By Order of the President

ILLNESS IN THE FAMILY.

"Now what?" Miller asked.

Sergeant Schneider took a cellular phone from her purse and pushed an autodial button.

"Jack, Betty," she said a moment later. "I need a favor. Look in the lower drawer of my filing cabinet. There's a folder called 'Lease-Aire.' I need the home address of a guy named Terry Halloran. And a phone number, if there is one."

"Who's he?" Castillo asked.

"President of Lease-Aire, right?" Miller asked.

Betty nodded.

"How'd you happen to have that information?" Castillo asked Sergeant Schneider.

"The FBI came to us asking what we had on them," she said. "We'd never heard of them. But Captain O'Brien told me to have a look at them in case there was something we should know."

"And what did you find out?" Castillo asked.

She held up her hand in a signal for him to wait and then repeated the address and telephone number that Jack Whoever on the other end of the line gave her.

"Thanks, Jack," she concluded and turned the phone off.

"Aren't you going to write that down?" Miller asked.

She returned her cellular to her purse and came out with a voice recorder.

"It's a bugger," she said. "It bugs my cellular. I turn it on whenever I make a call like that."

She pushed buttons on the digital recorder and from its memory chip it played back her voice reciting the address and phone number.

"I'm impressed," Castillo said.

"Me, too," Miller said.

"Well, we're not the Secret Service, but we're getting fairly civilized. There's even a rumor that we're going to get inside plumbing in Building 110 next year."

Castillo and Schneider smiled at each other. Miller's smile was strained.

"Hey, no offense," she said. "The problems I have with Feds are with the FBI."

"He's worried that I'm going to make a pass at you," Castillo said.

"Jesus, Charley!" Miller said.

Betty asked Castillo, evenly, "Are you?"

"From what I've seen so far, I would be afraid to," Castillo said.

"Good. Let's keep it that way."

"You were telling me what you found out when you had a look at Lease-Aire?" Castillo said.

"Shoestring operation, family owned. The president's-Terry Halloran's-wife is secretary-treasurer. Her brother, name of Alex MacIlhenny, is vice president and chief and only pilot. Also chief mechanic. He learned how to fly in the Air Force, got out, went to work for the airlines-several of them-kept getting placed on unpaid furlough when business wasn't good, got sick of that and went in business with his brother-in-law buying and reselling worn-out airliners. Nothing on any of them except the pilot's wife had him arrested one time on a domestic violence rap that didn't hold up. They're divorced. Until you told me about this terrorist business, I was almost willing to go along with the FBI theory that they were trying to collect the insurance."

"You did your homework," Castillo said, admiringly.

"The sister and husband seem okay. They checked out; no prior record, etcetera. He's a muckety-muck in the Knights of Columbus. I never met the pilot, but I can't imagine the sister or her husband getting involved with terrorists no matter how much they needed money."

"I think that 'illness in the family' business is not the reason they're closed," Castillo said, nodding at the sign. "I want to talk to them."

She took her cellular from her purse again.

"I'll give them a call and see if they're home," she said and punched in the number from memory, which also impressed Castillo.

"If there's an answer, hang up," he ordered.

She raised her eyebrows momentarily and then nodded.

"There's no answer," she said, finally.

"I still think we should go to their home," Castillo said.

"It's off Roosevelt Boulevard," Betty said. "The other side of town."

"Which means another blood-chilling ride down the interstate?" Miller asked.

"Only if you're a coward," Castillo said.

"Or you can ride in the backseat," Betty said. "Statistics say it's safer there."

Castillo thought: I don't think there is anything more in that comment than what she said.

When they got to the unmarked car, he got in the backseat.

But when she turned on the seat to back the car away from the building, their eyes met again.

[TWO]

2205 Tyson Avenue

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

1040 9 June 2005

Two-two-zero-five Tyson Avenue was a neat brick three-story house just about in the middle of the block. The other houses, built wall to wall, were apparently identical, differing only in the color of the paint trim and the style of awnings and screen doors.

There was no answer to the doorbell, which played chimes. The third time Sergeant Schneider pressed the button, Castillo noticed that one of the chime notes was missing.

"No answer," Miller said, quite unnecessarily. "What do we do now?"

"I don't know how the Secret Service does it," Betty Schneider said, "but we simple cops listen for sounds of life. I heard either a radio or a television."

I didn't, Castillo thought, because I wasn't listening. She's good!

"Well, they don't want to answer the doorbell," Miller pursued. "What do we do? Keeping punching the bell until they do?"

"No," she said. "Yahoo."

"What?" Castillo asked.

"You know," she said. "Yahoo on the Internet? It stands for 'You Always Have Other Options.' "

She went down the steps, waving for Castillo and Miller to follow her, and got behind the wheel. This time Castillo got in the front seat. Her eyebrow rose when she saw him there and their eyes met momentarily but she didn't say anything.

Miller rested his elbows on the back of the front seat.

"Where are we going?" Miller said. "Can I ask?"

"Harrisburg," she said.

"Harrisburg?"

"Harrisburg," she repeated. "If I step on it, we can probably make it in a little under three hours."

