick, they won’t have time to prime them.”

“They may already have done so,” Yilan observed.

“If we wait too long, they may hear the quiet, start to wonder if something is wrong. We need to move quickly if we want to surprise them.”

“What about a chain on the door? Surely they would have used one.”

“That’s why I need you here,” the inspector said. They reached the door, and Chichang removed his handgun. He handed the brass key to Yilan. “You open it,” he whispered, pointing toward the room. Then he hunkered his right shoulder toward the door and put his weight on his right leg.

Yilan nodded in understanding.

He put the key in the lock as carefully as he could to make as little noise as possible. He turned to the right. The deadbolt slid back, and the door popped open. The chain was not on. But there was a very thin wire between the door and the jamb. It moved when the door swung inward. It pulled a plug from a detonator cap. The cap was stuck in a wad of plastique. It blew the top half of the door and the frame outward, slashing the two police officers with pieces of wood ranging from splinters to large fragments. They screamed and were tossed backward by the blast. Yilan took the brunt of the explosion, which tore a large, lethal hole through his rib cage. Chichang lost most of his face in the initial explosion. He also lost his right hand when the gunpowder in the shells detonated. He lay on the floor, his legs stretched across the carpet as his own blood mingled with that of Yilan.

The two bombers tossed aside the bedspread they had been holding over their heads. They pushed open the shattered door, stepped over the two bodies, and ran down the hall. They had been alerted by a call from the front desk. The Guoanbu maintained a covert sleeper presence in several Taiwanese businesses. This hotel was one of them. The concierge had no idea how the bombers were pinpointed. The only thing they could think of was that the cell phone had been compromised in some way. They had placed a short call to a relay boat in the East China Sea, letting their employer know that they had escaped the site. If they had been injured or captured, it could have led investigators to Director Chou.

The linen closet was unlocked, and the two men ducked inside. The officers who had been stationed on the staircase came running when they heard the blast. The bombers waited until they heard the men talking beside the blownout door. Then they pushed open the closet door and ran to the stairwell. The door afforded them the moment of cover they needed to get away.

The two men hurried down the concrete steps. They got off on the second floor, which had a ballroom and a small kitchen. The doors were unlocked. They went inside, swung around a butcher-block island, and went to an emergency exit. It was there in case of fire in the kitchen. The steps were inside and led to a nondescript door near the Dumpster in an alley. Unless someone knew it was there, they would not think to look for it. The men listened, heard nothing, then opened the door a crack. There was no one in the alley. The CID had done a classic off-premises entry. The patrol cars were probably parked in a place where they would not have been heard or seen.

The two men walked into the damp, chill, early morning mist. They had arrived that same day and had no luggage. The explosives had been provided by a mainland loyalist in the Taiwanese military. They had planned to leave Taiwan the same way they came in, by a China Airlines flight through Tokyo. They would still do so, only now they would spend the next few hours at the White Wind all-night bar on Kunming Street instead of in their hotel room.

They had no way of notifying Director Chou that they had escaped. The cell phone had been attached to the plastique they applied to the door. The concierge had said he would call the boat with news of the getaway.

The men walked to the bar and went directly to the lavatory to wash the distinctive tart smell of the plastique from their hands. The bedspread, at least, had prevented their clothes from being covered with dust. They had walked off any traces that might have stuck to their soles.

Dawn came quickly, burning off the mist and allowing the two bombers to slip away, like human vapor.

EIGHTEEN

Washington, D.C. Monday, 5:00 P.M.

Paul Hood felt mortified after talking with Mike Rodgers, though he was not sure why.

Horseshit, he scolded himself in a flash of candor. You know damn well what the reason is. He was humiliated because Mike Rodgers had come out on top. The guy who had been dismissed had not only landed upright but next to a ladder that let him scurry right back to the top. And beyond. Hood had landed on his ass and had to be picked up by the president and dusted off by the chief of staff. As Hood discovered, and as Rodgers had intimated, that was not a pleasant experience.

Lorraine Sanders came to Hood’s office as scheduled. She entered after knocking but before he told her to come in. He did not have time to put on his blazer, which was hanging from the back of his chair. Sanders’s mind was obviously somewhere else as she informed Hood that two temporary assistants were getting an on-site briefing at the new office. They would be prepared to take Hood around in the morning. She said that he was free to spend as much time in either office as he wished. A car would be at his disposal, though Hood told Sanders he preferred to drive himself.

“Are you trying to make the rest of us look bad?” the woman asked with a critical grin.

“Just a preference,” he replied.

“You’d be the only senior staff member without a driver,” she pointed out. “There are also security issues. We’d feel better if you used him.”

“ ‘We’ as in the president? Are you speaking for him?”

“I know that is what he would want,” she replied.

“I’ll think about it,” Hood replied with a smile only slightly less insincere than her own.

What she had said to him was close to the truth. If he did not use a driver, someone in the press or the General Accounting Office might notice. They might wonder why anyone but the president and vice president needed a chauffeur. Perks might have to be sacrificed to keep the peace. Hood had always used that drive time to think. When he was mayor of L.A., he took public transportation to encourage its use. And Hood did not like the fact that Sanders was speaking for the president without even having discussed this with him.

Sanders’s smile evaporated as she gave Hood a CD containing intelligence matters that concerned the president. Hood promised to review them.

“I would also like to talk to him about a matter involving the PRC,” Hood told Sanders.

“Talk to me,” she said.

“Prime Minister Le Kwan Po has requested information about an upcoming satellite launch at the Xichang space center. The satellite was built by Unexus, the firm run by my former deputy Mike Rodgers. He’s concerned that there may be an attempt to sabotage the booster.”

“Unexus is a firm with a minor American component, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know the exact proportion—”

“Why should this administration be concerned about what is basically foreign-built hardware for a potentially hostile government?”

“The trajectory will carry the rocket over the Pacific,” Hood said. “If it blows up after launch, radiation from the plutonium power source is going to hit the atmosphere like Mardi Gras confetti. Some of that could come down in Hawaii or along the West Coast.”

“I see,” Sanders said. “And do you really think the prime minister will tell us what he knows?”

“The Chinese obviously have some kind of spitting contest going on,” Hood said. “He may be ready for a hand.”

Sanders nodded and looked at her watch. “The president will be finishing his meeting with the Joint Chiefs in about five minutes. I’ll pass this along.”

“Fine. But before you go, tell me why I had to stand here and justify my request,” Hood said. “It was my understanding that ‘I’d like a minute with the president’ was all I needed to tell you.”

She smiled more sincerely now. “You think too much,” she said. “I’ll let you know what the president says.”

The phone beeped as Sanders was leaving the office. The room was small enough so that Hood could grab the call and tap the door shut with his foot at the same time. He was aware of a sharpness in the little kick, a little Stuff it gesture to the retreating chief of staff.

“Paul Hood,” he said. He began rolling up his shirtsleeves like he used to do when he got to work at Op-Center or on a construction site in Los Angeles. Only now there was nothing to do.

“Paul, it’s Bob. The Taiwanese screwed up.”

“How?”

“The bombers got away,” Herbert said. “They killed two cops and blew up the cell phone when they did. We aren’t going to be hearing from them again.”

“Aren’t the police still looking?”

“No one saw them,” Herbert said. “No one who survived. And the descriptions from the hotel workers are not giving them enough to go on.”

“What are the implications?” Hood asked, adding, “I don’t just mean for Mike’s launch.”

“That’s tough to say, Chief,” Herbert said. Was the use of the title a lapse or a sign of respect? Hood did not know, but it was nice to hear. “It’s not likely that these were the same people working in Charleston or Durban. They’d be two very tired men, and you don’t want tired men handling explosives. If there’s a network of bombers, and they were already positioned only in soft targets—for whatever reason—I would say the rocket launch is safe. But these three blasts could be the warm-ups for one or more big attacks. Perhaps the prime minister has insight we lack. We need to find out.”

“I agree,” Hood said.

“Did you make progress on your end?”

“I’m about to,” Hood replied. He was still standing beside his desk. He glanced at the closed door as if it were an enemy.

“I don’t follow.”

“I’ll call you when I get back from Olympus,” Hood promised.

The new special envoy to the president hung up the phone and left his office. He did not bother rolling his shirtsleeves back down. He had something to do, and it was in the Oval Office.

The Joint Chiefs were making their way down the corridor like a green glacier. They were talking quietly among themselves, ignoring the nonmilitary staff that moved past them. If the president were Zeus, then these were the Titans, anchored by Army General Raleigh Carew. The Minnesotan stood six foot five and carried himself even taller. Hood sidled by. At the end of the hallway he entered the office of the president’s executive secretary, Julie Kubert. They had not been introduced earlier, but she knew who he was and greeted him by name. The door to the Oval Office was open to her left. Debenport was on the phone.

“I’d like to see the president,” Hood said.

The white-haired woman looked at her computer. “How is tomorrow morning at ten fifteen—”

“Today,” Hood said. “Now would be good.”

The former executive secretary to the publisher of the Chicago Tribune—which supported Debenport—looked over. “The president of Laos is waiting in the Red Room, Mr. Hood.”

“Appropriate,” Hood remarked. He cocked his head toward the Oval Office. “Is he speaking with Ms. Sanders?”

“Mr. Hood—”

“Has she been to see him?”

“Mr. Hood, they are scheduled to review the day at sixfifteen, as always. Now, do you want an appointment for tomorrow or not?”

“Ms. Kubert, there’s something going on that I must discuss with the president, and soon.”

“If it will shut you up, Paul, come in,” Debenport said.

“Thank you,” Hood said to Kubert. Then he turned and entered the Oval Office. “I’m sorry, Mr. President, but I need to speak with Prime Minister Le Kwan Po.”

“The Chinese fence-sitter,” the president said. “Why?”

“He may be sitting on intel we need,” Hood replied.

Lorraine Sanders rushed in. She obviously had been alerted by Ms. Kubert. The chief of staff said nothing as she took up a position beside the president’s desk. Arms folded, she glared at Hood.

Hood ignored her. When the president was still Senator Debenport, and head of the Congressional Intelligence Oversight Committee, he would often pit factions one against the other, then step aside as they slugged it out. The survivor was someone he wanted on his side. Hood did not know if that was the case here. It would not be a bad tactic to put sinew into a new administration. If this were a gladiatorial showdown, Hood did not intend for it to end with Sanders’s foot on his neck. Either he would win or leave the arena.

Hood told the president what he had already explained to Sanders, adding the new information from Bob Herbert. He made the presentation as concise as possible. The president listened, then rose and walked from behind the desk. He came around the side opposite from where Sanders was standing.

“Ms. Sanders, have Ambassador Hasen look into a meeting,” the president said. “Paul, get yourself over to our embassy in Beijing.”

“Sir?”

The president stopped beside Hood. “If there’s infighting in Beijing, we need to know. It might help to have General Rodgers with you. He can go to observe the launch, I presume.”

“I don’t see why not.”

“As for Op-Center, I want you to talk to General Carrie before you leave. The Joint Chiefs were just in here. They mentioned something in passing that obviously dovetails with this.”

“What’s that, sir?” Sanders asked. It was an obvious effort to become part of a project she had not felt was terribly important. Until right now.

“General Carrie has requested that a small group of marines be seconded to Op-Center for a possible security mission in Beijing,” the president told Hood. “One that will be defined as information becomes available.”

“Did she say what kind of security mission it would be?” Hood asked.

“The president said it would be defined later,” Sanders said.

“What I mean, sir, would it be at the launch site, at the embassy, or a black ops action somewhere else?” Hood asked the president, ignoring Sanders.

“The Joint Chiefs did not tell me, and I did not ask. There was no point. As I told you before, Paul, General Carrie was pushed on me as the head of Op-Center. If the military is planning some kind of new and covert direction for Op-Center, I want to know what it is—not what they tell me it is.”

“Understood,” Hood said.

“It’s good you have someone you trust on the inside,” the president told him. “Tell Herbert to keep one eye on the NCMC . . . and one on his ass.” He winked, then did not look back as he headed toward the door.

Hood looked over at Lorraine Sanders. Her arms were still crossed, and her expression was still sour. Debenport’s inner circle had a reputation for resenting outsiders. If Hood let that bother him, he would never be able to do his job.

“I’ll have the travel office arrange for a ticket to Beijing,” she said to him.

“Thanks.”

She walked toward the door, stopping beside Hood. “If you do that again, I’ll feed you to General Carew. I swear it.”

“Are you working for him? Should the president be concerned?”

“No,” she replied thickly. “I just happen to know the general likes chewing up starchy little bureaucrats.”

She crossed the blue carpet with its gold symbol of the presidency, leaving Hood alone for a moment in the Oval Office. He had always understood why presidents became paranoid, why they installed recording devices in the West Wing. He just hated being a part of that intrigue. The people at Op-Center had always pulled together toward a single goal: protecting the United States and its interests from chaos. Here, they helped to create it.

As he left the Oval Office and the pointedly averted eyes of Ms. Kubert, Hood was suddenly more afraid of his own team than he was of the Chinese.

NINETEEN

Beijing, China Tuesday, 4:40 A.M.

Li-Li would be proud. The prime minister arrived at his office shortly after three A.M. His visitors were already there. Le Kwan Po had made them wait.

Blinking hard to chase away the fog of exhaustion, he looked over data that had been sent from the Xichang space center, hand-carried by his aide and placed in a safe. Against opposition, Le Kwan Po had supported international involvement with the project. It was not just a matter of having a sophisticated communications satellite at their disposal. It was a question of being able to deconstruct the technology, study it, and build the next generation of homegrown Chinese satellites.

A number of old-school members of the government did not like the idea of commissioning work from other nations. Stealing blueprints and technology was acceptable, a legitimate function of the state. Paying for it was to admit a need, to show weakness. A technologically advanced satellite could not compensate for a bowed head. Men like Chou Shin were unyielding in matters like that. What Le did not know was whether they were willing to promote internecine warfare.

The security arrangements were no different than they were for other launches. Unless he could forge some kind of peace very soon, that would have to change. Chou and Tam Li both had access to the old codes. They knew the standard distribution of manpower throughout the site and what areas engineers would be watching as the countdown progressed.

They knew that this was the centerpiece of the National Day celebration honoring the founding of the People’s Republic of China.

Something would have to be done about this. Le would try reasoning with the men, though that had never worked in the past. Perhaps now, with their feud becoming public, their attitude would be different. A news report from Taiwan had just arrived. It underscored the need for someone to take control of this situation. Bulletins from the breakaway republic were automatically sent to all Chinese government officials. Le read about the attempted arrest at the Taipei hotel. The Cho-Chiun was a safe house for Chinese spies. There was no doubt in his mind who the police had been pursuing. He would be interested to find out how they tracked the men there. He called the vice chairman of the Standing Committee on Regional Security to see if he knew anything more. The vice chairman had been up since hearing of the nightclub bombing. He had confirmed through intercepted radio transmissions what Le had suspected, that the Taipei Municipal Police had been given assistance by Interpol. The SCRS did not know who had provided the international police with their information.

To clear his mind, the prime minister also reviewed an updated guest list for the reception he would be hosting the following evening. A few ambassadors had been added, and several journalists had been removed. Leading academics in the sciences and arts would also be attending. Le’s daughter Anita was among them. The forty-year-old woman was a professor of literature and head of the doctoral arts program at Beijing University. Poised, articulate, and lovely, she was a favorite of the premier. Le often said, only partly in jest, that it was her status that had given him job security rather than vice versa. The cocktail party was in honor of the fifty-eighth National Day. The reception was an opportunity for people to mingle and exchange ideas.

At least, on the surface.

When he was ready, Le Kwan Po lit a cigarette and went to the sitting room adjoining his office. The foreign minister was pacing, Chou Shin was sitting in a red leather armchair with his chin on his chest and his eyes shut, and General Tam Li was tucked against one side of a white sofa, his right arm poised on the armrest as he stared straight ahead. He was smoking a hand-rolled cigarette stuffed with strong Hongtashen tobacco. He was catching the ashes on a copy of the newspaper resting under his elbow. Only the foreign minister reacted to the prime minister’s arrival.

“Is everything all right?” De Ming asked solicitously.

“We would not be here if it were,” Le said as he shut the office door. He walked toward the men. The prime minister did not apologize for making them wait. General Tam Li continued to stare ahead. Chou woke and sat up straight. “Did any of you see the latest report from Taipei?” Le knew they had not, since the time stamp was 4:29 A.M. They all looked over.

“What has happened now?” De Ming asked. The man’s hovering attentiveness was replaced by real concern. Not just about the event but for knowledge the prime minister possessed that he did not.

Le sat in a rocking chair. He leaned forward and took an ashtray from the coffee table by the sofa. He told the three men about the explosion at the Taipei hotel and the subsequent escape of the bombers.

The men seemed surprised by the news—for different reasons, the prime minister suspected.

“Do the Taiwanese police know who the hotel guests were?” Chou asked.

“Which information is the director of the Guoanbu concerned about?” General Tam Li asked as he blew smoke from the side of his mouth. “The names of the men or the fact that Taipei might have identified them?”

Chou did not reply.

The prime minister regarded the spy chief. “I would like to know the answer to that, Director Chou.”

The seventy-one-year-old hard-liner snickered. “Is that why we were called from our beds? To be interrogated by an amateur?”

“The technique is not important. The information is,” the prime minister replied. “It is no secret that the distinguished director of the Guoanbu and one of our most honored soldiers are not getting along. The foreign minister has kept me informed about attacks against Chinese interests abroad. These incidents do not seem to have been random. I hope both of you can tell me more about them.”

The foreign minister did not look happy. The prime minister did not care. Le wanted these men to know that De Ming Wang was a self-serving opportunist and not a potential ally.

“My interest in Taipei is professional,” Chou replied. He regarded Tam Li for the first time. “As for this honored soldier, the general and I have a very different vision of China and its place in the world. My views are in accord with the values and policies of the Zhōngúo Gòngchandang . His are not.”

Chou was near reverent when he mentioned the Communist Party of China. The spy master obviously did so to suggest that an attack on him was an attack against the nation itself.

“General?” Le asked.

“I do not intend to sit here as my devotion to our nation and its party are questioned,” Tam Li replied. His mild surprise at the news from Taipei had diminished. He continued to look ahead and not at anyone in the room. “Director Chou has failed to answer the prime minister’s question. I would like to know the answer as well. I would also like to know whether the resources of the Guoanbu are being used in ways other than their regulations permit.”

“Is there evidence of this?” the prime minister asked. He looked from the general to the spy chief. Until Le had more information—any information—he did not wish to take sides. Ultimately, there might not be a need to. Not if he could get the men to do that work for him.

Neither man spoke. Le did not bother asking the foreign minister. De Ming would not say anything, even if he knew.

The prime minister drew on his cigarette. He exhaled slowly. He had the authority to empanel a Special Bureau of Investigation to examine these matters. The ten-member group would be hand-picked by the minister of justice from among the representatives of twenty-three administrative divisions of China. Because the members came from outside the executive branch, the legislative branch, and the military, an SBI was generally unbiased and untouchable. The representatives were prohibited, by law, from seeking higher office. They had nothing to gain by coloring their findings.

But an SBI would not act quickly. And the prime minister needed immediate results, especially if the launch might be at risk. He also needed to keep the foreign minister from moving against him.

“Does the foreign minister have any comments?” Le asked.

“Chinese citizens were killed in the United States and Taipei,” De Ming said. “I would suggest at the very least an oversight committee be formed to collect information from foreign sources.”

“To place blame or redirect it?” General Tam Li asked.

Le regarded the officer. “I ask again, General. Do you have information you wish to share?”

“None,” Tam Li told him. “Only an observation. Absent détente, this situation will escalate.”

The prime minister did not bother to ask him how or when. No one seemed to want to say anything incriminating, something that might help an opponent. “What would it take to establish peace?” Le asked.

“There can be no peace without a singular vision,” Chou said. “We have a system of beliefs in China, one established by great men. One put in place through the sacrifice of millions of lives. There can be no deviation from that.”

Tam Li rolled what was left of his cigarette between his fingers. His pale eyes were fixed on the glowing tip. “The number of smokers in China surpasses the population of the United States. Should all of us smoke the same brand? Should those who do not smoke be forced to do so? I am told by my physician that millions of souls have died for that right as well.”

“Your comments are sickening,” Chou snapped. “They diminish the sacrifice others have made.”

“I had hoped to provide perspective,” Tam Li replied quietly.

“You failed,” Chou said. “Mr. Prime Minister, this meeting is pointless, and I am tired.”

“You should consider retiring,” the general said and then looked at the spy chief. “To bed, I mean.”

Chou Shin regarded the prime minister. “Is there anything else we need to discuss?”

“Not at the moment, thank you,” Le replied. The spy chief had just given him what he needed.

The head of the Guoanbu bowed slightly toward the foreign minister, then to the prime minister, then left.

“Ideologues are easy to bait,” the general said.

“Why did you want to?” Le asked. “You do not advocate our political philosophy?”

“I support the land,” Tam Li replied. “I support China, whatever form that takes. One day it is a dynasty, an empress, one day it is a party called Communism. The next day we are all looking the other way as Hong Kong and Taiwan force us to tolerate new ideas.”

“Not everyone tolerates them,” the foreign minister pointed out.

“No. Director Chou does not. Others do not. As a general, I have been trained to watch and evaluate the currents of battle. This one, the one Director Chou is fighting, is a losing one.”

“Do you think the director loves China any less than you, less than any of us?” Le asked.

“No. But he is a jealous lover.”

“A violent one?”

General Tam Li smiled self-consciously. He put the stub of the cigarette between his lips, then carefully folded the paper full of ashes. He stood and dropped the paper in a wastebasket. Then he walked over to the prime minister and put his cigarette in the ashtray.

“No, Mr. Prime Minister,” the general said.

“He is not a violent man?” Le asked.

“No—I will say nothing more,” Tam Li continued. “Director Chou and I share this much: the belief that a man fights his own battles.”

“Such battles could hurt China,” the prime minister pointed out.

“Internal struggle, however painful at the time, invariably strengthens the host. It builds new defenses, discards aspects of a system that do not work. If the system fails, it was not healthy to begin with.”

“We are talking about escalating attacks on Chinese holdings, not debates in the People’s Congress,” the prime minister complained.

“You are just giving us idealistic words and sweeping ideas,” the foreign minister added impatiently.

“What is Communism if not that?” Tam Li asked.

The foreign minister threw up his hand in disgust. Then he excused himself and left the room. The prime minister set the ashtray aside and rose. “General, I don’t care whether you and Director Chou claw each other to pieces,” he said. “I am not worried about the survival of China. I am, however, very concerned about the launch of the Red Eagle on Thursday. Your command will use it to link communications that are currently using landlines.”

“That is a piggyback function,” Tam Li replied.

“One of many, yes,” Le said. “That is why the Ministry of Science turned to a foreign firm to build the mainframe. Their design allowed us to plug in multiple utilities, to consolidate what would have been several launches into one. I am concerned that your conflict with Director Chou may affect that launch.”

“I don’t see how I can help you,” Tam Li said. “We have a strong philosophical difference.”

“Yes, and it has taken physical form, like the spirit in the old story of Zong Dingbo and the Ghost,” the prime minister said. “In that form the ghost was able to destroy and to be destroyed.”

“As I recall from my childhood, it was a careless ghost,” the general said. “But a ghost must be a ghost, whatever the consequences.”

“The satellite is bigger than your dispute,” Le said angrily. The prime minister was too practical for this. Like Director Chou, Tam Li was a man who would follow principle through the gateway to hell.

“Do you know what our argument is about?”

“You sell people,” Le said. “At least, that is what I am told.”

“It is not true, Mr. Prime Minister. I collect an honorarium for advice, for helping other men conduct trade.”

“Slave trade—”

“Not to me and not to them,” Tam Li said. “These are people who want to leave China, people who do not want to be a part of Director Chou’s world. Like me, they want to make more money. Unlike me, they leave. I collect my legal fee for the same reason that my soldiers gamble or occasionally traffic black market goods. Because we do not make enough money to raise and educate our families. In Russia, men in my position are selling outdated weapons. In the United States, some men sell military secrets. China benefits from both because our government is willing to pay them. We, who offer our lives in the defense of our nation, must make do with what the government has left. Which is not very much.”

“Soldiers are always underpaid,” Le said. “But they do not have to depend on crops or tourists or the whims of commerce to earn a living. Their salary may not be substantial, but it is regular. They are never hungry, and they always receive medical attention.”

“Until new technologies reduce our numbers,” the general said. “You know as well as I that even exotic hardware like the Red Eagle is going to reduce the need for communications units. The new Song-class submarines require half the crew of the older models. In my lifetime I may become redundant. I do not farm. I do not weave. I will not beg to give Japanese and American visitors a tour of the Great Wall. You may not like it, and Director Chou absolutely does not like it, but I stand for many, and I will not back down. Tell me, Mr. Prime Minister. Are you asking me to do so because I happen to be the last one here, or do you agree with Director Chou?”

“I cannot sanction what you do, but I do not support Chou’s actions.”

“You won’t tell him that, though, because he represents the party, and the party is the embodiment of Mao,” the general said. “To challenge him is to challenge the great revolutionary.”

Le said nothing.

“Then I suppose I stand for you as well,” Tam Li said. “I will resist the assault of Director Chou Shin because his China belongs to another century. We evolve, Mr. Prime Minister. We always have. With our diversity of people and cultures and even climates, we have no choice. If we don’t, we will fracture.” He smiled. “What kind of love can exist without a big and enlightened embrace?”

Tam Li left, his shoes squeaking as he crossed the blue carpet. New shoes. The prime minister looked down. His own shoes were not new.

And his ideas? the prime minister wondered.

Le went back to his office. He looked out the window at the soft arrival of dawn. He did not know what he had accomplished by bringing everyone together, other than to confirm what the two men were thinking, feeling, and in some cases doing. His desire to separate them and then reason with the one he hoped was the more tractable had not worked. He had not even neutralized a potential threat from the foreign minister. De Ming had been driven, slightly, toward the side of Director Chou. The general was a closet capitalist, someone who still performed his job and was a danger to no one who did not get in his way. Chou was an idealist, someone with the means and allies to attack anyone who did not share his vision.

That could include the prime minister. It could include a scientific project that enriched foreign corporations.

But the night was not a complete loss. Le had realized something. His problem might be bigger than he imagined. General Tam Li stood to lose something, too, with the successful launch of the Red Eagle. What the PLA gained in efficiency it surrendered in manpower. And as Tam Li had suggested, a general without troops is not a general. He is a retiree.

Tam Li and Chou Shin both had something to gain by the destruction of the satellite. Unfortunately, this was also true:

If either of them won, Le Kwan Po lost.

TWENTY

Washington, D.C. Monday, 7:00 P.M.

Paul Hood was baffled by the president’s comments about marines being seconded to Op-Center. For one thing, the ambassador would have told the president if he had requested additional security for the embassy. For another, that was an expansion of the NCMC, not a scaling down. Perhaps it represented a honeymoon period for General Carrie, a chance to let her reorganize according to her own vision. But Maryland Senator Luke Murray, the new head of the Congressional Intelligence Oversight Committee, was even more frugal than his predecessor Debenport. Hood did not see anyone convincing the senator to spend money, let alone to revive a military contingent that had recently been abandoned.

Unless there was something going on that Hood knew nothing about. That was certainly a possibility. It was also possible that the president had not been informed. Not every intelligence operation was written up and placed on his desk. Hood hoped to find out more by seeing General Carrie. He called before leaving the White House. Bugs Benet had been happy to schedule the appointment, but there was a new formality in his voice. That was understandable. Bugs had a different boss now. Each man asked how the other was doing. There was something guarded and unnatural about their responses. Perhaps Carrie discouraged familiarity in her team.

The drive to Op-Center was also both familiar and strange. Hood knew the roads, the nuances of the traffic, the colors of the trees under the streetlamps, and the moods of the early evening sky. He recognized the homeless man who stood by the highway and peddled coffee-cup sculptures from a makeshift stand. Hood had once stopped and bought one because he felt bad for the guy. The man, Joe, had used three cups to make a replica of the Capitol. It was not bad. The problems Hood pondered while driving were the same he always contemplated: what to do about an evolving situation overseas that impacted the homeland.

But the drive was not the same. Going to Op-Center was like visiting Harleigh and Alexander. He was going to a house that used to be home. Rules were not made, they were followed.

Upon reaching Andrews AFB, Hood had to stop at the gate. He knew the sergeant who talked to him from the bulletproof guard booth. They had just seen each other that morning. Hood still had to wait while a digital picture was taken by a driver’s-side camera. He had to wait for the guard to check his name on the computer list. He had to wait while the security gate was rolled open. The identity card that was still in his wallet would not have worked in the slot.

Hood parked and entered the upper lobby. The guard knew him, too, but still had to call ahead to let Bugs know that Hood was there. Hood was handed a pass that would work the elevator for just one day. Bugs met him downstairs. The men shook hands. It was no longer just formal. It was damned awkward.

“It’s good to see you,” Hood said.

“Same. The general is waiting.”

Bugs was wearing a smile, but there was no joy in it. There was something else. He looked different. Hood noticed then that his long sleeves were rolled down, and his tie was tightly knotted. Hood had always allowed him to wear it loose with the top button opened. Perhaps Bugs was waiting to be told that was okay. Perhaps he had already been told it was not. It was not a big thing, but a mosaic like Op-Center was built on details like that. One tessera did not change without affecting all the others. A knotted tie might induce formality in Bugs that was passed to others, from their appearance to their work. It had always been Hood’s contention that someone who was bundled too tight would be less inclined to look for—and deliver—fresh insights.

Employees were surprised to see their former boss. There were Bugs-like smiles and a few big hellos, but no one stopped to talk. No one had information for him or a question. Some people might find that liberating. Hood found it disturbing. More and more he felt as he did when he left Sharon and the kids. As though he had not just relocated, he had been dislocated. He needed someone to pop him back in his socket, and it was not happening.

Hood was shown to his office. Or rather, what used to be his office. It looked different. It smelled different. Carrie was a tea drinker. It sounded different. Carrie kept the door closed. Hood did not even have time to thank Bugs before he was shut inside with the general. She stood and shook his hand across the desk. General Carrie did not look like Hood had imagined. She had sharply defined features and a disarming smile that pulled up slightly to the right. Her eyes were soft. So was her voice, though it was not weak.

Nor was her handshake.

The general gestured to one of the armchairs that Hood himself had picked out. She offered him a beverage, which he declined. He sat after she did. That might be politically incorrect, but Hood did not care. Morgan Carrie was still a woman, and women sat first. That was how it went.

“I imagine this is a little strange for you,” the general said.

“Somewhat.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?” she asked.

“Just treat my people well,” Hood replied earnestly.

“I meant, for you,” she said.

“That would help me,” Hood assured her. “Since we never got to do a proper transition, my people—these people—work best in a relaxed atmosphere. When the world is falling down, the NCMC can be a haven. For example, Bugs is a great aide. He doesn’t miss a thing.”

“Mr. Benet seems to be a very effective and knowledgeable man,” the general concurred. “He has helped a great deal today. Of course, there is going to be an evaluation process. I may bring in some people from G2. But I would like to keep as many of the current staff as possible. In any case, Paul, I won’t be making any immediate changes.”

“I understand that,” Hood told her. He felt uncomfortable. He had not intended to get into any of this, but here he was. “It’s more a matter of day-to-day efficiency. Take Bugs again. It’s a small thing, but he works best with his sleeves rolled up and his tie open.”

“He’s free to do so,” Carrie replied. “This is not the army. I stand by the civilian dress code.”

Hood looked at her. “Oh. Okay,” he said. He felt stupid. Obviously, Bugs had tied his tie and buttoned his cuffs to try to please her.

The general leaned forward and folded her hands. “Believe me, Paul. I’m aware of my situation here. I’m in a trial period as well. The man who sat in this chair before me did the brutally difficult job of pleasing a president and his own staff for years. That’s a hell of an accomplishment. My team at G2 was assigned to me. Like it or not, that was their command. Your people were mostly civilians. They stayed because they wanted to. Op-Center did not always run smoothly, I know. Nothing does. But it ran well and effectively. I would be happy to have that on my résumé.”

Now Hood really felt stupid. And also flattered and proud. He had been expecting Mike Rodgers, someone for whom every meeting, every conversation was a form of combat. That was not General Carrie.

The officer sat back again. “Bugs said that the president asked you to come in and talk with me,” she said with her little half smile. “I do not imagine the subject was shirtsleeves.”

“No,” Hood told her. “I am here because I am about to leave for Beijing. Both Bob Herbert and Mike Rodgers are concerned about the launch of the Unexus satellite. The president is more concerned about the stability of the government. He wants me to assess the situation.”

“It is a dangerous one,” Carrie said.

“Was G2 watching any of the players?” Already, Hood felt himself acting like an outside intelligence operative. He did not say, “Were you watching General Tam Li?” He was guarding his information.

“We collected whatever we could on all the major military and intelligence figures,” she replied, equally vague.

“Does anyone stand out?” Hood asked.

“Several,” she replied.

Except for Hood asking, “Who?” they had reached the irreducible and in some ways the most absurd level of intelligence conversation. The you-show-me-yours point. It seemed to be a silly game for adults to be playing. Unfortunately, silly as it might be, it was not a game. In a world where knowledge was power, everyone did it. Even when they were supposed to be on the same team.

Carrie picked up the phone. She tapped the intercom button. Hood had always put it on speaker.

“Send them in,” the general said.

The door opened behind Hood, and Bob Herbert wheeled in. He was followed by Darrell McCaskey. Herbert stopped to the right of Hood’s armchair. The men shook hands. Herbert’s smile was tight, his eyes bloodshot. The man was totally shot. McCaskey also looked a little drawn as he shook Hood’s hand and dropped into the other armchair. Herbert’s tie was open at the top. Darrell’s was not.

“I asked Bob and Darrell to join us,” Carrie said. “I thought it might be useful if we were all on the same page.”

The general looked at the men. At her men, Hood thought. At the men she had made a point of calling at her discretion. Either General Carrie had wanted to show Hood that he could be isolated or made part of a team. In any case, her point was clear: the call was hers to make.

“Paul is going to Beijing at the request of the president,” Carrie told Herbert and McCaskey. “President Debenport asked him to stop here first. Paul was about to tell me what information he needed.”

That, too, was very smooth. She was a natural at the wielding of authority. McCaskey and Herbert looked at Hood. Now he had to tell them something.

“Actually, I’m here to find out why a contingent of marines is being dispatched to the embassy under the auspices of Op-Center,” Hood said.

Carrie seemed surprised by the question. “They are going to gather intel,” she replied.

“In Beijing?” Hood asked.

“In Beijing and elsewhere,” the general told him. “They’re all of Chinese-American heritage. G2 has been training them for years to infiltrate Chinese society, get jobs in and around the seats of government.”

“That’s a good idea,” Herbert said. “We need HUMINT resources who can blend in.”

“Individuals who are not local with variable allegiance that could compromise missions, the integrity of intelligence, and the safety of other operatives,” Carrie replied. “We have been training groups like that for service in dozens of ethnic regions.” She regarded Hood suspiciously. “The Joint Chiefs were aware of that. The president could have asked them.”

“I suppose he could have, but he asked me,” Hood replied innocently.

“It would be unfortunate if the president did not trust his own advisers,” she said incredulously.

“I’ve been a White House crisis manager for less than twelve hours. I cannot say who President Debenport does or does not trust.” Hood replied. He tried to lighten the mood, which had suddenly turned heavy and suspicious. “Maybe my visit here is the equivalent of a West Wing hazing. Toss the new guy into a maelstrom and see what he can do.”

“That’s possible,” Carrie agreed. “Though to me it’s more of a street gang mentality, where you have to pull off a crime before they accept you. Usually it’s against a friend or high-visibility target to prove your loyalty.”

“Did I just miss something?” McCaskey asked uncomfortably. “Are we no longer playing nice?”

“We’re not playing anything, Darrell,” Herbert replied. “I think a second front just got opened.”

Herbert may be tired, but he was not oblivious. Nor anyone’s fool. It was an unsettling thought but, like China, these men were in fact a battleground. Hood had assumed he had been sent here to get inside information about the marines and also to show G2 that there were outside eyes on Op-Center. But what if he was sent not to anchor the White House in the marine operation but to provide a wedge? Perhaps Debenport saw Hood as someone who could divide the loyalties of those who worked at Op-Center, forcing Carrie to keep a balance between the White House and the military—or risk alienating Hood and his people, and having to replace the rest of the battle-seasoned team that was loyal to them. It was a new level of intrigue, one that gave a fresh definition to domestic intelligence.

He was spying on the home team.

“Surely we have larger issues to deal with,” McCaskey said.

The FBI liaison was correct. Unfortunately, the situations were not mutually exclusive. Hood and Carrie locked eyes. He was not sure how he got into yet another conflict with a woman he did not know, but here he was. And here she was. Now they had to see it through.

“Getting back on topic so I don’t miss my flight, will the marines be reporting to G2 or to Op-Center?” Hood asked. That was something the Joint Chiefs would not necessarily have shared with the president.

“Op-Center is chartered to run military and paramilitary operations,” Carrie replied carefully. “G2 is not. As you know, the funding for Striker was rolled back but not the commission itself.”

“They’ll have to report directly to you,” Hood said.

“Of course,” she replied. “I’m the only military officer on staff.”

What the president obviously feared became clearer: that G2 would strip-mine Op-Center for use in its own operations. That would shift the control of intelligence from the federal sector to the military.

Unfortunately, Hood was forced to put all of that aside for the moment. There was still a crisis bubbling abroad. And whether it served the needs of G2 or not, Hood had to admit that the infiltration was a good idea and, just as important, a timely one. Everyone on the inside would be on guard, and people on the outside—from news vendors to bicycle salesmen—would be more inclined to comment on that unrest. In such an environment, the alternately inquisitive or inherently tentative actions of spies would not stand out.

“Will I have access to your team when I’m in Beijing?” Hood asked.

“They have several targets,” Carrie said. “What are yours?”

“I won’t know until I get there,” Hood said.

“That would be the time to discuss it, then,” General Carrie said. “You will, of course, have whatever support and cooperation I can provide, as I’m sure our team can count on yours.”

“Naturally.”

“Bob tells me that General Rodgers hoped you could tap into resources the prime minister may have,” Carrie said. “He assumed, correctly, the president would have better access.”

“That is true,” Hood replied. This had to be awful for Herbert. The intelligence chief was looking down. He was playing with a loose thread on the armrest of his wheelchair.

“You’ll make a connection through our ambassador?” Carrie asked.

“That’s the plan,” Hood said. “I won’t know for certain until I get there.”

“We still don’t know why the prime minister is suddenly worried about the launch,” McCaskey said.

“Or even if he is,” Herbert added. “In a politically tense situation, keeping the Guoanbu out of the loop on a major project may be the prime minister’s way of putting them in their place.”

Like the Joint Chiefs or G2 not giving the president the full story about a marine group seconded to Op-Center, Hood thought. He knew Bob Herbert well enough to detect a subtext in anything the intelligence chief said. From her expression, Carrie did as well. It struck Hood—after just half a day—that this was no different than being a wife or adviser to Henry VIII. Inevitably, your head was vulnerable to wide swings of the ax, whatever you did. The positions to which men and women naturally aspired required an exhausting combination of brawn and diplomacy. If American children knew the truth about being president or anything close to the Oval Office, they would cling to their sane, youthful dreams of being a firefighter or an astronaut.

“Well, I suggest we talk again when you get to Beijing,” Carrie said. “We’ll have a better idea then about how the various scenarios might play out. Bob, do you want to be point man on that?”

“Sure,” he said.

“Very good.” Carrie looked at Hood. “Was there anything else?”

“At some point I’d like to get my photographs and mementos back,” he replied, gesturing toward the desk and wall.

“I’ve asked Bugs to see to that,” she said. “Would you like the items sent to your apartment or office?”

“Office, please,” Hood replied. It was another small thing, but he wanted her to know he intended to be there for a while.

Carrie rose. McCaskey did as well. The general shook Hood’s hand across the desk. “Have a safe and productive trip,” she said.

“Thank you.”

“Ditto,” McCaskey said, offering his hand.

“Yeah, good luck,” Herbert added. “I’ll see you out.”

The men left together, followed by McCaskey, who shut the door behind him. The three moved along the narrow corridor toward the elevator.

“What the hell was all that about?” Herbert asked.

“Which part?” Hood replied.

“For starters, the stuff about the Joint Chiefs. Are we worried about a military coup?”

“Not per se,” Hood replied.

“What does that mean?” Herbert asked.

“I’m not sure.”

“For ‘not sure’ there was a lot of thrust and parry going on back there,” Herbert said, cocking his head toward Carrie’s office.

“I think the general is more ‘sure’ than I am,” Hood said.

“Paul, she was appointed by the president,” McCaskey noted.

“Who was yielding to pressure from the Joint Chiefs,” Hood said, his voice low. “I get the sense there is a realignment taking place,” Hood went on. “Administration changes affect the top levels of the executive branch, but the military is unchanged.”

“Except for the figurehead positions like the secretaries of the different forces,” Herbert said.

“Right. This is a realignment that may have been going on for a while. Debenport probably saw it coming as senator. Now he’s making his own moves to ensure the White House isn’t entirely dependent on the military for intelligence.”

“Which could be self-serving,” Herbert said. “Report instability somewhere, predict a war, get a budget increase.”

“Right again.”

“But the president still has the CIA, the FBI, and the NSA,” Herbert said.

“For now,” McCaskey said. “I didn’t think anything of it before, but over the past two or three years, the Bureau has been recruiting heavily from the ranks of the mustered-out. The HR people say they value the fitness and discipline of the modern American soldier.”

“Why wouldn’t they?” Herbert asked. “I think you’re both being a little paranoid. When I was in Beirut for the Company, I had military advisers and contacts.”

“You were reporting to a civilian then,” Hood said. “You’re reporting to a three-star general now.”

“Mike was a general.”

“And President Lawrence made a point of not putting him in charge,” Hood said. “The president kept the Op-Center command with a civilian.”

“Well, maybe the balance was off in favor of civilians,” Herbert said. “Maybe this is a necessary correction.”

“If this is as far as it goes, I might agree with you,” Hood said. “Obviously, the president has concerns.”

“Well, I think we all need to take a few steps back,” McCaskey said.

“My grandad used to say if you step away from the bear, you may step in the bear trap,” Herbert said.

“We haven’t defined anyone as a bear yet,” McCaskey pointed out. “All I’m saying is, let’s see how it plays out over the next few days.”

“I agree,” Hood said. The men had reached the elevator. Hood swiped his temporary card to open the doors. He entered.

“Paul? You know I’ll do what I can to get those marines if you need them,” Herbert said.

“I know you will,” Hood replied. “That’s why I want you to watch your ass.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think the general knows it, too,” Hood said as the doors slid shut.

TWENTY-ONE

Beijing, China Tuesday, 8:11 A.M.

When he was a boy, Tam Li was self-conscious about the ruddy mole on his left temple. His mother told him it meant he was special, that he had been kissed by the sun. She said this little gift from the sky would watch over him, help him to find his way. She added that she was counting on her “little flame” to lead the way for all of them. His mother meant the family, of course. Tam Li took it to mean something bigger than that. After all, where the sun moved the earth followed.

General Tam Li was gratified when he left the prime minister’s office. Le Kwan Po was not a hard-liner. He was a pragmatist. He was effective at keeping a balance between the old guard and the new without disturbing or affecting either.

That was why the struggle between himself and Chou would continue a little longer. Just long enough to give the general what he really wanted. It had nothing to do with the small profit he made from the slave trade. That was a laboratory. That was how he learned who he could trust and who he could not. The real profit was in doing what men like Tam Li did best: fighting.

The general went from the prime minister’s office to his car, which was parked in the underground garage. He was on the topmost of three levels. During the day, Tam Li had an aide drive him to meetings or airfields. There had not been time to arrange for that now.

The garage was empty at this hour, and the general could see out into the street and watched as a farmer stopped his truck on a street corner and delivered produce to restaurants. His son, who could not have been more than seven or eight, was there to help him. When they were done, they would drive home, and the boy would go to school while the father went into the fields.

Tam Li came from a world like that. His family grew corn on a small farm thirty-five miles from Beijing. They made long drives every day during the seven-month growing season. Their clients were military installations, which was where the young Tam Li became fascinated by the crisp uniforms, the smart salutes, and the imposing weapons. He also learned how officers demanded kickback for allowing vendors onto government property. It was an accepted way of doing business.

Tam Li drove to the small apartment he kept in the city. The apartment was at the top of a four-story structure built in the early 1960s, part of the vast modernization program instituted by Mao. Former military personnel got first pick of the new apartments, an incentive for young men to join. It was a comfortable and spacious residence that he shared with his elderly mother. She had sold the farm three years ago when his father died, and she spent most of her day chatting with women in the courtyard or sitting on the rooftop embroidering. She was a very heavy sleeper, which made it easy for Tam Li to return at any hour.

Attached to the Beijing Military Base Joint Command, and serving a second four-year term as a vice chairman of the powerful Central Military Committee, the general spent half his time in the city and half his time in the field. He got back as the sun was coming up. Tam Li was more alert now than when he had been awakened by the prime minister’s call. He did not want to go back to sleep, even though he had to be well rested for what was to come.

He went into his small office and turned on the radio. He removed his army jacket and hung it carefully in a small freestanding bureau. The office was a windowless alcove off his bedroom. The walls were painted white, and there were no pictures. The desk was bare save for the radio, telephone, and the computer. Tam Li was not a hoarder. He was not sentimental. His vision was external, about the future. He lit a cigarette, sat back in the desk chair, and contemplated the future as he listened to Beijing People’s News, a round-the-clock station of international events. They were still talking about the attack on the police in Taiwan.

