America

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Myron Matheny's telephone rang at two in the morning, waking him from a sound sleep. Several seconds passed before he recognized the voice.

"That matter we discussed last week — it's going to have to be handled immediately."

Matheny waited several seconds before answering, trying to clear his thoughts. "You know I don't work that way," he said.

"No choice. I never thought it would come to this, but the world is pressing in."

"Wish I could help you."

"This morning. If I go, you go."

The Man broke the connection, leaving Matheny listening to a buzzing telephone.

He replaced the instrument on the receiver. Oh, boy! He sure as hell didn't need this.

"Who was it?" the woman asked.

"Him." It wasn't really. The voice was a woman's, but Matheny didn't want his wife to know that.

"At this hour?"

"Go back to sleep."

Fumbling in the darkness, he put on a robe and went to the kitchen of the old farmhouse to make himself a pot of coffee.

Way deep down, Myron Matheny had always known that this day would come, that the life he had built for himself might come to a smashing halt. It would, he always thought, be his fault, the client's fault, or some freak twist in the cosmos, some fluke of fate. Random chance or someone's screwup, those were the forces that made the wheels of the universe go around.

When he graduated from high school he had joined the marines, where he had become a specialist on area-network surveillance systems. The CIA recruited him after his four-year hitch was over. The CIA sounded more interesting than Motorola, so he signed on.

About ten years ago in South America, he had been betrayed by a man seeking an entry into the profitable drug business. He escaped before the druggies could kill him, then found the man who sold him out and made him permanently disappear.

You weren't supposed to do that kind of thing in the CIA. There were laws against it, regulations and all that. Still, every now and then, when lives or important national interests were on the line, a quiet disappearance could solve a lot of problems.

Murder became his specialty. Myron Matheny thought of himself as a personnel removal specialist.

Killing someone is ridiculously easy, of course. Getting away with it is much more difficult given the fact that murder is a serious crime in every nation on the planet. The best and safest way to foil the police was to make the victim disappear. If the police couldn't prove a crime had been committed, they never got to the next step, determining a perpetrator. Intense planning and preparation were required to pull off a disappearance, and sometimes, due to the lifestyle of the victim, it was just not possible. Second choice was to make it appear that the victim died of natural causes — also difficult, with preplanning and preparation required. Again, the police must prove a crime had been committed before they got to the next problem, the identity of the criminal. The last option was to kill the victim in such a way that the identity of the killer could not be determined— with only one layer of defense, this option was extremely high risk. A single mistake here could cost you life in the pen, or even, in some jurisdictions, death.

Now comes the call — The Man wants this guy removed immediately. This morning.

So much for planning. So much for minimizing the risk.

Ha!

The thought occurred to Myron Matheny that he should find The Man and remove him! That 'if I go, you go' crap was really unacceptable.

As he looked out the windows at the forests and pastures lit by the dim moonlight, Myron Matheny realized that he wasn't ready to give up his life. He didn't want it to end. He liked living here, liked working part-time at the local tackle shop, liked tying flies and fishing all summer. The best part, though, was the woman.

Oh, man! After all these years, just when he finally figured out what it's all about…

Still, The Man wouldn't call if the threat were not real.

She came padding down the hall barefoot, wearing her old blue bathrobe. She read the bad news in his face.

With a cup of coffee in hand, she said, "Why don't you and I leave now? You've got those passports in the safety-deposit box. Let's clean it out when the bank opens and go."

"Leave all this?"

"We wouldn't be leaving anything we couldn't do without or replace."

"There's nowhere to hide. Not in this day and age."

"Myron. Think this through."

"I don't want to run," he said. "I'm too old."

He dressed carefully in nondescript clothes, old tan slacks, lace-up leather shoes, a long-sleeve shirt, and a windbreaker to hide the pistol in the shoulder holster. He dusted his hands with talcum powder, then pulled on latex gloves. Only then did he carefully wipe the pistol and the shells and load it. Silencer, knife, he wiped them carefully. He did the wooden handles of the garrote too.