Castillo, who sensed she was pulling Miller's chain, said nothing. Miller shook his head, and then sat back on the seat and buckled his seat belt with a sure click.

She drove to the end of the block, made a left turn, and then almost immediately made another into a narrow alley splitting the block.

"It was the fifth house from the far end of the block," she said, and Castillo saw her pointing and counting. She stopped the car.

"And there they are, Mr. Terrence Halloran and his charming wife, Mary-Elizabeth," she said, indicating the Hallorans' backyard.

Each of the row houses had a small backyard, with a fence separating it from its neighbors. The Halloran backyard had a small flower garden and a paved-with-gravel area with a gas charcoal grill, a round metal table, matching chairs, and a two-seater swing.

A stocky man in his fifties with unruly white hair was sitting on the swing with his feet up on one of the chairs. He was holding a can of beer and there was a cooler beside him. A plump woman with startlingly red hair sat at the table with what looked like a glass of iced tea.

Sergeant Schneider stopped the car and got out, and Castillo and Miller followed her.

There was a waist-high, chain-link fence separating the yard from the alley.

"Good afternoon," Betty Schneider called from the gate in the fence. She took her identification folder from her purse and held it up. "I'm Sergeant Schneider."

"What the hell do the cops want now?" Mary-Elizabeth Halloran said, unpleasantly.

"We'd like to talk to you, please," Betty said.

"Go the hell away," Mrs. Halloran said.

Well, Castillo thought, that explains that sarcastic "charming wife. " She's dealt with this woman before.

Terrence Halloran got off the swing and walked to the fence, carrying his beer. He pulled the gate inward and motioned for them to enter.

"What now?" he asked.

"These gentlemen would like to ask a few questions, Mr. Halloran," Betty said.

He took a closer look at them.

"You're not cops, are you?"

"No, sir, we're not," Castillo said.

"I already talked too much to the goddamned FBI," he said.

"We're not the FBI," Castillo said. "We're from the Department of Homeland Security."

He gave Halloran a calling card, taking long enough to read it to confirm Castillo's first impression that Halloran was well into a second six-pack of Budweiser. Then Halloran made a "follow me" gesture and walked to the table, where he handed the card to his wife.

"Homeland Security, he says."

"Talk to them if you haven't learned your lesson," she said. "I won't."

"Okay," Halloran said. "Make it quick. I have a busy schedule."

He sat down on the swing.

"Sir," Miller said. "I don't think Captain MacIlhenny voluntarily disappeared with the missing aircraft."

"The goddamned FBI thinks he put it on autopilot on a course that would take it out to sea and then jumped out the rear door," Halloran said. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!"

"I don't think that's the case, sir," Miller said.

"Well, that's what they think, and that's what they told the goddamned insurance company!"

"Who told us they were not going to pay up until 'the matter is settled,' " Mrs. Halloran said. "And then gave us thirty days to find-what was that line, Terry?"

" 'Another carrier,' " Halloran said. "They canceled us, in other words."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Castillo said.

"Why should you be sorry?" Mrs. Halloran asked, unpleasantly.

"Because it's unfair," Castillo said.

"Well, what the hell are you going to do?" Halloran said. "They're the goddamned FBI and I'm a small-time used airplane dealer. Who's the insurance company going to believe?"

"You said," Mrs. Halloran said, pointing a finger six inches from Miller's nose. "What the hell did you say? That you didn't think Alex voluntarily did something or other?"

"I think you're going to have to consider the unpleasant possibility that Captain MacIlhenny was forced to fly that airplane off Quatro de Fevereiro," Miller said.

"Off where?" Mrs. Halloran demanded.

"That's the airport in Luanda," Halloran said and then turned to Miller. "How did you know that?"

"The full name, Mrs. Halloran," Miller said, "is Quatro de Fevereiro Aeroporto Internacional. It means 'the Fourth of February,' the day Luanda got its independence from Portugal."

"So, what the hell?" she replied.

"I was there, ma'am, when the airplane took off," Miller said.

"You were there?" she challenged.

"Yes, ma'am," he said and handed her his Army identification card. "I'm an Army officer. I was the assistant military attache in Luanda."

"I thought you said you was from the Homeland Security?"

"Jesus, Mary-Elizabeth, put a lid on it!" Halloran snapped. He snatched the card from his wife's hand, examined it, and handed it back to Miller.

"Major, huh? You said you was there when it took off?"

"I happened to be at the airport," Miller said. "I saw it take off. And then, when we-the embassy, I mean-learned it had refused orders to return to the field, I was sent to the hotel to see what I could find out about Captain MacIlhenny. The manager let me into Captain MacIlhenny's room. And it was clear that he hadn't taken his luggage with him. Or even packed it:"

"Leading you to believe what?" Halloran interrupted.

"I think somebody made him fly that airplane off," Miller said.

"Like who?"

"Like someone who wanted to use it for parts, maybe," Miller said.

"Yeah," Halloran said. "So what are you doing here, Major?"

"I've been temporarily assigned to Homeland Security to see if I can find out what really happened to that airplane. And Captain MacIlhenny."

"So what's your theory, Mr. Assistant Attache, or whatever you said you are, about what happened to my brother?"