Tam Li could not prove that Chou Shin was behind the assaults. Not that proof was required. The men had been adversaries for over twenty years, ever since they met at the Tianjin military base. Over two hundred cadets had come down with a severe case of food poisoning. Tam Li was the officer in charge of the mess, and Chou Shin was an investigator with the PLA internal police detachment. Chou discovered that Tam Li had bought tainted pork in exchange for a sizable payoff from the farmer who had produced it. The inspector was never able to prove that Tam Li knew the meat was bad. In fact, he did not. But another kind of poison had been generated between the two men, a toxic suspicion that was fueled by their very different political beliefs. As the men rose through their respective services, their mistrust and finally hatred also grew. Chou watched Tam Li, and Tam Li did everything he could to put false leads under the intelligence officer’s nose.

This time, however, Chou Shin had tried a different approach. Instead of trying to attach evidence of wrongdoing on Tam Li, he destroyed the offending target altogether. He had struck back with his own reserve plan, the blast in Durban. Chou Shin had retaliated in Taipei. He was trying to show the general that he would not only match his actions but surpass them. Unfortunately, while the Guoanbu director had demonstrated determination, he had not shown sufficient insight.

What Tam Li had told the prime minister was true. Soldiers were not paid enough for the work they did. But for Tam Li, the transportation of indentured women was only a profitable hobby. The real work was being done in a way that Chou and the prime minister would not see.

Until it was too late. While Chou Shin chased prostitutes, slave traders, the general had the real prize tucked somewhere else. Somewhere Chou Shin and Le Kwan Po would never think to look.

The general listened to the weather. It was not true that he only looked ahead. Sometimes he experienced flashes from the past, like now. His father used to stop by the house of old Chan Juan on their way back to the farm. She had a tube filled with mercury, which told them whether the next day would be cloudy or clear. They paid her an ear of corn for her report. It was not just the primitive barometer she used to make her predictions. She also observed the birds and insects and kept careful records from year to year. She was rarely wrong.

Today meteorologists used computers and satellites to generate forecasts. Their predictions were no better than those of Chan Juan. New ways were not always superior; they were simply more complex. In the old days, the general would have challenged a rival like Chou Shin to combat with sword, spear, or staff. Their conflict would be resolved in just a few minutes.

He shook his head as he lit a new cigarette with the old.

Such a tiny red ember, the general thought as he passed the fire from one tip to the other. Yet unchecked, this spark had the power to level a city and, in so doing, bring down a nation. In effect, the only difference between a little flame and a big flame was the amount of time it had to do its work unchecked.

Finishing the cigarette, Tam Li shut the radio off, and then he shut his eyes. A drowsy sense of contentment had come over him, and sleep followed quickly. When he woke, he could hear his mother moving about in the kitchen. He looked at his watch. Two hours had passed.

His legs complained a little when he stood. He ignored them the way his father had ignored his daily aches and stiffness. The general put on his jacket and went to greet his mother. It was late, but not too late to have breakfast with her. After that, he would shower and drive to his office. He had work to do before he had his weekly meeting with the other members of the Central Military Committee.

So they could finalize their plans to do what had to be done while Chou and his old-school dinosaurs prepared to become extinct.

TWENTY-TWO

Arlington, Virginia Tuesday, 8:12 A.M.

It was the first time in a long time that Bob Herbert had not felt like getting out of bed. That was odd, considering that he was going to see his longtime friend and coworker Mike Rodgers.

Herbert had always enjoyed the general’s company, whether it was at work or over a butcher-block tray covered in sushi. He had enjoyed it more than he enjoyed being with Hood or McCaskey or any of his other colleagues. The general was openly bitter about aspects of his life, and Herbert related to that.

Now, though, it was Herbert who felt unhappy and abused by life. That was why he had called Rodgers at home the night before and asked to meet. To talk, to see if Paul Hood was seriously off target about the military or if Herbert was being uncharacteristically naive.

The men were meeting for breakfast at a diner that used to be a Hot Shoppe forty-plus years ago. They had freshsqueezed grapefruit juice and ample handicapped parking for Herbert’s large, custom-built van. The intelligence chief required two spaces for the “pig,” as he called it. The vehicle was also large enough to let him pull off the road and take a nap. He often did that when he felt like scooting home to Mississippi and did not want to be bothered looking for a wheelchair-accessible motel on the way. The van also accommodated the computers and secure uplink equipment he required when he was out of the office.

Rodgers was already there, sitting in a corner booth and reading the newspaper. The former general was one of the few people he knew who not only read several dailies but read the print versions. A pot of coffee sat beside him. If Rodgers had been there more than five minutes, it was already empty.

Herbert wheeled himself along the sun-bleached linoleum toward the booth. It was odd seeing waitresses and truckers, interns and realtors going about their business. He himself felt as though he were in a science fiction movie, one of those films from the 1950s where just one man suspected that aliens might be plotting a takeover. Back then, the science fiction aliens were a metaphor for Communists. Now, the imaginary aliens were a metaphor for the U.S. military.

Rodgers folded away his Washington Post when Herbert arrived. The intelligence chief sat at the end of the table in the aisle. They had taken the back table so he would not be in anyone’s way.

“I appreciate this, Mike,” Herbert said.

“Sure.”

“Do I look as crappy as I feel?”

“Pretty much,” Rodgers replied. “What’s wrong? The new boss or the old one?”

“Both.” Herbert laughed.

“Crunched in the middle of a sudden transition?”

“That’s not it,” Herbert said. “The work is the work. I’m more concerned about what’s behind the transition.”

The waitress came, and the men ordered. Rodgers got a fruit plate and whole wheat toast, no butter. Herbert went for the pancakes deluxe with sausage and grapefruit juice. When the waitress left, the intelligence chief hunched forward. Even though the adjoining table was empty, secrecy was a habit many people formed in and around D.C. Everyone, even Herbert, had an ear out for what other people were saying. Not just spies and reporters but everyday people. There was always someone who knew someone who would want to know such-and-such.

“Paul thinks there may be a power shift taking place,” Herbert said. “He’s concerned that the sudden appointment of General Carrie to Op-Center may be a harbinger of a military takeover of national intelligence.”

“That’s a pretty big leap.”

“That’s what I thought,” Herbert said.

“Anyway, he’s the guy close to the president, and the president is the one who made the appointment.”

“Under pressure from the Joint Chiefs, apparently,” Herbert said.

Rodgers shrugged. “Compromises happen. That doesn’t necessarily mean a seismic shift.”

“No, but as I was thinking about it last night, there was one thing that bothered me.” Herbert leaned even closer. “Debenport was the head of the CIOC. He was getting ready to run for president at the time. If he thought this was something he wanted to do, why did he put your name on top of the downsize list?”

Rodgers frowned. It was obviously still a painful memory.

“Sorry,” Herbert said. “If you don’t want to talk about this—”

“I don’t, Bob. But let’s follow it through,” Rodgers said. “Maybe Senator Debenport wanted to clear the path for a woman. General Carrie may have been on his radar as the most qualified individual. If he had just kicked me out and put her in, that might have been perceived as reverse discrimination. A lot of members of Congress and the military would not have approved, and Carrie would not have enjoyed the legitimacy that position demands.”

“Possible, although you credit Debenport with more forethought than I do,” Herbert said. He glanced around casually, then spoke in a voice barely more than a whisper. “She’s also got Striker back.”

“What?” That surprised him.

“She’s sending four Asian-American marines to Beijing, undercover, through the embassy.”

“For covert or intel activity?” Rodgers asked, also whispering.

“The latter,” Herbert said.

“We had people who could have done that,” Rodgers said.

“Exactly. Two well-trained Asian-Americans from your field staff,” Herbert said. “They weren’t even contacted.”

“You offered their names?”

“As part of my initial sit-down with Carrie,” Herbert said. “It was a short meeting because we had the Chinese situation to check on. But I gave her all the names, from David Battat to Falah Shibli. Our South Korean and Taiwanese associates were in there as well.”

“Has Carrie worked with these marines before?”

“Until yesterday morning she was crunching data at G2,” Herbert said.

“I see.”

Their food arrived. Herbert was silent until the waitress was through. When she left, the intelligence chief took a swallow of juice. The wonderful tartness made him wince. He took a second slug. It was odd that he craved in food what he had no patience for in people.

“Maybe this is just a realignment,” Herbert went on. “Maybe there are too many civilians in the intel business. The Joint Chiefs complain, the president capitulates. But if it was just about equilibrium, why would he create a new post for Paul, one that keeps him very close, unless it was to keep an eye on the brass intel expansion?”

“You mean the president would have just put him out to graze, as he did with me,” Rodgers said.

“Or to stud, depending on how you want to use your time,” Herbert said.

Rodgers held up his wheat toast in answer. “At my age, the penne is mightier than the sword.”

“That’s all in your head.” Herbert grinned. The smile faded quickly. “What about this stuff? Is it all in my head?”

“I don’t know,” Rodgers said as he chewed his dry toast.

“What does your gut tell you?” Herbert pressed. He could tell Rodgers was thinking about it. Thinking hard. He recognized that familiar, unfocused look in the man’s steel gray eyes. It was as though Rodgers were gazing through you, past you, at a hill his unit had to take or a town they had to infiltrate.

“My instincts say there’s something to Paul’s concerns,” Rodgers said. “It’s like Patton after the war in Europe was over. He wanted to start a new conflict with the Soviet Union because the troops were already there, and he reasoned we would be facing them eventually. Most of all, though, he wanted the war because conquering territory is what generals do.”

“So what do we do?” Herbert asked. “Paul and me,” he added. This was not Mike Rodgers’s problem, and he recognized that.

“There is one way we might find out more,” Rodgers said.

“What’s that?”

“It’s been suggested that I go over for the launch,” Rodgers said. “I think I will.”

“Why were you undecided?” Herbert asked. “It’s your satellite.”

“That’s why,” Rodgers said. “As you know, there are elements of the Chinese government who do not want to be reminded of that.”

“Paul’s going over. He’s probably already en route.”

“Right. If I go, I might be able to help keep an eye on the marines. Especially if they go to the Xichang space center.”

“Apart from ticking off some of the Chinese, is there a downside for you?” Herbert asked.

“Only if the rocket blows up,” he said as he took a bite of melon.

Rodgers called his office and asked his secretary to get him on any flight bound for Beijing that afternoon. Then the men sat and talked about Unexus and its plans for the future, which included a satellite that would image the earth in three-dimensional pictures, allowing for unprecedented recon. Herbert promised to keep that one a secret.

What was no secret was how much happier Rodgers was now than even a month ago. Joy would never be a chronic condition for either man, but Rodgers seemed more alive and content than ever. Perhaps he had been steeped too long in the underground world of Op-Center, both physically and emotionally.

As they finished and the men headed back to their cars, Herbert knew one thing for certain. Despite his own great loss a quarter century before, his own journey into that heart of darkness was not nearly as close to a resolution.

If anything, it was just getting under way.

TWENTY-THREE

Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 8:48 A.M.

Before today, Morgan Carrie had only been to Andrews Air Force Base once. That was two years ago, when she was part of a receiving line for a foreign ruler who was making her first trip to the White House. Carrie had been the token two-star at the time. It was not the kind of invitation an officer turned down; it was an order. But it felt dirty to be on display.

Things had changed since then. Carrie was in charge, and others were coming to see her.

The marines, for example.

Carrie did not meet them in the NCMC headquarters but in a ready room beside Hangar 5. It was not a short walk from Op-Center, so she took the golf cart. She would have preferred to walk, but the marines were on a schedule.

The idea of bringing marines into play was hers. It was enthusiastically endorsed by Joint Chiefs Chairman General Raleigh Carew. He said that one of the failures of Op-Center had been the difficulty Hood, Rodgers, and Herbert had in attracting human intelligence operatives in foreign lands. There were the historic problems: fear of repercussions among potential spies and difficulty trusting even those who agreed to help. The answer, Carew believed, was sending what the intelligence community called “passables,” outsiders who could blend in with the local population and were quick studies on customs, fads, and colloquialisms not covered in their training. They were designed to serve as both “spec-tar” units, staying long enough to hit specific targets and then leaving, or as sleeper cells. The military had been working on PITs—Passables Infiltration Teams—for several years. To date, small PITs had been fielded in Iraq and the Philippines under the auspices of G2. They were necessary because local recruits were too easily counterrecruited to spy on Americans. The idea for the PITs was inspired by the German action against Allied forces during the decisive Battle of the Bulge in World War II. Paratroopers dressed, equipped, and trained to speak like Americans were dropped behind Allied lines. Their mission was to destroy gas stores, slash truck tires, disable tanks, and send troops into ambushes; anything to slow the enemy advance while German forces attempted to retake the key port of Antwerp. Hitler also gambled that a long and bloody fight in the winter months would cause the weak alliance between American, British, and Russian soldiers to fray. That would give his newly supplied troops a chance to pick at one side while his diplomats stalled the other with insincere overtures of peace.

When Allied commanders became suspicious of the deception, sentries not only demanded passwords from soldiers but asked questions about baseball teams back home. Men who could not answer were arrested. Sufficient numbers of infiltrators were apprehended, and the push to crush Hitler was successful.

The general arrived at the hangar. The mission coordinator, Captain Tony Tallarico, saluted and showed her into the ready room. The four marines were dressed in civvies and sitting on folding chairs in the center of the small room. Beside them were nondescript backpacks. The three men and one woman had been driven over from Quantico, where they had trained. After Carrie had spoken with them, they would be taken to Dulles for an All Nippon Airways flight to Tokyo. There they would transfer to Air China for the trip to Beijing.

The marines got to their feet and saluted when the general entered. Carrie returned the salute and told them to sit back down. They were all in their early twenties but had eyes that were much, much older.

The general dismissed Tallarico. Soldiers had a formal, somewhat rote way of addressing familiar officers. She wanted to see them fresh, the way the Chinese would see them. Before coming over, she had only had a few minutes to glance at their records, both their real dossiers and the identities G2 had given them. In everyday Chinese life the marines would be posing as two history students, a bicycle repairman, and an electronics technician. She wanted to make sure she could picture them that way before sending them undercover.

“As of this morning you have all been seconded to the National Crisis Management Center,” the general said as she looked from one eager face to the other. “We are the people who stop wars so that people like us don’t get killed. The two of you posing as students—you understand what that job may entail?”

“Yes, sir,” the two replied as one.

She looked at one of them, the woman. “Second Lieutenant Yam,” she said to the woman. “A student confides that he or she is publishing an anti-Communist newspaper. What do you do?”

“I collect as many names as possible, sir, and file them with the NCMC.”

“What if we decide you need to ingratiate yourself with local party functionaries?” the general asked.

“I will provide those names to said functionaries, sir.”

“Even if it means a lengthy period of jail time for people whose politics you support?”

“Regrettably yes, sir.”

General Carrie nodded. “This is not always pleasant work, and it is rarely fair. It is a battle in which innocent lives are regularly lost. The rewards are often very difficult to see. They cannot be measured in terrain won or in an enemy’s quick surrender. This war requires ruthless patience. If you don’t have that, if the life of someone’s son or daughter will cause you to hesitate, I want you to speak now. I will replace you without prejudice. I would rather have to change a tire than drive on three.”

No one spoke.

“Very well then,” she said. “Does anyone have any questions, any last-minute requests or ideas?”

“No, sir,” they all replied.

Their voices were loud and proud, as she expected. These four had been very carefully selected and trained for the maximum-one-year mission. She was lucky to get them. Four others were being trained to back them up. If they were compromised and had to leave China suddenly, the others would be ready to go immediately.

“Just a few spot checks for my own peace of mind,” the general said. “You’ve all got your cover stories as well as the scientific credentials lined up to get into the launch site if that should be necessary?”

“The papers and passes have already been delivered to the embassy,” said one of the men. “One of the female diplomats will make the delivery tomorrow at noon at a popular dumpling stall. She will make a pass at me, and we’ll do the switch.”

“Tough job,” the general said.

“Well, sir, she is considerably older—”

General Carrie’s expression registered quick displeasure. Only then did the marine realize what he had done.

“Sir, I mean—”

“Exactly what you said,” the general replied. “Some older women could teach you a great deal, Lieutenant Lee.”

“Yes, sir, General, sir.”

“You are my contact, Lieutenant Kent Lee?” Carrie went on.

“Yes, sir.” Lee had recovered his go-get-’em demeanor immediately.

“The electrician.”

“Correct, General,” Lee replied. “I hope to get a position fixing cell phones and computers.”

“To facilitate recon,” the general said.

“That is the plan, sir. And also repairs to our gear, if necessary.”

The team would be communicating by text-messaging. Lee would collect and summarize reports in regular E-mails to the general. The messages would be routed through the computer at the home of Lee’s “sister” in a New York apartment. The space was actually a CIA surveillance site near the United Nations. If Lee’s computer were ever stolen or the account hacked, a pogo-mail address for one Andrea Lee is all the thief would find. Nor would there be anything suspicious about the contents of the E-mails to or from Ms. Lee. The computer would be employing a HIPS program to encode the messages. The hide-in-plain-sight encryptions took all the words of the message and earmarked them, then dropped them into longer messages. The longer message was deleted at the other end. Anyone reading them would see nothing unusual, nor were there any patterns to look for.

“You have all got your exit strategies if that becomes necessary?” the general asked. She knew the details from her years at G2 when the routes and plans were established.

“We fall back to the embassy or to the safe house behind the North Train Station near the Beijing zoo,” said Lee.

“Apartment?” she asked the woman.

“Basement, sir,” the marine replied. “Seven steps down, door to the right, three knocks, then two knocks.”

“And you’ve all studied the space center if you’re asked to go there?” the general asked. Carrie had looked at the map before leaving the office. A key to maintaining morale among subordinates was for a superior to know as much as possible about a mission. It made operatives feel as though there was a vetting process, a careful and knowledgeable eye watching over them.

“We’ve gone through it in virtual sims, General,” Lee said. “We know that place better than we know our own barracks.”

“Where is the launch center relative to the technical center?” the general asked, pointing to the shortest man in the group.

“North, sir. Three point four kilometers,” he added.

“And the tracking station relative to the tech center?” she asked the only marine who had not spoken.

“Four kilometers to the southeast, sir,” he told her.

She looked at Second Lieutenant Yam. It was odd. The general did not see herself as a new recruit. This woman projected a fearlessness that Carrie had not possessed. Maybe the new generation of women was openly competing with men, not bracing themselves for impact with the glass ceiling.

“Latitude of the launch tower?” she asked Yam. She had saved the toughest question for the young woman. Despite what Yam might think, the playing field was not a level one.

“It is twenty-eight degrees fifteen minutes north, sir,” the second lieutenant replied.

“Elevation?”

“Eighteen hundred feet, sir,” Yam replied.

General Carrie smiled and nodded. That felt good.

There was no time to chat further, nor any need. Carrie had seen all she needed to see. They were four sharp, enthusiastic marines. A little young, but that was all right. Youth had energy and clarity uncorrupted by cynicism. They would need that as reality started peeling away the layers of idealism.

Wishing them well and saluting them proudly, the general brought Captain Tallarico back into the room. She congratulated him for his work, then returned to her golf cart.

As she headed back to the NCMC, General Carrie was confident in the group but a little uneasy about their inexperience. There was no way to get it, other than by being in the field. But she was suddenly much more aware of the fragility of the four tires than she had been driving over.

TWENTY-FOUR

Beijing, China Wednesday, 5:22 A.M.

Hood reached Beijing surprisingly refreshed and exhilarated. He had slept for most of the flight, and he had left having done something that made him feel good. Something that had nothing to do with work. Not directly, anyway.

Whether he was the mayor of Los Angeles or the director of Op-Center, Hood had always tried to spend time with his kids before traveling anywhere. This was especially true on Op-Center business, when he usually went away for more than just an overnight visit. Hood used that time to plug tightly into his family. He craved it, and the kids seemed to enjoy it. Sharon Hood had never really been a part of that. She allowed her husband to give his attention to the kids.

As he thought back on it, that was how they did everything after Harleigh was born. Their love was funneled to their daughter and then their son. They never gave any to each other. Maybe Sharon was doing what she thought the kids needed. Hood’s time at home was limited, and she wanted the kids to have full access to their father. Whatever the cause, over time their life became all about kids and career, with Sharon spending her free time working on her cable TV cooking show. The events that subsequently rocked their personal lives simply accelerated the sad, lonely drift.

The state to which they had deteriorated was evident whenever Hood went to see the kids. It was not just how snippy Sharon was with him. It was how openly affectionate she and her new lover were. He did not think their hand-in-hand walks around the yard or hugs in the window were an act for his benefit. But he did see that Sharon was capable of more than she gave him.

Then again, the new man was around a lot more. Jim Hunt was a caterer Sharon had met on her show. The former Mrs. Hunt was an electrician Jim had met, the kids told him, when she was repairing an oven in a restaurant. Hunt had been the one who divorced her. He had come to the relationship with Sharon bearing full closure with his past and a white tablecloth ready to spread on their happy relationship banquet. An emotionally free and available caterer who made his own hours. It was a recipe that had to make Sharon Hood weak with need.

Hood had pondered all of that, again, as he drove to the house from Op-Center. He had called to make sure the kids would be there before heading out. Then he also did something impulsive that only made sense because he was angry at just about every woman he knew, from Lorraine Sanders to Julie Kubert to General Carrie Morgan and Sharon Hood.

He turned, irrationally, to one for support. One he believed might actually want to hear what he had to say.

He guessed that the number of the former Mrs. Jim Hunt was the same as her son’s, for whom he had gotten an internship at Op-Center six months before. He called. A woman answered. Hood asked if this was the former wife of Jim Hunt. She asked who wanted to know.

“Paul Hood, the former husband of Sharon Hood,” he replied.

There was a silence so long he thought his phone had died.

“Hello?” he said.

“Hello,” she replied. “This is Gloria Lynch-Hunt. Is everything all right with Frankie?”

Frankie was her son, her only child. Of course she would assume that was why he was calling.

“Actually, as of yesterday morning things were very well with Frankie,” he said. “The truth is I’m not at Op-Center anymore. I’m working on special projects for the president.”

“Oh,” the woman said. “Does he need a recording system installed in the Oval Office?”

“Excuse me?” It took a moment for Hood to understand what she had said. Gloria was an electrician. She was making a joke. Hood was caught off guard. He was also surprised by her voice, which was very soft and very high. It was not what he imagined a female electrician would sound like. Not that a female electrician should sound like anything, he knew. But he could not help having imagined her as smoky-voiced and a little hulking, albeit slimmed down because she would be dating again after years of complacency in marriage and eating her husband’s rich foods. “No,” Hood went on. “I’m not calling about the president, Mrs. Hunt. Gloria. I’m calling to see if you want to have lunch or coffee.”

There was another long, long silence. This time Hood had lost her. He pressed Redial. He wondered if she would still be laughing or if she would not bother to pick up at all.

“Hello?” she said.

“Hi. Sorry. Lost the signal there.”

“That’s okay. I was thinking this might have been a joke,” she said. “Maybe it is, I don’t know.”

“Why?”

“Because you come up as Unknown Caller on the phone ID, and my former husband is a dick. This is the kind of stunt he would have one of his restaurant or chef buddies pull.”

“To what end?” Hood asked. He understood the idea of postdivorce payback, but that seemed excessive.

“Mr. Hood, you’re a stranger. Maybe you won’t be, after the dinner you’re going to buy me—at a restaurant of my choosing, where I know my ex holds no sway. Until then, ‘my former husband is a dick’ will have to suffice. The details are bloody—and personal.”

“Understood,” he said. It was odd. He felt no need to warn Sharon that her beau might be “a dick.”

“I have to say, this still seems kind of strange,” she said.

“It is completely strange,” he admitted.

“Do you even know what I look like?”

“No,” he admitted as a jolt of concern flashed through him. “And this isn’t an us-against-them alliance,” he added. “You know what I think I was subconsciously thinking?”

“No. I’m not even sure I understood what you just said.”

He smiled. “I think, Gloria, that I reasoned: Sharon and I did not get along. Sharon and Jim do get along. Therefore, you and I may get along.”

The third silence was the shortest. “I’ll buy that,” she said. “Sort of a nearsighted date. When do we find out?”

Hood thought he detected a hint of excitement in her voice. It took him a moment to get this joke, too. They were not quite blind dating.

“I’m actually headed overseas now for a couple of days,” Hood told her.

“Any place exciting?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“But you can’t tell me.”

“Right.”

“Sexy,” she said.

That made Hood feel both good and uncomfortable at the same time. He actually choked on saliva as he said, “Can we chalk it in for Saturday?”

“Consider it chalked. That’ll save me a DVD rental,” she said.

“It’s been that way for me, too,” Hood said.

He hung up feeling pleased with himself. Not because he had made the call but because he had actually had a constructive conversation with a woman. He was upbeat as he reached the house, stayed upbeat as he talked to the kids on the back patio, and even smiled as he waved good-bye to Sharon and Jim as they did the dishes together, laughing as they scrubbed some kind of sauce from cooking implements he did not recognize. It was the first time in a year that Hood did not feel like sticking a steak knife in Hunt’s raw heart.

Maybe that was because he had, though the “dick” did not yet know it. He loved having a secret that would cause Jim a little confusion and discomfort and probably some jealousy, even though he would never admit it.

Screw him.

And now, invigorated, Paul Hood was ready to tackle a world crisis. He did not know whether it was sad or remarkable that such a small thing as a date with this one particular woman could have such a large impact on his outlook. And he realized as he moved through a short diplomatic line that it had nothing to do with Gloria Hunt per se. It had to do with Paul Hood taking control of his life.

As revelations go, that was something an international crisis manager should have realized long before this.

TWENTY-FIVE

Beijing, China Wednesday, 5:23 A.M.

Hood was met at the Beijing Capital International Airport by a car from the embassy. The driver introduced himself as Tim Bullock. The young man looked to be about twenty-four or twenty-five.

“How long have you been in Beijing?” Hood asked as they waited for the two pieces of luggage he had brought.

“Four months, sir. I have a poli-sci degree from Temple University.”

“You’re from Philadelphia?”

“Yes, sir. Birthplace of the nation. That’s what got me into political science. When I understood what those men did—Mr. Franklin, Mr. Adams, Mr. Jefferson, and the others—the risks they took so their countrymen could live free, I knew I wanted to have a positive impact on people’s lives.”

“Is it difficult for you to watch Communism at work in China?”

“No, sir. It is another form of the kind of duress these individuals have always lived under,” Bullock said in exquisite diplomatic-speak. “But they will overcome that, I believe. It is a strong and fascinating country.”

“So you like this assignment?” Hood asked.

“Very much, sir,” Bullock replied. “Dating is problematic, but the day trips are not like going to the Jersey shore. And this is a choice position for someone who wants a career in the dipco.”

Dipco was the diplomatic corps. Or as Op-Center’s late political liaison Martha Mackall used to call it, the “fiftyfifty” corps. You spent half the time trying to do your job and half the time trying to stay alive. In her case, her frank misanthropic view of the profession had proved sadly accurate. Bob Herbert had another name for it: the “diplomatic corpse.” Happily, there were still men like Bullock who had stars—and stripes—in their eyes. At least, for now.

Bullock carried Hood’s bags, told him there were beverages and snacks in the car, and said the eighteen-mile drive to the American compound at Xiu Shui Bei Jie 3, 100600 would take under a half hour. He asked Hood if he needed to use the rest room before they departed.

“Thanks,” Hood told him. “I went before I left.”

Bullock did not acknowledge the joke. He was in a mode Hood recognized: the focused, efficient “dipcoproby” mode. A career in the diplomatic corps meant doing everything right during his six-month probationary period, especially when it came to collecting and delivering VIPs in a timely and efficient manner. Hood had never possessed that kind of polish. Then again, he never had the kind of career vision Bullock seemed to have. Hood had planned on a career in finance. He fell into politics and felt his way from post to post as he moved between the two fields. He always tried to do what was right, not what was expected.

Until six months ago, he reflected. That was when he fired Mike and made a deal with Senator Debenport to work more closely with the White House. At the time, he had no idea how closely that meant. It was strange. Here he was feeling used and compromised, yet the kid in the front seat would probably sign away his soul to be doing what Hood was doing. The president’s special intelligence envoy did not have the heart to tell Bullock that would probably be the price.

Hood sat back in the deep leather seat of the bulletproof sedan and looked out the window. The driver pointed out a few landmarks but was respectfully silent the rest of the time. Beijing was not what Paul Hood had expected. Even through the pollution, the pale yellow disc of the rising sun brought out the rich, earthy reds and browns of the stones and tiles that comprised the ancient structures. Except for these old walls and pagoda-style rooftops, and the billboards of Mao that were still surprisingly plentiful, the capital of the People’s Republic of China looked like a modest-sized American city. There were a few newer highrises, some well-preserved turn-of-the-century buildings, and a great many trees and plazas. There were paved roads and cobbled roads, all of them still relatively uncrowded this early in the morning.

The sedan pulled up to the high iron gates. There was a marine sentry in a guard booth inside. He pressed a button, and a small oblong panel slid down in one of the columns of the gate. There was a dark glass inside. Bullock rolled down the window and pressed his palm on the clear vertical screen. A narrow green line scanned his palm from the top to bottom, then from the left to the right. A moment later, the gate popped open. The box closed, and Bullock drove through. The marine had never left the safety of the booth.

“They had a retinal scan installed for a few days,” Bullock told Hood. “But it was very difficult to lean that far from the car.”

Good old government planning, Hood thought as they drove along the curving drive. Hood was quite aware of a four-story bunker-style building to the right of the compound, just outside the gate. He had no idea what the Chinese characters said, but it did not matter. Whether the building was supposed to be the Institute for Cultural Exchange or the Department of Petroleum Research, it was in fact a listening post. The eastern side, which overlooked the embassy, had eight windows. They would all take direct sunlight until about one or two P.M. The shades were drawn in all but one, which had the widest view of the grounds. There were probably a number of still and video cameras concealed within the room. Everyone who came or went at the United States embassy was photographed, their conversations recorded. A number of satellite dishes and antennae were crowded on the roof, more than an ordinary office building would require. All of that raw data was stored and analyzed.

The Chinese did not make a secret of the building’s true purpose, nor did the Americans erect a wall to block the view. It was all part of the polite game of overt surveillance that nations played, like parole officers checking on excons. The real spy work against the embassy came from the police officers who patrolled the streets or the delivery men who bicycled past or even the traffic helicopters that flew overhead. These people were no different from the “nannies” in D.C.—the CIA operatives who dressed as ordinary citizens going about their work sweeping streets or vending postcards and hot dogs or pushing babies in carriages. In reality, they were watching the embassies and their ambassadors, creating charts of their movements throughout the district. Profilers could often extrapolate more from this data than they could from cryptic conversations between emissary workers. The Chinese in the building next door would spend hours going over anything Hood might have said to the driver while they waited at the gate. The Chinese analysts would come up with nothing or with a misguided interpretation of an innocent conversation.

It seemed, suddenly, a very silly business for grown men and women to be conducting. In that moment Hood understood the squirmy frustration Mike Rodgers used to feel at meetings in the Tank or in diplomatic offices. There was nothing vague about combat. One side lost, one side triumphed. Soldiers lived or they did not. It was not a backand-forth patty-cake; it was decisive. Hood also got a sense of the direction Op-Center would be taking with a general in command and marines on the payroll. There would be fewer second opinions and more surgery.

The car continued to the front door of the main building, a Victorian-style mansion. Hood was met by a man who seemed to be about Hood’s age. He was short, thin, with a closely cropped mat of salt-and-pepper hair and a smartly tailored suit. His eyes were narrow and his forehead creased. He seemed too tense to be a diplomat.

“Mr. Hood, I’m Wesley Chase, the ambassador’s executive secretary,” the man informed him.

That explained it. This was the man who did all the work. Hood shook his hand and entered the embassy ahead of him. A marine guard sat at a desk in a large, open foyer. There was a six-foot-high omniglass wall in front of him—thick and explosion-proof. A blast in front of it would be directed back outside. The wall ran the length of the big receiving area. The only way in or out was a revolving door to the right of the desk. Mr. Chase told Hood to stand in the doorway. He placed a card on the scanner to the left. The door turned once, sweeping Hood with it. Chase stepped into the next slot, placed the card on the scanner, and the door moved again.

“You have to be quick or you lose your arm,” Chase said with a laugh when he reached the other side.

Hood knew that all this security was not just to protect the embassy from bombers and assassins. It was also to keep defectors safe. Several times each week, Chinese nationals came here seeking asylum. Some were dissidents, some simply wanted to be reunited with family in Taiwan, others wanted a better life in the United States. Rarely was political haven granted. Refusal was not simply a matter of accommodating the host government but of thwarting them. It was difficult to know which refugee was sincere and which was a potential spy. That was why so many Chinese ended up on the boats of people like Lo Tek.

The two men passed a large antechamber that was already beginning to fill with both American and Chinese citizens looking for help. The application fee for a visa cost one hundred dollars, whether the request was honored or not. Still they came, the Chinese who earned twice that a month—if they were lucky.

Hood was shown to one of the guest quarters. Chase told him the ambassador would be down to breakfast with him in about an hour. Hood’s luggage arrived as Chase was leaving. Tim Bullock set up a stand and hoisted the large bag on top. He asked if Hood wanted anything hung up or set out.

“No thanks,” Hood replied, and Bullock turned to go. Hood called out to him. “Hold on. Your tip.”

“Sir, we don’t—”

“Not that kind,” Hood said. He approached the young man.

“I know you said it’s ‘problematic,’ but don’t neglect the dating. It’s not enough to have professional acquaintances, even close ones. To make it through this business you need a home and a partner. The right partner.”

Bullock smiled. Maybe he was pleased with the sentiment or just with the fact that someone had actually paid attention to him. Drivers tended to be the most invisible people in the dipco.

“Thank you for the tip, sir,” Bullock said. “I’ll get to work on that. Are you sure I can’t help with your baggage?”

Hood grinned and shook his head. Bullock left, leaving Hood with his suitcase—and his baggage. Hood hoped the kid would take his advice. Nancy Jo had once inspired him to overachievement, and a chat with Gloria Lynch-Hunt had helped get him through a miserable day. The attentions of former Op-Center press secretary Ann Farris had forced him to take a closer look at the health of his marriage.

Not that a relationship is the solution to everything, Hood thought as he unpacked. The kid’s singlemindedness underscored the strength but also the weakness of individuals who entered politics. It was like a Chinese ceremony he had witnessed when he was mayor of Los Angeles. A fifty-foot-high tower had been erected off Alpine Street. A young lady sat on top in a gold and white gown. She was the morning princess. A dozen warriors dressed in black and red robes fought to reach her. The man who made it to the top took the princess as his bride. The ceremony in Chinatown was choreographed; in ancient days, the battle was to the death.

Politics was a lot like that. The prize was at the top, and the participants became seduced by the heights and the worldview. Some of their senses were numbed by the rarified air. As they became more and more cloistered in the high tower, they also became protected by layers of security until the scrutiny of a Watergate or Irangate punched through and took lives. The intelligence community managed to avoid that problem because their coin was not personal access but information.

But perspective was a lesson Bullock would have to learn himself, if he learned it at all. He had ideals from Philadelphia, but he was already in the system and speaking the lingo. Faced with opportunity, ideals could be postponed or forgotten. Most career politicians Hood had known went a lifetime without ever looking back on the good reasons that may have brought them to public office.

Hood finished unpacking, then stretched out on the twin bed. It had been a very long time since he had traveled. It felt strange to put his head on a pillow that was not his own.

Perspective.

Getting out of Washington gave Hood a chance to look back on the events of the last few days. As much as he did not like the way things had played out, he could hardly consider himself abused. He was abroad in the service of the president, of the nation, of the world.

Again.

Intelligence personnel had to catch the balls that slipped through the gloves of the diplomats. Men like Hood and Bob Herbert and General Carrie went to work so that other Americans could pursue their lives without fear or compromise. It was difficult work. It was also dangerous and exhausting. And there was no one to grab the balls they missed. But there was one thing of which Hood never lost sight. The work was stressful and damned difficult, but it was not a burden.

It was the playing field of Franklin, Adams, and Jefferson.

It was a privilege.

TWENTY-SIX

Zhuhai, China Wednesday, 11:00 A.M.

Though General Tam Li held all his bases in high regard, he preferred the facility to which he was headed now. The Zhuhai base was the home of the PLA’s Macao forces, key players in his master plan. Macao was only six square miles, a narrow peninsula connected to the mainland by an even narrower isthmus. It was the oldest European settlement in China and had been administered by Portugal since 1557. Yet most of the inhabitants were Chinese, and the hilly, rocky peninsula adjoined the Guangdong province in southeastern China.

Tam Li wanted it for China. And one day he would have it. But first, his larger objective must be realized.

The general traveled to Zhuhai on board a Gazelle helicopter gunship. He did not do so for his personal security. He did it because ordinary citizens enjoyed seeing military aircraft. They always stopped what they were doing to look up. It inspired them, and it made them feel safe, more productive.

Soon it would give them much more.

The trip from the isolated military sector of the Beijing Capital Airport took a little over three hours, with a quick refueling stop in Wuhan. The general was at his desk by nine-thirty for the eleven o’clock meeting.

The other seven members of the Central Military Committee arrived at different hours throughout the morning. The generals and admirals had come from Beijing, Shanghai, Hong Kong, and other cities across the nation. They came separately and discreetly, by air. This was not one of the committee’s regular monthly meetings, and the men did not want to attract attention by gathering in Beijing or traveling together. Besides, the way Chou Shin was attacking Tam Li’s interests, the officers did not want to be out and about with him. None of them put it past the Guoanbu to assassinate the general. Especially if Chou found out what Tam Li was planning.

The irony, Tam Li knew, was that Chou would probably approve of the plan but for one thing. It would shift the balance of influence in Beijing from the old-line Communists to the more capitalistic-minded military. That was something Chou Shin would never permit.

The officers had all assembled by eleven. They gathered in the small tactics room down the hall from Tam Li’s office. The pale green walls were covered with maps printed on plastic sheets. Military planners could write on them with grease crayons, which could then be erased. The budget of the People’s Liberation Army did not include wallsize monitors linked to computers.

Nor should it, Tam Li thought as he sat at the large, round table in the center of the windowless chamber. He had heard that an electromagnetic pulse bomb effectively shut down the American National Crisis Management Center. The same thing could happen to the Pentagon or any facility that was absolutely reliant on electronics. What any organization needed was balance through diversity.

Each of the men had brought folders containing different aspects of the plan. If any one of these files had been lost or confiscated, it would make no sense. All of them were required for the plan to be clear.

“Has there been any change in the Guoanbu plan for the launch?” Tam Li asked as he sat down.

The general’s question had been addressed to Rear Admiral Lung Ti. The fifty-three-year-old officer ran the Third Department of the People’s Liberation Navy, which was in charge of naval intelligence. The division was linked closely to activities in the other intelligence agencies. It was an alert from the rear admiral that had triggered this plan three months before.

“There is no change,” Lung Ti replied. He paused to light his pipe. “Even if we did not have whispers from inside the Guoanbu, a man like Director Chou does not undertake a project unless he is sure of his mission.”

“He is very sure,” Tam Li agreed.

“How do you know?” Lung Ti asked.

“I was just with him,” the general replied. “When the prime minister learned of the explosion, he called us to his office.”

“So soon after the event?” laughed a youthful-looking general of the People’s Liberation Army Air Force. “I did not realize that Le Kwan Po could make a decision in less than a day or two.”

“He summoned us well after midnight, along with the sycophantic foreign minister,” Tam Li said. “Le Kwan Po showed uncharacteristic displeasure as he pressed us both for an explanation. Chou gave none and left the meeting before it was ended.”

“Did Chou mention the satellite launch?” Lung Ti asked.

Tam Li shook his head once. “He spoke about a ‘singular vision’ for China and refused to condemn the attacks on my private-market economy. That was the extent of his contribution.”

“Was Chou feeling any pressure at all?” asked the rear admiral.

“No. He was angry to be there, to have his motives questioned,” Tam Li replied.

“The old bastard is still upset by the end of hukou,” said Lung Ti. He snarled, showing a gold tooth. “He does not let anything go.”

Hukou was a form of census-taking and infrastructure maintenance. Each household was registered, and identification was issued to every individual. He or she could only get employment in the issuing district. That kept the main roads relatively free of traffic, allowed local planners to know exactly what kind of medical or police services they would need, and—perhaps most important—kept radical ideas from spreading. Radio and television broadcasts could be monitored. Conversations in the square or in a marketplace could not.

“That would suggest a crisis point is very near,” said the rear admiral.

“What a waste of effort,” another man said.

“It is a counterproductive effort,” Tam Li said sadly. “Do you remember Chou’s last contribution to our economy? He made the deal to sell tens of thousands of machetes to Hutu killers in Rwanda during the Hundred Days of Slaughter.”

“Now he’s killing again,” one of the generals remarked. “That is how Communists move the economy.”

The general’s comment was a simplification, but it was true. Chou refused to fully embrace capitalistic solutions. He saw increasing numbers of beggars in the streets and opposed allowing more foreign corporations in to hire them. He watched the way minor international powers faced China down on peninsulas and islands in the region. He knew that foreign banks and corporations were assuming Chinese debt in exchange for more and more collateral properties. Yet his wish was to maintain the system that allowed these things to flourish.

“I say once again that we should put a bullet in the back of his neck and move on,” Lung Ti said.

“A bullet won’t get us everything we want,” Tam Li reminded him.

“It will get me what I want,” the officer grumped.

“What is Le Kwan Po going to do about Chou’s actions?” another man asked.

“What does Le Kwan Po ever do?” Tam Li replied. “He functions as a buffer between the ministers and military on one side, and the president and vice president on the other. He does not solve problems. He merely prevents them from colliding.”

“Then you do not believe he will try to stop Chou?” Lung Ti asked.

“I do not believe he will,” Tam Li said. “We proceed with our own plans but I will have my own security people on alert in case Chou gets in our way. We will follow his staff and learn who his contacts and workers are. We will use them ourselves.”

Tam Li looked at the rear admiral as he spoke. It was Lung Ti’s intelligence that had suggested there would be assaults in Charleston and in Taipei as a prelude to an attack on the rocket. His people had become aware of the comings and goings of explosives experts from safe houses in the United States and Taiwan. That had been the first indication of fresh initiatives, as aggressive new intelligence actions were called. Once the individuals were flagged, the PLN3 watched them. There were requests for detailed maps, which went through a central logistics center. And travel documents. There was one other site on that list: the Xichang space center.

“We do not have a lot of time before the launch,” Tam Li went on. “I want to make certain that our operations are coordinated.”

He proceeded to review the PLA response, code named Sovereign Dragon. Twenty-four hours before the launch, Taiwan would put its military on alert. Any Chinese rocket launch was an excuse to scramble Taiwanese air and sea forces. Taipei would say the launch could be an act of aggression, a potential intercontinental missile strike. Typically, launches like these were a chance for the nationalists to strut their muscle without fear of reprisal.

Typically, but not this time.

Throughout their career, these seven veterans had watched the Chinese military become shangsheh—more and more of less and less. Though the PLA received budget increases, that money went to updating hardware in an attempt to gain parity with foreign forces. By that time, the enemy had advanced even further. China would always be behind in everything except manpower. That would be used for the backbone of Sovereign Dragon. Unfortunately, there were very few barriers to which that manpower could be effectively supplied. Over the past twenty years, China had become increasingly isolated and marginalized, militarily. To the north they were bordered by slumbering but still dangerous Russia. To the east was Japan, which was on the verge of deploying a ten-billion-dollar missile shield in conjunction with the United States; nearer to home were an increasingly Western-leaning Vietnam and the smouldering Koreas. To the south and west were India and Pakistan, whose Hindu and Islamic rivalry could become a nuclear showdown at any time. If China did not make a move soon, there would be no moves to make. The job of the PLA would become purely defensive, to keep other wars and nations out, not to enhance China’s international standing or power base. Without those, China would become what it was during the Boxer Rebellion: a carcass to be picked at by foreign powers. To Chou and his people, that was acceptable. Closing the doors and keeping the Communist vision pure was a victory. To Tam Li and his allies, that was an unacceptable loss of face as well as a slow death.

So they went over their plans and timetables, fine-tuned the specifics. They would begin with a response to the Taiwanese action. The PLN deployment would be modest and not unprecedented. But this time things would be different. Taiwan would be accused of capitalizing on a tragedy that was about to befall the PRC. As a result, the deployment of PLAN ships would be followed by the launching of PLAAF squadrons over the Taiwan Strait. While the world watched the buildup there, the PLA would seek—and obtain—the authority to establish buffer zones inside the current borders of Laos, Vietnam, and Burma to prevent opportunistic actions by those governments against coveted Chinese lands. The Central Military Committee would be granted those powers because they feared other terrorist actions like the one that was about to take down the Xichang rocket.

While all of this was happening, Taiwan would be blockaded. The United States would be told that an attack on the PLA would be met with devastating force. If they chose to move against China, China would invade the bordering states. Not even India could withstand an invasion of that magnitude. Either the United States had to accept a reintegrated Taiwan or face a massive war on many fronts.

They would press for, then accept, a negotiated settlement that joined a healthy capitalistic society with a dormant giant. The symbiosis would allow both to grow exponentially. And in a very few years, China would be the greatest power the world had ever known.

General Tam Li wondered how Chou Shin would react to the sudden, wrenching change in Chinese society. How could anyone react negatively to their nation going from a Third World economy to one of the most viable on earth?

The PLA and the rest of China were about to find out. And then Tam Li would make certain of something else: that Chou Shin was arrested and executed for treason.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Washington, D.C. Wednesday, 2:00 A.M.