He should take a rifle, just in case. He went to the basement, unlocked the safe in an old potato cellar under the stairs, and stood looking.

He had three Remingtons standing there, all in.220 Swift, without a doubt the finest small-caliber round ever invented. Years ago he had learned that the rifle he could shoot best was the one that recoiled the least. The cartridge's only drawback was the semirimmed case, which was not a problem in a bolt action. He had built the rifles himself, installed composite stocks and custom triggers, hand-loaded the ammo with the new 55-grain Nosier bullets with plastic, frangible tips. All three were serious weapons — and untraceable. His favorite had a little scratch on the right side of the barrel… he automatically reached for it, wiped it down, picked up ten cartridges and pocketed them.

He left the house just at dawn. The woman stood in the doorway. She didn't wave, just stood there watching as he got out of the car and loaded it and drove away. At the end of the driveway he looked back, and she was gone. The door was closed.

Traffic was light. He had an address in Rosslyn, had a map…

Jesus, this was half-baked! He had never even been to the address before. For all he knew this guy lived next door to a police station.

He did know what the guy looked like. The Man had given him three photos last week. Just in case. And the guy was in the navy. That meant a uniform, although in that neighborhood there should be a lot of uniforms. He had the best photo with him, if he needed to refresh his memory. He had studied it and shouldn't need it.

Christ, if he were caught! A photo of the intended victim, an unlicensed, loaded pistol, an unlicensed silencer, a rifle… he would be lucky to draw a sentence of less than twenty years.

He knew the city well enough that he didn't make any wrong turns, but he did have to pull over once and consult the map.

The day was going to be gorgeous — the heat of summer had eased and the haze had blown out after the front went through yesterday. On such a day, why was he taking chances like this?

He parked as near as he could to the guy's building — so many dead cars had been hauled away that there were actually parking places — and sat looking things over. The nearest Metro station was two blocks down the street to the north. It wasn't running these days. There was a bus stop there too, and the city had brought in buses from all over. Of course, this guy could be driving one of these cars. Or have a limo picking him up. Or a car pool.

This is where he should be starting several weeks of observation of the subject, not looking for a fleeting opportunity to do him! Even if he dropped the guy here this morning, how was he going to get away? Walk back to the car and drive off? Into rush-hour traffic? In his own car? He certainly didn't have time to steal one.

Matheny put his head on the steering wheel and took a deep breath.

Relax! Just take it easy, watch, see if this guy gives you an opening. If he does, bang. If he doesn't, you'll learn enough so that you can do it safely in a few days. If The Man doesn't like it, tough shit. The bastard can pop this guy himself.

People were coming out of the buildings, streaming along the street. Traffic was building. Probably not as many people as usual; with the electricity off, many people weren't working or had left the city.

Now or never.

Myron Matheny checked that the pistol was loaded, made sure the safety was on. He screwed the silencer onto the barrel and lowered the pistol into the shoulder holster, which had a hole in the bottom to accommodate the silencer. The garroting wire was in his right jacket pocket. He got out of the car and locked it. He inserted four quarters in the parking meter, then walked up the slightly inclined sidewalk to the entrance of the guy's building.

The lobby was dark. Of course, the elevators weren't working. He began climbing the stairs. He would just wait until the guy came out of his apartment and follow him down the stairs. Shoot him in the back of the head and keep right on going. Out and into the car, drive away.

That was a plan. Baring something freaky, he had a fairly decent chance of getting away with it. Car pool, private car, bus, limo— however this guy was going to work wouldn't matter.

On the second flight of stairs he heard someone coming down, looked up… and there the guy was, wearing a white naval officer's uniform.

Two people were following him. Matheny stood aside to let the three men pass. The guy even made eye contact with him. Gray eyes under a naval officer's white hat with black rim, nose a little large. Then he moved by and the next two guys were trooping past. They didn't make eye contact.

