Primeval

1

The prestigious one-hundred-year-old Rainier Building had been bought in 1991 and had been completely renovated. The first sixteen floors were quite normal, if expensive, two- and three-bedroom condominiums. The seventeenth and eighteenth floors, however, belonged to just one man, the owner of the property and the person who designed the interior of the building: Valery Serta, the son of a Russian immigrant and heir to the vast fortune left to him upon his father's death in 1962. The family fortune was in the felling of the ancient forests of the great Northwest — forests that filled the pockets of the family Serta since the late twenties and supplied the U.S. markets with rich wood and paper products.

With a twenty-four-hour house staff of twelve, and with a minimum of two on duty at all times, the old man kept them busy with his imperialistic demands. A loner in his old age, the only visitor he took was from his grandson who was now a student at Harvard, and one or two old friends from the logging business. For some reason, that no one who knew him could fathom, Valery Serta never tired of hearing about the destruction of the woods that had covered the area since the dawn of time. He closed his eyes upon hearing the news of another tract of land that had been cleared and raped of the woods that covered it. The enjoyment stemmed from the dark tales his own father had passed onto him, never explaining why the woods and forests of North America held such a bad place in his heart.

The sky outside the Rainier Building was splitting open on this early Tuesday morning. The thunderclap woke the old man and he rolled over to look at the clock on his nightstand. Six thirty. He knew that sleep would not come again once it was so rudely interrupted, so he slowly threw his covers back and sat up. He yawned and felt around in the semidarkness. His thin, liver-spotted hand hit the glass of water and then he cursed in English as some of it splashed onto the expensive wood. He shook his head and reached for the dentures that he had deposited in the glass the night before. Once that was done, he slowly placed his feet into the slippers that had been perfectly placed by his maids the night before.

As he stood and placed a silken robe over his thinning frame, he stopped and listened; more important, he smelled. Sniffing the air he knew something was amiss. Every morning of his life he started the day with a pot of coffee, six eggs, potatoes, sausage, and toast. However, today there was none of those smells coming from the kitchen, which was situated on the open floor plan just below him on the first floor. He shook his head, angry that his most simple routine of the day was being usurped by people that worked for him. He angrily tied his robe and walked to the door and threw it open. As he approached the railing of the upper floor, he saw that the house was completely silent. The shades were open in the living room and the dull, cloud-laden day filtered in, letting in just enough light that he could see things lying on the floor beneath him.

"What is going on down there?" he asked as he grabbed the railing and tried to focus on the floor below.

Suddenly, a streak of lightning flashed through the twenty-foot-by-ten-foot plate-glass window that looked out over old Downtown Seattle. In that brief flash of illumination, he saw the bodies. Each of the twelve had been tied up and shot in their heads. He instantly saw his two female maids in the center of what could only be described as an execution circle with his employees' feet facing outward. With a yelp of terror, Valery Serta placed his hand over his mouth to keep the scream inside. As he started to back away, the words from the darkness, spoken in Russian, made his hand fall and the scream escaped anyway.

"We figured the view from up here into your living room would allow us to dispense with the threats of violence against you. This way you know we mean business — as your adoptive Americans would say—'from the get-go.' " The last was said in heavily accented English.

Serta turned and saw the man who had spoken was standing in his bedroom doorway. He almost went into shock when he thought that the man must have been in his room the whole time he was sleeping.

"As my partner says, we are here for answers, and we will only ask you one time," said a smaller man who stepped from the large bathroom across the hallway. He was wiping his hands on a towel, which, when finished, he turned and tossed it on the floor. "As you can see, we will not be disturbed for the time being."

"Who are you? What do you want?"

"Now, you see, you are asking questions and wasting our valuable time. Did we not say we killed your staff so you would know we were serious men?"

The old man started shaking.

"Relax, comrade. You have to answer one question and one only, before you join your employees. Until that moment, you have no need of being afraid — you will not be mistreated — unless your answer calls for it." The smaller of the two men stepped closer to Serta. "Why should you answer, you ask?" The small man with the ponytail tied by a leather strip, nodded at the taller man who produced a cell phone and opened it, and then he pushed a single button and then listened. He handed the phone to the old man.

Serta heard a boy crying on the other end of the line. He started shaking even harder than before, enough so that the tall man held the phone for him.

The small man nodded once more. His companion holding the phone spoke a few words in Russian and then closed the cell.

"You recognized the sound of your grandson's voice, Mr. Serta? He sounds as if he is having a hard time at Harvard University. Now, it is totally up to you on how much of a hard time he has in the next few moments. If you refuse to answer our single question correctly, and on the first attempt, we will cut the young man's head off."

Serta looked horrified as the small man pursed his lips, as if the statement he had just made was just as distasteful to say as it was to hear.

The larger man, his hair cut short to this side of cruel, moved Serta into the bedroom and sat him at the foot of the large, ornate bed. The smaller man turned back to the bathroom and emerged a moment later with a glass of water. He offered it to Serta and then sat beside him. The old man shook as he raised the glass to his mouth. He hesitated, and then drank deeply. When he lowered the glass, the smaller man removed the water from his shaking hand. He handed the glass to the large short-haired man.

"There, you have sated your thirst, and I can see you have calmed to an acceptable degree. I believe we are ready to proceed."

The old man looked at the Slavic faces of the men looking at him. They were Russians, not others from the satellite states or provinces — they were Moscow-bred, just as his own father had been.

"Before I ask, I must warn you, so you don't waste time thinking about how we gained our fantastic knowledge. We have several people on our payroll who reside at Lloyd's of London. To be more precise, Lloyd's — North America, based in New York." The man smiled when he saw the face of the old man go slack. "Ah, I can see you have realized your mistake."

"I don't have—"

The small Russian held up his hand so fast that the old man flinched as he thought he was about to be struck. Then he watched as the man's eyes once more went to his friend, who remained standing over Serta. He nodded and once more removed the cell phone and then looked at the withered face of the old man.

"If he has to open that receiver, Mr. Serta, your grandson will have a brief moment of pain and then his head will be removed. Now, as I will state the question, your answer should already be formed in your mind. We know you have one half of the Twins of Peter the Great. Where is it? You became paranoid in your old age and requested an insurance quote on a diamond of rather amazing proportions, one pound eight ounces to be exact. That information was forwarded to our offices. So, we have dispensed with the details and now the question has been asked." The small man slowly removed a large caliber automatic from his coat and then reached into his pocket and removed a short stubby cylinder and started screwing the silencer onto the pistol.

Valery Serta lowered his head and then with a stronger than normal voice, started talking.

"Since 1919, my family has not had to use the diamond for anything other than collateral. It fed my father's ambition without losing the stone. Yes, over the years I knew that men such as you may track the Twin to my family, so I wanted insurance against that eventuality."

"After today, you will have no such worry. Now, answer the question."

"Floor safe in the shower stall — combination is 18-34-17."

"You have done well. You have followed our instructions, and thus you have saved the life of your grandson — a very noble thing. A thing that people with your family history did not have an abundance of in the early days of the Soviet Union." The small man stood and then placed the silencer up to Serta's temple.

"May I ask a question?" the taller and much more muscular man asked as he replaced the cell phone into his jacket.

"Yes, of course," came the polite answer from his partner.

"Mr. Serta, you wouldn't possibly know the whereabouts of a certain diary belonging to a former associate of your father's, would you?"

"How silly of me, I should have thought to ask myself."

Serta looked up and knew beyond any doubt that these men must be searching for the other missing Twin. Singly, the diamonds were worth a billion dollars on the open market, but placed together as a set, the Twins of Peter the Great would be priceless. He knew he would answer their question, as it would be the only triumph he would have in the few remaining minutes of his life.

"The other Twin was lost with many men, many good men according to my father, somewhere in the Canadian wilderness almost a hundred years ago." Serta said his piece and then closed his eyes.

"Ah, no more knowledge than we had before. But, there was no harm in asking. Now, there is a rumor of a diary with the description of where the diamond was lost. Do you have information on this missing journal?"

"I have never heard of such a thing. If there was a journal, it would have disappeared with the officer it belonged to."

"Ah, you see, you think you have lied well enough to deter us from the truth, but in reality you have told us everything. Whoever said it was an officer who wrote in a journal? I see your father was very observant those many years ago. He knew the officer commanding their small expedition wrote in a journal. Now, did your father happen to take that item when he betrayed his officer and stole the diamond?"

"I know of no journal."

"Ah, I see," the small ponytailed man said, and then nodded at the large one.

He turned and made his way to the bathroom. He looked around and then shook his head. It was the first time that he had ever heard of anyone building a safe in a shower stall. He stepped up to the rounded, clear-glass enclosure, pulled open the door by the gold-plated handle, and looked at the Tuscan tile. He could see no flaws or anything that would indicate a door. He knelt down and felt around the tile edges, still not discerning any area that might reveal a secret hiding place.

The Russian was just getting ready to stand when he saw what he was looking for. Most would have missed it, but the big man had the instincts of a cat. He reached out and allowed his fingers to play over the drain cover. On the outside it looked like a normal trap, but he had noticed there was no caulking around its edges. His fingers played over the stainless-steel surface, and then he pushed down, and then tried to turn it to the left. The cover didn't move. Then he tried to the right, still applying downward pressure, and smiled when the drain cover popped free of the tile.

"Now, this is ingenious," he said under his breath in Russian. The drain cover was actually the dial for the combination safe that was still buried in the tiled shower stall. He turned the facing of the cover and entered the correct numbers that had been covered up by the drain rim. The lights automatically dimmed in the bathroom and the Russian stood. His eyes widened when three floodlights embedded in the ceiling of the bathroom illuminated as the flooring, not in the shower itself, but in the center of the bathroom, behind him, started rising. The floodlights caught the first glimmer of the egg-shaped stone. Then, as the small enclosure rose, the lights struck Peter the Great's most prized possession — one of the Twins. The diamond had been cut in five thousand different places around the circumference of the egg. The effect was such that when the stone was illuminated, blue, pink, and green shafts of light speckled the white walls of the ornate bathroom.

The large Russian was stunned. With all the treasure they had gathered over the years, this was the most amazing sight he had ever beheld. Not standing on ceremony, he reached out and touched the large diamond egg. It was cold to the touch, and he smiled, wondering how something with such fire inside could be so cool. He grasped the egg and removed it from its glass cradle. He went back to the shower, turned the combination lock, and then depressed the drain cover. The cradle for the Twin slowly started its return to obscurity. The lighting from above dimmed and the regular bathroom light came back on.

"Well, are we that much richer, my friend?" the small man asked, his eyes never leaving the old man beside him.

The large man stepped out of the bathroom, and held up the one half of the Twins to show his partner. "Yes, we are, and always will be, two of the richest men in the world."

The old man buried his face in his hands and sobbed. The diamond had been in his family since it was taken by his father in a forest long ago. Now it was in the hands of men who would either sell it on the black market or cut it to pieces.

"Come now, you could never have thought to hold such a magnificent treasure as this without unscrupulous men coming after it, did you? Besides, old man, what we are really after makes this small diamond very insignificant. We are after much more than riches; we are after the future."

The old man looked up, not understanding. Then he realized he wasn't meant to as the small man stood and pulled the trigger.

As the two men started downstairs, the rain outside had started to dwindle to a heavy mist.

"Now that we have the one Twin, the other will be more of a challenge to find without the pages of the journal."

"If the cursed thing even exists; remember the KGB from the old days were expert liars, just as we were," the smaller man said as he buttoned his overcoat. "Our newest ally says he'll take care of that end of things. All we needed to do was seal this end of the trail so no one can figure out where this diamond was originally taken from. Now it's up to our new partner."

"I have to admit, he seems very resourceful."

"By the way," the small one asked as they closed the door and entered the private hallway, "did our man at the airport forward the video disc of our arrival to our friend?"

"Yes, I have done as he has instructed, but why would he want video of us coming into the U.S.?"

"I did not ask; he will inform us when we get in the air. I'm sure he has an excellent reason for it."

Again, the two Russians smiled. Their day had turned out to be full of sunshine, despite the storm that had passed through Seattle that morning.

The head of the Senate Ways and Means Committee, Senator Lyle P. Casals, knew the feeling of claustrophobia was all in his head. Although it was a fact that he found himself three thousand, two hundred feet underneath the sands of Nellis Air Force Base, he tried desperately to get that little fact to stop entering his mind as he walked alongside the Director of an agency of the federal government he had known nothing about twelve hours ago.

The director of Department 5656, known to the president of the United States and a few others as the Event Group, smiled as the senator from South Dakota wiped his brow with a handkerchief. Niles Compton could not figure out if the man was frightened about the treasures and archaeological finds he had just been shown, or fear that the entire cave system was about to fall on his head. Compton suspected the latter since the bespectacled man kept glancing up at the steel netting that held some of the rock strata in place.

The senator swallowed and then looked up at Director Compton. Niles removed his own glasses and smiled at the Ways and Means representative.

"Astounding is all I can say, Mr. Director. To think that all of this" — the small man gestured around the massive and curving hallways that held no less than one hundred of the largest steel vaults in the complex—"has been kept secret for over a hundred years is completely amazing to me."

Niles nodded his head and looked around and smiled when his eyes locked on Virginia Pollock, his deputy director. The short and balding Compton felt even smaller standing next to Virginia, who was well over six feet tall. Her hair was loose today, and her green eyes expressive as they always were when she was dealing with politicos. Niles was ashamed he used his assistant's looks to assist in swaying support from either the numbers cruncher that now stood before them or even the president. Virginia knew this fact, but to her credit, she never said a thing or complained one bit.

"Some of our artifacts would cause a great uproar in the world if we released to the public the fact that we had them."

"Yes, I understand that. Imagine having the flying saucer from Roswell in our possession. I always thought it was just a story." The senator lowered his head and swiped at his sweating brow once again.

"You are literally the first American outside of the president to view the vault chambers at this complex, Senator Casals. However, since the damage we sustained last month was so extensive, we couldn't hide the cost from the House. So here we are, you've seen the damage and I hope you understand our reasons for being enough that we can get an appropriation for repairs." Virginia smiled and batted her eyes twice, not blatantly, but she did make sure the senator saw the movement.

"And your advice to the presidents, past and present, has assisted in making policy with foreign governments? I mean, from historical records and finds?"

"Yes, sir. That's our charter as laid down by President Woodrow Wilson. We will assist in guiding our country through the minefield of policy making. Mistakes by us and other nations occur on a repeated level that, by the numbers, is unbelievable. We make the same mistakes over and over again. Even now, we are in the process of recovering an artifact from Chinese territory that will hopefully pave the way for better relations with the heir to power in North Korea. If recovered, we believe it will open inroads to that nation that have never been constructed before."

"How can an artifact do that, as a 'for instance,' that is?"

"Well, Senator, I don't know how well you know your world history, but in Korea in 300 BCE, what was known as the early Common Era, the three largest kingdoms of that nation, Goguryeo, Silla, and Baekje, conquered all the people and land as far as the Chinese border. These three kingdoms came to dominate the peninsula and much of Manchuria. The three kingdoms competed with each other both economically and militarily. The city states of Goguryeo and Baekje were more powerful for much of the era, especially Goguryeo, which defeated massive Chinese invasions. Silla's power gradually extended across Korea and it eventually established the first unified state to cover most of the Korean peninsula by 676, while former Goguryeo general Dae Jo Yeong founded Balhae as the successor to Goguryeo. This was the first truly powerful nation that would lead to the Korea we know today."

"I'm not following, Mr. Compton," Senator Casals said, looking from Niles to Virginia.

Virginia took the senator by the arm and looped hers through his own and walked him alongside one of the larger vaults as two security men followed. Niles looked at his watch and rolled his eyes.

"You see, this General Dae Jo Yeong is to his people what George Washington is to the American people. When the general was only forty-two years old, he was assassinated by the emperor of China, and his body whisked away as a preventative move to keep the general from becoming a martyr. The move failed and he became a symbol for his fledgling nation anyway." Virginia stopped and looked down into the senator's eyes, becoming serious. "His body was never returned by the Chinese."

"I don't follow how this has anything to do with your very secret department, Ms. Pollock."

"Could you imagine the trust that would be garnered by whoever assisted in returning the Korean George Washington to his homeland? I think that would go a long way in assuring a new regime in Korea that we can be trusted, in their estimation of us, not to blow their asses to hell if and when we decide to do it."

"Ah, I see. But do you have the general in your possession?" the senator asked.

"As a matter of fact, we have our security teams there right now negotiating for just that, Senator. We should be hearing from them at anytime," Niles finished for Virginia.

"Which leads nicely to my next inquiry, Director Compton?"

"And that is?"

"Your security department." Senator Casals pulled several sheets of paper from his breast pocket and opened them. "You'll have to excuse me; I took these notes from several personnel files before I left your office. Now, security, oh yes." He looked up at Compton, who was perplexed as to why his security department was being brought into a budget request. "Colonel Jack Collins. I have read his 201 file, and I must say, for someone as experienced as Colonel Collins, to have him standing guard at what amounts to a historical repository is a trite wasteful in my humble opinion, maybe even a bit of overkill. I would think that with all that's going on in the world, the colonel's skills could be better utilized in another arena."

"Colonel Collins is useful in ways that can never be divulged to you, Senator. I'm sure if you had brought this up to the president, he would have informed you that the colonel's record and his achievements are out of bounds."

"Just curious as to why you would need someone with his obvious qualifications in what is really a think tank?" Casals said as he looked from Niles and then at Virginia.

"Jack has done more for the stability of this nation than anyone in either houses, or the other branches of service. I dare say even more than the president," Virginia said, taking offense to the standards the senator thought their group should stand by. "The colonel is capable of getting out of any trouble. He thinks faster on the run than any man I have ever known. If he gets in trouble, he gets out of it. He doesn't fall into traps, Senator; he sees trouble coming and avoids it, which is how he keeps our field teams alive. He is the best at what he does."

The senator removed his glasses and saw that Virginia was beyond passionate about this Colonel Collins.

"So, he basically walks on water and is a survivor of some renown, a man who never finds himself in trouble?"

"That very man and his team are in China at this moment recovering the artifact we just spoke of, Senator. And yes, he and his men are the best at what they do. They always succeed," Niles said proudly.

The small Chinese man in the white silk suit with the radiant blue shirt and tie, slapped the bound man before him again. With his hands tied behind him in the high-backed chair, there wasn't anything Colonel Jack Collins could do to defend himself. He felt the effeminate hand scrape across his two-day growth of beard but managed to keep his anger in check. Usually he would just wait it out, knowing his second in command would be along to pull his ass out of the fire. But this time he thought there may be a problem with that scenario.

The small, well-dressed Chinese took two steps to his left and then used his backhand to slap the large man sitting to Jack's right across the face. Commander Carl Everett was bound just as snugly as Collins, and couldn't do anything other than hiss his anger through clenched teeth.

"You know, I'm going to slap you into unconsciousness when I get loose," Everett said as he glared at the small man before him.

"You fool, as arrogant as most Americans. You will not be leaving this house. You will tell me where the urn is and just who it is you work for."

Jack smiled as the small man took his place in front of him once again.

"Why is it you think I'm his boss? You've slapped me five or six times more than him. He just might be the one in charge, not me."

The Chinese army officer smiled and then slapped Jack again. "Your friend is too angry to be in charge of anything as important as stealing a national treasure from my government, so that leaves you." The man held his hand out and one of his goons slid a file into it. He smiled again at Jack, and then at Carl, as he opened the file folder.

"Colonel Jack Collins, it says you are an elite special forces operative. I have no listing for current assignment." He turned his attention to Everett. "Captain Carl C. Everett, United States navy, a former SEAL, his current duty station also unknown. I believe you are nothing more than thieves, ordered by your government to embarrass the People's Republic of China. This is why you will not leave here alive, gentlemen. So please, make your death quick and painless, and give us the location of the urn in which the ashes of General Dae Jo Yeong are stored."

Jack glanced over at Everett and shook his head. "Persistent little son of a bitch, isn't he?"

Everett looked away from Jack and stared at the small, menacing man before him.

"Yeah, persistent."

"Look, whoever you are, you may as well get on with what you're going to do, because my two men are long gone out of this country with the urn and the general. They're under orders to get out with the artifact and not look back."

"And your men always follow your orders?"

"They are highly trained and would do their duty above all else. So, do what you have to do," Collins said as he almost had the knot of rope loose enough to get his hands free.

"That's right, pal, our men do as they're told," Everett chimed in as he, too, worked the rope around his own wrists. "They're probably drinking mai tais in Hong Kong by now."

At that moment, the door to the front of the apartment came crashing in. Second Lieutenant Will Mendenhall fell through onto the floor and two men were on him before he could recover. As two of their guards lifted the stunned black officer off the carpeted floor, one of them hit him over the head. Mendenhall staggered but was held upright by the two men.

Collins looked at Everett and angrily shook his head. "Mai tais, huh?"

While two of the guards held Mendenhall to the floor, the man on the left suddenly jerked backward after the initial crash of glass sounded from the side window. The bullet that struck the stunned man had whistled only a foot over Jack's head. Collins reacted without thinking when he saw the first man go down. He rolled to his right, taking the chair with him until it struck the one in which Everett was bound to. They both hit the floor just as a second bullet came through the side window and took the second man in the side of the forehead. He fell hard onto Will and died only inches from his face.

The Chinese interrogator had a brief moment of life and drew the hidden sidearm inside of his white coat. That was as far as his movement went as a third aimed bullet struck him in the chest, splattering blood all over the silk. For insurance, a second round caught the man in the throat, dropping him like a heavy sack of potatoes.

Jack was silent, waiting for what he knew was coming.

"Clear?"

Collins moved his face upward and shouted as loud as he could so there could be no mistake as he didn't want any more bullets flying into the small living room. "Clear!"

"Clear," Mendenhall echoed.

Suddenly, the remaining glass was knocked out of its frame and the curtain at the side window parted. A Glock nine-millimeter with a long silencer appeared. It roamed first to the right and then to the left. Then it remained steady as Lieutenant Jason Ryan gingerly stepped over the windowsill and jumped into the room, his weapon still sweeping the area of the living room.

"You're a little late!" Mendenhall said pushing the dead guard off of him and swiping at the blood that was staining his Hawaiian shirt. "You were supposed to open fire when I broke the door in, I thought these guys were going to blow my brains out!"

Ryan finally stood and ran to the opening of the hallway and aimed the weapon down its length. Satisfied the hallway was empty, he raised the weapon to the ceiling and then turned back into the room.

"Well, the safety was on—"

"And you forgot to chamber a round, didn't you?" Mendenhall said as he got to his feet.

"Yeah, I said you should be the one doing the shooting."

"And who was going to break down the door with one attempt, you? All one hundred and forty pounds of navy officer?" Mendenhall said with a sneer while staring at Ryan.

"Uh, if you wouldn't mind?" Everett said from the floor.

Both Mendenhall and Ryan saw that the full weight of Collins and his chair was on top of Everett, and they both moved quickly to get them upright.

"You two were supposed to be on that damn boat out of here," Jack said as his hands were finally untied.

"Yes, sir, and you were supposed to lose those three and then meet us there," Ryan said in defense.

"Mr. Ryan, we were just about to make our move. You took a chance on letting those guys get their hands on that urn," Carl said as he finally gained his feet, rubbing at the rope impressions on his wrists.

"Excuse me, Captain, but through the crack in those curtains it looked as if you were having a little trouble getting those knots undone. Maybe your basic seamanship is lacking."

Everett stopped rubbing his wrists and fixed the younger naval officer with his cold eyes.

"Keep going, Mr. Ryan, you're already at a year's worth of weekend graveyard shifts at the complex for this little stunt; do you wanna try for two?"

"We just couldn't leave you guys here… sir," Mendenhall said.

Jack started to say something but Everett grabbed his arm, silencing his boss and then looking at Will.

"It was his idea," Mendenhall said quickly as he pointed at Ryan.

"Thanks, buddy," Ryan said tossing the rope that had held Collins to his chair into the corner.

"You can both commiserate with each other during your cancellation of leaves for that year that you're pulling weekend midnight duty," Carl finished. Then he looked at Jack. "Damn the military for abolishing hanging."

"I absolutely agree. Now, since Batman and the Boy Wonder came to our rescue, let's get the hell out of China."

Colonel Jack Collins watched as Mendenhall and Ryan were pushed to the front door by an angry Carl Everett. As he started to follow, the smile slowly spread across his face. His two men had finally learned to think out of the box, to adapt to that fluid situation that he always preached about to his security department. Although they disobeyed orders, Jack knew it was a good thing they did because if they hadn't, there would two bodies lying dead in that living room instead of three.

