By Order of the President

Chapter XIV

[ONE]

Fort Bragg, North Carolina

2250 9 June 2005

The VIP suite into which Castillo was installed had a bedroom, a sitting room with a small dining room table at one side, a small office, and a kitchenette. It was about two-thirds the size of his apartment in the Mayflower.

It also came with a young sergeant in a crisply pressed desert camouflage battle dress uniform.

"Can I have the sergeant fix you something to drink, sir?" General Gonzalez's aide-de-camp asked.

He was a captain. His name tag said BREWSTER. He had a CIB and senior parachutist's wings sewn above his pocket. And there was a Ranger tab sewn to his sleeve above the XVIII Airborne Corps shoulder insignia. But his beret was black-as General Gonzalez's beret had been, Castillo remembered-so neither Captain Brewster nor General Gonzalez was Special Forces. Green Beanies wore green berets, of which they were justifiably proud.

What color beret does General McNab wear these days? Black or green?

Whatever color pleases him, obviously.

"No," Castillo said. "What you can do is point me in the direction of the booze and send the sergeant home."

"Yes, sir," the aide said, not quite able to conceal his surprise at Castillo's abruptness.

Castillo picked up on it.

Jesus Christ, what's the matter with me?

"Sergeant, I've had a bad day," Castillo said. "What I'm going to do is have one drink and then get in bed. There's no sense in you sticking around for that."

"Yes, sir," the sergeant asked. "Sir, what are your breakfast plans?"

"Nothing beyond a cup of coffee. Is there a coffee machine in the kitchen?"

"Yes, sir. But I'd be happy:"

"Is there someplace I can call you if I need you?"

"The number of the protocol office is taped to the telephones, sir, if you need anything."

"Thank you, Sergeant," Castillo said and smiled at him.

When the sergeant had gone, Castillo looked at Captain Brewster.

"I didn't mean to snap at the sergeant," Castillo said.

"I'm sure there's no problem, sir," Captain Brewster said.

"I can fix myself a drink and get in bed by myself, Captain," Castillo said. "There's no reason for you to stick around, either."

"I can stick around outside the suite if that would make you more comfortable, sir, but:"

"But General Gonzalez said stay with him, right?"

"Yes, sir."

Castillo walked into the small kitchen, where he had seen a line of bottles on a counter under the closets.

"I know how that is. I been dere, done dat, got duh T-shirt," Castillo said.

Captain Brewster smiled.

"You want one of these?" Castillo asked, holding up a bottle of scotch.

"I better not."

"As one dog robber to another, I won't tell your general."

" 'Dog robber'?"

"General McNab told me, when I was wearing the rope," Castillo said, touching his shoulder where the aiguillette of aides-de-camp hung from the epaulets of dress uniforms, "that when he had worn the rope as a young officer aides-decamp were known as 'dog robbers' because they were expected to do whatever was required, including robbing from dogs, to make their general happy."

"I never heard that," Brewster said, smiling. Then he nodded at the bottle Castillo was holding. "Okay. Why not? Thank you."

Castillo poured whiskey in a glass and handed it to him.

"How long were you General McNab's aide?" Brewster asked.

"Too long," Charley said. "Twenty-two months. Long enough to know that when he finds out I spent the night in the VIP quarters, he will have something unpleasant to say."

Brewster chuckled.

"How about you?"

"It's supposed to be for a year," Brewster said. "Another two months."

"And then?" Castillo said, handing him a glass of whiskey. "I suppose there's ice and water, but I drink mine neat."

"Neat's fine," Brewster said, then added: "I put in for Special Forces. Maybe I'll get lucky and make the cut."

Castillo's cellular phone rang.

"Hello?"

There was a buzz and then a click.

Castillo put the telephone back in his shirt pocket.

"Bad connection?" Captain Brewster asked.

No, that was probably from a renegade FBI agent who works for a Russian arms dealer who wants (a) to know where I am and (b) that I be impressed with his ability to find that out.

Castillo nodded and said, "I'll bet it rings again in a minute."

He pressed the timer button on his watch and then tipped glasses with Brewster.

Then he took the telephone out again and pressed an autodial button.

Screw Kennedy. When he calls back, my voice mail can answer – and I bet he won't leave a message, even to let me know he knows where I am.

"Yes?" the woman's voice answered.

"Is this my favorite female law enforcement officer?"

"Not now. Call back in ten minutes," Sergeant Betty Schneider replied, curtly.

"Is something wrong?" Castillo asked. Even as he spoke the words, he knew she had broken the connection and he was speaking to a dead telephone.

What the hell! Has something gone wrong with Dick?

"Favorite female law enforcement officer?" Captain Harry Brewster asked with a knowing smile.

The look Captain Brewster got from Major Castillo told him he had crossed a dangerous line.

Castillo took a sip of his drink.

The last thing I need is liquor. My brain is already slipping gears. Jesus, I called the SWC instead of XVIII Airborne Corps!

On the other hand, as keyed up as I am I'll never get to sleep tonight without a little sauce to slow me down.

And even if Dick is at this moment being roasted over a slow fire by the African American Lunatics in Philadelphia, there is not a goddamned thing I can do about it in Fort Bragg.

He took another sip and had just taken the glass from his lips when the telephone rang again.

He snatched it almost angrily from his pocket.

"Yeah?"

"Your phone has been out of service," Howard Kennedy said.