"I just don't know, ma'am," Miller said.

"They got him to fly the airplane where they wanted it and then they killed him," Halloran said.

"How can you even think such a thing?" Mrs. Halloran challenged.

"I'm facing facts, is what I'm doing," Halloran said.

"We just don't know," Miller said.

"What we're wondering is if there's a Philadelphia connection," Castillo said.

"Meaning what?" Mrs. Halloran demanded from behind the handkerchief into which she was sniffing.

"Meaning the airplane was there for over a year," Miller said. "Maybe somebody here-somebody who works for Lease-Aire-knew it was getting ready to fly:"

"Bullshit," Mrs. Halloran said. "You see what he's doing, Terry, I hope? He's trying to get us to say we let somebody know the airplane was there available to get stolen. They stole it and we collect the insurance."

"That's just not true, Mrs. Halloran," Castillo said.

Mrs. Halloran snorted.

"We don't have many employees," Halloran said. "We contract out just about everything. But that's possible, I suppose."

"All it would take would be someone who could overhear something, maybe Captain MacIlhenny saying he was going to Africa, saying when he expected to be back, something like that," Castillo said.

"About the time he was packing up to go over there, we had an MD-10 in the hangar," Halloran said. "Got it from Delta. We were cleaning it up. I mean, we had ACSInc.-that means Aviation Cleaning Services, Inc.'-in the hangar. But what they send us is a bunch of North Philadelphia blacks. You know, minimum wage. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to wash an airplane. I can't believe any of them would be smart enough to get into something like that. No offense, Major."

"None taken," Miller said. "But maybe if the thieves-let's go with the idea there are thieves-maybe they told the airplane cleaners what to look for."

"Yeah," Halloran said, thoughtfully.

"Have you got the payroll records of these people?" Betty asked.

"No," he replied. "ASCInc. does all that. We pay by the body/hour. And ASCInc. handles the security, you know, to get them onto the airport. But they'd have a list of the names."

"Where are they?" Castillo asked.

"Out at the airport," Halloran said. "Two hangars down from ours." He looked at Castillo. "Would you like me to go out there with you?"

"We'd appreciate that very much, Mr. Halloran," Betty said.

"Well, let me change clothes and get a quick shave," he said. "Could I interest you in a beer while you wait?"

"You certainly could," Castillo said.

"I sure hope you know what you're doing, Terry," Mrs. Halloran said.

"I'm doing the best I can," he said as he bent over the cooler. He came out with three cans of Budweiser and passed them around. "At least these people don't think we're trying to rip off the insurance company."

The next step, Castillo thought, once they had the names of the work crew, was to see if there was a match with any names the cops had. There were several problems with that. For one thing, if there was a terrorist connection they would probably use aphony name. Or if they used the name they were born with the cops might not have it. They would know John James Smith as Abdullah bin Rag-head, his Muslim name. Or if security was anywhere near as tight as it was supposed to be, airport passes would not be given to anyone on the cops' suspicious list. That didn't rule out a bad guy, who couldn't get a pass because the cops were watching him, getting his brother or girlfriend, who had not come to the attention of the cops, a pass to look for what he wanted to know.

Or a bad guy who couldn't get an airfield pass knew somebody who had a pass and borrowed it to get on the field. It was unlikely that anyone took a close look at a work gang coming onto the airfield. If they had a pass hanging around their neck, that would be good enough.

They would have to do a check on friends and relatives of everybody who had worked in the Lease-Aire hangar when MacIlhenny had been getting ready to go to Luanda. That was going to take time – a lot of time.

This was likely to be a wild-goose chase.

If anything was going to pop up, it probably would come from the undercover cops Chief Inspector Kramer had inside the AAL – African American Lunatic – groups.

But you never knew. Wild-goose chase or not, it had to be done.

"It won't take me long," Halloran said and headed for his house.

Castillo held open the front door of the unmarked car.

"Why don't you ride up in front with Sergeant Schneider, Mr. Halloran?"

Halloran considered that.

"No," he said. "I'll get in the back with the major. That'll really give my goddamned neighbors something to talk about. 'You saw the cops hauling Halloran off?' "

"They won't think that," Castillo said.

"You don't know my goddamned neighbors," Halloran said and got in the backseat.

Castillo got in beside Sergeant Schneider.

"Lucky you," she said, softly.

"No good deed goes unpunished," Castillo said.

She smiled at him and their eyes met momentarily again as she started the car.

Castillo wondered if Chief Inspector Kramer had managed to make contact with one or more of his undercover cops.

And he wondered how long it was going to take for somebody-probably a spook using a CIA-controlled satellite-to find out whether the 727 was, or had been, in Abeche. All Secretary Hall had said was that they hoped to have confirmation, one way or the other, soon.

Castillo looked at his watch.

It was five minutes after eleven. He thought that made it five after five in the afternoon in Abeche. He wondered what time sunset was there. Not long after that, certainly. If the CIA had not managed to get satellites over Abeche by now-or, say, in the next hour-daylight would be gone and they'd have to rely on heat-sensing techniques, which were not nearly as good.