The director of Department 5656, Director Niles Compton, watched as the presentation was given to him by the historical forensics team. He sat with his shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow and his glasses perched on the end of his nose as he looked over the tops of the lenses. His eyes moved over the assembled department heads who sat around the large conference table situated on level seven.

"So, in conclusion, Director Compton, it is our opinion that when Kim Jong Il passes away, there will be the narrowest of opportunities to approach his successor, most probably his youngest son, Kim Jong-Un, about dropping the disastrous policies of his nation. We had this opportunity when Kim's father died, and the U.S. government missed it by having a hardened Cold War stance against those very policies. The president may be able to move the younger leader to see the terrible actions of his father and grandfather." Professor Geraldine Kinkaid looked at her notes and then up at her director. "Our recommendation is for the president to have a softened position in the initial stages of the North Korean power transfer. Historically speaking, the Korean people have a tendency to listen soon after a leadership change."

Niles Compton nodded his head and then looked around the table. He saw the empty chair where Colonel Jack Collins usually sat at the far end opposite himself. The colonel's initials were on the proposed report as approving the research and the gentler approach to North Korea at the eventual death of Kim Jong Il, although he did enter his own thoughts in regards to a possible coup opportunity coming from Kim's older son, Kim Jong-Chul, who Jack's military experience says may not take the succession rebuke lying down. But with the historical artifact returned to the North Korean people instead of the United States ally in Seoul, the door may be opened for better relations, thanks to Jack and his men.

"This report, if the president uses it, will cause some consternation in certain circles of the federal government," Virginia Pollock said from her seat to the right of Compton. "We have a history of close to seventy years of unrelenting hostility between North Korea and the West. I would like to ask our resident military people their opinion of this report other than what's officially stated. Will our eventual gift to that nation assist in getting us to the peace table, or would the president be wasting his time?"

Captain Carl Everett looked up from his notes. As the number-two man in the security department, it was now up to him to answer for Jack Collins. They had both put in over a hundred hours on the military aspect of extending a helping hand to Korea after the crazy Kim Jong Il passed, and that included the time they put in stealing the previously stolen artifact from the Chinese. Everett stood and opened a file on the table in front of him. The six-foot-five-inch navy SEAL cleared his throat.

"Based purely on our research, and with a small amount of personal opinion interjected, the military has always been adamant about ending this destructive relationship with North Korea as quickly as humanly possible. The drain in resources, men, and material, has the U.S. army and navy at the breaking point. We can no longer afford the cold and sometimes hot war that has existed between the United States and North Korea since the peace accords of 1953. The general public has always believed the Pentagon wanted troops stationed along the demilitarized zone, but the truth of the matter is no military think tank in the world has ever recommended the status-quo along the 38th Parallel." Everett paused a brief moment and looked at the faces around the conference table. "We feel it has always been a knife placed at the throat of a very distrustful and militaristic government who could use our presence there to lash out at the South. As proven by the recent activities by Kim Jong I, we cannot resupply or even support the thirty-six thousand troops already there. They would be used as cannon fodder in the event of an invasion, only until such a time as tactical nuclear weapons release could be authorized by the South, and NATO. We think after the death of Kim, we need to get ahold of this situation as, historically speaking, they will be listening to the West. We need to take advantage of this strategic time, or our attempts at gift giving will look foolish."

Everett sat down. He looked at everyone around the table once more. They seemed to have taken the military view with a mild form of shock. To Everett, that was a common error by civilians as far as their view of the U.S. military went: they always believed military men wanted to fight, when most only wanted peace, but a safe one through strength, making war a last-ditch thing. Civilians order war, not the American military.

"Thank you, Captain, that was enlightening to say the least, and should put a more positive slant to our report to the president along with our idea to pave the way utilizing the return of their thousand-year-old general," Niles said. "I will sign this report and our idea and pass it on to the president as Department 5656's official recommendation on the historical advantage of taking action. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. If there is nothing else, I think we can—"

"Niles, is there a new time frame for us getting back into field operations?" Virginia Pollock asked, knowing that every department head around the table wanted to know the same thing.

Compton pursed his lips and ran a hand through his balding scalp.

"No, we're still at seventy-five percent as far as personnel goes, and the curtailment of university digs is still in effect for the time being because of the tense international situation. So, no, we will not be fielding any departmental teams for at least one to three months. I'm sorry. For now, recruitment of personnel and training is the order of the day. Get your people up to date on their classroom studies and get some of these kids their degrees — we'll need new supervisors in a lot of departments very soon. We have placated our new friend at Ways and Means, but he'll be watching us pretty close for a while."

With those words from the director, the meeting broke up. Niles could tell the department heads were frustrated about not being able to commence field operations, but there was nothing he could do about it. They needed rebuilding.

"Captain Everett, may I have a moment of your time, please?" Niles said while he stacked his notes and reports.

Everett nodded at Virginia as she walked past, then continued to hold the large door open for Sarah McIntire, the head of the geology division.

"You, too, Lieutenant McIntire. Please take a seat," Niles said as he finally looked up from the conference table. He removed his glasses and tossed them on the tabletop and then sat heavily into his chair while Carl and Sarah sat down toward the middle of the table.

"I would have expected Jack to give the report on the military aspects of our recommendations," Niles said as he rubbed his eyes.

Sarah McIntire chanced a quick look over at Everett, whose eyes remained on the director.

"Well, boss, Jack assigned me to do the historical military portion of the report, so he thought it would be preferable for me to attend the final meeting."

"I see." Niles replaced his glasses and then looked over at Sarah, who was feeling even smaller than her diminutive frame under the glare of the director. She returned his look as a smile that only touched the very corners of Niles's mouth appeared. "How about you, Lieutenant, have you noticed anything out of the ordinary where Colonel Collins is concerned?" The smile remained in place.

Sarah looked from Compton to Everett, and then made a decision. "Yes, sir, I have. Jack's been acting differently about a lot of things, more secretive. Something is on his mind but he won't say what it is."

Niles didn't respond to Sarah's observation.

"And neither one of you knows why Jack went to Langley, Virginia, and then visited the National Archives building in Washington last week?"

Both Sarah and Carl exchanged looks and Niles saw that they really hadn't known Jack had left the complex.

"Do you have any idea where Jack is right now?" he asked looking from Carl to Sarah.

When no answer came to his query, Niles leaned forward in his chair. "Well, he's in the same place he's been every day since his return from China, and frankly, it's worrying me."

Jack sat inside the large humidified vault and hadn't moved for the past hour. His eyes roamed over the acrylic box that sat high on an aluminum pedestal before him. The brass hoses that ran into the corners of the enclosure were there to feed cool air and humidity into the chamber to keep its contents at a perfect and airless 72 degrees Fahrenheit. On the side of the vault's wall, a recorded description of the artifact ran silently since Jack had lowered the sound on the computer-driven description. On the large high-definition screen that was not being watched by Collins was the historical film record of Amelia Earhart. Before him in the acrylic chamber were the remains of the lost aviatrix. Still dressed in a tattered, age-worn, tan flight suit, her skeletal remains lay silently as Jack watched her from a chair just to the redheaded woman's left side.

The remains of Amelia Earhart had been shown to Jack on his initial day inside the Event Group Complex in order to sell him on the importance of the top-secret agency. Collins had been impressed with the story behind the discovery of her remains on a former Japanese-held island in the Pacific, but had thought that was as far as it had went. Only lately had the tale of her execution been on his mind. The female aviator had been executed by the Japanese military after she had been forced down over one of their Pacific bases before the start of World War II. Accused of being a spy for President Roosevelt, she and her navigator, Fred Noonan, were both beheaded and buried, to be forever lost and assumed dead by misadventure and faulty navigation.

Jack raised his right hand and placed it on the acrylic enclosure. Collins found that he was comforted somehow by being here with Amelia since his trip to Virginia.

The remains of Earhart were due to be shipped out in three days. The body would be placed back in the sands of Howland Island, three thousand yards from the beach, and then a prearranged new finding of her corpse would be perpetrated by the Event Group and the Archaeology Department of Colorado State University. Amelia would finally be given the hero's welcome home she so richly deserved. And that little fact was what was disturbing Jack and why he came down here every day. She would not be recognized for doing what she was ordered by the president of the United States to do: She would not be honored for being an intelligence-gathering agent during the most turbulent time in world history.

There was something strange lying just beneath Jack's irritation at the situation, something he understood and was the basis for what he was about to do. He knew why he was doing it, he just couldn't think of any reason it would make the situation in Langley, Virginia, any easier.

The withered and dried corpse of one of the most famous Americans in history lay silently, unable to explain to the world the predicament of her demise. Collins knew he had that power, but to deliver it to the amazing woman before him, he had to betray a confidence, not only to the Group he worked for, but himself as well, all because there was a situation in his personal life he couldn't control since his visit out east.

Jack reached into his overall pocket and removed a plastic covered piece of paper. By using his Event Group security clearance, and since Department 5656 was an unofficial section of the National Archives, Jack had done some digging, and using his military experience and realizing the propensity of the armed forces of the United States for placing everything in writing, no matter how mundane or top secret, he had recovered a piece of bread crumb in the National Archives. The paper was part of the trail that was left behind when President Franklin Roosevelt had asked that Amelia Earhart purposefully overfly Japanese-held islands in the Pacific under the cover of her around-the-world flight. The letter was from a lowly signals officer in the U.S. navy, and it was an acknowledgment that certain maps were secretly passed to Amelia in Australia moments before her departure for her leg to Hawaii. With her body soon to be placed back for discovery by legitimate sources, the receipt would be found, and with the reporting of today's journalists, the lost adventurer would finally be given her due as an American patriot. This was a situation that was being repeated at this very moment, only in the present times it was with someone he loved very much. That was why he would help Amelia come back home a hero like she should have been hailed all those years ago.

As Collins looked the paper over, he gently removed the yellow flimsy from its protecting plastic. Jack knew it had to be done this way, because the director, Niles Compton, was a stickler for the department not changing, altering, or correcting history in any way through the auspices of the Event Group. He would not have signed on for it.

Just as Jack stood and looked at the mummified remains of Earhart, the hiss of the vault door sounded and he quickly placed the paper back into his pocket. He slowly turned and saw Sarah McIntire standing at the threshold of the thick steel door.

"I think I'm beginning to become jealous," she said as she took in the dark form of Jack who stood motionless under the spotlights of the vault.

"Nah, she's a bit too old for me," he said as he turned back to look at the corpse in the acrylic chamber.

"Yeah, but she's your type. Pushing the envelope like she did, I guess you could say she had balls."

Collins smiled and then turned back to face Sarah.

"I guess you could say she's like someone else I know, actually two someones."

"Jack, what in the hell are you doing here?" Sarah asked, not catching the plural meaning to Jack's strange statement.

Collins didn't answer. He just smiled at the small geologist and shrugged.

"How did you know where I was?" he asked instead of answering her question.

"The director, Jack. He's right outside the vault door, he wants a moment with you. He knows you've been down here nearly every day and he said something about a clandestine trip you made to Langley and then a quick stop at the National Archives in Washington. Why didn't you tell me about it?"

"It's something I have to work out on my own, so you have to sit this one out. Now tell Niles he can come in. He deserves a crack at me."

Sarah swallowed, and then with one last look back at Jack, turned away and stepped from the dimly illuminated vault.

Collins hated not being able to explain something he didn't understand himself. Sarah needed to know all there was about him and his personal life if they were to continue growing closer. His eyes looked up as Niles Compton stepped over the frame of the vault's door. He still had the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up to the elbows and his hands were now in his pants pockets. As usual, Niles looked tired and worn. The spotlights dimly reflected off of his balding head.

"Hello, Colonel."

"Mr. Director," Jack said as he stepped forward.

"Col—" Compton started and then stopped. They had worked together for over three years now, and he knew the formalities between them had to end. "Jack, are you going to tell me what's going on?"

"You have as much tact as a battleship in a pond, Niles."

"I believe you should come right out and say what's on your mind, wouldn't you agree?"

"The world would be a better place. And in answer to your question, I don't know if I can tell you. One side of it is a personal matter, the other professional."

"We" — Niles paused, rethinking his statement—"I need you here, Jack. The world's in a mess, the country's not far behind, and to be frank with you, this department's seen better days. Without you the past three years, we would have lost it all here. You have something that's taking your mind off your duties here; I think after all of this time you've earned the right to be trusted."

"Thank you, Niles."

Compton walked up to the acrylic chamber and looked inside. He, like Jack did a few moments ago, placed his hand on the lid and smiled.

"I'm going to miss her when she's gone," Niles said as he looked up and into Jack's blue eyes. "Obviously you will, too."

Collins didn't respond, he just held the eyes of his director. Then he slowly reached into his pocket and brought out the navy department signals receipt and, closing his eyes, he slowly reached out and handed the paper to Niles.

"Ah, the missing signals message from the Archives, I was wondering when you were going to tell me about it."

"You knew?" Jack asked, not really surprised. Then he quickly understood, "Ah, Pete and Europa."

"That damn computer knows more about what the National Archives has in its files than the people who catalog its items. Yes, Pete knew two hours after you left Washington." Niles held the paper out and then looked at it. "We could have talked about this, Jack."

"I don't even know why I did it." It looked like Collins was going to continue, but stopped and just shook his head.

Compton smiled. "I'm not as by-the-book as people think. I've done some pretty stupid things here myself. You know, once, back when we had the intact crypt of Genghis Khan — I think I was a computer room supervisor then — long before Senator Lee gave me the entire department, I cut all surveillance to his vault, put on his hat, and swung his sword around to beat all hell."

Jack had to smile at the picture Compton's memory described. The little balding computer nerd wearing a fur hat and chopping at the air with the sword of a man that came close to conquering three quarters of the globe.

"Well, needless to say, I was caught red-handed by none other than the senator himself as he was giving a tour of the vaults to the director of the General Accounting Office."

"That must have made your day."

Niles smiled at the memory. "Yeah, three weeks of house arrest in my own room on level eight, then a disciplinary letter in my file." Niles turned and looked at Jack, still smiling. "You know what the old man did?"

"I'll bite, Niles, what did he do?"

"The next month he promoted me to the department head of Computer Sciences, and on that day he allowed me to transport the remains of Genghis Khan back to Mongolia and rebury it. That was my very first and only real field expedition."

Jack smiled and nodded his head. He didn't really know why the director told him that story, but it placed a far more human face on Niles Compton.

The director nodded his head, lightly patted the acrylic chamber, and then looked at the remains of Amelia Earhart for probably the last time.

"Senator Lee promoted me because he found out on that day that I had an imagination. He said that was a deciding factor in me getting Computer Sciences. He said you need an imagination to be a leader." Niles held Jack's eyes with his own and then continued. "Sometimes I hate history, Jack. It's not fair in a lot of cases." Niles placed the signal message from the navy department on the chambers top and then slid it over toward Collins. "Just hide the orders in a not-so-obvious place on her remains."

Collins looked from the letter to his boss. He nodded just once.

"Now, Jack, do you want to fill me in as to why you stopped and visited your sister at the CIA? A sister you never listed as a family member in your file?"

"How in the hell did you know that?"

"I just happen to have a best friend with the title of president of the United States. He wouldn't allow the director at Langley to use one of my people without the courtesy of informing me as to why. I agreed with allowing you to cooperate with them for the simple reason you know what your sister's thoughts are. "

"The director of the CIA told the president?"

"Your sister and the operation she's currently running is the reason for your interest in seeing to it that Amelia here gets her just rewards, isn't that right?"

Jack was astounded at what Niles knew about what was happening in his life. He decided to come clean about his sister and her situation. It took a half an hour, but Jack felt better for doing it.

Niles had listened in silence and then he stood and turned away, and was just about to leave when he turned once more to face Jack.

"Keep me posted on your sister, Jack." Niles smiled. "And by the way, your letter of reprimand regarding the theft of national treasures will be placed in your file also, just like the senator did me." Compton then abruptly turned and stepped over the high threshold of the vault and disappeared into the massive hallway.

Jack Collins smiled for the first time since he heard what his baby sister was up to. Then he slowly and carefully lifted the cover of Earhart's enclosure, and placed the navy signals message and history back into the proper and correct perspective.

The rented Audi sat parked as it had for the past two hours in front of the large cast-iron gates that led to one of the most famous structures in Montreal. The estate was as old as Canada itself, and historians claimed it was actually designed by Marquis Louis-Joseph de Montcalm, the commander of all the North American French forces during that country's battle with the British Empire for control of the Americas — the French and Indian War of 1754–1763. The woman sitting in the rented car knew better. She had done her homework and was aware that the estate hadn't been built until five years after the Marquis's death. Her proof was in the CIA archives in Langley, Virginia. The French Canadians perpetrated the rumor to lure tourist dollars into their city.

The man in the driver's seat lowered his binoculars and looked out into the warming spring day.

"You know, we're sticking out like a sore thumb here. I mean, anyone could look out of any one of those two hundred gilded windows and see us."

The dark-haired woman didn't say anything as she silently watched the house that sat a hundred yards up the long drive. Her blue eyes never leaving the stone facade of the mansion. She panned to the right and looked through the window at the city almost ten miles away. There were a few pillars of smoke from the riots but it looked as though the Canadian government had quelled most of the protests and violence concerning the recent push for French speaking independence.

"This place is fast becoming a mess," she mumbled.

"Maybe we should—"

"We'll stay right here." The woman finally afforded the older man a glance. Her features were soft and she spoke to her partner as if she were a teacher instructing a slow student even though his years of service far outweighed her own. "I don't give a damn if they see us, Mr. Evans. They need to know they are being watched and that old sins are not forgiven — at least by the United States."

The man knew the young woman was tired. She had flown into Montreal just six hours before and she was out of sorts. He just hoped the head of the northeast field desk wasn't making an error in judgment. He knew as well as she that the two men inside that house were two of the most ruthless killers that had ever worked for the old KGB. The field operation was made possible only because of an anonymous tip and a package delivered to her desk that had very unexpectedly brought the golden child, the wunderkind of the agency, out from behind her desk at Langley. Tired as she was, Lynn Simpson looked through the man alongside her. He knew from her reputation — an impressive one for someone as young as she was — and realized that she didn't care what he thought. She played her own game and did it very well.

"We have a vehicle approaching from Tenth Street, followed by a van," came a voice over the earpiece in both agents' ears.

"Thank you, unit two, they are expected company," Simpson said into the microphone located just under her jacket collar.

"Who are they?" Evans asked as he looked from the beautiful young woman and then into his rearview mirror.

"CSIS," she said as she removed the field glasses from his hands and looked through them at the house.

"Why would we bring in the Canadian Security Intelligence Service if we're just watching and verifying if that's really them inside? We don't have anything on Deonovich or Sagli, no warrants at least."

"You'll have to excuse me if you weren't informed of everything that comes across my desk, Agent Evans. Right now the Canadian authorities have them entering Canada under false passports and thanks to an anonymous source, we also have them coming into Seattle with those same false papers. Now, can I assume you're armed?"

"In the glove box. Will I need it?" he asked, not liking the way this thing was shaping up.

Agent Lynn Simpson lowered the field glasses, but didn't look at Evans when she handed him the binoculars. Keeping her eyes on the house, she reached for the glove box, opened it, found the Glock nine-millimeter, and then handed it to him.

"You are currently qualified with that, I presume?" she asked him with the first touch of a smile to cross her lips that morning. "I'm just kidding, Evans, just keep it close. I couldn't get my weapon into the country."

"Wait, didn't you fly in by a company plane?"

"Commercial," she said as she opened the car door but looked back before she stepped out. "I needed the travel miles."

Evans watched her as she closed the door and then walked to the rear of the rented Audi as the car and van approached. He closed his eyes and cursed, now realizing the assistant director wasn't here under any kind of authorization from the company. He chambered a round into his nine-millimeter, making sure the safety was on, and then threw open his door.

"I know what you're thinking, Evans, and yes, the director of Intelligence knows we're here; she made me contact CSIS to let them know we'd be in country. We'll soon have the company of the head of the Montreal sector of counterintelligence greeting us." She looked over the top of the Audi and shook her head. The older agents were getting so paranoid that someone was going to snatch their pension right out from under them since most refused to take chances any longer.

The Canadian government car stopped and a large man with a balding head stepped out of the passenger's side, smiled at Lynn, and held out his hand.

"Well, I thought your bosses at the Farm were keeping a closer eye on you these days?" the man asked, shaking the hand of the much smaller American woman.

"Hello, Punchy, how are the wife and kids?"

Jonathan "Punchy" Alexander had been trained through the offices of British Intelligence, MI-5, and was one of the best field men Lynn had ever met. He was the man responsible for shutting down the largest terrorist organization on the North American continent two years prior, and held the prison key to over one hundred and twelve enemies of the West. He was currently Canada's flavor of the month, or year for that matter.

"My kids are all anarchists and the wife is still mean as a snake," he said as he released her small hand. He looked at the pretty American and watched her eyes. "I suspect that most of my kids are downtown protesting with the rest of the crazies about independence from Ottawa. How's your brother? I haven't seen him in years, hell, I haven't even heard about him, and in our game that says something. I hope the U.S. government didn't bury him too deep after his little snit with the army."

"I wouldn't know about that. If he was dead, I'm sure my mother would have said something about it."

Alexander sensed anger behind the bland look that she put on her face as she casually uttered those words and decided to push a little more. He thought, Maybe I'll get something for my report.

"Still touchy on the subject of your brother, I see."

She looked straight at the much larger Canadian and tilted her head and raised her left eyebrow.

"Okay, I'll leave it alone." He knew the problems of big brother, little sister because of the career path the latter had chosen. His old friend wasn't happy his baby sis had opted for the intelligence end of things. Alexander cleared his throat and then looked up at the chateau. "Now, you're not standing in front of Chateau Laureal because of the early season tourist rate, so what are you doing in the great white north, Agent Simpson?"

"Gregori Deonovich and Dmitri Sagli," she said as she held the Canadian intelligence officer with her stark blue eyes.

All humor and goodwill left his features. He looked at Lynn and then immediately turned toward the giant house and then without looking away from the structure gestured for his men to exit the car and van.

"I take it you were informed of their arrival by a contact from my country who works for you?"

"Let's not get territorial, Punchy, I was informed anonymously and then I immediately called you people."

Alexander unceremoniously removed the field glasses from Agent Evans and raised them to look at the chateau, allowing Evans a chance to glare at the larger man.

"You're sure it's those murderous bastards?"

"They didn't even bother to disguise themselves coming through the airport. It was like they wanted to be seen."

Alexander lowered the glasses and fixed Lynn with a look.

"You know, they knew you would be called in any event. Of all the people in the world, they would want to confront you."

"Am I missing something here?" Evans asked.

"Yes. If I know your boss, you've missed everything. The two men of Slavic origin inside of that house have a file on them in every Western intelligence service and those files are over a foot thick. And somewhere in those reports you will find a reference to your Ms. Simpson. She's dogged them since the time she was first assigned to the desk she now occupies. Altogether these two Russians have killed five American, six British, one New Zealander, three Germans, and two Canadian intelligence people, and that's all after their time at the KGB ended."

"So what have they been doing since?" Evans asked looking from Alexander to Lynn.

"Don't you brief your field people?" Alexander asked, sparing Lynn a cold look. "They are the joint heads of the largest organized crime syndicate in Russia. That's what KGB retirement means nowadays. The last I heard, they were expanding into the Ukraine and Kazakhstan, which is why I'm so concerned about them coming here where they don't own the intelligence agencies or the police. Besides, with all of this rioting going on and with a major coup in the offing if things don't calm down, them being here makes a mess, just a larger mess." Alexander raised the glasses again and watched the house. "May I assume that your FBI and even your own director don't know that you and your boys are in Canada?"

"My immediate boss thought we could take care of this on our own, Punchy, without bringing both of our agency heads in on it; the legalities involved would have taken too much time. With what's happening here we thought a low profile was best. Look, Sagli and Deonovich are here for a reason, and no matter what that reason is, them being in that chateau uninvited is what we call, in the States, probable cause."

"I came across an obscure report generated by your NSA that says these two maniacs may have finally pushed the Russians into acting against them. It seems they were alerted to certain illegal activities by someone in the American intelligence community, and this person may have actually forwarded incriminating evidence of murder to the Russian authorities. Them being here may be the end result of that report so they may finally be on the run. Do you know who may have sent the Russians that report, Agent Simpson?"

Lynn held Alexander's gaze for a moment and then nodded toward the chateau. "Now tell me, Punchy, what is in that monstrosity of a house that would make them risk coming to the one continent where they would immediately skip trial and be unceremoniously hanged if caught?"