"Aren't you going to tell me where I am?"

"That tells me you are probably no longer in Philadelphia."

"Where are you?"

"Somewhere over North Carolina, I would guess. Using one of those back-of-the-seat, ten-dollars-a-minute telephones. You're not going to tell me where you are?"

"What are you doing somewhere over North Carolina? Going somewhere?"

"Cancun, actually," Kennedy said. "Okay. Now it's your turn."

Since I don't know that he's actually in an airplane en route to Mexico, and may have been in touch with his friends in the wireless telephone business, and is entirely capable of-entirely likely to – see if I'm lying to him, it's truth time.

"Would you believe the VIP guest quarters at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, Howard?"

"Of course. Since we have agreed to be entirely truthful with one another. What the hell are you doing in Fort Bragg? Do you have something you want to share with me?"

He seems genuinely surprised. Or is it that he's almost as skilled a liar as I am?

"The answer to question one is that I'm here because my boss sent me here. He has not seen fit to explain his reasons. And, no, I don't have anything much to share with you. Miller's still in Philadelphia meeting with undercover cops. I don't know what-if anything-he's come up with, but I should hear something soon. If I do, how do I pass it on to you? I never tried to call anybody on an airliner before."

"Neither have I," Kennedy said. "But to demonstrate my faith in your veracity-taking a hell of a big chance, in other words, which I really hate to do-I'm on Mexicana 455, Newark to Mexico City. If you hear anything, give it a try, Charley. This is the age of miraculous communication. If that doesn't work-and I'm not met in Mexico City by representatives of my former employer-I'll call you from the airport."

"If anybody meets you, I didn't send them."

"Boy Scouts' honor?"

"Were you a Boy Scout?"

"Certainly. Weren't you?"

"I am now holding my pinky with my thumb, the other fingers extended vertically, my arm raised to shoulder level," Castillo said as he did so.

Captain Brewster, who could not hear the conversation but, as an Eagle Scout himself, knew the gesture, looked curiously at him.

"As one Boy Scout to another, I accept your word of honor," Kennedy said.

"Does that mean you're also going to tell me why you're going to Cancun?"

"I thought you'd never ask," Kennedy said. "Do you know where Khartoum is, Charley?"

"There's a K-town in Sudan."

"You're halfway to your World Geography merit badge. How about Murtala Muhammad International Airport?"

"You've got me there," Charley confessed after a moment.

"Lagos, Nigeria. Write that down."

"Is there a point to this quiz?"

"A 727 bearing the paint scheme of Air Suriname-you don't happen to know where Suriname is, do you, Charley?"

"Upper right corner of South America?"

"Not quite the upper-right corner; a little down the coast from the upper-right corner. But you got the continent right."

"You were saying?"

"An Air Suriname 727 landed at N'Djamena, Chad, after a flight from Khartoum, took on fuel-lots of fuel-filed a flight plan to Murtala Muhammad International Airport, which you now know is the airport serving Lagos, Nigeria, and took off." He paused to let that register, then added, "It never got to Murtala Muhammad International-"

"Okay. I follow. But-"

Kennedy ignored the interruption and continued: "Even more fascinating than that is the friendly folks in Khartoum tell us they have no record of Air Suriname 1101 having visited their airfield in the last six months."

Charley gestured almost frantically to Captain Brewster, miming writing. Brewster quickly took a small notebook and a ballpoint pen from a shoulder pocket of his BDU and handed it to him.

"So you think it's the one we're looking for?" Charley said as he hurriedly scribbled "Air Suriname" and the flight number in the notebook.

"I think it probably merits further investigation," Kennedy said, sarcastically. "Wouldn't you agree?"

"Absolutely. You don't happen to have the registration number?"

"P-Papa, Z-Zero, 5059. Fiver-Zero-Fiver-Niner."

Castillo scribbled PZ5059 in the notebook.

"I'll pass this right on," he said. "Thanks."

"You will tell them where it came from, won't you?"

"What if you're wrong?"

"I'll take that chance, Charley."

He's serious about that. He must believe what he's telling me. Or wants me to believe he's serious.

"Any idea where it really went?"

"There's any number of airfields on the west coast or Africa, some of them even sophisticated enough to have paved runways and navigation aids. If I had to guess, I'd say Yundum International."

"Yumdum?" Castillo blurted.

"Yundum, Why You En Dum. No Bee After Dum."

"Where the hell is that?"

"Outside Banjul. You know that charming metropolis, I'm sure."

"Come on, Howard!"

"How about Gambia? You do know where Gambia is, don't you?"

"West coast of Africa?"

"Next to Senegal," Kennedy said. "Banjul is maybe a hundred miles down the coast from Dakar."

"Why there?"

"It's a pretty good jumping-off place if you want to fly across the ocean."

"Cross it to where?" Castillo asked.

There was no response. Castillo thought he detected a change in the background hiss.

"Cross it to where?" he asked again, then added, "You still there, Howard?"

There was nothing but the hiss.

"Damn!" Charley said and pushed the hang-up key.

He sensed Captain Brewster's eyes on him.

"Cut off," Castillo explained and then pushed the autodial key for Betty Schneider again.

"Yeah?" Her voice came matter-of-factly over the cellular.

"Is everything all right?" Charley asked.

There was no reply for a moment and then Dick Miller came on the line.

"There's a connection," Miller said.