Matheny put his hand on the butt of the pistol, trying to decide. All three? Right here?

Then it was too late. The guy in the lead, the guy he wanted to get, went around the landing and disappeared from view. There had been a four- or five-second window of opportunity, and he hadn't been able to make up his mind.

Shit!

There was another flight of stairs! He would do them then. All three. He leaped to follow the trio.

Only at the second floor, more people came through the fire door into the staircase, joined the procession going down. A woman was now in front of the guy, another woman got between the guy and the man behind him, and another man in uniform fell in behind the whole parade.

By the time Matheny exited the stairwell into the lobby, the guy was going through the front door of the building. He had plenty of company. There were a dozen people within thirty feet.

Out on the sidewalk the guy went over to the curb.

Okay, he's waiting for a car pool. Standing there, looking up the street.

This is it! Walk up behind him, gun him in the back. As he goes down put one round into his brain. Then just walk away. Everyone will be looking at him.

Then walk over, get into your car, and drive away.

Myron Matheny was three steps away, his hand on the pistol butt, when a white government pool car slid to a halt on the street, and the guy walked between two cars toward it.

The guy got into the backseat, pulled the door firmly closed, and the vehicle eased away into traffic, leaving Myron Matheny standing helplessly on the sidewalk.

He drove to Crystal City, had a hell of a time finding a place to park. Finally he put the car in a parking garage in a nearby building. He never saw the guy arrive at the building where he worked. Maybe he was there, maybe he wasn't, but Myron Matheny couldn't just climb the stairs and ask.

He stood on the sidewalk out front looking things over. The Crystal City area consisted of a dozen or so medium-sized office buildings, around twenty stories each. Some of them had limited outside parking; most people had to put their vehicles in multistoried garages. The Lee Highway ran north and south along the west side of the area. On the east side was Reagan National Airport. Just to the north was the Pentagon surrounded by several hundred acres of parking lot.

Beneath Crystal City was an underground shopping area, a mall with Metro stops at both ends. Without electricity the underground resembled a coal mine tunnel. The people who were in the buildings — perhaps half the usual number — had to eat somewhere, so one of the underground restaurant entrepreneurs had gotten permission to set up an outdoor eating area.

Myron Matheny watched as a crew of people unloaded two trucks. Barbecue grills were set up, filled with charcoal, and lit. Portable generators to run coolers, folding tables, boxes of food and paper plates, stacks of plastic cups, folding chairs, garbage cans… The crew worked quickly and efficiently, setting up shop in a square between four buildings. Four large trees in planters provided a leafy cover over the area.

Okay, if the guy is up in his building, maybe he'll eat lunch here.

Matheny walked back through the area, trying to figure out how he could escape after the hit. If he could park his car somewhere else, steal a car and park it in one of these outside handicapped spaces…

Lots of military in these buildings. Eating lunch, this guy is going to be surrounded by military. If I shoot him with the pistol while he's sitting at one of these tables, four or five of them could grab me, and that would be that.

If I use the rifle, shoot from up there, on top of that parking garage… well, I might get a shot from there through these trees.

Myron Matheny went up to the top story of the garage and looked down. The tree canopy obscured about half the area. He went down a story. Better, but not good enough. He went down one more level. He was two stories up now. This was about as good as it would get.

Sixty yards or so to the center of the square, an easy shot with a scoped rifle. Hell, at this range he could put one in the guy's ear.

After the shot he'd be standing in this garage with the rifle in his hands. He'd drop the rifle, leave the garage the way he came in, get in the stolen car he had parked in a handicapped spot.

That would work. Maybe.

Hell, that was the only way it could be done.

The alternative was to go back to Rosslyn and wait for the guy to come home tonight. If he came home tonight.

That will be the backup plan, if the guy doesn't come here for lunch.

He walked the escape route out of the garage, then went back upstairs for his car. After he paid the tab on the way out, he headed for Alexandria to steal something wearing a handicapped license plate.