The glasses came down again and Alexander took in a deep breath, knowing it was exactly as he thought — Lynn had forwarded the report to the authorities in Moscow.

"Nothing new, antiques for the tourists to ooh and ah over. Maybe… Fuquay?" he called out to the small group of men he had brought along.

"Yes, sir," said the man in a heavy French Canadian accent. He stepped away from the group of ten Canadian agents and slung an automatic rifle over his shoulder.

"Wasn't there something about an exhibition on historical gold mining stopping off at the chateau?"

"Actually, we did receive a detailed report on the security for the exhibit. Nothing substantial so we didn't become involved. It's just some old mining equipment, letters home to wives from miners, that sort of thing. Turn-of-the-century items."

"You're kidding? Why would those two killers have interest in that?" Lynn asked.

Alexander nodded for the man to return to the A-Team of Canadians.

"They shouldn't be interested in anything that we've heard of in there. And that in itself is enough to worry me."

Lynn turned and leaned into the rental car, retrieved a file, and handed it to Alexander. "This was sent to us by our Seattle field office — they 'borrowed' it from the Seattle PD."

Alexander opened the file and the first thing he saw was a crime scene photo of an old man stretched out on a bed. A hole had been punched through his head on the man's right side. The bed he was lying on was soaked through with blood. Alexander turned the page and looked at the second, far more disturbing image taken by the Seattle police department showing twelve individuals, tied and gagged. Each one had been shot execution style and placed in a circle, feet pointed outward.

"The circle of victims proves beyond a doubt that Deonovich and Sagli did this. That circle thing is definitely their calling card. Head to head, that's the way they always leave their victims, symbolizes completeness, or so our psych people tell us."

"And this third photo?" Alexander asked, as he flipped the page and saw a clear shot of Sagli and Deonovich. The long ponytail of Sagli and the distinctive crew-cut hair of Deonovich were visible, and the size difference between the two was clear as Deonovich towered over the smaller Sagli.

"That was taken at Sea-Tac Airport and sent to me by that anonymous source I mentioned. We assume it was taken upon their arrival in country."

"This anonymous source is quite disturbing to say the least," Alexander said as his eyes went from the picture and fixed on Lynn.

"It could be anyone: FBI, even the Seattle PD. It's not like these two aren't camera shy — every law enforcement agency on the planet knows about them."

Punchy Alexander closed the file and tossed it on the trunk of Lynn's rental car. The large man pursed his lips and then lowered his head in thought.

"My hackles are rising, Agent Simpson." He held up a hand when she started to say something. "This is squirrelly. They know they are vulnerable when they travel. And you receive this photo out of the clear blue? Surely, you and your area director suspect that this may be a setup? I mean, this location, it's so far from everything, and out in the open like this. No, this isn't right and your boss should have known it."

"Why would they do that?" she asked pointing to the first picture of the dead Serta. "They murdered an old man in Seattle, this Valery Serta, obviously of Russian descent, and killed his entire house staff, for what? They're ruthless killers, Punchy, but that just isn't their style."

"And you're an expert at avoiding the obvious. But let me say this, it doesn't really matter, they're here and they're not leaving Canadian soil." He turned and got the attention of his agents. "You men deploy by twos, all with strength of cover positions, and get me more men in here. Get the descriptions of Deonovich and Sagli to every man, and do not hesitate to use deadly force if positive identification is made."

"Punchy, the agency would like them alive if possible; they have a lot to answer for," Lynn said as she followed Alexander to the trunk of his car.

"Look, Agent Simpson," he said, getting very official. "I like you, and I damn well have the deepest respect for your family, but you're well out of your territory and on foreign soil, your higher management people don't even know you're here, just your assistant director of Intelligence — if you want to keep it that way, let me handle this. If not, get back into your car and either get to the airport or to the American consulate."

"You know these two guys are mine, Punchy. I have case files on them all the way back to 1978."

"Yes, I know, and they also know." Alexander let out a breath, calming himself. "They know as much about you as you do them. You're in danger by even showing up here. And you put the operation in danger as much as you put yourself at risk. You should have done all of this by phone from Langley." He saw a look of frustration flicker across her face. "Okay, don't give me that look, your brother always tried that crap on me, and believe me, little girl, you're not him. You and your team, even the two you have watching us right now, are to observe only."

"Listen—"

Lynn never finished her protest. The chateau disintegrated in an explosion that was powerful enough from a hundred yards away to implode the windshields on the two cars and van. They were all knocked from their feet as the pressure wave hit them. As the fireball and debris moved high into the air, Lynn, Evans, and Alexander scrambled on hands and knees to get to the far side of the rental car. Soon, stone, mortar, and burning wood started striking around them. Men and their equipment were sprawled over the roadway as debris from the massive mansion rained down. Amid the din and chaos, they heard the first crackle of automatic weapons fire.

"What in the hell?" Evans asked covering his head just as several bullets slammed into the Audi's rear quarter panel.

It was then that Lynn heard it: the harsh whine of a Bell Ranger helicopter as it came in low over the street. The van suddenly erupted with a crumpling sound coupled with fire and wind, sending Alexander into the Americans, as they were all three pushed from cover by the blast from the exploding van. The automatic weapons fire continued from both open doorways of the attack chopper as the assassins inside took careful and deadly aim at the thirteen prone people on the ground. Lynn rolled out from under Alexander and looked up just as several pieces of burning wood and debris struck the single rotor blade of the Ranger high above her. The rotors shook off the assault and danger and kept shooting down at them. Lynn realized whatever happened at the chateau was secondary to what she now knew was a murder raid. The Russians knew they were there and they were out to kill them.

"We need to—"

Alexander had just come to his knee and drawn his weapon when one bullet nicked his shoulder and he was thrown backward. Lynn saw Punchy hit his head hard on the pavement. Evans yelped; she was then splattered with his blood. Without really thinking about it, she reached out, grabbed the Glock nine-millimeter, and then quickly rolled until the large curb that lined the street stopped her momentum. Above all of the noise she thought she heard the sound of approaching sirens.

"Bastards!" she yelled as she took quick aim and then fired up into the belly of the Bell Ranger. The small slugs punched holes into the aluminum bottom but had no effect. She quickly emptied the Glock and all she had to show for it was to add new venting to the helicopter's flooring.

The CSIS men were succumbing quickly to the murderous fire from above just as two Montreal police cruisers skidded to a stop behind the burning van. Lynn tried in vain to warn the patrolmen off as the two jumped from their respective cars, but she couldn't be heard over the gunfire. The two police officers never knew what hit them as slugs slammed into their bodies and riddled them with holes.

Lynn screamed into the microphone that was still attached to her coat collar, screaming for cover fire from her observation team based at the far end of the street. That was when she realized the fire from on high had stopped and she could only hear the sound of the hovering helicopter. As she looked up through the smoke and flying dust, the Ranger moved off slowly. She then knew that the whining turbine sound had not left with it. Her eyes moved to the rear of the departing assault helicopter and that was when she saw another. This one was a French-built Aerospatiale Gazelle attack helicopter. It began a quick decent to the smoking and smashed street.

Lynn came to her knees and started running when she realized the assault wasn't over. As she stumbled past the burning van, the Gazelle swooped in and, with its powerful three bladed rotors, dusted Lynn until she couldn't stand against the force any longer and fell. She tried to stand once more but fell again as the Gazelle came in even lower. As she covered her head, she thought to herself that this was the end, when the Gazelle slammed hard onto the street, the skids missing her head by only five feet. As she rolled over and searched hopelessly for one of the Canadians' fallen weapons, hands grabbed at her. She tried to fight them off, but a blow to her face slowed her reactions down to a crawl.

Lynn Simpson felt the blood flowing freely from a three-inch gash opened on her lower lip as she felt herself being held upright by two sets of hands. Through the noise and her pain, she saw a face come at her from the rush of smoke and dust.

"Predictable, Agent Simpson. Now, if you will come with us, our transportation is waiting."

Lynn gathered herself and spit as far as she could toward the dark-haired Dmitri Sagli. The blood struck the small man's leather coat. He smiled and then with his right hand, backhanded her across the face, making her angrier, but still just as helpless as before.

"You Americans have always been fond of the term, to kill two birds with one stone." The former Russian KGB assassin looked about at the dead Canadian agents and smiled. "Now we have managed to kill a whole flock of Canadian geese and catch one American songbird with one stone."

As the Russian watched Lynn being loaded into the waiting Gazelle, he shook his head in wonder at how stupid the West was becoming. They thought everything revolved around dead ideologies dating back to the Cold War, and that was what made their actions predictable. The game had changed for the ex-KGB men and the West just couldn't follow along. It was now all about personal power, not ideology.

As Dmitri Sagli turned for the helicopter, he saw Punchy Alexander move a few feet away from him. He slowly walked up to the prone Canadian agent and placed his foot at the back of his head and then pointed the same automatic weapon he had used to kill Serta in Seattle, he turned and smiled at Lynn Simpson, almost as if making sure she was watching, and then he fired three times into Alexander's back. He then moved off toward the Gazelle, putting the weapon away and buttoning his coat as he did.

As the Gazelle lifted free of the street, it left behind three dead American field officers and eleven Canadians, the largest massacre of Western intelligence personnel in history.

The Bell Ranger soon overtook the French-built helicopter to escort it, and together they both headed toward the border, flying south toward New York.

Assistant Director of Intelligence Nancy Grogan eased herself into one of the two chairs facing the director's desk. Harmon Easterbrook eyed her as she sat and placed a red-bordered file on the desk's edge. Briefly, she looked to her left at Assistant Director of Operations Stan Rosen, and then quickly nodded. Rosen in turn did not grant her the favor of his own greeting. She ignored the snub and listened to the one-way conversation going on in front of her.

"Yes, sir, we'll get a full report of everything we have over to you as soon as we can gather the Intel. Yes, Mr. President, a full accounting."

As the director hung up the phone, he kept his fingers on the handle for the briefest of moments; it was as if he were thinking about his words before he spoke them. He then half smiled, but the humor was lost somewhere between the eyes and the mouth. He looked directly at Grogan.

"Needless to say that was the president. Can you guess what was on his mind this morning?"

"The incident in Montreal would be my guess, and a pretty accurate one I—"

"I was asking Nancy, Stan," Easterbrook said, his eyes never leaving the fifty-two-year-old woman.

"I take full responsibility for what happened. Simpson was there with my full knowledge."

"With three of my field agents, now dead," Stan Rosen said glaring over at his intelligence counterpart.

"Look, if we thought it was anything more than just a sighting, we would have been there in force; as it was, it was an anonymous source that let us know Sagli and Deonovich were in the country. We had nothing other than some grainy photography that it was even them. So, Lynn asked if she could go and investigate. She did it by the book, went through channels and—"

"Got a Canadian CSIS field team wiped out, an American responsible for northeastern American intelligence kidnapped, and three of my people killed."

The assistant director lowered her head for the briefest of moments, but then gathered herself.

"Lynn is the brightest person I have in my entire department. Hell, she's easily my replacement, she outthinks everyone here at the Farm and you know it. This is something more than just Sagli and his buddy being here for theft."

"Explain," Easterbrook said, motioning for Rosen to be quiet.

"We don't even know why they were in Canada. And the mass murder in Seattle? The Seattle authorities are saying a possible motivation was theft, but as of yet they are saying nothing is missing from this Russian's apartment. Now we have Sagli and Deonovich breaking into what amounts to be a museum in Montreal for theft once more? As I said, not their style. There's something more here than we know at the moment."

"It's my understanding that your person has been making life very miserable for Sagli and Deonovich for more than three years, at least since I put her there after her stint in Afghanistan. Hell, she may be responsible for them being on the run; what's worse, they know it's her putting pressure on them from this end. Now, let me know, is this a vengeance thing or something else? Operations has to know so we can treat this accordingly."

The director nodded. "Stan has a valid point," watching Grogan carefully for her reactions.

Grogan turned and fixed her operations counterpart with a raised brow.

"That's right; for once I had someone at that desk who was capable of doing that particular job. Lynn dug her teeth into those two and hung on. They are wanted in this country for the murder of federal agents, including our own. Everywhere they went in Moscow, Minsk, Kiev, and even Kurdistan, she had our people watching them. She was making life miserable by letting their prospective clients and associates be aware their time was drawing to a close. Finally, and this is in my monthly departmental report, she was authorized by me to forward the file to Russian intelligence on their activities. That file included outlays for taking out certain Russian politico's in Moscow who they deemed dangerous to their illegal operations. Evidently, the new Russian president moved on that evidence and sent them scurrying."

"And now your girl wonder is in their hands. Does that make you feel better?" Rosen asked giving back the raised brow look.

"That's uncalled for, Stan. I need you both to work together on this. The Canadian PM just threatened the president with public disclosure. We have to get this thing under some kind of control and get him answers. I want a full court press on this."

"Even though I despise the way this came down, I have to tell you that I think the prime minister is bluffing. His people were there also; what can he say? He doesn't know what his intelligence services are doing? Besides, he has separatist protests and outright riots in Montreal he has to deal with and something like this could only add to his French-speaking provincial problems."

"How is their guy doing?" Easterbrook asked.

"John Alexander is one tough nut. As I told you in numerous reports, he's one of the good guys and the bastard's hard to kill. He'll recover. He was wearing his vest. He's a real pro."

"Good, good. Now—"

"If I know him, he'll want in on whatever it is we do about this. He and Simpson were close. They both spent time with MI-5 in Birmingham on the Al-Qaeda thing. Evidently, he's a close friend of her family."

"If he asks, we'll allow it as a professional courtesy. That's the least we can do," Easterbrook said, nodding that their brief meeting was concluded.

Nancy Grogan cleared her throat. The director looked up and Rosen sat back in his chair.

"You have something else?"

"Lynn Simpson."

"I want her back. If not, I want the men who killed her."

"It's not that, sir. There's a reason why she is as good as she is. Why she's pegged to be a company leader in the near future. It seems to run in her blood."

"Get to the point," Easterbrook ordered.

"Simpson is Lynn's mother's maiden name. Collins is her real name."

Director Easterbrook bit his lower lip and then swiveled his chair to face his large window as he thought. Rosen for his part was lost as to what she was getting at.

"So?" Rosen finally asked.

Grogan shook her head and then turned and looked at the assistant director.

"She's the sister of a very dangerous man, at least he used to be. This Colonel Collins and Punchy Alexander go way back. They were joint heads of a special operations action in Canada. I can't get details on the mission, but it had something to do with recovering a project called Solar Flare. I couldn't get any more details on—,"

"He still is a dangerous man, and there is no such thing as Solar Flare," Easterbrook said, still looking out of his window away from his two assistants. "At least publicly there isn't. It was a search and rescue operation twenty-five years after it was lost. It has no bearing on the action taken in Montreal."

Nancy Grogan caught the drift and knew the subject of this Solar Flare was off limits.

"I thought the army buried Colonel Collins somewhere?" Grogan asked the back of the director's chair.

Easterbrook finally and slowly turned his chair back to face the two. He ran a hand through his completely gray head of hair, and then fixed Nancy with his stern look.

"I hear rumors, and they all say that Colonel Jack Collins is still very much in the mix" — the director picked up the phone—"and if the rumors I hear are true, he won't be very happy about us losing his little sister. Now, excuse me."

"Lynn said she and her brother don't speak that often, that they're not that close," Grogan said.

The director paused with phone in hand and looked at both of his people.

"Do you want to be the one to inform him, if we can even locate him, that is?"

Grogan lowered her eyes and then turned and started to leave.

"I don't get it, who is this Collins, and what is the big deal?" Rosen asked. "He's just a colonel for God's sake."

"From his reputation, he's not only one of the best soldiers this country has ever produced, but also just about the most dangerous man alive — at least he once was," Grogan said as she reached for the door handle.

"This stays in this office," Easterbrook said as he started punching numbers, bypassing his assistant in the outer office, standard procedure when he called the president's private line.

"I don't see the concern here. I think we have bigger problems to deal with than some army colonel," Rosen said as he looked from the director to Grogan. "Come on, he's only one guy, right?"

Grogan turned and caught the attention of the director.

"Look, Collins is a legend, at least in the field."

"I'll bet he's stuck behind a desk somewhere, out of the way, one of those break-glass-in-case-of-war guys; probably just a relic by now."

2

Lynn Simpson wasn't bound or gagged, and had been treated well since the savagery of the early morning. She was now locked in a small room just off the basement of a house. She even knew where she was being held, having recognized the small airfield she had been brought to just outside of McLean, Virginia. She was mere miles away from her own office at Langley, and with the fact they weren't trying to hide their safe house from her was worrisome, because they obviously had no intention of ransoming her back to the company.

Since her arrival, she had been offered lunch, which sat untouched on the small table in the corner. She had drunk the bottled water provided, simply to assist her in holding down the bile in her stomach that rose up every time she remembered the murder of her agents and those of the Canadian contingent right before her eyes.

She hadn't seen the two Russians, Sagli and Deonovich, since she had been led into the room. There were, however, several other brutes that made their presence known. As for why she was here and not dead was something she had yet to figure out.

Lynn paced to the window and stood on her toes to look through the ground-level window. The glass was reinforced with wire, so smashing through it was out of the question — her guards would be on her long before she could push through the wire. She looked around, seeing only cinderblock and concrete. Again she turned to the window and the overcast day outside.

The door suddenly opened and a large man in a tan jacket and white shirt stood looking at her. The black beard hid the fierce features somewhat, but Lynn recognized the large brute as one of the helicopters gunners that had assisted in eliminating the Canadian ground team and her own men at the chateau. He glanced from Lynn's pretty features to the window and then he smiled, as if saying, "Please try."

The man stepped aside and Sagli stepped through the door alone; Deonovich was not with him. The ponytail was gone and the Russian's dark hair hung free to fall around his shoulders. He carried a small box with him as he closed the door. The large guard took up station beside it and his eyes locked on Lynn. It was as if he really expected her to try something. The Russians must have believed CIA agents all to be James Bond types.

"Ms. Simpson, we finally get a chance to chat. After so many encounters through second, third, and fourth parties, it is truly an honor to finally meet you in person."

Lynn moved away from the wall that held the small window and looked from Sagli over to the guard. She was tempted to take a quick step toward the large man just to see if he would flinch, but decided he might not appreciate that too much. She turned and looked at Sagli, but remained silent. She needed all the information she could get before she did something as stupid as getting herself killed.

"Needless to say, you were an irritant with your constant feed of intelligence to the swine that now occupy the Kremlin. Not that it ever stopped us from conducting our business."

"You'll never leave this country alive," Lynn said as a confident matter of fact as she paced to the only chair in the room and sat down. She picked a small corner of bread from the still full plate and forced herself to eat it.

Sagli saw through her forced bravado and smiled. "We managed rather nicely to come into your country, I think we can manage getting out when the time presents itself. In the meantime, may I show you something?"

Lynn swallowed the piece of bread with as much difficulty as she could ever remember any task. She then shrugged her shoulders.

Sagli opened the small box he was carrying and then looked inside, as if never tiring of gazing at the amazing object. He held it out for Lynn to see. She saw the gleaming diamond that was as big as the largest hen's egg she had ever seen. The ten thousand cuts made on the diamond's surface were as flawless as the stone itself. She forced herself not to react to the most amazing display of geology she would ever see.

"Beautiful, is it not?"

Still she didn't say anything; instead she looked away and tore another piece of bread off and placed it in her mouth. While she did, her mind raced. If this venture into the United States was limited to diamonds, her line of investigation was so far off she almost vomited the bread she had just swallowed.

"It will be difficult to shove it up your ass when you go to prison, won't it?" she said as she swallowed the bread and then reached for the water bottle in front of her.

The Russian reached out and slapped the bottle from her fingertips. His glare was murderous.

"May I remind you, you are not in a position for such false bravado? You will assist us in our quest, or you will die, just as your Canadian colleagues did this morning."

"Just get on with it, you're boring me."

Again, Sagli smiled and then closed the lid to the small box. "The Twins — that is what this is about, Miss Simpson. As you see we have one, we want the other. The Twins of Peter the Great, once a myth and now proven to be a fact. You will assist us in discovering the whereabouts of this diamond's equal."

"I haven't a clue as to what you're talking about."

Sagli held the small box out. The large man by the door took it and then returned to his position by the door.

"We could have taken any hostage we wanted here in the States. However, taking you was just too tempting. You have been what you Americans call a pain in the ass. We knew our picture would lead you right to where we wanted you to be. Now we will get the information we need in exchange for sparing your life."

"Uh-huh, and I'll run for president of the United States next year at this time. My bosses wouldn't give you the time of day."

"Indeed, they may not if they thought that we were not serious in our quest." Sagli nodded over at the large man who nodded and placed the box holding the diamond on the floor. He quickly advanced toward the chair and he went behind Lynn and then without hesitation reached out and grabbed her right hand and slammed it on the table, knocking the now cold meal from its surface. Before Lynn knew exactly what was happening, the man produced a knife and quickly and expertly cut her right index finger off, slicing through skin and bone as effortlessly as a breadstick.

Lynn screamed and then closed her eyes against the pain. For some unknown reason her thoughts quickly turned to her brother, the protector she had known since the time she had been able to remember. She couldn't help it; she let loose with his name in a moment of lost composure.

"Jack!" she cried.

The Russian smiled when the name of her brother was mentioned, and then just as quickly the grin vanished.

"There, now your employers will believe you are in dire peril," Sagli said as he nodded for the man to leave the room with his new proof of life and of Lynn's identity.

Lynn grasped her hand as Sagli reached out and quickly wrapped a handkerchief around the wound and then he ruthlessly bound it tightly. With tears of pain and frustration coursing down both cheeks, she became mad, not only at her complete failure at controlling the pain, but being weak enough to have called out for Jack.

"I'm going to kill that bastard for that," Lynn said between clenched teeth. "Then I'm going to kill you and that worthless partner of yours," she finished far more calmly than she felt.

"We will get what we want from your government, and then you will die, possibly not in that order, but die you will. Either way, the good guys will not win this round, dear Miss Simpson. There will be no one capable of stopping us from finding the other Twin, no American cowboy to come to your rescue."

Lynn's eyes narrowed, knowing that the only man who could come riding to her rescue knew only that she was working on a project that may or may not concern him; thus he was in the dark as to what peril his sister was in, and realizing this, an air of despair settled over her like a dark shroud.

Assistant Director of Intelligence Nancy Grogan had been at her desk going on fifteen hours. Stan Rosen, coming in from a stop at home, poked his head inside of her door after a brief knock. They were both under orders from the director to get a handle on the abduction of Agent Lynn Simpson.

"Anything since I've been out?" he asked, knowing from her tired expression there had been no developments.

"Stan, this makes no sense: Two of the most wanted criminals in the world abduct an American intelligence officer. Where is the plan? They know we won't negotiate her release."

Rosen took a step into the office and removed his horn-rimmed glasses. "You have been in your position, how long? Three months?"

"Four," she said, not in the least bit anxious to be lectured.

"We negotiate with scum on a daily basis around here. The director and the president want your girl freed, and they will be willing to deal with those two pieces of shit to do it. Then we can sweep this thing back across the border where it damn well belongs."

"We have to hear from them first."

"Go home; those files will start blending into each other if you keep going. Get some rest; I'll stay and keep the home fires burning here. The director will have some hard questions tomorrow, and you better be awake enough to have a few answers."

"You're right, at least a nap and a shower," Grogan said as she tossed the thick file about Sagli onto her desk. Then she looked up. "Did the director say anything about contacting Lynn's brother?"

Stan looked at his watch. "Not as of ten o'clock tonight. The president said he wants every piece of intelligence we can gather before addressing that problem."

Nancy Grogan shook her head and stood.

"Call me if anything develops."

"Oh, thank you for not bringing up the fact that it was me that passed on that airport picture of Sagli and Deonovich to you. There was no sense in getting both of us in Dutch with the director."

Grogan stopped gathering her data to take home and looked at Rosen.

"I do have one question; maybe your answer will be payment enough for not mentioning to the director that it was you who gave me the photo."

"Shoot," Rosen said.

"The contact who passed it to you: How did you get someone on the Canadian side to work for you with intelligence knowing? I mean, I should have gotten a report on anyone working with you across the border."

Rosen smiled wide. "We all have our secrets."

Grogan tilted her head and continued to look at her operations counterpart.

"The guy is so small in their government and we pay him so little that he just got lost in the reports, that's all." With a last smile and nod of his head, Stan Rosen left. "I'll let you know if anything happens while you're resting," he called out over his shoulder.