[THREE]

Aboard Royal Air Maroc 905

Flight level 35,000 feet

19.55 degrees North Latitude

22.47 degrees East Longitude

1705 9 June 2005

"About seven minutes, Colonel," the pilot's voice came over the cabin loudspeaker. "Starting to slow it down now. I'll depressurize in about five minutes. I'll give you a heads-up."

Lieutenant Colonel Thomas J. Davenport, Special Forces, U.S. Army, a tall, lithe thirty-nine-year-old, glanced at his team of paratroopers prepping for the High Altitude, Low Opening (Halo) jump and nodded. He touched a small microphone button on his chest. "Understand seven minutes," he said. "How do you read?"

"Loud and clear, five by five," the pilot replied.

Colonel Davenport's mouth and nose were hidden by a black rubber oxygen mask. The rest of his face and neck were just about covered with a brownish black grease. He was wearing what looked like black nylon tights.

Davenport looked at his watch. It told him that he-and everybody else in the rear cabin-had been taking oxygen for the past hour and eleven minutes. On one wall of the cabin was a rack of oxygen bottles and a distribution system to which everybody was connected by a rubber umbilical cord, which also carried current to the jump suits.

What looked like black tights were actually state-of-the-art cold weather gear. Several thin layers of insulating material were laced with wire-like a toaster-providing heat. The heating wire current would be activated just before depressurization of the rear cabin began. Timing here was critical. The heating system was very efficient. If the heating wire was turned on too soon-when the cabin temperature was not double digits below zero-the jumpers would be quickly sweat soaked and suffering the effects of too much heat.

In theory, the heat generated was thermostatically controlled. And that usually worked. Usually.

Presuming it did and the jumpers exited the aircraft neither sweat soaked nor frozen, when the umbilical severed, a battery strapped to the right leg would continue to power the heating wires. Similarly, at the cutoff of the umbilical, oxygen would be fed to the jumper's mask from an oxygen flask strapped to him.

In theory, an hour of the oxygen-which everyone called "Oh-Two" because of its chemical symbol-was sufficient to drive the nitrogen from the blood of the jumpers, so they would not suffer the very-high-altitude version of the bends when the cabin was depressurized and then when they were falling through the sky. Flight level 35,000 is in the troposphere.

The theory presumed that every jumper had breathed nothing but pure oxygen for an hour and that he had not taken off his mask long enough to have taken even one breath of the "normal" air in the pressurized cabin. Taking even one breath of normal air set the one hour on Oh-Two timer back to zero.

The cabin was pressurized to protect the jumpers against the temperatures of the troposphere. The temperature outside an aircraft at 35,000 feet above the earth is about forty degrees below zero-on both the Fahrenheit and the Celsius scales, interestingly.

Colonel Davenport moved a lever which changed his microphone's function from PRESS-TO-TALK to VOICE ACTUATED.

"Okay. In six-fifteen, we will start to depressurize. Balaclavas and helmets now. Carefully. Carefully."

The balaclava mask came from the ski slopes. It was knitted of wool and covered the entire head except for the eyes. The ones used by Gray Fox were black. They were protection against cold, of course, but they also effectively concealed facial features.

Holding their breath, the jumpers removed their oxygen masks, quickly pulled the balaclavas over their heads, replaced the oxygen masks, and then quickly put their helmets on. The helmets had plastic face shields.

"Everybody manage to do that the way it's supposed to be done?" Colonel Davenport inquired, almost conversationally.

Three "Yes, sir"s and two "Check"s came over the earphones.

Captain Roger F. Stevenson, Special Forces, U.S. Army, who was also lithe and a head taller than Colonel Davenport but whose skin did not require what he thought of as makeup to hopefully give the appearance that he was of the Negroid race, walked up to Colonel Davenport.

"Permission to speak freely, sir?"

"Right now, anything your little heart desires, Roger. What's on your mind?"

"With all respect, sir, you don't look like one of us. When you take off the balaclava, you'll look like Al Jolson."

"Oh, and I tried so hard," Colonel Davenport said with a feminine lisp as he put his hand on his hip. "You've just ruined my whole day, Roger."

Stevenson smiled but went on.

"One look at you, Colonel, and the sure to be unfriendly natives are going to say, 'Who dat skinny white man wit all dat black grease on his face?' Or words to that effect."

"I think you're trying to tell me something, Roger."

"Sir, I respectfully suggest (a) that we're prepared to do this job by ourselves and (b) your presence is therefore not necessary and (c) if anybody sees you:"

"That has been considered by General McNab," Davenport said. "Who has ordered me to go. It doesn't mean that either General McNab or I think you couldn't handle what has to be done. You should know better than that by now."

"Did the general, sir, share his thinking with you? Can you share it with me?"

"He used the phrase 'If there's a change in the orders, I want you there.' I think he thinks we may be ordered to take out the airplane. If it's there."

"I know how to do that, sir."

"I know you do. What I think he was really saying was that if the circumstances look like it's the thing to do, we should take the airplane out without orders. And he wants me to make that decision. You shouldn't be put in a spot like that. If there's a flap, all they can do is retire me; I've got my twenty years. You don't. And Gray Fox needs you, Roger. I'm actually getting a little too old for this sort of thing."