"The minisub can go down to a hundred and fifty feet," Sonny Killbuck said, as he unrolled his chart for Jake Grafton and Toad Tarkington. "I called New London to confirm that."

"Okay," Jake said and adjusted his reading glasses on his nose.

"With that fact in mind, I just ran off the one chart that shows water a hundred and fifty feet deep or less. If you wish, sir, I can do another with any parameters you like."

The three were looking the chart over when Krautkramer came in with the Jouany file. He joined the three naval officers at the chart, a large computer printout.

"If the killer satellite was put in the ocean for eventual salvage with America's minisub, it would have to be in less than a hundred and fifty feet of water," Jake explained. "Heydrich is an underwater salvage dude, he's aboard… it fits."

"When I was putting this file together, Admiral, I ran across an interesting fact. It seems that Antoine Jouany is one of the directors of EuroSpace. I don't know whether you knew that or—"

Jake grabbed the file and began digging through it. "Show me," he said.

Krautkramer found the list of Jouany's directorships and showed it to Jake.

"Heydrich? What do you know about him?"

"That's this next file. He worked for years for various salvage firms, pulling up wrecks and cargoes all over the world. Actually got an ownership interest in the company about ten years ago, just before the insurance recovery business boomed, so he's fairly well off. The Nautilus Company. It owns four ships."

The four ships were named.

"Sonny, how about seeing if the satellite intel people can find these four ships? I want to know where they are right now."

Killbuck took the list and left.

Krautkramer talked for a while, then left Jake and Toad to study the map and files.

"An awful lot of the Atlantic is pretty shallow," Toad said dubiously, looking at the thousands of square miles the computer had colored yellow. "If a fellow were picking a spot to plant a satellite, seems like he has a lot of choice."

"Not really," Jake replied. "The missile is coming down without power in a ballistic trajectory. The target area of necessity must be pretty big."

"But how is the pirate crew of America going to find the third stage if they can't use active sonar?"

"I've been thinking about that," Jake said. "They're going to need a noisemaker, something that puts a lot of noise into the water so Revelation can pick up the reflections off the bottom and, they hope, the lost missile. Something that looks benign."

"So what is that something?" Toad asked.

"I don't know. I was hoping the recon satellite photos of areas of interest might give us some hints. What you and I need to do is designate areas of interest."

Myron Matheny had a busy morning. He stole a Ford from a hospital parking lot in Alexandria, successfully got it into a handicapped parking space on the street behind the parking garage, and carried the Remington into the parking garage embedded in green plastic garbage bags. He got it arranged inside a trash can at the entrance to an elevator and finished filling the can with trash from a can near the restaurant operation.

He stood back, scrutinized his can. Few people would pass it outside this inoperative elevator. If the trash people came by while he was downstairs, so be it — he would wait for the guy tonight in Rosslyn.

He checked the shooting position on the second deck again, got a cold feeling up his spine because it was so open. He would be semihidden here behind these parked cars, which would just have to do. He certainly wouldn't have time to dawdle.

When he had done all he could, he went down to the square and walked past the food operation, checking out the customers in line and seated on the planter retaining walls and at the long tables. The guy wasn't here yet.

Matheny bought a fountain soft drink, then sat near the entrance where he could see everyone who came in.

He was nervous. This just didn't feel right — he hadn't done all the planning, hadn't eliminated controllable variables. So much could go wrong. Random chance, the friction of life… and his life was on the line. He was betting his life that the stolen car would start, a cop wouldn't turn up in the wrong place, an accident or construction project wouldn't block traffic… my God, the list of things beyond his control that could go wrong was almost infinite. Knowing, being prepared beforehand, that was how he had stayed alive all these years.

The time was 11:50.

The queue waiting to go through the food line grew steadily longer. From 12 to 1 was going to be the big rush.

At 12:01 two uniformed policemen walked up and got in the queue. Terrific. Those two were going to rabbit after him the instant the rifle cracked.