Nancy sat back down in her chair. She looked at her empty doorway and wondered at the fact that Rosen still didn't name his source.

Forty minutes later, Grogan pulled into her driveway at Fort Myer, Maryland. She paused in her car as she noticed that her security lights didn't come on as usual. As she gathered her large bag she knew she had to call the security company first thing in the morning, another headache to deal with. As she took the fifteen steps up her walk to her front door, a voice came out of the darkness. She stopped and without turning, started to reach into her bag.

"Please do not attempt to reach for your weapon, I have instructions that say you are not valuable enough to leave unharmed if you make trouble. You will be quite dead before you turn around, Assistant Director Grogan. We would just choose to go through another spy to deliver our demands."

"Who are you?" she asked as she slowly turned to face the darkness of her front yard. She could see a man, a rather large one, standing just outside of her night vision.

"That is not important. What is of the utmost importance is that you listen. As you know, we have your agent and she is in dire straits at the moment, and in very much discomfort. If you and your agency would like to relieve her of any more pain, and perhaps have her returned, we need one thing from you."

"I need proof that she is alright, otherwise you can go straight to hell. We don't pay criminals for killing our people."

"Proof is forthcoming. Right now you need to return to your agency and gather one piece of information. Six months ago, there was a robbery at the Denver Museum of Natural History. Several valuable pieces were stolen, along with some very valuable papers that were stored in one of these artifacts."

"What does this have to do with—?"

"If you interrupt me once more, we will send your agent back to you in many pieces."

Grogan was silent as she tried desperately to focus on the voice in the dark.

"We want the name of the thief of these artifacts delivered to us. We will recover the property ourselves. This should not be too difficult to obtain for an agency of your renown."

"That could be impossible. The case may be ongoing in Denver and the name could be—"

A small box thumped against her leg and fell to the flagstone walkway.

"Our intentions toward your agent are inside the box. In twenty-four hours you will place an advertisement in the Washington Post in the lost-and-found section of that paper. A lost female puppy, a Yorkshire Terrier that goes by the name of Lynn. Please contact — here you will give the name of the thief that we seek, and his address. Once we have recovered what it is we seek, your agent will be returned to you whole, well, minus some weight, but otherwise intact. There will be no interference from the authorities at this thief's location. If you interfere, we will have no choice but to relieve the local civilian population of their lives. We have the manpower and the weaponry to achieve this. Are you clear on your instructions?"

"Yes."

As she waited, she could tell the large man had gone. The air around her grew less heavy as she took a deep breath. She was frightened for the first time in her adult life as she realized these people knew where she lived. That information was classified and a breech such as that was totally out of the realm of possibility.

She reached down slowly and before touching the small box, she tapped it with her toe. It moved easily, meaning there was practically no weight to it. Then she picked it up. If they wanted to kill her, they could have done it quickly and quietly just now in her own front yard, so she gently shook it. There was something loose inside.

"Jesus," she mumbled as she placed her large bag on the walkway and then tore the brown packing tape from the top of the box. As she turned the box toward the weak front-porch light, she almost dropped it.

"Oh, God," she said as she saw the human finger with the red nail polish on it.

Nancy Grogan was still shaken as she sat beside Stan Rosen in the director's office. On the speaker phone was the forensics lab far beneath the main floors of the complex.

"The fingerprint match has been confirmed as that of Agent Simpson. Blood type is the same as on file and we are currently running a DNA match from a sample she gave two years ago to alleviate any chance of print alteration."

"What are the chances of that?" the director asked as he tossed down the pen he was holding onto his desktop.

"The old KGB had become quite adept at the science, but in this case, we figure it's Agent Simpson's finger. We can say that the agent was alive when her finger was amputated."

"Thank you. Please send me the results of the DNA match as soon as you get them."

Director Easterbrook looked from the speaker box to Nancy Grogan's pale face.

"Okay, what have we got on this theft in Denver?"

"Stan Rosen is helping out on that end; he has an operations agent in the Colorado Bureau of Investigation. It was your influence that opened that particular door for Stan. The CBI will hopefully have whatever the local authorities have on the robbery."

The phone buzzed and Easterbrook's secretary came on.

"Sir, Director Grogan has a call from Montreal."

"Put it through."

"This is Grogan," she said leaning forward in her chair.

"If my superiors knew I was making this call, you know what would happen. As it is, they didn't think to bug a hospital phone line."

"Mr. Alexander?" Nancy asked.

"You have my regrets for not being able to better help Agent Simpson."

"This is Director Easterbrook, Mr. Alexander. You have our sincere apologies for this accidental foray onto your turf; I can assure you that this will never—"

"Mr. Director, I have very little time and a very sore shoulder and back. Those bulletproof vests are not all that they are cracked up to be. Now, our people have picked up something that may help you, but this information comes with a warning. We believe Sagli and Deonovich were after two items, one of which they recovered from the chateau; the other, as you may already know if you have had contact with them, was stolen quite some time ago on your side of the border."

"How were you able to come across this in a burnt-out hulk of a mansion?"

"We may not have all of your resources, but we still have reasonable deductive prowess, Ms. Grogan. The explosive charges were set in a specific room of the chateau. It housed only one exhibit, the personal artifacts belonging to Jenson P. Lattimer of Boston. This material is what was known on the museum tour as the Lattimer Papers. That coincides with your homicide in Seattle, Washington, of one Valery Serta, a logging magnate. The cause of death was brutal, the details of which you can, get from the Seattle PD. We don't know why he was killed; however, cross-referencing his name in our data banks we came up with these Lattimer Papers and something about the man's father and his arrival into North America sometime after the turn of the century. This information is pretty ordinary and we were able to obtain copies of the brief mention of his name, but the real prize was an incomplete artifact called the Petrov Diary. This diary somehow ended up in the hands of this Lattimer character of Boston, an old blueblood who placed them on exhibit in honor of a long lost uncle."

"You have saved us a lot of valuable time, Mr. Alexander; we are very grateful."

"Ms. Grogan, if this case leads back to Canadian soil, you and your agency are to stay home, I have convinced my superiors to let me handle the case from here. There will be no publicity on this side and I am working totally autonomously."

"Why would you think it will lead them back to your country?" Director Easterbrook asked, showing his anger.

"Because Mr. Easterbrook, the Lattimer Papers referred to a lost treasure in the Canadian wilderness, and we suspect that is what Sagli and Deonovich are after."

An hour later, just moments before Director Easterbrook lifted the phone, it buzzed.

"Sir, the president is on line one," his assistant said from his outer office.

"Yes, sir," he said as he lifted the receiver.

"Harmon, I just read this damn mystery novel you sent over. This has got to be a joke. Are you telling me these two Russians risked their lives to come to a hostile country for the sake of a treasure map?"

"We are still collating data as we speak, Mr. President. We can't be real sure of anything at this point, at least not until we can get a line on who stole that diary from Colorado."

"Well here's a little nugget for you. With the Canadian Prime Minister threatening to go public with our little foray onto Canadian soil, he has cut off the flow of information from his end. You were lucky this Punchy Alexander here has closer ties with us than his agency does."

"Yes, sir, that is the one break we have gotten."

"Now, evidently we have an agent who may or may not be dead. I have a decision to make here, Harmon. I owe her brother a lot. Hell, everyone in this damn country does."

"Maybe I can help you with it if you would allow me to look at this man's file."

"Forget it, no one sees the file on Jack Collins; don't ask again. As it is, he has ties everywhere within our government. Now, I have to get word out to his boss to make sure he doesn't get directly involved any more than his sister already has him. With what Agent Simpson passed along to you, it's obvious we may have to flush a bad guy out of our own cornfield. Until we know what these bastards are up to, I'm going to keep Collins in the dark, no matter what his sister has asked him to do for her. Now you did good, Harmon, by bringing me and Jack's boss onboard with this thing when you did, but the situation has now changed."

"The suspicions Agent Simpson brought to me involved her brother, and I knew Collins worked for you in some capacity. I believe he may know something we don't about his sister's suspicions; we need to contact him and brief—"

"Mr. Easterbrook, it's not just Colonel Collins; he happens to be affiliated with the most brilliant people in the world. If he gets wind of his sister's predicament, believe me, he and his people will become involved. Now, get back to me when you have more; right now I have to make a call."

Across the Potomac River, the president of the United States hung up the phone and shook his head, which was beginning to ache. He reached out and slid over a small laptop computer and used a small key to unlock the lid. He raised the top and then hesitated. He took a breath and then used the cursor. He slid over to the only heading on the left side of the screen. It read 5656 in blue numbers. He clicked on the icon and then waited, knowing that the next face he would see would be that of Director Niles Compton, his friend, and the head of the blackest agency in government — the Event Group.

The large office had forty 56-inch monitors arrayed around its walls. One monitor, the largest at the center of the far wall was over one hundred inches in diameter. The large desk had four smaller pop-up monitors that comprised the communications link with the rest of the complex, and, of course, the commander-in-chief of the United States. The monitor on the far left illuminated and the seal of the president appeared as a warning to Niles Compton that the president was making a call to the complex.

Niles lay down the proposal by the Nuclear Sciences Division, which recommended the department requisition a new electron microscope to replace an aging device before the restart of operations and field assignments. Compton wrote DENIED on the outer proposal sheet, knowing it would make Assistant Director Virginia Pollock angry as hell, but Niles knew that with all of the repairs to the facility underway, he could not squeeze any more funds out of an already stretched budget; after all, it's not like they could file an insurance claim. Virginia's department for the time being would have to bite it. Niles looked at the laptop screen and waited. Soon, the presidential seal was replaced by a test pattern, and then the face of his old college roommate, the president of the United States, appeared.

"Mr. President," Niles said, growing concerned at the stern look on the president's face. This isn't going to be a social call.

"Niles, a problem has developed that concerns one of your people."

"Who?"

"Colonel Collins, I'm afraid."

"Damn it, we really don't need this right now. What's the situation, sir?" he asked.

"When we spoke and allowed Jack in on a certain operation being conducted at CIA, I really didn't know how dangerous the individuals we were dealing really were and so I didn't go into detail about Collins and his sister. What I am about to tell you is classified to the point that you are the only person to be told about it. I do not, I repeat, do not want the colonel to hear about this. At the very least, the situation is touchy — and it could turn deadly. Am I understood, Niles?"

Niles didn't want to commit to answering, but he knew his old friend well enough that if he didn't respond the way he wanted him to, the president would clam up and not tell him what was going on.

"Understood," he finally relented.

"Damn you, Niles, don't you hand me that crap. Say it: You won't tell Collins anything about this."

"No, sir, I won't."

He could see by the president's expression that the answer he gave was ambiguous at best, but his oldest friend pursed his lips and gave in to Niles, knowing the MIT grad could go all day long and not give him the correct answer to his question.

"Okay, smart-ass, but I'll hang you, friends be damned, if you tell Collins."

"So far you haven't told me anything, Mr. President."

"The colonel's sister has been kidnapped. Her field team was ambushed in Canada on the mission I was assured was just a criminal investigation, and she was taken by two very salty characters, Russians — ex-KGB."

"Jesus, and you don't want Jack to know about this? We don't even know why his sister contacted Jack. I figured it was just for advice on something."

"Damn it, Niles, this is a full-blown international incident. I'm not giving you any more details at this time, and you'd better not go digging around with Europa, either, or I'll order the damn thing removed from your complex, is that understood?"

The supercomputer, Europa, had been a gift to the Event Group from the Cray Corporation. The system was remarkable at breaking into other computers and gathering intelligence through backdoor spying, useful in getting information from around the world on university and privately funded archaeological digs. There were only four others like her, one at the NSA, the CIA, the FBI, and the Pentagon.

"Again, your point is understood. However, I want it on record that I protest this order not to inform one of my people about something that affects him directly."

"Noted, Mr. Director," the president said angrily, knowing Niles was trying to get pissy with him. "Follow orders here. You know, and I know, what would happen if the colonel found out. There would be trouble, and frankly, I don't need it at the moment. I have every agency in the country working at getting her back, the Canadians are—" The president stopped, knowing he was giving his friend too much information. "I just wanted to alert you so you can break it to him if the end result is bad."

"Please keep me informed."

"I will," the president answered, his gaze intense.

Niles watched the screen go blank and then he closed the laptop. He replaced his glasses and didn't hesitate a second before picking up the phone to the outer office.

"Have Europa find Colonel Collins and get me his location in the complex."

Niles replaced the phone and then stood. He didn't bother putting on his coat or his tie. He walked to the large double doors and made his way out to his assistant in the outer office to await the location of Colonel Collins.

Jack had to be told immediately; the Event Group owed him that much. Regardless of what the president did to Niles personally for disobeying his order, the colonel would be told, or the talk they had had earlier wouldn't be worth the breath used to say the words.

As Niles waited, he knew he was about to open a tightly sealed can of worms, and that all hell was about to break loose when that seal was broken. He was about to unleash Jack Collins on the world of international crime.

Jack was sitting with Sarah McIntire at the only lounge inside of the Event Group complex, The Ark, named after the Group's most valued artifact. The Ark was situated on level eight, closest to the complex living quarters and was run by retirees from the Group. It was a place where they could all unwind without having to resort to taking the underground tram through gate two into Las Vegas.

Sarah was cognizant of the few off-duty personnel who sat at the bar or tables situated farther away. She was tempted to slide her hand across the small round table and place it over Jack's, but she restrained herself. The full bottle of beer sat untouched in front of the colonel as he continued to stare a hole through the tabletop. Sarah tempted fate and reached out for him, damn military etiquette.

"Did the director have anything useful to say?" she asked as a way of making him at least look up at her.

Instead of answering Sarah, Jack reached out and took her hand and stood, forcing her to do the same. He pulled her along to the far wall and stopped at the old-fashioned jukebox the Group had salvaged from a Philippine bar where the last songs played upon it were those heard the night of December 6, 1941. Jack had added a few of his records from his extensive collection, only because he was the only one in the entire complex who still had forty-five RPM records in his possession. He reached out and punched a few fake ivory numbers. Then he took Sarah by the waist and waited until the song started.

"You never cease to amaze me, Colonel," she said as she recognized the strains of Percy Sledge singing, "When a man loves a woman…"

As Jack pulled her close to him, Sarah didn't care who was present — she placed her head against his chest and allowed Jack to hold her tight. She didn't know what was bothering him, but at that moment she only knew he was holding her and that, she figured, was all there was in the world.

When the song finished, Collins leaned down and kissed Sarah, deeply and with a total disregard for where they were. For her part, Sarah almost collapsed into him. Finally, he released her and they walked back to their table. They didn't notice the stunned gazes of the few Group personnel present as they sat down.

Jack took her hand and squeezed it tight, and then he smiled. "Just small talk. You know Niles isn't the warmest person in the world and he struggles when it comes to anything outside of the auspices of the Group. Personal issues aren't his strong suit."

Sarah looked around her; the others inside The Ark were talking amongst themselves and were not paying them any attention. "What?" she asked trying to remember what they had been talking about before his public proclamation of his love for her.

"You wanted to know what the director wanted to talk about; well, it was just small talk."

"Oh, I forgot I even asked."

Jack winked and smiled as he liked doing the unexpected lately where Sarah was concerned.

"Hey, do you know how much I love you?" she asked, a hint of a smile crossing her features.

Collins tilted his head and looked into Sarah's green eyes.

"Oh, I think I do, Short Stuff." He looked around and then leaned in, squeezing her hand even tighter. "You are the most important thing…" He stopped and closed his eyes, leaned back in his chair and released her hand, and then reached for his beer and downed half of it before he looked back at her. "I'm worried about someone. You don't know her, but she's brought a bit of my past up to me that I really didn't want to face." He tried to smile but it died on his lips.

Sarah looked down at her empty hand where Jack's had been a moment before and then slid it into her lap. As long as she had known him, she had never seen him at such a loss. His eyes, since having returned from the dead, were haunted, and she could see through his actions that he didn't know why.

"Is it… is it another woman?"

Jack saw the hurt in her eyes and immediately reached out for her hand. That look almost killed him as he now knew his words made her think that it was an old lover from his past.

"Oh, no, no, nothing like that."

Sarah started to say something when she noticed a figure walk out of the darkness.

"We have company," she said in a low voice as she quickly swiped a tear away, momentarily relieved by his words.

Jack turned and saw Compton slowly walk up to their table.

"Are you stalking me, Niles?" he asked as he turned back to his beer.

Niles tried miserably to smile, but it seemed it went the way of all smiles lately; a brief appearance and then gone.

"Jack, you have a minute?"

"I'll go and see what Carl and the others are doing on their day off, it has to be more exciting than anything here," Sarah said as she pushed back her chair.

Niles looked around the dark interior of the bar, and then at Sarah, and then he placed a hand on the top of Jack's shoulder as he came to a quick decision.

"No, Lieutenant, I think you should stay."

McIntire was caught off guard. She hoped the director didn't pick this moment in time to bring up regulations about the fraternization between personnel. She didn't think Jack, at least at the moment, would be too receptive to the reprimand.

"Please sit," Niles said as he came around and pulled out a chair. As he sat, the bartender brought over a small glass filled with ice and amber liquid and placed it in front of Compton.

"I didn't think you were a drinking man, Mr. Director," Sarah said in amazement.

Niles looked into Jack's blue eyes as he took a deep drink of the whiskey. Then he grimaced and then placed the glass down in front of him and then finally looked at Sarah.

"There may be a few things that our head of security doesn't know around here."

Jack half smiled. "Maybe even more than just a few, Mr. Director."

"Oh, I don't expect you to be that good at your job. I may still have secrets you know nothing about."

"Niles," Jack said as he tore at a napkin, tossing the pieces onto the table, "you're drinking one-hundred-year-old Kentucky bourbon. The brand is an obscure make named Delahey's. The bartenders keep two bottles underneath the bar for the rare times you come in here when no one is around, usually around closing time. You never drink while you're on the clock and you keep one bottle of that particular bourbon in your private quarters when there are personnel present at The Ark. You use it more in a medicinal capacity than you do for the whiskey's effects. You're not a drinker in the loosest term of the word, but you do use it to sleep, or when you have something unpleasant to say to someone."

Niles looked from Jack to Sarah, who sat quietly, listening to the exchange.

"I take that back, I guess you do know everything." Niles grew quiet as he slid his empty glass away from him. "Unpleasant. Yes," he said looking at the melting ice in the glass. "You know, I don't know anything about you, Colonel, other than what's in your damned file." He looked at Collins. "For instance, the little sister we discussed earlier."

Sarah wanted to allow her mouth to fall open, but managed just barely to keep it closed as she watched Jack. He made no move other than to keep tossing the torn napkin in its small pieces onto the tabletop.

Collins smiled as he looked from Niles and then fixed Sarah with his deep, blue eyes. For her part, McIntire just tilted her head, waiting.

"Lynn."

"Excuse me?" Sarah said.

"My sister's name is Lynn," Jack repeated.

"Jack's sister works for a sister agency," Compton said to Sarah. He was hoping the colonel would open up a little more with Sarah present. He felt bad for doing things this way, but with what he had to say to Jack, he had nothing to lose.

Collins, for his part, said nothing. Instead, he reached out and swallowed what remained of his beer. Then, instead of looking directly at Niles or Sarah, he remained silent as he stared at the table.

"Jack, I just spoke to the president, and I don't know how to say this, I've never been good at delivering bad news." Niles watched as Jack balled what was left of the napkin up into his hand, closing his fingers slowly until they formed a fist. "The CIA has reported her missing."

Collins remained silent as he closed his eyes.

"I really don't know what's happening here, Colonel. The president doesn't really have a firm grasp of it, either. That is why he ordered me to keep silent about this. He owes you, and that's why I was informed, but he wants you kept out of the loop for now, so the CIA and the other agencies can get a handle on her abduction. Now, does this have anything to do with what it was you stopped by to see your sister about in Langley?"

Jack held the director's eyes firmly with his own as he leaned forward in his chair.

"Give me everything, Niles," he said, ignoring Niles question.

Compton swallowed, not liking the cold, hard look that came over Jack's features.

"There was an ambush in Montreal; a team of CSIS agents, along with some U.S. personnel were shot up, and your sister Lynn was taken. It seems the perpetrators are using her as leverage of some kind for getting information. The only reason I know that much is because, before coming to you, I had Pete correlate with Europa on any recent shooting incident involving Canada."

Jack held Niles in his vision for a moment longer, then slowly stood, sliding his chair away from the table. "Thank you for not obeying your orders, Niles. I won't forget it. Now, I need some time to think."

Niles just nodded his head once as Jack quickly turned to leave. He looked at Sarah and nodded his head for her to follow. Then Compton held his hand up and the bartender, a retired navy motorman, came forward and poured him another drink. He was about to say something to the director, when Niles held his hand up, palm facing outward, indicating the man should leave. Compton stared at the glass before lifting it and staring at the liquid inside. He drained the glass, without a grimace this time. He placed it on the table and then slowly stood and walked toward the bar. He went to the waitress station and then reached over and then under the bar and brought out the secure phone. He punched a number into the handset and then waited.

"Captain Everett," came the voice.

"Captain, Colonel Collins will soon be breaking into the Europa clean room for some illegal activity."

"Sir?" Everett said on the other end of the phone.

"I need you to assist Colonel Collins in any capacity he chooses. He will undoubtedly explain the situation to you. Now listen closely, Captain. He is to be allowed access to anything he wants inside the complex, but if he attempts to leave the reservation without my express authorization, you are to detain him and then notify me, is that clear?"

"Not at all," Carl said, more than just a little confused.

"Good, just do I as I say. It may be better to stay in the dark as long as you can on this one."

Niles hung up the phone and took a deep breath, then settled onto a bar stool.

He had decided to break precedent and stay at The Ark for a while; after all it wasn't every day you could take a presidential order and toss it right out the window. He smiled a grim little smile and waved the bartender over, pointing at his empty glass.

"Another?" the bartender asked.

"Yes, and leave the bottle."

3

Special Agent Thomas Banks watched from an FBI van parked across the street. The house, obviously built pre-World War II, was one of those large four-bedroom monstrosities with a waist-high wraparound porch that was supported by wooden columns placed on a stone foundation. The ancient screens covering the windows were darkened from too many summers and not enough cleaning. The houses around the suspect house were lighted and visibly occupied by families who still clung to the illusion that Elysian Park was a safe neighborhood; an illusion that should have vanished in the area's heyday just after the Korean War.

Banks and his three-man observation team had been called in to observe and assist the Los Angeles police department with the arrest of Juan Caesar Chavez, a man currently under suspicion for a little-known crime he may or may not have committed at the Denver Museum of Natural History six months before. A partial fingerprint was found on a door frame leading out of the area where the display for The Gold Rush, was being exhibited — old maps, letters and implements used in the early days of the Alaskan rush for riches. Although a small theft in stature, the works taken were valuable to collectors around the world for their historical significance. The police agencies of Denver and Los Angeles knew Juan Caesar Chavez to be adept at theft, and in the past had targeted well-respected collections far outside of his stature, and that meant the FBI and other authorities suspected he was well financed by another party. Chavez had a small group of burglars and second-story men on his payroll, and as a leading suspect in the case, was about to receive a big surprise.

Special Agent Banks watched as the SWAT team made their way around the house, covering every exit. He adjusted his binoculars and saw that the upper-floor team was already in position. He raised the cell phone to his ear.

"Who do I have on the line?" he asked.

"Agent Banks, you have the FBI director and assistant director of Intelligence, CIA — Nancy Grogan. Go ahead," said his dispatch located in the federal building in downtown Los Angeles.

Jesus, Banks thought, why was Chavez important enough to have some of the top echelons of intelligence and law enforcement as audio witnesses?

"Director, Banks here, the SWAT team is just about to move, any last instructions?"

"Special Agent Banks, as soon as the arrest is complete, you are to take charge of the suspect and escort him to the federal building. Once there, a team of our colleagues from Langley will handle the interrogation. An American intelligence officer's life is at stake in all of this, and time is the important factor here. The suspect may have to be handed over to another party outside of law enforcement. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir, my men are standing by to take charge of the suspect as soon as the arrest is made." Banks held the binoculars to his eyes once more as he saw movement. "The assault element is moving in now, sir… hold on."

Outside the small windowed van, several flash-bang grenades broke through windows and then exploded, as simultaneously, using ropes, the upper-story unit swung into the upstairs rooms. At the same time, two six-man teams entered through the front and back doors. Lights shone throughout the interior of the house as the SWAT team made their sweep. Banks gripped the binoculars tighter as he waited, satisfied at not hearing any shots. He never liked using local police agencies, but the FBI HRT team was not available for another two hours, and someone in Washington wanted this bad guy very badly; enough so that the directors of two agencies called in favors from the LAPD.