"I'll take my chances with a flap, sir."

"You just proved, Captain, the wisdom of General McNab's reasoning," Davenport said, and now there was an edge in his voice. "Think that over as we float silently through the African sky. Now, go see to your men."

For a moment, it looked as if Stevenson was going to say something else but all that came over the earphones was, "Yes, sir."

Stevenson walked toward the rear of the aircraft where four other men in black tights were checking-again, for the fourth or fifth time-their gear. With their balaclavas and helmets in place, it was hard to tell by looking but two of them were African American, one was a dark-skinned Latin, and the fourth Caucasian.

When the latter two took off their masks, as they almost certainly would do sometime during the reconnaissance phase of this operation, they would also look like Al Jolson about to sing "Mammy" in the world's first talking movie, Captain Stevenson thought.

One of the modifications to the aircraft had been the installation of an airtight interior door about halfway down the passenger compartment. This permitted the rear section of the fuselage to be depressurized at altitude while leaving the forward section pressurized.

The seats had been removed from the rear section. The walls held racks for weapons, radios, parachutes, and other equipment, as well as an array of large bottles of oxygen.

The rear stair door had been extensively-and expensively-modified. It had come from the factory with fixed steps, for the on- and off-loading of passengers. They had been designed to be opened when the aircraft was on the ground and not moving.

Metal workers had spent long hours modifying the steps and their opening mechanisms. Three-quarters of the stairs-the part that had been designed to come into contact with the ground-had been rehinged near the foot and fitted with a opening mechanism that, when activated, allowed the steps to be raised into the fuselage.

The original opening/closing mechanism had been modified to handle what was now a four-step doorstep. The lowering mechanism now had enough power to force open the door into the air flowing past the fuselage at 170 or more miles per hour. It had also been necessary to reinforce the door itself to stand up against the force of the slipstream, and everything on the step that could possibly snag equipment had been faired over.

The parachutes the jumpers would use were essentially modified sports parachutes. That is, when deployed they looked more like the wings of an ultralight aircraft than an umbrella. And they could be "flown." Instead of falling more or less straight downward as a parachutist using a conventional canopy does, the "wing chutes" could, by manipulation, exchange downward velocity for forward movement. They could travel as much as thirty miles horizontally after exiting the aircraft.

The parachutes-the wings-were larger than civilian sports parachutes because they had to carry more weight. The jumpers would take with them a large assortment of equipment, including weapons, radios, rations, water, and what they all hoped would turn out to be authentic-looking clothing as worn by native Chadians.

Each jumper would carry with him a Global Positioning System satellite receiver connected to him by a strong nylon cord. The coordinates of the field at Abeche were known within feet. A position one hundred yards off the north end of the runway had been fed to the device. The GPS device had two modes. Mode I showed a map of the area and the present position of the GPS receiver-the jumper-with regard to the selected destination. Mode II showed, with an arrow, the direction to the selected position and the distance in kilometers and meters. In Mode II, the GPS device also combined GPS position, GPS altitude, and topographical mapping to give the jumpers a remarkably clear picture of the terrain onto which they were dropping.

All of this data would be shown on the face mask of their helmets in a "heads-up" display very similar to that which is provided to pilots of high-performance fighter aircraft and advanced helicopters.

Although each man on the team had been allowed to select his own weaponry for the mission-Colonel Davenport didn't think he should superimpose his notions of ideal weaponry on men who were almost as highly skilled and experienced in keeping themselves and their teammates alive as he was-when he had inspected the weaponry just before takeoff he saw that they had all chosen just about the same gear.

Everyone had a 5.56mm M-4 carbine, which was a cut-down and otherwise modified version of the standard M16A2 Army rifle. These carbines had had another modification: Special Warfare Center armorers had installed "suppressors." They didn't actually silence the sound of firing but the sound was substantially reduced, as was the muzzle flash.

Each man had elected to carry from eight to a dozen spare thirty-round magazines. Everybody, too, had chosen to take eight to a dozen minigrenades. They weren't anywhere near as lethal as the standard grenades because of their small size. But they were lethal up close, and they were noisy. They came in handy to encourage a pursuer to pursue slowly and to confuse him about the direction you were taking.

A relatively new, very small and light-about two pounds-antipersonnel mine also served as a fine tool to discourage pursuers. When activated, the mines threw out a very fine, very hard to see wire in five directions. Detonation came as a great surprise to anyone who stepped on any of the wires.

Colonel Davenport's inspection had turned up twenty-four of the miniature mines among the team's weaponry-in addition to the four he would jump with himself. He was also carrying a silenced (as opposed to suppressed). 22 caliber pistol in case it was necessary to take someone out silently. Davenport knew that Captain Stevenson was similarly armed, and, although he hadn't seen any during the inspection at Pope AFB, he supposed that there were two-or more-silenced. 22s in the team's gear.

There was also a variety of knives strapped to boots, harnesses, or in pockets. Colonel Davenport personally was not much of a fan of the knife as a lethal weapon. He had been known to comment that if you were close enough to cut someone's throat with a knife, you were also close enough to put a. 22 bullet in his ear, and that was a lot less messy.

On this mission, it was devoutly hoped they could accomplish what they had been ordered to do without unsheathing a knife, much less using any of their other weaponry.

"Colonel," the pilot's voice came over the speaker. "I'm going to open it up in sixty seconds."

"Go," Colonel Davenport said.

"Sixty, fifty-nine, fifty-eight:" the pilot began to count.

Davenport and the others, moving with speed that had come only after long practice, checked the functioning of all their Halo equipment-the oxygen masks and the flask that would jump with them; the functioning of the headsets for their man-to-man radios; the GPS receivers; and the umbilical they would leave behind on the aircraft. This was best done with the fingers. Only after everything had been checked and found functioning did anyone begin pulling on their electrically heated gloves.

": Five, four, three, two, one. Depressurizing now," the pilot's voice said.

"Radio check," Colonel Davenport ordered.

One by one, everybody checked in.

"Compartment altitude fifteen kay," the pilot reported.

"Everybody's magic compass working?" Colonel Davenport inquired.

He got a thumbs-up from everyone.

"Compartment altitude twenty kay," the pilot reported. "Airspeed four-two-five."

"Check everybody," Davenport ordered Stevenson, who nodded.

"Compartment altitude twenty-five kay," the pilot reported.

Davenport walked to the rear of the compartment, where he got into his parachute harness and then helped Stevenson get into his.

"Compartment altitude thirty kay," the pilot reported. "Airspeed three-zero-zero."

"Okay, that's it. We're decompressed," the pilot said. "As soon as I can slow it down a little more, I'll start opening the door. Airspeed now two-six-zero."

"Okay, here goes the door. Slowly. Indicating two-two-zero."

There was a whine of hydraulics, followed by a first blast of cold air, as the door pushed into the slipstream, and then a steady, powerful rush of extremely cold air.

The door acted as sort of an air brake, slowing the aircraft now more quickly.

"One-ninety, one-eighty-five, one-eighty, one-seventy-five. One-seventy. Holding at one-seven-zero," the pilot reported.

The door step was now open.

Davenport went to it and waited until Stevenson hoisted his parachute and then connected it to him. Then he sat down on the floor and, reaching beside him, placed a bag connected to his harness on the stairs in front of him.

One by one, the others took their places behind him. The next-to-last man connected Stevenson's parachute to his harness and then got in line. Finally, Stevenson got in the line of jumpers.

"Everybody ready?" Colonel Davenport asked.

Everybody checked in.

"Pilot?" Davenport inquired.

"About two minutes, Colonel."

"Two minutes," Davenport responded.

"You ready, Colonel?" the pilot inquired.

"Ready."

"Fifteen seconds, thirteen, eleven, nine, seven, five, four, three, two, one."

Colonel Davenport walked awkwardly down the steps and then pushed himself off and into the air. The slipstream caught his body and hurled him away from the airplane.

It would take him five seconds, maybe a little more, until he could gain control of his fall and assume the position-facedown, legs and arms spread-that he would keep until he popped his parachute.

The object was to get out of the deadly cold troposphere before the toaster battery ran out of juice and the Oh-Two flask was empty. Otherwise, you died.

As quickly as they could, the others waddled under the weight of their equipment to the steps and went down them and into the night.

"Everything go all right?" the pilot radioed.

When there was no answer, he repeated the question.

When there was no answer again, he said to the copilot, "Michael, get on the horn and give them, 'Mail in the box at seventeen-twenty-two.' "

Then he reached for the control that would retract the stairs and door into place. When the green lights came on, he tripped the lever that would pressurize the rear cabin.

[FOUR]

Philadelphia International Airport

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

1345 9 June 2005

"That's him," Mr. Terrence Halloran said, indicating with a nod of his head a guy in a white Jaguar XJ-8 pulling up to the hangar.

"Finally," Major H. Richard Miller, Jr., said, softly and bitterly. They had been waiting for him since quarter to twelve.

A very large African American in his late thirties got out of the car. Not without difficulty. He was as tall as Miller but at least fifty pounds heavier. Castillo had the unkind thought that this guy didn't get in the Jaguar; he put it on. He was wearing a green polo shirt, powder blue slacks, alligator loafers, a gold Rolex, and had gold chains around his neck and both wrists.

"What the hell is so important, Halloran?" he greeted them.

"These people need to talk to you, Ed," Halloran said. "Mr. Castillo, this is Ed Thome, who owns Aviation Cleaning Services, Inc."

"I'm with the Secret Service, Mr. Thome," Castillo said and held his Secret Service identification folder out to Thome.

Thorne examined it and then pointed at Miller and Sergeant Schneider.

"And these two?" he asked.

"I'm Sergeant Schneider of the Philadelphia PD," Betty said.

"My name is Miller, Mr. Thorne. I work for Mr. Castillo."

"So what's this all about?"

"We need to look at some of your personnel records, Mr. Thorne," Castillo said. "Specifically, we need the names and addresses, etcetera, of the people who you sent to work at Lease-Aire from May first through the fifteenth."

"No fucking way," Thorne said.

"Excuse me?" Castillo said.

"I said, 'No fucking way,' " Thorne said.

"Mr. Thorne, perhaps you don't understand," Castillo said. "I'm with the Secret Service. We're asking for your cooperation in an investigation we're conducting:"

"What kind of an investigation? Investigating what?"

"The disappearance of the Lease-Aire 727 in Africa," Castillo said.

"Yeah, that's what I figured. What are you trying to do, tie me to that?"

"No, sir, we are not. But we'd like to check out the people, your people, who worked for Lease-Aire in the:"

"You didn't think I was really going to hand over my personnel records to you just like that," Mr. Thorne said and snapped his fingers. "What are you trying to do, get me fucking sued?"

"Mr. Thorne:" Castillo began.

"You got some kind of a search warrant?"

"We hoped that wouldn't be necessary," Castillo said. "We were hoping for your cooperation."

"You get a search warrant and run it past my attorney."

"That would take time we just don't have, Mr. Thorne," Castillo said.

"You don't look stupid," Thorne said. "What part of 'No fucking way' don't you understand?"

"Mr. Thorne," Miller said, courteously. "Can I have a private word with you?"

Thorne looked at him with contempt.

"Please?" Miller asked.

Thorne shrugged his massive shoulders.

"Thank you," Miller said, courteously. "Over there, maybe?" he asked, indicating the space between two of the hangars.

Thorne shrugged his shoulders again.

"Make this quick," he said. "I have business to attend to."

"I'll try," Miller said with a smile.

Thorne walked a few steps into the space between the two hangars and turned.

"Okay, brother," he said. "Like I said, make it quick."

Two seconds later, he found his face scraping painfully against the concrete-block wall of the hangar. His arm was twisted painfully upward on his back.

"What the fuck?" he protested and then yelped with pain.

"Didn't your mother, back in the kennel, try to teach you not to use that word in the presence of ladies?" Miller asked, almost conversationally.

"Let me the fuck go!" Thorne yelped. Then yelped again in pain.

"You're apparently retarded, blubber belly, so I'll speak slowly," Miller said. "To begin, I'm not your brother. I'm an officer of the federal government, conducting an investigation. And you are not cooperating. That annoys me. When I'm annoyed, I tend to hurt whoever is annoying me. You understand that?"

Thorne yelped again in pain.

"Good," Miller said.

"You'll go to fucking jail for this," Thorne said.

He yelped again in pain.

"There's that naughty word again," Miller said. "You really are a slow learner, aren't you?"

Thorne groaned as his arm was pushed farther upward.

"Say, 'Yes, sir,' " Miller said.

There was no response until after Thorne again yelped-this time almost pathetically-after which he said, "Yes, sir. Jesus Christ, man!"

"Let's talk about jail," Miller said. "I'm not going to jail. You are. You will be charged with assault upon a federal officer, which is a felony calling for five years' imprisonment. During the assault your shoulder was dislocated. If you say 'fuck' one more time, both shoulders. That smarts."

Thorne groaned again as Miller demonstrated the pain which accompanies a shoulder about to be dislocated.

"That white man out there is a supervisory special agent of the Secret Service. Who do you think a judge is going to believe, him or a fat slob wearing gold chains and a Rolex who got rich exploiting his African American brothers and sisters by paying them minimum wage to clean dirty airplanes?"

"Jesus Christ, man!"

"Yahoo," Miller said. "You know what that means, blubber belly?"

Thorne shook his head and moaned.

"You Always Have Other Options," Miller said. "You understand? Say, 'Yes, sir.' "

Thorne audibly drew a painful breath, then said, "Yes, sir."

"Would you like to know what your other option is? Say, 'Yes, sir.' "

"Yes, sir," Thorne said, nodding.

"We go back out there and I tell Mr. Castillo that after talking it over you decided that you were wrong and now realize it is your duty as a citizen to cooperate with the investigation and that just as soon as we can get to your office you'll give us whatever records we want. You understand your other option? Say, 'Yes, sir.' "

"Okay, okay. Jesus!"

He yelped in pain, then said, "Yes, sir."

"And which option do you choose, blubber belly? You cooperate? Or you go to the slam with both arms hanging loosely from your shoulders?"

"Okay, I'll cooperate. I'll cooperate."

"Good."

"Are you going to let me go now?"

"One more thing. If you say 'fuck' one more time in the presence of that lady, I will rip your arm off and shove it up your fat ass. Understand? Say, 'Yes, sir.' "

"Yes, sir," Thorne said.

"I had the feeling you and I could work this out amicably between us," Miller said and let him go.

[FIVE]

Philadelphia Police Department

Counterterrorism Bureau

Frankford Industrial Complex

Building 110

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

1505 9 June 2005

"It's going to take some time to check out all these people," Chief Inspector Kramer said, tapping his fingers on the stack of Daily Employment Records Mr. Ed Thorne of Aviation Cleaning Services, Inc., had somewhat less than graciously provided to them, and then went on to explain, "I want to run them past as many people as I can, not just the undercover guys."

"I understand," Castillo said. "Have you been able to contact any of your undercover people?"

"All of them," Kramer said. "But all that means is they know we want a meet. The problem is setting up the meets. That has to be done very carefully. And that won't happen in the daytime."

He paused and then raised his eyes to Castillo. "Is there anything else you'd like to look into, like to see?"

Castillo smiled. "You mean that not only wouldn't we be useful around here but in the way?"

"You said it, I didn't," Kramer said.

"Dick, when was the last time you saw the Liberty Bell?" Castillo asked.

"Aside from driving past it, I guess I was in the eighth grade," Miller replied.

"I think maybe you should have a fresh look at it," Castillo said.

"Good idea," Kramer said, smiling. "If anything opens up, I'll give you a call."

"I'm sure you noticed the no parking sign," Miller said to Betty Schneider as she slowed the Crown Victoria, stopped, turned on the seat, and started to back up to the Market Street curb.

He was in the front passenger seat beside her.

"Not only can I read but I can tie my own shoes," she said. "We're on official police business."

She saw Castillo smiling and smiled back.

"Tell him, Sarge," Castillo said.

"That's a National Park Service sign," Miller argued, pointing. "Does that 'official police business' business work on the feds? On federal property?"

"Market Street belongs to Philadelphia," she said. "Federal property begins just past the sidewalk." She pointed down the open area to the structure erected over the Liberty Bell and to Constitution Hall behind it. "Sometimes, there's a jurisdictional problem."

"Really? How so?" Castillo asked.

She was getting out of the car and didn't reply.

When he was standing on the sidewalk, Castillo saw a Philadelphia police officer walking quickly down the sidewalk toward them. Then the policeman took a close look at the car, nodded, half smiled, and started walking back up Market Street, toward City Hall.

He sensed that Betty had seen him watching the policeman.

"How did he know you were a cop?" Castillo asked. "And on official business?"

"Masculine intuition, is what I think they call it," she said.

"Touche," Castillo chuckled.

"I don't think I've been here since eighth grade, either," Betty said as they started to walk down the plaza toward the Liberty Bell and Constitution Hall.

"I don't remember that," Miller said, pointing at the words cast into the bell.

"I thought everyone knew that 'Proclaim LIBERTY throughout all the Land unto all the Inhabitants thereof was cast into the bell," Castillo said, piously. "How many times did you say they kept you behind in the eighth grade?"

Betty smiled and shook her head. Concealing the fingers of his right hand from Betty with the palm of his left hand, Miller gave Castillo the finger.

"I meant that they misspelled Pennsylvania, wiseass," Miller said. "Only one n."

Castillo looked.

"So they did," he said. "I guess they had trouble with eighth grade, too."

"It also says the 'Province' of Pennsylvania," Betty said. "I never saw that before. I always thought it was called a 'commonwealth.' "

Miller walked around the bell. Castillo looked down the plaza toward Market Street.

"What are you thinking?" Betty asked.

"It's a beautiful day."

"It is, but that's not what you're thinking," she said.

"No," he admitted. "I was thinking that on the tenth of September there were probably fewer than fifty people who considered suicidal lunatics crashing airliners into the World Trade Center was even a remote possibility."

"And you think an attack here is likely, right?"

"I wish I didn't," he said. "And I feel a little guilty doing nothing about it but playing tourist."

"Until Chief Inspector Kramer runs those names past everybody, including the undercover people, what else can you do?"

He shrugged. "That's what I've been telling myself."

Miller came walking quickly back to them.

"Think of something?" Castillo asked.

"My mother," Miller said. "I promised to call her when I knew if we could come to supper. I've got to tell her one way or the other. She really wants to see you, Charley."

Castillo looked at Betty.

"Do your radios work as far as Bala Cynwyd?"

"Sure," she replied, "and then we have this cellular phone gadget."

"Dick, call your mommy and tell her the cops are bringing you home again," Castillo said.

Betty chuckled and smiled at Castillo.

"Can we?" Miller asked. "What about Kramer?"

"He calls, we go," Castillo said. "We're not doing anything useful here."

"She really wants to see you, Charley," Miller repeated.

Castillo gestured in the direction of Market Street and they started to walk toward the car.

Castillo looked at his watch. It was ten minutes to four.

1550 here is 2150 in Abeche. Which means it's dark. I don't know what the CIA had to do to get satellites over Abeche but they probably couldn't do it before nightfall, which means they're having to use infrared and other exotic technology, which obviously hasn't worked. Secretary Hall would have called to tell me what the CIA reported, one way or the other. Which means we don't know if that goddamned airplane is – or was – there. And won't know until daylight, when the satellites can work their photo magic. Which doesn't always work.

Jesus, getting a call from Hall means my phone has to be working.

When was the last time I checked the battery?

He took his cellular out and looked at it.

There was still some battery charge left but not much.

He saw Betty's eyes on him.

"I'm going to have to charge this soon," he said.

"I've got a plug-it-in-the-lighter charger in my purse," Betty said, inspecting the fitting on Castillo's phone. "It'll probably fit your phone."

When they reached Market Street and the unmarked car, Castillo got in the passenger seat beside Betty. She fished in her purse and came out with a phone charger and handed it to him.