The queue was moving quickly through the food service line— this entrepreneur obviously knew the food business — yet it was growing as all the people on lunch break in the buildings in the area descended on the square.

And there he was, in line with a bunch of other people, a few in uniform.

Myron Matheny forced himself to relax. He must wait until he saw where the group sat before he left. He certainly didn't want to stand up there on the second floor of the parking garage waving binoculars or the rifle around trying to find this guy.

The knot of people the guy was in talked animatedly among themselves, enjoying the break from their desks.

They paid for their meals individually, then commandeered the end of one of the long tables.

Myron Matheny rose, threw away his soft drink as he walked toward the parking garage. Yep, the guy was going to be visible from the second deck.

This was it. It was time to kill.

Walking toward the parking garage, Myron Matheny was still thinking of things that could go wrong. The two cops were still eating nearby. They were wearing bulletproof vests but not their little two-way radios — maybe those had been burned up by the E-warheads. That was a break. At least they wouldn't be calling in before he could even get in the car and start the getaway. Nor were the garage security cameras working. Perhaps the good breaks would cancel out the bad.

After he drilled the guy, maybe he should gun one of these two, slow the other one down. It would take seconds. That might slow the pursuit just enough. Or it might be just the break the survivor needed to get a clear shot at the back of his head as he drove away in his stolen Ford.

He wouldn't think about it, he would just go on instinct.

"So tell me again, Mr. Ilin, about this grand adventure of yours running through the forest the other day to escape assassins." Jadot asked that question.

"I see from the skeptical expression on your face that you doubt the veracity of my previous remarks on that subject," Janos Ilin said.

"You do not," Jadot protested. "The great stone-face, they call me. Recruiters for the World Series of Poker write me passionate letters every year. My face is a mask that shields my innermost thoughts."

"Jake, as our host I appeal to you," Ilin said, raising his voice enough to be heard by every member of the group. "Tell our doubting colleagues I wasn't lying, that those foul assassins lusted for our rich, red, non-Communist blood."

"We decided to play hooky for a day," Jake told Jadot. "We made up the assassins lie while we were fly-fishing the Shenandoah. Ilin said you folks would eat it with a spoon."

No one had blocked in the Ford. The way out to Lee Highway looked wide open. Satisfied, Myron Matheny climbed the stairs to the second floor of the parking garage.

No one in sight on the second deck. That is, no one standing. If there was someone sleeping off a hangover in one of the cars… Worried, trying to be supercautious, he scrutinized the cars carefully, then walked to the can that held the rifle. He took a last look around,

then pulled out the rifle by the barrel. It was still wrapped in three shapeless green garbage bags, and he left it that way.

He walked to the vantage point, put the rifle on the concrete floor, then looked for the guy.

There he was! And the cops at the next table.

Matheny turned back and looked the parked cars over carefully. He was the only person in sight. He bent down and used his pocket knife to strip the green bags from the rifle. He opened the bolt, took three cartridges from his pocket, and carefully inserted them in the magazine. Then he closed the bolt, making sure a round chambered.

Now he laid down the rifle and stood for one last look around.

Everyone still eating.

Just as he bent for the rifle, someone came out of the stairwell and walked his way. The rifle was partially hidden under the car right beside him, so he left it there.

A woman, walking quickly, the hard material of her heels rapping loudly on the concrete.

She looked at him, nodded, then broke eye contact. Never looked at the rifle or garbage bags.

She dug in her purse, used a clicker to unlock the door of her car.

Myron Matheny turned his back, leaned on the rail, listened as she started the car and backed it out and drove down the ramp toward the exit booth.

The guy was still there, talking to his colleagues.

Oh, man, he was nervous. He just hadn't done enough planning to feel comfortable with the risks involved. Too much was unknown.

The truth was there was no way to pop a guy quick and feel comfortable about it.

He couldn't just stand here all day….

Now!