Suddenly it was over. The lights inside the house started coming on and Banks could see the silhouettes of several of the black-clad SWAT members mulling about. Then, as he watched closely, a small man in Levis and a white T-shirt was led out in cuffs. The FBI agent could see that the SWAT team was taking no chances with this man as he was cuffed both at his wrists, behind his back, and his ankles. He was being carried out of the house with a black hood over his head. Banks smiled, This poor bastard didn't know what had hit him.

He laid his glasses down and then raised a small microphone. "Okay, B-team, move in and take custody of the suspect, make sure you Miranda the poor bastard, don't leave it to the LAPD." There were two clicks in answer to Banks's call.

Again, Agent Banks raised the cell phone. "Sir, the suspect is in custody and we are now in the process of concluding the arrest."

"Good. Now, Assistant Director Grogan, CIA, has requested that you have the LAPD SWAT unit accompany you to the federal building. We will not take any chances with the suspect; they need answers from him and time is a factor. Is that clear, Banks?"

"Crystal, Director."

Ten minutes later, the chain of custody was transferred to the FBI from the LAPD. Chavez, although shaken, was defiant and angry at what he was being put through, and was totally confused as to why he was under FBI arrest.

As the SWAT unit stood down, they climbed into two large black vans. One would be placed in front of, and the other in the rear of, the white FBI van. As the teams loaded, Agent Banks looked over the suspect being held between two of his agents. He nodded for a third agent to do as he was instructed earlier. Chavez looked relieved when the ankle restraints were removed.

"That, Mr. Chavez, is a courtesy. I expect cooperation from you. If you behave, my agents will reciprocate. Is that clear?"

"Hey look, man, I don't deserve any treatment at all. You have the wrong guy. I buy and sell needed goods on the open market."

"Mr. Chavez, please, save it for your defense attorney. We have some questions that need to be answered, so I suggest you cooperate, and maybe these small charges might disappear."

With that small announcement, Chavez allowed the two agents holding him to escort him to the van. He had seen the light as the ambiguous offer had been extended; he wasn't dumb, and as a career criminal, he knew when it was time to be a model citizen. The rear doors of the van opened and he stepped inside with his special agent bodyguard beside him.

Agent Banks radioed that they were ready to move as he climbed into the passenger seat of the van, the small convoy moved out of Elysian Park heading for downtown L.A.

As the three vans pulled out and the smaller units of the LAPD started wrapping up the area, no one really noticed the small helicopter as it buzzed past the scene. They assumed it was an LAPD air unit.

That opinion would soon change.

The plan of egress from the arrest site was for the convoy of SWAT vans and the lone FBI unit to make their way down Solano Avenue, and from there make the connection to Highway 110, and then finally to Interstate 5.

As they pulled to a stop at the light, the crowd noise from Dodger Stadium erupted above them in Chavez Ravine. The lights of the beautiful stadium lit the roadway ahead of them.

"Any relation?" the larger of the two FBI field agents asked the handcuffed man beside him.

"Huh?" Chavez asked.

"You know, Chavez Ravine, where the Dodgers play, any relation to you?"

"Man, what are you talking about?"

"Alright, knock it off," Agent Banks said from the front of the van.

The agent smirked as he turned away from the prisoner.

At that moment, several things happened at once. The leading SWAT van to the front started moving forward from the now green light on Solano Avenue; at the same time as the white FBI vehicle started to follow, a streak of blazing white light shot through the air just past the large windshield of following agents. The rocket-propelled grenade struck the rear doors of the leading black van, exploding its sides outward. Banks flinched in shock as SWAT team members were blown through the front windshield of their transport.

Before anyone could react, another RPG flew straight and true into the now exposed interior of the lead vehicle, exploding and bulging the sides even further outward and crumpling the disabled unit until it no longer looked like a van at all. Flames then exploded out and up as the horrible sound finally penetrated Banks's eardrums. He tried to lift his handheld radio but stopped when another explosion from the rear threw him forward in his seat. He would have been thrown through the windshield if it hadn't been for his seatbelt. Although he was saved, he had the breath knocked out of him. So he started slapping at the driver to throw the van into reverse. The flames billowing from the SWAT van behind them were framed in the driver's side mirrors. Men could be seen jumping out, and as they did, they were being struck by small arms fire from the yards around them. All around them, families who'd been out in their front yards enjoying a warm summer evening started to run in a panic — a very small and deadly war had just erupted right in front of them.

"Move, move, move!" one of the agents said from the back as he reached out and threw the prisoner Chavez to the floor of the van.

Just before the driver threw the van in reverse, a SWAT sergeant from the trailing van pounded on the rear window, pleading to be let in; just as the other agent reached out to open the door it was rattled by several bullets. As he recoiled, he saw the SWAT sergeant's head fly forward until it struck the window with a loud thump, breaking the safety glass. As the shocked FBI agents watched, the LAPD officer slowly slid away from the window.

"Go, goddamn it, they're killing everyone!" screamed the agent as loud as he could, his foot placed firmly onto Chavez's back.

The van finally started moving backward, screeching the tires and burning rubber. There were several sickening bumps as they made their way in reverse back up toward the stadium.

"All units, all units," Banks screamed into the handheld radio, "we have officers down, Elysian Park, Solano Avenue, we're taking heavy gunfire from an unknown number of assailants and are moving toward the stadium! We need air support and backup now!"

Banks didn't wait for the dispatcher to respond, he pulled his nine-millimeter handgun free of his shoulder holster as the van traveled in reverse. He saw the burning SWAT unit slide by and noticed belatedly that several of the SWAT team had gotten free of the flaming wreckage and were in the process of firing into the night at unseen targets that were keeping them pinned down. As he started to turn toward the back, checking on the safety of their prisoner, one of the rear tires of the van exploded, sending the vehicle sliding into several cars parked along Solano Avenue. The van spun and then stalled. Before Banks could do anything, fifteen small-caliber rounds slammed into the windshield, shattering it and striking the driver and himself. As the two bodies jumped from the impact of the rounds, a small detonation knocked the others into a daze. The rear doors were snatched open and before the two agents in the back realized what was happening, three men were inside.

"This one," one of the attackers said pointing to Chavez. At the same moment, he raised his handgun and the masked man quickly fired into the stunned agents — two bullets apiece.

When Chavez was taken out of the van, he was bleeding from a cut on his forehead and had a steady flow of blood coming from his ears. He tried to scream, but nothing came out of his mouth, or if it did, there was so much noise even he couldn't hear it. As fifteen men surrounded the van, a small Bell helicopter suddenly appeared out of the darkness, its black paint reflecting the burning vehicles on the street. It flared seconds before touching the roadway, the twin skids clanking loudly on the warm macadam. Chavez was taken to, and then thrown into, the helicopter. As the small Bell lifted free of Solano Avenue, sirens were heard approaching from Dodger Stadium above and then from below in Elysian Park.

As stunned neighbors watched, the fifteen-man assault team calmly returned to six cars. They then removed their black hoods once inside. They slowly drove away, past the three bullet-riddled and burning vans.

In all, the assault and kidnap of the thief known as Juan Caesar Chavez, took no more than two minutes and eleven seconds. The Russians had proven they were still among the most efficient killers in history.

After the short, hedgehopping flight from Los Angeles, the helicopter had set down just inside the small baseball stadium at Upland High School. The transfer of Chavez to a waiting vehicle outside the ballpark was made quickly and efficiently by men who had worked for Sagli and Deonovich for nearly twenty years. The rest of the assault element split into three groups, one remaining with Chavez, one heading north to Vancouver, and the last heading back to Virginia. Chavez was taken to a safe house on Mountain Avenue.

Chavez was blindfolded and led to a room at the back of the large five-bedroom house. As California basements weren't much the trend, the large master suite would have to do. The windows had been sealed with aluminum foil and the house sat far enough back from the road as to be virtually soundproof through distance. They had the whole San Gabriel Mountains as a sound break from any screaming that may come from the house.

The thief was put in a large chair and his blindfold was removed. One of his Russian captors, a small man with beady little eyes and a well-manicured beard stepped forward as Chavez blinked in the bright lights being shone upon his shaking body. The Russian removed the handcuffs and then smiled at the even smaller Chavez. He then patted him on the shoulder.

"Don't worry, my friend; a few answers for my employer and you will soon be set free."

Chavez didn't relax one bit at the reassurance. Even though no names had been exchanged, he knew who it was that was holding him. Sagli and Deonovich were widely known in criminal circles for their ability to find and acquire matchless antiquity and were also known to have the steely nerves to go after whole collections at a time. Jewels, icons, paintings, sculpture — the two Russian mobsters had taken them all, sometimes quietly, sometimes the hard way. They were especially good at the hard way as his former employer had warned him on many occasions and as he'd just witnessed.

The bedroom door opened and a large man with severely short cropped hair stepped inside the room. Through the glaring lights, Chavez saw that he was eating a hamburger. The wrapper held snug around the buns, he stepped up to his prisoner, taking a bite of the large burger. The man wore a black T-shirt under a black sport coat. In all aspects, he looked like any other Southern California business man, except for the eyes. The large brown eyes held not one ounce of humanity as he took in the sight of Chavez sitting before him. He took one last bite of the yellow-wrapped hamburger and then handed it to the man who had spoken a moment before. Then he pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and slowly wiped his mouth.

"Dispose of this garbage," he said as he was relieved of his burden. He looked down and then leaned into the face of Chavez. "You Americans, no wonder you are becoming a fat country, a man cannot find a decent meal in all of Los Angeles." He smiled. "Fast food is a fast death in my opinion."

As Chavez swallowed, he saw the man straighten and then he held out his hand. Something was in his outstretched fingers and then before Chavez knew what was happening, a searing pain raked across his right cheek. He screamed out, more because of the pressure and fast motion than the pain, which was slow in coming. However, it did come and along with that pain was a steady flow of blood.

"That was to get your attention," the man said in passable English as he stepped back to admire his handiwork. "Right now, the scar that I have left you could be well taken as a dueling scar across your cheek, my friend; at one point in European history that was known as a badge of honor. If you answer my inquiries, you can skip through your life telling your friends that you received your scar in battle with evil men. Answer me not, and the local county coroner will have a most difficult time sewing you back together so those same friends can view your remains at your funeral."

Chavez opened his eyes against the pain in his cheek. Knowing his skin had been laid open to the bone, he tried desperately to focus on the man standing in front of him with the open straight razor, which now gleamed in the bright lights.

"My name is Gregori Deonovich. My partner and I are in search of something that is in your possession. I speak of the Petrov Diary, or the portions of it that has survived history that is. We understand that it was you who pulled off the robbery at the Denver Museum of Natural History, am I correct?"

"I don't have the diary, it was—"

The flash of the straight razor advertized the split-second warning that Chavez had answered the question the wrong way. The blade struck him just above the right eyebrow, slicing through the thick skin until the razor actually cut into bone. Chavez screamed and grabbed for his face.

Deonovich stepped back and holding out the razor, he flicked twice to get the dripping blood off of it, and then he nodded his head to the right. The smaller man stepped forward and wiped Juan's face, then he made the thief take the small towel and hold it against the two wounds.

"The cost of failure is high; the next time it will be your throat, comrade."

As Chavez pressed the towel to staunch the flow of his blood, he knew he had to answer with the right words.

"The diary was given to the man who set up the theft — a man who paid me and my men for it and a few of the other items."

"The name of your employer?" Deonovich asked as he stepped forward, his face set in a mask of anger.

"At the time he was using the name Ellison, but a few years back he used an alias of Tomlinson; before that another name."

"You are not being very forthcoming," Deonovich said as he raised his right hand to strike Chavez again.

"Wait — wait!"

"Quickly," the Russian said, becoming angrier by the second.

"Listen, my employer, the man who originally wanted the journal, he went missing. He never showed up to give us the payment he owed us… so… so I burned the journal."

Deonovich wanted to laugh out loud. "You want me to believe you went through all of that trouble to steal this item from a secure museum, and then knowing this journal may lead to a vast treasure, you destroyed it out of anger for not getting paid for the job?"

"How in the hell did I know what the journal said, it was written in Russian."

"Then the journal is destroyed?"

"Yes, so you may as well let me go," Chavez whimpered.

"Yes, we may as well," Deonovich said as he nodded for the small man standing behind Chavez to finish up.

Chavez never really saw the shadow as it fell over him. The next sensation was of cold steel as it sank deep into his throat from behind. The razor severed his airway and his jugular vein in a practiced move perfected in the highlands of Afghanistan many years before.

Deonovich nodded as Chavez fell from the chair. As he lay on the floor, he continued to hold the towel to his face even as he wondered why he was no longer able to move. The large Russian stepped away from the quickly spreading pool of blood and removed the cell phone from his jacket; at the same time he held out his free hand and snapped his fingers. The smaller assassin understood and handed him the cheeseburger he had been given minutes before.

Deonovich took a bite of the burger and waited for the phone to ring on the other side of the country.

"Our friend Mr. Chavez turned out to be most helpful. It seems he was working for an outside contractor when he stole the journal from the Denver Museum. When this mysterious employer never showed to pay Chavez and his crew for the heist, the idiot burned it," Deonovich said with a laugh, almost choking on the cheeseburger. He looked at his right hand and then tossed the greasy burger onto the finally still corpse of the Mexican thief.

"Yes," the Russian said into the phone. "It turns out we wasted a lot of time and killed a few police officers just to confirm the man didn't have what we thought he did. Well, we live and we learn. At least we have closed that end of the loop; now no one besides ourselves can find the area we are seeking. You will pass this along to our associate. Thank you, Dmitri, I'll be back in a few hours."

Deonovich closed his cell phone and then looked at the corpse of Chavez.

"At least no one can follow us using what you have stolen," he snickered and then turned for the door. "Diamonds and gold — such small-minded people. Take his body to the sea and throw him in, then meet us at the Los Angeles Airport, you know where."

Deonovich turned and gave Chavez one last look and smiled. "Yes, they won't follow us from what you may have known."

Deonovich knew they would find the man's body in the next few hours, but that was to be a calling card of sorts warning that they were to be left alone, and Chavez would be a record of their seriousness. There would be shock and anger, but by then he, Sagli and their strike-and-recovery team would be well north of the border, and on the trail of their richest prize yet.

Gregori Sagli closed his cell phone and then eased the basement door open, and saw Lynn Simpson sitting in the dark. She didn't move or respond to the creaking sound of the door opening, nor when it closed. Sagli smiled and then trotted up the stairs. He went to the kitchen table where a few of his men were sitting and eating sandwiches. He reached over and lifted his small briefcase from the end of the table and walked over to the kitchen counter. Opening the combination lock, he lifted the lid and pulled out a large plastic protector that held Xerox copies of the items sent to them by their associate who had planned everything from beginning to end, and thus far, this person had been perfect in that planning.

Sagli looked through the clear plastic at the documents known as the Lattimer Papers and Xerox copies of the pages from a journal once owned by Colonel Iosovich Petrov of the Red Army. The map was clearly seen on the last page as Sagli turned it over. In L. T. Lattimer's own hand, the area was drawn from his eyewitness account of his find.

The copies had been taken from Lattimer's last remaining relative in Boston by the man who now called Deonovich and Sagli partners. Sagli assumed that the relative had met the same fate as Chavez out in California — at least that was the impression both Russians had when given the orders to find the originals, and for the fact that their new friend didn't seem to be the merciful type, nor did he seem to like loose ends.

Sagli knew they were close to starting on their final journey and he was anxious to get started. What waited was a new beginning for all involved, and a prize that few could ever attain in this jumbled and confusing new world — true power.

The director of the CIA paced in front of his desk, behind the backs of his seated assistant directors. Every word seemed like a dagger into the heart of Nancy Grogan. Even the usually cold-as-ice Stan Rosen was feeling for her.

"Has there been any communication from the Russians?"

"Nothing, sir. We, or I should say, I, have come to the conclusion that they have gotten what they wanted in Los Angeles, so there is no further need to communicate with the agency."

"Fifteen Los Angeles police officers are dead; highly trained SWAT personnel. How in the hell could they have known we were moving on Chavez so soon?"

"I took it upon myself to assist in that matter, sir," Rosen said, half turning in his chair to face his boss. "Sagli and Deonovich have had the police forces of most major cities plugged into their network for a while now, mostly to keep track of international warrants, Interpol requests, things like that. They basically pay for information. My operations people suspect they had a flier out to these moles about anyone suspected in the museum heist in Denver. Once informed, they released a hit team that was either already in the western states or close by."

Nancy Grogan turned in her chair and looked at Rosen, his eyes lowered as he knew he had overstepped his bounds and his department. Grogan wanted to say something about it, but knew he had acted where she hadn't. Her mind was on the lone fact that the two Russians no longer needed Lynn Simpson.

"Stan, you're guessing. I want facts. If there are informants in the LAPD I want to know who they are, and then I want them brought to justice. I don't believe that any brother officer would be a part of a massacre of their people. Now, what are we doing to find these Russians?" the director asked.

This time Nancy stood and buttoned her blazer. She took a deep breath and turned to face the director.

"The FBI and local law enforcement have been briefed on who they are looking for. I suspect there is going to be fallout about us… or me… not giving them everything before the raid."

The director pursed his lips and then paced to his desk and sat on it edge.

"The president wants to know what the odds are now that these two maniacs and their organization have what they want, on us getting our agent back."

Nancy Grogan's silence was enough. She swallowed and bent over to pick up her case and then turned and started for the door, she stopped with her right hand poised over the handle.

"She's my agent," she said without turning, "my responsibility."

Rosen cleared his throat and said what everyone was thinking.

"Director, Lynn Simpson is already dead. Sagli and Deonovich would never take the chance of keeping her alive. Remember their file: They executed ten hostages in a Prague antique shop for the simple reason they were late telling them where their third wall safe was located. The last three were shot after that safe was found. Yes, sir, Lynn Simpson is most assuredly dead."

"Then confirm her death, and then bring me those two bastards' heads on a platter!"

Before Jack had even entered the Europa clean room, Pete Golding and Carl Everett had already begun. Pete looked at Jack, newly clothed in white smock and gloves. He was as miserable having to wear the clean-room attire as Everett was.

"Colonel, Director Compton gave us a short brief, but it didn't give us much to go on. Europa did uncover these details as listed in the Montreal Police Departments computer. Even now, the Canadians are keeping the information limited, maybe slowing down the filing of their reports for security reasons."

Jack sat in between Everett and Pete, silent as he adjusted the microphone in front of him. The steel door that protected Europa was up and Collins could see the Honda robotic arms as they swung into action placing and removing small discs from racks and placing them into the mainframe.

"Right now, as I understand it at least, your sister is in charge of the northeastern desk at Langley. If you don't mind me asking, Colonel, why would she choose Simpson as her last name?" Pete asked as he started typing commands onto his keyboard.

"That was my mother's maiden name — Simpson."

"I see. The first thing we are checking on is the two names that seem to be popping up in the Canadian reports. Two Russian nationals are believed to have been responsible for the ambush in Montreal. At least those were the names placed on the all-points bulletins coming from Canada to all North American police agencies. Now, since Director Compton notified the captain and myself that we cannot expect cooperation from American intelligence apparatus, we have to use a little bit of stealth in finding what we need, am I correct?"

"At this point in time, Pete, yeah, you're correct. That may change very soon."

Golding saw Jack's eyes as they didn't waver from his own. The look wasn't one of determination as usual, it was a faraway look he had never seen in Collins's eyes before.

"Good. Now, the names of these two men are Dmitri Sagli and Gregori Deonovich. I ran them through Europa and she kicked back this" — Pete gestured at the blue writing scanning across the screen—"as you can see, they have… What is the police jargon? Oh yes, quite a rap sheet. Starting with their days in the old KGB, and what they learned of death in the early years of the Soviet war in Afghanistan. I believe that is where they acquired the taste for the more expensive decorations they probably have in their houses. From there, after their exodus from KGB, they quickly graduated to organized crime, financed principally from their thievery in Afghanistan and other war-torn places where Soviet occupation was in bloom."

"What about my sister? What is the correlation between them and her?" Collins asked as he read the blue printed letters on the large screen before them. It was as if he was burning the pictures and the words into his mind.

Carl Everett watched Jack and he knew he was doing exactly that — etching the faces into his brain.

"That is what we are about to attempt to find out. This is going to be tricky: If the president has ordered us to stand down, he may have also ordered the CIA to safeguard an attack on their Cray system from Europa. If that is the case, they will not only be able to track the backdoor entry, but cause a security shutdown, not only at Langley, but here also. Then, I dare say, the cat will be out of the proverbial bag."

"Do it, my authorization, my responsibility," Jack said as he ripped the gloves from his hands and then tossed them on the floor.

Everett removed his also, and instead of protesting, Pete followed suit.

"Okay, Colonel, here we go. Europa, we are going to ask for a protocol 2267 exception to security rule Langley 111-1. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Dr. Golding, bypass security protocol protecting top-secret CIA analysis files, operational files and agency archives. Field agent protection lists are to be excluded under this protocol — is that correct, Doctor?"

"Correct," Pete said looking over at Jack for confirmation. After all, that was the most guarded secret in American intelligence, the identity of undercover field agents across the globe. "Now Europa, you will use my security clearance for this operation, is that understood?"

"Yes, Doctor, clearance number 78987-2343, Department 5656 override."

"Wait a minute, Doc, I said this is my responsibility," Jack said, placing his arm on Golding's.

"Colonel, you may not be thinking as straight as you usually do under the circumstances. If we are caught entering the CIA Cray system, there are going to be arrests made. No matter how secret we are, we are going against a presidential order. It just so happens we are not secret from him. How are you going to help your sister if a bunch of marines come down here and haul you away on presidential orders?"

Jack looked from Golding to Everett, who was sitting silently watching the exchange as Collins removed his hand from Golding's arm and nodded his head.

"That's why Pete gets the big bucks, Jack, he has the ability to step back and look at things logically," Carl said as he turned in his chair and waited for the enquiry to start again.

"Europa, commence a backdoor entry into Cray system 191987—Blue Dahlia — Langley."

"Yes, Doctor," came the calm and ordered reply of Europa in her Marilyn Monroe voice.

The assault on one of the most secure systems in the world was underway. The funny thing was, it was Europa's little brother at CIA, and they were both assembled only days apart. This backdoor mugging was to be a family affair.

It took Europa close to an hour to break into Dahlia's mainframe. She was close to timing out on the attempted break-in when a small backdoor was found in the Langley system that ran out-of-date file subroutine revolving around agency retirement records.

After two and a half hours of skirting the main file location inside of intelligence and operations, they had uncovered the full extent of the ambush in Montreal. Besides confirming their number-one targets, Sagli and Deonovich, Golding, Everett, and Collins were starting to piece together what it was the Russians were looking for: The Lattimer Papers and what was being tagged as the Petrov Diary had been mentioned in no less than seventeen agency filings in the past twenty-four hours, filings the agency had received through their own Cray system, Blue Dahlia, and absconded from the CSIS authorities in Ottawa. That information had been filed inside of Europa for use later in tracking that particular subject matter.

"Okay, gentlemen, here is where it gets tricky, and why." Pete looked at his watch. "I waited until two A.M. to try it. We are going to break into the files of the Intelligence Department, the section where your sister works, Jack. When Europa goes in, she will scan all files using the keywords we have already entered. She will be inside for less than one minute downloading what Miss Simpson's department knows about the event that occurred in Montreal, and about your sister's involvement. During that time, if someone happens to log into the system that is currently being scanned, alarms are going to sound from Virginia to Fort Huachuca in Arizona."

"What will happen then, Pete?" Everett asked.

"That, I really don't know Captain. Dahlia could send a transformer signal through, tracing the program, or send Europa a tapeworm, destroying her completely." Pete patted the console before him and then looked inside Europa's containment room. "But I think she's too smart for that." He smiled. "We've made a few modifications on her in the time she's been here."

"Let's get started."

Pete nodded at Jack.

"Europa, commence scanning the Langley North American Intelligence files."

"Yes, Doctor."

At 2 A.M. in the morning, Nancy Grogan, with fresh new orders from the director himself to stand down for three days, was staring at her computer screen. The file was open on Lynn Simpson. She had read everything she could in that file, trying to find out Lynn's next of kin. She had decided that regardless of what her superiors said, her family, especially her brother, needed to be told about her possible fate, but she found she was loathe to contact the mother of the siblings because she couldn't explain why she needed to find her son Jack. Grogan knew that Lynn had been in contact with her brother. She was the only person at CIA who had that little bit of information. She didn't know how much Lynn had explained to her brother, so she thought it would be helpful to contact him herself if at all possible.