"You all right?"

"I've decided I don't want to be an undercover cop, but otherwise I'm fine."

"You're sure?"

"I'm fine, Charley."

"What kind of a connection?"

"Right now, I just know that. They're going to bring the undercover cop in. I don't really know what that means, but it's apparently damned hard to do. But if I get something concrete, I don't want to tell you over a cellular. I think you better get up here, Charley."

"Betty tell you where I am?"

"Yeah."

"I was ordered here, Dick," Castillo said. "I'm not sure I can come back up there. Not tonight, anyway. Jesus, I don't know how I'd get there. I'll get back to you. If it's really important, call Secretary Hall."

"It'll wait until you know for sure you can't get up here," Miller said.

"I'll get back to you, Dick," Castillo said and ended the call.

He pushed the autodial key for Secretary Hall, then changed his mind, broke off the call, and turned to Captain Brewster.

"What's General McNab's ETA here?"

Brewster obviously didn't want to answer the question and when he said, "I really don't know, sir," it was equally obvious that he was lying. "In the van on the way over here," Charley snapped, "General Whatsisname said something about everybody in the van being in on the Abeche Gray Fox operation, meaning you are. I really don't have the time to fuck with you, Brewster. Now, give me McNab's ETA or get General Whatsisname on the horn for me."

Brewster met his eyes for a moment, then shrugged. "It's General Gonzalez, Major. General McNab-and the backup force-will be airborne over Morocco in the Globemaster at midnight Bragg time. That's 0600 Abeche time. The extraction from Abeche is scheduled for daybreak-0612 Abeche time; twelve after midnight here. If the general gets a successful wheels-up report, he plans to head directly back here. If something goes wrong in Abeche:"

"If nothing goes wrong?"

"Then he should be on the ground here at about 0615."

"Thank you," Charley said and pressed the autodial key for Secretary Hall again.

"Charley, sir. I'm sorry I'm calling so late."

"I heard you were at Bragg. Any word about General McNab?"

"He'll probably be back here about six in the morning, sir."

"See what he has to say and call me as soon as you can."

"Yes, sir. There have been two developments, sir."

"Let's have them."

"I heard from my friend Kennedy. He believes the 727 is headed for someplace in South America, if it's not already there. It was in N'Djamena, Chad, took on a load of fuel, and filed a flight plan to Murtala Muhammad International Airport-Lagos, Nigeria-and took off. It never landed there:"

"Does it have the range to make it across the Atlantic from N'Djamena?" Secretary Hall interrupted.

"It might if those fuel bladders were installed," Charley said. "I just don't know. Kennedy thinks it probably went to Yundum International, in Gambia."

"Where?"

"On the west coast of Africa, about a hundred miles south of Dakar, Senegal."

"He say why there?"

"Kennedy said it's a convenient jumping-off place to cross the Atlantic to South America, which I suspect means he knows-probably from experience-that they don't ask too many questions of transient aircraft."

"He doesn't know or wouldn't tell you where the airplane is headed?"

"I think if he knew, he would have told me. He did tell me that it's been painted with the color scheme of Air Suriname, so it may be going there, operative word may. I have the new registration numbers."

"Let me have them. Wait 'til I get something to write with."

Charley covered the microphone with the heel of his hand and turned to Captain Brewster.

"When you report this conversation to General Gonzalez-and that had better be on your agenda-I'm talking to my boss, Matthew Hall, the secretary of Homeland Security. How much have you been able to overhear?"

Brewster looked uncomfortable but said, "Most of it."

"Okay, Charley," Hall's voice came faintly but clearly over the cellular, "let's have the numbers. You said Air Suriname, right?"

"Yes, sir. The numbers are Pas in Papa, Zas in Zero, 5059. Fiver-Zero-Fiver-Niner."

"Pee-Zee-fifty-fifty-nine?"

"Yes, sir."

"I'll get this to the CIA right away. Maybe, now that we have the registration numbers, their satellites may have a location on the plane."

"Sir, I just talked to Miller. He said he's come up with connections, plural, in Philadelphia."

"He say what they were?"

"We don't have secure phones, sir. He thinks I ought to hear what he's got in person. I'd like to go back up there."

"We need to know for sure what General McNab found out."

"Sir, what I was thinking was talk to General McNab, then go to Philadelphia."

"It would take you all day to go up there and back, Charley. And I agree with the secretary of defense that you should be at Bragg. Whatever happens, it will involve Gray Fox. Maybe all of Delta. You should be there, if for no other purpose than staying in the loop-and keeping me in it."

"Yes, sir. I agree. And I agree going commercial wouldn't work; it would take too long, and we're running out of time, but:"

"Yes, we are," Hall interrupted. "At four tomorrow afternoon, the police commissioner's going to tell the mayor what he knows. I don't even like to think what's going to happen when he does."

"Yes, sir. But if I had a plane, I could get up to Philadelphia and be back in a matter of hours."

"I need my plane here," Hall said, evenly, answering the question he expected next. "That's why it barely did more than a touch-and-go when it dropped you at Bragg."

"I can get a plane-I'm almost sure I can-but what I need is permission for it to land at Pope."

"What are you talking about, renting a plane yourself?"

"No, sir. My family has an airplane. I can-presuming it's not down for maintenance or something-just borrow it."

"You think it's important?"

"Yes, sir. I do. I also may need it to meet with Kennedy."