Morgan Carrie did not go home when Op-Center’s night crew came in. She waited until she had received messages from each of her marines that they had arrived. As she was leaving, the general learned that she was not the only one who was working late. Bob Herbert was still in his office, which was next to hers. The intelligence chief was looking at a series of figures on his computer on his desk to the left. It presented his profile to the general.

“Staying the night?” she asked, leaning in.

“There’s a crisis, I’m a crisis manager,” he replied without looking over.

“Do you have something new?”

“If you consider confusion as something new, I have it,” the intelligence chief replied.

Carrie was feeling more than a little hostility from Herbert. She did not know him well enough to determine whether it was her, the pressure, or overwork that was bringing it out.

“What’s the problem?” she pressed.

“I know what we’re looking at,” Herbert told her. “I don’t know what we’re looking for.”

“Pertaining to what? The bombings?”

“The trail from Charleston to Xichang,” Herbert said.

“You assume there is one.”

“No, that’s just something I have to consider,” he told her. “Putting aside the satellite launch for a moment, we seem to have this tit-for-tat struggle taking place between two men, a general, Tam Li, and an intelligence officer, Chou Shin. What we do not know is why. It could be nothing more than personal animus, manifested as attacks on their reputation, sovereignty, or economy. But there is also the possibility that it’s a proxy war between those two groups.”

“That’s unlikely,” Carrie said. “A struggle between the military and intelligence communities would be counterproductive. It’s also rare. Intramural wars are usually fought between rival intelligence units or military divisions.”

“A fight for funding or the ear of the leaders,” Herbert said.

“That’s a simplified view, but yes.”

“I agree,” Herbert said. “It does not appear as though the general wants to take over Chou’s position, or vice versa. There is nothing in their backgrounds to suggest that kind of personal ambition or professional interest.”

“So where does that leave us?” Carrie asked.

“With a prize that we have not yet identified,” Herbert replied. “To try to find that, we have to take a large step back and look at the picture of China overall. Before they went home, Ron Plummer and his hardworking assistant Robert Caulfield shot me a State Department bullet-point overview on China. What they are about, where they are going. One thing stands out, what State calls the Hong Kong Factor.”

“Which is?”

“The success of democracy as an economic spur,” Herbert said. “Since the Chinese takeover in 1997, Hong Kong has underscored the lie that Beijing has been promulgating for over sixty years, that Communism works.” Herbert scrolled to some figures. “Hong Kong has six million extensively educated citizens. The society is multilingual and highly Westernized, with a low crime rate. Here’s the fascinating part, though. At $24,750 in per capita annual income, the citizens of Hong Kong are twenty-five times wealthier than mainland Chinese.”

“Has Beijing tried to explain the discrepancy?” Carrie asked.

“They say that Hong Kong is not a fair laboratory for China,” Herbert said. “It is small and relatively homogeneous. China is too vast, too uneducated, and too culturally diverse to embrace the kind of democracy that has worked in Hong Kong and, of course, in Taiwan.”

“All true.”

“As far as it goes,” Herbert said. “It’s also true that if people got to vote, most of them would probably toss the Communist leaders.”

“Which would result in a fracturing of China in much the same way that the Soviet Union came apart,” Carrie said. “Every province would vote for policies that brought industry or agriculture to it.”

“Or new military bases,” Herbert said. He looked at Carrie for the first time. “That would give young people jobs, and older folks would run the support services that feed and equip it.”

“Perhaps,” Carrie said. “For China to build and modernize its military would require the kind of economy it simply does not have. We studied this at G2, extensively. It’s one of the great problems of our age. If the different regions are not held together by force, or do not get an across-the-board influx of prosperity, we will have another Africa or Middle East or Pakistan with warlords and tribal leaders coming to power and fighting one another. No one wants to see one-fifth of the earth’s population pitched into that kind of chaos.”

“Which is what puzzles me,” Herbert said. “Apparently, someone in China has figured out another way.”

“The Mob,” someone said from the hall.

Carrie turned. Darrell McCaskey was behind her. His eyes were half-shut and his five o’clock shadow had become a thicker-looking five A.M. shadow.

“You’re cracking your head on this, too,” Carrie said.

“It’s what we do, Bob and me,” McCaskey said. “Ron sent me the same data. We review it separately. If we come up with a lead or idea that matches, chances are it’s worth following.”

“So which mob are you referring to?” Carrie asked.

“The one with a capital M,” McCaskey replied, moving into the doorway. “The Cosa Nostra, ‘Our Concern.’ The one that runs its organization, its empire, just like China.”

“I didn’t think of that one,” Herbert said.

“You weren’t a G-man,” McCaskey said. “That’s why I was coming over to talk about it. The Mob has a bloated hierarchy, just like China. And how do they support it? By constantly moving into new businesses. They leave it pretty much alone and shave cash from the top. Then they plug that cash into diverse new businesses, some of them legitimate, so they can stay afloat in any economy.”

“I’m not getting your point,” Carrie said.

“It’s the other Hong Kong Factor,” McCaskey said. “China took the colony over, learned some new tricks about running a capitalistic society, and put some of the profits into the Bank of Beijing. What’s the next logical step?”

“Expand that into China, except—” Herbert said.

“That would not work,” McCaskey said. “The process would be too slow and too jarring to the current system, as you’ve said.”

“So you need more of the same,” Carrie offered.

“If you’re going to grow, yes,” McCaskey said. “But if you’re an old-school Red like Mr. Chou, you are going to resist that.”

“I wonder how he stood on the Hong Kong takeover,” Carrie said.

“He was for it, but with deep, deep reservations,” McCaskey said. “He sent a very detailed white paper to the National People’s Congress and to the leadership of the Chinese Communist Party warning against allowing more ‘water under the foundation,’ as he put it.”

“Do we have a copy of that paper?” Carrie asked.

“A summary,” McCaskey said. “The FBI has a listening device at the NPC. Chou read excerpts pertaining to intelligence issues pertinent to folding a British colony into China.”

“The success of that merging, which relies on a handsoff policy, would obviously not sit well with him,” Carrie said.

“To say the least,” McCaskey agreed. “He would watch it closely, and he would also watch for other signs of erosion. He would use the system to provide funds for his own purposes, as in South Africa, but he would not want to see that free enterprise concept expand.”

“Especially among the people who are sworn to uphold the old ways,” Carrie added.

“We can be pretty sure his concerns about the slave trade have nothing to do with humanity,” Herbert observed. “Not with the way he has been blowing people up.”

“Which leaves us, still, with no idea what the endgame is,” Carrie said.

“I wouldn’t say ‘no idea,’ ” McCaskey said. “Getting back to the Mob analogy, if skimming off one society works, what is the next step?”

“Take another, as long as you think no one can or will stop you,” Carrie said. It was not so much an answer as the general thinking aloud. “Take another” was not just the approach of Mafiosi but of greedy heads of state. It was the way Saddam Hussein had taken when invading Kuwait. All the research G2 had conducted suggested that if it came to building or saving face—either because they were challenged or because they wanted something—China would not hesitate to stand up to the United States. The U.S. military could blockade the Chinese coast and enforce no-fly zones for a time, but what would we do if two or three million men suddenly moved into Burma or Laos? Fight another Vietnam War?

“The region is full of tempting targets,” McCaskey went on. “South Korea, Taiwan, Japan. Even Vietnam is coming back, thanks to us.”

“But taking them over would further pollute the system, at least in Chou’s eyes,” Herbert said. “He would never stand for it. Presumably, he has allies in the Communist Party.”

“There might even be enough support that he might attack the interests of someone who was promoting the idea of territorial expansion,” McCaskey said.

“Support or arrogance,” Herbert said. “The Chinese Reds don’t lack for that.”

“Darrell, I assume you’re referring to the interests of Tam Li,” Carrie said.

McCaskey nodded.

“What I don’t get is, where does the rocket tie in to all this?” Herbert asked. “Assuming it does.”

“I don’t know,” McCaskey said. “That’s got me puzzled.”

“The satellite will serve a military function,” Carrie said. “It also represents a foreign foothold in China. Chou would want to undermine both of those.”

“Do you really think he would compromise Chinese security to make a point?” McCaskey asked.

“Not security. Prestige,” Carrie said. “And socialists don’t really care about that. Look, Chou has the same intel we do. He knows that China will not be attacked militarily. What he fears is the end of China as a philosophy. He would risk a great deal to preserve that.”

“But Chou has to see that Communism is a losing battle,” McCaskey said. “If he keeps a market economy from the mainstream, it will flourish underground.”

“Maybe not, if Tam Li loses,” Herbert said. “It will be nickel-and-dime trading at most. People will go back to selling cigarettes and DVDs from trucks instead of slaves from boats.”

“Besides, no extremist ever sees a battle as lost,” Carrie said. “And this struggle is far from over. The Chinese Communist Party still controls the apparatus of government and, as far as we know, most of the military. A decisive defeat of Tam Li would enhance Chou’s standing.”

“I still say there’s a lot of guessing going on,” McCaskey said.

“Hopefully, Paul can find out more,” Herbert said. The intelligence chief regarded Carrie again. “Of course, all of this would go counter to what we were saying about a struggle between the intelligence and military factions.”

“It would,” Carrie replied.

“Maybe there’s a new world coming, one with new alliances, new rivalries, and new rules.”

“It’s possible,” the general agreed. “Is this going anywhere?”

“Just thinking out loud,” Herbert replied.

“The military frowns on too much thinking,” she said. “I guess that’s something I’ll have to get used to.”

“Unless the rules change,” Herbert said.

Carrie was not entirely sure what he was getting at, and she was too tired to deal with it in any case. “I’m going home,” she said. “Call if you have anything solid before the morning.”

Both men said they would.

Carrie left, wondering if she had just gotten a taste of her own little Chou-like rebellion.

Maybe it’s just the man’s exhaustion and the regime change talking, she thought.

General Carrie hoped that was the case.

Bob Herbert would be a difficult man to replace.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Washington, D.C. Wednesday, 2:16 A.M.

“What the hell was that all about?” McCaskey asked when General Carrie had left the floor.

“What do you mean?”

“Please, Bob. This is me you’re talking to—”

“We were just having a discussion,” Herbert insisted.

“You were baiting her.”

Herbert said nothing for a long moment. Why bother? Herbert did not see challenging the general as a bad thing. This was not the military. He had a right to question his superior. But he did not want to debate that with McCaskey. Not at this hour with all they had to do.

“Shouldn’t we be more concerned about the other general?” Herbert asked.

“Yeah. We should.”

“If Tam Li has got some kind of expansionistic ideas in his head, we need to gather intel on him. We should also figure out who to support in this showdown.” Herbert snickered. “Some choice. An aggressive general or a backward-looking Commie.”

“You know, we could use a little military-style discipline here,” McCaskey went on.

The former G-man was obviously not ready to talk about Tam Li.

“What makes you say that?” Herbert asked. “Not just my big mouth—”

“Someone slipped us an e-bomb a couple of months back,” McCaskey said. “Maybe that would not have happened if we had been sharper.”

“That was done by a CIA-connected son of a bitch,” Herbert said. “He had the resources and credentials to put that baby wherever he wanted.”

“He put it here.”

“Do you think General Carrie or anyone could have prevented that?” Herbert asked.

“I don’t know,” McCaskey said. “Since yesterday I’ve been thinking about what Op-Center would be like under the military.”

“Blindly aggressive,” Herbert said.

“Bullshit,” McCaskey said.

“You think so? I’m not a big Paul Hood fan right now. I don’t like what he did to Mike, and I did not appreciate a lot of the crap he brought to his relationships with Liz, Martha, and Ann. Hell, he didn’t get along with women in general. But apart from the e-bomb, the roughest times we’ve ever had involved operations that were under the command of Mike Rodgers, Charlie Squires, and Brett August. All military personnel.”

“That’s what happens when you get things done,” McCaskey said. “There’s a price.”

“A higher price when you rush in without sufficient intel,” Herbert said. “You know me, Darrell. I’m not against kicking ass. What I don’t like is doing it without forethought. I think a lot of what Mike did was knee-jerk. It was his way of carving a corner of Op-Center independent of Paul. One of his earliest missions, to North Korea, was undertaken without an okay from Paul.”

“They both had issues,” McCaskey agreed. “And they’re both gone. We’re starting fresh. And the question is, what’s the best way to deal with crises today? Not five or ten years ago, but now?”

“And your solution is what? Shoot first?”

“More like fire first,” McCaskey said.

“You lost me.”

“When we sense a crisis coming, we should ignite it in such a way that we’re able to direct the flow,” McCaskey said. “It’s like smoke eaters who set backfires to control bigger ones.”

“Which they do in conjunction with using water and flame retardant,” Herbert pointed out. “Sometimes those backfires get out of hand.”

“That’s where intel comes in,” McCaskey replied. “We look at a situation and determine which tactic will work best. Sometimes, the fire-first method is the best. To date, Op-Center has been like the forest ranger in a tower who sees the smoke, watches the wind, observes the flames, sends out warnings, and finally acts. By that time you can lose half the forest. You know what all this keeps slugging me back to, Bob? When we were kids and there was all of the information about how life would be under Communism.”

“That was propaganda,” Herbert said. “It was in the comic books I read, it was even in the goddam World Book Encyclopedia, little cartoons of Stalin controlling people like puppets.” He moved his fingers as if he were playing with marionettes. “It was shameless overkill, Darrell.”

“No. It was education. A crash education in a real danger.”

Herbert shook his head. “That’s like calling segregation a means of classification. Yes, the Reds were a danger. But so were the witch hunts, and they were happening right here! The cure was worse than the disease. We were being frightened, Darrell. On purpose, by those in power so they could remain in power.”

“We have a major disagreement there, friend. There were opportunists and tyrants, but most of the people I knew were patriots. Veterans of World War II and Korea who knew firsthand that Communism was a threat. They were the reason I became an FBI agent. I was scared by the thought of being manipulated and cornered, and I wanted to fight it. The operative word is fight, Bob. We went against the Chinese and their agents in Korea, in Vietnam, and we scraped to a standstill. We outspent the Soviet Union on an arms race until they imploded. But never once have we taken the war to them. We parry. We react. We don’t put anyone on the defensive. I get the sense General Carrie will do that. She was here less than a day, and she fielded a Special Ops team.”

“Great. So we become ‘Ops-Center,’ with a little Stalin controlling the strings of her agents and sleeper cells.”

“I don’t quite see General Carrie as Joseph Stalin.”

“Yet. Or maybe Stalin is waiting in the Joint Chiefs.”

“Bob, you are way overreacting,” McCaskey said.

“I’m way tired,” Herbert said. “Maybe that has something to do with it.”

“I hope so, because we are only doing what our enemies are doing,” McCaskey said.

“That’s a moral strike against it.”

“It’s an amoral world!” McCaskey replied. “Either we become part of it or we take more and more hits. Bob, these marines are no different than the regional Op-Center we tried to get going a couple of years ago, except that the troops are mobile and stealthy. Their job is to gather information and act if they have to. Set backfires. You’ll see, Bob. This is going to work.”

“You’re aware that backfire has another meaning,” Herbert pointed out.

McCaskey frowned. “Now you’re just being ornery.”

“I prefer realistic.”

“You can prefer what you want. You’re cynical and pessimistic. I have more faith in our system than that.”

“Oh, I have faith in the system,” Herbert replied. “It’s some of the people who scare me. You know what’s the weirdest thing of all?”

“I’m afraid to guess.”

“I’m relieved that Paul Hood is in the field, too,” Herbert said. “We’ve got some maturity and restraint out there.”

McCaskey grinned. “There was a time when Bob Herbert would have described that as being a pussy.”

“It is,” he replied. “Maybe that’s what you need when there are soldiers running around half-cocked.”

There was an awkward silence, not because the men disagreed. They had disagreed many times in the past. The silence was because of the bad pun.

“I think I’m going to pull a Carrie and head home,” McCaskey said. “If I’m lucky, Maria won’t wake up and want me to brief her on what’s been going on here.”

“I’ll be interested to know what she says about all of this,” Herbert said.

“I can answer that,” McCaskey said as he headed for the door. “She’s going to want to know why she wasn’t on the field team.”

“Tell her they were all of Asian descent.”

“She’ll just want to organize a team of Spanish descent,” McCaskey said as he headed out the door. “Good night.”

“Night.”

Herbert sat there. He was not looking at the monitor. He was reflecting on the last comment McCaskey had made about him, that the old Bob Herbert would have signed up for militancy. That was true. He still favored offense, only the venue had changed. It was no longer about a force of arms but a force of ideas. That was the war brewing in China, a conflict of the old way versus a new way.

Meanwhile, there is still some old-way crap going on, Herbert reflected. Explosions around the world and a possible attempt to blow up a rocket carrying a nuclear-powered satellite. They were all being distracted by the larger picture, which was being dictated and defined by the apparent militarization of Op-Center. The immediate question was how to put out this fire, which was itself apparently a backfire against some internal problem they did not yet understand.

Herbert turned his tired eyes back to the monitor. As he looked back over the data, his mind kept switching to Striker and the actions they took. Preventing a war between the Koreas. Stopping a coup in Russia and averting civil war in Spain. Sacrificing their lives to prevent India and Pakistan from going to nuclear war. All successes, as far as the bottom line goes.

Quick, expensive, decisive victories, he thought. Who could argue with that, other than the widow Melissa Squires and the families of the dead?

Herbert was confused. But there was one thing he held to, and that was the value of intelligence in making decisions and planning actions. There was no arguing the wisdom of that as a course of action.

It was, after all, called intelligence.

TWENTY-NINE

Beijing, China Wednesday, 2:00 P.M.

The ambassador never showed up.

Paul Hood waited in the room for two hours, then finally went for a walk to find out what was going on. He bumped into Wesley Chase, who, as it happened, was on his way to see him.

“I’m so very sorry, Mr. Hood. The ambassador was on the telephone for quite some time and then left the embassy,” Chase told him.

“Is something wrong?”

“This is an embassy, sir,” Chase smiled. “Something is always wrong. But Mr. Hasen said that if he does not see you before then, he will see you tonight at the reception.”

“For—?”

“The start of the celebration of the fifty-eighth Chinese National Day,” Chase informed him. “He will be there, along with the prime minister and other dignitaries. He said this will give you a chance to talk to Mr. Le Kwan Po.”

“Does he speak English?”

“No. But there will be translators, including his daughter Anita. I will give you a full briefing on the personnel before you go. In the meantime, he asked that an office be placed at your disposal. The driver who met you at the airport will also be free to take you anywhere you may want to go.”

“I may take you up on the sightseeing later,” Hood said. “In the meantime, I’d like to go to the office.”

Chase extended an arm down the hallway. Hood went back to his room to get his briefcase. Then he let the ambassador’s executive assistant show him to the guest office.

“Is the ambassador available by phone?” Hood asked.

“The ambassador went to see the prime minister with his translator, no one else,” Chase told him. “The president and I have a cell phone number in the event of a crisis. Short of war or a death, neither of us would interrupt the ambassador during a mission of state.”

“Don’t you usually go with him to these meetings, just in case someone has an emergency that does not quite qualify as a crisis?” Hood was not being facetious. It was unusual for an aide not to be present to tug on an ambassador’s sleeve in case information or an opinion were needed.

“I usually go with him but not this time,” Chase admitted.

“May I ask why?”

“You may, but I don’t have an answer,” Chase said. “The ambassador did not ask me to go.”

“Is there anything you can tell me about the ambassador’s morning?” Hood pressed.

“To tell the truth, Mr. Hood, I do not know very much, and what I do know I am not at liberty to discuss. I am sure you understand.”

“Actually, I don’t. I am here at the request of the president—” Hood went silent. Suddenly, he understood. He was here to talk to the prime minister, which was typically the ambassador’s job. Joseph Hasen had gone to see the prime minister first. He was probably being territorial if not downright preemptive. “You know what? It isn’t important why he went,” Hood said.

Chase gave him a puzzled look as they walked. Hood ignored him. The former head of the underground NCMC was going to have to get better at being an aboveground diplomat.

The office was located just around the corner, past the oil portraits of former ambassadors. The large canvases were hung on ivory white walls. The walls were plain, save for the ornate crown molding along the top. The door to the office had marble pilasters topped by a frieze of junks sailing from east to west. Hood tried not to read any warnings of conquest into that.

“My intercom number is four twelve,” Chase said as he left. “Is there a message in case the ambassador calls?”

“Only that I’d like to talk to him as soon as possible,” Hood replied.

“I’ll tell him,” Chase promised.

The aide left the door open behind him. Hood closed it. The office was actually a desk stuck in a small library. There was no computer, just a phone on the desk. Visitors probably brought their own laptops. Hood felt a chill of disorientation. The office underscored how different his life was now from only two days ago. He walked slowly across the Persian rug. It was a silk tribal rug from K’om, patterns of dark earth colors surrounding the portrait of a woman. There were burn marks along the edges and bloodstains on the woman’s cheek. Hood had read about the rug in the briefing folder. It had once been in the ambassador’s office in Teheran. Hasen’s brother-in-law had been an attaché there when the Iranians took over the embassy. He managed to escape by pretending to be Iranian. He had wrapped the body of a dead “freedom fighter” in the rug and dragged it out to make his story more convincing.

There wasn’t an office like this at Op-Center, one with history on the floor and volumes stacked on seven tiers of built-in bookcases. Even the records room was mostly digital. It was erased during the e-bomb attack, then replaced with copies from other agencies. Looking around, Hood got a sense of the magnitude of loss the Egyptians experienced when the library at Alexandria burned.

When was that? Hood wondered.

That information was somewhere in here, in one of the encyclopedias or dictionaries. He would have to go and find it if he wanted to know, not plug keywords into a search engine.

Like this mission, he thought. He had to go somewhere, and now he had to search for information. That was his new life. He would no longer be struggling against the chairman of the Congressional Intelligence Oversight Committee for funding, he would be trying to run the ball around ambassadors and their staff, heads of state and their staff, and every organization in Washington that had information he might need. The size of the task suddenly became very apparent.

And daunting, bordering on frightening. It was astonishing that anything got done. He looked down at the rug. He did not approve or sympathize, but he understood the frustration that pushed radicals to do what they did.

“Which means you’ve got to push back,” he murmured.

As he thought that, his brain shifted to a default setting: Sharon. He did not like the fact that his subconscious apparently regarded her as an anarchist. He felt ashamed. He went to the desk and sat in the leather seat and decided to push back. At the real enemy, not the one in his head.

It was very early in the morning in Washington. Hood called Bob Herbert at Op-Center. If he did not find the intelligence chief at the office, he would not bother him at home.

Herbert was there.

“This is why bureaucracy sucks,” the intelligence chief said.

Declarative statements like that passed for “Hello” from Bob Herbert, especially when he was working on a project. Caller ID had liberated him even further. It allowed him to vault right into a complaint without the inconvenience of having to wait for an answer to “Who’s this?”

“What’s wrong?” Hood asked.

“The retooling of Op-Center, which was done to streamline our operation, has left me with all my old associates plus a new one,” he said. “It’s a good thing I’m in my chair, because this Mississippi boy ain’t finding his footing.”

“You want to talk about it?” Hood asked.

“No. I’m done.”

Herbert was always blunt and aggressive, but he never whined. And he did not displace his anger the way Hood did. He smacked the source, hard.

“Are we getting anywhere?” Hood asked.

“No, as I just told Frau Feldherr,” Herbert replied.

Well, at least Hood knew who had triggered this outburst. General Carrie had been at Op-Center two days, and Herbert already saw her—or the people she represented—as the gestapo.

“I heard from Mike a few minutes ago,” Herbert went on. “He’s in Beijing at the Grand National Hotel. He was going to catch some winks, then meet up with his Xichang people. What about you?”

“Apparently, I won’t know anything new until I go to the National Day reception tonight,” Hood told him.

“I wonder when we’re going to know anything, and if we’re going to like what we find out,” Herbert said.

“You lost me.”

“About Op-Center,” he said. “Maybe you and Mike are lucky to be out there, doing something else.”

“Did something happen?” Hood asked.

“Not really. Some words with Carrie, then with Darrell.”

“That’s nothing new for you, Bob,” Hood said.

“I know. I just get this sense that something is ramping up,” Herbert told him. “Something not good. The DoD effectively takes over Op-Center, and the president pulls its top guy out to keep him close. That doesn’t sound like rewarding Paul Hood for services rendered. Plus, we’ve got marines at our disposal. I was talking to Mike about that before. Striker redux. It sounds like a strategic realignment.”

“That could be,” Hood agreed. “Why do you assume that’s a bad thing?”

“When I was a kid back in Neshoba County, we had a problem with the deer population after a dry spring. They were moving in on the resorts, the golf clubs, eating everything they could. The mayor and the board of aldermen of Philadelphia recommended that we send a team of environmentalists into these areas to do a complete study of the problem. Most of those guys were hunters. By the end of the summer the deer population was no longer a problem. In fact, it was damn near invisible. Except in the venison counters at the meat markets. You can solve problems or you can pick off the parts of them that are unlucky enough to show their heads. I’m afraid that we’re starting to look for quick fixes instead of permanent ones.”

“Whacking the weeds instead of uprooting them,” Hood said.

“Yeah. Same thing, if you like aphorisms instead of folksy narratives,” Herbert joked.

“That’s my years as a homeowner talking,” Hood replied. And as soon as he said it he felt that pinch of anger at Sharon again. He always liked doing the lawn, especially when the kids were younger and went out to “help” by pulling up dandelions or raking leaves to jump in. Hood got himself out of that place quickly. “Look, Bob. The future of American intelligence is not our concern at the moment.”

“True, true,” Herbert said. “I’m letting it go. But the operative phrase is ‘at the moment.’ I don’t want to be caught with my drawers down when it does become our concern. It’s the Big RB. It’s Liz Gordon’s white paper.”

“I know,” Hood said.

“There are moral issues at stake, but more importantly, there are tactical ones,” Herbert said. “I’m not a patriot for a paycheck, Paul. If I think something is wrong, I’m going to fight it.”

The words “And I’ll be fighting at your side” snagged in the back of Hood’s throat. He was not afraid to take on the DoD. What scared him was civil war between American government factions at a time when the nation needed to be united. Even if the weeds were not eradicated, containing them was better than ignoring them while the intelligence departments fought.

“I hope it won’t come to that,” Hood said.

“Spoken like a newly minted diplomat,” Herbert replied.

Hood could hear the disappointment in Herbert’s voice, but he refused to let it bother him. This was not about Bob Herbert’s approval. It was about preventing the nation from being drawn into Chinese politics.

If that’s even possible, Hood thought as he said good-bye and hung up. Herbert himself had taken to calling the world the Big RB—the big rubber band ball. That was his view of globalization, a tight intertwining of finance and culture and religion. It was an apt description. All of the strands were still distinct. United, they were a potentially powerful force. But remove one of them, and the neighboring strands would start to slip. If they did, then the entire structure would pop. Psychologist Liz Gordon had done a profile of the planet called—rather more academically—The Forced Unity of Disharmony. She declared that slippage was inevitable. One passage in the book-length study asked the reader to imagine what would have happened if the Sioux and Cheyenne who battled Custer had, instead, been dropped into New York City. Would the so-called “hostiles” have fought to keep from being captured, or would they have surrendered to superior numbers? Would they have taken hostages? Would they simply have scattered, gone underground to reconnoiter and then strike at night, at will? Would the police have tried to contain them—or kill them outright, the way the Seventh Cavalry did? How would ordinary citizens have reacted to a much different culture? With fear, curiosity, or a confusing mixture of both?

“The problem with globalization,” Liz wrote in a cautionary summation, “is that all of those worlds do intersect now, and in more layers than anyone can successfully isolate, study, and chart.”

In other words, like Bob Herbert said, it was a Big RB ready to pop. And maybe, Hood thought, the DoD was preparing to deal with it in a way that did not isolate, study, or chart.

Hood took his laptop from his briefcase and booted it. He wanted to have a close look at the party list, make sure he knew the players. He also had a walk around the library. He pulled out a current encyclopedia yearbook so he could read up on National Day. He was a guest in a strange land and wanted to know something of their history and customs.

As Hood did his research, he could not help feeling that his efforts were sluggish and obsolete. He did not feel like a hunter. Perhaps he was experiencing some of what Herbert felt.

If you’re not a hunter, you’re venison.

THIRTY

Yu Xian, China Wednesday, 2:11 P.M.

After ten years in the business, Shek had talked his way out of a job. He was happy it turned out that way.

When he was a boy, Yuan “the Emperor” Shek used to look forward to his mother coming to his room and singing him a good night song. His favorite was “The World Beneath the Stone of Farmer Woo.” It seems the farmer had to move a large stone in his field in order to plant corn. But when he did so, he found all manner of insects and tunnels, nests and roots, and even a family of field mice. Food came and went in organized supply lines, “Many ants with many legs in service of the empress.” At the end of the song the farmer replaced the rock and grew his crops around it.

Young Shek lived in the back of the schoolhouse where his mother was the only teacher. His father was a soldier who was rarely home. There were plenty of rocks in a field behind the school. Most of them were too small to conceal more than a few bugs or small snakes. Shek was not strong enough to move the larger rocks, where he imagined the riches to be much greater.

One day, when his father was home, the older man showed his son how to get the rock to move. Not with a lever but with gunpowder. Carefully placed in cracks or under the edges, the tiny charges made Shek the master of the field. He even wrote a little song about himself, “The Emperor of the Empress Ant.”

Explosives became a very big—and profitable—part of Shek’s life. From a soldier friend who sometimes visited with his father, the boy learned how to manufacture explosives using fertilizer and other ingredients. Shek put them to work moving rocks for fun, creating popping toys to celebrate birthdays or holidays, and even for pest control. He taught himself how to set off charges using a slight amount of pressure applied to a trigger plate—in this case, pieces of bark peeled from trees. His small Emperor Mousetraps were a big seller in the village. He pedaled them from a small, flat rock along the main road until his mother found out what he was doing. She lent him a card table from the school.

She believed in doing things right.

Shek’s father died in a truck accident when the boy was twelve. Teaching had never been very profitable for his mother, and the widow’s pension from the military was extremely meager. Shek’s sideline became an important part of their income. He made increasingly sophisticated fireworks, flares, and even custom demolitions for local builders. Without the benefit of an education, Emperor Shek became a master of his craft. Best of all, there was no record of his skill in military or scholastic records. He was what the intelligence trade called an invisible.

When Chou Shin learned of this talented young man, he hired him for the 8341 Unit. Chou immediately set Shek and his mother up in a small but comfortable cottage in Yu Xian, a Beijing suburb. The structure was isolated and had a shed out back for Shek’s work, which was building bombs for the Central Security Regiment. The explosives were not simply for use by the CSR. Many of them were employed by the military for covert land and sea mines, illegal armaments that would not be traced to Beijing. Even more were given over for off-the-books ballistics. These were passed to rebels fighting in foreign lands, where destabilization benefited Beijing by involving enemy forces in distracting struggles at home.

Shek was always busy, though he was never rushed. His employer recognized that he was an artist who could hide explosives inside donuts for transport or bake them into ceramic goods that would explode spectacularly in a microwave oven or conventional oven. Those were good for assassinations.

Director Chou—who never made his requests by phone or computer but always visited the laboratory personally—had commissioned Shek to make very specific bombs over the last week. He wanted something small and powerful that could blow out the hull of a thirty-thousand-ton freighter. He wanted something else that would detonate cold: destroy a room on top of a high-rise structure without setting a fire or causing collateral devastation below. That required a briefcase-sized device with interior deflectors, steel ribs, and titanium mesh that would release the explosion without scattering superheated debris. Shek never knew where these devices were headed, nor did he care. Chou took care of him and his aging mother. Like his father, Chou was a military man and a loyal Communist. That was all Shek had to know.

A few days ago, however, Shek received a visit from someone else. Another military man who had learned of his work for Chou and needed a secret device of his own. He asked if an explosive could be prepared that would endure heat reaching 2,500 degrees Fahrenheit without detonating. Shek told him the real problem was not detonation but evaporation. At that temperature the medium carrying the chemicals would vaporize, causing the explosive to malfunction. Shek said it would be possible if the package were encased in a low-density, high-purity silica 99.8-percent amorphous fiber similar to the material used in the thermal tiles of the American space shuttle. Shek said he had something similar to that in his equipment closet. By that time Shek had guessed that the explosive would be used on a rocket, probably a ballistic missile, and foresaw a more difficult problem.

“The charge itself can be small, but the added weight of thermal shielding will immediately cause a missile or rocket to shift course,” Shek told him. “Even some of the larger fireworks I built had no tolerance for imbalance.”

“Added weight will not matter,” the individual said, smiling broadly and showing a gold tooth.

“But sir, it will cause the rocket to veer.”

“Mr. Shek, I want you to create the device. How long will it take?”

“Ten hours, maybe a little longer.”

“Good. I will return then. You will be generously rewarded.”

Shek did not care abut that. He did not mind killing people here and there, anonymously. They were enemies of the state or they would not be targets. But ever since he began making fireworks, Shek had been a student and devotee of space flight. He did not know what kind of rocket the man wanted to destroy, or why. But he did not want to be a part of it, whatever nations were involved.

“You will do it,” the visitor replied coldly. “If you refuse, your mother will be brought here and shot in front of you. In the legs first. Then the arms.”

Shek began assembling the man’s bomb. He finished it on time. He did not ask what it was for. He did not want to know.

Now, however, he was watching television while he worked on a design to inject fuel into a lightbulb so it would explode when it was turned on. He saw a television newscast about the next launch from Xichang. It would take place the following afternoon, on National Day. A Long March 4 rocket would be used to carry a communications satellite aloft. Shek used his low-level security password to look up the project on-line. He read that the manufacturer was the Unexus Corporation and that the power source was plutonium.

Shek felt sudden nausea unrelated to the gas fumes. At a height of seven miles, as originally proposed, the destruction of the satellite would have caused the resultant radiation to remain primarily in the upper atmosphere. There, air currents would have diluted the effect and disbursed it over a wide area. An explosion under three miles would cause extensive fallout, much of that directed downward by the blast.

What this man planned was worse.

Far, far worse.

THIRTY-ONE

Taipei, Taiwan Wednesday, 7:32 P.M.

The commander in chief of the Taiwan Armed Forces, based at General Staff Headquarters, Ministry of Defense, in Taipei, sat in a conference room. With him were the commanders of each of the services. Except for short rest periods, the six men would be in this room for at least the next twenty-four hours.

Exactly one day before any rocket launch on mainland China, the 427th Taiwan Flight Wing, based at Ching Chuan Kang Air Base, went on alert. The nationalist Chinese did not expect an attack, and the planes did not leave the field. But the pilots all went to the ready room, and the radar was put on double data status. This meant that the sophisticated new American-built strong-net radar systems at Ching Chuan Kang were interlocked with the systems at Pingtung Air Base North, home of the 439th TFW. That gave the military overlapping pictures of the mainland coast. Instead of receiving a blip with each sweep of one system, incoming images were constant. The double data system left holes in Taiwan’s northern coast, but high command was not overly concerned. If an attack came from North Korea, Seoul would let them know.

Not that the Taiwanese high command expected an attack. Rocket and missile tests by the People’s Republic of China were more an opportunity for a drill than an anticipation of hostilities. It was a chance for the Taiwanese Armed Forces to show their across-the-strait military adversaries that they were watching.

And ready. Twelve hours after the radar scan had begun, Taiwanese Fleet Command would dispatch one cruiser each from the four major naval facilities at Kenting, Suao, Makung, and Keelung. Two recently commissioned dieselpowered submarines would be launched from the new mountain stronghold in Hengchung on the southern coast. Six hours after that, in Tsoying, the Taiwanese Marine Corps would prepare for deployment by sea and air. On the books, their mission would be to recover anything that might land in Taiwan’s territorial waters. But each man knew that in the event of a real crisis, their target could be anything from the vanguard of the PRC fleet to a coastal base or industrial complex.

In all, just six vessels and under three thousand men would be activated in this initial phase of national defense. If the TAF subsequently identified an actual threat from the PRC, the military would move from EWI—the early warning and information phase—to an aggressive electronic warfare phase. This would constitute a massive blocking of mainland communications and reconnaissance systems. Concurrently, Taiwan would launch its forces in a strategic counterblockade capacity to ensure that the waterways and air lanes would be kept free for the TAF and its allies. Antiballistic armament would be launched to intercept any missiles fired from the mainland coast. One hundred fifty F-16 fighters were the cornerstone to this capability. The American-made jets were faster and more powerful than the sixty French Mirage 2000-5 jets that formed the backbone of the PLAAF.

This information and counterattack superiority would form the basis of the initial Taiwanese thrust. It would be followed by a fully synchronized, multiservice and extremely quick response to any sea or land assault, or even the hint of one. There was no doubt in Taiwan that an initial thrust from the PRC could be met and stopped. Their entire strategy depended upon decisively repelling a first strike and holding a second wave. If a struggle went beyond that, and the United States did not intervene, the PRC would simply overwhelm them.

No one expected it to come to that. War benefited neither nation. Taiwan and the PRC did a great deal of business with one another. Not just black market activities but legitimate investments and industrial development. And those numbers were increasing exponentially. The only ones who objected to that were the vintage Communists and the military hard-liners. Both groups were losing ground to the young entrepreneurs. Ironically, these young men and women were a product of a successful Communist policy: the decades-old one-child-per-family rule. Family planning prevented an estimated three hundred million births, which would have taxed the infrastructure and kept Chinese mothers out of the workforce. But it also created a generation of pampered, entitled Chinese. These young adults wanted what their Taiwanese counterparts had: brand-name clothes, electronic toys, and high-end automobiles. Neither Communism nor militarism was going to give them that.

Nonetheless, the commander in chief and his staff still put the Taiwanese military through its carefully planned defensive motions. There was always the chance that someone in Beijing would think the future looked better draped in red instead of silver and gold. Reason and greed were powerful motivators. Unfortunately, so were habit and vanity. That combination could be catastrophic, especially if a political or martial cause to which someone had dedicated their life was in danger of being extinguished.

THIRTY-TWO

Beijing, China Wednesday, 8:00 P.M.

Being a guest in China was a little like making a soufflé. If you opened the door at the wrong time, the result wouldn’t be a happy one.

Unlike their counterparts in Washington, dignitaries in China did not arrive fashionably late for a party. Not only was it considered extremely bad manners, it assured the latecomer that he or she would be ignored. The Chinese were very good at turning away from or looking through someone who was ungracious.

Arriving early was also considered discourteous, an imposition on the host’s charity. The result, of course, was an inevitable bottleneck at the door. But there was a benefit to that as well. People were obliged to meet and chat with whomever was standing around them under the long, long canopy that led to the street. The canopy was only erected for receptions. It was a gesture so guests would not feel as though they were waiting outside, exposed to elements and passersby. That would have been considered bad manners.

In Hood’s case, he ended up chatting with two people he did not know. A third individual was one he did recognize, a Chinese national who worked for the Beijing bureau of the Washington Post. Hood did not want to talk to him. The man did not recognize Hood, and he wanted to keep it that way. A good reporter would not simply accept, “I happened to be in Beijing, and the ambassador invited me,” as a reason for being here.

Presenting his back to the reporter left Hood facing the Brazilian ambassador and his wife. They looked to be in their sixties. The woman was wearing a small diamond engagement ring, which suggested that she was the original Mrs. Ambassador. The man was a former architect who was admiring the Huabiao, an ornamental marble pillar engraved with twining dragons and ominous clouds. He said that the origin of the Huabiao dated to the legendary kings Yao and Shun, who ruled some 4,000 years ago. He said that they were originally wooden columns used as landmarks for travelers.

His wife smiled benignly. She was a historian, a professor at Pontifícia Universidade Católica do Rio de Janeiro. The handsome, gray-haired woman was on sabbatical to be with her husband during his tenure.

“The Biaos were not that,” she said, addressing Hood. “They evolved from a pole called a Biao, which was used in building much more recently, around 700 B.C. The Biao was placed in the ground to determine plumb and to mark the boundaries of construction. As larger structures came to be built, stone Biaos were used. By 400 B.C., they had become part of the structure.”

“While we are here, we are collecting data to ascertain which of us is right,” the ambassador said with a smile for his wife. He added pragmatically, “Whichever of us wins or loses, scholarship benefits.”

Hood smiled. There was something sweet about their rivalry. The couple had found an activity that allowed them to be together yet still individual. He envied them that.

They made it through the door and into the ballroom after nearly ten minutes. Their names were checked against a master list by men wearing formal black Chinese military uniforms. Though Hood and most of the guests were dressed formally, the Chinese made no attempt to evoke the dynasties or Western styles. This was a show of traditional Red Chinese influence and authority. Inside, the Chinese leaders were dressed in tuxedos with necks reminiscent of the high-collared Mao jacket.

The American ambassador was already working on a martini as he chatted with the prime minister through a young female interpreter. Hood felt a flash of anger, not because the man had Le Kwan Po’s ear but because Hasen did not have to wait in line. The feeling passed when the ambassador saw Hood and waved him over. Simultaneously, Hasen excused himself and walked toward Hood. He was glad to see that. Hood did not know who he was supposed to be or why he was here. That was something he was to have discussed with the ambassador before coming. He knew only that he was posing as an observer attached to the embassy.

The room was already loud with chatter, the voices a combination of English and everything else, most notably the clucking sounds of the Chinese tongue. The ambassador put a hand on Hood’s shoulder as he brought him forward.

“Sorry I couldn’t meet you earlier,” Hasen said. The very tall, round ambassador spoke softly, his voice nearly swallowed by the din. “The prime minister wanted to meet with someone, and I had to arrange it quickly.”

“Someone obviously more important than a special envoy to the president,” Hood said with a trace of sarcasm.

“In this instance, yes,” Hasen said. “It was a friend of yours, actually. General Mike Rodgers.”

Hood frowned. He had not yet conferred with Rodgers about coordinating their work here, because he was not yet sure what needed to be done. Obviously, that had not stopped Mike.

Hood did not get to follow up because they reached the prime minister’s side. Le Kwan Po had been distracted by someone who was speaking through his own translator. The Russian ambassador, from the sound of it. The man looked vaguely familiar, and Hood wondered if they had met before. It was possible. He had been to Russia and had worked closely with Sergei Orlov, his counterpart at the Russian Op-Center in Saint Petersburg.

My former counterpart, Hood reminded himself. Orlov was still running that facility.

Hasen took that moment to present Hood to the young woman who had been translating for them.

“Paul, allow me to introduce Ms. Anita Le, daughter of the prime minister,” Hasen said. “Ms. Le, this is Mr. Hood. Paul Hood. He is a presidential aide sent here and there to make sure administration policy is being upheld.”

“The president should have more faith in his ambassadors,” Anita said to both men.

“Some of us fall victim to a variation of the Stockholm syndrome,” the ambassador remarked.

“You start to empathize with your hosts,” Anita said.

“Speaking of hosts, I’m going to see if I can recapture the prime minister,” Hasen said. “Will you excuse me?”

“Of course,” Anita said.

Hasen left, and Hood asked Anita if she would like a drink. She said yes and motioned to a waiter. The whitejacketed young Chinese hurried over. She asked for champagne. Hood ordered a Coke.

“Do you not drink?” the woman asked.

“Rarely,” Hood replied. “I like to remember what I hear. More important, I like to remember what I said.”

“Moderation, Mr. Hood.”

“Not something Americans are very good at,” he replied.

“I understand. When I was in school I read novels by Mr. Hemingway and Mr. Fitzgerald. The men were always drinking too much.”

“The authors, too, I fear.”

The woman smiled. Anita Le was a striking woman. She was dressed in a sequined white gown that did justice to her slender, athletic figure. She had straight black hair with hints of red and a round, open face with large eyes. She looked to be in her late thirties or early forties. She had poise that came from years of negotiating the sharp edges of life.

Hood glanced over at Hasen. He was still trying to insert himself into a conversation with the prime minister. The crowd around him had grown considerably.

“Is this your first visit to Beijing?”

“It is,” Hood replied. “Do you work full-time as a translator?”

“No. I teach literature at Beijing University. You can tell a lot about the ethos of a culture from its fiction.”

“Do you follow contemporary literature or just the classics?”

“I stay as current as time allows,” she said. “Though I must confess I have no particular interest in most of the work being produced by your country right now. Most of it is wish fulfillment for women and men, with very little to offer both. That divides rather than unites a culture.”

“You mean romances for the women and spy stories for the men.”

“Yes.”

“I look at that stuff as aspirational,” Hood said. “It creates idealized heroes and heroines that make us want to be better.”

“They are comic books for adults,” Anita replied dismissively.

“What’s wrong with that?” Hood asked.

“Popular literature is more about superficial external desires, to be strong or beautiful, than about internal growth,” she replied. “There was a time in the nineteenth and early twentieth century when American authors like Herman Melville and John Steinbeck and Upton Sinclair addressed social and psychological issues instead of fantasies.”

“Fantasies have truth in them,” Hood said. “Moby-Dick is a fantasy.”

“Only as far as the whale is concerned,” the woman replied, “and it is not to be taken literally. The white whale is a personification of Captain Ahab’s destructive desires.”

“I’m sure many of the enemies in contemporary American literature can be seen that way.”

“No,” the woman replied with a firm shake of her head. “The Chinese are inevitably portrayed as enemies, as are the Russians. These are very specific references in all your spy novels, your James Bond adventures, and they distort reality in a quest for propaganda.”

“James Bond is British,” Hood pointed out.

“An irrelevant detail. The mentality is still Western.”

“To some degree,” Hood admitted the truth of that. “You have read James Bond novels?”