Myron Matheny bent down, got a good, solid grip on the rifle, straightened, looked at his target, and lifted the rifle smoothly to his shoulder. The crosshairs came right onto the guy's head. He had the scope on three-power magnification, which was as low as it would go.

Automatically he leaned forward, putting his elbows on the rail.

Matheny exhaled, steadied the crosshairs, and squeezed the trigger.

As Jake explained it to Callie much later, his plastic fork slipped from his fingers and fell into his lap. He had been eating baked beans with it, which he knew would stain his white trousers. He pushed his chair back and bent his head to see if the beans had caused a mess. . and felt the whiff of a bullet passing an inch or two over his head at the same time as he heard the shot.

The bullet hit Maurice Jadot in the chest with a loud, meaty smack.

He knew instantly what it was and shouted and dragged Jadot off his chair onto the floor.

As he explained to Callie, he didn't realize then that the shot had probably been aimed at him. He thought the shooter's target was Maurice Jadot, and he had no idea how badly he was hit. Instinctively Jake knew the shooter might try another shot, so with Jadot on the ground, Jake climbed on top of him.

Myron Matheny knew he had missed the instant the gun recoiled. In the millisecond before the gun kicked, the head in the crosshairs jerked back and down. The mild recoil lifted the barrel off target. Matheny had learned years ago to not fight the recoil but to go with it.

As the gun was recoiling he worked the bolt, ejecting the spent shell and chambering another. As the rifle came down he looked again for the guy in the white uniform, his target.

He saw a mass of people, some running, some bending over, someone lifting the table, food flying everywhere…

Jesus Christ! Where is he?

The cops! He swung the rifle, picked out a blue police uniform, squeezed the trigger again.

Worked the bolt, looked one more time for the guy…

Couldn't find him.

Holy fuck!

Myron Matheny lowered the rifle, threw it under a car, and walked quickly toward the staircase that would take him down to the stolen Ford.

He heard the shouts and hubbub from the food area… and the insistent, low moan of a siren.

Jadot said something in French, a phrase or piece of a phrase, and then he was dead. Jake was pumping on Jadot's chest and telling him to hang tough as rich red blood ran from his mouth and nose when Toad finally told him it was useless, the bullet had gone through the Frenchman's lungs and heart.

Jake Grafton sat back on his heels, tried to catch his breath. Blood everywhere, on Jadot, his white uniform, his hands…

"Trying to save him, I probably killed him faster," Jake said aloud.

It was only then that he realized another person had been shot. A cop, someone said. A knot of people were gathered around her, trying to keep her heart beating.

He too heard the siren.

"Toad!" he roared.

"Yes, sir!"

"That may be an ambulance. Run out toward Lee Highway and—" He stopped because Tarkington was already gone.

Staying calm, concentrating on the job at hand, Myron Matheny carefully inserted the ignition key in the stolen Ford, applied the brake, and started the engine. He had found the key in a small magnetic box under the rear bumper when he cased the cars in the hospital parking lot. He had had to do some crawling, but the key meant that he didn't have to hot-wire it.

Looking at the gearshift indicator, he placed the transmission in reverse, looked behind him, backed out.

That siren, coming closer, growing in volume and pitch. Those bastards couldn't have got the cops coming already, could they?

Clear of the parking place, he concentrated on getting the transmission into drive.

Never panic. Concentrate fiercely on the task at hand. Those rules had kept him alive all these years, and he had no intention of abandoning them now. Yes, he had missed the kill, but tomorrow was another day. If you lived to enjoy it.

Feeding gas slowly, braking as he approached the corner, he tried to ignore the swelling howl of the siren.

Around the building. Straight ahead was the stop sign for this little street, then across the access road, the traffic light on Lee Highway, which was of course inoperative. That meant stop, yield, and go. He slowed for the stop sign, ensured that no one was coming, then moved forward to the edge of the highway intersection. Braked to a complete stop.

Siren loud, very loud.

He looked left… a large truck was almost stopped, barely moving.

The siren!