"Where is he?"

"I don't know, sir," Charley replied, comfortable in the fact that he did not know for certain if Kennedy was telling the truth about being en route to Mexico City and that it was always better to pass only information that had been confirmed. "But I expect another call at any time."

"I'm going to have to give the FBI this latest bulletin, and, when I do, they're going to ask where Kennedy is."

"I'm glad I really don't know, sir."

"Okay, Charley, I'll call Secretary Beiderman and have him get landing clearance for you."

"Thank you."

"Wait a minute, Charley. I just thought there's probably one-or more-of those Army Beechcraft King Airs:"

"C-12s," Charley furnished.

": at Fort Bragg. I can have Beiderman arrange for you to use one. For that matter, I can probably just as easily have Beiderman get you a small Air Force jet."

"Sir, that would cause problems, starting with talk. And I'd really rather have what the cops would call an unmarked airplane."

"But is your family's airplane fast enough? The clock is ticking."

"Yes, sir. It's a Learjet 45XR."

Castillo heard Hall exhale.

"You're going to borrow your family's Learjet 45XR?. Every time I think there's nothing else you could tell me that could possibly surprise me, you do. Okay, Charley. Do it your way. You better give me the registration numbers."

"Jesus, I don't know," Charley said and then corrected himself immediately. "Yeah, I do. I flew it into Baltimore just before I went to Angola. Five-Oh-Seven-Five."

"Learjet 45XR. Five-Oh-Seven-Five," Hall repeated. "Anything else, Charley?"

"I'm going to see if I can't borrow some Gray Fox radios," Charley said. "The secure kind."

"I can have Beiderman arrange that, too, if you want."

"I think the Gray Fox people who have them-or I hope do have them-would probably stall even him until McNab okayed it," Charley said. "Let me see how far I get by myself."

"Your call. Are you running into any kind of hassle with anyone down there? I thought I picked up:"

"No, sir. General Gonzalez even loaned me his aide to see that I get whatever I think I need."

He looked at Captain Brewster as he spoke.

"Okay. Keep me in the loop, Charley."

"Yes, sir, of course."

He broke that connection and pushed another autodial number.

"Maria," he said a moment later, in Spanish, "this is Carlos. I realize it's late, and I hope I didn't wake you up, but I really have to talk to Fernando."

He saw the surprise on Captain Brewster's face at the Spanish and wondered how much Spanish Gonzalez's aide knew.

He probably speaks it. Or at least has been trying hard to learn it. A wise move, considering his general is named Gonzalez and he likes to speak Spanish.

"What's up, Gringo?" Fernando Lopez, sounding sleepy, asked.

"Fernando, I need the Lear," Castillo said.

There was a just perceptible hesitation before Fernando replied, "As long as you deal with the lawyers and the IRS, Gringo, you're welcome to it. You know that."

"I mean, I need it right now. Tonight."

The hesitation was more evident this time.

"You want to tell me why?" Fernando asked.

"How soon can you find a pilot to fly it here?"

"Where's here? The last I heard from you, you were on your way to Africa."

"I'm at Fort Bragg."

"Welcome home, Gringo. How was the Dark Continent?"

"Hey! I'm not fooling around. I need you to find a pilot and have it brought up here."

"Jesus Christ, do you know what time it is?"

"Yeah, I do. This is important."

"But you're not going to tell me why?"

"And leave your Jeppesen case in it. I'm presuming you've got approach charts for Mexico?"

"Yeah, I've got them. Until the lawyers screamed, I was going to take the family to Cozumel and call it a proficiency flight. What the hell are you going to be doing in Mexico?"

"Just do what I ask. For the third or fourth fucking time, Fernando, this is important."

"Okay, okay. If you don't hear from me in an hour-your cellular is up and running?"

Charley replied by giving him the number.

"I have that number," Fernando said. "If you don't hear from me in an hour, you can presume the Lear is wheels-up for Fort Bragg. Which, I just realized, is a restricted zone. And I don't think they allow civilian airplanes to land at Pope Air Force Base. What to do about that?"

"The plane'll be cleared for the restricted area and to land at Pope. Have the pilot give them his ETA and I'll meet him and get him a ride into Fayetteville. You better give him some money, too. I haven't had a chance to cash a check lately."

"Jesus Christ, Gringo, this better be important. I think you've just destroyed my happy marriage."

"I'm sorry, Fernando."

"But it's important, right?" The line went dead in Fernando's ear.

Charley turned to Captain Brewster.

"We're going to need wheels," he said.

"I can probably get the staff duty officer's van," Brewster replied. "Where do you want to go?"

"Out to the stockade."

"Now, sir?"

"Now. And I think it would be better if I-we-had our own wheels."

"Major, I just don't know:"

"Call the motor pool, identify yourself as General Gonzalez's aide, and tell them to send a car, or a pickup, a van-something-here right now. And call Delta Force and have them have the senior officer present meet me at the stockade in twenty minutes."

"Major:"

"Alternatively, Captain, get General Gonzalez on the phone. I told you before, I just don't have time to fuck with you."

Without waiting for an answer, Castillo picked up his laptop briefcase and the go-right-now bag and carried them into the bedroom.

He was not going to try to talk the Delta/Gray Fox communications officer out of Mr. Aloysius Francis Casey's latest communication jewels while he was dressed in his Washington middle-level bureaucrat's gray-black suit.