“Only Dr. No,” she said. “I saw several of the films. Comedies, really. Dr. No was a villain born in Beijing, a member of several tong gangs, a man with a translucent yellow skin with a Chinese Negro bodyguard. Destroying American missiles with a laser beam while posing as an exporter of guano. Mr. Hood, have you ever met a Chinese like that?”

“No,” he had to admit.

“Or a dazzlingly brilliant spy like Mr. Bond, who announces his identity to everyone he meets while moving through the world in a tailored tuxedo?” Anita said. She gestured vaguely at Hood’s attire. “A spy would be discreet.”

“One would think,” Hood said uncomfortably. He saw Hasen returning with the prime minister. Hood’s own powers of subtle intelligence gathering were about to be tested.

Hood did not know if they would ever find common ground where literature or literary protagonists was concerned. But the woman spoke English magnificently, and while she had the aggressive confidence of an academic, she listened when he was speaking. There was curiosity at work.

Anita’s manner changed instantly when the men returned. She moved between but slightly behind her father and Hood. Her chin was no longer high and proud but lowered, like her eyes. It was not subservience but respect. Hood wondered if the writers Anita disliked so much would have bothered to note the dynamics between a father and daughter, a prime minister and translator.

Not the ones who had made Le Kwan Po a Fu Manchu–style tyrant, he reflected.

Hood and the prime minister shook hands.

“Mr. Hood. Mr. Hasen says you wished to meet me,” the prime minister said through Anita.

“Yes, sir,” Hood replied. “Is there someplace we can talk for a moment, privately?”

“Right here,” the prime minister said. “No one can hear us, and most do not understand English. If you speak and I listen, we will be secure.”

“All right,” Hood said.

“But, Mr. Hood—I know your name. Why is that?” the prime minister asked.

“I’ve been in government for quite some time,” Hood replied.

“In what capacity?”

“Most recently as the director of the National Crisis Management Center,” Hood replied.

“Yes, of course. The renowned Op-Center. Your spies uncovered plots around the world, prevented wars.”

Anita looked at Hood as she finished translating. Her expression darkened, and Hood felt a flush.

“Then you know, of course, General Michael Rodgers,” Le Kwan Po said.

There was an edge to Anita’s voice that had not been there before. Anita had to feel as though Hood had been leading her, patronizing her.

“Yes, sir. I worked very closely with General Rodgers for years.”

“Are you here at his request?”

“Only partly, sir,” Hood admitted. “The president also had reasons for sending me.”

“I would like to hear those reasons,” Le Kwan Po said. “President Debenport seems to take a harder view of our government than his predecessor.”

“Harder in what sense, Mr. Prime Minister?”

“Black and white,” Le Kwan Po replied.

“I cannot answer for the president, sir,” Hood said. “I can tell you that his regard for you personally is very high. As is mine.”

“Thank you,” the prime minister replied. He looked at his watch. “The toasts do not begin for another forty minutes. Perhaps we had better go elsewhere.”

“All right.”

Le Kwan Po led the way through the crowd toward the back of the ballroom. Well-wishers bowed or clasped his hand. Le smiled politely and patiently as he continued moving forward. It was a tremendous political asset, being attentive without stopping, giving a moment of your time without breaking stride. Le did that and one thing more: he did not show any favoritism. Everyone got the same smile, the same moment of contact. Debenport—and James Bond—might see the Chinese as black, but Le Kwan Po was definitely gray.

And his daughter was definitely annoyed. She was still walking behind her father, which meant she was walking behind Hood. He caught her sharp stare whenever he maneuvered around someone in the packed hall.

The group reached the back of the hall. A soldier wearing a formal black uniform opened a door for the prime minister. Le extended an arm, urging the ambassador and Hood to enter. They did, followed by the prime minister and his daughter.

Hood would talk to Anita later. He would try to explain that she was not wrong about so much spy fiction—though what is often distilled for narrative convenience is not necessarily false.

Maybe you can invite her to go whale-watching, Hood thought. That would keep his record of wrongheaded approaches to women intact.

For now, though, Hood had more important matters to deal with. Which was one way life and fiction differed very dramatically. Despite the tuxedo and impressive résumé, he doubted that any spy could attend to a crisis and a woman at the same time.

THIRTY-THREE

Beijing, China Wednesday, 8:22 P.M.

Le Kwan Po found it strange that so many Americans knew about his investigation. There was a cultural difference between the nations, one encapsulated in the saying, “Tell one American and you have told them all.” Chinese were not talkers. To the contrary, they were hoarders. They kept information as though it were fresh water on the high seas. They would share it only if it would bring an exponentially high return or was necessary to save face.

But Americans talked to a stranger as if he were their best friend. Diplomats were a little better, depending upon their experience. Most of the men sent to China, including Mr. Hasen, had a good deal of experience in government. But Le had met ambassadors who had been newspaper publishers, actors, and even a professional bullfighter before being sent to represent their nations. These men loved to talk. Only occasionally did they listen.

Paul Hood seemed different. The three men settled into the century-old easy chairs in the antechamber. Anita sat between her father and Hood. The American’s beverage arrived, and he accepted it graciously. By his expression, his easy carriage, the few words he had spoken, even the way he paid attention to Anita, Le could see that Hood was neither obsequious nor pretentious.

If there were such a thing as the typical movie-hero American, General Rodgers embodied those aggressive, masculine characteristics. If there were such a thing as an average American, Paul Hood seemed to possess those more modest traits. There was something fair but resolute in his eyes. Hood certainly seemed far more open and approachable than General Rodgers had been.

“Paul, why don’t you tell the prime minister why you’re here?” Ambassador Hasen urged.

Anita translated for her father. Hood leaned forward in his chair, his hands folded in front of his chin. It looked as though he were praying.

“Mr. Prime Minister, I am here at the request of the president,” Hood said. “He has asked me to offer whatever help we can to assure a successful launch of your new communications satellite.”

“Does he have reason to believe the launch is in jeopardy?” Le asked.

“There is intelligence to suggest you think there is a danger, Mr. Prime Minister.”

“General Rodgers expressed that concern, but he had no information,” Le said. “What can you tell me?”

“We believe the explosions in the United States, South Africa, and Taiwan may be related,” Hood said. “With respect, sir, we believe that the perpetrators may be elements within China.”

“Is your information vague, or are you simply being reticent?” the prime minister asked.

“I am a guest in your country, sir. I did not come to make charges against individuals, merely to offer help.”

“What form would that help take?” the prime minister asked.

“I would like to come to the launch,” Hood said. “Represent the president at a historic moment for China.”

Le laughed. “We have launched many communications satellites before this.”

“Not one built with the help of American industry,” Hood said.

The American ambassador leaned forward. He looked very sincere. “As I have said before, Mr. Prime Minister, President Debenport wishes for a closer détente with Beijing.”

“You have said that before, Mr. Ambassador. Yet only recently your government has made arms sales to the rebels across the strait.”

“The Taiwan Relations Act is for purely defensive use—” Hasen said.

“Gentlemen, I doubt we will solve the issues of this region right now,” Hood interrupted. “But I hope we can establish some degree of trust regarding this launch. Mr. Prime Minister, you know my background. I would like the honor of standing at your side.”

The prime minister sat silently while he considered Hood’s offer. He was studying the American.

“General Rodgers made the same offer,” Le said after a moment. “He said he wanted to ‘watch my back.’ ”

“It’s a popular expression.”

“I understand,” Le assured him. “It would also suggest personal weakness and mistrust of our own security forces if I had a small force of Americans looking out for me and for the launch. I told General Rodgers I would consider his offer. In the name of this new détente, I will allow one of you to attend. You understand the situation. Please work it out between you who that will be.”

“Mr. Prime Minister, it would not be unprecedented to have a representative of the manufacturer and a foreign government present for a launch,” the ambassador pointed out. “And it would show the world that we are approaching a new age in the Sino-American relationship.”

“Many members of my government would find that an unacceptably generous leap,” Le said, “especially when both representatives spent years working together at an American intelligence agency.” The prime minister rose and regarded Hood. “I must return to my guests. I will expect your answer in the morning.”

Hood stood. “You will have it. Thank you, sir.”

Le left the antechamber, followed by his daughter and the two Americans. They walked slowly toward the ballroom. “What is your impression of this man?” he asked Anita.

“Unexceptional,” she replied.

“Yes. The best spies are, you know,” Le told her. “They should never stand out.”

“Do you think he is spying on us?”

“Almost certainly,” the prime minister answered. “The American president already has an ambassador. Why send another? Besides, a man with his credentials is always watching for new faces, new dynamics, new technology. Yet he may be sincere in his desire to want to help protect the launch.”

“Why?”

“If something happens, it may have repercussions throughout the region,” the prime minister said. “His government might not wish to be forced to participate. Hopefully, we will know more in a minute.”

“How?”

“You will ask him a question.” Le smiled.

“I will?” she said.

The prime minister nodded once. “Mr. Hood virtually ignored his own ambassador during our chat,” Le told her. “Yet Mr. Hood was watching your reaction very closely.”

“I was translating—”

“Interpreters are usually invisible, you know that,” Le said.

“He was simply being polite.”

“The ambassador was watching me, and he was watching Mr. Hood,” Le told her. “You must have impressed him. I would like you to find out why this launch is so important to him. He may confide in you.”

“Father, I am not a diplomat,” she protested.

“Neither is your mother. But I trust you both, and you are intuitive in ways that I am not.”

The prime minister squeezed his daughter’s hand to signify that the conversation had ended. They had entered the ballroom. A number of people were now within earshot, and they spoke Mandarin. He did not want his thoughts or concerns to become part of a public debate.

Anita seemed a little confused by his observation. That was all right. It was good for her to step from the armor of academic absolutes now and again. He was not sure whether he trusted Paul Hood entirely. He seemed likable and sincere, but the interests of the United States in this matter were curious. Le had listened, but he had not learned much. The White House should not be so concerned about a multinational corporation like Unexus. Not to the extent that they would send a high-level troubleshooter to check on its interests. And this was not a diplomatic issue. Otherwise, the ambassador could have handled it.

Unless it is not the satellite that really concerns them, Le reflected. Paul Hood had come directly to see him. Le wondered what they might know or suspect beyond what he already feared. At the moment, the only casualty on Chinese soil had been his own credibility. If he could not make peace between Director Chou and General Tam Li, the president and influential members of the National People’s Congress would lose faith in him. That was not something that would matter to the United States. And the destruction of the rocket would not impact them directly unless it affected one of their allies in the region.

Hopefully, there would be a way to find out.

Le was approached by Australian ambassador Catherine Barnes and her husband. At the same time, from the corner of his eye, the prime minister saw Hood making his way toward the door. Excusing himself from Ms. Barnes, the prime minister turned to his daughter.

“Anita, go to Mr. Hood before he leaves,” the prime minister whispered.

“Will you be all right on your own?”

“Ambassador Barnes speaks passable Mandarin, and it is almost time for the toasts. Go.”

Le released Anita’s hand, and she made her way through the crowd. She followed Hood as he left the ballroom. Hood had his cell phone in his hand, possibly preparing to call General Rodgers.

There was something a little dirty about it, Le realized. Part of what may have appealed to Paul Hood was the fact that his daughter was an attractive woman. If so, he was using her in an unseemly manner. But while that could be part of it, that was not all of it. Le’s sense of the brief meeting was that Paul Hood might be a new kind of spy. He was somewhere between General Rodgers and Ambassador Hasen: a covert bureaucrat, an ambassador without borders.

Testing a new kind of spy required a new kind of counterspy. Anita, an educator-interrogator. In a world where there were rumors of an American physician-assassin, the rules were definitely changing. Perhaps for the best. Le believed that Hood may have come for the reasons stated: to collect intelligence without prejudice and to begin forming a strategic international alliance. Whether that union lasted for as long as it took to protect the launch, or whether it was the start of a new détente remained to be seen. Even if that was not why Hood was here, the prime minister might be able to use him in that way. That would make this like any relationship in politics or in life. If it was successful, it did not matter who had contributed what and why.

It would be ironic, though, Le thought as he chatted superficially with Ambassador Barnes. A fight between two Chinese officials spills into the global arena. The one who stops it is a member of the audience. What was it Li-Li had said just two days ago?

“This situation is about the future.”

His wife may have been wiser and more prophetic than she knew.

THIRTY-FOUR

Alexandria, Virginia Wednesday, 8:41 A.M.

General Carrie did not get very much sleep.

She came home, sat on the sofa to go through the mail, and the next thing she knew, her husband was very gently nudging her awake.

“You must have been tired,” Dr. Carrie said.

The woman opened her eyes. The general was lying against the armrest, her feet on the floor. Her husband’s brown eyes were staring down at her.

“What?” she asked, still groggy.

“I said you must have been tired,” he repeated. He held up an envelope. “You actually opened a ‘You Won a Millions Bucks!’ come-on.”

General Carrie’s eyes shifted from her husband to the envelope. She did not remember opening it. She did not even remember sitting here. She looked at the clock on the digital video recorder. It was coming up on nine A.M. It was late.

“The housekeeper will be here in twenty minutes,” Dr. Carrie said.

“Yeah. Thanks,” his wife replied. She moved stubborn limbs in an attempt to get up. Her husband helped her. He was already dressed, which meant he had showered, and she did not hear him. She smelled coffee. General Carrie did not hear him make that, either.

“Can I get you anything before I leave?” he asked.

“Tea, thanks,” she said. “Also, a kiss.”

He bent over and planted one on her lips. It did not work as well as caffeine, but it was a start.

The neurosurgeon brought his wife her tea, then left. Carrie rose and took a long slug of the strong Earl Grey. She felt as tired as she did when she had come home. She heard the car pull from the driveway and savored her daily moment of solitude. She checked her cell phone. There was just one message. It was from the Andrews dispatch sergeant, probably wanting to know when he should come and get her. She was glad someone had been there for her the night before. That was the great thing about working on an air force base. There was always a driver in the staff pool. She called him and told him she’d be ready to leave at 9:30.

The general took off her uniform, showered quickly, and felt better when that was done. The housekeeper had arrived and let herself in. Patricia Salazar was a young single mother of two who went about her work with easy efficiency. It had occurred to Carrie years before that Patricia would be a perfect spy. She had the run of the house, and who would ever suspect a Portuguese-speaking housekeeper of being an agent for a third party?

Which was exactly the point. Carrie had her G2 staff run a background check. Although Patricia had been married to an NCO in an army signals regiment seven years before, he had left her—and the children—for another woman. Phone logs were checked, as were travel records. Patricia was watched for several weekends. The Salazars apparently had no contact after Patricia came to Maryland to live with her sister and brother-in-law.

Carrie had not felt bad about doing that. A clean house—and a happy housecleaner—were not more important than national security. But caution was a part of her profession. The general did not usually discuss work at home and never took sensitive documents to the house. But she did not want to go to work with a bug concealed in the heel of her shoe.

Carrie poured another cup of tea into a thermos, then glanced at the news on-line before the car arrived. There had been no explosions during the night. That was both good and bad. Good because no one had been hurt. Bad because each new event would give them more information to work with.

The driver arrived, and Carrie left with two things that were at her side constantly: her laptop and her secure phone. As soon as the general was comfortably settled in the car, she raised the glass partition between the seats and switched on the telephone. She entered the password neurodoc, then punched in 1*. That speed-dialed the cell phone of someone she spoke with almost every day, the man who had helped her rise through the military. The man who had ensured her promotion and made the transfer to Op-Center possible. General Raleigh Carew, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

“You did not call since you started,” Carew said.

“I was settling in, getting the overview.”

“And what’s your impression of Op-Center?”

“Most of the people are dedicated, hardworking, and extremely burned out,” the general informed him.

“Burned out in what way?”

“They work long hours, they take their cases home with them, and when they are not involved in a crisis, I’m told they are busy looking for the next one.”

“Told by whom?”

“Liz Gordon, the staff psychologist,” Carrie said. “That last factor is the one that’s killing them. There is no downtime.”

“What’s going on there? The Napoleon syndrome?” Carew asked.

“I do not get the sense they are trying to compete with the big boys of intelligence,” Carrie told him. “At least, that’s not their primary motivation. It is more like a bunker mentality. They see themselves as a key line of defense—which they are. But according to Liz, Paul Hood made them feel as if they are the only line of defense. His personal line of defense.”

“Against what?”

“Mediocrity,” she replied. “Liz thinks that Paul Hood used the NCMC to fix the world in ways that he couldn’t fix his life.”

“General Carrie.” Carew sighed. “Are you going to sit there and give me a lot of psychobullshit?”

“Mr. Chairman, I was not the one who brought up the Napoleon syndrome,” Carrie remarked.

Carew was silent for a moment. “Touché,” he replied. “Go on.”

“Liz says that the big problem is the way Hood integrated everyone into the crisis management process on every level. Military planning was plugged into tech, intelligence gathering was hot-wired into the political liaison office, legal worked with psychological, everyone handson everywhere. I saw that happening myself around two this morning. I was talking to Herbert and McCaskey, and they were overanalyzing everything they had picked up that day instead of acting on it. The guiding principle is that the team takes risks but not chances.”

“Everything comes from the brain, not the gut,” Carew said.

“Exactly,” Carrie said. “Whereas we encourage our intel people to explore from within, these people investigate from without. They started a unit of field agents under Mike Rodgers, but it never worked out. Liz says that Hood couldn’t let go. I discovered that Hood is also one reason that Liz back-doored a recommendation to then-Senator Debenport that Mike Rodgers be the first one downsized. Hood’s number two was burning out big time.”

“That’s because he’s a soldier, not a bureaucrat. He took the full frontal hits for Op-Center, all of them in the field.”

“Liz doesn’t think Hood realized the damage he was doing to General Rodgers or to the rest of the staff,” Carrie continued. “If he thought about it at all, he would blame it on being understaffed.”

“Where was the CIOC in all this?”

“The Congressional Intelligence Oversight Committee didn’t seem to care how Hood ran the organization as long as he got results,” Carrie said. “And he did. Hood was one reason the CIOC felt they could cut his budget. Debenport knew that Hood would make it work. What I don’t understand, though, is if he was so important to the mix, why did President Debenport pull him away?”

“So Hood could do the same thing for the West Wing that he was doing at the NCMC, pulling together an intelligence community under the direct control of the president,” Carew said. “Debenport knows we want to create a greater structure allied with G2. Hood is his countermove.”

“And his spy.”

“What do you mean?” Carew asked.

“Hood is using personnel from Op-Center on the situation in China.”

“Of course. The president had to realize Hood would do that,” Carew said. “He would use long-standing relationships to tap Op-Center’s resources and confuse their loyalty.”

“Liz feels the danger to Op-Center goes deeper than that,” Carrie said. “She says that Hood’s command style not only connected people professionally but emotionally—in a common, often open dislike of Hood. Rodgers, Bob Herbert, attorney Lowell Coffey, and FBI liaison Darrell McCaskey all manifested extreme resentment from time to time. But she thinks that instead of being relieved by his absence they’re feeling lost. These people don’t have a familiar commander—or a place to put their frustration. In the absence of that, Hood can cherrypick the personnel he needs in his new position. Whether intentionally or not, that will divide their loyalty.”

“Keep us from solidifying the unit.”

“Right.”

“Whether or not that’s true, and whether or not this was all Hood’s fault, how long will it take to fix?” Carew asked.

“I’m going to work on that with Liz today,” Carrie said. “We’re going to see who we can retain and retrain.”

“Are you sure Liz Gordon was not affected by all this?” Carew asked.

“Very sure,” Carrie replied. “Hood did not trust profiling or psychology very much. He says as much in his own reports. Liz stayed aloof and apart from much of what went on at Op-Center.”

“Sounds promising,” Carew said. “Don’t hesitate too long to do whatever is necessary to get the NCMC healthy.”

“Of course not. China should be a good shakedown cruise for us.”

“Speaking of which, what’s the latest? G2 has nothing new on the Taiwan front.”

“I’ll be following up on that when I get to the office,” Carrie said. “If something had happened, the night staff would have let me know.”

General Carew said he would speak with her later. Carrie hung up and looked out the tinted window. She believed what she was doing was right for Op-Center, for the intelligence community, and for the nation. When Carrie first took over G2, it was an efficient collection of groups that tended to act unilaterally. The overall mission was to collect and disseminate military intelligence and counterintelligence, and to oversee military security and military intelligence training. After the Iraq War, Carrie had been charged with improving the organization on the tactical level. She planned and supervised a restructuring from battalion through division to allow G2 to effectively execute its mission in war and peace. During peacetime, she arranged it so that operations were centrally consolidated with outflow controlled by her office under the daily control of her number two, Lieutenant Colonel Scott Denny, the assistant chief of staff. In support of war, the intelligence assets were jumped directly to the tactical command post, the main command post, and the rear command post. This dissemination was executed by units Carrie had hand-picked: the 640th Military Intelligence Battalion, the 210th Weather Flight, Air National Guard, the 1004th/1302nd Engineer Detachment, which specialized in terrain analysis, and the Quickfix Platoon C/1-140AV.

Of course, at G2 Carrie had the entire United States military at her disposal to accomplish that goal. The challenge of Op-Center was to do the same thing with a mostly civilian group and a relatively small budget.

It was a challenge she was looking forward to. There would probably be some casualties, though she hoped to minimize those with Liz’s help. Burned out was not the same as passed away. This team had done some remarkable work, and she wanted to try to keep them intact.

The big challenge was not Bob Herbert or Darrell McCaskey or any of their teammates. The big challenge was the goal.

General Patton had once decried the short-sighted decisions of those “temporary residents of the White House.” International policy and national security were too important to be left to upgraded senators and former governors. The objective of General Carrie was to help strengthen the United States by making military intelligence a bigger and more integral part of America’s defense structure.

On the way to that goal, however, another challenge suddenly presented itself. One that was smaller but tactically and morally important. According to Liz Gordon, Paul Hood was not burned out. Why would he be? Whatever his flaws, Hood had built and used a strong, hardworking support structure.

It would be quite an asset, Carrie thought, to have the president’s personal intelligence officer work with the military to achieve their goal. Fortunately, by relying on his old Op-Center personnel, Hood had given her a head start in that direction.

THIRTY-FIVE

Beijing, China Wednesday, 8:44 P.M.

Paul Hood stepped into the warm, damp night. There was a clinging mist in the air, and it caused his cell phone to crackle. He could only imagine what kind of pollutants were in the air.

He stepped away from the canopy to call Rodgers. Hood stood with his back to the reception hall, a finger in his ear to block out the sounds of traffic. The general was in his hotel room having dinner.

“Chinese food isn’t Chinese food,” Rodgers said. “I’m sitting here eating chicken kidneys and shark fins. What are you doing?”

“I’m standing outside a reception where I’ve already missed the hors d’oeuvres,” Hood said.

“That’s probably a good thing,” Rodgers said.

The repartee was strained. Neither man was very good at this with one another. Hood got to the point. “I spoke with the prime minister. He said that one of us could attend the launch.”

“You should be the one to go,” Rodgers said.

“Why?” He had not expected Rodgers to come all this way and surrender that privilege.

“I’m looking into other aspects of the situation,” Rodgers told him.

“Is it anything you can talk about?” Hood asked. “Not over this line, I realize, but maybe later—”

“Maybe later,” Rodgers said with finality.

That was also unexpected. Rodgers had delivered a clean, unapologetic kick in the teeth.

“All right then,” Hood said. “I’ll make the arrangements for my visit. I’ll let you know how things progress.”

“Thanks.”

“Will you give me a call when you can talk?”

“Sure,” Rodgers promised.

Hood flipped the cell phone shut. He stood looking ahead at the oncoming traffic. He could not see the faces of the drivers, but he felt as though every eye was looking at him, laughing at him. He knew they were not, yet he had never felt as exposed and vulnerable as he did at that moment. He had never felt so adrift.

Since the night that his fiancée Nancy Jo Bosworth had left him standing alone on a street corner, waiting for a movie date that never materialized, he had never felt so alone.

“The man without a country,” he muttered.

“Edward Everett Hale,” came a soft voice from behind him.

Hood snapped around. Anita was standing there. She was holding a Coke and smiling. At least one of them was for him.

“Thank you,” Hood said as he took the glass.

“Philip Nolan, an American exiled for treason,” the woman went on. “Is that why you are here? Are you in exile?”

“Are you referring to here being outside or here being Beijing?” Hood asked. He took a sip of cola. There was no ice.

“Let’s take outside first.” She smiled.

There was no ice in Anita now, either. Hood was suspicious, though he liked it better on her than he did in the warm beverage.

“I came out to make a call,” he said, holding up the phone.

“Professional?”

He nodded.

“So you feel exiled in Beijing, then,” Anita said.

“Not really,” Hood told her.

Anita’s big, open forehead crinkled. “I’m confused.”

Hood smiled. “Me, too.”

“But you said—”

“It was just a reverie,” Hood said.

“Not a lament?”

Hood smiled. She was perceptive. But then, an interpreter would have to be. Many translations depended upon nuance, not just the literal words.

“Whatever it was, it’s passed,” Hood lied. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“Accept my apology,” she said.

“For what?”

“For coming on a little strong earlier,” Anita said. “I am sure you are under a great deal of pressure here. I should not have added to it.”

“You did not upset me,” Hood assured her. “To the contrary. I was sorry the Asian stereotypes upset you. There is no defending them.”

“Time and perception change, and culture changes with them,” she said. “It is both fortunate and unfortunate that the works themselves survive. Unfortunate in that the stereotypes survive. Fortunate in that we can measure how much more enlightened we have become.”

“That is true,” Hood said. He glanced back at the canopy. “We should go back. We are probably missing your father’s toast.”

“Do you really want to hear it?”

“That’s a loaded question,” Hood said.

“Answer it truthfully.” She smiled.

“I want to show respect for the man and his position.”

“A perfect diplomatic response.” She laughed. “You do your president honor.”

“Thank you,” Hood said. “But before we go back, I would like to ask you something.”

“Certainly.”

“You don’t have to answer, if you think the question is out of line.”

“Lao-tzu once said, ‘There is no such thing as a stupid question. Only stupid answers.’ ”

“True enough.” Hood smiled. “I’m wondering what caused your attitude toward me to change.”

“May I answer freely?”

“Of course,” Hood said.

“You spoke to my father with great deference,” she replied. “You did not fawn or bluster the way other ambassadors do. In fact, you did not even act like someone from an embassy.”

“Diplomats have a job to do.”

“As I said, you do it differently.”

“Thanks,” he said.

Hood’s radar had picked up the blip. He had only sensed it a moment before, when she first complimented his manner, but now it was big and green and closing in. Anita had come out here to find out what exactly he was doing in China.

He offered her his arm. “Shall we go back inside?”

“I was thinking a walk might be nice.”

“All right,” Hood agreed. He continued to offer his arm. She took it with a smile. Now he knew Anita was playing him.

The woman was obviously inexperienced at this. But Hood would play along. He was certain that her father had sent her to talk with him. The prime minister might be angry or insulted if Hood brought her back too quickly. Even though it could hurt the launch, he might withdraw permission for someone to attend. However, if Hood and Anita stayed out for a short while, the prime minister might shift the failure of this maneuver from Hood to his daughter’s inexperience.

“I wonder. Did you ever think of writing a novel?” Anita asked.

“No.” Hood laughed. “I would be too self-conscious.”

“Why?”

“When I was a kid, I read Tom Sawyer and Treasure Island ,” Hood told her. “When my parents weren’t looking, I read the James Bond stories. I loved them. Then I found out that Mark Twain and Robert Louis Stevenson and Ian Fleming made them up. They didn’t happen. There was no Huck Finn or Long John Silver. That really upset me. Not because they weren’t real, but because someone sat down and spent all that time to lie to me.”

“You felt betrayed?” Anita asked.

“Betrayed, cheated, and stupid,” Hood said. “Assuming I had the time and patience to write a novel, I think I would be distracted by the fact that I was lying to thousands and thousands of people.”

Anita laughed. “You are aligned with Confucius.”

“How so?”

“He did not like novels or novelists,” Anita replied. “He felt they were on the low end of society, the opposite of truth and honor. Fiction writers started with a lie and went from there. I maintain that fiction is an internal search for truth that the artist shares.”

“Well, that process doesn’t interest me as a purveyor or observer,” Hood said. “I prefer to read a newspaper and draw my own conclusions.”

“Then how do you relax?”

“I listen to music or go to a museum,” Hood said. “Until fairly recently I used to hang with my kids.”

“They are grown now?”

“I’m divorced,” Hood said. “I don’t get to see them very much.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. I did not mean to intrude.”

“You didn’t. I offered,” Hood said, smiling at her as they continued to walk down the wide street. He was uneasy but willing to spend personal information to keep this conversation going. Besides, Hood knew what her eventual follow-up question would be. That part of the talk would be brief.

“What about nonfiction? A professional memoir?” she asked. “That would not be a lie, and I am certain it would be fascinating.”

“Why are you so sure?” Hood asked.

“A man does not reach your position without a certain level of accomplishment,” she said.

Hood chuckled. “Mr. Hasen’s brother-in-law was a stockbroker and a tennis buddy of the vice president. That was how he got into the diplomatic corps. He lasted about two years. Unlike your father, many Americans in government service are not professional leaders or emissaries.”

“Were you someone’s tennis buddy?”

“No,” Hood said. “I was dumb. I worked my way up the ladder.”

“That is admirable, not foolish. You must have things to write about, stories to tell.”

“I don’t know. Even if there are, I don’t have the narcissism to talk about whatever white whales I’ve hunted.”

“But there must be experiences that deserve to be recorded, passed on to people who have not lived your life, enjoyed your career, who have not even been to Beijing,” Anita said. “There is a long tradition of political memoirs that has nothing to do with vanity. Mao’s thoughts were the foundation for a nation.”

“He was a leader,” Hood replied. “It’s a tradition I will leave for presidents and prime ministers.”

“Not ambassadors or revolutionaries or even men of intrigue?” she pressed. Anita spoke the last words leaning toward Hood, as though they were sharing a secret.

Hood grinned. “There would be no intrigue, would there, if a man walked into a room and said, ‘My name is Bond. James Bond.’ Some things are best kept private.” He thought for a moment. “Though maybe there is one story I would consider telling.”

Anita brightened. “May I ask what that is?” She obviously felt that she had her in.

They had reached the corner. Hood stopped and faced the woman. Her face stood out sharply, remarkably against the misty glow of the streetlamps.

“It’s the story of my own daughter,” he said. “She was taken hostage a few years ago at the United Nations by rogue peacekeepers.”

“I remember that siege,” Anita said. “Your daughter was there?”

“Harleigh was performing music with a youth group,” Hood said. “She came out of it with severe post-traumatic stress and has worked very hard to regain her footing. A son’s accomplishments are invariably measured against those of the father, but a daughter’s courage and devotion stand alone.”

Anita smirked. “That may be a first, Mr. Hood.”

“What is?”

“It’s the first compliment I have heard about a woman’s character that I would consider sexist,” she said.

“It is not meant to be,” Hood said.

“You would have to convince me of that,” she said. The challenging tone from the reception was returning.

“Are you familiar with the American dancer Fred Astaire?” Hood asked.

“From films?”

Hood nodded.

“Yes,” Anita said. “That is an odd question.”

“Not at all. He is considered the finest ballroom dancer of his generation,” Hood told her. “He had a partner, Ginger Rogers. She did everything he did but in high heels and backward. It is not sexist to say that women have to work harder than men, and that they possess—or have developed—a different set of physical, emotional, and psychological skills in order to do that.”

“You make us sound freakish.”

“I’m saying that you are special,” Hood said.

“In context, there is no distinction,” she charged.

“I believe there is,” Hood said. “Most women are a little scary to men. I think your father would agree.”

“You think I frighten him?” she asked with a trace of annoyance.

“Not you, Anita. I meant in general. Your father obviously loves and trusts you a great deal.”

Anita was frowning and silent. Hood could see her trying to determine whether his observation was calculated or innocent. He had meant it as a bit of a dig—perhaps carelessly, in retrospect—and he did not want her going back angry. Her father would not be happy about that.

Hood nodded toward the canopy. “We should go back. Your father is a fascinating man, and I want to hear what he has to say.”

That was not an invitation Anita could resist. The couple turned and walked back in silence. Hood was relatively certain that he had achieved his goal. He had stymied Anita’s mission, and he did not think she would go into detail with the prime minister. Le probably would not approve of his daughter having been distracted by a feminist debate. He might not be surprised, Hood suspected, but the prime minister would not be pleased.

Now that he had a chance to think about it, Hood was not too happy with all of that either. Until he had said it, Hood had never articulated the idea that he found women to be scary. From confronting Nancy Jo way back when to dealing with the romantic workplace tensions with Ann Farris to his talk with General Carrie, he had not been as comfortable as he was saving the world alongside Mike Rodgers and Bob Herbert. But that was something he would have to consider another time.

Unlike Anita, Hood did not want to be distracted from his mission. The idea that a nuclear-powered satellite could be blown up was pretty scary, too.

THIRTY-SIX

Washington, D.C. Wednesday, 9:38 A.M.

Loyalty. In the end, that was the one irreducible value of life. It defined one’s sense of honor and priority, of sacrifice and industry. The only question the individual had to decide was to whom—or what—loyalty should be given.

General Carrie spoke with Bob Herbert as she scrolled through her E-mail. The intelligence chief had no new information from China. He was frustrated by that fact and complained that Op-Center had no senior-level executive over there representing their interests.

“Just two former bosses, both of whom have their own agendas,” he said.

“I am working on the problem,” she assured him.

“How?” Herbert said. “We don’t have the money.” He sounded irritable and distracted.

“Let me worry about that,” she replied.

There was nothing in her mailbox that needed immediate attention.

Not yet. Op-Center needed a makeover of personnel and procedures, both of which she would begin today. Since she had the time, Carrie asked Liz to come and see her. Profiling the entire team before contemplating cuts and reassignments was her priority.

The psychologist had just walked in when the phone beeped. The general motioned for her to shut the door behind her, then gestured to an armchair. The call was a surprise. It was from Mike Rodgers. The phone ID said that the general was calling from China.

“It’s a pleasure to speak with you, General Rodgers,” Carrie said.

“Likewise, General Carrie. Congratulations on your promotion and the move to Op-Center.”

“Thank you,” she said. “Are you in Beijing for the launch?”

“Yes, though I won’t be going to the Xichang space center. I just spoke with Paul. He’s going to be Washington’s unofficial representative.”

“What will he be doing?” Carrie asked.

“I am not sure,” Rodgers admitted. “The game plan seems to be to stay close to Prime Minister Le, to watch and see what those around him are doing and who is not present.”

“The von Stauffenburg scenario,” she said.

Rodgers agreed. That was a name given to any plan to cause a catastrophic event to one’s own team. Colonel Claus von Stauffenburg was the German officer who placed a briefcase with a bomb under a conference table at Hitler’s command post in Rastenburg, East Prussia. After triggering the timed explosive, Stauffenburg left. The heavy table saved Hitler’s life when the explosive detonated. Stauffenburg was arrested and executed. Obviously, if an officer or government minister were planning to cause the Unexus rocket to explode, he would not be anywhere in the neighborhood of the blast.

“What will you be doing, then?” Carrie asked.

“That’s the reason I’m calling,” Rodgers said. “Bob Herbert told me there is a field team. I would like to borrow it.”

Carrie was not pleased that Rodgers knew, but she was not surprised, either. It underscored one of the strengths and drawbacks of Paul Hood’s tenure here. His people were more devoted to one another than they were to the organization. That would have to stop.

“For what purpose?” Carrie asked.

“Paul Hood is going there to watch people,” he said. “I want someone watching the rocket and the payload.”

“What makes you think the Chinese would agree to let outsiders near the hardware?” Carrie said. “Isn’t that what Le is worried about?”

“My Unexus tech people can talk to the Chinese tech people,” Rodgers said. “We can try to get private security in openly or off the books. I’d prefer the latter, just to maintain surprise, and I think I can sell that to some of the chief scientists.”

“If Le found out, they could lose their jobs.”

“The only way Le will find out about a covert ops team is if something goes wrong and your guys save his butt,” Rodgers said. “Even if the science team leaders are dismissed as a result, it is better than the alternative.”

Rodgers had a point, and it spoke to a different kind of loyalty: that of the Chinese scientists to their mission. Their allegiance was not to individuals or to a nation but to the hardware, to the science. Carrie could not decide whether that was enlightened or provincial.

She took a moment to consider the ramifications for the United States. Her marines had gone to China to be ready for this kind of mission. But the prep time for the Xichang operation would be distressingly brief. If they undertook what Rodgers proposed and were discovered—especially if their operation failed—her career would be over. Carrie quickly put that thought aside.

Loyalty, she reminded herself.

The general was not serving in this office to practice loyalty to Morgan Carrie. She was here to do what was best for America and Op-Center. In that order. A failed mission could hurt the NCMC and result in her dismissal. It would cause the Congressional Intelligence Oversight Committee to impose stricter controls on Op-Center, at least cosmetically. But most important, what was the downside for the nation? Risking American lives to help protect a Chinese launch was a no-lose situation. They would not be accused of spying. Not with Hood there as an invited guest. Not with technology that was provided by the West. The upside was a historic first, a demonstration that American intelligence could be used to help other nations.

Perhaps it was also kismet. Hood had made his reputation at Op-Center by boldly preventing an attack against an American space mission. General Carrie could do the same.

“Here’s the deal,” Carrie said. “If you demonstrate that my team can get in and out of the facility, I will give you a go. But I want the names of the sympathetic scientists in time to run a background check. I want to know how you intend to get them to the facility. I want to know how you’re going to get them in and then out of the facility. If there are security cameras, their faces will be on file. We will have to pull them, whether they act or not.”

“I plan to move them in by truck, with other scientists,” Rodgers said. “No security cameras.”

“Most important is the exit strategy,” Carrie said. “If they are forced to act, you will need to get them to safety until everything is sorted out. We cannot have them arrested, held, and interrogated.”

“Paul Hood can help with that, if you have no objections.”

“I do not,” she replied. “But if the numbers fall too far short of one hundred percent, I will not authorize this.”

Rodgers told her he understood. Carrie hung up and regarded Liz. There was something different about her. Carrie saw at once what it was. The psychologist had not been wearing lipstick the day before. She was now.

“Did you know that our late political liaison had a nickname for this place?” Liz asked.

“That would be Martha Mackall?”

“Correct.”

“No,” Carrie said. “What did Martha call it?”

“OTS-Center,” Liz told her. “It stood for zero to sixty. Nothing in crisis management ever accelerates slowly.”

“It’s just a different avatar of national defense,” Carrie said.

“How so?”

“Intelligence work is action of the mind, crisis management is action of the hands,” Carrie told her. “One of the reasons I am here is to make sure said defense is an action of one well-trained and fully integrated body.”

Liz considered that in silence. Something in her eyes said she approved.

“You heard what transpired,” Carrie went on. “We have talked about other former employees. What is your impression of General Rodgers?”

“Mike Rodgers is a bulldog with a high percentage of bottom-line success in the field,” Liz told her.

“Is that a spin doctor way of saying, ‘Pyrrhic victory?’ ” Carrie asked.

Liz laughed. “Maybe.”

“From everything I’ve read, Mike Rodgers is like Ulysses S. Grant,” Carrie said. “The Union won battles because he kept throwing men and ordnance at the enemy until they caved. Compared to Robert E. Lee, Grant’s losses were always improportionately high.”

“Mike’s units do take casualties,” Liz admitted. “In his defense, he rarely had more than the duration of a plane flight to prepare and often with limited intelligence. Yet he always found a way to get to the end zone.”

“This time will be different,” Carrie said. “Op-Center needs human intelligence operatives on the ground in potentially hostile nations. If Rodgers is going to borrow my team, I want to see a game plan that is more Lee than Grant.” Carrie ended the conversation by opening the staff dossier on her computer. “There is just one person we have not yet talked about,” the general said. “My psych officer. Are you ready and able to take on increased responsibilities in profiling and forensic projections about the mental health of my team?”

Liz started slightly. The psychologist obviously did not expect the attention or the question.

“General, I have been waiting years for a director of Op-Center to ask for my input and mean it,” Liz said. “I would be happy to be more fully integrated with NCMC command and its missions.”

“NCMC command meaning this office?”

“If you are asking the extent to which analyst-patient privilege applies—”

“I am asking whether you will implement without question any and all projects not expressly forbidden by the chartered mandate of the NCMC.”

“ ‘Not expressly forbidden,’ ” Liz said. “Interesting choice of words.”

“These are interesting times,” Carrie replied.

“I never do anything without question,” Liz said. She smiled. “But my questions are only meant to stimulate discussion. You’re the boss.”

“Very good,” Carrie said. She closed Liz Gordon’s file and opened two others side by side. “Then let’s talk about Bob Herbert and Darrell McCaskey. I will want you to watch them closely over the next few hours. I want to know how they are handling the demands of this Chinese project. Whatever Rodgers comes back with in terms of a plan, this is a good way for me to see how the team functions under pressure.”

“They will be watching their front and their rear,” Liz said.

“Because of me, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“I am counting on it,” Carrie said. “I do not want personnel who will crack under the strain, but I do not want a team that is complacent, either. Hood ran this place as if it were a town meeting. I will not.”

“Order is the basis of creation,” Liz said. “I’m all for it.”

They began by going over Herbert’s file in detail. The impact of the Beirut explosion on his work, how the loss of his wife might affect the way he related to women, and more. But Liz’s remark stayed in her mind. Carrie had always believed in one of the Nietzschean cornerstones: “Out of chaos comes order.” But the follow-up was equally true: from order comes progress. For Carrie, the order was simple. We were one nation under God.

And below Him, organizing creation, would be the watchful eyes and sure, powerful hands of the DoD.

THIRTY-SEVEN

Washington, D.C. Wednesday, 9:51 A.M.

Bob Herbert was stumped. Worse than that, he was idle.

Op-Center did not have resources with an extensive background in China. Before speaking with General Carrie, Herbert was on the phone with Kim Hwan, Director of the Korean Central Intelligence Agency. As deputy director, Hwan had been an important part of Op-Center’s successful Korean action several years before. Hwan’s sources had confirmed what Herbert suspected, that General Tam Li and Director Chou Shin were engaged in what he described as “acts of purpose.”

Herbert took that to mean a pissing contest.

But Hwan had no new information. Herbert had also contacted Sergei Orlov, director of the Russian Op-Center. Orlov’s agents in China also anticipated the power struggle but had no idea about where it might erupt next. Herbert believed Orlov. The two countries shared 4,200 kilometers of border. If the situation in Beijing or Xichang worsened, or if the nuclear-powered satellite did in fact explode, violence or refugees could turn the region into a no-man’s-land.

After talking to the men, Herbert wondered how and why this had become strictly an American situation. There was the involvement of Unexus, but that was an international concern.

Once again, a global crisis has become Op-Center’s problem, he thought. By extension, the intelligence gathering became his problem. Ordinarily that would be a challenge. At the moment, it was also distracting. Herbert had a sense that he was being graded on his performance. General Carrie’s questions and the fact that new officers tended to make changes had him feeling defensive, insulted, and definitely off his game. He had not even been that paranoid in Beirut, where there was every good reason to be. And apparently, this was Op-Center’s problem alone. Herbert received on-line intelligence summaries twice daily from Homeland Security, part of their IDEA program: intelligence data, external access. The mailings offered headlines from every major division of the CIA and FBI as well as the National Security Agency and the National Reconnaissance Office. No one had the Chinese satellite on their agenda. Even the FBI, which had the Charleston explosion on their active-investigations list, had logged the attack as “having the earmarks of an intranational conflict that happened to fall on American soil.” That was probably true. The FBI had obviously read the report Herbert and his small staff had filed on the IDEA Web site the day before.

A call from Mike Rodgers lifted Herbert’s mood considerably. The sound of Rodgers’s voice from Beijing held the promise of information. More, it momentarily returned him to a time when the mission itself was more important to him than how it—or he—were perceived.

Herbert’s soul deflated when he heard that Rodgers was phoning to follow up on a conversation he had just had with General Carrie.

“She’s giving you command of our field team,” Herbert repeated when Rodgers had briefed him. The intelligence chief could not help but wonder if this was general to general or if Carrie would have given Paul Hood the same access. His instincts told him Hood would not have gotten the team.

“This is a loan, in case it’s necessary,” Rodgers said.

“How will they get in?”

“I have notified my associates to provide entry codes and passes for your people,” Rodgers said. “I have also asked them to identify all access areas to the rocket and the satellite. The NRO will be sending me up-to-date images of the facilities and will also be watching for unusual activity. What I need from you are photographs for the IDs and a patrol pattern our unit can pursue.”

“You want photographs of our undercover HUMINT personnel,” Herbert said.

“The Chinese will see their faces anyway—” Rodgers said.

“But Chinese functionaries will be uploading them into a computer to print badges. They will remain in Chinese computers.”

“The work roster will list them as on loan from various universities to help with different facets of the countdown,” Rodgers said. “Their real local covers will not be blown.”

“Mike, you don’t think the Xichang director will check that?”

“He’s the guy who’s helping me organize this,” Rodgers said. “He will sign off on their credentials. When this is done, the photographs will be deleted.”

“So he says,” Herbert said. “Your boy may end up looking for a budget increase by turning in spies.”

“Spies that he allowed in,” Rodgers said. “There is no gain for him. Look, Bob, there are risks in any operation. These are worth it.”

Mostly to Unexus, Herbert thought. Rodgers may have turned in his uniform, but he was still a gung ho general. He had substituted one team for another and was ready to make any sacrifice for them. Arguing against that was pointless. What Herbert had to do was find a way to minimize the damage.

“We disagree about that, but if Carrie has given you the okay—”

“She has.”

“Then it’s my job to help make it work. I will ask her to let me send you the photographs. You’ve got a secure Ethernet link?”