Matheny twisted the wheel to the right to turn to the inside northbound lane, took his foot off the brake, and fed gas.

He never saw the ambulance that was passing the large truck in the far right lane, doing at least thirty miles an hour. The right front bumper of the ambulance hit the Ford in the driver's door and snapped Matheny's head back. His body was half out of the seat when the combined inertia of the two vehicles caromed the Ford into a light pole. The impact snapped Matheny forward and threw him toward the windshield on the passenger side of the car. His head smacked into the windshield, breaking his neck. He died instantly.

Myron Matheny had forgotten to fasten his seat belt.

Jake Grafton was watching the ambulance crew load Maurice Jadot's body when a senior police officer came over to tell him about the accident victim two blocks away. "It was the assassin, we think. He had a silenced pistol on him, and this was in the car." He held out a photo. "This is you, isn't it?"

It was one of Jake's file photos, perhaps a copy of one from his personnel file. "It's me."

"Your photo, not this other fellow, Mr. Jadot."

"Umm."

"One assumes he missed."

"Apparently."

"When you're finished here, how about stopping at the morgue and seeing if you can identify him? In this heat, without cold storage, we'll have to start the autopsy in just a few hours." The officer gave him the address.

"Give me a few minutes, then I'll be along."

Janos Ilin found himself looking into the cold eyes of Jake Grafton. The admiral had a smear of blood on his forehead, but the eyes looked like they were frozen. Behind him a doctor was working on the wounded police officer, trying to save her while the other officer herded spectators away, trying to give them some room.

Grafton held up his hands in front of Ilin. They had Jadot's blood on them.

"You think this is all a game, do you?" The admiral wiped his hands on the front of Ilin's shirt. "More than six hundred people dead. Jadot is another. This isn't ink on paper in a Moscow file, this is real blood!"

"I did not kill him!" Ilin said angrily, roughly pushing away Grafton's hands.

"Stolen submarines, spies, lies… it's all a game to you, isn't it?" Grafton pressed fiercely. He grabbed a double handful of Ilin's coat and pulled him up short. "Why don't you stop the fucking games and tell me the goddamn truth?"

"I've told you the truth," Ilin protested, grabbing Grafton's wrists.

"No you haven't! You've lied to me. And now, by God, I want the truth!" Grafton shook him like a dog shaking a snake, then pushed him away.

Ilin almost fell. "What lie?" he asked.

Keeping his hands to himself, Grafton moved closer. "You didn't learn about the Blackbeard team from the SVR. That was a lie."

Ilin adjusted his tie, straightened his coat. His face was expressionless.

"I've been checking. Those people were all held incommunicado. You didn't go to Connecticut to chat up one of them."

Ilin straightened his shirt.

"Someone else told you about the Blackbeard team, then perhaps you told DeGarmo. He went to that party, all right. The Federal Protective Service provided a bodyguard. An American betrayed the team to the SVR. Either DeGarmo or someone else. It's entirely possible that you didn't talk to DeGarmo during the party, that he knew you already knew."

Janos Ilin helped himself to a cigarette. He lit it, blew out smoke, then met Jake Grafton's steady gaze.

"Six hundred people dead, a stolen submarine," Jake continued, insistent.

"DeGarmo didn't know I knew," Ilin replied coolly. "I could see it in his eyes."

"Then who?"

"I can't tell you. The identity of that person is a state secret."

"Your state."

"Indeed. My state! That is the only state I'm interested in."

Jake weighed his words before he spoke again. "The problem is that you keep lying to me. The SVR didn't send you here to keep these three Europeans company. That was not a good lie. You could have done better."

Ilin's eyes narrowed. "I have underestimated you," he said.

Jake Grafton was not to be denied. "I think your bosses are worried that EuroSpace is going to get its hands on the SuperAegis satellite. You're here to make sure that doesn't happen."

Ilin dropped his cigarette and stepped on it. "They sent me here to watch you. They were worried that you Americans weren't smart enough to handle it."