As he unzipped the go-right-now bag, he heard Captain Brewster on the telephone:

"This is Captain Brewster, General Gonzalez's aide. I need a van and driver right now at the VIP guesthouse."

Among other things, the go-right-now bag held a very carefully folded Class A uniform. He hated it. It-and the shirt that went with the tunic and trousers-were sewn from miracle fabrics that didn't pick up unwanted creases. But the by-product of that convenience was that he itched wherever the material touched his skin. If he had the damn thing on for more than six hours, he could count on having a rash around his neck and on his calves and thighs. And the miracle fabrics did not absorb perspiration as cotton and wool did; after wearing it a couple of hours, he smelled as if he hadn't had a shower for a couple of days.

That thought, as he held up the uniform to confirm that it indeed did look amazing crisp, triggered the thought that a lot had happened since he had taken a shower in the Warwick hotel early that morning.

He took fresh linen and the go-right-now toilet kit from the go-right-now bag, stripped off the clothing he was wearing, and marched naked into the bathroom.

Five minutes later, freshly showered and shaved-he had shaved under the shower, a time-saving trick he'd learned at West Point-he replaced the razor in the toilet kit and saw the ring that testified to his graduation from Hudson High with the Class of 1990.

He slipped it on.

Ninety seconds after that, he was sitting on the bed lacing up his highly polished jump boots. And ninety seconds after that, after having walked back into the bath in the unfamiliarly heavy boots, he was examining himself in the full-length mirror on the back of the door.

Something was missing, and, after a moment, he understood what. He went back to the go-right-now bag and took out his green beret. Then he took one more check in the mirror.

He thought: Okay. Major Carlos G, Castillo, highly decorated Special Forces officer, all decked out in his incredibly natty Class A uniform, is prepared to try to talk the Delta/Gray Fox commo officer out of his best radios.

Then he had a second thought.

Shit, my ID card is still in the lid of the laptop briefcase and I'm going to have to have it. Otherwise, I'm likely to get myself arrested for impersonating an officer.

He had the lid open and was extracting his ID card when Captain Brewster knocked on the jamb of the open door.

"Sir, a van is on the way, and Lieutenant Colonel Fortinot will be at the Delta compound when we get there."

"Good," Castillo said and smiled at him.

"That was a quick change," Brewster said.

"I also do card tricks," Castillo said.

[TWO]

Police Administration Building

8th and Race Streets

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

2305 9 June 2005

Two detectives, one a very slim, tall white man, the other a very large African American, came out of the Roundhouse and walked purposefully to an unmarked Crown Victoria, which had just pulled up to the entrance.

The slim white man opened the rear door and got in beside the African American in the backseat.

"Face the other door and put your hands behind you," he ordered matter-of-factly as he produced a set of handcuffs.

"Is this necessary?" Major H. Richard Miller, Jr., asked as he complied.

"No. I just do it for laughs," the detective said as the cuffs clicked closed.

Then he put his hand on Miller's wrists and half-pulled, half-helped him back out of the rear seat.

As soon as Miller was on his feet, the slim detective put his hand firmly on Miller's left arm while the large detective put his hand even more firmly on Miller's right arm and they marched him into the Roundhouse.

Miller expected that he would be led into the entrance foyer of the Roundhouse and then to the elevator bank, as he, his father, and Charley Castillo had entered the building when they'd gone to see Commissioner Kellogg. Instead, he was marched to the right, through a procession of corridors, through a room lined with holding cells, and finally down another corridor to an elevator door guarded by a uniformed police officer.

"You just shut the fuck up!" the larger detective snarled and pushed Miller's arm, although Miller hadn't said a word.

The cop at the elevator shook his head in understanding and put a key in the elevator control panel. The door opened and Miller was almost pushed inside. The door closed.

"Keep to yourself whatever you want to say until we get to Homicide," the larger detective said, conversationally. "You never know who's liable to get on the elevator."

The elevator stopped, the door opened, and a black woman pushed a mop bucket onto elevator, looked without expression at everyone, then pushed the button for the fourth floor.

When the door opened again, Miller was half-pushed off and then down a curved corridor to a door marked HOMICIDE bureau, and then pushed through that. Inside, there was a railing. The slim detective reached over it, pushed what was apparently a solenoid release, and then pushed the gate in the railing open.

Inside a door just past the railing was a large, desk-cluttered room. Against the interior wall were a half-dozen doors, three of them with INTERVIEW ROOM signs on them. Miller was pushed into the center of these.

Sergeant Betty Schneider and a black man wearing a dark blue robe, sandals, and with his hair braided with beads were sitting on a table. The last time Miller had seen the man, who was an undercover Counterterrorism Bureau detective, was three hours before in a room in a bricked-up row house in North Philadelphia. There hadn't been much light, but there had been enough for Miller to decide the undercover cop was a mean-looking sonofabitch.

Seeing him in the brightly lit interview room confirmed his first assessment. The man with the bead-braided hair examined Miller carefully.

What the hell, why not? He didn't get a good look at me, either.

There was a steel captain's chair firmly bolted to the floor. It had a pair of handcuffs clipped to it, one half open and waiting to attach an interviewee to the chair.

Miller felt his handcuffs being unlocked and then removed.

"Thanks, John," Sergeant Schneider said to the black detective. "Anybody see him?"