Grogan finally stretched and then started to reach for the monitor's power supply. She still wanted to pack a few things from her office to take home, but she froze when she saw a small and intense flashing icon in the bottom left-hand corner of the screen. USER 5656 LOGGED ON.

"Well, at least they're still working on finding her," Grogan mumbled as she pushed the small button, closing down her monitor.

She stood and found a partially filled box and threw some paperwork from her department inside, then she grabbed the Lynn Simpson personnel file and was tempted to throw it in as well, but she knew that little item would never get through security. As she closed the file, she gently laid it on her desk. The file was a standard "secret" file with SIMPSON, LYNN H typed on its front. Below that was her operations number—1121. This was a series of numbers that all agency personnel had been issued. The number was everything from an employee number, a payroll tag, and Blue Dahlia's computer systems log-in code — the higher the number, the lower the rank and time on the job.

Grogan lifted the cardboard box and then her eyes caught the number on the personnel file once more. 1121. Lynn's number was one of the lower ones since her transfer from operations two years ago. The director of Intelligence let the box slide from her hand as she hurriedly opened her top desk drawer. She found what she was looking for and ran her index finger down the list. It was a directory of log-in numbers for everyone who was authorized to use Blue Dahlia. The numbers ended at 2267.

"Who in the hell is 5656?" she said aloud. As the incredulous thought struck her, she quickly reached for the phone. Someone had hacked what should have been one of the most secure systems in the world. In her haste to punch in security's number, her hand struck Lynn Simpson's file and it fell to the floor, along with Grogan's own notes on Simpson's family. As security answered the phone on the other end, she saw the name Colonel Jack Collins, United States Army, underlined in red ink several times.

"Security, Adamson speaking. Miss Grogan, are you ready to leave the facility?"

Nancy looked up from the file and thought quickly. The rumors of Lynn's brother being very resourceful came flooding through her rapidly thinking brain. She hesitated only a moment.

"Yes, in about fifteen minutes. I'll only be carrying home one box to be inspected."

"Very good, ma'am, I'll have two men standing by for escort to your vehicle."

"Thank you," she said quietly and then hung up the phone.

She knew that what she was doing was very close to committing treason. She also knew that this could have been the way Sagli and Deonovich came across their information on the Los Angeles raid. However, she knew for a fact that Blue Dahlia was as secure as systems can get. The rumor was that only another Blue Ice system could do what was being done, and even Sagli and Deonovich didn't have the funding for that little trick.

As she sat back into her large chair, she flipped on the computer monitor again. The small icon was still flashing in the lower left-hand corner of the screen: USER 5656 LOGGED ON. Grogan sat back and watched the green numbers as they glowed in the semidarkness of her office. Then a small smile slowly crept across her features. She knew the log-on numbers had to be an American code for an agency — four numbers, and it seemed Blue Dahlia recognized these call numbers. Her smile broadened as she felt she had an ally somewhere in the world that would help her get Lynn home.

"The mysterious Colonel Jack Collins, I presume," she said just under her breath.

She would give the hacking computer another sixty seconds before she hit the alarm. After all, there was still a small chance it may be someone not so friendly to her government.

As Europa was scanning agency files at a blinding rate, the phone buzzed and Everett answered it.

"Yes… thank you," he said and hung up.

"That was the director's assistant. It seems the man that was kidnapped, this Juan Chavez, was found washed up against the pier pylons in Huntington Beach."

Without saying anything, Jack underlined Chavez's name on the list he was slowly putting together.

"Colonel, I still think investigating that end of things is as viable as it was before this news. Whatever these Russians are up to, they went through this man for some reason, more than likely a link to those papers, or the journal that was stolen."

"Okay, what do you suggest?" Jack asked.

Pete pushed his thick glasses back up to the bridge of his nose and thought.

"The man dealt in stolen goods, antiquities, almost anything of value derived from antiquity."

"Yes, but that could still mean anything," Everett volunteered.

"Captain, the work we do here, the recovery of history, is a very limited field. There are very few people in the world who are truly good at it. Thieves are not as good as the Group, of course, but they are very adequate when it comes to selling what they steal to private collectors around the world. Our computer is good but there's only so much we can uncover without leaving this room."

"You're suggesting we go into the field, fly to L.A. for a closer look?" Jack asked.

"Well, yes. Look here," Pete said as he stood and pointed at a line of script on the large monitor in front of them. "Yes, here we are. Langley has run this guy Chavez through Dahlia a thousand times, arrest records and such. The man has never divulged his source, who it is that's contracting his services. There wasn't one piece of incriminating evidence to be found in his Elysian Park home. No artwork, no statuary, no antique of any kind. This man sold everything he came into possession of."

"He has to have a buyer," Everett said.

"Not only that, but someone had to fund the world travel the agency uncovered. According to overseas records, this man, Chavez, was worth only two and half million dollars."

Jack looked at Pete and slowly nodded. "In other words, whoever was buying his stuff may have some clue as to what Sagli and Deonovich were seeking and why."

"Exactly, Colonel."

Pete was about to expand on his thoughts when the last line of script was entered onto the Europa main screen from the CIA mainframe. He grew silent as he watched the sentence run its course. Then he slowly removed his glasses and lightly touched Collins on the shoulder.

"Oh, God," was all Pete said.

Jack looked up at what was written on the screen and his heart fell to the bottom of his chest.

"I'm sorry, Jack," Everett said as he closed his eyes and shook his head.

As Europa finally came to a stop, the sentence pronounced their search may be over before it started.

"What did they do to her?" Jack asked as his eyes closed and his head sank to his chest.

"Doctor Golding, my entrance into the Blue Dahlia mainframe has been discovered; a trace is currently in process," Europa said calmly.

"Shut down, damn it, shut it down!" Pete said as he stood, pushing his chair back so hard it slammed into the far wall.

"Shutdown complete, trace was lost." Europa said in a calm voice.

Jack hurriedly put his notes in order and stood.

"Colonel?" Pete asked.

"I'm still going to L.A."

"Jack, I guess this is a good time to tell you: The director ordered me to stop you if you tried to leave the complex."

Jack looked from Everett and then to the monitor in front of him, and then returned his determined look to Carl.

"Right, I'll get us a plane," Everett said, shrugging out of his white electrostatic coat.

"Do that, Captain, and alert Mendenhall and Ryan. Tell them their weekend duties are canceled."

Everett watched as Jack left the clean room.

"Doc, correlate what you've recovered; there may be something in there that can help."

Pete Golding watched Everett follow Collins out of the clean room, and then he sat down and almost reached for the phone, but stopped. He almost shouted aloud when the phone startled him when it buzzed. He swallowed and then picked it up.

"Clean room," he said meekly.

"Pete, I just received a call from the White House. The president was informed that we hacked into the CIA mainframe."

"Niles, there's no way they can know that; Europa cut the trace before it took hold."

"Pete, I've had a few drinks here, but even I could figure out who did the hacking if I knew what agencies had the Cray system, and the president, in case you haven't noticed, isn't a fool. Where is Jack?"

"Uh… well… he and Captain Everett—"

"Have they left the complex?" Niles asked.

"Well, no, they haven't had the time; they just left the clean room."

"Do they have a lead on Jack's sister?"

"Niles, the damn Russians cut that little girl's finger off."

"Do they have a lead?"

"Yes, sir. Los Angeles."

"And they are still inside the complex?"

"Yes, sir," Pete said, feeling like he was betraying Jack and Carl.

There was silence on Niles's end of the phone. Then he finally spoke. "Okay, give them another thirty minutes to clear Nellis, and then issue an order for any Event personnel to detain Captain Everett and Colonel Collins."

"Sir?" Pete asked, not believing Niles was letting them go.

"Hell, you may as well include their little sidekicks in that order, too. Detain Mendenhall and Ryan. No wait," Compton said thinking as fast as Europa. "Get to Lieutenant Mendenhall, pry him away from Ryan and the others, and have him and Sarah McIntire report to me before the colonel can get to him, do it ASAP, Pete, you hear me?"

"But—"

"If Jack thinks there's a chance of him finding his sister, we'll give him the time he needs, but I also know for a fact that everyone from the FBI to Virginia farm boys will be out to stop him from doing so. I need McIntire and Mendenhall in my office; they are not to accompany Collins, Everett, and Ryan."

The phone went dead and Pete just shook his head in wonder.

"It would be nice if someone asked me along for the ride sometime," Pete said to himself.

After Niles hung up, he slowly kicked his shoes off and then lay down on his couch, a place where he had spent most of the last month sleeping, and where he would now try to dream through the dark storm that was about to hit. He pushed his glasses onto his balding head and then closed his eyes. He was wondering just how long it would take Langley to scream bloody murder all the way to the White House about the Group's assault on CIA's Blue Dahlia.

Just as Niles felt the onslaught of whiskey-induced sleep, his assistant stepped into his office and quickly walked to the couch and shook Niles. He came awake like a man falling from a cliff — that unsettling feeling of falling and not being able to stop yourself. Then he opened his eyes and realized he couldn't focus on the face in front of him. His assistant reached out her slim hand and pulled his glasses back down to cover his eyes.

"Sir, the president is on the phone. He says you're not answering your laptop."

Niles laid there, not wanting to move, not wanting to face the man he had disobeyed. He took a deep breath and then slowly sat up on the couch, placing his stocking feet on the floor one at a time.

"Sir, you look horrible. Maybe you should just answer his phone instead of going visual?"

Niles looked his young assistant over. Her name was Linda, and she was reporting more and more for duty since Alice Hamilton was spending more time with Senator Garrison Lee these days, the former director of the Group. Compton figured that the two oldest members of the Event Group deserved all the time they had together; they had after all, earned it.

"I look that bad, huh?"

"Yes, you do," she said.

"Well, your training progresses, young lady. I think I'll follow your advice. Hand me the phone."

She reached out and pulled the phone over from the small table next to the couch. She lifted the receiver.

"Mr. President, we have located Director Compton."

There was silence on the other end of the phone line when Niles placed the receiver to his ear.

"Compton," he said with a mouth full of cotton.

"I warned you, Mr. Director, CIA reported a backdoor hack of their Dahlia system. May I assume it was your people?"

"You may not assume it was my people," Niles said with as much indignity as he could conjure up.

"Okay, then you're telling me it was NSA, the FBI, or the boys at the Pentagon? They're the only ones other than your Europa who has that capability. And believe me, I know what that nervous bastard Pete Golding is capable of, I've seen him work: He can twist that damn Cray system to do backflips if he wanted."

"I resent that, Mr. President, just because Pete's — well, anyway, I resent the accusation."

"Just so you know, I have ordered the arrest of Colonel Collins and anyone in his security department that tries to fly out of Nellis, which I highly expect they'll try. For Christ's sake, Niles, as a friend, I asked you not to tell him. I wanted to let this thing play out a while. As it looks, we'll never know the real reason for his sister's reasoning for talking to her brother."

"And as a friend, I told you what you wanted to hear. Would you want to be kept in the dark about your sister? No, you wouldn't. And that man has done more for this country than anyone you or I have ever known, I think—"

"Don't think, damn it. We may have serious problems here, his sister may have been getting close to something and Director Easterbrook has stuck his neck out to assist her. And don't ask because we really don't know yet. Look, Collins has already screwed the pooch here, he's made a big mistake, he and his buddy, Everett, filed an advanced flight plan to Los Angeles out of Nellis. Hell, it took the FBI all of two minutes to get that information. And they have at least two agents at every dirt airstrip for fifty miles, too. Listen, Niles, Jack Collins is too close, and I don't want to lose him along with his sister — that's what I owe him, at least until we get a handle on what his sister was working on. So, let the FBI catch and detain him."

"I know that, but I am not going to keep that man in the dark even if his sister is already dead. If she is, can you think of anybody else in this world who you would want to track the bastards down that killed her?"

"No, but consider yourself under house arrest Mr. Director, you little bastard. I should just fly out there right now and hang you."

"Excuse me, but I'm a little drunk and I'm going to go back to sleep."

"You do that!"

Niles winced as the phone was hung up.

"Is the president mad?" Linda asked.

"Yes, very mad," he said as a smile crossed his lips. "He's going to catch Jack at the base before he enters his aircraft," he said as his eyes started to close and the smile was drifting but still present. "But I think I may have gotten a step on him. When McIntire and Mendenhall get here, give them this," he said as he handed her a folded piece of paper.

"Is there anything else we can do to help the colonel, sir?" the young assistant asked.

Niles didn't answer her question as he had fallen asleep with the phone still clutched in his hand and the smile still on his lips.

Jack, Carl, and Jason Ryan stepped from the tram that led to Gate Two just beneath the Gold City Pawnshop, the clandestine entryway for all Event Group personnel. They were dressed in civilian attire and had identification that indicated they were Los Angeles police detectives, and L.A. County sherriff's officers. As they took the elevator up, Jack looked at his watch.

"Mendenhall was nowhere to be found?" Collins asked the small naval aviator.

"No, sir, he left his security badge in the security office, I couldn't get a track on him through Europa."

"Damn," Jack said as the elevator doors slid open. The view ahead was the dusty and very dingy back storeroom of the Gold City Pawnshop.

They were met by Lance Corporal Jess Harrison, a black marine from Compton, California. The young corporal had the duty at Gate Two.

"Sir, this just came through from the director's office," he said handing Collins a flimsy.

"What's the word, Jack?" Everett asked as he walked over to the arms locker and used his security code to open it. The corporal watched Everett with a wary eye.

"Oh, effective in," Jack again looked at his watch, "exactly five minutes, the director has ordered us detained."

"Do you agree with the wording Corporal?" Jack asked his gate security officer.

The marine looked around from watching Everett removed three nine-millimeter automatic pistols and their holsters from the arms locker, along with three clips of ammunition apiece. He also looked at his watch.

"Yes, sir. In five minutes, I am to detain you," the lance corporal said, still watching Everett.

Everett handed Jack a holstered weapon along with Ryan. "Let's not hang around for that five minutes so our young friend here doesn't have to do his duty."

The three men left the back storage area and into the back office of the pawnshop.

"Sir, Air Police, and what looks like the FBI is crawling all over Nellis looking for you guys," the corporal said as he buzzed them through the secured office and past the armed army private that had his finger close to the trigger of a submachine gun clipped underneath his desk.

"I would be worried if that was where we were going, Corporal." Jack stopped and turned to face his men. "Watch the place for us. If you can't find Lieutenant Mendenhall after we leave, you're in charge of security. I imagine you'll have orders to lock down the complex."

"Yes, sir. Good luck Colonel."

Jack didn't answer, but Everett slapped the young marine on the back as they left the back office and then a minute later the Gold City Pawnshop.

They didn't use one of the three department vehicles sitting in the alley beside the pawnshop; instead, Ryan used his irritatingly loud whistle to flag a cab. With temperatures hovering around 108 degrees, they quickly climbed in and Collins ordered the driver to take them to McLaren Airport where there was a C-21, a U.S. air force variant of the Learjet 35, stashed in a hangar on the military side of McLaren, a hangar complex the gamblers and vacationers never knew existed.

The cab pulled into the far drive that led out onto the taxing tarmac after Jack had shown his fake Los Angeles Police Department ID. As the cab approached the aluminum hangar, the hackles rose on the colonel's neck.

"The agency and the FBI may have outthought me on this one."

"I feel it, too, they're here," Everett said.

"Jesus, we can't shoot it out with our own people, Colonel," Ryan said, pulling the Hawaiian shirt from his chest, having been stuck there with the sweat that was pouring from his body.

"Stop here," Jack said as he tossed the driver two twenties as he climbed from the backseat.

He removed the nine-millimeter from his holster and made sure the safety was on. He looked at Everett and Ryan, making them do the same.

"No accidents — no one gets hurt, if it comes to them stopping us, give me time to do what I have to do, then you two surrender. Am I clear on this?"

Everett looked into Jack's blue eyes and nodded once. Then he looked at Ryan.

"Hell, Colonel, I want to give up now. I'm allergic to the Feds."

"Good boy, Lieutenant."

Carl and Ryan fell into step behind Collins as he made his way to a line of employee cars parked outside of the private hangars that flanked the two military enclosures on the north side of the airport. As they moved, they kept their heads down. Ryan almost let loose a scream as they passed one of the private hangar doors that started rising with a loud whine. They hurried past before the opening could reveal them sneaking by.

Behind them from the hangar they heard a loud piston engine fire up, then a second, but they kept moving as quickly as they could toward the military doors now only ten feet away. Once they got to the personnel door of the first hangar, Jack reached out and took the handle. To their rear, the loud engine noise continued as the aircraft slowly taxied out from the privately leased hangar. Jack ignored the plane behind him and pulled open the personnel door of the military hangar and quickly stepped inside.

Collins, though very tempted, refused to pull his gun. He gestured for Everett to make his way to the far side of the C-21. The plane sat there gleaming in the bright sunlight streaming through two overhead skylights far above. There was no guard on duty and no mechanics evident. Collins shook his head as he saw Everett disappear around the rear-mounted engines just under the tail.

Ryan was the first to the door just forward of the wing. He looked back at Collins and grimaced, shaking his head. Jack nodded once as Everett came back around the front of the plane and shook his head from side to side.

"No one, Jack," he said, barely above a whisper.

"Okay, Lieutenant, open it up."

Ryan popped the stainless-steel guard and the handle popped free and the folding steps deployed as he stepped to the side. As he did, Collins went up the staircase in two steps, Everett followed and then Ryan. Once inside the small aircraft, Jack allowed his eyes to adjust to the dimness of the interior.

"Okay, Ryan, get to your preflight and let's get the hell out of here," Everett said.

Just as Ryan started to move, Jack took him by the shoulder and shook his head.

"Forget it, we have company."

Just then, the cockpit door opened and first one agent, then another came through, and unlike Collins and his two men, they had their handguns drawn. As they watched the agents come toward them, the aft restroom door opened and another two agents came out.

"Goddamn sneaky little bastards," Everett said, even though he knew through his SEAL training he could take at least the two from the back, because against all of the FBI training the two agents went through, they were too close to their targets. When he conveyed this to Jack with his eyes, Collins shook his head.

"Colonel Collins, you and your men are to be detained on a national security matter. Please remove your weapons and place them on the floor of the aircraft."

Jack, Ryan, and Everett did as they were ordered just as the loud aircraft leaving its hangar outside became close to unbearable. The two agents at the front of the aisle slowly came on as Jack watched for some kind of an opening, one that would ensure no one got hurt — well, not too hurt anyway. As the first FBI agent reached down and collected the handguns, he remained low so the three men could still be covered by the man to their front and the two behind. One of the latter slipped past and went down the stairs.

"Okay, Colonel, we want no trouble. We'll take you into our field office and from there, your people, whoever they are, can have you back. No booking, no cuffs, okay? We'll call it a professional courtesy, and that comes from the highest source," the lead agent said, his gun never wavering from the three men. "Now, Agent Williams is waiting for you at the bottom of the stairs. Please, let's be nice," the first man said loudly, trying to be heard over the idling engine noise of the plane just outside the hangar.

Jack could see no way out of this without using deadly force and these men didn't deserve anything close to that. They were fellow Americans doing their job. Collins nodded for Everett and Ryan to start down.

Finally, as Jack made his way down the steps backward, he was suddenly and harshly pulled down and onto his back, knocking the wind from him. On his way down he saw Ryan and then Everett hop over the small cable that was used as a handhold on the stairs, he never saw them hit the concrete. Around him all was a blur as someone shot forward and pushed the stairs back up into the aircraft's fuselage. He heard shots, then he was being pulled to his feet. Another single shot rang out.

As Jack regained his breath and his senses, he saw the man who had taken the single shot was Will Mendenhall. He watched as the black army lieutenant reached up and pulled on the door's handle; when he was satisfied that the handle had been damaged enough to jam the door for a good while, he turned and smiled.

"I think we better go," Will hurriedly said over his shoulder as he ran for the door, jumping over FBI Agent Williams who was writhing on the floor with plastic wire-ties on his hands and ankles. His weapon lay beside him with the slide back and the ammunition clip removed. Collins shook off the hands that helped him to his feet and then noticed who it was. Sarah smiled up at him.

"Compliments of Director Compton. He said you didn't stand a chance getting out of the desert."

Sarah pursed her lips in a pretend kiss and then ruthlessly shoved Jack toward the door and then through it and into the sunlight and the unbearable noise of the desert airport. When he looked up, he couldn't believe his eyes. Sitting there only a few feet away, with a blue-and-white shining paint scheme, had to be the oldest seaplane he had ever seen. It was a Grumman G-21A Goose, a twin-engine plane that predated World War II. It was loud and noisy and with its twin landing gear sticking out of its boat-shaped hull, it looked like the most ungainly aircraft he had ever seen. The Grumman was beautiful and was well maintained. The Goose was designed during the heyday of the flying boats in the late 1930s and a good number of them were still active at air shows around the world. This was the aircraft that had started up inside the hangar they had passed by on the way in.

"Jesus, Colonel, look at this," Ryan said as he pointed to the glassed-in cockpit.

"Unbelievable," was all Collins could say as he saw the small arm of a woman hanging out of the side cockpit window, waving them forward, insisting they hurry.

"Is that Alice?" Everett said as he took off toward the cabin door.

"It belongs to Alice and Senator Lee. Niles thought it was the only thing we could use to get out of here; after all, the FBI and CIA would be waiting for us at any airport we wanted to land, but they can't cover every waterfront in L.A.," Sarah shouted as they bounded up and into the ancient seaplane.

Once inside, the old Grumman's engines were goosed and she started to roll. Alice Hamilton, all eighty-seven years young, complete with leather helmet, headset, and flying gloves, threw the two throttles forward and the plywood and aluminum-framed flying boat sped toward the runway as Jack came into the small cockpit and sat next to Alice, and shook his head.

"You didn't think Earhart was the only aviatrix this country turned out, did you?" Alice said when she saw the disbelief on the colonel's face.

"What in the hell are you doing?" Jack yelled over the sound of the screaming props.

"Evidently rescuing you," Alice answered with a smile as she reached down and started pumping the handle that brought the old Grumman's flaps to the down position. When she looked over and saw Collins frowning, she smiled as the huge wheels left the airport runaway.

"Okay, Niles knew you would be caught if you tried to use a Group aircraft, then he knew even if you did, you would have to land at an airfield where any number of federal people would be waiting for you, so, he knew Garrison bought me this little toy back in 1955 for my birthday, thus, here we are — now hang on!"

Jack was thrown back in his seat as the Grumman shot into the sky at an angle Collins never thought a plane that old could achieve.

As he buckled himself in, he heard the shouts and grunts from the passenger area of the seaplane.

"This isn't good!" Ryan screamed as eighty-seven-year-old Alice Hamilton threw the plane into a steep banking maneuver, heading for Los Angeles.

Director Niles Compton of Department 5656—the Event Group — was rarely, if ever, outthought by anyone in the world.

4

The chartered Boeing 737 was above the state of Colorado heading north. Leased through a third party, the federal authorities had no idea their murderous quarry was heading out of the country.

Sagli leaned forward in his chair and placed his glass of water on the table. Deonovich looked around at the thirty-five men seated around the aircraft.

"I am curious as to why we cannot dispose of our guest — she is too dangerous to keep around," Deonovich asked Sagli, taking a large swallow of water from an iced glass; he then turned and eyed his partner.

"I asked the same question and was told she may be an asset later when we arrive at our destination. She is to be kept healthy at all costs."

"Have you thought that maybe we have placed too much confidence in our new ally?" Deonovich asked, raising the glass vodka and draining it.

Sagli frowned. "That is enough drinking; we have very serious days ahead. I do not need you half comatose."

Deonovich raised his brows and eyed his partner.

"You have not answered my question."

Sagli hated talking about the plan to Deonovich as the large man had a hard time grasping the intricacies of the plan. He could tolerate his small peccadilloes such as his penchant for inflicting pain upon others, but when he tried to question their new partner, it made them both look foolish. After all, the intelligence information this man had delivered to them over the last five years had all been dead-on accurate. The man had proven his reliability and his plan was almost foolproof.

"Look, old friend, when he came to us, I myself was suspicious, but since I have come to know him, I find that his penchant for planning and his eye for detail far exceed the people who trained us in the old days. He is a cold warrior, and we are committed to his plan." He eyed Deonovich closely. "Now, no more drinking."