“Unexus equipment is more secure than what they’ve got at the DoD,” Rodgers said.

“I will send you the photographs with no information, not even the names,” Herbert said. “Then I will sit down with Darrell and go over the layout of the facility. We will send a patrol plan ASAP.” McCaskey used to organize and run stakeouts for the FBI. He had a good eye for creating effective zone management.

“Thanks,” Rodgers said. “I will meet them somewhere outside the facility. I will let you know where. I’m having our HQ send over radios so I can communicate with the team.”

“And those won’t trigger alarms?” Herbert asked.

“The Xichang radios all operate between 121.5 and 243, AM frequencies,” Rodgers told him. “We will be running our communications at 336.6, piggybacking on a NORAD signal. Unexus has an arrangement with Cheyenne Mountain to use one of their carrier waves for sensitive operations.”

“Really? The DoD is okay with that?”

“We designed the system components that allow NORAD to interface with NATO for quick response in matters pertaining to Homeland Security,” Rodgers said proudly. “The Pentagon actually appreciates having us test that international system from time to time.”

“I see,” Herbert replied. “Mike, are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“What?”

“Having this kind of symbiotic relationship with the military?” the intelligence chief asked.

“What’s wrong with it?” Rodgers asked. “It benefits everyone. The more Unexus knows about field operations, the better we can protect our personnel. That’s one reason Unexus hired me. No one but me is going to know the specifics of the Op-Center field action. You don’t have to worry about the mission being poisoned by other civilian eyes and ears.”

“I’m not,” Herbert said.

That was true. Mike Rodgers knew how to quarantine information. But Rodgers was very wrong about one thing. The plan did indeed trigger a signal, this one in the head of Bob Herbert. The intelligence chief knew that NORAD had changed its mission over the last few years, from watching the skies outside American borders to watching the skies for terrorist threats. To this end, they received a steady flow of data from every airport in the nation. Any significant deviation from a flight path would result in fighters being scrambled and the aircraft destroyed. But Herbert did not know that NORAD had become tight with civilian agencies. He was willing to bet that the firewalls protecting the military from private industry were formidable. But in their desire to land lucrative government contracts, how defensive were companies like Unexus? How tapped in were places like Cheyenne Mountain and other facilities into the nonmilitary world? What kind of access did the DoD have to civilian records, surveillance, other capabilities? Herbert was willing to bet these tendrils were extensive.

“Bob, do you know what I think?” Rodgers asked.

“Usually.”

“In this case, you’re overthinking things as usual,” Rodgers said. “Trust me. This is a controlled, highly focused operation. It’s not like the old days when field ops were jury-rigged. And Bob? I’m glad you’re working on this.”

“Me, too,” Herbert said. His statement was unenthusiastic, but it was not a lie. With the military presence at Op-Center and what he had just learned about NORAD, a picture was starting to form. An unsettling one.

Herbert called McCaskey when Rodgers hung up. The FBI liaison had just arrived and said he would be there in a few minutes. While Herbert waited, he went to the files of the field officers to send their pictures. He felt as though he were betraying each one of them. Yes, risk was part of the job. Herbert and his wife had known that when they went to Beirut. But this was different. He was helping to put these people in the line of fire, not for the stated mission but for what he sensed was a larger scenario. A scenario he did not yet understand. Herbert needed to find out what it was. Then he had to decide what the hell to do about it.

Herbert then phoned General Carrie to get permission for Mike’s request. She granted it, with the implicit warning that Herbert’s credibility was on the line. The intelligence chief was no longer in a slump. Unfortunately, a potential fight with his own people was not the boost he had been hoping for.

THIRTY-EIGHT

Zhuhai, China Wednesday, 10:00 P.M.

General Tam Li sat looking out the open window of the large office. The windows were clean, despite the dust from the constant winds that blew from the strait. He allocated manpower to clean them and to keep the grounds spotless. When American spy satellites looked down on them, he wanted them to know that he ran a very smart, proud installation. That was also the reason every man wore firearms, and they never lounged in public. The Americans had to see that the PLA was constantly alert and ready, as well as strictly disciplined. They were not like the Third World forces Americans had been sparring with since the surrender of Japan.

The night was clear except for some low, sporadic clouds. They were lit from above by a full moon. The treetops moved gently below the fourth-floor window. Their motion and sound were relaxing. The lights of the office were off. There were no distractions but the view, the trees, and the general’s own thoughts and ambitions. The sky and sea could not compete with those, he thought proudly. He had always had a rule about that. If a man could not dream greater than the things he could see, he was not much of a dreamer. And a man who did not dream was closer to the apes than to the stars.

The leaders of Taipei, for example. They were short-sighted, narrow-minded, and infallibly predictable.

The Taiwanese military reacted the way Tam Li knew they would. The commander in chief of the Taiwan Armed Forces put his Air Force and Navy on alert right on schedule, with all the same maneuvers. That was a Taiwanese show of strength as well as their exit strategy. As long as the Navy and Air Force did nothing different, Taipei assumed the Chinese would not perceive it as a threat. Beijing had never responded in kind, so the situation would not escalate.

Tam Li did not see it as a threat. But what if something happened that made it a threat? What if someone like Chou Shin were seen as wanting to seize this moment to weaken the military by blinding its new eye in the sky? What if Chou shifted the open war between himself and the general from an international staging area to a national one? Beijing would be distracted. Might not Taipei use the disaster as well to make a move against the legitimate Chinese government?

Of course they might, Tam Li thought. In fact, he was counting on it.

The sea spread darkly outside the open window. A sea wide and deep with promise, the stage for his dreams to be realized. There would be a temporary setback and a loss of face while the government dealt with Chou Shin’s treason. But Tam Li would seize the moment as well as the spotlight.

There was a respectful rap at the door.

“Enter,” the general said without turning from the window.

There was a click. The door opened. His security director entered.

“Sir, the enemy has begun moving out,” he said.

“Is there any change from the normal pattern?” Tam Li asked.

“None, sir. It is as you said.”

“What of the yachts?” Tam Li asked.

“Your associates from Japan have radioed that they are in position,” the security director informed him. “The third target, from Australia, will be at his coordinates in an hour.”

“You confirmed the escape plans?”

“The owners will all depart the yachts by helicopter, fearing for their safety, at precisely the time the enemy fleet appears on their radar,” the security officer told him. “The vessels themselves will turn and follow when it becomes clear to them that they are the targets.”

Tam Li smiled. “The yachts will broadcast one another to that effect?”

“Immediately, sir.”

“And we will record and intercept the transmission?”

“We will.”

“Thank you,” the general replied. “I will come down to the command center in a few minutes.”

“I will let them know, General.”

Tam Li heard the door click. A moment later the moon came out clearly and splashed light on the sea. It was a beautiful sight, but not as arresting as it would be in just a few hours.

He and his generals were quietly organizing the largest military counterstrike in modern Chinese history. It had been planned in phases so that absolute secrecy could be maintained, even from his own government. Over one hundred PLAAF and PLAN fighter jets were on regular and continuous patrol of the Chinese coast. Shoreline security was the primary function of Chinese military pilots. Long before the Taiwanese aircraft reached their fail-safe lines, before they could double back, eighty Chinese planes would be diverted in a targeted attack on the rearmost Taiwanese aircraft. That would cut the forward squadrons from retreat and allow them to be picked off by a second wave of Chinese aircraft, consisting of the remaining twenty airborne jets as well as another fifty that would immediately be scrambled from bases along the eastern seaboard. At the same time, three of the modern Song-class submarines, already at sea, would maneuver behind the Taiwanese Navy. The escort ships in the battle groups would be sunk and the destroyers surrounded.

By then, of course, Beijing would have learned what was going on. But it would be too late to recall the attack without losing face. Taipei would protest, saying that the patrol was routine. But the protest would be too little and much too late. Based on information provided by Tam Li, Beijing would argue that the Taiwanese expeditionary force was far from a standard patrol. The enemy intended to launch a surprise attack after the accident they would be suspected of having caused. The general’s suspicions would be sent out at once. The panicked audio recordings from the yachts would also be released. They would make the first impression. It would put Taiwan on the offensive.

That, too, was a showdown they could not hope to win.

The Taiwanese sailors would be brought to China and held until the grand gesture of their release could be used for political gain. Chou Shin would be tried, convicted, and executed for masterminding that explosion as well as the blast in the United States. That would rid the general of one nemesis. At the same time, the Taiwanese would suffer a swift and decisive defeat in the strait. Because of their defense pact, the United States would be forced into a confrontation they, too, could not hope to win. The best the Americans could hope for was a standoff. One that would diminish their status and elevate Beijing.

Tam Li thought very little about the price of the “trigger,” as he called it: the destruction of the satellite. The rocket would blow up on the launch pad, where the blast and the radiation would kill or poison all of the Chinese leaders in attendance. It would distract the government while the military moved against the Taiwanese expeditionary force. In the days to come, Tam Li and his allies would be very visible defenders of the realm. They would be populist heroes.

They would become the leaders of a new, militarized, and expansive China.

THIRTY-NINE

Beijing, China Wednesday, 11:08 P.M.

Mike Rodgers had the plans for the Xichang space center spread on his bed. The detailed map was nearly the size of the blanket. Satellite photographs of the facility were arrayed on his laptop. Rodgers had printed out blueprints of the rocket and payload. Those were on the floor with a map of the region beside them. The map was marked with public transportation that came virtually to the southeastern gate of the facility. Most of the scientists lived on site for convenience and security.

The former general stood in the middle of the papers. He was looking down at all of them, his eyes moving from one to the other. Rodgers had always solved problems best by “grazing the options,” as he called it. He would get a first impression from one and move to the next. Those initial ideas were usually the best ones.

Assuming there was to be an attack on the rocket, he felt comfortable with one of three scenarios. First, that the rocket would be destroyed over a specific target. That would contaminate the region below with radiation and cause a long-term setback to the use of plutonium-powered satellites. That would be a loss to General Tam Li and would boost his rival Chou Shin in the long term. Second, that the rocket would be destroyed upon takeoff. That would take out a chunk of the Chinese command as well as their capability to launch any kind of rockets, military or domestic. Both men had their eye on power. Both men would gain from a temporary power vacuum. The third possibility was that the satellite itself would be targeted once it was in orbit. That would be a setback for Unexus but not the Chinese military. That, too, would help Chou Shin, who was an advocate of isolationism.

Any of these were plausible. The question was how to pull it off. Rodgers’s eyes drifted toward the blueprints of the rocket. His technical staff had marked off places where a bomb could do the most damage. Rodgers would have the Chinese science crew inspect them all.

Paul Hood would have to let him know who showed up and who left early. That would give the team some indication whether an attack would take place at launch. With an explosion of this magnitude, a potential mastermind would want to be a considerable distance away. Even so, Rodgers was planning to be close by to prevent the individual from leaving and supervise the counterattack.

There was a call from Op-Center. It was Bugs Benet. He gave Rodgers contact information for the leader of the field team.

“He will come to your hotel in about an hour as a messenger,” Benet said.

Rodgers thanked him. “How are things going for you?” he asked.

“Tentative,” Benet answered. “General Carrie will be wanting a military aide. We are pretty lean right now. I’m not sure there is any place she can shift me.”

“Can you go to work for Paul?”

“He has not asked,” Benet said.

“Maybe he will,” Rodgers said. “If not, I will talk with the people in my organization.”

“I appreciate that, sir,” Benet said.

Rodgers put away his cell phone and went back to studying the documents. He bent low over them in case the room had video surveillance. Whenever he walked away, he folded them over. Rodgers used a grease pencil to mark spots on the rocket that his scientists had told him were not just vulnerable but relatively invisible. Bombs in these locations would weigh the rocket down without necessarily destabilizing it. Even five pounds of explosives, positioned off-center—on a stabilizing fin, for example—would pull the rocket quickly off course. That would only help an attacker if the goal were a near-site explosion. Then he folded the blueprints and turned to studying the plans of the launch complex. He had four marines to cover 1,200 square kilometers of terrain. If they ruled out a possible attack from a rocket-propelled grenade, they could limit the patrol area to just the launch pad. Could they afford to make that assumption?

We might have to, he thought.

Besides, a rocket-propelled grenade was not the modus operandi of either man. There was also a chance that a oneor two-man team would be spotted by Chinese security forces. They had to assume that any attack would be executed as close to the rocket as possible.

Working on these scenarios, Rodgers felt less like an officer of Unexus and more like an officer of Op-Center. Despite the risks to his employer, he liked the excitement. He also liked the fact that he was in this with a military professional and not Paul Hood. General Carrie may not have liked what he requested, but she asked the right questions and reached the right decision.

Now he had to do the same thing.

Rodgers ordered room service as he worked on the map. He circled several points around the pad and gantry where virtually all the personnel would be visible going about their activities. An explosive device might be placed late in the countdown to avoid detection. If so, they might be able to spot it from these positions.

Exactly an hour after Benet’s call, the front desk called. There was a visitor to see Mr. Rodgers. The former general asked who it was.

“A messenger with a package from a man named Herbert,” the caller informed him.

Rodgers asked to have the messenger sent up. He took a bite of seared tuna from his neglected dinner tray, then walked over to the TV and turned it on. He did not know whether the rooms of foreigners were still bugged in Beijing. He did not intend to take the risk.

The young man who appeared at his door was exactly what Rodgers had expected. Dressed in an olive green jacket with a reflective orange stripe down the back, he was a somber young man with hard eyes, full shoulders, and a ramrod-straight posture. He looked like someone who rode a motor scooter around town and then bench-pressed it. He handed the general a package and a clipboard.

“I require a signature, sir,” the messenger said.

Rodgers invited him in. The young man entered, and Rodgers looked down the hall.

The messenger pointed to his own eyes then made a zero with his fingers. That meant he had checked, and no one was there. He also understood that the room might be bugged.

Rodgers nodded and shut the door. He went to the television.

The messenger followed. He looked down at the papers as they walked past the bed. They were unfolded now, but shielded by Rodgers and the new arrival. His eyes were like little machines, stopping on each for a moment before moving on. It was a standard reconnoitering process: floating data. If the marine saw anything important, he would keep it in his head until he could mention it or write it in a secure place.

The former general did not ask the marine his name or any other personal information about himself or the team.

“What do you know of this situation?” Rodgers asked.

“We were told you would brief us,” the young marine said.

“The plan is still evolving,” Rodgers said quietly. He threw a glance at the papers. “I will be working on it for at least another few hours. There’s a map. I want to pick a spot to meet you before we go in—”

“Sir, General Carrie has ordered that there be no civilian component to our mission,” the marine told him.

Rodgers did not know quite what to say. He said nothing.

“I am sorry, sir. I assumed you understood,” the marine added.

“No,” Rodgers said.

The marine had spoken without emotion or apology. Rodgers expected no less. Marines regarded themselves as representatives of their commanders. As such, they were unfailingly proud and loyal. For his part, though, Rodgers was anything but unemotional. He did not like being left out or outsmarted. He had already agreed that Hood could represent them in the viewing area. If Rodgers did not go to Xichang with the marines as one of the new “technical advisers,” he had no way of getting in. And if he tried that, Carrie might pull her team.

“Wait here,” Rodgers said and went to get his cell phone. “And help yourself to some dinner. I don’t feel like eating at the moment.”

Rodgers grabbed the phone from the bed and went into the bathroom. He shut the door and turned on the shower so he would not be heard. Then he called General Carrie’s office. Benet put her on the line.

“I understand my messenger is there. Have you got all the answers I asked for?” Carrie asked.

“Nearly,” Rodgers informed her. “First I have one more question. Why was I excluded?”

“You were not excluded. You were never included. This has always been members only,” she said. She was still being vague, thus reminding Rodgers that they could still be overhead.

“I would like to change that.”

“No,” Carrie replied.

“Ten eyes are better than eight. They are better for the work and for security,” Rodgers insisted.

“My view is that two or more eyes will be on you, making sure you are all right. That is a net loss, not a gain.”

“You act like I’ve never gone into business with new partners,” Rodgers said through his teeth.

“I am not in a position to rate your performance, which is why I am denying your request.”

“Talk to August,” Rodgers said.

Colonel Brett August was the head of Striker, the former military detachment at the NCMC. When Striker was disbanded, he went to work at the Pentagon.

“I have my plate full reviewing current personnel,” she said. “Talking to a former employee about another former employee is not at the top of my to-do list. Do we have an understanding or not? I have a lot to do.”

“Of course we do,” Rodgers said. The security of the rocket had to come first. “But I can help them.”

“I believe that is why the messenger is there—”

“Would you leave this up to him?” Rodgers asked suddenly.

“No,” she answered.

General Carrie hung up. Rodgers closed the phone and slowly tucked it in his pocket. He had a hand on the white porcelain sink. His fingertips were white. He had not realized how tightly he was squeezing the rim. He released it and flexed his fingers. He glanced at the door. He thought he saw a shadow move on the highly polished parquet floor. Rodgers did not know if the marine had been listening. Nor did it matter. There was nothing to hear. Rodgers considered calling Hood to try to rescind their agreement. But he had probably already told the prime minister. In any case, Rodgers was unsure of his own motives. At this moment he did not know whether he wanted to protect the rocket or whether he wanted to go just to shout a big “screw you” at General Carrie. He turned off the shower and went back into the room. Rodgers stood beside the TV, facing the marine. The former general’s eyes were on the floor.

“Is everything all right, sir?” the marine asked.

Not entirely, Rodgers decided. He wanted to be there to look after the Unexus payload, and he wanted to teach Carrie manners. He understood her protectiveness but not her intransigence. Military protocol gave leeway for civilian involvement. At Op-Center he had often worked with outsiders on missions. In Vietnam, he had helped to recruit them as guides. Even though Rodgers no longer wore the uniform of his country, he had served it with his life and his blood, his mind and his soul, for decades. He deserved better than Carrie’s cool dismissal.

What was worse, he needed a place to put the increasing anger he felt about it. But that was not this marine’s problem.

“Let me go over the data with you,” Rodgers said.

“Yes, sir.”

“And let me ask you something,” Rodgers said. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-six, sir.”

“I was a soldier for more years than that.”

“I know, sir.”

“They gave you a file on me?”

“Yes, sir,” the marine said.

“What was your impression?”

“Sir, it’s not my place—”

“I asked,” Rodgers said.

“Sir, I’m humbled by your question,” the young marine replied. “If I serve half as well as you did, I will consider my life very well spent.”

That was a surprise. “You’re not just blowing sunshine?”

“I took your request as if it were an order, General. May I add, sir, that for someone who wasn’t a marine, you surely kicked some tail.”

Rodgers could not help but smile at that. He felt the sword leave his hand. It was not yet sheathed, but he did not feel the need to lop heads.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like some food, a beverage?” Rodgers asked.

“Thank you, no.”

“Then let’s go to my command center,” Rodgers said, patting him on the shoulder as they walked to the papers that lay on the bed and floor.

FORTY

Washington, D.C. Wednesday, 12:00 P.M.

Liz Gordon left General Carrie’s office to check her E-mail and her voice mail. She had her PowerBook under one arm and her coffee mug in the other hand. Between them was a heart that was drumming just a little more than she would have liked, and a shortness of breath that alarmed her.

Liz did not know whether the cause of her anxiety was the topic of her own employment or something else. Liz knew that she would have to undergo the same kind of scrutiny the others were getting. What the psychologist did not know was whether she would be part of that selfevaluation process or not. It would be interesting to see how the general handled that.

Interesting and possibly humiliating, she thought.

Liz had never seen her own dossier. The file was only available to the director of the NCMC and to the head of Human Resources. But Liz knew one thing that had to be there. Because of the potential one-strike nature of the offense, Paul Hood would have been obligated to record it.

Liz swung into her sparse office. The safe, familiar surroundings allowed her to relax a little. Liz did not have, nor require, nor want a human assistant. The Chips Family did everything for her. That was how she anthropomorphized her computers. Her former roommate, an artist, drew little Post-it faces for her to affix to her office equipment. The blue pen drawings were the various foodlike avatars of the microprocessor. Potato Chip stored her audio messages, Corn Chip stored her E-mails, Paint Chip managed her calendar, and the infamous Buffalo Chip held sway over her personnel files. Blue Chip kept track of her budget here, which was easy. Except for occasional outside consultants, there was no budget beyond her salary. Black ops files, including profiles of foreign and domestic leaders, were the province of Chocolate Chip. Those files were comaintained by her and Bob Herbert.

The Chip Family did their work without prompting and without taking time off. They even replied with a variety of messages, spoken and typed, when Liz was away from her desk.

For a psychologist it was a mixed blessing. There were never any disputes, just an occasional ailment that Matt Stoll and his team could easily repair. But there was also no human interaction, no laboratory experiment she could follow day after day. When she was a student coming to terms with her own nontraditional life, Liz would turn outward and watch others as if they were a living soap opera. The drama was satisfying, and her prediction rate for how people would react and how situations would evolve was exceptionally high.

Liz would be returning to General Carrie’s office for a working lunch. She was happy for this respite, not because she needed a break from the profiling and reviews, but because she needed more coffee and her nicotine gum.

She also needed a short break from Morgan Carrie. Thinking about the general caused her breath to shorten again. And this time it had nothing to do with whatever was in Liz’s dossier.

Damn that, she thought.

The thirty-five-year-old woman put the PowerBook and mug on the desk and plopped into her swivel chair. She landed harder than she expected and nearly fell backwards. Her arms shot out in front of her.

Balance, the woman thought as she sat up. She pulled a square of gum from its wrapper and pushed it into her mouth. She did not have equilibrium at the moment. She took a breath, brushed curly brown hair from her forehead, and tried to distract herself by scanning her E-mail. The words flashed by without registering. Her heart began to speed again.

The general was an impressive woman. After Paul Hood and his dull consensus management style, Carrie’s ability to make a strong decision, whether informed or intuitive, was refreshing.

Is that all it is? Liz asked. Refreshing?

Liz stopped going through the E-mail. She would only have to do it again later. She poured black coffee from the pot behind her. The morning brew was bitter. She did not care. She winced as she took a sip, then resumed chewing her nicotine gum. Feeding one habit while crushing another.

Shit, Liz thought angrily. Her life made no sense. She had ended one relationship because it was too much to handle. Now her imagination was flashdancing into another that would never be. And even if it could, it would be a professional disaster. As a psychologist, she knew she was being reckless. Unfortunately, she was also a human being. Understanding the problem and being able to do something about it were very different things.

Liz grabbed her mug and went back to the general’s office. The only way through this was straight ahead. She once had a fast crush on a teacher at college. She would deal with this as she dealt with that: as long as she did not think about anything but her job, she should be all right.

Bugs had sent out for sandwiches. Liz sat back down and opened her egg salad. Carrie had selected roast beef. Liz’s heart had slowed, but not much. The general was looking at the computer monitor when Liz arrived. Liz poked her gum on the edge of the wrapper before she ate.

“There is only one person we have not talked about,” Carrie said.

“I know,” Liz said. Her heart was at maximum. She felt exposed, not just because of whatever Hood had written but where the questions might lead. She had to trust that Carrie would recognize and respect the boundary between the professional and the personal.

“Paul Hood had very little to say about you,” Carrie pointed out.

“As I said, Paul did not think much about what I had to contribute,” Liz replied. But “very little” was not “nothing.” The psychologist was anxious as she waited for what had to be coming.

“He does mention a conflict between you and the late Martha Mackall,” Carrie said.

There it is, she thought with an anxiety that settled in the small of her back. “What did Paul say?”

“That Ms. Mackall formally requested you and she attend separate briefings,” Carrie said. “She rescinded the request the same day.”

“There was a little accidental tension between us.”

“Paul wrote that Ms. Mackall initially found your presence a ‘complete and irreconcilable distraction,’ ” the general replied. “Those are strong words for a little accident.”

“Martha was a strong woman.”

“Paul writes that he denied her request, which resulted in her withdrawing it,” Carrie said. She looked at Liz. “Do you want to tell me what that was about? It’s your call.”

“I believe in full disclosure,” Liz said. She set her sandwich down and hunched forward. “Martha was convinced that I had made an amorous advance toward her.” The word amorous snagged in her throat, a lump of truth she could not easily get around.

“Did you?”

“No. But there was a moment, General—it was stupid, I admit,” Liz said, “and it was completely inadvertent. We were all about to go upstairs to Andrews to greet Striker’s plane from North Korea. Martha and I had been working very closely for—Christ, it was about thirty-six hours straight. What happened was that I forgot myself. I blanked, literally. There was a woman standing next to me, I was tired, and I thought she was my roommate. I put my arm around her waist and pulled her toward me the way I do—did—with Monica. Martha freaked.”

“Did you explain?”

“Of course, and I apologized. But we were with Bob and Darrell and others, and Martha was very image conscious.”

“Was Paul there?”

“No. She went to him when we got back. Paul smoothed it over, but Martha still wanted it recorded as a one-strike situation. Paul refused.”

“Kind of him. He could have used it to close down your position.”

“I know. I always appreciated that,” Liz said.

“But I understand Martha’s point of view, too,” Carrie acknowledged. “Her complaint was her form of cover your ass. The glass ceiling for women is tough enough. For gay women, it’s worse.”

“Yes,” Liz said. She wanted desperately to ask how Carrie knew that. Maybe another time.

Carrie closed the file and took a bite of sandwich. “Okay. HR says there has been no change in your personnel file for seven months.”

“Correct.”

“That was when you changed your insurance form from a domestic partnership to a single.”

“Right,” Liz replied quietly. The alarm in her back was now a small tickle.

“In other dossiers you remark on the impact of marriages and divorces—extensively in the case of Paul Hood. But there is nothing about yourself.”

“There was nothing to say.”

“Nothing that would affect your work, the way you wrote about Paul’s divorce or Darrell’s marriage?”

“No.”

Carrie regarded her. She chewed slowly, her mouth closed, her jaw making strong, purposeful motions. It seemed connected to the general’s thought process, as if she were mulling something over.

“All right,” Carrie said. She clicked the file shut.

That’s it? Compared to the scrutiny the others had received, Liz felt she was getting off easy.

“Are you sure you’re all right with this?” Liz asked as her heart slowed.

“I wouldn’t have said so if I weren’t,” Carrie assured her. “Are you?”

“Sure,” Liz said.

“If you’re concerned, I do not think there was anything wrong with what you did. In fact, I am a bit resentful that it is in your file at all. If you had put your arm around Lowell or Matt, no one would have mentioned it.”

Liz appreciated the support, though it missed the point. She would not have put her arm around any man by accident.

It also did not change the fact that there was something about General Carrie that Liz found very appealing. The confidence was a large part of that. Monica Sheard had been an extremely insecure, anxious woman. Liz had been drawn to her talent and her sensitivity, but the artist’s low self-esteem and jealousy drove them apart. Since the breakup, Liz had not dated and, like Hood and Herbert, had spent most of her time at Op-Center. She had once remarked, not in jest, that the intelligence community would benefit if it were comprised entirely of people who had lost their significant others.

Carrie shifted the subject to the second tier of workers, men like Bugs Benet and Kevin Custer in Elec-Comm. Part of Carrie’s goal was to find individuals who could multitask in a crisis, such as the EMP bomb attack on Op-Center. Liz’s profiles of the team during that crisis were a valuable guide for Carrie. Former serviceman and MIT graduate Custer—a distant relative of General George Armstrong Custer, through the general’s brother Nevin—seemed in particular to catch and hold Carrie’s eye.

The palpitations and self-imposed pressure waned as the day grew older. Carrie and Liz hit a comfortable groove that gave her a good feeling about her future here, and also the future of the NCMC.

It also allowed Liz to focus on professional matters instead of personal issues.

For now, anyway.

FORTY-ONE

Beijing, China Wednesday, 12:33 A.M.

In Chou Shin’s business, two days was a long time.

The head of the Guoanbu lay on the thin cot in the situation room. He was dressed in a silk robe, a fan blowing on his desk. For the second night in a row he did not go home to his wife, their daughter and son-in-law, and their grandchild. Chou Shin missed the little one. He missed the boy’s innocent eyes and gracious smile. He even missed the sincerity of his tears.

His world had been flat and silent since the explosion at the Taipei nightclub. There had been no response to the blast from General Tam Li. The absolute silence alarmed Chou Shin even more than the odd intelligence reports he was receiving about unusual troop allocations along the eastern coast. Surely Tam Li had more than the Durban counterattack prepared. The general had allies in the military, men who would do anything for a price and do it quickly. And he was not the sort of man to back down or allow an insult to go unanswered.

Perhaps Tam Li was waiting for a shot at the enemy himself. That was why Chou Shin did not want to go home. If he were to be the next target, Chou Shin did not want his family to be hurt. He did not think Tam Li would attack his family directly. That would be dishonorable.

The intelligence officer looked at his watch. In less than twelve hours he would be in Xichang alongside General Tam Li and the prime minister. Maybe the general was waiting until after the launch. A successful mission would elevate Tam Li in the eyes of the military. Perhaps he was holding out for retaliation that was less dramatic but far more effective: a high political post.

No doubt it would be the position Chou Shin wanted for himself, the prime ministership. An effective prime minister ran the country. While the president and vice president were concerned with foreign affairs, the prime minister could make deals with ministers and representatives. He could control banking, communications, utilities, even the military. With his access to information, Chou Shin could woo or blackmail anyone he wanted—provided he had a clear path to a new job. Otherwise, he was just a wooing, blackmailing intelligence chief. That was something that would appeal to Tam Li but not to Chou Shin. The director of the Guoanbu wanted power for Communist China, not for himself.

Chou Shin was outraged that he should have to fight for that. The battle was fought decades before, and won. Tam Li was a traitor.

There were two things Chou Shin did not do well. One of them was to operate in an intelligence vacuum. Information about everyone and everything was out there. If the data were not in his possession, there was something he or his people were doing wrong. The other thing Chou Shin did not do well was wait. The two attacks he had organized were designed to spur an instant overreaction from Tam Li. He did not understand why that had not happened. For Chou Shin that was a double failure: an intelligence vacuum and having to wait.

The intelligence officer rose from the cot. He lit a cigarette and paced the bare tile floor of the basement office. An aide had once warned Chou Shin that this was a dangerous place, a room with just one way out. That was all right with the director. It also had just one way in. He had several handguns and automatic weapons in a locker at the head of the bed, along with a gas mask and rations for five days. It would be difficult for anyone to get to him through the iron door.

It was a spartan room, with bare walls painted green and just a few hanging lightbulbs. There were no electronics down here, and the furniture was sparse. It was a place where strategy and intelligence could be discussed in absolute secrecy. Hiding a bug or Web camera in here would be virtually impossible. Only Chou Shin and two trusted aides had access to the room. During the heyday of Mao Tse-tung, the basement was an interrogation room used to “reorient” dissidents. Their broken spirits gave the place a spiritual character the director could feel. Now and then Chou Shin would take a sketch pad and charcoal from the desk and draw. He sketched images in his mind, odd shapes or scratched shadows that were the outlines of shapes. Sometimes he would look at them and try to figure out what they were, as though they were windows to his subconscious. They were like inkblots to him. And it was only fitting. Others had been interrogated here. Why not himself?

Mao himself had come down here often in the early days of the regime. He did not question prisoners himself. Most of his enemies wanted to stand proud in his eyes, to show him that the opposition had heroes as well. Mao would come down, speak to one of the interrogators without looking at the prisoner, then leave. His disinterest suggested to the captive that he was not important, that his information was unnecessary. Few men were willing to die for a trivial contribution to a cause.

Chou Shin did not know if the spirit of Mao were here, but that thought always energized him. It gave him direction and purpose. And as Chou Shin paced the room he wondered if it might have given him something else.

An idea.

Chou Shin had walked out on Tam Li the last time they were together. That had not produced information or further communication. How would the general react if Chou Shin reversed himself now? Would he welcome a chance to talk, or would he be guarded? There was one way to find out.

The intelligence director went to the telephone on the desk. There was just one line. The only other items on the desk were a notepad and several pencils, a pitcher of water, and a glass.

Chou Shin called his nighttime assistant and asked him to locate Tam Li. Since the general was going to the launch, he was probably in Beijing or already at the site. The director was surprised to find that he was at neither place.

“According to the command roster he is in Zhuhai,” his aide reported.

“What is the explanation?”

“The log line says that he is monitoring the current movement of Taiwanese forces, sir.”

“Why? Taipei always fields assets prior to our launches,” Chou Shin said. “He never watches those.”

“The roster entry does not say, sir.”

“Call over. Find out his schedule for the rest of the week.”

“Yes, sir,” the aide replied.

Chou Shin placed the phone in its cradle. Over the past year there had been eleven Chinese missile launches. Each of them had triggered a response from Taiwan. The intelligence community had individuals inside the Taiwanese military who monitored these movements. They were officers whom Mao had sent to the island as young men, soldiers who masqueraded as firebrand separatists. Now they, or their sons, were deeply entrenched in key areas of the enemy military. If Taiwan were going to move against China, Chou Shin would know about it.

These troop movements were deemed presentational, designed to show the world that Taiwan knew what was happening across the strait. Chou Shin had seen nothing unusual in the daily intelligence briefings.

The aide rang back.

“Sir, the general’s office says he will be flying directly to the launch from the base,” the aide reported.

“Why is he there now?” Chou Shin asked.

“They do not say, sir.”

“Put me through to his office,” the intelligence director demanded.

“At once, sir.”

Chou Shin stood beside the desk. He tapped his right foot impatiently. Ordinarily, Tam Li’s whereabouts would not be on anyone’s radar. Even if they were, most members of the government would accept the explanation that the general was visiting the base to check on possible outside military action against the rocket carrying his payload. But Tam Li did not need to be present to do that. And there were the reports of scattered troop and asset relocations to China’s eastern coast. Perhaps the rotation was routine. But what if it was not?

“General’s office, Captain Feng Lin—”

“This is Director Chou Shin of the Ministry of State Security. Please put the general on the line.”

“I will let him know you are calling,” the captain said.

There was a considerable loss of face for Chou Shin to go to the general, and also to be kept waiting. But all information cost something. Especially if that intelligence was worth having.

The captain got back on the phone. “Sir, the general would like to return your call at a more convenient time.”

“When would that be?” Chou Shin asked.

“The general did not share that information with me, sir.”

“Do you know if Tam Li is still going to the launch tomorrow?”

“It is still on his calendar, sir,” the captain replied.

“What arrangements have been made for his transportation?”

“I do not have that information, sir,” the captain said. “Shall I connect you with the transportation office?”

“No, thank you, Captain,” Chou Shin said. “And it will not be necessary for the general to phone.”

“I will tell him, sir.”

Chou Shin pressed a finger on the bar to disconnect the call. Sometimes the absence of information was enlightening, like the negative space that defined one of his silhouettes.

Tam Li had to be curious why his rival was calling. Yet the general did not want to speak with him. That suggested he was more afraid of answering questions than of learning the reason for the call. The only question he would be afraid to answer would be why he was at the base.

Chou Shin raised his finger. He called his aide.

“I want immediate air transportation to Zhuhai,” the intelligence director said.

“I will arrange it, sir.”

“This is a Code Six internal investigation,” Chou Shin added. “I want two armed officers to accompany me. Have the aircraft wait for a return trip to Xichang. Also, call the transportation office at the base. I want to know what arrangements have been made for General Tam Li’s trip to Xichang.”

“At once.”

“I want hourly updates on the status of that aircraft, even if it is just sitting on the field.”

“Yes, sir.”

Chou Shin hung up. He had a feeling that something was happening at the base, something more than just watching the Taiwanese go through the motions of selfdefense. He wanted to know what Tam Li was doing.

If the general were overseeing standard operations, they would both go to the launch, and nothing would be said. But if the general were planning something—perhaps a retaliation for the Taipei attack—Chou Shin intended to stop him.

The Guoanbu had the power and authority to investigate the use of military resources for any and all actions. That fell under the jurisdiction of what the intelligence community called “exposure”: whenever troops or hardware were moved, the enemy was presumed to be watching. It was the job of the Guoanbu to minimize their acquisition of useful information. Chou Shin would not hesitate to invoke those powers.

Indeed, it would be his pleasure.

FORTY-TWO

Washington, D.C. Wednesday, 2:55 P.M.

Stephen Viens, Op-Center’s liaison with the National Reconnaissance Office, knocked on Bob Herbert’s door. Viens had been an NRO director until he took the fall for a black ops budget of which he had been unaware. Hood immediately hired the surveillance expert. Hood took heat for the appointment, but he did not care. Viens had been a good and loyal friend to the NCMC. He continued to be one of Op-Center’s most valuable assets.

“We’ve got some very strange blips on the Pacific Rim,” Viens said as Herbert ushered him in.

Herbert had been checking the database of everyone who had access to the Chinese rocket during its construction. He was comparing those names to individuals with a history of dissidence or contacts with foreigners. Even scientists with a foreign education were suspect. It was strange to be looking for someone who might actually be an American ally working against Beijing’s interests.

“What kind of activity are you seeing?” Herbert asked.

“It’s too early to say, but it looks a little more aggressive than the mainland military usually gets in situations like this,” Viens said.

He handed Herbert a small stack of satellite photographs. The black-and-white images were labeled and covered the coasts of both Chinas as well as the Strait of Taiwan.

“Routine chin-first strut from Taipei,” Herbert said.

“Right.”

Herbert continued to go through the pictures. He came to a group that had been marked with orange grease pencil. Objects had been circled in all of them.

“PLA assets,” he said. Fighter jets were being moved into launch formation at both the Shanghai Dachang Airbase and Jiangwan Airfield. They were the backbone of the eastern air defense. Jiangwan was home of the most advanced fighters in China. A third air base, Weifang, was also represented. That was the home of the powerful shortrange 5th Attack Division. Photographs also showed PLAN activity. Men were loading additional ordnance onto destroyers and frigates that were part of the East Sea Fleet based in Ningbo. Ships were also being readied in Wusong and Daishan. “It looks like the Chinese are getting ready for a fight,” Herbert said. “These sites are early response positions for an attack on Taiwan.”

“An attack on Taiwan, yes,” Viens agreed. “But they are also ERPs for an attack from Taiwan.”

“The PLA can’t believe that Taipei’s maneuvers are the beginning of an offensive,” Herbert remarked. “Beijing may just be getting ready to drill in response, or immediately after.”

“They rarely do that,” Viens pointed out. “The chance for a mishap with two opposing forces in the field is too great. All you need is someone on either side looking to provoke a fight.”

“Maybe it’s rare, but that is obviously what is happening,” Herbert said. He looked at a few of the Taiwan images. “Taipei has nothing unusual in the pipeline. No extra planes or ships being readied. Obviously they do not expect a Chinese attack.”

“You’re right. So why would Beijing move forces into position?” Viens asked. “Why now?”

“Maybe they assume the nightclub explosion may have made everyone in Taipei a little edgy,” Herbert suggested.

“Edgy as in looking to retaliate?”

“It is possible,” Herbert said. “Maybe they think the Taiwanese could ‘accidentally’ fire a shell toward Shanghai during a drill or lose a mine in Chinese shipping lanes or fishing waters.”

“Something that is not aggressive enough to start a war but would allow Taipei to win face.”

“Exactly,” Herbert said. “Or the PLA preparations could have nothing at all to do with the Taiwanese deployment. Beijing may be looking to scramble assets in case the rocket goes haywire. They may need to recover the payload and seal off a section of the sea.”

“Because the satellite has a plutonium power source,” Viens said.

“Yeah.”

“The Taiwanese always go through maneuvers when there’s a Chinese rocket launch or missile test,” Viens said. “The Chinese military action could have nothing to do with the rocket per se.”

“That’s possible,” Herbert agreed.

Both men were silent as Herbert looked through the pictures a second time. He did not see a national effort throughout the mainland. At other naval bases and airstrips visible along the fringes of the photographs it was business as usual. Of course, that could change quickly if hostilities erupted.

“What would happen if the rocket blew up on the launch pad?” Viens asked.

“There would be a bunch of job openings in Beijing,” Herbert replied dryly.

“With the military, I mean,” Viens asked. “Would they be needed to keep order in a power vacuum?”

“The loss of the prime minister and a few ministers and generals would not have that serious an impact,” Herbert said.

“What if Taiwan were responsible for that kind of an explosion?”

“Then the PLA might very well strike back,” Herbert said. He shook his head. “You know, Stephen, the more I look at these, the more I wonder if we are being sucker punched.”

“How do you mean?”

“There’s no activity at the Dinghai or Nantong naval bases. None at all. It’s the opposite of business as usual. It’s the same at the air bases in Shanghai Longhua and Wuhu.”

“Suggesting what?”

“You ever watch police put down a riot?”

“No,” Viens admitted.

“The frontline guys come in to try to control the perimeter. They use hoses, maybe some gas, nightsticks. That takes some of the steam from the rioters. Then the heavy-duty troopers arrive from vans with shields, body armor, rubber bullets. They don’t slip that stuff on in public. They do it in private, then they really tear into the main body of the assault.”

“You’re saying these other bases are arming in hangars and dry dock?” Viens asked.

“I am saying they could be,” Herbert suggested. “Considering how I’ve been mucking about the last two days, getting nowhere, I would not put a whole lot of faith in that.”

“What kind of action would primary and secondary military strikes be considering?” Viens asked. “Who would be the rioter?”

“I don’t know. But now you’ve got me thinking the rocket could be a precipitating event somehow.”

“Or at least a participating event,” Viens suggested. “If it isn’t the trigger, it could be a distraction. Like a magician getting you to look the wrong way when he does a trick.”

“Possibly.”

“Well, it seems worth presenting to the new chief,” Viens said. He leaned closer. “How is she?”

“You haven’t had your audience yet?”

“Tomorrow,” he said. “Is that what it is? An audience?”

“When a grunt meets with a general, you don’t call that a meeting,” Herbert said. “We shook hands, but it might as well have been a salute.”

“Formal?”

“Rigid and commanding,” Herbert said. “I get the impression that until proven otherwise, we’re all grunts.”

“Without the job security,” Viens said.

“I think Madam Director wants to test our mettle under fire before she makes any decisions,” Herbert said.

“Madam Director,” Viens repeated. He chuckled anxiously. “You remind me of my grandfather Jacques.”

“How?”

“He used to tell me stories about the Reign of Terror and how the instrument of justice was called ‘Madame la Guillotine.’ It was a title of respectful fear, not genuine regard.”

“Let’s just hope your analogy is a bad one,” Herbert said. He was still looking at the photographs. “This is good, Stephen. I’m going to bounce these scenarios off Paul and Mike and see what they say.”

Viens lingered. “It sucks,” he said.

“What does?”

“We’ve got surveillance in space, we’ve finally got HUMINT resources in the target area, Op-Center is lean and focused and fully functional—and we’re worried about our future.”

“No. We’re anticipating being worried about our future,” Herbert said. “We have to screw this operation up first.”

“Good point,” Viens said. “Well, I’m all thought out. I’ll keep an eye on the satellites and see what else they can tell us.”

The NRO liaison left, and Herbert tossed the pictures aside. He was frustrated, not just by the Chinese game plan but his own distraction with office politics. There was conflict and occasional drama under Hood, but that was easier to manage than not knowing where you—or the boss—stood.

It was the difference between democracy and tyranny.

It was the primary reason people rioted.

And it occurred to Herbert then, with a realization that chilled his neck, that General Carrie might only be the first wave of whatever was coming here.

FORTY-THREE

Shanghai, China Thursday, 4:42 A.M.

The People’s Liberation Army Naval Flight Unit was based at the Shanghai Dachang Airbase. Thirty-one-year-old Lieutenant Commander Fa Khan was proud to be here, though he knew that assignment to Dachang was considered less prestigious than deployment at the Shanghai Jiangwan facility.

The two airfields were neighbors. Their importance had nothing to do with proximity to the coastline or to the heart of Shanghai. Jiangwan received more funding and the newest aircraft and radar because of ancient family ties between key military officers and members of the government.

Prestige was much less important to the pilots of each base. They saluted one another whenever they flew close enough to have cockpit visual contact. To them, the pride was the shared honor of being the homeland’s first line of defense.

Dachang was a staging area for the PLANFU while Jiangwan was primarily used by the People’s Liberation Army Air Force. Fa Khan was an eleven-year veteran of the PLANFU and knew this as well: the sharpest fliers were stationed with him at Dachang, where the technical and logistical facilities were the weakest. Though that kept him from piloting the newest fighters like the J-13, with its stealth capabilities, Fa Khan and his squadron could nurse miraculous maneuvers from the aging MiG-21s at Dachang. As he once explained it to his father, who repaired automobiles in the city, pilots recognized every groan and hesitation, every burp in the engines or response time variance from the stick. The Dachang pilots knew just how to compensate and how to get the most from their machines. The MiG was flown by a man, not by a computer. It had been designed for quick and cheap construction, like the earliest biplanes. It was the ideal craft for an air force that wanted to throw overwhelming numbers at an enemy. That concept of war had been the Russian and Chinese mind-set for centuries. The MiG-21 was simply a mechanical expression of that tactic.

Besides, he had joined the PLANFU to fly, and he had achieved that goal. He experienced renewed joy each time he pushed himself into the sky. The takeoff and flights were never the same. Indeed, change was something very keenly felt by Fa Khan and his fellow fliers. The clouds changed from second to second, the colors changed from minute to minute, the air currents changed from hour to hour. The landscape below changed from day to day, and the political situation shifted from week to week. The preflight briefing indicated that there was tension with Taiwan now. In a few days it could be South Korea or Vietnam, Japan, or even the United States. These struggles always played out in the air or upon the sea to the east.

He was a part of all that, and he was also apart from it, like one of the gods of old China. He had insight into what was coming and the tools to affect it. He was also vulnerable to these events. The thrill was constant.

As long as all the gear worked, Fa Khan was happy. Not many men got to sit where he was. As he prepared to take off into a sun-drenched morning, he did what he did every day: he cherished his life and work.

Fa Khan’s patrol sector was Sector Seventeen. That took him northwest for 200 kilometers and then east 150 kilometers over the Yellow Sea. He returned via a southward course over the East China Sea, then east again in a long loop that brought him west to return to base. It was a 1,400-kilometer round trip, 200 kilometers within the MiG’s maximum range. If Fa Khan spotted uncharted sea traffic—smugglers were a primary target—or if he faced an engagement with the enemy, he would be able to meet them, hold them until reinforcements could arrive, and still return to base.

These patrols were vital to national security. China did not yet have the satellite capabilities of the United States, Russia, and their allies. That would begin to change later this morning with the launch from Xichang. If he was lucky, he might be in a position to spot the flames of the launch and the mighty contrail as the rocket sped into the heavens.

Lieutenant Commander Fa Khan had only been aloft for a few minutes, his heart still racing from the G forces he took during his sharp climb, when he received a coded communiqué from the tower. It was a series of five doubledigit numbers, followed by a time code in letters, followed by another number. He put the MiG on autopilot as he wrote the figures on a pad that hung from a chain below the altimeter. Since he was still in his ascent to 22,000 feet, the pad was hanging slightly toward him, the always-reliable low-tech plumb in his cockpit. The tower asked Fa Khan to repeat the numbers, which he did. When the radio officer confirmed that the read-back was accurate, the lieutenant commander signed off. He referred to a thick but compact map book in a lockbox beneath the seat.

There were four maps on each page of the volume. The numbers referred to a section number, a page number, a map number, and then two coordinates. The last two numbers pinpointed a patrol zone.

Fa Khan raised the visor of his helmet as he looked at the map. He checked it against the numbers. Twice. Then again.

There was no mistake.

He went back to the pad and worked out the letters. The corresponding numbers were six, zero, zero. Six o’clock in the morning. That was a little less than two hours from now.

The lieutenant commander had no idea what was up, but he knew how much time and fuel it would take him to reach the target zone. He calculated backward so he would arrive exactly at six A.M. He would also keep an eye open for other aircraft that would be converging on the target, a point just outside the territorial waters of the breakaway republic of Taiwan. The last number of the series indicated that Fa Khan would be joined by seventeen other fighter jets from Dachang. That was the remainder of his squadron as well as two other squadrons.

Apparently, this was a day when change was coming a little faster than normal.

And yet, one thing did not change: the determination in his eyes and spirit as he altered his flight path slightly in preparation for the rendezvous.

FORTY-FOUR

Beijing, China Thursday, 5:11 A.M.

Paul Hood woke early.

The car to take him to the airport was arriving at six. From there, he would fly to Xichang. He lay in bed for a while, hoping to get back to sleep. But his mind was instantly on patrol, marching toward problems on the near and far horizon.

He did not want to think right now. There was no new information and no way to get it. He grabbed a book he had packed, a biography of the explorer Richard Francis Burton. It had arrived at his apartment shortly before he left. It was in a box of books his former wife had sent him. Sharon was still packing up his things and shipping them out when she had the time. Presumably, to make room for the stuff her boyfriend was leaving at the house, like his videotape collection of the Washington Redskins’ greatest games.

He stopped reading when Burton took an African spear through both cheeks. The graphic attack by tribesmen did not induce sleep. Hood set the book aside and just sat there. He was jet-lagged but overstimulated by his frustrating lack of information. He was used to having people to turn to, a team, specialists. None of that had been set up before his departure. Hood was in the midst of the evolving situation, yet he knew very little about the scenario or the dynamics between the different players.

He thought about Anita instead. She was completely devoted to her work and to her father. There did not appear to be room or need for anything else. Men at the party did not seem to notice her. Most probably knew who she was. Perhaps they had tried talking to her before and were put off.

Not everyone is a professional small-talker, Hood reminded himself.

Anita apparently stayed in the two worlds where she felt comfortable: ivory-tower politics and academia. If anyone wanted to be with her, it had to be within those two disciplines. There was something to be said for that. Although it made her a poor spy, as she had demonstrated, it would be very difficult for anyone to take her by surprise, intellectually or emotionally.

The secure cell phone was set on Silent, so the light flashed without ringing. Hood reached over and picked it up. It was Bob Herbert.

“Hope I didn’t wake you,” Herbert said.

“No. What’s up?”

“An unusual Chinese military buildup in response to a traditional Taiwanese military exercise,” Herbert said. “Have you heard anything about that?”

“No.”

“Is there anyone you have met who might know about it?” Herbert asked.

“I can ask the prime minister later, with the caveat that it probably won’t do any good,” Hood said. “If he does know anything, he might not be inclined to share the information with me. Have you talked to Mike?”

“Not yet,” Herbert said. “I’m frankly at a loss here.”

“You sound like it.”

“Is it that bad?”

“You sound winded.”

“Maybe. I feel like I’m sitting on the sidelines, though I don’t know if I’m catching my breath or scratching my butt,” Herbert admitted.

“It’s that dry out there?”

“Arid,” Herbert said. “You know how Chinese politics are. No one says anything to anybody.”

“Yes. I experienced that firsthand,” Hood admitted.

“All we see are the shadow results of conflicts, the explosions in Charleston and South Africa. Our associates in D.C. and Interpol have no more information than we do about what is behind this or what might be next. Sergei Orlov had some background on the key players. Chou Shin was considered a moderate because he was trying to reconcile the ‘brother’ Communists of China and the Soviet Union. When the S.U. fell, he turned on Moscow with a series of pretty riled-up speeches.”

“The spurned lover,” Hood said.

“Yeah. Communism is a religion to him, and he will die for it,” Herbert said. “According to Orlov, the other nutcase—General Tam Li—is not a martyr. But he is an aggressive bastard who will risk his life or the lives of others to increase his power base. All of which tells us what we already know: these guys are dangerous. We need to try to find out if the Chinese action is related to the Taiwanese drill, the rocket launch, or something else.”

Herbert’s frustration came through the phone. It sucked hope from the room, from Hood.

“There is not much we can do about the armies,” Hood said. “We should concentrate on the rocket.”

“I figured Mike would be all over that with his marines,” Herbert said. “I got General Carrie to lend them to him.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“He’s not in command, but they’ll listen to him.”

“Of course.” Hood felt marginalized. But the generalto-general sympatics was inevitable.

“What about you?” Herbert asked.

“I did not get anywhere with the prime minister or his daughter, and I’m frankly at a loss what to do next.”

“Hence being awake at a few minutes after five in the morning.”

“Exactly,” Hood replied.

“What was the daughter like?” Herbert asked. “Businesslike and severe?”

“Businesslike yes, but very feminine.”

“Is there something there you can work?”

“I don’t think so,” Hood said. “Her father comes first. Everyone else comes a very distant second. I’m stumped, Bob.”

“Didn’t this sort of thing play out differently once upon a time?” Herbert asked plaintively.

“You mean, ‘Remember when we used to win these things?’ ” Hood asked.

“Well, I’m not willing to write this one off—”

“Nor am I,” Hood assured him. “But we did seem to have more control hunkered in the Tank with Striker in the field.”

“That was the hub. Now we’re in the fringes.”

“Not by choice,” Hood pointed out. “We’ve been pushed out by younger or more aggressive individuals with stronger beliefs. Or if not stronger, they put more muscle behind what they do believe.”

“Christ, Paul. You sound like an old soldier.”

“Bob, I am—we are,” Hood insisted. “We have been marginalized by people of passion, by people who want to build a career or an army or an ideology, or else destroy one.”

“I never thought I would hear you call me a moderate,” Herbert joked.

“You are devoted to your people,” Hood said. “Loudly, fiercely, but completely. That keeps you from watching your own ass, from elbowing your way to the front of the line.”

“I like where I am. And I do not see anything wrong with being one of the guys who holds it all together from the middle.”

“Which is exactly what I’m talking about,” Hood replied. “No one is a centrist anymore.” Hood was starting to get annoyed. Not with the vague, imagined usurpers but with himself. There was resignation in his voice, and he did not like that. “Look, I’ve got to get ready to go. The government car will be here soon.”

“And I have to take another walk around the intel we have collected,” Herbert said. “Have you thought about your own safety at the launch?”

“Not really. We’ll be in a bunker—”

“The concrete will protect you from an explosion, not from radiation,” Herbert cautioned.

“I guess we will just have to make sure that nothing happens,” Hood said.

“That’s a goal, not a plan,” Herbert said.

“I know.”

Hood’s conversation with Bob Herbert was different, too. There was a time when the men would have been discussing very specific options about evolving situations. Ideas would be on the table, intelligence would be in the data stream, and answers would emerge. Instead, they sat here complaining, like old men on a park bench reminiscing about the good old days.

Hood did not like that, either. He had always prided himself on being a professional. And for him, by definition, that was someone who did his best, even when he did not feel like it. Maybe it was post-traumatic shock about being plucked from Op-Center, but he was not doing his best. He and Herbert were like mice in a maze, moving along a route they did not know to a goal they could not see.

That had to change.

Now.

“Bob, we need to take another walk around this situation. There has to be something we’ve missed.”

“Such as? We’ve gone over the launch site, the schedule—”

“There must be something in the individuals, their personalities, their past actions that we can use.”

“Sure,” Herbert said. “Say, are you okay?”

“Why?”

“A minute ago you sounded down,” Herbert said. “Now you sound like you’re speeding.”

“It’s a new day and an important one,” Hood explained, rising. He had not intended that to be metaphorical, but it was both literally and figuratively true. “You’re right. We don’t have a plan, and we need one, something better than planting my ass in a concrete bunker and waiting for something to happen.”

Herbert was silent for a moment. “How about this,” he said. “Don’t go to the bunker. Ask to go somewhere else.”

“Where? A representative of the president of the United States will not be given an all-access pass.”

“Will Le’s daughter be there?” Herbert asked.

“Yes.”

“What if you could convince her that the prime minister is in danger?” Herbert asked.

“And use that how?”

“I am isolating potential targets at the launch site for Mike’s team,” Herbert said. “Maybe you can have a look at them as well. Between you and the marines, we can cover more territory.”

“I think Le and his daughter might go for that,” Hood said. “I’ll talk to them when I get there.”

“I like it,” Herbert said. “I’ll send the likeliest sites to your laptop. If you check it en route to the facility, I can talk to Mike about dividing the duties.”

“Absolutely,” Hood told him. “If I have any questions, I’ll give you a shout.”

“I’ll be here,” Herbert assured him. Now the intelligence chief sounded energized as well.

Hood hung up and took a quick shower. The water invigorated his body the way the ideas had invigorated his mind. Both contributed to the much-needed renewal of Hood’s spirit.

At least one thing had not changed over the years: Hood’s capacity to bootstrap himself and those around him. What the old Op-Center team may have lacked in zealousness they made up for in endurance and dedication.

That was not nothing.

At the moment, it could be everything.

FORTY-FIVE

Zhuhai, China Thursday, 7:18 A.M.

Tam Li was dozing at his desk when the intercom came on. He did not start at the sound, because he never slept very deeply. It was a habit soldiers acquired if they wanted to survive. He picked up the phone.

“Go ahead.”

“General, an aircraft is approaching from Beijing,” the orderly reported. “It is carrying Chou Shin of the Guoanbu.”

“How do you know?”

“We advised the pilot that the base is in a lockdown situation because of the maneuvers off Taipei,” the orderly replied. “The pilot insisted that command did not apply to his passenger.”

That was not good. Not at all. “Are they landing?” the general asked.

“They said they will, with or without assistance from the tower,” the orderly informed him.

“Bring them down,” the general said. “Send two security units to meet the aircraft and take them all into custody.”

“Arrest the Guoanbu director?” the orderly asked.

“And everyone with him.”

“Yes, sir,” the orderly said. “The security detachment leader will need to know the charge.”

“Murder,” Tam Li said without hesitation.

“Sir?”

“Chou Shin has committed homicidal acts of terrorism abroad.”

“Yes, sir,” the orderly said. “If there is resistance?”

“Tell the detachment leader to resist back!” the general shouted. He slammed the receiver into the cradle and looked at his watch. He did not need to prove the charges or even make them survive the morning. All he needed was for Chou Shin and the leadership at the launch site to be out of the way for the next few hours. After that, there would be a military crisis that only military leaders could solve.

The general was now completely awake. His olive green jacket was draped on the back of the chair. He got up and put it on. He tugged the hem to remove the wrinkles. He tugged it hard.

The bastard provocateur, he thought angrily. Chou Shin may have thought to confront the general and bully him into aborting his plan. That would not happen. In fact, Chou Shin would not set eyes on Tam Li until a frightened nation had surrendered its will to the military. Not only would a general become the effective leader of one billion Chinese, but Chou’s antiquated Communist ideology would be buried at last and for all time. In a way, his arrival here was timely. Tam Li had planned to tell the prime minister that he was remaining in Zhuhai to watch the Taiwanese deployment in the strait, claiming it was more significant than usual. Now he could add to that the curious arrival of Director Chou, who was also supposed to be at the launch. The general would tell the prime minister that he was analyzing the data with the help of the Guoanbu.

Tam Li left the room with long, bold strides and entered a corridor that connected his office with the rest of the officers’ compound. The morning light was coming over the strait in strong yellow splashes. The pale green carpet of the hallway looked like solid amber. The general did not notice the salutes of his command as he passed. His eyes were on an office ahead, the headquarters of the strategic planning officer, Colonel Hark. He entered without knocking. The tall, lean Hark was standing at an electronic table with four other officers. The men all turned and saluted smartly as the general entered. He returned the salute perfunctorily and stood beside the table. A map of the region was being projected from below. Electronic blips on top showed the position of every commercial plane and ship in the area.

“What is our status?” Tam Li demanded.

“The forward aerial strike force is thirty-five percent deployed,” the colonel replied. “The naval task force is nearly twenty-five percent deployed. Everything is precisely on schedule.”

“I want our forces boosted to fifty percent—full deployment within the hour,” Tam Li ordered.

Hark regarded the general with open surprise. The other officers remained at attention.

“General, the Americans will see it on satellite,” Hark pointed out. “They will suspect we are sending out more than a routine patrol.”

“Thank you, Colonel. That had occurred to me.”

“Sir, with respect, we all agreed that the main deployment should coincide with the situation at the launch—”

“Circumstances have changed significantly,” Tam Li told him. “I want us to be seen.”

There was a short silence. “May I ask why, sir?”

“Chou Shin is on the way to the base. I am going to have him detained. If he suspects what we are doing, he will try to stop us. We need to maneuver events to a point where they cannot be stopped.”

“Even if we are perceived as an aggressor?”

“Taiwan military vessels are in the water, and their warplanes in the skies,” the general replied. “All of them are headed toward our shores. We need no other justification to field a defense force.”

“Perhaps, sir. But we have never responded before in this situation. The attack on the rocket and Taiwan’s opportunistic deployment was going to justify our own sudden and confrontational move—”

“Colonel, what is Directive Two forty-one?”

“ ‘Taiwan is an integral part of China,’ ” the colonel replied.

“Directive Two forty-two?”

“ ‘It is an inviolable mission of the entire Chinese people to reunify the motherland,’ ” recited Hark.

“And Directive Two forty-six?”

“ ‘The sooner we settle the question of Taiwan, the better it is,’ ” the colonel declared.

“You understand the goal. With that in mind, what command would you issue if our ports and airfields were about to come under attack?” the general asked.

“I would simultaneously move and deploy our equipment, sir.”

“Just so,” Tam Li said. “We are under attack from ideological enemies at home. They may seek to confiscate our assets while they are in one place. We cannot allow that. Get our forces off the ground and out of the docks as soon as possible. They will not engage Taiwan. Not yet. Nothing else has changed. The rocket will be destroyed as planned. Our ships and planes will simply be closer to the enemy than we had planned. In a way, this helps us.”

“How so?”

“Instead of hunting him down later, we will have already arrested the man who was responsible for the destruction of the rocket,” Tam Li told him. “There is one thing more I want.”

“Sir?”

“Have the white unit meet me in Hangar Three,” he said.

FORTY-SIX

Zhuhai, China Thursday, 8:02 A.M.

The standard Boeing 737-800 landed gently on the long military runway. The pilot reversed the engines and turned toward the terminal complex, a series of low-lying gray buildings at the hub of four radial airstrips. A number of aircraft were moving from hangars toward the different jet ways. There was no question about where to go: General Tam Li had dispatched an honor guard.

Chou Shin was not surprised. It had been necessary for them to circle the field before they were given clearance to land. Obviously, the general was doing something here he did not want others to know about. Chou had used his wireless laptop to track the general’s actions as best as he could during the flight. According to on-site and satellite data collected by the Guoanbu, Taiwan had continued its limited deployment while Tam Li had accelerated his. That would have to be stopped, and quickly. The only way to do that was for Chou to witness the commander’s activities firsthand and report them to the prime minister.

The intelligence director went to the front of the plane as it neared the building. The pilot did not so much finish taxiing as stop. There was no staircase or tunnel by which to exit.

Chou Shin waited until the engines had stopped. “Open the door,” the director told his aide.

The young man bowed slightly, then turned and unlocked the cabin door. Chou stood in the oily heat of the open hatch.

“Who is in command here?” the director asked. He spoke softly to show that he was unconcerned and to make them come to him.

A lieutenant stepped up smartly. “I am in charge of these units.”

“Have them bring us a stairwell,” Chou said.

“Our orders are that you shall remain on the aircraft.”

“Orders from whom?”

“The Security Detachment Office,” the lieutenant replied. “The base is under a condition red alert. Your plane should not even have been permitted to land.”

“Why was it, then?”

“The base commander has override authority,” the lieutenant informed him.

“Your orders are treasonous,” Chou informed him. “We will deploy the emergency exit equipment if we must, but I will leave this aircraft, and I will see base commander General Tam Li.”

“Condition red dictates that we stop any member of your party who attempts to leave the aircraft.”

“You would shoot the director of the Guoanbu?” Chou demanded.

“We would detain you by any means necessary.”

Chou turned to the cockpit. The door was open. The pilots were still going through their postflight checklist. “Get me the minister of defense in Beijing,” he said.

“Sir, we tried communicating with the tower when we landed,” the pilot informed him. “Our radio signals are being blocked.”

Chou turned to his aide. “Cellular phones as well?”

The young man was holding his phone. He looked grim. “There are too many satellite dishes at the base. I cannot get a signal.”

“Will the tower be able to block our Internet uplink?”

“That is very unlikely,” the pilot answered. “Our airborne wireless operates on one point nine gigahertz, which is a privately used frequency. Unless the communications center knows exactly what that frequency is, they cannot block it. Not as long as we have direct line-of-sight access to the satellite.”

“Thank you very much, Captain,” the intelligence director said. He looked back through the door. He was perspiring slightly from the heat. Chou asked his aide for water. He did not want anyone to think he was afraid. As he drank, Chou was surprised to notice two men were approaching with a ladder.

“What are you doing?” Chou asked the lieutenant.

“You will close the door,” the officer replied. “Otherwise, we are prepared to close it for you.”

“We will close the door and leave,” Chou decided suddenly. “You will see to our refueling.”

“I will relay your request to the base commander.”

“That was not a request,” Chou informed him.

“I only take orders from the general,” the lieutenant answered predictably.

Chou regarded him but said nothing. “Close the door,” he told his aide.

The director of the Guoanbu returned to his seat. He opened his own laptop and began composing an E-mail to the prime minister’s office. It would be marked Top Priority, National Security. The heading guaranteed that whoever received it would contact the prime minister immediately, wherever he was.

The pilot got on the public address system. “Director Chou, a fuel truck has been sent from the hangar.”

That was a surprise. Obviously, Tam Li did not want them here. He would probably have the aircraft fueled as slowly as possible. He must believe that by the time Chou was in the air, it would be too late to stop him. It was curious that he was not concerned about E-mail. Perhaps he thought his signals would block it. Tam Li often acted with passion rather than sense.

Chou quickly composed his E-mail as the smell of jet fuel filled the cockpit. After several minutes the pilot came back on the speaker.

“Director Chou, please come to the cockpit,” the captain said. “Something is happening outside.”

Chou set his laptop aside and went to the front. He did not hurry. Panic was its own fuel. He stepped inside and looked out the window. He saw three fire trucks moving along the runway in their direction.

“Obviously, Captain, there is a fire somewhere,” Chou said.

“If so, sir, there would be an alarm,” the pilot replied.

The captain was correct.

“How has the refueling proceeded?” Chou asked.

The captain indicated a gauge. “It has not yet begun.”

Chou felt foolish. Not just because he had overlooked the obvious but because he had underestimated General Tam Li.

“Captain, we need to take off,” Chou said. “You have to get us to a commercial airstrip.”

“Sir, the nearest fields are in Hong Kong or Canton, and we have barely enough fuel to reach either—”

“Take off!” Chou ordered.

“Yes, sir.”

“If these trucks try to block us, go around them or over them, but get us out of here,” he added.

The pilot and copilot immediately began preparing the jet for power-up. Chou sat in the seat beside his aide. Both men buckled their seat belts. The plane rattled as the engines were started in tandem.

“Sir, why would the general give us fuel, then use fire trucks to close off the runway?” Chou’s aide asked.

“I do not believe that is what he is doing,” Chou said ominously. He cast a look out the window. The airmen were all watching the back of the aircraft. After a moment, they were given a signal to withdraw.

Chou undid his belt and jumped from his seat.

“Sir?” said the aide.

“The door!” Chou yelled. “Open it and deploy the emergency slide. We have to get out!”

The aide got up and went to the hatch. Chou stood behind him.

“Stop the engines,” Chou told the pilots. “We’re leaving—”

There was a whooshing sound from the back of the aircraft, like a gas range being ignited. Chou looked back. That was not far from the case. The windows in the center of the aircraft were suddenly filled with a smoky orange glow.

The orderly pulled open the hatch just as the dull light reached the forward section. The young man cried and stepped back as flames whipped over the foot of the doorway and into the cabin.

That was why the general was not worried about E-mailed messages, Chou thought. He knew they would never be sent.

Perhaps.

While the pilot jumped forward to close the hatch, Chou turned and rushed down the aisle. He reached his seat just as the aircraft lost all structural integrity. The fuel that had been set aflame below the aircraft ignited the fuel that remained in the tanks. The tires exploded first, dropping the aircraft to the tarmac a moment before it disintegrated. The fuselage blew open like a holiday firework. Instead of spraying the air with sparkling light, it threw shards of glass, metal, and quick-melted plastic in every direction. The wings were blown from the fuselage. Weighted down by the engines, one on each wing, they hit the asphalt and skidded several dozen yards from the sides. The tail section simply broke off and fell backwards, allowing a fist of flame to shoot from the back of the cabin.

Because the aircraft fuel tanks had been near empty, the blast was contained to the jet and the surrounding airfield. The three fire trucks that had already been en route arrived immediately after the explosion. Foam punched through the black smoke, hissing as it came into contact with fire and superheated metal. Within several minutes the flames had been extinguished. Men in fire-resistant white suits were beginning to move through the wreckage. They used back-mounted fire extinguishers to kill spot fires and search for survivors.

There were none.

There were not even remains that could be easily spotted, let alone identified.

General Tam Li was given an update about the spill and its aftermath. He thanked the fire captain.

Then he called the prime minister to inform him of the tragic crash.

FORTY-SEVEN

Xichang, China Thursday, 8:55 A.M.

The prime minister was in a pleasantly detached mood as his plane neared Xichang. He had been reading for pleasure, not for work, which was unusual. But it had been an intense few days, and a search for the historical Wong Fei Hung was a welcome distraction. Tales of the nineteenthcentury Chinese hero had been a favorite of Le’s when he was a boy. The son of one of the Ten Tigers of Canton, Wong Fei Hung was a healer, a philosopher, a martial arts master, and a defender of justice. He was also the subject of over one hundred feature films and four times as many novels, which had obscured his real-life accomplishments. Le Kwan Po found the real man even more fascinating than the fictional one, living quietly as a peddler of herbal medicines while battling tirelessly for the rights of his fellow citizens. Married seven times—the last, to a teenage girl—Wong Fei Hung was obviously a man of considerable strength and stamina.

Anita was sitting beside her father, and Paul Hood was sitting across the aisle. They were chatting amiably in English. Le Kwan Po was happy and surprised to see his daughter so relaxed. She had asked that Mr. Hood be seated across from her rather than in the section of the airplane reserved for dignitaries. That caused some indignant glances and awkward remarks from the European representatives, but Le ignored them. It was the privilege of a high-ranking official to be provocative. Besides, none of them had ever gone for a walk with his daughter.

Le had been tempted to ask what they were speaking about when the phone in his armrest beeped.

It was General Tam Li calling from Zhuhai. Chou Shin had been killed during an unannounced visit to the Zhuhai Air Base.

“I do not know why he was here,” the general said. “We are trying to ascertain whether there were explosives on board.”

Le Kwan Po’s first thought was that Chou Shin may have been planning another unworthy act, such as a direct attack on Tam Li. It would have been a blow to the general’s power base by hitting his eastern command hub.

It also would have been treason, Le thought. Chou Shin was many things, but he was not a traitor. The defense of China was as important to Communists as it was to the more progressive elements of government. Even so, there would have been no reason for the Guoanbu director to go there personally. Unless it was to gain access to a place where others could not go. Tam Li’s office, for one.

“I had been preparing to leave for the launch, Mr. Prime Minister, but I want to be here for the investigation,” Tam Li went on.

“I understand,” Le replied. “Let me know what you discover.”

“At once,” the general assured him.

“And General?”

“Sir?”

“Has Taiwan begun its traditional coastal exercises?”

“They have,” Tam Li replied.

“Then tell your bureau of information to inform the Defense Ministry that a government jet has crashed on the runway, nothing more,” Le said. “Until your white team finds the director’s remains and has confirmed his death, I do not want that information released.”

“Yes, sir. May I ask why?”

“Taipei may see the death of our military intelligence chief as an invitation to expand their mischief,” the prime minister replied.

“Of course.”

“I will speak with you after the launch.”

Le Kwan Po hung up. He turned to his left. Paul Hood was wearing a perplexed look. Anita regarded her father with open concern. Obviously, that was what had caused Hood’s expression.

“What has happened?” Anita asked.

“Chou Shin has been killed in an explosion,” he told her.

“One of his own design? An accident?”

“I do not know,” Le said.

“Are you going to tell the gentleman?” she asked, indicating Hood with her eyes. She obviously did not want to say his name, which he would pick from the unfamiliar dialogue.

“American satellites will surely have seen the explosion,” her father said. “I will have to tell him something.” He could see that Anita wanted to suggest something. “Do you have any thoughts?”

“Tell him the truth,” she said.

“Why?”

“He is an intelligence officer,” she said. “He might be able to give us insight into the actions of another intelligence officer.”

Le managed a small smile. “That is true. But that is not the insight we might need at this time.”

“What do you mean?”

“Chou Shin and Tam Li were bitter rivals,” the prime minister said. “It is the insight of a thwarted military officer we might need.”

“I believe our guest may know someone like that as well,” Anita said.

Le had to think for a moment. “The man whose company built the satellite?” he asked, once again avoiding any names.

Anita nodded.

“All right,” her father said. “Let’s have a chat with Mr. Hood. As quietly as possible, so the others do not hear.

Anita turned to Hood and said that her father wished to speak with him. Le took a moment to gather his thoughts.

He needed to find out why Chou Shin had gone to the base when he should have been flying to Xichang. It was unlikely that anyone at the Guoanbu knew. Chou Shin was a man who guarded his own activities as jealously as he kept secrets of state. Perhaps the intelligence director had contacted someone before leaving or while en route. The prime minister would have his assistant look into that.

Of more immediate concern, Le did not know whether Tam Li had simply decided to carry their feud to a new level. That was certainly a possibility. It was also the one that concerned him the most. Because if it were true, there was no telling where—or how—it might stop.

FORTY-EIGHT

Xichang, China Thursday, 9:14 A.M.

Hood was not surprised by what Anita told him. He would not miss Chou Shin. The man was a hard-line ideologue who kept China anchored to its backward, isolationist past. Whose agents had helped to endanger his Op-Center field team in Botswana when they tracked a kidnapped priest.

But assassination, if that’s what had happened, was not a policy that Paul Hood endorsed. It was the last and ultimately least effective resort of desperate megalomaniacs. If they did not have the support to accomplish what they wanted through legitimate means, murder was a short-term solution.

“Do you need help with something?” Hood asked the prime minister through his daughter.

“I am concerned about Tam Li,” Le Kwan Po replied. “Your own friend the general might have some thoughts. Perhaps you have your own sources.”

Ordinarily, Hood would be suspicious of a Chinese leader who asked for help from American intelligence. Though the presidential envoy did not entirely trust the man, he believed in him. Le Kwan Po had been caught between two strong polar forces. One of them had just been eliminated. He was clearly looking to restabilize himself and perhaps his nation.

“I will call him when we land,” Hood promised. He did not want to contact him while they were in flight. Rodgers was probably with the marines. The pilots might be able to track his call using the sophisticated electronics of the aircraft. He did not want to give them that opportunity. “In the interim there is someone else who might have some insights,” he said.

Hood called Liz Gordon. The Op-Center psychologist had just gotten home and was feeding her cat.

“Paul Hood,” she said flatly. “I didn’t expect to hear from you again.”

“Frankly, I didn’t expect to be calling,” he fired back.

As a rule, Hood had not been a booster of psychiatry or profiling. He still was not sure it deserved the validity and effort law enforcement gave it. Occasionally, however, it offered useful insights.

Gordon snickered. “Touché. What can I do for you?”

“Has Bob kept you abreast of the situation in China?”

“I read his summary before leaving,” she said.

“There’s been a new development,” Hood said. “The nonmilitary individual was eliminated, apparently by his rival.”

“The man who was hit in Charleston and Taipei struck back,” she said.

“Right.”

Hood knew that Liz would understand his shorthand. There were English-speakers on board the aircraft. The engines were loud but not that loud. Some of them might overhear.

“That doesn’t surprise me,” she said.

“Why?”

“Soldiers are not diplomats. They run out of words and patience faster than other people,” Liz told him. “Where did this happen?”

“At a base in the east.”

“Isn’t this his rocket being launched?” Liz asked.

“Yes.”

“Why isn’t he there?”

“The big man says he is staying at home to oversee the investigation,” Hood told her. “Perhaps he is concerned that the deceased succeeded in his alleged plot to boobytrap the mission.”

“Why wouldn’t he tell that to the PM?” she asked. “If he was responsible for this incident at the base, there is sure to be an inquiry. He will be a likely suspect. Information about a plot against the mission would give our man a reason for having acted the way he did.”

She had a point.

“Do we even know why the deceased went there?” Liz asked.

“No.”

“People tend to confront other people face-to-face for one of two reasons,” Liz said. “Either they are flat-out nuts, or they have a virtuous cause and strength of numbers behind them. Was this man crazy?”

“Not at all,” Hood said.

“Then he must have known something, or had something that he wanted to present to his rival. That’s the information you should be looking for, information that may have been worth killing for.”

“Mr. Hood!” Anita said urgently.

Hood looked over. She was pointing to her father’s laptop. He nodded and held up a finger.

“Liz, this has been helpful. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Are you doing okay?” he added as an afterthought.

“Just peachy,” she replied. “Go. We’ll talk later.”

“Thanks again,” he said.

He folded away his cell phone as Anita typed a translation on the laptop. When she was finished, she handed the device to Hood. It was an incomplete E-mail from Guoanbu Director Chou. It had been sent around the time of the explosion. It read:

I have come to Zhuhai to question Tam Li about a deployment being carried out under his command. It is a response to Taiwan’s standard fielding of a non-aggressive military force for one of our launches. I believe the general plans to attack the enemy with overwhelming firepower. He is holding us on the tarmac, not permitting us to contact

FORTY-NINE

Xichang, China Thursday, 10:22 A.M.

After landing at the airfield fifty kilometers south of the complex, Prime Minister Le Kwan Po had placed a call to the Ministry of National Defense. The minister confirmed that General Tam Li had reported organizing an appropriate “ready response” to the Taiwanese deployment. He had no information about Chou Shin’s report of “overwhelming firepower.”

“When was the last time you communicated with Tam Li?” the prime minister inquired.

“He called to inform me of the explosion,” the minister replied.

“You have had no other reports of activity in the east?”

“None,” the minister said.

Le was not surprised. Those reports would have originated at Zhuhai and been disseminated throughout the national defense system. The PLA was not equipped to spy on itself, and it did not have reciprocal arrangements with other nations. Still, someone was lying, either Chou Shin or Tam Li. The prime minister could not imagine the intelligence director sending an E-mail claiming an attack was being prepared unless he could have supported his claim.

“If there were an unusual deployment, and it were not reported to you, how long would it take to get independent corroboration?” the prime minister asked.

“Do you have reason to suspect that something is wrong?” the minister asked urgently.

“I cannot go into that now,” Le said.

“Mr. Prime Minister, if there is a threat to our national defense—”

“I received an uncorroborated report of a possible PLAAF buildup in Tam Li’s command sector,” Le said quickly. He did not have time to debate with the stubborn minister.

“A report from who?”

“Chou Shin, just before his death,” the prime minister answered impatiently.

“He was a patriot,” the minister said. “Radar at the Nanjiang Military Region is piped to the Coordinated Air Command in Beijing,” the minister went on. “That tells us at once how many aircraft are in the skies. At the moment I see nothing unusual apart from the required patrols.” He added, “I would tell you, Mr. Prime Minister, if it were otherwise.”

“You are not someone I doubt,” Le replied truthfully.

“Nor I, you,” the minister told him. “But this information is not deeply useful to us.”

“Why?”

“It would not take long to put several squadrons from the Nanjiang bases into the air and over the strait,” the minister said.

“Can you override Tam Li’s authority?”

“Not until and unless he actually does something that overreaches established protocol or expressed policy. So far, he has acted in accordance with the rules of preemptive engagement regarding Taiwan and air-lane security for a launch path.”

“What does air-lane security entail?”

“PLAAF jets are scrambled to patrol well beyond the boundaries of the rocket’s course,” the minister said. “That prevents enemy aircraft from moving in and compromising rocket integrity.”

“You mean firing a missile,” Le said.

“Yes. The Russians and Americans have been known to observe our launches from high-altitude fighters.”

“Our jets are already in the air?” Le asked.

“They are. A little premature but not alarmingly so.”

Tam Li was doing everything according to schedule. He was not a fool. There was also a chance that he was not guilty.

Le thanked the minister and asked for updates if and when they became available. He sat back and looked out the tinted windows at the rustic countryside. It was possible that Chou Shin had been trying to frame the general. The intelligence director had been responsible for several explosions over the past few days. Perhaps he had gone to Zhuhai to attack the general’s command post. The prime minister was willing to believe that Tam Li had struck directly at his foe, destroying the aircraft. The same could also be true of Chou Shin. His own explosives may have detonated prematurely.

Whatever the truth, there was nothing Le could do now but wait.

Wait, and hope that Paul Hood came up with something that might not be on the radar.

FIFTY

Xichang, China Thursday, 10:28 A.M.

The Xichang Satellite Launch Center was one of three major launch sites in China. The other two were located in Jiuquan and Taiyuan. The Jiuquan site was built in 1968, one thousand miles from Beijing in the Gobi Desert. It was an old site but due to its geographical location was ideal for the launch of both manned and unmanned orbital missions. Taiyuan Satellite Launch Center was primarily a test site that was ideally situated for the launch of polar-orbiting spacecraft. It was the newest of the Chinese space centers, and began operations in 1988.

Xichang had been designed to put geosynchronous satellites into orbit, hardware that would remain in place over specific regions of China. A network of geosynchronous stations would create a relay system, making telecommunications and wireless technology available to all of the vast nation. Begun in 1978 and completed six years later, Xichang was built in the heart of an area populated with small farms. The facility was inaugurated inauspiciously with the disastrous launch of a satellite whose third stage failed to ignite. Several years of successful launches followed until the powerful Long March 2E booster exploded on takeoff in 1995. The debris killed six farmers and injured twenty-three others who were going about their business five miles downrange. The following year, a Long March 3B crashed in a hill just a mile from the launch pad, killing six and injuring fifty-seven. As recently as one year ago a powerful new Star Dragon 5 exploded upon liftoff, killing twelve technicians and destroying the pad. Very few of the local citizens relocated. They made too much money selling food, clothes, and other goods to the men stationed at the space center.

The failure of the Star Dragon 5 was one reason Beijing had invited international participation in the creation of the hardware. The old boosters were based on Russian designs. They were brutish rockets that could lift heavy payloads but had little finesse and sophistication. A great deal of time and money had gone into the reconstruction of the base. It was important that the hardware function properly. It was just as important that the invited dignitaries see the start of a successful new era in Chinese space activities. One way that Beijing hoped to raise money for future endeavors was by using their rockets to boost foreign payloads into space.

They could not afford a failure.

Mike Rodgers was very much aware of that. He was also aware of the fact that over four hundred people were going to be in the launch area, including five Americans. He did not want to see any of them vaporized. For that matter, an explosion would not do him any good. He was well within the fallout zone if the plutonium power source were attacked.

Rodgers had taken a commercial flight from Beijing to the Xichang Airport. He managed to sleep during the three-hour-plus flight. Studying maps and white papers was a key part of mission preparation. So was being rested. Since he would be on the outside, with the data available on his laptop, he opted for sleep.

The airport was small but modern. Rodgers took a taxi to the nearby Satellite Hotel which, as the name suggested, had been built primarily for visitors to the space center. He rented a car at the hotel, a reservation that had been made through the prime minister’s office. Foreigners were not generally permitted to drive through the securityconscious area. He tucked himself into the compact cherry-red Xiali Bullet, one of the new generation of Chinese cars intended for domestic and international sales. Its pickup reminded him of one of the rickshaws that wove in and out of the streets of Beijing. Slow to build, once it reached the required speed, it hummed along nicely. Not that it mattered. Though a new freeway was being built through the region, it was not yet completed. Most of the hour-long drive took place on dirt roads, which cars had to share with bicycles and horses as well as herds of sheep and cows. At one point Rodgers had to wait for nearly twenty minutes while a bus driver and a woman argued in the middle of the road. From what he could gather based on the position of their vehicles, the woman’s scooter had tried to pass the bus and ended up in a ditch. Every now and then she slapped the hood of the bus angrily, which was a greater insult than if she had struck the man. It was not the driver himself who had offended her but his ability. That was the equivalent of insulting his manhood.

The conflict ended when the bus driver simply drove off, leaving the woman shouting and cursing at his thick black exhaust.

After clearing that impediment, Rodgers checked in with the marines. They had gone ahead on the shuttle bus operated by the space center. They had flown in earlier with other specialists from Beijing. Throughout the mission the marines were going to stay in touch via text alert. These were similar to cell phone text messages. The difference was that they were transmitted via wristwatch, as a crawling document. The wearer spoke his or her message, a chip in the watch transcribed it to text, and it was sent to every other wristwatch receiver in the network. The DoD was working on a heads-up display for eyeglasses, which would also display graphics images visible only to the wearer. Tiny but powerful antennae in the hinges would allow the wearer to intercept wireless data sent between stations. Rodgers’s firm was bidding on the contract to develop the lens technology. By connecting to an international number, Rodgers’s cell phone would be able to receive all the messages. His capacity to send was limited to text messages or sending a single tone to each of them. The watches would vibrate, and they would call him on their own cell phones. It was not a secure means of communication, but it might be the only one available to them in an emergency.

For now, all Rodgers needed to know was that they had gotten to the complex. He sent a tone. They were to respond by pushing their watch stem once. The numbers one through four would show up on Rodgers’s cell phone, depending upon who had received. All four responded.

Not long after that, Rodgers received a call from Hood. The former director of Op-Center explained to his former number two what had happened in Zhuhai. Rodgers was surprised. He was also concerned.

“Do we know if our prime suspect blew himself up or was blown up?” Rodgers asked.

“I just got off the phone with Stephen Viens,” Hood told him. “He said a routine satellite sweep of the region picked up the blast. He’s having the photo analyzed now, but it looked like the explosion may have started with a fire under the aircraft. There was a tanker on the field, and the plane had apparently just been refueled.”

“When did it land?”

“NORAD told Viens it was on the ground less than twenty minutes,” Hood told him.

Since the homeland attacks of 2001, NORAD had been linked to every air traffic control system in the United States and, through relays and hacks, to virtually every ATCS in the world. If a plane diverged from its reported flight path for more than ten seconds, the United States Air Force went on intercept alert. That meant fighters were scrambled at once if the aircraft were over American airspace. If they were over foreign airspace, the information was immediately relayed to domestic and allied intelligence services. Flags had not been raised by Chou Shin’s flight. But there was still a radar record of the trip from Beijing to Zhuhai.

“Chou Shin lands, does not get off the plane, and dies in the explosion twenty minutes later,” said Rodgers. “If it wasn’t a setup, it sounds as if Tam Li was willing to seize the moment. Neither man could simply eliminate the other without alienating their supporters in Beijing.”

“It doesn’t make sense, though,” Hood said. “There will be an investigation. Interviews with eyewitnesses. If this was an assassination, Beijing will find out.”

“Yes, if this is just an assassination,” Rodgers said. “Obviously, this was something the general thought he could get away with. Why?”

“Because he expects the political situation in Beijing to be changing soon?” Hood speculated.

“That would be my guess,” Rodgers said. He stopped while a herd of cattle crossed a muddy stretch of road. “We may have been looking at the wrong guy as a potential Xichang bomber.”

“Why would Tam Li attack a project that would give him more prestige?” Hood asked. “What does it do for him?”

“It creates a power vacuum by killing the prime minister and several other high-ranking bureaucrats,” Rodgers suggested. “And an explosion here would not be traced to him. He would not even be a suspect.”

“That doesn’t seem like enough,” Hood said. “Too many key figures are missing. The president and vice president, the defense minister. The people who Tam Li would have to remove if he were planning a coup.”

“Maybe he is working for the defense minister,” Rodgers suggested as the cows finished their crossing. Spitting mud and drawing curses from the farmer, the Xiali started up again.

“Le Kwan Po just spoke with the defense minister,” Hood told him. “The prime minister does not think he is involved in a plot.”

“Is that based on evidence or hope?” Rodgers asked.

“Instinct,” Hood answered. “That is what he told me when I asked the same question.”

“How have those instincts been so far?”

“Untested,” Hood replied.

“Helluva time to start,” Rodgers said. “So let’s assume we have a rogue general looking to blow up his own rocket and create a relatively small hole in the government. What does he gain?”

The men were silent for a moment.

“We may be chasing our own tails here,” Hood said.

“That would make me very happy,” Rodgers said. “But there is still a chance that Chou Shin set a countdown in motion, and his death may not change that. Whatever allies he has in a war against Tam Li might go ahead with it. They may not even know he’s dead.”

“True.”

“And there’s something else,” Rodgers said. “There are two reasons to trigger an explosive.”

“One of them I know. What’s the other?” Hood asked.

“As a distraction,” Rodgers replied.

“Are you referring to the attack on Chou Shin’s plane?”

“No,” Rodgers told him. “I’m talking about the rocket. What if there is a plot to blow it up, but it’s Tam Li’s operation? Something to make Beijing focus its attention here while he does something else.”

“Such as?”

“I’m not sure,” Rodgers said. “General Tam Li is supposed to be here. He is in Zhuhai. Why?”

“That is his command post. He told Le Kwan Po he was getting set to fly over when Chou Shin arrived.”

“So he won’t be coming.”

“No,” Hood said.

“Why would Chou Shin go all the way to the airfield when he and Tam Li would have seen each other here?”

“Not to reconcile, I’m guessing,” Hood said.

“A confrontation would be more likely. Maybe the Guoanbu found out something, and Chou was going to investigate.”

“Chou would not have gone there personally unless he was pretty sure of what he was going to find,” Hood said.

“That’s right. The question is, what did he find out?”

“I can ask the prime minister to check when we reach the space complex,” Hood said.

“No. That doesn’t leave us a lot of time,” Rodgers said.

“The good news is we only need to focus on the space complex,” Hood said. “If Tam Li is planning a diversionary strike and we can stop that, whatever else he has in mind may not come to pass.”

“The material I looked at with the marine leader was tactics from the Guoanbu playbook,” Rodgers said. “We have their MO from past operations, including intel from the Taipei police on the nightclub hit. I have nothing here on the PLA’s covert military actions. Getting anything useful from G2 or Op-Center would take more time than we have.”

“We may not need any of that,” Hood said. “Get your people into position. I’ll call you in about a half hour, after I’ve had a chance to speak with the prime minister.”

“What have you got in mind?” Rodgers asked.

“A low-tech remedy that may be exactly the one we need,” Hood replied.

FIFTY-ONE

Xichang, China Thursday, 10:31 A.M.

The procession to the space complex consisted of seven cars. The only limousine was the one used by the prime minister and his daughter. Everyone else was put in a clean but inelegant military vehicle.

That was what had given Hood his idea for intercepting a potential bomber.

The space center was shaped like a Y. The caravan drove in through the stem of the Y, then turned west. They drove past the low-lying Communication Center, past the Tracking Station, to the Technical Center. That was where the vehicles stopped and let them out. The launch pad was situated four kilometers to the north. The rocket was clearly visible as the guests stepped out. It stood gleaming white against the silver and black girders of the gantry. Smoke plumed from the three stages, dissipating quickly against the pure blue sky. Heat rising from the field between them caused the rocket to ripple slightly, like a mirage.

Xichang did not have a public relations organization. Security personnel in severe, dark blue uniforms took charge of the visitors. There was one guard to each carload. Interpreters who had traveled with them from Beijing translated the guards’ instructions. Anita had joined them from her father’s car. The prime minister himself did not emerge as the groups moved toward the Technical Center.

“There is a basement beneath the facility,” Anita said for the benefit of the English-speaking group. “We will be observing the launch from there.”

“I need to see your father,” Hood said, sidling over to her.

“He will be out in a moment,” she said. The prime minister’s daughter was wearing an official face and talking in a very official voice. Hood liked the woman better when she was slightly uncertain, pressing him for information.

“I’ll wait for him,” Hood said.

“I think he would rather you go with—”

“Listen to me,” Hood said. He leaned closer. “You’re concerned about appearances. I’m worried about his life.”

That got her attention.

“His life?”

“I will wait for him here,” Hood said, leaning away.

“Then I will have to wait with you, to translate,” she said. “What do I do about the other English-speaking guests?”

“They know what they are here to see,” Hood replied. “They will manage without you for a while.”

Anita looked concerned as she went off to tell the others she would join them downstairs. She returned just as her father stepped from his car.

“Do you have new information?” she asked Hood.

“Some.”

The prime minister walked to where Hood was waiting. He looked from Anita to Hood.

“We have confirmed the destruction of the aircraft,” Le said through his daughter.

“So have we,” Hood told him.

“But you have more,” Le said.

“A question. Is there any reason the general might have for wanting—or rather needing—to stay in Zhuhai?” Hood asked.

“I asked the defense minister a similar question,” Le admitted. “He said there is nothing unusual going on in that region.”

“Do you trust the minister?”

“I have no reason to distrust him.”

“Excuse me. Is that an endorsement or diplomacy?”

“It is my answer,” Le replied.

“Let’s try this, then,” Hood said with a trace of impatience. “Who will appoint Chou Shin’s replacement?”

“The president,” Le answered. “I was just conferring with him on that very subject. There is nothing in the appointment that benefits Tam Li. His replacement will be a Communist, not an ally to Tam Li.” Le glanced toward the rocket. “I am beginning to wonder if this is about nothing more than the rivalry between the two men. With Chou Shin gone, perhaps this facility is no longer in danger. Perhaps it never was.” He looked back at Hood. “You do not share that sense?”

“No, sir,” Hood said. “Allow me one more question. Are there any men from Tam Li’s command on the base?”

“Why?” the prime minister asked. “Do you now suspect that he may be planning an attack?”

“General Rodgers and I were wondering if an attack here might serve as a diversion that benefits Tam Li somehow,” Hood said. He used Rodgers’s title to remind the prime minister that there was a military voice in his reasoning.

“What could Tam Li gain by that?” Le asked.

“We don’t know. But he is sitting on top of a fat arsenal. And an attack on the rocket might be the trigger he needs to launch it.”

“Again, for what reason?” Le asked.

“Ambition?” Hood asked. “I don’t know the man. But we think the explosion at the airfield occurred beneath Chou’s jet, not on it. That could be a singular incident. Or it could be the start of something larger.” He looked at Anita. “A purge of government leaders, perhaps. More than a few are here now.”

The translator’s slightly angry expression suddenly grew more concerned. She finished translating and looked at her father. His own features were still neutral. He was, above all, a good politician.

“The guards are drawn from different branches of the military and rotated every six months,” Le said. “I will find out who may have come from the Zhuhai command.”

“Thank you,” Hood said.

Le excused himself and went back to his car. Anita and Hood remained behind.

“Your concern is for the rocket,” she said.

“And our lives,” Hood told her.

“Why don’t you leave the complex? We can search for the general’s personnel, if there are any.”

“I don’t like the idea of running,” Hood said.

“So you are staying to be manly?” she asked. “Like James Bond?”

He could not tell if she were kidding or not. “I am doing my job,” he replied.

She smiled. “That is a very responsible answer. It is also very Chinese.”

So, apparently, is megalomania and murder, Hood wanted to tell her. He refrained. The woman had her own definition of the Chinese character. It was about industry and honor, very much a reflection of how she saw her father. He would let her have that. He suspected that only events would rewrite her definitions.

Le returned. His expression bore a touch of gravity it had not possessed before.

“A unit was recently rotated in from Zhuhai,” Le said. “I have asked that those individuals be brought to the Command and Control Center. I am going to meet them there now.”

“Where were they stationed?” Hood asked.

“Originally, they were checking passes at the front gate.”

“Originally?” Hood asked.

“Three weeks ago they were relocated at the request of the general himself,” Le said. “He said this rocket was important to his base. He wanted to make sure the boosters were being watched by people he had trained and whom he trusted.”

“I would like to go with you,” Hood said.

“No. I will let you know what I find out. You can wait in the Technical Center if you wish. I will contact you there.”

“Sir, we have less than ninety minutes to launch—”

“All the more reason for me to get to the command center,” the prime minister said as he turned and left.

Hood started after him. “Anita, please ask him to wait.”

“My father has told you what he plans to do,” Anita said.

“Yes, but I have experience in this area—”

“Not here,” she replied. “You don’t even speak the language.”

“I can read expressions, body language.” Hood stopped. He looked back at the woman as Le got in the car. “Dammit, everything—anything—might help.”

“If my father wants help, he will ask for it.”

“When?” Hood asked. “After the rocket is destroyed?”

“My father knows what he is doing,” Anita said. “He is an able man.”

“But not infallible,” Hood snapped. “He let the entire situation with the general and Chou Shin get away from him—”

“Mr. Hood, we are quite finished.”

“No! You’ve stopped listening, which is not the same thing. The stakes are high here, Anita! This is not a time for ego.”

“For once I agree with you, Mr. Hood. He told you where to wait, and I suggest you go there. Now, please excuse me. I, too, have a job to do.” The woman strode toward the Technical Center.

Hood raised his hands in exasperation. But anger was not going to help, and he lowered them. He remained beside the wide asphalt road that ran through the complex. The cars were still parked by the side of the building. A guard at the door of the center watched Hood but did not move from his post.

The rising sun was hot, and Hood was perspiring. Only the slightest breeze moved across the field. Hood pulled his cell phone from the loop on his belt. He wanted to call Rodgers and tell him what he had learned about a squad from Zhuhai. At least he knew where the general’s team had been. It would allow the marines to narrow their patrol zone.

Unfortunately, the communications at the complex interfered with the signal. He would have to find some other way to get this information to Rodgers.

Quickly.

FIFTY-TWO

Zhuhai, China Thursday, 10:49 A.M.

Before leaving his post, one of the soldiers in the booster security detail sent an E-mail message to Zhuhai. It read:

Team recalled by PM.

It was not the kind of message the general wanted to receive. There was slightly more than an hour until launch. If the device he had planted were discovered and the rocket took off safely, the rationale for what he was planning to do next would evaporate. Without the explosion, Tam Li could never convince the surviving president that Taiwan had used the disaster—perhaps even caused it—to press a military advantage, and only the quick action of the general had thwarted a major strike against targets along China’s eastern coastline.

It was dramatic action that would merit the general’s appointment as the new minister of defense, or perhaps even as the prime minister. Since it was no longer necessary to attach suspicion to the late Chou Shin, Tam Li could concentrate on the purely military aspects of the action.

As long as the rocket blows up. Without that, he had nothing.

Tam Li sat alone in his office, staring out the window and thinking. He was not a man prone to displays of anger or frustration. He preferred to use his energies more effectively. Every problem had at least one solution, often more. It was simply a matter of finding the right one. The general had spoken with the white team officers when they came in from extinguishing the fire. They were loyal soldiers who understood why he had destroyed the aircraft. They were also well-paid members of Tam Li’s black market gang. Explaining to Beijing what had happened on the airfield would not be a problem. Chou Shin’s explosives-laden jet had blown up. The pulling of his rocket team was a greater concern, especially if the prime minister suspected an attack. A new security crew might find what had been done to the rocket.

The irony was that when they were called in, the Xichang team had been getting set to pull back and leave the space complex. They did not want to be within fifty miles of the facility when the plutonium core exploded. Tam Li could not count on them remaining silent as the countdown progressed. If they were still in the complex, chances were good they would die.

And then it occurred to him, a way to fix this situation. Tam Li would use the hide-in-plain-sight scenario.

He pressed the intercom on his telephone.

“Yes, General?”

“Get me the Xichang space center,” he said. “I want to speak with the prime minister at once.”

“Yes, sir.”

Tam Li would tell the prime minister why he had assigned those men to the boosters, and why he must let them finish their job.

It was important, he would say, to protect them from the attack Chou Shin had been planning.

FIFTY-THREE

Xichang, China Thursday, 11:00 A.M.

The voice on the loudspeaker was confident and proud.

“Launch minus sixty!”

Hood did not need a translator to know what he was saying. The digital countdown clock on the wall had just slipped under an hour. Not that he had a translator. Anita had gone downstairs with the rest of the observers. Hood had gone into the reception area as Le had suggested. There was a guard seated behind a gunmetal desk. There was no one else in the room. Hood had indicated to her that he wanted to use the phone, but she shook her head. When he tried to use it anyway, she rose and called someone’s name. The other guard entered. Hood backed off.

The launchpad was too far away, or he would have run over and attempted to find the marines himself. He tried his cell phone again. Then again. As the seconds slipped away, the only option Hood seemed to have was getting a ride to the gate to try to find Mike somewhere around the perimeter. But even if he succeeded, that left very little time to actually locate a potential problem.

“Hood.”

Hood turned to the desk. The woman was addressing him. She held the telephone toward him. Perhaps Rodgers had found him.

“Yes?” Hood said as he snatched the phone.

“Sir, this is Dr. Yuen, a fuel specialist on this project,” he said. “I am translating for the prime minister. He says that he spoke with the general and is satisfied with the conversation.”

“He is? What about the individuals he spoke with?”

Hood waited while the scientist translated. Either Tam Li was very convincing, or the prime minister was extremely gullible. In any case, there was one way to know for certain.

“The prime minister has allowed them to return to their duties.”

“Ask him if he is sending men with them,” Hood said. This was insane. The guy they were investigating vouches for himself, and Le accepts that?

Hood waited again.

“Mr. Hood, the prime minister is coming to the Technical Center,” Dr. Yuen informed him. “He will be there in five minutes. He said he will talk to you there.”

“Right,” Hood said. “More time wasted.”

“Sir, we invented rockets,” the scientist said. “We were going through these trials centuries before your ancestors were born.”

Hood did not respond. Built into that statement was the prerogative to venture and to fail. There was no way to argue with that kind of thinking.

Hood hung up. He needed to get in touch with Rodgers now. He smiled at the guard and reached for the keypad. The guard laid a hand across it.

“Le Kwan Po,” Hood said with authority.

The woman replied with equal authority. She rose and did not remove her hand. She gestured toward a seat and then toward the stairs leading to the bunker. Obviously, those were the only options Hood had.

Hood held up an index finger. “One call. One. Please.”

The guard shook her head and, pointing, repeated the options. Hood was about to pull her hand from the phone.

“Who do you wish to call?”

Hood turned at the familiar voice. Anita was standing at the top of the bunker staircase.

“I need to talk to an associate,” Hood said. “Please.”

“Apparently, my father was right.”

“Excuse me?”

“He was afraid his decision might bother you,” she said.

Hood walked toward her. “He was right about that, yes. I am not so sure he is right about the rest. I need to talk to someone for just a moment,” Hood said calmly, evenly.

“Mr. Hood, I do not wish to be unreasonable, but we are here to witness a launch—”

“And I pray that is what I see,” Hood told her. “I need to ask an associate just one question, Anita. We are desperately short of time, and you have nothing to lose. I promise, this will be brief.”

Anita regarded him for a moment. “All right,” she replied, then said something to the guard. The uniformed woman removed her hand from the keypad. She glared at Hood as she sat back down.

“One brief call,” Anita cautioned him.

“Thank you,” Hood said to them both.

He get an operator and gave him the number of Rodgers’s cell phone. Because this phone was a land line, and because Rodgers was outside the base, Hood hoped the call would get through the satellite dish interference.

It did not. After a long, discouraging silence, Hood disconnected the call and stood there.

“Is there no answer?” Anita asked.

“No.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Let’s go downstairs now—”

“Not yet,” Hood said quickly. He punched in a second number. “I need to try again.”

Anita was clearly unhappy, but she did not protest. Not with words, at least. Her expression said it all.

This time he did not call Mike Rodgers. He called someone else he hoped could help him.

FIFTY-FOUR

Washington, D.C. Wednesday, 11:11 P.M.

Intelligence work and patience have a long history together. Whether it was breaking codes in World War II or reconnaissance against the Persians by the warriors of Sparta before the Battle of Thermopylae in 480 B.C., this was not work that could be rushed.

Bob Herbert weathered patience impatiently. That was both a strength and a curse. He looked for fresh leads while he waited for old searches to bring results. He had a problem, though, when those new leads took him nowhere. When every road he studied was a dead end. When there was simply not enough information to go off road, or enough lift to hoist him aloft so he could study a bigger picture.

It was then that Herbert felt trapped. And when he felt trapped, Bob Herbert kept hurling himself at the problem until his head hurt, until his heart raced, until he wanted to scream. Until he sat in his chair and wept from frustration and blamed his wheelchair and, by extension, the fact that the U.S. embassy had been bombed in Beirut and he was there at all. But most of all he blamed himself for choosing this life instead of opening a tavern in Mississippi and playing guitar on open-mike night and never worrying about anything that happened beyond the confines of the small Southern town where the air was muggy and close, and you were safe because absolutely no one came there who did not belong there.

Herbert had always imagined he would go back to Philadelphia, Mississippi, when he retired. He wished he could go now, but to do so meant to acknowledge defeat. Under those conditions his retirement would be a trap and not a release.

The intelligence chief sat behind his desk at Op-Center. He did not want to go home and be useless. It was better to stay here with the night crew and at least have the potential to do something. But that still did not make him feel like the hub of a wheel around which activity turned. He was helpless and he was desperate, and not just to prevent a possible explosion in Xichang. Motion defined him. Without it, he had no idea who or what he was.

It was worse because Rodgers and Hood were not there. They were always pitching ideas. Even if Rodgers was knocking them foul, he was still swinging the bat. It was action.

There had been virtually none of that since Viens had come to his office the day before. Herbert had asked for more information about the blips on the Pacific Rim. Unfortunately, when the photo recon officer compared current satellite images to past photographs, nothing stood out. The process was called ODA: overlay dissonance analysis. It was similar to what astronomers did when they compared celestial photographs from different nights. If something were out of place in the heavens—such as an asteroid approaching the earth—ODA let them know it. The process was a little more complex with intelligence work. Past military maneuvers were compared to current maneuvers, along with the responses of surrounding nations. Computers sounded an alarm if there were anything out of the ordinary. So far, the Pacific Rim activity had not caused anything like that. The NRO had picked up the explosion on the Zhuhai airstrip, and that obviously had a place in the overall picture. But no one knew how or why or when. Certainly no one knew whether it was somehow related to the launch.

However many times Herbert reviewed the existing data about troop movements or the explosions in Charleston, Durban, and Taipei, he could not extrapolate what might happen with the rocket. He did not see how they related.

And then Paul Hood called.

“Bob, I’m glad you’re there,” Hood said urgently. “I assume Mike has a way of staying in touch with his people?”

“By text alert,” Herbert said. “They are all wearing—”

“I don’t need to know that,” Hood interrupted. “The uplinks here are messing with the cell phones. Can you get him a message?”

“Yes,” Herbert replied. Because it was text rather than more sophisticated audio, the watches worked on a lower frequency that would not be affected by satellite communications.

“Tell him that Tam Li had a crew working on booster security.”

“The fox watching the chickens?”

“Possibly. The team said they were returning to their posts,” Hood went on. “If they do, great. If they try to leave the complex, we’ll know why. Mike has got to stop them, make them talk.”

“I’ll tell him,” Herbert said. “Do you have a description of the men?”

“No. I didn’t meet with them.”

“Do they speak English?”

“Doubtful,” Hood said. “Mike can have them draw a diagram. In blood, if they have to.”

“Got it,” Herbert replied.

Hood clicked off, and Herbert swung over to his computer monitor. The thin, flat screen was attached to a boom on the left armrest of his wheelchair. Herbert accessed Rodgers’s text address and quickly drafted a message. He then reduced it to as few words as possible.

Tam Li detail had access to boosters. May flee before ignition. Stop them and assess.

As Herbert typed, ideas began to form. A direction had been indicated. Tam Li blowing up the rocket—his own rocket, effectively—to solidify opposition to Chou Shin was a reason, but not strong enough. Besides, with the intelligence director dead, there would be no reason to continue that operation. However, there was a more compelling notion: it could be blamed on Taiwan as a counterstrike to the attack on their city. And who better to reply to such an attack than Tam Li, who was sitting across the strait with an army?

The scenario quickly acquired weight and detail. All it had taken was a phone call from someone with whom he had enjoyed an often hostile but very symbiotic relationship.

That was all.

But that was a lot.

FIFTY-FIVE

Xichang, China Thursday, 11:20 A.M.

Mike Rodgers was sitting in his rental car in a field of high grasses roughly a quarter mile from the front gate of the space complex. The dark, asphalt road was to his left. It was a two-lane road that had simply been asphalted through the plain on a straight line from point A to point B. Cynically, Rodgers did not imagine that any environmental studies had been done to protect whatever wildlife may have lived upon, under, or in its way. There were several other cars parked in this area, along with motorbikes and even a horse. Obviously, a few hardy space buffs knew about the launch and were eager to witness it.

The amber grasses came nearly to the side window of the small car. They caused Rodgers’s eyes to itch. He had taken off his sunglasses to rub them. He did not bother to put them back on. In a way, that was helpful. Rubbing his eyes and squinting into the bright daylight made it seem as though he had roused himself from a distant bed to get here in time for the launch. It added to the look of casual inattentiveness a spy tried to achieve. He slumped in his seat to enhance the sense of insouciance, just in case security guards were watching from inside the complex or from a quartet of helicopters that circled the perimeter of the space center. They had gone up at around the one-hour mark, probably to keep unauthorized planes from entering the Xichang airspace.

Rodgers reached for a bottle sitting beside him. It was a Chinese concession to American sensibilities, the sudden cultural need to suckle on an ever-present water bottle. Rodgers had bought it at the airport, not knowing how hot it might get out here. Unlike bottles in the United States, this one was made of glass. Someone somewhere in China probably had a lucrative recycling contract. For all Rodgers knew, the same guys who made the new bottles filled them with tap water. It tasted like it.

The text-message-capable cell phone sat beside him, plugged into the dashboard. Rodgers watched it for messages from his team.

It is not really your team, the former general reminded himself. They were on loan. He was out of the military business, downsized from the spy game. Sure you are, he thought. That is why you are in the middle of a field in China waiting to hear from marines who are conducting emergency recon on a PLA rocket. The irony was, all of that no longer defined a spy. It accurately described private enterprise in twenty-first century Asia.

Rodgers did not want to hear from the marines. He wanted everything to go as planned, and he was tired of his old life. It was not just the constant shuttling from one place to another but the sense of fighting a holding action instead of moving toward victory. For every overzealous general or corrupt politician he stopped, there was always another and another to fill his iron boots.

That was when his phone beeped. He looked down. There was a message. Rodgers input his code to retrieve it. He sat up straight and was instantly in action mode. He glanced outside for just a moment, immediately reacquainting himself with the surroundings. That gave his brain a chance to process the details. Years of experience had made his subconscious mind a very powerful tool.

The message was not from the marines. It was from Bob Herbert. Rodgers read it quickly, then again. If he understood it correctly, some of Tam Li’s people had been inside with access to the boosters. He was supposed to stop them if they tried to leave, find out what they knew.

Rodgers did not waste time responding, asking for further details. Herbert was good about packing everything he knew into small communiqués. The former general assumed the command center simply did not delay the launch because Tam Li’s plan might be time sensitive.

Rodgers pulled his sunglasses on and looked toward the main gate. He knew from having studied the maps that even if the men exited one of the other gates, this was the only road from the complex. And chances were good that if anyone did come this way, it would be them. Though vehicles were continuing to arrive now and then, none was leaving the space center. Everyone who was inside either had a job to do or was watching the liftoff. He knew from experience that seeing a launch, any launch, was a thrill that did not get old.

Which was why the dark green vehicle immediately grabbed his attention. It looked like a van or minivan, and it disappeared into a small dip in the road about one mile away. When it reemerged, Rodgers could tell it was in a hurry. He looked to his left. The road was too wide to block, even if he parked sideways. The van would just swerve around him. If this were his quarry, Rodgers would have to find some other way of delaying them.

He had about thirty seconds before the van reached him. The retired general took a few of those moments to type a message into his cell phone. He considered his options as he typed. There were only two. One was to ram the oncoming van. Even though the compact might not actually stop the men, it would slow them. But if these were not Tam Li’s men and Rodgers totaled his car—and possibly himself—he would have trouble mounting a second assault.

That left the chancier second plan. Rodgers finished the message but did not send it. He switched on the ignition and turned the car around so it was facing away from the complex. As he did, he removed his cell phone jack from the dashboard. He replaced the lighter, pushing it in hard. Then he uncapped the water bottle, pulled his handkerchief from his pocket, and stuffed it into the neck. He left a lot of fabric on top. He needed a big flame. The lighter popped out, and he touched it to the end of the handkerchief. It flared quickly. Leaving the car, Rodgers hurried through the high grass to the middle of the road. The speeding van was just seconds away. Rodgers held the flaming bottle high in his right hand, Mr. Statue of Liberty prepared to play a high stakes, high noon game of chicken with a gang of Chinese soldiers.

It was inelegant, but it felt right. The “Molotov cocktail” would not do much, but it did what he needed it to do: it got the attention of the men inside. He could see their surprised, worried faces as the van approached.

But they did not stop. They did not veer. They sped up. They intended to run him down before he could attack.

Rodgers hurled his little missile at the onrushing vehicle. He needed it to do just one thing, and it did. The flaming bottle hit the windshield hard, transforming it into a fragile webwork of glass. The concussion also extinguished the burning handkerchief with its own water. The men must have felt very lucky. The vehicle did not stop. As Rodgers jumped back toward the grasses, he could see someone in the passenger’s seat trying to push the shattered glass outward.

He had learned what he needed to know. These soldiers wanted to get away from the complex as quickly as possible.

Rodgers got back in his car and floored the gas pedal. Dirt and grass spat from the tires as he ripped his way to the road. Now he intended to catch the bastards and force them to stop.

As he gave chase, Rodgers hit Reply/cc to send the message he had typed. The same text was simultaneously sent to the marine team leader:

IDs confirmed. Am in pursuit. Boosters likely target.

FIFTY-SIX

Xichang, China Thursday, 11:33 A.M.

Prime Minister Le Kwan Po felt anxious as he left the car and entered the Technical Center. On the short drive from the command center he had received word from the security office that one of the helicopters circling the complex spotted what appeared to be a chase along the main road from the complex. Military police from the space center had been dispatched on motorcycles, and the information had been radioed ahead to Xichang City. Several constables were driving out to intercept the two vehicles.

A call to the main gate revealed that no one had left by that route. The other gates were card-activated, with patrols on the inside but no checkpoints. Security cameras revealed that a dark green van had left nine minutes earlier. The card used for egress was a temporary pass issued to one of the security teams.

The unit Le Kwan Po had just spoken with.

The men reporting to General Tam Li.

The prime minister called the command center. The countdown was finally put on hold—a humiliating delay for the vaunted launch—and technicians were en route to the boosters to search for explosives. What worried Le was whether an explosive had been placed somewhere that would detonate regardless of the launch status. The result would be the same, a massive rain of radioactive dust across the complex.

The first thing Le had to do was find out what those renegade soldiers knew. The second thing was to get his daughter out of here. That was why he had not sent a helicopter to chase the soldiers. If they were used for anything, it would be an evacuation.

Paul Hood and Anita were waiting in the upstairs lobby of the Technical Center. Anita was conversing quietly but angrily with Hood, who was pacing in front of the security desk. Upon Le’s arrival, his daughter stared at him for a long moment. She did not brighten as she typically did when he entered a room. No doubt she was surprised by the look of concern on his normally impassive face.

She did not ask what was wrong. She knew he would tell her when he was ready. He regarded Hood, who had stopped pacing.

“The soldiers I interviewed have fled,” Le told Hood through Anita. “Someone is chasing them toward Xichang City. Would that be one of your associates?”

“Most likely,” Hood replied.

“Is he equipped to stop them?”

“If you’re asking whether he is armed, I do not believe so,” Hood replied.

“The pursuit has been joined by agents from both the space center and the city,” the prime minister informed him. “But that may not help us.”

“Not enough time?” Hood asked.

“Scientists are on the way to the boosters. They know the rocket, but they may not be able to find and defuse explosives.”

Le noticed his daughter start when he said that. He was sorry she had to be here. He would get her out as soon as possible.

“I may be able to help,” Hood told him.

“Please,” Le said. He did not ask how. He did not at this moment care. His daughter would have to be evacuated in just a few minutes. There was not a lot of time to talk.

Hood made a call and spoke for several seconds. Anita discreetely translated his end of the conversation. Le’s daughter was a thorough professional again. It was a sad irony that he had to be so frightened for her to be so proud of her. Like her mother, she was quite a woman.

Hood was talking to someone named Bob. He needed to meet the “team” as soon as possible. While Hood was still on the telephone, he turned to Le.

“I need a landmark by the boosters,” Hood said.

Le shook his head helplessly.

“Sir?” said the guard.

“Go ahead,” Le told her.

“There is a large holding clamp on the northeast corner of the pad,” she said. “I have been there. It is painted red, and it is very easy to see.”

The prime minister nodded once. Anita translated for Hood. The American finished his conversation, hung up, then turned to Le.

“I am going to meet some people there, people who have been briefed by Mike Rodgers,” Hood said. “I will meet them alone.”

There was no time to debate this. Le nodded. He indicated for Anita to go with him to his car and explain to the driver.

“You leave him and come back here immediately,” her father said.

“I will,” she promised.

When Anita and Hood were gone, the prime minister went to the telephone. He asked the guard to excuse him. The young woman rose, bowed, and stepped outside. The prime minister did not want her to know that he intended to evacuate his daughter. This girl was also someone’s daughter, and he intended to stay with her. But Anita was neither a soldier nor a politician. She would be ferried to safety.

The space center operator connected Le with the director of security. He told the former PLA officer that he wanted to know as soon as Hood and his personnel had reached the launch pad. Then he wanted one of the helicopters flown to the Technical Center and placed at his disposal.

“I am sorry, sir, but we cannot do that.”

“What are you talking about? This is the prime min—”

“I know who you are, sir,” the director interrupted. “But we will be using the helicopters ourselves.”

“For what?” Le demanded.

“To evacuate, once we have eliminated the American and any of his allies for General Tam Li.”

FIFTY-SEVEN

Xichang, China Thursday, 11:40 A.M.

The only thing going faster than the van was Mike Rodgers’s mind. He needed to figure out a way to slow the soldiers’ flight.

At least the broken window was keeping them within range. It could not be easy to see through the cracked glass, and diamondlike particles were shooting every which way around the van. Pieces were certainly flying at the driver as well. Part of that was likely being caused by the passenger, who was trying to kick it out. Every few seconds Rodgers could see large slabs of fractured windshield tumble onto the hood and over the side.

His attack had hurt them, but it had not stopped them. He needed to do something else. He thought about calling Bob Herbert and asking for a missile strike on the road ahead, something from Taiwan, South Korea, or Submarine Group 7 based in Yokosuka, Japan. He dismissed that idea as provocative, and not just to the PLA. Tam Li would see it coming. They might inadvertently give him an excuse to do whatever he was planning to do. It would be a shame to save the rocket and lose the war. Besides, he did not know if such a strike could be launched before the van reached Xichang City. Rodgers could also ask Herbert for a satellite look at the road ahead. There might be someplace where he could cut through the grasses and shave time from the run.

And then fate gave him a hand.

One of the smaller sections of glass and part of the windshield frame pinwheeled around the driver’s side and dropped under the van. As the van rolled over the glass and metal, the rear left tire blew, sending the vehicle into a swerving forward slide. The flapping shards of the tire dropped away, and the bare rim spat sparks in all directions. The driver was able to regain control of the vehicle, but he could not maintain his speed.

Rodgers closed the gap quickly. Conscious of the fact that these men could have firearms, he remained directly behind them. Eventually they would have to stop and either commandeer his car to complete their getaway or let him know what had been done to the rocket. If they attacked, Rodgers would run the nearest man down and try to get his weapon. It was not an ideal plan, but it was something. Besides, they were less than three miles from the space center. If the rocket blew up, they were well within the red zone for radiation poisoning.

The van slowed, and Rodgers slowed with it. He did not want to be right on top of it. That would not leave him with any room to maneuver. As he drew to within two car lengths, he heard sounds coming from behind. Rodgers glanced in his rearview mirror as three men on motorcycles whipped into view. They were all wearing uniforms. From his reading, he recognized them as Xichang space center security. What he did not know was whose side they were on.

If they were the enemy, he was in a lot of trouble. He would have to move around the van and use them as a shield while he tried to get away.

Rodgers’s phone beeped. It was the marine team leader sending him a text message.

Security team en route to help you. Need bomb location. We expect armed resistance.

Tam Li must have additional allies at the complex, men who no doubt had an exit strategy or else were willing to die for their commander. That suggested something new to Rodgers. People did not surrender their lives simply to help a man gain power. They died to support an idea. Tam Li must have a vision for China that appealed to these men and probably to others like them. Usually, the vision of military men resulted in death on a staggering scale.

The van struggled for another quarter of a mile or so before stopping. Rodgers stopped behind it, and the men on the motorcycles stopped in a row behind him. Obviously, these men had not been briefed. One of them was on the radio. The other two drew firearms from their holsters. They were hunkered low behind their handlebars as they waited for instructions.

There was no time for this. Rodgers opened the door but did not immediately get out. He waited to make sure, first, that the security men did not fire. They did not. Slowly, he swung his legs from the car and emerged with his hands up, his back to the security team. He was watching the van from behind his open door. He could see a face in the side mirror. What he needed to do was get from his car to the other car and beat that face until it gave him the information he needed. At least now there was someone who could translate for him.

Rodgers lowered his hands and turned. He indicated, by gestures, that he was going to the other car.

The security guard who had been on the radio said something. One of the other guards fired a round. Rodgers dropped to the road. The other rear tire exploded with a loud wheeze. The guard said something else. Translated, it probably meant, “Now they are definitely not going anywhere.”

They also did not return fire. Perhaps they were waiting for Rodgers or the guards to make themselves better targets. The soldiers probably did not want to damage the car or motorcycles.

Suddenly there were new sounds, a low whine from the direction of the city. Through the noontime haze Rodgers saw several police cars approaching, their top lights flashing.

Now the men in the van pointed automatic weapons out three windows and opened fire. Rodgers jumped back into the car, which was still running. He left the driver’s side door open and threw open the passenger’s side door to give the security guards a little added protection. The guards returned fire as they moved behind the open doors, driving the soldiers back into the van. There were two guards on the passenger’s side and one on the driver’s side.

This was not going to get them the information they needed.

Lying with his feet on the passenger’s side, Rodgers swung back behind the wheel. He sat very low and put the car in drive, steering it slowly toward the van, the guards firing around the sides of the open door, the pops of each round nearly drowned by the clang of the bullets striking metal. When the rental car touched the rear bumper of the van, Rodgers asked to borrow one of the guns. The innermost guard on the driver’s side was not at a good angle to hit the van. He gladly surrendered his weapon. Rodgers fired a burst through his own windshield to smash it, then sat back and pushed the window out with his foot. Tucking the gun into his belt, he climbed through it onto the hood of the car, and from there to the roof of the van. He moved quietly, on his knuckles and the balls of his feet. He stopped above the cab. He knew that if he fired through the roof he might kill one or more of the men. He also knew that the survivors would fire back. Instead, he motioned for the security guard on the driver’s side to stop firing. Drawing his gun, Rodgers crouched on the edge of the driver’s side but facing the passenger’s side. He waited until the driver poked his hand out to return fire. Then he jumped down, landing on his feet and facing the driver. That was only one gunman he had to worry about. The others would not fire for fear of hitting the man at the wheel.

Rodgers slammed the man’s extended arm against the side of the car and pointed his automatic at the man’s head.

“Drop it!”

The soldier probably had no idea what Rodgers was saying. But he released the weapon, and the others ceased firing. Perhaps they were looking to get a shot at Rodgers. Fortunately, the side of the van afforded him a slight degree of cover.

The security guards shouted something. Rodgers heard a series of thumps as the other weapons fell. He edged forward toward the window. He did not release the man’s arm but twisted it, holding the palm. The move was known as a kodogash. The pain in the victim’s wrist guaranteed that he would move where Rodgers wanted him to go. And right now, Rodgers wanted him to remain a shield.

Rodgers looked into the window. The men had their hands raised defensively. There were no weapons. He used the gun to motion for the men on the passenger’s side to get out. They did, arms lifted higher now. The security guards moved from behind the doors of Rodgers’s car. The former general released the driver and gestured for him to get out the other side. The frightened man scooted out just as the police arrived. Rodgers tucked the gun back into his belt and walked toward the back of the van. He went through a pile of papers on the passenger’s seat of his car. He pulled out a set of blueprints and grabbed his cell phone. He opened the large document on the hood of the car and motioned for the security guards to bring one of the men over. The man was pulled roughly toward the red Xiali.

Rodgers pointed at the diagram. “Boom!” he shouted, throwing his fingers outward to simulate a blast. Then he ran a hand palm-up over the blueprint. “That’s universal for ‘Tell me what the hell I want to know, or I’ll slap you silly.’ ”

The security guard obviously understood. He said something to his captive, who muttered something back and pointed a trembling finger at the diagram.

“Shit,” Rodgers said and got on his phone.

FIFTY-EIGHT

Xichang, China Thursday, 11:49 A.M.

Hood reached the holding clamp before the marines arrived. The clamp was one of two huge, inverted L-shaped structures that held the rocket in place as the boosters fired. Ignition typically occurred four to six seconds before liftoff. When the two powerful engines had built to maximum thrust, the clamps were drawn back so the rocket could lift off. The clamps were about the size of a fullsized semi, bent at the rig and slung over flanges on the bottom of the boosters. In front of him were stacked pipes that carried coolant to the launchpad. They were heavily insulated with a ceramic thermal coating to keep the contents from boiling and exploding during the launch. To the left was an equipment rack the size of a cottage. It was set well back from the raised launchpad and contained various monitors, cameras, and other recording devices. There were also several emergency generators there, used to keep the rocket functioning in case of a power failure during the postignition moments of the countdown. That was not a time when mission control wanted to have a dead, flaming rocket on their hands.

The entire area was protected by a massive blast shield. That would keep the equipment box and generators from being immolated during launch, but it would not protect a person from the heat or smoke it generated.

The marines showed up about a minute later. They were dressed in lab coats and coming from several different directions. A moment after that, the car that had brought Hood returned. Hood was shocked to see Anita get out. She was waving to him and shouting.

“More of Tam Li’s men are coming!” she cried. “My father just warned us about it—”

As she spoke, the helicopters that had been circling the perimeter converged overhead.

“Get away!” Hood yelled, motioning her back. “We’ll deal with this!”

Anita hesitated.

“Go!” he shouted. This was something else he did not need to worry about. Not now.

Anita got back in the car, but she did not leave. The driver pulled up beside the large equipment bay.

Hood looked back at the marines. He pointed up and shouted, “Bad guys!”

The marine leader nodded and directed his people to stay back, under cover. They took up positions behind large wheels that controlled the flow of coolant to the rocket. A system of hoses was designed to keep the booster and its mechanisms from being affected by the intense heat of ignition. The external hoses were released at launch. The remaining liquid raced through the rocket, turning to steam and being vented as the rocket rose.

Hood crouched beside the clamp as the marine leader continued running toward him. A slight overhang of metal from the clamp afforded Hood some protection overhead. Huge fuel lines stacked along the pad protected him in front. Fortunately, the helicopter could not come much lower. Between the pipes and the transformer there was not enough room to accommodate the rotor radius.

As he waited for the marine to move confidently along the coolant pipes, Hood felt a flash of anger—at himself. This was not the trade Hood was supposed to be practicing. This was not like a natural disaster or terrorist attack where bystanders pitched in. Hood had put himself in this position. Twice before he had been in situations like this, once in the Middle East where an Op-Center team was missing, and once when he rescued his daughter from UN hostagetakers. In both cases he had strong personal reasons for being there. Not now. He was a bureaucrat, not a soldier. He should be back at the White House drinking coffee in an air-conditioned office with CNN reporting on what other crazy damn souls were doing.

This was stupid. Worse than that, it was irresponsible. His presence could be a burden to the process, a distraction to the marines. It had already drawn Anita here, risking her life.

The marine arrived, ready to work.

Kick yourself later, Hood told himself. Right or wrong, he was here in the thick of this.

“Do you have weapons?” Hood asked.

“Yes, sir,” the marine said as he threw off his lab coat. He pulled an M-9 semiautomatic from a holster under his left armpit. “It doesn’t have the kind of reach they’ve got up there. We need them a lot closer before it’ll do any damage. But, sir, we have worse problems.”

“How can it be worse?”

“I just heard from General Rodgers. The bomb is in here, sir.” The marine rapped his knuckles on the clamp.

Hood swore.

“Exactly, sir,” the marine said.

Bullets pinged above them. The marine pushed Hood down slightly. Hood felt his age under the kid’s firm hands.

“Does Rodgers know anything else?” Hood asked.

“Nothing helpful,” the marine went on. “According to what the general gleaned from his prisoner—and this makes sense—the explosive has a double-jeopardy trigger. It blows either when the clamp lifts or when the timer hits zero. If the bomb detonates, the clamp will most likely be destroyed, the rocket will fall over, and the fuel will be ignited by the fire from the bomb.”

“Same result.”

“Yes, sir.’

“In nine minutes?” Hood said, glancing at his watch.

“My timer gives us seven, sir,” the young man replied with unflappable Marine-bred directness. “The problem is, sir, even if we had the tools, I do not know that we can get to the device in time. Cutting through the clamp will take longer than we have. General Rodgers said he is standing by to help, as are Chinese security forces. Unfortunately, the men with the guns are all on Tam Li’s side.”

“Of course they are,” Hood said bitterly.

They built the goddamn bomb into the clamp, Hood thought. It was smart and devious and well-planned.

Gunfire chattered from the helicopters. The gunmen were not at a good angle to hit Hood or the marine. In addition to the overhang, the gantry and various pipes impeded their view. He found himself wondering which would be the better way to die: shot or incinerated. There was something surreal about the calm with which he asked himself that question.

“Cutting through them,” Hood muttered, repeating what the marine had said.

“Sir?”

Hood glanced behind him. The rocket loomed, the boosters almost overhead. Each opening was the diameter of a good-sized swimming pool. “What if we could actually do that?”

“How, sir?”

“I watched all the Gemini and Apollo missions as a kid. Sometimes those rockets would flame and not take off. What if we did that?”

“Turn on the boosters and melt our way through?”

“Right. We can ignite the thrusters without lifting the clamps, give them a good frying, then shut the rocket down.”

“If we weaken them, the rocket would fall over anyway,” the marine pointed out.

“That in itself probably would not cause the plutonium cell to be destroyed,” Hood suggested.

“True. And the heat might be enough to slag the bomb,” the Marine said.

“That’s what I am hoping,” Hood said.

“Sir, it is a chance.”

“Alert General Rodgers and have him pass that along to the launch crew,” Hood said. “Then help me figure a way to get us out of here.”

The marine input the text message to Rodgers. He was poised and focused as bullets chewed at the concrete several feet away, spitting splinters at the two men. He was an inspiration to Hood, who was squatting to the man’s left, slightly behind him. Hood had not noticed until now that the marine had positioned himself almost directly between the helicopter and Hood.

“General Rodgers is phoning the information to one of the English-speaking scientists here,” the marine said.

Hood nodded. His legs were beginning to cramp, but he dared not move. Not until he had to. He looked to his right at Anita’s car, which was still near the heavily reinforced equipment shed about three hundred yards behind them. He could not understand why she was just sitting there. He waved for her to go. The windows were darkly tinted, and he could not tell whether she had seen him.

The marine’s wristwatch flashed. He read the incoming message.

“The Chinese agree with the plan and are undertaking an expedited countdown,” the young man said.

“Which means we have to get the hell out of here,” Hood said.

“Affirmative, sir. They’re lighting them up in three minutes.”

Hood was looking ahead, trying to figure out how to get from their position to anywhere else. There was nothing that did not cross exposed spaces. The choppers were moving lower and converging. Their shots were coming at a different angle but still falling short of the spot below the clamp.

“Do you think they know what mission control is planning?” the marine asked.

“Doubtful. They would have been cut from the comm loop as soon as they showed their hand.”

Either way, it was not good for Hood, his partner, or Anita. In two minutes they would be under cryogenic propellant that was fired to a temperature of five thousand degrees.

Hood was scared now. He was aware of each breath, every heartbeat, all the perspiration that was running from his temples and armpits. He wanted it all to continue. He did not want this complex symphony of the taken-forgranted to end.

“Thoughts?” Hood asked.

“Only one, sir. The car.”

“Forget it. I am not going to ask the prime minister’s daughter to drive through the gunfire—”

“I’ve just watched the vehicle take multiple hits, sir,” the marine told him. “I think it’s armored.”

Son of a bitch. Hood glanced at the black sedan. The marine was right. Of course the vehicle was heavily protected. That was the car that traveled with the Chinese prime minister.

Suddenly, the sedan revved its engine and sped toward them. Anita must have heard from her father what was being planned. Hood was certain that the prime minister had told her to leave. Hood also did not doubt that she was going to try to give them a way out.

Hood watched anxiously as bullets flashed off the roof and hood. They dented the metal but did not go through it. White scrapes appeared on the windows as gunfire skidded across the dark surfaces. One of the choppers moved in lower. It evidently intended to try to pick off the men when they tried to get into the car.

Behind them, steam began hissing from vents in the rocket as coolant was pumped through thick capillaries in the metal skin.

The car stopped about twenty feet beyond the clamp, at a point where the coolant pipes turned away from the launchpad. The passenger’s side was facing the two men. The door opened.

“Come on!” Anita yelled.

The marine rose and peered over the topmost coolant pipe. He looked out and began typing a text message.

“We have to run for it,” Hood said.

“You’ll never clear that open space,” the marine told him. “Give me another few seconds.”

“These idiots may hit the rocket,” Hood said. “They’re shooting wild—”

“They won’t. The fireball would catch them, too.”

The kid was right. The chopper descended and fired more carefully on their position. Hood felt foolish as the men dropped back behind the pipes. The marine had a grasp of the obvious that Hood had somehow lost or misplaced. That was the problem with having a head too full of experience. Information was something you kicked around behind a desk. In the field, it obscured instinct and wisdom.

Fortunately, Hood did not dwell on his failings. The clang of the bullets on the metal was unnerving. The marine finished typing his message, then sent it to the other members of his team.

Suddenly they heard the drumbeat of coordinated fire from the other side of the sedan.

“Are the choppers within range?” Hood asked.

“No. They won’t be able to get any lower.”

“Then what are your guys firing at?” Hood asked.

“Just be ready to follow me,” the marine said as he moved into a crouching position facing the car.

Hood turned and looked over the marine’s shoulder. He looked past the sedan at the blast shield where it had been parked a minute before. Flashes were sparking off the transformer—one bullet after another in the same spot. Finally one of them punched through the gas tank and another followed it through. The hot shells ignited the fuel and caused a small blast that sent smoky plumes of dark smoke rolling upward.

“Follow me,” the marine said.

The young man rose, his shoulders hunched low, and moved to the edge of the pipes. Hood followed him. They stopped just a few feet from the car. As the smoke continued to blanket the area, the marine put his left arm around Hood’s shoulders. He pulled him close, shielding Hood with his own body.

“On my word we run for the car,” the marine told him.

The gunfire thinned as the smoke obscured the launchpad. Hood felt himself being ushered forward, even as the marine shouted, “Now!”

The two ran toward the car. Bullets pierced the thick cloud as they crossed the open space between their makeshift sanctuary and the car. It was only six or seven yards, but each step seemed like a long flight of stairs. Smoke and fear took Hood’s breath away as they ran ahead. As the smoke thickened, the driver beeped his horn to give them a beacon. Hood could hear the delicate whiz of gunfire and the jazzlike beat it produced as it struck metal and pavement. When they reached the car, Hood was shoved forward onto the leather seat. He scrambled across to make room for the marine. The young man literally dove in after him.

“Go!” the marine shouted as he turned and pulled the door shut.

“Is there anyone else we need to pick up?” Anita asked.

“No,” the marine replied. “I told my coworkers to head for the command bunker once we were rescued.”

Hood looked at the young man as the car sped off. “Are you all right?”

“Intact, sir,” the marine said.

Anita turned and regarded the young man. “You are not a scientist,” she declared.

The marine put the gun in its holster. He did not answer. He looked out the window at the retreating launchpad.

“Who are you?” Anita demanded.

Hood responded. “He’s just a man who may have helped save your space complex and your father’s government.” Hood smiled. “Speaking of saving, thanks for pulling us out of there.”

Anita looked at Hood. Gunfire continued to hit the car. Depending on the angle, the shots rang like a bell or sounded like a cat scratching. The sedan left the asphalt and began racing across the field that separated the launchpad from the Technical Center. The rutted ground caused the car to bump and rattle. The high, rigid grasses sounded like steel wool along the chassis. But all of the sounds, all thought and lingering questions, vanished when the booster lit up. It was about three quarters of a mile behind them. Hood heard a deep blast, then felt the car tremble. Everything from the license plates to the seat belts rattled, like teeth. The vehicle was literally bumped forward, skidding slightly as a shock wave hit the car. The invisible fist rolled over the roof and rattled the grasses in front of them. The air itself was distorted as the hot wind blew through.