"Everybody in detention, plus a cleaning woman who rolled her bucket onto the elevator. She may even have really been on her way to mop up the fourth floor."

The detective left the room and closed the door.

"If you promise to behave," the man with the beaded braids said, "we won't cuff you to the chair."

There was a faint hint of a smile on his face. Miller smiled back at him but didn't say anything.

The Homicide detectives left the interview room.

"Schneider tells me you're an Army officer, a major," the detective with the bead-braided hair said.

"That's right."

"Jack Britton," the man with the braided hair said, extending his hand. "Aka Ali Abd Ar-Raziq."

"What do I call you?"

"Suit yourself. Where are you from, Miller?" Ali Abd Ar-Raziq asked.

"Here."

"Philly?"

Miller nodded.

"You don't sound like it. You sound like a Reading nigger."

I'll be a sonofabitch!

"I have family in Reading," Miller said, coldly. "On my mother's side. Neither they or me like that term."

"I don't even know what it means," Betty said.

"Sergeant Schneider, I'm disappointed," Ali Abd Ar-Raziq said. "Word is that you know everything about everything." He paused, smiled, and went on. "To make you conversant with a little Afro-American history not usually found in history books, Reading was one of the termini of the Underground Railroad of fame and legend. A number of the slaves who made it out of the South stayed there and became truly integrated. They even picked up Pennsylvania Dutch accents, started eating scrapple, etcetera. They went to school, college, started businesses, joined the Army, etcetera, etcetera. And soon, having made it, began to look down their noses at other African Americans."

"Hey!" Miller protested.

The man with the braided hair raised his palm to shut him off and went on: "The reason I know all this is my father's family are Reading niggers. I'll bet the major and I have acquaintances in common. You don't happen to be kin to a General Miller, do you?"

"He's my father," Miller said.

"See?" Britton said. "Your father and my father are friends."

"I'll be damned," Betty Schneider said.

"If you're not nice, Sergeant, the major and I will start speaking Dutch and leave you in the dark. You do speak Dutch, don't you, Major?"

"Only what I learned listening to my mother when we went to the Reading Terminal Market to buy stuff from the Amish," Miller said.

"Where'd you go to school?" the man with the braided hair asked in the German patois known as Pennsylvania Dutch. "Where'd you get your commission?"

"West Point," Miller said.

"Yeah, sure," the man with the braided hair said, switching back to English. "Of course. Your father's a West Pointer."

Miller nodded.

"So what did you learn about Islam when you were at West Point?"

"What is this, a quiz?"

That was opening your mouth before engaging your brain. Watch it, Richard, you can't afford to piss off Ali Abd Ar-Raziq, aka Detective Jack Britton.

"Before I start to tell you about the lunatics, it would help to know how much you know about Islam. Save us both time."

"I learned zilch at the military academy," Miller said. "But after 9/11, I started to read."

"Give me three minutes of what you learned," the man with the braided hair said.

"You're serious, right?"

The man with the braided hair nodded.

"Where was Muhammad born, for example? When?"

"In 570, into the Quraysh tribe, in Mecca."

"And the Qur'an? Where did that come from?"

"The Angel Gabriel gave it to him-the first part of it-in a cave on Mount Hira in 610. Then he started playing prophet."

"Something like Joseph Smith, the Angel Moroni, and the Mormons, right?" Britton asked, smiling.

"I thought about that," Miller said, smiling back.

"What's the definition of 'Islam'?"

" 'Submission to God,' " Miller said. "A Muslim is someone who's done that."

"Like a born-again Baptist, right? You a born-again Christian, Miller?"

"I'm Presbyterian."

"Pity. If you were a born-again Christian, it might help you understand something about how some guy raised in North Philadelphia, in a house like the one where we met, who converted to Muslim from, say, the Holy Ghost First Church of Christ, African, feels about Islam."

Miller didn't reply.

"What's the first and great commandment for a Muslim?" Britton asked.

" 'There is no god but God: Allah: and Muhammad is His Prophet.' "

"And the 'Pillars of Faith'?"

"There's five," Miller said. "One is reciting the creed-'There is no god but God, etcetera.' The second is daily prayers-formal prayers, with the forehead touching the ground. Third is fasting during Ramadan:"

"What's Ramadan?" Britton interrupted.

"The ninth month of the Muslim calendar. Last year-2004-it started in October. The fifth of October, I think."

Britton made a "Give me more" gesture.

"It lasts a lunar month," Miller went on. "No eating, drinking, smoking, or sex during the day. It starts when you can tell a white thread from a black thread by daylight and ends at nightfall with a prayer and a meal called iftar, and then starts up again the next morning."

Britton nodded at him. "And the Fourth Pillar?" he asked.

"Almsgiving. The Fifth is making a pilgrimage to Mecca."

Britton nodded again. "Tell me about jihad," he said.

"Holy war," Miller said. "To take over territories, countries, which are ruled by non-Muslims."

"This is new, right, something dreamed up recently by belligerent rag-heads? And having really nothing to do with the gentle teachings of the Prophet himself?"

"No. It goes all the way back to Muhammad. By the time he died, in 632, jihad saw the Muslims in control of the Arabian Peninsula. In the next hundred years, jihad had taken Islam all over the Middle East, from Afghanistan to Spain."