Lynn Simpson looked up from her seat, handcuffs on her ankles and wrists. The duct tape was itching beyond all belief as she looked up and into the dark eyes of Sagli. She never even flinched when he raised the silenced pistol and pointed it at her right eye. Lynn had figured a long time ago she had been living on borrowed time, so she had mentally prepared herself. She closed her eyes and then said a silent good-bye to her mother and then to Jack.

"I just want to ask you a question," Sagli said as he reached out and gently pulled the duct tape from her mouth. Then, placing the silenced weapon on the seat beside Lynn, he undid her handcuffs.

Lynn opened her eyes at the question and the relief she felt when the cuffs were removed. She glanced at the silenced handgun beside her on the seat, and then she looked from it to Sagli, who was actually smiling, daring her to take it. Instead of taking up the challenge, Lynn rubbed her wrists, taking care not to strike her injured hand.

"The Canadian agent, this Alexander fellow — in your opinion, what are his capabilities?" Sagli asked, finally picking up the handgun and removing temptation from her thoughts.

"Go to hell," Lynn said with a hint of her own smile touching her lips. "You mean what were his capabilities."

"No, I mean, what are his capabilities. It seems our Canadian spy survived the assault. Now what can you tell me?"

Lynn remained silent as the thought of Punchy Alexander flashed through her mind. She could hardly believe he lived after her witnessing him getting executed by Sagli.

"I suggest you look down at your hands, Miss Simpson, count your fingers and then in five minutes I will ask you to do it again. I guarantee you will not come up with the same number as before. The only reason you are alive is for the fact that this Alexander just may get lucky and get a track on us," Sagli bluffed as he just wanted more information on Alexander. "I am skeptical at best, but if he does I believe you may still be a handsome bargaining chip."

Lynn was down to seven fingers and two thumbs. Her older brother would have said she was still way ahead in the game, but she wasn't her brother and she wasn't as brave as Jack.

"If Punchy Alexander is after you, I hope you're going to a very deep hole in the earth and pull the dirt in after you, because he can be relentless — the second most relentless man I have ever known."

Sagli smiled broadly. "As a matter of fact, we are going someplace much better, Miss Simpson, a place where the most recent maps were made over a quarter of a century ago; a forgotten place right in your own backyard." He gave a slight nod of his head. "And yes, we will pull the dirt in after us, and also over you."

The twin-engine Grumman Goose was flying as low as Alice felt comfortable with in the growing darkness. She manipulated the throttles that she could barely reach on the upper console, firewalling the engines to raise the agile seaplane over hills, and then cutting power to slide the aircraft nimbly into a valley. Jack really didn't know how she could see anything.

"Colonel, it's time you went into the cabin with the others. When you get back there, ask Lieutenant Ryan to come up here, please."

Jack was hesitant about unsnapping his seatbelt, but finally managed enough courage when Alice brought the seaplane into level flight.

Nervous eyes watched Jack as he stumbled his way from the cockpit and into the passenger area. Everett was sitting next to Sarah, and Ryan was sitting across from them. Mendenhall was nowhere to be seen.

"Where's Will?" Collins asked as he slammed into the seat in front of Ryan.

Jason Ryan pointed to the back of the plane with an outstretched thumb, then he grabbed for the life vest he had found under his seat when Alice sent the Grumman down into a shallow dive.

"He's… he's in that little closet back there. I think it's the head, but I think it's too small to have a toilet," Ryan finally said. "He doesn't feel too good."

"Can't say as I blame him," Jack said as he snapped his seatbelt. "Ryan, report to Alice up front."

The small naval officer looked taken back for the briefest moment.

"Go on, Lieutenant, she's waiting."

"Yes, sir," Jason said as he nervously popped his own belt loose. At that moment the door to the restroom opened just as Alice pulled up to avoid a small hill just outside of Riverside, California. Before anyone could see Mendenhall clearly, he ducked back inside and slammed the door.

Ryan made his way up front and pulled the curtain aside and stepped into the small cockpit. He hurriedly slammed down into the copilot's seat and fumbled with the seatbelt until he finally managed to get it locked.

"Not like flying F-14 Tomcats is it, Mr. Ryan?" Alice asked with a smirk, managing a quick glance over to her right.

"No, ma'am, not at all."

"Listen, I need you to watch what I'm doing, because you're going to have to take the controls in a minute. I suspect we may have to do some evading."

"Take the controls?" he said as he pulled the belt tighter. "But this thing has propellers, and frankly, ma'am, I don't see any controls, just a steering wheel — I think."

"Yes, it does have propellers, young man. It's called real flying. Now, take the wheel, don't worry, she's real responsive. Use your rudder and stabilizers for up and down, and don't worry about the wing flaps, got it?"

"Why not worry about the wing flaps?" he asked as he took the half-moon wheel in front of him.

"Because we won't use them in flight — stabilizers, tail and engine acceleration and deceleration, that's all. Now, I need to find us a good place to land this thing where we won't bring every policeman in two counties down on us." She let go of the wheel and pulled a map from an oversize front pocket of her coveralls.

"Ma'am, don't take this the wrong way, but you're one crazy…" — he stopped and looked quickly at her smiling face—"lady."

"Good choice of words, Mr. Ryan," she said as she unfolded the map, while the former fighter jock tried desperately to see out of the half-oval windows to his front.

"I think here would be the best place." Alice held the map out so Ryan could take a glance, but he was so intent on keeping the plane in the air, that he only looked for a split second and then turned back.

Ryan was getting a quick feel for the ancient Grumman and his vision was picking up far more than he should have been able to, thanks to the advanced windscreen installed in the plane that picked up ambient light and made seeing easier in the darkness. As he turned slightly to avoid a string of power lines on the far side of Upland, he knew he liked flying the old seaplane.

Alice reached out and turned a knob on the aluminum control panel. As Ryan watched a small green illuminated grid appeared on the windscreen, the copilot's side of the window showed the foothills to the right, and on the left side in front of Alice, the Chino Valley spread out as far as the glass allowed. Ryan was shocked at the modern hologram being projected onto the windscreens.

"A little gift from Pete Golding," she said when she saw the amazed look on Ryan's face. "He flew with me and the senator once, and decided we needed some upgrading — poor man almost had a nervous breakdown."

"I can't imagine why," Ryan said with a sheepish grin.

As Ryan flew toward Los Angeles, popping up over Kellogg Hill and then down over West Covina, he knew to hug the hills to his right side. Alice stretched her arms out and then flexed her fingers before she slowly placed the flying gloves onto her small hands once more. Then she reached beneath her seat and pulled out a small cylindrical object that resembled the casing for a small kitchen clock. She ran a cord to the console and then plugged the device into a small socket. When its face lit up, she slid it into an open space in the console.

"There," she said smiling, "now we have radar."

Ryan looked from the hologram in front of him to the avoidance radar on the console.

"If you don't mind my asking, why weren't you using that all along?" Ryan asked incredulously.

"Because, young man, I like to fly once in a while. Now we're heading into a place where buildings can pop up out of nowhere." She looked over at him after adjusting the radar sweep speed. "Pete was really the nervous type; he insisted we have a radar. He's a real wimp."

Ryan was amazed. Alice was either the bravest woman he'd ever met, or she had gone over the edge and into the bleakness of senility.

"Okay, Mr. Ryan, I'll take it from here. If you don't remember how scared you were during night landings on a carrier, you're about to be reminded."

As Ryan let go of the wheel, his eyes widened when Alice Hamilton pulled back on the throttles and allowed the seaplane to dip far too low to the ground.

"Uh, ma'am, there's nothing down here but houses."

Alice leaned back in her seat and then turned her head and shouted through the curtain.

"Everyone, hold on to your behinds, this is going to be pretty dicey," she called as a moment later the sound of the bathroom door being slammed sounded through the cabin.

Inside the passenger area, Sarah touched Carl on the arm and, unfastening her seatbelt, she hopped quickly across the small gap between the eight seats and then threw herself onto Jack's lap. She kissed him quickly and then rolled over to the seat beside him.

"I expect you to save me if we crash, you got that?" she said seriously.

"I was just thinking the same thing about you."

Up front, Ryan watched as Alice turned the wheel sharply to the left, at the same time slamming her small foot into the left rudder pedal as hard as she could.

"Pete could have suggested power steering for this thing!" she said, taking a quick look over at Ryan and winking.

The Grumman pitched over onto her left side and the large plane took a nosedive for the ground. Ryan wanted to close his eyes, but he watched the hologram on the windscreen instead. It went from showing greater Los Angeles to the front right, to nothing but houses, bridges, and streets. Then he saw a straight blank area.

"Uh, ma'am, can I ask what it is you're doing?" Ryan said as he reached out and steadied his slide from the seat.

"The report said this Chavez creep lived in Elysian Park, right?"

"I have no idea!" Jason said as the plane drew closer to the ground, the right wing tip almost touching some of the larger houses beneath them.

"Well, I was informed he ran his illegal operations out of there. Now, we can't very well land at LAX or Burbank now, can we? The police are looking for you and your little merry band if I heard right, so that leaves us one place where we can land that won't put us thirty miles from Elysian Park."

"Where is that?"

"Right here — the Los Angeles River."

Ryan wanted to scream that Los Angeles didn't have a river in the remotest and loosest sense of the word. He knew the river to be a concrete canal that ran through L.A. like a winding snake, and at most this time of year it had about an inch of water running right down its center. He also knew there to be bridges every six hundred feet.

"Oh, shit," he said as Alice leveled the seaplane and then in a blur of motion, pulled down the landing-gear lever on her left. She fought with the old-fashioned wheel and then started furiously pumping the wing flaps down as the Grumman's engine screamed power as she hopped over three houses and then over a small bridge. She cut power to the engines and the eerie silence belied the sheer terror of everyone on the plane.

Finally, the large wheels that had popped free of the boatlike body of the plane struck concrete. She bounced once, twice, finally hitting a foot-deep rivulet of water in the center of the river. Alice pumped up the wing flaps to their stops and the plane slowed after rising again into the air. Finally, she bounced down and then the next bridge in line rose up before them only a hundred feet away. Alice calmly started to apply the brakes, squealing and grinding as the seaplane slowed. Now realizing they wouldn't slow in time, Alice Hamilton turned the wheel as sharply as she could to the left while at the same time slamming down on the left rudder pedal once more, turning the Grumman's rear wheel. The large plane skid and then finally turned to the left, finally fishtailing to a stop.

Silence gripped the interior of the plane as Alice quickly looked around after shutting down the hologram. Ryan, for his part, only stared straight ahead. Alice quickly fired up both engines and then taxied back the way they had come until they settled underneath one of L.A.'s old bridges, where she feathered both engines. She took a deep breath and then looked at the white-faced Ryan.

"Well, we're here. Up the road about two miles is Elysian Park. You see Dodger Stadium up there? Well, the park is right below it."

Ryan was still staring straight ahead, not moving.

"I hope you watched what I did, Mr. Ryan, because you're flying my baby out of here since I have to get home."

"Wh… what?" he finally asked, still not looking at Alice.

"I said, you're flying my plane out of here. I have to get to LAX and catch a flight home. I left a casserole in the oven and I can't trust Garrison to follow instructions until he sees flames."

"But… but…"

Alice slapped him on the leg. "Oh, for an old carrier pilot like you, it should be fun." She smiled wide and unsnapped her seatbelt.

From the back there were audible signs of relief as the others started to realize they hadn't crashed. Then the sound of the small bathroom door was heard opening.

"Hey," Mendenhall said with a shaky voice, "that restroom is officially off limits."

Alice looked back at Ryan as they came through the curtain and a questioning look crossed her face as she removed her headset.

"We don't have a bathroom on this plane."

A moment later, Alice stood under the large wing and the left wing float of the plane after checking the undercarriage of the Grumman. She pronounced everything fit as she looked at Jack.

"Colonel, you know I wouldn't abandon you like this if I hadn't the need to keep an eye on that old man. If I could—"

Collins just reached out and pulled Alice to him, and hugged her, cutting off her words.

"Thank you," he whispered in her ear.

Alice hugged him back and then pulled away, locking her eyes with his. "Find your baby sister, Jack, and bring her home," she said, patting him on the chest just over his heart.

Collins nodded and then turned away toward the tall sloping sides of the concrete Los Angeles River.

Alice Hamilton looked over the old seaplane one last time, patting it lovingly on the wing float.

"Take care of her, Lieutenant."

Ryan smiled and gave Alice a salute as he turned and left, following Jack, Carl, and Mendenhall up the slick sides of the river.

Sarah hugged Alice good-bye. "You sure you can get out of here alright?" she asked.

"Honey, if I can climb K-2, I can get my old ass out of here."

"You climbed—"

"You go help Jack, he needs you. And listen to me, I think this is far more than just finding his sister; this may be the reason Jack has been so distant and secretive. Now go, I'll be fine."

Sarah half smiled and then turned and ran after the others. Alice looked over her old airplane one last time.

"You take good care of them," she said and then walked away toward the steep sloping side of the river.

The low rider, a 1961 Chevy Impala, pulled slowly up to the curb and let out a loud whine as the front air shocks and hydraulics were relieved of their pressure, then the rear suspension raised to level out the car as it settled next to the curb in Elysian Park.

Jack climbed from the passenger seat, followed by Sarah. The others piled from the backseat, with Will Mendenhall lagging while he admired the old-fashioned Tuck N' Roll upholstery. Will knew he was home again.

Collins walked up to the driver's side of the car and handed the driver a hundred-dollar bill. The Mexican American driver took it and then looked the colonel over closely. The red bandana covering his short hair was pulled down almost to his eyes.

"You know, jefe, you guys stand out like white corn in an alfalfa field."

"I suspect we do," Jack said as Sarah stepped up beside him.

The driver eyed the small woman for a very noticeable minute. Then he looked at Jack and then to the hundred-dollar bill. "Keep it, my man, buy the lady something nice," he said as he raced his engine and then peeled away from the curb, the music loud enough to feel it through the soles of their feet.

Jack looked around and then down at Sarah. He smiled and then started walking to catch up with Everett who was confirming the street address.

"I think it may be the one covered in police tape, Captain," Mendenhall said as he pointed to the large house on the corner.

"Smart-ass," Carl said as he spied the house ahead. Then Mendenhall caught sight of Everett reaching into his shirt, obviously clicking the safety off of his hidden nine-millimeter.

At ten at night, most families were still out and about. Lights were on and televisions could be seen flickering through shaded windows. Looking down into Elysian Park, Collins could see kids still hanging out in large numbers, and far up in Chavez Ravine, a Dodger game was just starting. As he took in the Chavez house, yellow police tape was pulled from column to column on the wraparound porch and was crisscrossed at the front door. He looked around to see if anyone was watching. When he saw only an old battered Ford pickup across the street from the house, he walked up the small slope of grass and bounded up the six wide front steps.

Sarah, Mendenhall, and Jason Ryan followed Collins onto the front porch. Everett held position at the base of the front steps, looking outward from the front yard. It seemed no one cared about the house where the thief Chavez used to live.

"Jack?" Carl said after a moment of time.

"Yeah, I feel it, too," Collins said backing away from the door.

"Feel what," Sarah whispered, not feeling at all comfortable.

"Someone's watching us," Jack said backing away from the door. Then Ryan leaned over the side of the porch and shook his head.

"Police cruiser — empty," he said, knowing they had been too hasty to climb the porch.

Suddenly the door opened, pulling away the yellow police tape that was stuck to the outside. Jack and the others placed hands on their hidden weapons.

"Don't shoot," a voice from the dark said. "There were two L.A. police officers here, they're cuffed at the moment and sitting in the living room, unharmed."

Jack shook his head and watched as the front door opened all the way.

"Damn, you're still a sneaky old bastard," Collins said, relaxing.

As the door opened fully, the dim streetlamps that lined the sidewalk showed a large bear of a man as he stepped into the frame of the door.

"At least I don't go bounding up the front steps without reconnoitering first."

"Damn, Punchy, it's good to see you," Jack said as he held out his hand. "There was a rumor you were dead."

Alexander shook Jack's hand and then grimaced and grabbed his chest and then gestured forward with his wounded shoulder. "If it wasn't for the body armor I had on, I would be, my friend. As it is, those two Russian bastards were so intent on taking your little sister they didn't linger to do the job right."

"I always thought you hated wearing armor. You always said your chest and big belly was enough to stop any bullet made." Jack eyed his old friend closely.

"Yeah, well, getting old will make you feel closer to the afterlife than you would think," Alexander answered, not noticing the closeness of which Jack was eyeing him.

"Everyone, this is Jonathan Alexander, the head of the Montreal sector of CSIS, the Canadian Intelligence Service."

"If you're Jack's people, Punchy will do."

"You were there, at the ambush?" Sarah asked.

"Yes, young lady, I was there."

Jack stepped around Punchy and entered the Chavez home. He immediately saw the two policemen sitting against the far wall of the living room. They were, as Punchy had said, unhurt. Collins eased the nine-millimeter into his waistband and then turned as the others entered the entrance hall, followed finally by Everett who eased the door closed.

"Nice touch, Punchy," Jack said, looking away from the two L.A. policemen.

Alexander cleared his throat. "I hate to burst your bubble about my being a sneaky bastard, but they were like that when I arrived."

Their eyes met and Jack raised his brows. "Is that right?"

"Trussed up pretty as a picture, just like you see them now," Punchy said and then quickly saw the look on Jack's face. "Don't worry; I checked the rest of the house. Whoever cuffed them isn't here."

"Punchy, why in the hell are you here?" Collins asked.

"You know why: It's not only my job, but I happen to like Lynn, almost as much as you."

"What in the hell happened out there, Punchy?" Collins asked as he slowly stepped from the living room into the kitchen.

"It was a setup. Lynn was anonymously contacted and she showed up in my yard. Evidently, only her direct boss knew she was coming to Canada. I guess they wanted to make a mark by bagging Sagli and Deonovich on their own. You know how kids are, they just don't know how to play the game," he said looking at Ryan and Mendenhall. "No offense."

Ryan looked at Will and they both just shrugged.

"Do you think Lynn is still alive?"

"You know me, Jack, forever an optimist. That's why I'm here and willing to breach my orders."

"Thanks, Punchy."

"Look, those two coppers in there are going to be relieved soon. If the LAPD overlooked anything here, we better get to looking for it." Alexander watched Collins closely, wondering if he was still as sharp as he once was. "If not, I have to get back to Montreal."

Jack nodded and silently pointed at Will and Everett, then used his thumb to point toward the basement. He silently ordered Sarah and Ryan to take the kitchen and living room. Then he nodded toward the wooden staircase for him and Punchy Alexander to check out.

On the way up the stairs, Jack slowly pulled the nine-millimeter from his waistband and knew Alexander was doing the same three steps behind him.

"You got the report on the man that Sagli and Deonovich murdered in Seattle?" Punchy asked as he gained the landing outside of a long hallway. He pointed his weapon left as Jack was doing the same to the right.

"The Russian-American, Serta?"

"Yeah, we don't know the reasoning for it yet, just a bunch of rumors." Alexander eased the bathroom door open and easily flipped on the light switch. The shiny tile and wood was clean but he could see where the police had tossed the closet as towels and washrags were strewn about on the floor and even in the bathtub.

"Rumors such as…?" Jack asked as he eased the first bedroom door open with his right foot and then quickly stepped inside. He moved the handgun from side to side. He relaxed when he saw the mattress to the king-size bed had been thrown free of the box spring and had even been cut into. Pretty thorough, he thought.

"Some fantastic tale that this old man in Seattle inherited one of the Twins of Peter the Great."

Jack looked back into the hallway just as Alexander eased the second bedroom door open.

"Twins?" Jack asked, now feeling that they were on a wasted mission to the Chavez house. He pushed the last bedroom door open and peered inside the already tossed and torn-apart room.

"Diamonds. Legend has it that Peter the Great had made a gift of twin diamonds the size of — hell, I don't know, lemons or something. Well, this lumber magnate supposedly was in possession of one of them."

"I've never heard of anything like that," Collins said as he dejectedly placed the handgun back into his pants. He also wondered why nothing was mentioned in Europa's investigation about these diamonds.

"Well, they supposedly disappeared around the time of the Russian revolution, along with everything else of value, including the tzar and tzarina."

"Well, we know where they went, don't we?" Jack said.

Alexander watched as Collins shook his head and started down the stairs. When he joined him at the bottom, they saw Sarah and Ryan throwing a few of the items still remaining in the coat closet out into the hallway. Sarah straightened and then looked at Jack, and shook her head.

"This is going nowhere fast. What in the hell was I thinking, that this asshole would leave a note behind telling us who his employer was?"

Sarah took his arm and squeezed it. Ryan was also aware the colonel was just grasping at straws, trying out anything for a single lead.

Punchy Alexander slapped Jack on the back and then walked passed. "Don't worry, Jack, we'll turn a rock over soon enough and find out where she's at."

They heard footsteps running up the stairs from the basement. Will Mendenhall soon opened the door and then with his breathing coming in short gasps, said, "Colonel, Captain Everett says you've got to take a look at this."

Jack immediately went to the door and followed Will down the long flight of two different stairs. When they reached the bottom, he saw Everett standing in the middle of a dirt floor with his hands on his hips and staring at one of the outer walls. Collins felt the others behind him as they stopped; he held up a hand when he saw that Carl was thinking something out.

"Number one, the percentage of basements in Southern California is so low I don't even want to think about it," Everett said without turning away from the far wall. "I lived here, in a house just like this in Oxnard. Pre-World War II, stone, just like a million others. Hell, that was the bulk of cheap building material back then, no brick, just rocks."

Jack moved his eyes from Everett's back where he was just staring at the walls, to the open and broken bits of crates, old cardboard boxes, broken furniture, and moldy old clothes. He felt Ryan stir behind him, getting ready to ask the captain a question, but again, Collins held his hand up, wanting Carl to think through what he was tossing about in his head.

"How many tons of rock went into building this house — fifteen or twenty, maybe even thirty?"

"Captain, I don't see one rock down here."

Everett finally turned and looked at Ryan. "That's the point, flyboy, the basement isn't constructed of the same material as the house, which means it was—"

"Recently added," Collins finished for him.

Carl smiled. "Not only that, Jack, look over here." Everett moved forward and pointed at the dirt that made up the floor of the giant basement.

Where most of the dirt was rough, full of footprints from the police investigation, there was a spot about the width of the entire rear wall that was perfectly smooth, as if the entire width had been artificially dragged smooth.

"Remember our antiquities thief in New York, Westchester County, and his remarkable basement?"

Jack smiled at Everett and then walked quickly to the far wall and started looking. Everett, Sarah, Ryan, and Mendenhall did the same, remembering the amazing basement that another antiquities thief had built using a false floor and winding stairway.

"Without sounding downright stupid, may I ask what it is you are looking for?" Alexander asked, placing his hands on his hips as the others started feeling around the walls.

"A switch, or a release of some kind," Sarah said as she went to her knees and started feeling around the bottom of the drywall.

Suddenly, the room grew quiet as they all felt it at the same time, Jack, Punchy, and Everett just a split second before the others. They all three turned as fast as they could and then stopped dead in their tracks when they saw the three men with automatic weapons aimed directly at them. The men were Caucasian and were all very well dressed. Their suits were expensive and their weapons, Israeli Uzi submachine guns, were even more so. The man in the middle of the three shook his head negative and with his eyes, ordered their weapons to be removed without uttering a single word.

As the seven people complied, they heard slow, methodical footsteps descending the stairs. One step at a time, and it seemed to go on forever. Finally, a well-polished shoe appeared, and then the other. A tall blond man stepped down onto the dirt floor. In the bare-bulb light of the basement, Jack and the other members of the Event Group could not hide the shock they felt at seeing the tall, immaculately dressed man standing before them. He wore a white shirt and was wearing a plain pair of black slacks, but his identity was unmistakable.

"How many of your nine lives do you have left, Henri?" Collins asked, keeping his hands at his side.

Colonel Henri Farbeaux, archcriminal and a decade-long enemy of the Event Group, stood arrogantly before them. He slowly placed a hand in his right pocket and then shook his head. The last thing the Event Group knew about the former French colonel was that he had been supposedly swallowed up by the Ross Ice Shelf as it cracked apart and sank into the Ross Sea three months before.

"It's not the lives, Colonel, it's the man. I just happen to know when to bet one of those lives; sometimes as you can see, that wager pays off."

Sarah stepped forward from where she had been looking for the switch that would open the wall. She was actually happy to see Henri alive; after all, it had been the Frenchman who had saved her, Senator Lee, Alice Hamilton, and the kids from the Leviathan, inside the cave known as Ice Palace.