Hood and the marine turned. The helicopters went into retreat as opaque, lumpy waves of gray-and-white smoke spilled from the bottom of the rocket. The rocket towered above the flat countryside, stark against the distant mountains. It was quickly obscured as thick clouds crawled in all directions. The smoke all but smothered the red orange flames that flashed deep within. A second wave of air rushed toward them, superheated gas from the postignition burn. The air in the car quickly grew very hot. The smell of melting rubber filled the interior as the seams around the windows softened.

“What is the time frame?” Anita asked anxiously.

“You mean, when do we know if we’ve succeeded?” Hood asked.

“We are twenty seconds from what should have been liftoff,” the marine answered. He was looking at the digital numbers on his watch.

Hood was impressed that he was professional enough to do that. Though he realized, of course, that they would know soon enough how things were going. If the clamp blew up, they had failed.

It occurred to Hood that these could be the last moments of his life. Even if the clamp were destroyed, and the bomb with it, the rocket could still fall over. If it did, the size of the explosion would depend upon how much fuel remained in the tanks. Dying was bad enough. Dying, knowing that Tam Li had succeeded, even without the explosion, would be worse. Even if the prime minister moved to have him arrested, there were powerful elements in the government that would back the general, men who wanted a final showdown with Taiwan.

The clamps and most of the rocket were entirely obscured by the thickening exhaust. The rumbling roar was all around as the engines strained to carry their payload aloft.

“The first-stage rockets only have another fifteen seconds of burn in them,” the marine said. “They’re going to shut off at approximately the moment the bomb would probably go off.”

“Probably?” Anita said.

“The bomber does not benefit if it explodes after the rocket has lifted off,” the marine informed her.

Hood was only half-listening to the exchange. Once again, he was impressed with the marine’s clear-headed reasoning and the pertinent facts he had picked up during his tenure. Though it also made Hood sad. Unlike Op-Center’s late Striker force, this man had enjoyed some prep time before going on his mission, as well as time to reconnoiter on the ground. That made a great deal of difference.

“Five seconds,” the marine announced, looking at his wristwatch.

The smoke was now black and gray. More than the fuel was burning. The pipes they had been hiding behind were probably gone. There was a small red-and-yellow flash from the area of the transformer. The intense heat must have destroyed everything behind the blast shield.

The car continued to bounce across the field. It was sweltering and extremely stuffy inside, but they did not dare open the windows. Though the helicopters appeared to have left, the car would still afford them some protection from any shrapnel that might come flying off the rocket.

The marine lowered his wrist. “Zero,” he said.

A moment later the rumbling stopped. The only sounds were the thumping of the car as it raced across the final stretch of the field. The smoke dissipated slowly, and the rocket was visible wherever the sunlight found its white skin.

“Oh, shit,” Hood said.

It was an involuntary remark, uttered as he watched flames claw at the base of the rocket. The bomb had not exploded. They had apparently succeeded in melting the device. But smoke was curling from behind every plate and rivet as fire crawled up the depleted booster. Whatever was under the exterior skin was burning: tubing, electronics, everything flammable.

It was making its way to the second stage.

A stage that was fueled.

FIFTY-NINE

Xichang, China Thursday, 12:02 P.M.

“Purge the second-stage fuel!”

Prime Minister Le Kwan Po was sitting at a communications console in a private room of the Technical Center. He had declined an offer to be evacuated. He wanted to see this through. And his daughter was still out there.

Five crews were quickly mobilized. Through a headset, he was listening to the conversation taking place at the command center. The discussion was between the mission director and the chief of launch operations. Because of the expedited countdown, technicians had not been able to fully drain the fuel from the upper stage before the hoses were burned. The director’s command was unequivocal, but the CLO had reservations. A color monitor in the console showed the burning rocket. A pair of technicians were sitting on either side of the prime minister. One of them was on the telephone with an observation tower near the front gate.

“Sir, there is very little fuel in there. If we release it, we will feed the fire, and we risk a complete vehicular meltdown,” the CLO said.

“The plutonium core will likely survive the heat,” the director said. “It may not survive an explosion if the flames get that high.”

“With respect, I do not see much difference between ‘likely’ and ‘may,’ ” the CLO pointed out. “And with the fuel on the ground, we will have a terrible fire to try to contain.”

“We can contain a fire easier than fallout,” the director said. “Dump the fuel now before the fire climbs any higher.”

“Yes, sir,” the CLO said.

Le Kwan Po removed his headset but continued to watch the screen. “Where is my daughter’s car?” he asked the technician.

“Safe,” he replied. “It is just leaving the field.”

“Thank you,” the prime minister said.

Anita and the others were safe for now, at least. The prime minister watched as what looked like steaming water poured from four spouts in the midsection of the rocket. One of the technicians explained that the mixture was composed of liquid oxygen and kerosene. The downpour hit the rising flames with a flourish, drawing sheets of flame from the smoke below. They rose on all sides like an orchestral crescendo, wrapping the rocket in a blanket of fire. The camera operator zoomed in on the payload, a gumdrop-shaped container perched atop the second stage. The flames did not yet reach that high, though ugly black smoke from the spilling fuel curled around it, driven by small air currents.

“We’re losing her!” one of the technicians barked.

Le Kwan Po watched as the top of the rocket began to list. The camera pulled back as the sixty-meter-high rocket pivoted unsteadily on its base, moving away from the gantry like a baby taking a first step. Apparently, both of the restraining clamps had been destroyed. Then the rocket began to fall toward the left, away from the support tower and into the unbroken wall of flame. Though the fuel tanks were nearly empty, spillage picked up on the lower side as the rocket tilted. The fires sizzled and flashed higher. In moments, the nuclear payload would fall into the inferno.

Le Kwan Po could feel the tension of the other men as they watched the cataclysmic ballet.

As the rocket vanished in the mound of coal-black smoke, a bright, white explosion flashed from somewhere inside.

“What was that?” one of the technicians asked. “The payload should not have exploded that way.”

“Could it have been the bomb?” the other man asked.

Le Kwan Po said nothing. There was nothing to say. The men watched as the mountain of black smoke took on a pale, ashen color at the base. Long gray tendrils crawled through the gantry and up from the fallen rocket. The smoke thinned quickly, and the fires subsided considerably. The camera moved in. The rocket itself was still obscured by smoke and fire. Except for the skeletal gantry and a charred blast wall, the surrounding structures were devastated.

“The coolant tank is gone,” one of the technicians said. There was joy in his voice. “That was what caused the flare. A blast of steam.”

“Are we all right?” Le Kwan Po asked.

“I think so, sir,” the technician replied tentatively. He peered closely at the monitor. “The coolant has a thirty-seven percent water content. It is designed to evaporate so the rocket does not have to carry it aloft. It appears the water has doused whatever fires it touched.”

“There is no oil in the fuel mixture?”

“No, sir,” the technician replied. “Only hydrogen and oxygen.”

The gentle winds in the launch area caused the smoke to thin. The wreckage of the rocket was visible now, lying in puddles of fire and debris. The first stage was lying across the launchpad. The second stage and payload were separated from the first and from each other. They were spread across the asphalt. The payload section appeared to be intact.

The Americans had done a formidable job.

Le Kwan Po thanked the technicians for their hospitality, then left the bunker. He went up the concrete stairs to the main room. The guard had been watching the event with binoculars through the open doorway. She turned.

“I am happy to say that your daughter has returned safely,” she said. “May I ask if the operation was a success?”

“It is strange to call the destruction of our rocket a success, but I believe you can say that,” the prime minister said.

The guard smiled for the first time, then returned to her desk. Le Kwan Po walked into the once-bright noon, which was now clouding over with smoke. Sirens screamed in the distance as the space center fire department rushed to the blaze. He saw all that in just a moment. Everything vanished as he saw his daughter step from the car. Anita ran forward and embraced her father.

“I think you were five or six,” her father said.

“Five or six?”

“The last time you ran to me,” Le told her. There was a catch in his voice and tears on his cheek.

Anita smiled warmly. “You should be pleased you raised such a self-sufficient daughter.”

“I am more than pleased,” he said. “I am proud. Very, very proud.”

Le broke the embrace as Paul Hood and another man walked by. They had walked well out of the way to give the prime minister and his daughter privacy. There would be time enough for that later. Right now he wanted to talk to the men.

“Mr. Hood,” he said, speaking directly to the American in broken English.

“Sir?” Hood said. He stopped.

Le Kwan Po motioned for his daughter to interpret. “I want to thank you and your associates for everything you did out there.”

“Sir, we got very lucky out there,” Hood said.

“Men make their own luck,” the prime minister replied.

“Perhaps,” Hood said. “But it looked to me like the coolant did a lot of the heavy lifting.”

“The pipes were weakened because Mr. Hood and his friend hid there, and Tam Li’s men were shooting at them,” Anita said.

“You see?” Le told her. “Nothing is entirely the work of chance.”

Anita translated for Hood while Le regarded his Asian companion. He was a young man, dirty and slick with perspiration, but with eyes full of purpose. He was looking at his cell phone.

“I would like to meet this other hero,” the prime minister said to Hood.

“He is one of Mike Rodgers’s associates,” Hood said.

The young man looked up as the prime minister offered his hand. “Thank you for the work you did today.”

“I am glad I could help, sir,” the marine replied in Chinese.

“May I ask your name?”

“It is Kim.” The young man smiled.

“You are not Chinese,” the prime minister said. “Korean?”

“No, sir,” the marine replied. “American.” He held up his phone. “Sir, I’ve just received word that some of my associates were slightly injured by gunfire from the helicopters. I would like to see them.”

“My driver will take you,” Le Kwan Po said. “And thank you again.”

“It was an honor to meet you, sir,” the young man answered.

While Anita finished translating for Hood, Le turned. The dignitaries who had come to watch a launch were beginning to file from the basement observation area. They asked questions in several different languages, and Anita went to see what she could do to calm the group. Several of them pointed at her father. At his expression in particular. They seemed mystified by the fact that the prime minister had the hint of a smile on his face.

Le walked toward the bunker quickly but without urgency. He excused himself from answering questions with a polite wave. He had to telephone the president and the minister of defense. He had to let the former know what had happened. He wanted the latter to make sure that any other aspects of Tam Li’s plans were stopped, and the general was brought to swift justice. Both men would already have been briefed through channels, but he wanted to give them his perspective. That report would be his political trophy for seeing this through.

He entered the communications room and asked the two technicians to excuse him. They left without question, shutting the door behind them. The prime minister sat and placed the first call.

The failure of their communications satellite was a setback. But compared to what the nation had gained, it was worth the price. They had stopped a general from a scheme they had yet to ascertain. More importantly, they had done so by forging an international union among longtime adversaries. In so doing, they had moved a step closer to peace.

That was important to a prime minister. But it was enough to make any father smile.

SIXTY

Zhuhai, China Thursday, 12:18 P.M.

With regret but also with resolve, General Tam Li sent the stand down code to his forces. All it took was a password entered into his computer and a typed command sent to both air and sea command at the base. The officers in charge relayed the message to their assets in the field and to the other bases from which planes and ships had departed.

Tam Li had learned of the failure of the bomb from his airborne group commander. The general had not anticipated much of a risk if the security team were captured when they left the space center. He thought it would be too late to get to the bomb. He was mistaken. Before leaving the complex, the airborne team leader said that the rocket boosters had been ignited prematurely and apparently melted through to the bomb, preventing it from exploding.

It was a very clever maneuver, desperate but effective.

The general shut down his computer and rose. He looked out the window at the sea. This was supposed to have been his moment of ascension. Instead of rising to the sun like the planes he had recalled, he had fallen to earth. It was not in the best interest of the nation to proceed with the attack on the Taiwanese military. Not now. Without the sabotage of the rocket, he would not convince Beijing that Taiwan had been seeking to take advantage of Chou Shin’s treasonous act.

If any of his security team confessed, he would not convince Beijing that Chou Shin had been responsible for this attack. That was the reason for using Chou’s bomb-maker instead of their own. Tam Li did not just want to defeat his foe—he wanted to blame him. Everything had depended upon the events happening one after the other, until Beijing was in so deep militarily that there was just one way out: to crush Taiwan. With that little financial engine out of the way, and Tam Li in a new position of authority, he would have been able to turn China into the strongest, most fertile financial power in the region. Even Japan, with its deepening debt, would not have been able to compete. Some of those profits would have gone to modernizing and expanding the military. Some would have gone to Tam Li and his associates. With its vast workforce and resources, China would have become the world’s greatest superpower in Tam Li’s lifetime. Unlike the plans of other conquerors, there would have been a minimal amount of strife and bloodshed.

The vision had been so clear, the end so clearly attainable. The plan itself had been clean and perfect.

Now it was dead.

Tam Li found that fact difficult to process. It had been in the works for over a year. It had occupied his thoughts constantly as he maneuvered the strife with Chou Shin, planted his personnel at the space center, felt success come nearer and nearer. His peripheral vision caught sight of the firearms in a display case. These were the guns he had carried throughout his career. He thought of using one now to avoid the inquiries and eventual trial. He decided against it, not from cowardice but for principle. He still believed that China was destined to dominate the globe. His people had been using explosives when the rest of the world was still fighting each other with spears and boiling oil. China would seize that advantage again.

But not today. And not with General Tam Li leading the assault.

He did not turn from the window but continued to look outward. Toward the future. He stood there even when there was a harsh knock at the door. The door was unlocked. After a minute the men entered. They stepped behind the general and asked him to come with them.

Tam Li turned. One of the three men standing in the sharp sunlight was a vice admiral, his own handpicked chief of base security. A half hour before, this small, gray-haired man had been an ally.

“The prime minister has asked to see you,” the vice admiral said.

“Only me?”

“Yes,” the vice admiral replied.

The naval officer’s expression was stern save for his sad, guarded eyes. The vice admiral knew it was within Tam Li’s power to stop the investigation by taking the blame for all the misdeeds. He could also boot the responsibility back down the chain of command and take others with him.

Tam Li smiled. “There is no reason for him to see anyone else, is there?” the general asked.

“I would not know,” the vice admiral replied.

“Who will be running operations here?” Tam Li asked.

“Officially, that is no longer your concern. You have been relieved.”

“Unofficially?” Tam Li pressed. He did not move.

The vice admiral’s unhappy expression showed that he understood the choice. He could be stubborn and risk being named by the general. Or he could bend the rules of detention and tell the general what he wanted to know. In so doing, he would lose face in the eyes of the two security officers.

“Come with us, General,” the vice admiral replied.

Tam Li was pleased. The vice admiral still had a backbone. He was willing to risk his future to preserve his credibility as a commander. Perhaps he knew that the general would not seek to bring him down. Through the vice admiral at least the idea of Chinese supremacy would remain alive. If he would not undertake another operation like this one, he might inspire someone under him to try.

Tam Li left between the two security officers, the vice admiral leading the way through hallways the general once commanded. The general stood with his shoulders back, beaten but undefeated. No one saluted as he was walked through the compound to a waiting helicopter. Most of them probably had no idea what had happened. Perhaps they thought this was about Chou Shin’s airplane or some other high-level machination. Whatever they thought, the staff was doing what most people do in a time of crisis. They stayed clear of the event.

Mao had learned that successful revolutionaries have unyielding allies. Defeated revolutionaries have unyielding quarantine. This was not the kind of fallout Tam Li had expected, but he would take the heat. He would stand trial and describe what he had done and why. In a land of over a billion souls, someone would hear.

Someone would continue what he had begun.

Or rather what someone else had begun, he thought, smiling with pride. Those bold and curious ancients who, like him, had used explosives to announce a Chinese presence on the world stage.

SIXTY-ONE

Beijing, China Friday, 10:00 A.M.

The state-run newspapers and telecasts said very little about the loss of the Chinese rocket. They reported that there had been an accident at Xichang involving “foreign-built technology” but offered little elaboration.

It was typical of China, Hood thought. Every failure was easy to hide and absorb because every step forward was tentative, uncertain, almost apologetic. Even if Tam Li had succeeded in getting his confrontation with Taiwan, even if he had enjoyed a personal bump in power, he might not have gotten the coup he apparently sought. After centuries of war and upheaval, the giant nation had become entropic. Change would be slow and prompted by outside economic investment, the spread of technology to the remote farms and mountains, the glacial improvement in education and the quality of life. China probably would not change dramatically in Hood’s lifetime.

Hood wondered if that was also true of Anita.

The prime minister’s daughter had come to the embassy to see him off. She had been there before, at official receptions, but never without her father. Hood saw her in the downstairs library. Anita was standing in the center of the room. She was dressed conservatively in a black skirt and white blouse. She turned when he entered. The big, open smile on her face surprised him.

“Well, that’s nice to see,” Hood said.

“What is?”

“Your smile,” he replied.

“Oh,” she said self-consciously as she frowned her way into a more neutral expression. “Is this better?”

“You didn’t have to do that. I liked it,” Hood said. He motioned toward the high walls lined with leather-bound volumes and even occasional scrolls tucked in cylindrical cases. “This is obviously your idea of heaven.”

“If I believed in heaven, it would be,” she said.

She was looking directly at Hood when she said that. He wondered if he had just made a big foot-in-mouth faux pas. This woman did risk incineration to save him, after all.

“Did you sleep well?” she asked.

“Like Rip Van Winkle,” he replied as he reached her side.

“I’m glad to hear that.”

“You?”

“The same,” she said. “My father is sorry he could not be here.”

“I am sure today will be a busy day,” Hood said.

“He barely slept last night,” Anita said. “But it was a good insomnia, if there can be such a thing. He was more energized than I have seen him in a long time.”

“I assume there will be a trial,” Hood said.

“There will be hearings, but I suspect they will be private. My father does not want to give Tam Li a forum.”

“Understandable,” Hood said.

“Do you think so?” Anita asked. “I would have expected you to be an advocate for free speech.”

“I don’t think a government official should be allowed to justify the lies he told and the murders he authorized to send his nation into a reckless and lawless war,” Hood said.

“I am glad to see that we agree,” Anita said.

“If we had the time, we would probably find we agree on a great deal,” Hood told her.

“By the way, my father asked me to tell you that he attempted to thank General Rodgers and your other associates yesterday,” Anita said. “But they seem to have disappeared.”

“Mike left right away on a Lufthansa flight,” Hood told her. “He called and told me they had insurance matters to discuss immediately back in the States.”

“I see. And the others? The young men and women?”

“I suppose they went back to work.”

“At the space complex?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Hood replied. “I did not have time to speak with them.”

Unlike the other night, Anita let the interrogation rest. She had obviously realized there was more to be gained by long-term trust than short-term pressure. She did a little turn around the library. “I like that story very much,” she said.

“Which one?” Hood asked.

“Rip Van Winkle. I like all of Washington Irving, in fact. Now there is an author who captured the real American. Not jingoistic, militaristic ideologues.”

“What is your definition of ‘the real American’?” Hood asked.

“The tough but good-hearted innocent,” she said. “You are that, I think.”

“Is that a good thing?” Hood asked. He was not sure that it had been a compliment, entirely.

“It is very good. Innocence is a clean slate,” she replied. “It is open and receptive to outside ideas. The toughness makes it discretionary. It only allows ideas that are enriching.”

“There is one place where the author may have captured something more universal than that,” Hood said.

Anita’s smile returned. “Waking up from a long slumber and expecting the world to be the same,” she said.

Hood had been formulating an answer more or less along those lines. Her smart and self-aware response stopped his thought process dead. There was nothing he could add to that except an impressed little smile.

“China has indeed been internally focused for many, many years,” she said. “But we do not expect the world to stay still. We expect to learn from the mistakes of others. My father taught me that all of civilization is still relatively young, composed of creatures who are closer to the caves than to the heavens. He believes that if we move too quickly we risk making catastrophic errors. He is correct. Look at what happened yesterday. Our rush to embrace the technology of other nations, to gain scientific parity, nearly resulted in disaster.”

Hood’s smile broadened. “I was not alluding to China,” he said.

Anita was still for a moment, and then her pretty face flushed. Now she was the speechless one.

“I’m sorry,” Hood said. “I did not mean to embarrass you.”

“I believe you did,” she said, still flustered.

“Absolutely not,” he assured her. “You heard the thunder. You heard the sound of little men playing duckpins, but you did not rise with uncertainty or confusion. You jumped up. You saved my life.”

The woman relaxed somewhat. “I thought you meant—”

“That you are a bearded old man with sore knees?”

“That I am living in a political, academic, and cultural cocoon.” She smiled.

“Anita, the chances are very good I would never even have used all those words in one sentence.”

“You’re being modest, which is one of the things I’ve come to admire about you,” Anita said. “Though you were very wrong about one thing. It was ninepins.”

“Excuse me?”

“The little men in Rip Van Winkle were playing ninepins, not duckpins,” Anita informed him.

Hood smiled as modest a smile as he could muster. “I have a suggestion. When you can get away for a week or so, why don’t you come to America. We can take a drive to the Hudson Valley where Washington Irving wrote, see if there are pins of any kind lying around in the countryside.”

“I would like that,” she said.

“I promise there will be fewer fireworks,” Hood said.

“Why? Fireworks can be nice,” she said.

“Then you should come to America on the Fourth of July,” Hood said.

“I was not alluding to pyrotechnics,” Anita said over her shoulder as she walked toward the door.

Now it was Hood’s turn to blush. He did not follow her out but waited. He would not have known what to say after that. Which was almost certainly what the woman had intended.

Hood did not feel too bad, however. Anita did say the ideal American was innocent.

He glanced at his watch and realized he was late. There was a car waiting to take him to the airport. Like Rodgers, Hood would be flying commercial.

That was one good thing about a government job. It was a bureaucracy. Unlike private industry, accountability did not have to be immediate. Which was a good thing. Because right now, a comfortable seat and a few mindless DVDs sounded like a great idea before tackling his mission report for the president.

SIXTY-TWO

Washington, D.C. Friday, 10:22 A.M.

The phone call from General Raleigh Carew was not unexpected. His message, however, was not at all what General Carrie had anticipated. She suspected it would not be good when the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff called on her private, secure cell phone rather than on the office phone. Op-Center would have no record of the call being received.

“He won,” Chairman Carew said unhappily. “But that is not what bothers me the most.”

By “he,” General Carrie assumed Carew meant Paul Hood and, by extension, the president.

“He defused this situation with the help of one of your people and with your field team,” the chairman went on. “He assembled an ad hoc intelligence group that, in fact, was simply his old team burning through overhead provided by others. Do you understand what I am saying?”

“Not entirely,” Carrie admitted.

“The president has a personal crisis management czar now,” Carew said. “This individual has no staff and, if we can control the funding, he will never have much of one. So what did he do? He successfully, I would say brilliantly, outsourced this mission. He cannibalized from you, from Unexus, and from the bloody damn Chinese.”

“Mr. Chairman, with respect, I think you are overreacting to a singular situation,” Carrie said. “Our marines were on site in Xichang, positioned to act independently if they had to. General Rodgers sent them to help Paul Hood, who was already at ground zero for the attack—”

“According to the report I just read from Paul Hood, your man Bob Herbert relayed the SOS to Mike Rodgers.”

“He did that, yes,” Carrie agreed. “Are you saying we should have left Hood out there without backup?”

“The mission should have come first,” Carew said.

“I’m sorry, but I believe it did. I read the same report, Mr. Chairman. We appear to have stopped an attack against Taiwan.”

“That is speculation.”

“Taipei reported that radar had picked up an unusually high level of PLA activity in the region.”

“Which was terminated by Zhuhai command,” Carew said. “We don’t know what they were planning. That is what intelligence is for, Morgan. And right now we have lost four sources for that. Your undercover marines were sent to China as floaters. Their specific mission in this instance was to protect a satellite from being destroyed. The intelligence Mr. Herbert possessed should have gone to the team leader so he could determine a course of action. It should not have gone to Paul Hood.”

Carew practically spat the name. Carrie understood now why he had not said it before.

“The marines and Hood were in the same place,” Carrie said. “And it was General Rodgers who obtained the intelligence from a Chinese source.”

“You are missing my point,” Carew said sternly. “The marines were drawn into a mission that was designed and executed by Paul Hood. Mr. Hood was replaced because he has never followed a playbook. He ran Op-Center based on cronyism, on questionable international interests and alliances, and used civilian attitudes on military operations. His approach caused dozens of military casualties.”

“I am not a fan of Mr. Hood,” Carrie said. “But in fairness, he also defused numerous international crises.”

“Mike Rodgers did that. Colonel Brett August did that. Lieutenant Colonel Charlie Squires did that. They were the men in the field, improvising their way through situations in which Hood had placed them. Our boys signed on to protect the United States of America. Instead, they have given their lives to protect India, Japan, and Russia. We are not the intelligence police of the world, Morgan.”

She could not disagree with that assessment. Years before Homeland Security was given the job of defusing domestic crises, that had been the chartered task of Op-Center—the National Crisis Management Center.

“Hood did his reckless seat-of-the-pants thing again in Xichang,” Carew said. “No one was consulted, no one gave him any parameters. And he dragged your people into it. The press and the president look at the gains. They crow about how we saved lives, created an international bond. I look at the debits. I don’t care about the rocket, I don’t give a damn about the prime minister, and I am not concerned about what would have been a very short pissing match in the Taiwan Strait. In fact, I might have gone along with it.”

“An air and sea battle that we would have been committed to be part of?” Carrie said.

“It would not have lasted long enough for us to do much,” Carew said. “I’ve read the file on General Tam Li. He was a progressive, a black market capitalist. He got rid of Chou Shin, a hard-line Communist who was no friend of ours. He apparently blew up a boat in Charleston and a nightclub in Taipei. Maybe Tam Li should have become the next prime minister. He sounds like someone we could have dealt with.”

General Carrie was trying to figure out where Carew was going. A rant like this did not come without a price.

“The lost political landscape is not for me to say,” the chairman went on. “I am sure that Chinese security forces are reviewing tapes of the Xichang facility, looking to ID the team. What concerns me is that four highly trained intelligence operatives will have to be withdrawn.”

Carrie did not know how to respond. She saw his point. The team had been compromised looking out for Chinese interests involving a satellite built by a largely European conglomerate. The gain for the United States was peripheral and hazy.

“Here’s the bottom line,” Carew went on, his tone a little softer now. “My vision for Op-Center is to make it larger and more effective. You know that, and I know you share that vision. Otherwise you would still be at G2. But I cannot get you the budget you need when your team makes someone else look good. Not when this man, Paul Hood, gives new meaning to the term Op—‘one person.’ I want Op-Center to have a good relationship with the other intelligence organizations as long as it does not compromise your mission or your charter, which is to defuse crises that affect this nation.”

“I understand,” Carrie replied.

“This is not about me, and it is not about you. It is about the uniforms we wear and the unique bond that gives us to the nation they represent.”

“I understand that, too.”

“I would like to see Mr. Herbert dismissed,” Carew said.

Carrie was surprised by the request. “Mr. Chairman, I believe I can make him understand—”

“That’s the point, isn’t it?” Carew said. “You can’t afford to have people there who require convincing. I’ve already spoken with the new topkick at G2. You can take whoever you want as an interim intelligence director while you search for a permanent replacement.”

Carrie believed the chairman was overreacting. But she shared his vision for Op-Center and, while she could refuse to dismiss Herbert, there was something to be gained by making an object lesson of the intelligence chief. The NCMC could not tolerate loose cannons. They could not accommodate those with divided loyalties.

The general promised to take care of it and hung up. She called Liz Gordon first to tell her what was going to happen and to ask her advice on handling Herbert. The psychologist had known him for many years and had written nearly a dozen psych profiles of the man. In situations where post-traumatic stress could apply—the loss of his wife and his legs in Beirut—a yearly overview was mandatory.

“I think he’s ready to move on, frankly,” Liz said. “But that doesn’t mean this will go down easy. Do you have to dismiss him?”

“I do,” Carrie said. “Any advice?”

“He’s gonna be Bob Herbert,” Liz said.

“Meaning?”

“Expect him to be very bitter and sarcastic, but don’t offer to help him find anything,” she said. “Herbert does not like to feel disabled in any way.”

“All right.”

“Also, may I come to see you when you’re finished?”

“Of course,” Carrie said. “Make it eleven.”

Liz thanked her, and Carrie hung up. She asked Bugs to have Herbert come to see her. She had already decided that he would not be escorted out by security guards. It would not be that kind of dismissal.

Bob Herbert arrived looking more rested than he had since Carrie’s arrival at Op-Center. The two had spoken only briefly after the mission was completed, and Herbert had seemed pleased with the way it worked out. She asked him to shut the door behind him.

“One-on-one before lunch,” Herbert said. “That isn’t good for me.”

“What makes you say that?”

“There’s nothing happening abroad; I’ve read all the intelligence briefings. So it’s a local matter,” Herbert said. “Things percolate through the D.C. political system at night, decisions get made in the dark, and those encyclicals are handed down early in the morning. For top officials, that means shortly after ten.” He looked at his watch. “It’s half-past ten now. Obviously, whatever this is, it could not wait.” Herbert looked at Carrie. “Also, Paul Hood called me at home. The president is happy, but the Joint Chiefs are upset with how this played out, especially the exposure of the field ops. Someone has to be scapegoated for that.”

Carrie was impressed by Herbert’s comprehensive analysis. It gave her second thoughts about what she had to do.

“I am not happy with the way priorities were established by your office, nor with the overall evolution of the mission in China,” Carrie said.

“Should we have let the rocket blow up and a Taiwanese force be annihilated while we collected intel?” Herbert asked.

“The mission parameters were about the payload, which was lost,” she pointed out. “The situation in Taiwan is speculative and secondhand. Moreover, a team that had been seconded to Op-Center was exposed.”

“That’s not so bad,” Herbert said. “We usually kill our field units.”

She did not reply to that.

“When do you want my resignation?”

“That won’t be necessary,” she said.

Herbert seemed surprised for the first time. “What do you mean? Are you firing me?”

“Very reluctantly,” she said.

“You’re fucking firing me?” he exclaimed. “I take the fall for the marines so you don’t have to?”

“You take the fall for the marines because you were the middleman between them and the orders of outsiders,” Carrie said. “You acted unilaterally without considering the long-term effect on Op-Center.”

“If I had not acted, the team would have been fried, along with two of our distinguished alumni!” Herbert shouted.

“That was not your decision to make,” Carrie said.

“Like hell!”

“If you’d like, I can show you the job description,” she said evenly. “The director of intelligence does not give orders unless they apply directly to the collecting of information. Since neither General Rodgers nor Mr. Hood was authorized to command the team, you should have gone to Mr. Plummer or myself.”

“I don’t believe this.”

“I am not happy about it either, but I cannot have rogue directors working under me.”

“Okay. I won’t do it again.”

“I know,” she said firmly.

Herbert got the message. “Screw you, ma’am,” he said, then turned and opened the door. He stopped. “If you send security, I’ll piss on them,” he warned without turning around.

“We would not want that to be your final act here,” she said. “You can leave at your leisure.”

“I’ll be gone by lunchtime,” Herbert said and wheeled himself through the door.

General Carrie was sorry the conversation had taken the turns it did, but there was no way to prevent that. The dismissal was humiliating, but Herbert would get another position. And Op-Center would be on notice that there was a chain of command that had to be followed.

She punched on the intercom. “Bugs, have Darrell come in and get me General Selby at G2. Tell Lowell Coffey I’ll want to see him in an hour. Also, please get Liz on the phone.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The first thing Carrie needed to do was replace Bob Herbert and have Darrell McCaskey ready to interface with the new person. She assumed McCaskey would stay on. Unlike Herbert, the former FBI agent was a career team player. As for Coffey, she wanted to make sure there was nothing Op-Center needed to do legally in regard to Bob Herbert. She wanted it understood that his dismissal was due to a serious infraction of policy and not his disability. She did not think he would pursue that route, but angry men often behaved unpredictably.

Bugs beeped. “Liz Gordon is on line two.”

“Thank you,” Carrie said as she scooped up the phone and punched the button. “Liz, can we postpone our chat till later?”

“Of course. How did it go?”

“Pretty much as you said. He’s not happy.”

“He holds on to grudges, but they’re part of what fuels him,” Liz admitted.

“Was there something you needed to talk about quickly?” Carrie asked.

Liz hesitated. “No.” She added, “Not quickly.”

“Okay. Then we’ll get together in the afternoon, if that’s all right.”

“Sure.”

There was something oddly reserved in the psychologist’s answers. She was usually very outspoken. But General Carrie could not worry about that now. She had a command to run.

She had a responsibility that was greater than the moment and the people moving through it. Chairman Carew was right. There was a nation to keep secure.

Nothing was more important than that.

SIXTY-THREE

Washington, D.C. Friday, 10:43 A.M.

Liz Gordon sat alone in her office. The door was shut, and air hummed from the vent overhead, from the back of her computer.

The machines were breathing easier than she was.

What the hell is going on? she asked herself.

She knew the answer, of course. General Carrie had grabbed her attention and teased her imagination. Liz would miss Bob Herbert. He was a fascinating man and a valued coworker. But Carrie’s decisive action against his bad judgment had done more than impress her. It had encouraged and emboldened her.

It was schoolgirl stupid, but she had a crush on the woman. The question was what to do about it.

Liz had wanted to meet with the general to discuss counseling for staffers about the fallout of the firing. But Liz had really wanted to meet with the general so she could take another physical and emotional core sample on herself. To see if she could work with Carrie without being distracted by her. To see if perhaps Carrie found her intriguing or maybe more.

Perhaps it was just as well the meeting was delayed. That gave Liz a little more time to collect herself.

Into what? A more composed exterior? Her insides would be the same: roiling and eager, frightened and hopeful.

She thought back to Martha Mackall. It had been different with the late political liaison. Liz had liked the woman, but there was no chemistry. Martha was pushy, not strong. She was out for herself. The good of the organization did not matter to her. It mattered deeply to Morgan Carrie.

She said the name again in her head. It was a strong name. It went with her strong character.

It was not just her style of leadership that had won Liz Gordon, it was her attentiveness. Liz had spent the better part of two decades looking into people’s eyes to see what they were about. The people who had nothing to hide looked directly at you. The people with something to share did so with words and with unflinching commitment. That came through the eyes.

During the limited time they had been together, General Carrie always looked at her flush, square, and bold. Liz did not think it was simply because Carrie had the confidence of a three-star general. Liz believed that all women shared a bond that transcended the practical needs of the moment. The notion of unimpeachable sisterhood was a myth. But the desire and capacity to love was strong. Especially among female soldiers who are forced to break the rules of traditional gender roles and behavior. In times of war they must be as aggressive as men. In times of peace, they work harder to recover their gentler humanity.

Being decisive at the helm of the NCMC was like being at war. General Carrie would also need downtime to reflect on that. A husband, even a caring and devoted one, could not understand that in quite the same way as a woman.

He could not. Another woman would not need the reclamation process explained to her. Especially if that woman were in the trenches as well.

Of course, not every woman understood that she required the attention. Sometimes she had to be educated. Therein lay the delicacy of the situation. Liz did not know what General Carrie knew or understood or sensed.

But she would.

The psychologist tried to concentrate on work as her heart throbbed anxiously in her throat. She made a list of the people who had worked closely with Bob Herbert, who would be hardest hit by his firing. Darrell McCaskey, of course. But the man was a professional and would roll with it. Lowell Coffey—who did not get along with the intelligence chief but respected him—and Ron Plummer, who found Herbert sharp but abrasive. Their main concerns would not be about Herbert but about how to avoid his fate. How to make sure Op-Center ran smoothly and efficiently during the transition. That was surely the result Carrie was after.

Liz had to be careful she did not upset that goal, or she could be dismissed herself.

It was exciting and frightening, uplifting and unnerving. For the first time in a long time there was optimism in the psychologist’s racing heart and a powerful sense of belonging.

Life was good.

SIXTY-FOUR

Washington, D.C. Friday, 3:48 P.M.

“Life sucks,” Herbert said into his glass.

Bob Herbert and Mike Rodgers were sitting at a small rectangular table in Off the Record when Paul Hood arrived. The tavern was located just below street level at the elegant Hay-Adams Hotel, a short distance across Lafayette Park from the White House. Hood walked over, enjoying the warm, clear late afternoon. It was remarkable how clean the air was compared to Beijing and even Xichang. Or maybe he was just happy to be back and intact. It was probably a lot of both. On the way he phoned the kids to see how they were doing. He also phoned Gloria Lynch-Hunt to make sure they still had a date for tomorrow night.

The kids were fine. The date was on.

Life was good.

After an unsteady start, Hood was actually fairly alert. The new executive crisis management adviser had slept until eleven. Yawning but alert, he went to his office at the White House where he had a brief meeting with President Debenport. Since Hood had already filed an overview report he had written on the plane—the Ben Affleck movie was not one he had been wanting to see—the Oval Office meeting was primarily a chance for the commander in chief to congratulate him. Even Chief of Staff Lorraine Sanders was complimentary.

It was easy to be gracious in victory, and Hood smiled a great deal. The big smiles also helped him to cover up the lingering yawns.

Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff Raleigh Carew came by and offered a big handshake and a tight expression. He had come to see the president, not Hood. That marked the end of the Oval Office meeting.

Hood had intended to call the kids and go through his voice mail messages, then head to his new office. Even though his assistants would not be starting until Monday, he wanted to get a feel for the place. He was feeling good about his new position and wanted to be a participant in the process instead of a passenger. But then Bob Herbert called, asking to meet him at Off the Record. Herbert did not say what it was about, and Hood agreed to stop by.

Hood had not known that Rodgers was going to be there. He joined the men at the dimly lit table well away from the bar. It was strange to be together like this for the first time in months. It used to be a daily occurrence, usually strained by outside events or their own mismatched personalities. But it did not feel wrong. Whatever their differences, they had been through wars together. They had survived.

Bob Herbert made his comment about life and then fell silent. Herbert was often gloomy, so his pronouncement was not a surprise. What he said next, however, was very unexpected.

The Mississippi native looked up. “I got shit-canned, Paul.”

“What?”

“The general fired me.”

Hood was stunned. “No notice?”

“None.”

“Why?” Hood asked.

“For helping you guys,” Herbert said.

“I can’t believe that,” Hood said.

“I can,” Rodgers told him.

Hood regarded him.

“There’s a general in charge of Op-Center now,” Rodgers said. “Officers run things very differently than civilians. Bob went outside the chain of command. The general made an example of him.”

Rodgers’s tone was cold. Perhaps it was Hood’s imagination, but there seemed to be implicit criticism of the way he had run the NCMC.

“Do you agree with that?” Hood asked him.

“In theory, yes,” Rodgers said. “In practice, I would have given the individual a warning.”

“Gentlemen, can we not discuss whether my execution was an overreaction?” Herbert asked.

“Sorry,” Rodgers said.

“That’s okay,” Herbert said as he drained his glass. “What happened is not important. What matters is that I’ll know better next time. I won’t answer any ads that say, ‘Results matter less than the process.’ ”

Hood and Rodgers were silent.

The waiter came over. Herbert asked for a refill, and Hood ordered a cola.

“Pope Paul,” Herbert muttered. “Did you know we used to call you that?”

“Yeah,” Hood said.

“We all thought you were righteous and clean, above corruption.” Herbert nodded. “You did a good job setting a moral tone. That’s rare in government.”

Rodgers raised his beer. Hood acknowledged with a nod.

“So. Any thoughts about what is next?” Hood asked.

“Defection? Maybe Prime Minister Le Kwan Po will give me a job.”

“Don’t joke about that,” Rodgers said, looking around.

“Why? Is the military running the bar now?” Herbert asked.

Rodgers did not answer. Hood felt a chill. The drinks arrived, and Herbert sat back in his chair.

“No, Paul. I do not know what is next. I guess I’ll hit my network and try to find a job. Probably in private industry.”

“The regimentation is worse there,” Rodgers said. “Especially if there are stockholders. Why don’t you start your own think tank?”

“Ah, a consultancy,” Herbert said. “The face-saving fallback of the fired.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” Hood told him. “You have an impressive CV. You could attract other independent thinkers. I would be able to bring you in on some of my projects.”

“Face-saving and a mercy fuck,” Herbert said. “Thanks for the offer, but that’s not what I need, guys.”

“What do you need?” Hood asked.

“For that bitch in green to put me back where I belong, where I’ve served hard and well and loyally,” Herbert replied.

The others were silent. They could not disagree with Herbert’s ambition or the sentiment.

“If you want, I’ll talk to the president,” Hood said.

“You couldn’t save your own ass from getting removed,” Rodgers said.

“That was different—”

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Herbert said. “I shouldn’t have asked you here. I’m gonna be pissing fire for a while.”

“That’s nothing new,” Hood said.

Rodgers smiled. Even Herbert chuckled.

For a moment, it was the old days again. Three men in stark disagreement but in concert about one thing: that their unwieldy, cranky, dissimilar, and theoretically unworkable parts somehow produced something unique and important.

The same could be said for Adams, Jefferson, and Franklin, Hood thought in a rare moment of uncritical indulgence. People could not have been much more different than the New England attorney, the Middle Atlantic diplomat, and the Southern farmer who had created a new nation.

The reference to the past got them talking about old times, about people who had come and gone, about missions and challenges, about victories and losses. Differences notwithstanding, they all had a lot to be proud of.

Hood took a long, mental drink of the moment. It would probably never get any better than this. But how many men were fortunate enough to have had this at all?

The hours passed. When it was time to go, there were handshakes all around and a strong sense of camaraderie.

As well as a big, big question mark about when and even if their paths might intercept again.

As he crossed the park, a line from a movie flashed through Hood’s mind. He could not remember which film it was. He had watched it with the kids one rainy afternoon years ago. A young woman was leaving her father to be with her fiancé in some remote place. As the train approached, the woman wept, “God only knows when we will see each other again.”

And her father replied with a catch in his voice, “Then we will leave it in His hands.”

Hood felt the same as he walked toward the White House and the future.

Other titles by Steve Pieczenik

THE MIND PALACE

BLOOD HEAT

MAXIMUM VIGILANCE

PAX PACIFICA

STATE OF EMERGENCY

HIDDEN PASSIONS

MY BELOVED TALLEYRAND

For more information on Steve Pieczenik, please visit www.stevepieczenik.com and www.strategic-intl.com.

Books by Alexander Court

ACTIVE MEASURES ACTIVE PURSUIT

Novels by Tom Clancy

THE HUNT FOR RED OCTOBER

RED STORM RISING

PATRIOT GAMES

THE CARDINAL OF THE KREMLIN

CLEAR AND PRESENT DANGER

THE SUM OF ALL FEARS

WITHOUT REMORSE

DEBT OF HONOR

EXECUTIVE ORDERS

RAINBOW SIX

THE BEAR AND THE DRAGON

RED RABBIT

THE TEETH OF THE TIGER

SSN: STRATEGIES OF SUBMARINE WARFARE

Nonfiction

SUBMARINE: A GUIDED TOUR INSIDE A NUCLEAR WARSHIP

ARMORED CAV: A GUIDED TOUR OF AN ARMORED CAVALRY REGIMENT

FIGHTER WING: A GUIDED TOUR OF AN AIR FORCE COMBAT WING

MARINE: A GUIDED TOUR OF A MARINE EXPEDITIONARY UNIT

AIRBORNE: A GUIDED TOUR OF AN AIRBORNE TASK FORCE

CARRIER: A GUIDED TOUR OF AN AIRCRAFT CARRIER

SPECIAL FORCES: A GUIDED TOUR OF U.S. ARMY SPECIAL FORCES

INTO THE STORM: A STUDY IN COMMAND

(written with General Fred Franks, Jr., Ret.)

EVERY MAN A TIGER

(written with General Charles Horner, Ret.)

SHADOW WARRIORS: INSIDE THE SPECIAL FORCES

(written with General Carl Stiner, Ret., and Tony Koltz)

Created by Tom Clancy

SPLINTER CELL

Created by Tom Clancy and Steve Pieczenik

TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER

TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: MIRROR IMAGE

TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: GAMES OF STATE

TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: ACTS OF WAR

TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: BALANCE OF POWER

TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: STATE OF SIEGE

TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: DIVIDE AND CONQUER

TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: LINE OF CONTROL

TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: MISSION OF HONOR

TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: SEA OF FIRE

TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: CALL TO TREASON

TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: WAR OF EAGLES

TOM CLANCY’S NET FORCE

TOM CLANCY’S NET FORCE: HIDDEN AGENDAS

TOM CLANCY’S NET FORCE: NIGHT MOVES

TOM CLANCY’S NET FORCE: BREAKING POINT

TOM CLANCY’S NET FORCE: POINT OF IMPACT

TOM CLANCY’S NET FORCE: CYBERNATION

TOM CLANCY’S NET FORCE: STATE OF WAR

TOM CLANCY’S NET FORCE: CHANGING OF THE GUARD

TOM CLANCY’S NET FORCE: SPRINGBOARD

Created by Tom Clancy and Martin Greenberg

TOM CLANCY’S POWER PLAYS: POLITIKA

TOM CLANCY’S POWER PLAYS: RUTHLESS.COM

TOM CLANCY’S POWER PLAYS: SHADOW WATCH

TOM CLANCY’S POWER PLAYS: BIO-STRIKE

TOM CLANCY’S POWER PLAYS: COLD WAR

TOM CLANCY’S POWER PLAYS: CUTTING EDGE

TOM CLANCY’S POWER PLAYS: ZERO HOUR

TOM CLANCY’S POWER PLAYS: WILD CARD

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Divide and Conquer

Line of Control

Mission

Sea of Fire

Call to Treason

War of Eagles