"Okay," Britton said. "The pop quiz is over. You're not exactly an Islamic scholar, but neither are you wholly ignorant of who you're dealing with like most people I've met in your line of work."

"My line of work? The Army, you mean?"

"No. Intelligence, counterterrorism. You may be a soldier, but you're not here to line your troops up and march down Broad Street."

"I'm here-as I told you in that house off Broad Street-because we have reason to believe that a group of Somalian terrorists have stolen a 727 with the intention of crashing it into the Liberty Bell, and, further, we have reason to believe that there may be a connection with some-how do I say this?- native Philadelphian Muslims. Can we get to that? You said you knew something."

"You see the movie Black Hawk Down? Read the book? Mogadishu?"

Miller nodded.

Both were right on the money. Do I tell Britton that the Black Hawk belonged to the 160th Special Forces Aviation Regiment and that First Lieutenant Richard H. Miller, Jr., was flying Black Hawks in Somalia for the 160th at the time?

"A guy on The Philadelphia Inquirer wrote the book," Britton said.

"So I understand. He did a good job."

"When that happened, when they dragged the bodies of the American soldiers through the streets, the reaction of some of the lunatics here was that it was the will of Allah, about time, right on, brother. That shock you?"

Miller shook his head.

"And, right away, some of the local lunatic mullahs-who have no more idea where they come from in Africa than you or I do-started claiming they were from Somalia. Pure bullshit, of course, to impress the brothers. And then, because that seemed to work, they embellished the story. They had contacts with Somalia, they said, and we-meaning, the mullahs-have to go over there.

"We had a series of fund-raisers, some of them your standard church chicken supper, all proceeds to the cause, and some your standard knock over the local grocery store, your friendly neighborhood drug dealer and hooker, etcetera. And they came up with the money for the plane tickets, got passports, and went."

"You tell anybody about this?"

"I turned in a report. A couple of weeks later, the FBI wanted to talk to me. So I got myself arrested-did this routine-and two guys from the FBI talked to me-in this interview room, come to think of it-and I told them what was going down, and they laughed, and said, one, the AALs couldn't get into Somalia and, two, even if they could the Somalians would not only not talk to the wannabes but would probably cut their throats and steal whatever they were carrying."

"So what happened?"

"Off the AALs went, they said to Somalia."

"You sound as if you don't believe they actually went."

"What the FBI said made sense to me. None of these wannabes speak Arabic, much less Somali. I figured they wouldn't get any further than Kenya, or Ethiopia, where they would find out what Somalia was really like and decide it was the Will of Allah to whoop it up with the local hookers instead of actually going there. Who would know they hadn't gone? Or they would actually try to go there and get knocked over by some really professional bad guys."

"So what actually happened?"

"I don't know," Britton said. "Right about that time, my wife was about to have our first son, so I did almost a year in the Pennsylvania Correctional Facility in Camp Hill."

"Excuse me?"

"I was picked up on an armed robbery charge, plea-bargained it down to four years, and was sent to the state slam at Camp Hill, near Harrisburg. When I was a bad boy, which was often, they put me in solitary, from which I was surreptitiously removed and sneaked out of the joint in the warden's trunk. That way, I got two weeks with my wife-a couple of times, three-we had a nice apartment in Harrisburg-before they sneaked me back in. The department shrink said I had suffered severe mental stress on the job, so technically I was on medical leave."

"Jesus Christ!" Miller said.

"Anyway, like I said, it was about a year before I got back to the mosque."

"I don't understand," Miller confessed.

"The mosque hired a pretty good lawyer to appeal my conviction. The sonofabitch used to come to Camp Hill-which meant I had to sneak back into the prison to meet with him and then sneak back out-every other month to tell me how he was doing. After about a year, like I said, the Supreme Court ordered a retrial, the district attorney declined to prosecute, and I was sprung."

"You volunteered to go back?" Miller asked, incredulously.

Britton met his eyes for a moment before replying.

"I'm in pretty deep with the mullahs," he said. "It would have been hard to get anybody else into the mosque who would have learned much."

"You couldn't pay me enough to do what you're doing," Miller said.

"Yeah, but, like I was saying, when I got back to the mosque the mullahs were, quote, back from Somalia, end quote, they were watching me pretty closely:"

"They were suspicious?"

"I wasn't the only guy from the mosque, by a long shot, in Camp Hill," Britton said. "And they hadn't seen much of me while I was in there. Yeah, they were suspicious. They're very suspicious people. Anyway, I didn't want to ask too many questions, and they weren't talking much about Somalia-which I figured was because they really hadn't been to Somalia-so I let it rest.

"And then, about six months ago, two mullahs showed up. They said they were from Somalia. I don't know if they were or weren't. But they certainly were from someplace other than here. Spoke English like Englishmen. And what they were up to, I don't know. They kept me out of their meetings.

"You tell the FBI about them?"

"I told Chief Kramer. He told the FBI, and the FBI told him they had nothing on the names I'd given him. So the chief staked the mosque out, got pictures of them, and gave the pictures to the FBI. The chief got word to me that the FBI had run them. They were pilots for an Arab airline-Yemen Airways, I think-and were in the country legally. Going to some flight school in Tulsa, Oklahoma. All approved by the U.S. Government."

"And?"

"And that was the end of it until a couple of weeks ago-about the time your airplane went missing in: where?"

"Luanda, Angola," Miller finished.