"Little Sarah, how nice it is to see you again, and the fact that you made it home alive is something that makes me smile."

"Thank you, Colonel. Tell me, how in the hell did you survive?"

"We will save that for another time, my dear. For the moment, I must ask how it comes to be that the Event Group is in the basement of one of my acquisitions people."

Jack shook his head, really smiling for the first time. "Damn Henri, it is a small world, isn't it? But when I think about it, the illegal antiquities community is so small and tight, this was probably inevitable."

"I'll ask again, Colonel, why are you here, and where is my employee?" Farbeaux took a step forward, his right hand coming free of his pocket.

"Chavez is dead. They found his body washed up under the pier at Huntington Beach this morning." Jack watched for a reaction.

Farbeaux lowered his head in thought and half turned to his men and whispered something. Two of the men spread out so they could cover the group better. Jack heard the ominous clicks of their weapons being removed from their safe positions. Henri Farbeaux then turned to face Collins.

"The murder of my man doesn't sound like you, Colonel Collins; it's not your style," Farbeaux said, taking a step toward Jack.

"No, but it is your style, Henri. What did this Chavez do for you that could get him murdered?"

"That is what I am here to find out. I'll start by asking you once more, why you are here?"

"Henri, we need to know what this man Chavez removed from the Denver Museum of Natural History for you," Sarah asked before Jack could pull her back behind him.

"First, who murdered my man?" Henri asked, focusing his considerable personality on Sarah.

"Two ruthless bastards, Gregori Deonovich and Dmitri Sagli," Sarah said quickly.

Collins half turned and looked at Sarah, making her wish she hadn't said anything.

"The names are not unfamiliar to me. They are a little beneath my standards for a working relationship, but I have heard of them."

"That I find hard to believe," Collins said, making Farbeaux look up and into his eyes. "Nothing is really beneath your standards, are they, Henri?"

Farbeaux remained quiet for a moment, eyeing Jack, and then turning his attention to the others. He stepped forward and moved between Collins and Punchy Alexander, who was totally confused as to who it was that had them cornered like rats inside the basement. He walked to the far wall and stood in the left-hand corner. He placed his right hand up against an ordinary piece of Sheetrock. When he finally removed his hand, the wall started to slide outward. He watched for a reaction as the Event Group watched the space widen into the walled and excavated entrance.

"Elysian Park was once riddled with dry underground riverbeds. We built this wall when we used to store stolen goods down here. Imagine our surprise when the excavation we were doing opened up into a natural storage facility. I believe this is what you were looking for?"

Farbeaux stepped aside and saw their reaction to the immense wealth of antique Queen Anne and Hawthorne furniture, a veritable art gallery of paintings and even rows upon rows of glass cases filled with stamp, coin, and paper-currency collections. Also there were row upon row of books — thousands of them.

"This is just one of my many storage facilities. All of it awaiting my soon-to-be-realized retirement."

Jack turned and looked at Henri. His smile was genuine, at least until he noticed Collins staring at him.

"No judgments today, Colonel Collins; you of all people will not sit in judgment of me. I would trade all of this and all of the others just like it, for one more day with my wife. So don't give me any indignant looks, not today."

"What are you planning, Henri?" Sarah asked after she had ceased admiring one of Farbeaux's many caches of merchandise. After the question, she saw the eyes of the man and the hate reflected in them as he looked at Jack.

"You have once again placed me in a harsh situation, little Sarah. I cannot let you go, and I cannot allow you to hurt this operation more so than what has already happened."

"Colonel Farbeaux, do you have the Lattimer Papers, or a Russian journal penned by a colonel named Petrov?" Jack asked, once more pulling Sarah to his side.

"Worthless. They were destroyed soon after they were contracted for, on my orders. They were a hoax."

The Frenchman watched as Collins visibly deflated, making him curious as to why it visibly affected the American.

"I will have to ask you to wait inside of the storage room until I can figure out — until I can make a few arrangements. So, please, all of you," Henri gestured for them to step inside of the large room. Sarah kept looking back, unable to believe what Henri may be contemplating. She thought she may have learned something about Farbeaux in the time they had spent imprisoned on Leviathan, but as she watched his eyes, Jack pulled her along. She could see the depth of the coldness that haunted them.

"I am truly sorry, but once more your agency was someplace it should not have been." Farbeaux reached out and placed his hand in the same spot. The door started to pull back into the wall. Jack locked eyes with the French colonel and they met like two thunderheads inside of a small valley.

Sarah bit her lower lip as the wall was only two feet from closing. She suddenly made a decision and pulled free of Jack's grip and quickly squeezed through the wall before the outside world was shut out.

"Damn it!" Collins shouted as the room went dark.

"Is she nuts, Jack?" Punchy Alexander asked.

Collins was quiet as he turned away and leaned against the cool dirt of the expanded cave.

Everett stepped up to Alexander, barely seeing his silhouette in the darkness.

"No, not nuts, but Sarah's just like Jack, and that pisses him off to no end."

The three men turned with raised weapons as Sarah came bounding out of the hidden room just as the wall slammed home. She saw she was about to be shot and she skidded to a halt on the dirt floor. Farbeaux, who had already started for the wooden staircase, saw what was about to happen.

"No!"

The three men didn't shoot, but kept their weapons trained on her as Sarah looked from the muzzles pointed at her to the Frenchman standing on the bottom step.

"Brave little Sarah, you could have been shot." He stepped down and made the man closest to him lower his weapon. He gestured with his right hand for the others to do the same. "I see you are no better at following orders than you were before."

"Please, Henri, I need to explain why we're here."

"I want no reasoning from you or Colonel Collins. You are in the wrong place at the wrong time, and I have too many valuable items in that room to lose to your Group, or the authorities. I'm sorry. I have other places I need to be at the moment."

Sarah watched as Farbeaux turned his back and started back toward the stairs.

"You know we wouldn't ask for your help if it was for any of us. We need that diary or anything else that may lead to Sagli and Deonovich, we don't care about that damn room or what's in it."

Farbeaux turned and tilted his head in Sarah's direction. He remained silent and she decided he would hear her out.

"It's Jack's sister, his little sister. She's been kidnapped by those two maniacs, for what reason, we don't know."

"I would suspect that Colonel Collins's personality may run in the family and that has led to this young lady's downfall."

Whatever the Frenchman had been going through since she last saw him, Sarah could see that his eyes were still distant, meaning to her that the death of his wife down in the Amazon basin was still not far from the surface.

"We are tracking them and this may be our only shot, Henri. You wouldn't want a young woman to get brutalized by these bastards by withholding something that may help her."

"I noticed you have the head of the Montreal division of CSIS with you. Why is he here?"

"He was with Jack's sister when she was taken." Sarah thought something through very quickly. "How did you know Mr. Alexander was Canadian, and the head of his intelligence division?"

Farbeaux didn't comment, he just started to turn toward the steps again.

"They cut off her finger just to prove to her employers what they are capable of."

"Who is her employer?" he asked without turning back.

"She's agency."

Farbeaux started to laugh, but there was a serious lack of real humor coming from the eerie sound. Even his three men looked at each other with smiles. Henri started up the stairs.

"Place young Sarah back with her friends until I decide how to dispense with this problem." He started up the stairs. "You have been a most helpful friend, Sarah."

"What if it was Danielle that was taken and you needed Jack to help find her?" she blurted out as one of the three men took her by the arm.

Farbeaux only hesitated briefly on the stairs leading up into the house, then he continued on. "Follow my orders and place her in the storage room."

My God, Sarah thought, he's really going to kill us all.

The wall was opened only partially and Sarah was thrown back into the storage room. She fell to the floor and Jack, Everett, and Alexander were there to help her up.

"You go ahead and try something like that again, Lieutenant, and I'll have your ass!" Collins hissed.

"That was very stupid, young lady," Punchy said as he swatted some of the dirt from Sarah.

Everett walked toward the back of the room when he heard Ryan and Mendenhall coming back toward the front.

"Well?" Carl asked, when he saw their darkened outlines.

"Nothing. A solid wall of concrete — it would take dynamite to get through it, and then about three days of digging," Ryan answered.

"How's Sarah?" Mendenhall asked.

"I guess Farbeaux wasn't in the negotiating mood."

Up toward the large sliding wall, Jack took Sarah by the arm and steered her away from the others.

"Well?"

"He's not listening, Jack. He hasn't changed his attitude toward us. He still blames us for Danielle's death."

"You mean me."

"It really doesn't matter; all of us are his problem at the moment."

Collins squeezed her arm and then pulled her to him and looked at her in the darkness. "Thanks for trying anyway, Short Stuff."

"So what are we going to use to defend ourselves when that door opens and those Froggies open fire on us with those automatic weapons?" Mendenhall asked from the rear of the storage room.

"Well, we have a whole bunch of books to throw at them," Everett said.

"Great," Ryan and Will offered at the same time.

Ten minutes later, the wall fronting the storage room separated. It only traveled four feet before it stopped.

"Colonel Collins, and only Colonel Collins, step through the opening please," Henri said from outside in the basement.

Sarah pulled on Jack's arm and he could see her now that a dim light filtered into the room as she shook her head.

"No, make him come in and get us all, you stay put, Jack," she said, the pleading evident in her words and Collins could tell she was close to crying.

"Listen," he said in a low voice, "Farbeaux's a lot of things, Short Stuff, but I don't think he's capable of cold-blooded murder." He smiled. "At least not here, and not now."

Sarah still tried to pull Jack back as he stepped through the opening.

Jack saw the lighted room beyond and the only man standing there was Henri Farbeaux. Collins stood and watched the Frenchman. His men were nowhere to be seen. Henri just stood in the center of the room waiting with his right hand in his pants pocket.

"Young Sarah should be a defense lawyer, she has quite a talent for lost causes." Farbeaux took a few steps toward Collins. "For whatever good it may do you, Colonel, I will assist in your endeavor to recover your sister. I make no promises, the task will be arduous and difficult, but between myself and a mutual friend of ours, I think I know where it is your Russian friends are going.

"You may tell the others they may come out now, if you accept my offer of help."

In answer, Jack turned and stuck his head through the opening and told them all to come out of the storage room.

Farbeaux smiled and looked at each face in turn and then faced Collins once again.

"So, Colonel, our destinies have been placed on hold once more. You can be certain that it was only my friend Sarah and that horrible rebuke I saw in her wonderful eyes that made me change that destiny for you tonight. As for us, we must leave this place; I have transport waiting outside, the local police will be sending their relief very soon."

"Colonel Farbeaux, I've studied you more than any adversary I've come up against, and I can't figure out why are you doing this? It's not for Sarah, and it surely isn't to help me find my sister."

"Ah, you do know me, Jack. I do have one demand — I want the Twins of Peter the Great, when this little expedition is over of course."

"Oh, of course, even though earlier you said they didn't exist."

Henri walked forward and stepped into the storage room and went to one of the first bookshelves and retrieved a small leather-bound book. He blew some dust off of it and then went back to face Collins. Farbeaux only hunched his shoulders, but kept the smile.

"The Petrov Journal and the Lattimer Papers, Colonel," he said as he held the items and then gave them to the American.

"They weren't destroyed — Chavez actually gave his life to protect them?" Jack asked as he took the journal.

"He took a chance that the men who killed him would have more mercy on him than—"

"You?" Jack said, finishing Farbeaux's sentence.

"Exactly," Henri said, smiling.

"Okay, Henri, but after I get my sister back, and you have these diamonds that don't exist, we do have unfinished business."

"Agreed, Colonel," Farbeaux said as he stared right back at Jack.

"Now, you mentioned someone else who knew the destination of the Russians?"

"Ah, yes. Turn to the back page of the journal, next to the map; there is a name there I think you and your friends might be familiar with. He was the man responsible for delivering the journal and notes to Lattimer's family back in 1968. He was a student then, but he was there when Lattimer found what he was looking for. I had planned on asking him myself for his assistance in the near future, but maybe now would be a good time since he knows exactly where to look, and as you say, time is of the upmost importance."

Jack opened the old journal. Seeing the written Russian script, he thumbed carefully through the dried and yellowed pages until he came across the last page. On it was a detailed drawing of the area that had been discovered by L. T. Lattimer, but with no coordinates it would take someone familiar with the landmarks, such as the drawing of the plateau and bends in the river. Under the small diagram was a name. Jack read it and he knew the others saw the wonder of that name cross his facial features.

"What's the name, Jack?" Sarah asked.

Collins handed the journal over to Sarah and the others stepped up to see the name as she held it out in front of her. They had to read the sentence that Lattimer had written to his family. Jack, for his part, turned, unbelieving toward the staircase and sat down on the bottom step. Sarah read as the others looked on. The name was of one of the Group's very own professors.

5

Will Mendenhall and Sarah McIntire were chosen to drive as quickly as possible to Nevada to enquire as to Charles Hindershot Ellenshaw III's current disposition. Jason Ryan and Captain Everett had been assigned the task of standing by and guarding the old Grumman seaplane under the small bridge on the L.A. River because Jack figured they may have to leave quickly if the agency or the FBI found them out. Ryan assured Jack that he could not only fly the seaplane, but evade anyone looking for them. When asked how, Jason just smiled and said, "That's navy stuff, Colonel."

Collins, Farbeaux, and Punchy Alexander were holed up inside an old and tired Motel 6 where they would pore over the Petrov Diary and the Lattimer note, hoping to get a good fix on where they would find Sagli and Deonovich — and Lynn. Hopefully, they wouldn't have to drag Doc Ellenshaw with them if he could pinpoint on a map for Sarah and Mendenhall just where to start looking for the site, a problem because Collins had counted no less than six small plateaus along the Stikine River that resembled the Lattimer description.

Punchy Alexander had told Jack that he would return to Montreal and meet them at the Stikine. He said he had some ground to cover to keep the prime minister happy. However, it was Farbeaux who suggested it would be a very bad idea to split up at that point for security reasons. He figured if one person was caught, they all would eventually succumb to the authorities. And after Jack thought about it and saw the seriousness of the Frenchman, he agreed. Punchy would take the full ride with the Event Group.

"Tell me, Colonel, how it is that the two of you are so close?" Henri asked Jack while Alexander was in the bathroom adjusting the wrap he was wearing for his bruised ribs.

Jack looked at Farbeaux and saw the man was waiting with a stern look on his face. "I met Punchy in 1989, a joint recovery operation conducted by the British SAS and Delta units in Vancouver, British Columbia."

"May I ask what it was that this joint operation was to recover?"

Jack smiled as he saw the seriousness of Henri's demeanor.

"You may indeed ask, Henri."

"You Americans are becoming very private with your secrets Colonel, almost as good as—"

"The French?" Jack said, anticipating the self-made pat on the back from Farbeaux.

The tall man from Bordeaux looked from Collins toward the bathroom as the door opened and Alexander came through and rejoined them. Henri just looked back at Jack and winked.

Sarah and Will, who was dozing in his chair next to her, waited inside Niles Compton's office while the director was on the phone trying to seek out the whereabouts of Professor Ellenshaw, after they had explained why they needed to find him.

As she waited beside the dozing Mendenhall, Sarah looked over at two of Jack's security men as they waited for Director Compton just inside of his door.

"Do you have to follow the director everywhere?" she asked the lance corporal who looked entirely uncomfortable doing his job.

"Yes, sir, the director's own orders," he said as he cleared his throat. "He's acting on the president's directive, ma'am."

Sarah was amazed that Niles could just simply stay at the base; instead, he was doing as his friend, the president said: He was under house arrest for having let Jack leave the complex.

"Well, I hope you don't shoot him if tries to escape," she said half jokingly.

The black lance corporal looked hurt and he was taken back.

"I resent that, ma'am."

"Just kidding, Corporal," Sarah said, knowing Jack's people, no matter what happened outside in the real world, every one of them, was loyal to the colonel, and to their main boss, the director of Department 5656. They would never allow anything to happen to Niles.

Sarah smiled, trying to apologize for her bad joke, when Niles stood from his desk and then pointed at Sarah, indicating that she should follow him. She nudged Will who came awake with a start and then realized they were on the move once again.

"Come on you two, keep up." Niles said to his two guards, "Follow me."

"Where are we going?" Sarah asked as she tried to keep up with Niles as he hurried to the elevator.

"Down into the dungeon."

Seventeen levels beneath the main science labs of the facility, a small cordon of laboratories occupied the lowest level of the science department, just above the first level of artifact vaults. Director Compton had offered better facilities for the department currently occupying these spaces, but the department head refused to move his people. He said they felt far more comfortable away from the maddening crowd. And to be honest, Niles knew the department still wasn't well received by the rest of the sciences, no matter how many Group accommodations it had received and how many times Compton stepped in to protect some of these strange, but very dedicated people.

The Cryptozoology Department was chaired by the now famous Charles Hindershot Ellenshaw III, the eccentric but brilliant paleontologist/anthropologist, formerly of Stanford and then Yale universities, until his beliefs drove him away from mainstream science.

Before Niles, Sarah, Will, and the two security men stepped from the elevator, the loudness of the music blaring from the hallway caught their attention although the elevator doors were still closed.

"Is Doc Ellenshaw having a party," Sarah looked at her watch, "at twelve thirty in the morning?"

"Not that I need to explain Professor Ellenshaw to you, but he does his best work alone, and late at night. He says it gives him the freedom to use Europa and other department's equipment without interference from the other supervisors and department heads." Niles looked over at Sarah. "And yes, he has my permission."

The elevator doors had opened to a semidarkened and curving hallway. The heavy beat of the '60s song "I was so much older then, I'm younger than that now," by the Byrds, slammed into the group. Niles smiled and shook his head.

"You two remain here. I promise not to escape through the bowels of the complex," Niles said as he gestured for the two guards to remain.

"Disobeying orders?" Sarah asked.

"Well, sometimes there are certain things security should overlook; Charlie's labs are one of them."

As the song grew louder, the smell of the corridor changed. Sarah looked at Will and he smiled and made a fake frown. As Niles came to the steel door guarding the domain of the Crypto Department, he turned to face Sarah and Mendenhall.

"I know you work for Jack, but I am giving you a direct order: What you see, and whatever else you may come across, is confidential, Lieutenant, understand?"

"I see nothing, Doctor Compton," Will answered.

Niles continued to stare at him.

"And smell nothing," he finished.

Sarah smiled at Will's dilemma.

"Very well," Niles said as he opened the door.

Charles Hindershot Ellenshaw III was sitting at a lab table examining a small skull of an animal that had existed no less than a thousand years before. The dodo bird, once thought to be extinct, was now believed to be alive and well and living in the deep forested areas of northern Germany. Charlie was intrigued and wanted to help out if he could in confirming it. However, the field team freeze Niles had instituted had made his trip to Europe impossible, and he was miffed about it.

"Charlie!" Niles screamed at the door.

Ellenshaw raised his head, his white mane of hair flowing in every direction. His glasses were perched on his forehead and acted as a headband to keep the long hair from getting in his face. The fifty-eight-year-old professor looked around, and when he didn't see anything out of the ordinary, he returned to examining the remains of the dodo.

Niles, frustrated, walked over to the stereo against the near wall and shut down the Byrds. Ellenshaw almost fell from the tall chair in which he was sitting. He looked around wildly, then he saw Compton and the others as they stared at him from a few feet away through the blue-tinted light he had glowing from a large light fixture from above.

"Ah, Niles, Sarah, what a surprise," he said looking from Compton and McIntire, and then he finally caught sight of Will. "And Lieutenant Mendenhall," he said through his teeth as he quickly waved away some of the leftover smoke hovering about his head.

"Professor," Mendenhall said, wanting to laugh at Ellenshaw at his attempt to hide his illegal activities.

"Ah, Miss McIntire, there was a rumor you and the lieutenant here, were, ahh, on the run."

"We are, Charlie. How are you?" she asked with her smile broadening; now knowing why Niles insisted Will's security men and colleagues stay behind.

"Alright, Charlie, Colonel Collins has sent these two to ask you a few questions," Niles said.

"Professor, I need you to think on this after I ask you the question, think hard on anything you can remember, okay?"

"Why, I will try my best."

"Professor, where were you in the summer of 1968?"

As Sarah watched, a faraway look came into Ellenshaw's eyes.

Ellenshaw turned to face Niles as a clear memory of another old song, "Incense and Peppermints," swirled through his head.

"The summer of 1968," Charlie said, but didn't continue.

"Doctor, were you in Canada?" Sarah prompted.

Ellenshaw smiled and then looked at Sarah and Mendenhall.

"We all looked at it as a chance to get away from Stanford and the troubling times in the country back then. A summer retreat to study the Tlingit Indians of the northern country. They lived along the Stikine, it's a river that—"

"We know, Professor, please continue."

"We thought it would be nothing more than research during the day, and one big party at night — you know, forget about the war and protests, assassinations. It was also a real chance at doing some significant anthropological work in the daylight hours."

"Tell us what happened up there, Charlie." Niles watched his old friend's eyes. He was looking even paler than usual in the blue light, and he could see that Charlie was not going to a place he liked very much. He slowly sat down in his chair. Ellenshaw then turned and half smiled at Niles.

"Sorry," he looked back down at his hands.

"We have a time issue here, Charlie," Niles prompted once more.

"That summer was dry; animals of all kinds were coming down from the high country north of the Stikine just to find water. One night while we were sitting around the campfire telling stories and generally having a good time, we started hearing the most terrifying sounds emanating from the deep forest around us. It was like fifty men out in the darkness hitting the trees with baseball bats, truly frightening to some, but I was intrigued as this was a way our prehistoric brethren communicated at night a very long time ago. However, it seemed I was the only one that found the disturbance interesting."

Sarah and Will saw that whatever Charlie had witnessed that long ago summer was still with him, and they could tell every word he uttered was the truth.

Ellenshaw related the rest of the story of that summer, starting with his small foray up the Stikine River with their guide, L. T. Lattimer, finding the cave and the wagons, the collected camping gear, and then recounting his encounter with the animal that invaded his dreams every year since that long-ago summer in Canada. The story ended with him paddling down that same river and never seeing Lattimer again.

"What were they?" Mendenhall asked when Charlie paused to wipe his brow.

"Huh?" Ellenshaw asked, not realizing he had stopped talking.

"Those things in the woods?" Mendenhall asked, his eyes never once leaving Ellenshaw.

"I don't know, name them whatever you want, apes, the missing link…" He looked from face to face. "Bigfoot, Sasquatch, whatever, I don't care what they're known by, but they were there."

Sarah, Will, and Niles were silent as Charlie placed his glasses back on. Will and Sarah were watching Charlie with wide eyes that wouldn't move away if a bomb had gone off in the large lab.

"You came across the journal with Lattimer's declaration in it, didn't you?" Ellenshaw asked, his brilliant mind figuring out the reasoning of their questions faster than they could have ever thought.

"Yes, Professor," Sarah answered as she took Charlie's shoulder and smiled at him. "Could you show us precisely on the map where this place was that you and Lattimer found this cave?"

"Oh, my, no. I would have to be there, I just couldn't point it out to you."

"You have to try, Charlie. Jack's sister is up there somewhere, and you're the only one that's been there."

"You know, that summer was the reason I dropped my pursuit of anthropology?"

"I didn't know that, Charlie," Niles said, knowing Ellenshaw was going to say what he had to say no matter what.

"Yes, that animal has been with me for thirty-one years. But yet, I have always refused to allow myself the chance to investigate it. It's like I know it's real and my searching once more for it would only attract attention to a species that seems to be doing very well without us. Besides, that Lattimer character always scared the hell out of me, that man was clearly deranged."

"Charlie, we need…"

Ellenshaw suddenly stood from his chair. He shook his head.

"I need to go. I have to go, for the colonel's sister, and for me. For me," he said, almost as if he were begging.

Sarah looked from Ellenshaw to the face of a worried Niles Compton. He took a deep breath and saw the hope in the professor's eyes.

"Okay, Charlie. But the priority is Jack's sister, nothing else. Find your Bigfoot if you can, but assist the colonel first."

Ellenshaw could only nod his head. He looked thankfully from Compton to Sarah and then to Mendenhall.

"Thank you."

Mendenhall watched the professor for a moment and then turned away and mumbled to himself. "This is great. First, killer Russians, and now another myth that couldn't possibly have existed an hour ago, and they are both going to try and take a bite out of my ass."

Sarah just patted Mendenhall on the back nodding her head.

"And don't forget about having a Frenchman along who wants to kill all of us, and then there's half the U.S. government trying to hunt us down."

"Yeah," Will said, looking off into space. "Who needs the monster in the woods? We may not even make it to where we're going."

"See, it's all in the way you prioritize things."