": when the lunatics began talking more than a little smugly about what was going to happen when the Liberty Bell was no more."

"You report that? To Chief Kramer? The FBI?"

"These people come up with some nutty idea once a week. They're going to blow up City Hall or the Walt Whitman Bridge or the Benjamin Franklin Bridge or one of the sports arenas. Poison the water. Assassinate the archbishop. It's just talk. I don't report much-or any-of it until I have more than hot air to go on. You heard about the kid who kept crying 'Wolf'?"

Miller nodded.

"And then you showed up," Britton went on.

"And asked you if you had heard anything about the Liberty Bell," Miller said.

Britton nodded.

"You have to admit that flying an airplane into the Liberty Bell sounds bizarre," Britton said.

"Bizarre or not, we think that's what they intend to do," Miller said. "You have the names of the two Somalians?"

"They'd be in my report. Schneider?"

"I can get that," Sergeant Betty Schneider said. "But you said the FBI said they had nothing on those names. What about the names the FBI put on the stakeout photos?"

"The chief never gave them to me," Britton said. "I suppose he has them."

"He went out for coffee," Betty said. "Maybe he's back."

She left the interview room and a minute later returned with Chief Inspector Kramer.

"They never gave me names," he announced. "Just said the two were on the up-and-up. I can call there, but it's late and all I'm going to get is the duty officer, who'll probably stall me until he can clear it with the Special Agent in Charge."

"Chief," Miller said. "I'd like to suggest we wait until I can tell Castillo about this." He turned to Britton. "How long can you stay?"

Chief Kramer answered for him: "We picked him up on suspicion of murder. We can probably keep him until breakfast-say, eight o'clock-without making the AALs more than usually suspicious."

"Castillo said he'd get back to me as soon as he could. Why don't we wait for that?"

"Okay with me," Chief Inspector Kramer said. "Okay with you, Britton?"

Detective Jack Britton said, with no enthusiasm whatever, "Why not?"

[THREE]

Delta Force Compound

Fort Bragg, North Carolina

2310 9 June 2005

Around the time the first Delta Force was organized, the Army had about finished implementing a new personnel policy regarding offenders of the Uniform Code of Military Justice.

Someone had pointed out-many soldiers, officers, and enlisted thought very late in the game-that only a very few soldiers committed what in civilian life would be called "serious felonies," that is to say, rape, murder, armed robbery, and the like. The vast majority of prisoners in Army stockades all over the world had been found guilty of offenses against the Army system and most of the offenses had to do with being absent without leave, mild insubordination, drunk on duty, and the like.

Those sentenced by court-martial to six months or less were normally confined to prisons, called "stockades" on the larger military bases-forts like Bragg, Knox, and Benning-where they spent their days walking around the base, guarded by shotgun-armed "prisoner chasers," picking up cigarette butts and trash.

Someone had pointed out that not only did this punishment not contribute much to the Army but that the prisoner chasers-usually, one for every two prisoners, sometimes one for each prisoner-had to be taken off their regular duties to perform that guard duty, which was not an effective use of manpower.

Furthermore, if a soldier disliked the Army so much that he went "over the hill" or told his sergeant to take a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut when chastised, for example, for having a dirty weapon, or needing a shave, he probably wasn't making much of a contribution to the Army when he wasn't in the stockade.

The ideal was "cheerful, willing obedience to a lawful order," and, if a soldier wasn't willing to offer that, what was he doing in the Army?

If a first sentence to the stockade didn't serve to make someone see the wisdom of straightening up and flying right, then hand him a Bad Conduct discharge and send him home.

That would do away with having to have large, heavily guarded stockades, with barbed wire, chain-link fences, guard towers, and everything else that went with them all over the Army, and having to take a hundred or so men on each post away from their normal duties on any given day to serve as prisoner chasers.

It might also result in an Army where most soldiers believed that cheerful, willing obedience to a lawful order was really not such a bad idea.

The new personnel policy was implemented. Post stockade populations dropped precipitously all over the Army, including Fort Bragg, at just about the time the new, supersecret Delta Force was formed.

It was decided that Delta Force should have a very secure base, isolated from the rest of sprawling Fort Bragg, protected by a double line of chain-link fences topped with razor wire, with floodlights, guard towers, and the like, and that inside the fence there should be barracks, a mess hall, supply buildings, and so on.

Someone then pointed out that a system designed to keep people in, like the Fort Bragg stockade, would probably, with minor modifications, be entirely suitable to keep people out.

Delta Force moved into the old stockade.

Most of the Delta Force people, who were of course the cream of Special Forces, thought moving into the stockade was not only hilarious but also had the additional benefit of keeping Fort Bragg's complement of candy-ass officers from snooping around to see where they could apply chickenshit.

No one was allowed in the Delta Force compound without specific authorization and only a few senior officers had the authority to issue that authorization, and, as a rule of thumb, they checked with Delta Force officers before granting it.

From his seat in the motor pool van, Major C. G. Castillo, who had done his time in the Fort Bragg stockade, was not at all surprised to see a tall, muscular lieutenant colonel wearing a green beret and a shoulder holster standing inside the outer fence of the Delta Force compound, or that the gate in the twelve-foot, razor wire-topped fence was closed.

Floodlights pushed back the deep darkness of the North Carolina night to provide enough illumination to make the signs hanging from the chain-link fence every twenty feet clearly legible.

They read: