The outlaws

NO ELECTRONIC OR INCENDIARY DEVICES BEYOND THIS POINT

Incendiary devices? Are they talking about cigar lighters?

"What in there?" one of the rent-a-cops demanded, pointing at Roscoe's laptop case.

"My laptop. I'm a journalist. I need it to take notes."

"Not past this point. You got cellular phone, organizer, butane lighter?"

"Guilty on all points."

"You got or not got?"

"I got," Roscoe said, and then put them on the counter.

"Keys set off wand," one of the rent-a-cops said. "You got keys, better you leave them, too."

Roscoe added his key chain to everything else.

One of the rent-a-cops came from behind the counter, waved the wand around Roscoe's body, and then gestured toward the glass door.

This time it opened. A U.S. Marine in dress trousers and a stiffly starched open-collared khaki shirt was waiting for him outside the main entrance to the embassy building. He had a large revolver in a holster suspended from what looked like a patent-leather Sam Browne harness.

"Mr. Danton?"

"Thank God, an American!"

"Mr. Danton?"

"Roscoe Danton, an alumnus of the Parris Island School for Boys, at your service, Sergeant."

"If you will come with me, Mr. Danton?" The sergeant led him into the building, through a magnetic detector, and down a corridor to the right.

He pointed to a wooden bench.

"If you will sit there, Mr. Danton, someone will attend to you shortly. Please do not leave this area."

Roscoe dutifully sat down. The Marine sergeant marched away.

There was a cork bulletin board on the opposing wall.

After perhaps thirty seconds, Roscoe, more from a desire to assert his journalist status than curiosity-he had been thinking, Fuck you, Sergeant. I ain't in the Crotch no more; you can't order me around-stood up and had a look at it.

Among the other items on display was the embassy Daily Bulletin. It contained the usual bullshit Roscoe expected to see, and at the end of it was: UNOFFICIAL: ITEMS FOR SALE.

His eyes flickered over it.

"Bingo!" he said aloud.

Immediately after an offer to sell a baby carriage "in like-new condition"- Like-new condition? What did they do, turn the baby back in?-was an absolutely fascinating offer of something for sale: 2005 BMW. Royal Blue. Excellent Shape. 54K miles. All papers in order for sale to US Diplomatic Personnel or Argentine Nationals. Priced for quick sale. Can be seen at 2330 O'Higgins. Ask doorman. Alex Darby. Phone 531-678-666.

Five seconds after Roscoe had read the offer, the paper on which it had been printed was off the wall and in his pocket.

He sat back down on the bench and trimmed his fingernails.

Maybe they have surveillance cameras.

Maybe they saw me tear that off.

If they did, so what? "Mr. Danton, Ms. Grunblatt will see you now."

Sylvia Grunblatt was sitting behind a large, cluttered desk. She was not svelte, but neither was she unpleasingly plump. She had very intelligent eyes.

"What can the embassy of the United States do for Roscoe J. Danton of The Washington Times-Post?" she greeted him. "How about a cup of coffee for openers?"

"I would be in your debt," Roscoe said.

She poured coffee into a mug and handed it to him.

"Sugar? Canned cow?"

He shook his head.

"What brings you to the Paris of South America?" Grunblatt asked.

"I'm writing a feature with the working title, 'Tacos and Tango.'"

"Sure you are," she said. "What did you do, get demoted? I'm one of your fans, Mr. Danton, and you don't write features for the Sunday magazine."

"How about one with the lead, 'U.S. diplomats living really high on the taxpayer's dollar in the Paris of South America'?"

"If you were going to do that, you wouldn't tell me."

"I came down here to see Alex Darby," Roscoe said.

"Nobody here by that name," she said.

"You mean 'Nobody here by that name now,' right?"

"We had a commercial counselor by that name, but he's gone. Retired."

"When was that?"

"I don't seem to recall. I could find out for you, but then we would get into privacy issues, wouldn't we?"

"Or security issues. You know who cut his checks, Miss Grunblatt."

"One, it's Ms. Grunblatt-but you can call me Sylvia if 'Mizz' sticks in your craw."

"And you may call me Roscoe, Sylvia."

"And two, I have no idea what you're talking about. Mr. Darby was our commercial counselor. Who fed you that other wild notion?"

"Eleanor Dillworth, another longtime toiler in the Clandestine Service of the agency whose name we dare not speak."

"You know Eleanor, do you?"

"Eleanor came to me. Actually, she and her friend Patricia Davies Wilson came to me. Do you know Patricia?"

"I've heard the name somewhere. Eleanor came to you?"

"Both of them did. Whistles to their lips."

"And who-at whom-did they wish to blow their whistles?"

"They seem to feel the villain is an Army officer named Castillo. Major Charley Castillo."

"His Christian name is Carlos."

"You know him?"

She nodded, and said, "If he's the same man. He was sent down here when our consul general, J. Winslow Masterson, was kidnapped."

"Sent by who-whom?"

"Our late President. Who then, after Jack Masterson was killed, put him in charge of getting Masterson's family safely home."

"Tell me about Major Castillo," Danton said.

"Tell you what, Roscoe. You tell me what you think you know about Castillo and if I can, I'll tell you if you're right."

"Nice try, Sylvia."

"Excuse me?"

"If I tell you what I know about this guy, then you will know how close I am to learning what you don't want to tell me about him."

"Roscoe, I am a public affairs officer. It is my duty to answer any questions you might pose to the best of my ability. Providing of course that my answers would not include anything that is classified."

"You ever hear what C. Harry Whelan has to say about public affairs officers such as yourself?"

She shook her head.

"Quote: Their function is not the dissemination of information but rather the containment thereof. They really should be called 'misinformation officers.' End quote."

"Oh, God! He's onto us! There is nothing left for me to do but to go home and slit my wrists."

He chuckled.

Sylvia made the time out signal with her hands.

"Can we go off the record, Roscoe?"

"Briefly."

"What exactly did Eleanor tell you?"

"I presume that 'off the record' means that you're not going to send an urgent message to Foggy Bottom telling Natalie Cohen what Eleanor told me."

"Girl Scout's honor."

"Okay. Actually, she didn't tell me much. She said I wouldn't believe what an evil man this guy Castillo is unless I found out myself. What she did was suggest that Castillo had stolen two Russian defectors from her when she was in Vienna. And then pointed me at Alexander Darby."

Sylvia looked at him thoughtfully for a moment, and then said, "Eleanor and I go back a long time-"

"Meaning you have taken Darby's place as the resident spook?"

She shook her head and raised her right arm as if swearing to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help her God.

"Meaning we go back a long time," she said. "Eleanor is very good at what she's done for all those years. If she says Charley Castillo stole two heavy Russian spooks from under her nose, that means there were two Russian spooks, and she believes Charley Castillo stole them."

"She said that it cost her her job."

"Stories like that are circulating, and I've heard them," Sylvia said. "What I can't figure is why Charley would do something like that unless someone-maybe even our late President-told him to. And I can't imagine why he brought them here."

"He brought Russian spooks here?"

"Ambassador Montvale thinks he did."

"How do you know that?"

"A friend of mine-you don't need to know who-was in the Rio Alba-that's a restaurant around the corner, magnificent steaks; you ought to make an effort to eat there-at a table near my ambassador's. He was having lunch with Montvale. Castillo walked in. Montvale told him all would be forgiven if he gave him the Russians. Castillo told him to attempt a physiologically impossible act of self-reproduction. Montvale threatened to have him arrested; he had a couple of Secret Service guys with him. Castillo said if the Secret Service made a move, they would be arrested by a couple of Gendarmeria Nacional-they're the local heavy cops-he had with him.

"The meeting adjourned to the embassy. I guess they were afraid someone might hear them talking. When the meeting was over, Montvale went to the airport without any Russians, got on his Citation Four, and flew back to Washington. Castillo walked out of the embassy and I haven't seen him since. Reminding you that we're off the record, my ambassador, who is a really good guy, thinks Castillo is a really good guy."

"Interesting."

"One more interesting thing: Right after we bombed whatever the hell it was we bombed in the Congo, a lot of people around here, including Alex Darby, suddenly decided to retire."

"What people?"

"No names. But a Secret Service guy, and a 'legal attache,' which is diplomat-speak for FBI agent, and even a couple of people in our embassies in Asuncion, Paraguay, and across the River Plate in Uruguay."

"Are you going to tell me where I can find Alexander Darby?"

"I don't know, and don't want to know, where he is. The last time I saw him was at Ezeiza."

"The airport?"

She nodded. "Alex is somebody else I've known for a long time. A really good guy. I drove him to the airport."

"He went home?"

She paused before replying: "Alex applied for, and was issued, a regular passport. I drove him to the airport. He left the country-went through immigration-on his diplomatic passport. Then he went back through the line and entered the country as a tourist on his regular passport. When he came out, he handed me-as an officer of the embassy-his dip's passport. Then I drove him to his apartment. I haven't seen him since."

"You going to tell me where that apartment is?"

"We're back on the record, Mr. Danton. I cannot of course violate Mr. Darby's privacy by giving you that information. I'm sure you understand."

"Of course. And thank you very much, Mizz Grunblatt."

"Anytime, Mr. Danton. We try to be of service."

"That's comforting."

"Did you ever hear what Winston Churchill said about journalists, Mr. Danton?"

"Can't say that I have."

"Churchill said, 'Journalists are the semiliterate cretins hired to fill the spaces between the advertisements.'"

"Oh, God! He's onto us! Now I suppose there's nothing left for me but to slash my wrists."

"That's a thought. Good morning, Mr. Danton." [FOUR] Apartment 32-B O'Higgins 2330 Belgrano Buenos Aires, Argentina 1505 5 February 2007 "I will miss the view," Alexander B. Darby-a small, plump man with a pencil-line mustache-said as he stood with Liam Duffy, Edgar Delchamps, and his wife, and gestured out the windows of the Darbys' apartment on the thirty-second floor. It occupied half of the top floor of the four-year-old building, high enough to overlook almost all of the other apartment buildings between O'Higgins and the River Plate.

"What you're supposed to be going to miss, you sonofabitch, is your loving wife and adorable children," Julia Darby-a trim woman who wore her black hair in a pageboy-said.

And was immediately sorry.

"Strike that, Alex," she added. "I was just lashing out at the fickle finger of fate."

"It's okay, honey. And I really don't think it will be for long."

"Hope springs eternal in the human breast," Julia said solemnly.

"And the movers never show up when they're supposed to," Edgar Delchamps said as solemnly.

The apartment showed signs that the movers were expected any moment. Cardboard boxes were stacked all over, and suitcases were arranged by the door.

"And it is always the cocktail hour somewhere in the world, so why not here and now?" Alex said.

Julia smiled at Edgar and Liam, and said, "Every once in a great while, he has a good idea. The embassy's glasses are in the cupboard, so all we have to do is find something to put in them."

"The booze is in the suitcase with the 'seven' stuck on it," Alex said, and looked at the suitcases by the door. "Which, of course, is the one on the bottom." He switched to Spanish. "Give me a hand, will you, Liam?"

Liam Duffy-a well-dressed, muscular, ruddy-faced blond man in his forties-looked to be what his name suggested, a true son of Erin. But he was in fact an Argentine whose family had migrated to Argentina more than a century before.

They went to the stack of suitcases, moved them around, and in about a minute Alex Darby was able to triumphantly raise a bottle of twelve-year-old Famous Grouse Malt Scotch whisky.

The house telephone rang.

Julia answered it.

"It's the concierge," she announced. "Somebody's here to look at the car."

"Tell him to show it to him," Alex said.

He walked into the kitchen carrying the whisky. Liam followed him.

Ninety seconds later, the telephone rang again, and again Julia answered it.

When Alex and Liam returned from the kitchen, Julia announced, "It's the movers."

"Which one?"

"His," Julia said, nodding at Duffy.

"Have them sent up," Alex said.

"I'm way ahead of you, my darling," Julia said as she reached for her glass.

Seconds later, the doorbell chimed, signaling there was someone in the elevator foyer.

Duffy went to the door and opened it, then waved three men into the apartment. They were all wearing business suits but there was something about them that suggested the military.

"The suitcases to the left of the doorway," Duffy said in Spanish. "Be very careful of the blue one with the number seven on it."

"Si, mi comandante," one of them said.

"Did they find a pilot for the Aero Commander?" Duffy asked.

"Si, mi general. All is ready at Aeroparque Jorge Newbery."

"Whoopee!" Julia Darby said.

"And the people to stay with Familia Darby?" Duffy asked.

"In place, mi comandante."

"Whoopee again," Julia said.

Duffy nodded at the men.

The doorbell rang again.

Duffy pulled it open.

A thirty-eight-year-old Presbyterian from Chevy Chase, Maryland, stood there.

"Mr. Darby?" Roscoe Danton asked.

"I'm Alex Darby. Come in."

Roscoe entered the apartment and offered his hand to him.

"Roscoe Danton," he said.

"That was a quick look at the BMW, wasn't it?" Darby asked.

"Actually, Mr. Darby, I'm not here about the car. I came to see you," Danton said. "I'm a journalist at The Washington Times-Post. Eleanor Dillworth sent me."

Darby's reaction was Pavlovian. One spook does not admit knowing another spook unless he knows whoever is asking the question has the right to know.

Spooks also believe that journalists should be told only that which is in the best interests of the spook to tell them.

"I'm afraid there's been a mistake," Darby said, politely. "I'm afraid I don't know a Miss Duckworth."

"Dillworth." Roscoe made the correction even as he intuited things were about to go wrong. "Eleanor Dillworth."

Comandante General Liam Duffy also experienced a Pavlovian reaction when he saw the look in Darby's eyes. He made a barely perceptible gesture with the index finger of his left hand.

The two men about to carry luggage from the apartment quickly set it down and moved quickly to each side of Roscoe Danton. The third man, who was already on the elevator landing, turned and came back into the apartment, looking to Duffy for guidance.

Duffy made another small gesture with his left hand, rubbing his thumb against his index finger. This gesture had two meanings, money and papers.

In this case, the third man intuited it meant papers. He walked to Danton and said, reasonably pleasantly, in English, "Papers, please, Senor."

"Excuse me?" Roscoe said.

Julia Darby looked annoyed rather than concerned.

"Gendarmeria Nacional," the man said. "Documents, please, passport and other identity."

Roscoe wordlessly handed over his passport.

The third man made a give me the rest gesture.

Roscoe took out his wallet and started to look for his White House press pass.

The third man snatched the wallet from his fingers and handed it and the passport to Liam Duffy.

"My press passes are in there," Roscoe said. "Including my White House-"

Duffy silenced him with a raised hand, examined the passport and the contents of the wallet, and then handed all of it to Darby.

Then he made another gesture, patting his chest with both hands.

The two men standing beside him instantly started to pat down Roscoe, finally signaling that he was clean except for a wad of currency, a sheaf of papers, several ballpoint pens, a box of wooden matches, and two cigars. They handed everything to Duffy.

"How did you happen to come to this address, Mr. Danton?" Darby asked, courteously.

Roscoe decided to tell the truth.

"I saw the for-sale ad, for the BMW, in the daily bulletin at the embassy," he said. He pointed to the sheaf of papers.

"What were you doing at the embassy?"

"I went there to see if they could point me at you."

"Why would you want to be pointed at me?"

"I told you, Eleanor Dillworth said you would be helpful."

"In what way?"

"That you could point me toward Colonel Carlos Castillo."

"I know no one by that name. An Argentine Army officer?"

"An American officer, Mr. Darby," Roscoe replied, stopping himself at the last second from saying, As you fucking well know.

"I don't know what's going on here, Mr. Danton," Darby said. "But apparently someone has given you incorrect information. I'm sorry you've been inconvenienced. How did you get here?"

"In a taxi."

"Where are you staying?"

"The Plaza Hotel."

"Well, the least we can for you is give you a ride back there," Darby said. "We can do that, can't we, Liam?"

"Absolutely," Liam said.

"Nice to have met you, Mr. Danton," Darby said, and gestured toward the door.

"Likewise," Roscoe Danton snapped sarcastically. "And I'll pass on the free ride, thank you just the same."

Comandante General Liam Duffy locked eyes with Danton, and evenly said, "Let me explain something to you, Senor. There are some irregularities with your documents-"

"What kind of irregularities?" Danton interrupted angrily.

Duffy ignored him. He went on: "I'm sure they can be quickly cleared up. Possibly even today and certainly by the morning. Our usual procedure is taking people with irregular documents to our headquarters. Then we would notify the U.S. embassy and ask them to verify your documents. Sometimes, they can do that immediately. In the case of someone like yourself, a distinguished journalist, I'm sure they would go out of their way to hasten this procedure-"

"Call the public affairs officer," Danton interrupted again. "Sylvia Grunblatt. She knows who I am."

Duffy ignored him again. "-and by late today, or certainly by tomorrow morning, a consular officer would come by our headquarters, verify the legitimacy of your documents, which would then be returned to you and you could go about your business.

"But, in the meantime, you would be held. We can't, as I'm sure you understand, have people running around Buenos Aires with questionable documents. Now, partly because I am anxious to do everything I can for a prominent North American journalist such as you purport to be, and partly because Senor Darby feels sorry for you, what I'm willing to do is take you to your hotel and let you wait there. With the understanding, of course, that you would not leave the Plaza until your documents are checked and we return them to you. Believe me, Senor, the Plaza is far more comfortable a place to wait than the detention facilities at our headquarters."

Danton held up both hands at shoulder height.

"I surrender," he said. "The Plaza it is."

"Comandante, will you take this gentleman to the Plaza?"

"Si, mi comandante." "What the hell was that all about?" Julia Darby asked.

"If I were still an officer of the Clandestine Service," Alex Darby replied, "I would hazard a guess that it has something to do with this."

He held up a copy of the letter Colonel Vladlen Solomatin had given to Eric Kocian in Budapest.

"If I were still an officer of the Clandestine Service," Edgar Delchamps said, "I would know not only what Roscoe Danton is up to, but also what Comrade Colonel Solomatin is up to."

"You think I'm wrong?" Liam Duffy asked.

"No. Vladimir Putin may very well have dispatched one of the Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki hit squads-or several of them-to whack us all," Delchamps said. "But I don't think Roscoe Danton is a deep-cover SVR asset who came out of his closet to do the deed. He's a pretty good journalist, actually."

"What was that about Eleanor pointing him at Alex? At Charley?" Julia asked. "Did he make that up?"

"I don't think so. Eleanor got fired when Charley stole her defectors. She's pissed. Understandably," Alex Darby said. "I think she'd like to watch as Charley was castrated with a dull knife."

"I don't think she likes me much either," Delchamps said.

"And you know why," Alex said.

"I don't," Julia said.

"Quickly changing the subject," Delchamps said, "I suggest we get the hell out of Dodge as quickly as possible. Just as soon as the movers come."

"I can leave somebody here to deal with the movers," Liam said.

"And Sylvia has the car keys-and the power of attorney-to sell the car," Darby said. "Moving Julia and the boys to the safe house in Pilar until it's time to go to Ezeiza seems to be the thing to do. Honey, will you go get the boys?"

"No," Julia said. "I'm a mommy. Mommies don't like it much when their sons look at them with loathing, disgust, and ice-cold hate. You go get them."

"It's not that bad, honey," Alex argued. "People who-hell, people who sell air conditioners get transferred, with little or no notice, all the time. Their children get jerked out of school. It's not the end of the world."

"You tell them that," she said.

"They'll like Saint Albans, once they get used to it," Alex said somewhat lamely.

"Why? Because you went there?" Julia challenged.

"No. Because Al Gore and Jesse Jackson, Jr., did," Alex said, and after a moment added, "I'll be right back. With my pitiful abused namesake and his pathetic little brother." When the door to the elevator foyer had closed behind her husband, Julia asked, "What are you going to do, Edgar? Eventually, I mean."

Delchamps considered the question a long moment before replying.

"I don't know, Julia," he said. "Like Alex, this business of… of selling air conditioners… is all I know. What I won't be doing is hanging around the gate at Langley with the other dinosaurs telling spy stories."

"I didn't know what Alex did for a living until the night he proposed," Julia said. "And then he told me he was in research for the agency."

"They call that obfuscation," Delchamps said.

"You never got married, did you?"

He shook his head.

The telephone rang.

This time it was the embassy movers. [FIVE] The President's Study The White House 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, N.W. Washington, D.C. 0935 5 February 2007 "What am I looking at, Charles?" President Joshua Ezekiel Clendennen inquired of Ambassador Charles M. Montvale, the director of National Intelligence.

Before Montvale could reply, the President thought he knew the answer to his question, and went on: "This is the-what should I call it?-the package that caused all the uproar at Fort Detrick yesterday, right? And why am I looking at this now, instead of yesterday?"

"These photographs were taken less than an hour ago, Mr. President," Montvale said. "On a dirt road one hundred fifty yards inside our border near McAllen, Texas."

The President looked at him, waiting for him to continue.

"A routine patrol by the Border Patrol found that sitting on the road at about half past seven, Texas time. The intel took some time to work its way up the chain of command. The Border Patrol agents who found it reported it to their superiors, who reported it-"

"I know how a chain of command works, Charles," the President interrupted.

"Homeland Security finally got it to me just minutes ago," Montvale said.

"Cut to the chase, for Christ's sake," the President snapped. "Is that another load of Congo-X or not?"

"We are proceeding on the assumption that it is, Mr. President, and working to confirm that, one way or the other-"

"What the hell does that mean?" the President interrupted again.

"As soon as this was brought to my attention, Mr. President, I contacted Colonel Hamilton at Fort Detrick. I was prepared to fly him out there."

"And is that what's happening?"

"No, sir. Colonel Hamilton felt that opening the beer cooler on-site would be ill-advised."

"'Beer cooler'?"

"Yes, sir. The outer container is an insulated box commonly used to keep beer or, for that matter, anything else cold. They're commonly available all over. The FBI has determined the one sent to Colonel Hamilton was purchased at a Sam's Club in Miami."

"I don't know why I'm allowing myself to go off on a tangent like this, but why don't you just call it an 'insulated box'?"

"Perhaps we should, sir. But the Congo-X at Fort Detrick was in a blue rubber barrel, resembling a beer barrel, in the insulated-"

"Okay, okay. I get it. So what's with Colonel Hamilton?"

"Colonel Hamilton said further that in addition to the risk posed by opening the insulated box on-site, to determine whether whatever it holds was Congo-X or not, he would have to take all sorts of various laboratory equipment-"

"So you're moving it to Detrick, right? Is that safe?"

"We believe it is the safest step we can take, sir."

"And that's under way?"

"Yes, sir. The insulated box will be-by now has been-taken to the Corpus Christi Naval Air Station in a Border Patrol helicopter. From there it will be-by now, is being-transported to Andrews Air Force Base here in a Navy C-20H. That's a Gulfstream Four, Mr. President."

"Thank you for the clarification, Charles," the President said sarcastically. "One can never know too many details like that. And when the beer cooler-slash-insulated box gets to Andrews? Is everything set up there to cause another public relations disaster, like the one we had yesterday?"

"An Army helicopter will be standing by at Andrews, sir, to fly the insulated container to Fort Detrick. It should not attract undue attention, sir."

"It better not."

"Mr. President, what caused the, the-"

"'Disaster' is probably the word you're looking for, Charles," the President said.

"-excitement at Fort Detrick yesterday was Colonel Hamilton declaring a Potential Level Four Biological Hazard Disaster. That probably won't happen today."

The President snorted, and then asked, "So what's going to happen when the insulated container from Texas is delivered to Hamilton?"

"He will determine whether the container contains more Congo-X."

"And if it does?"

"Excuse me?"

"If it does contain more of this noxious substance-now, that's an understatement, isn't it? 'Noxious substance'?-what is he going to do about that?"

"The colonel has been experimenting with high-temperature incineration as a means of destroying Congo-X. He has had some success, but he is not prepared to declare that the solution."

"So we then have several questions that need answering, don't we? One, what is this stuff? Two, how do we deal with it? More important, three, who's sending it to us? And, four, why are they sending it to us?"

"Yes, sir, that's true."

"And you have no answers?"

"I think we can safely presume, sir, that it was sent to us by the same people who were operating the 'fish farm' that we destroyed in the Congo."

"I think we can 'safely presume' that we didn't destroy everything that needed destroying in the Congo, can't we?"

"I'm afraid we have to proceed on that assumption, Mr. President."

"And you have no recommendations?"

"Sir?"

"It seems to me our options range from sending Natalie Cohen to Moscow and Teheran to get on her knees and beg for mercy all the way up to nuking both the Kremlin and wherever that unshaven little Iranian bastard hangs his hat in Teheran."

"There are more options than those extremes, Mr. President."

"Such as?"

"Sir, it seems to me that if whoever sent these two packages of Congo-X wanted to cause us harm, they would have already done so."

"That thought has also run through my mind," Clendennen said sarcastically.

"It would therefore follow they want something. What we have to do is learn what they want."

"Would you be surprised, Charles, if I told you that thought has also run through my mind?"

Montvale didn't reply.

"I want you to set up a meeting here at, say, five," the President said. "We'll brainstorm it. You, Natalie, the DCI, the FBI director, the secretary of Defense, the heads of Homeland Security and the DIA. And Colonel Hamilton, too. By then he'll probably know if this new stuff is more Congo-X or not. In any event, he can bring everybody up to speed on what he does know."

"Yes, sir. That's probably a good idea."

"I thought you might think so," President Clendennen said. [SIX] The Office of the Director of National Intelligence Eisenhower Executive Office Building 17th Street and Pennsylvania Avenue, N.W. Washington, D.C. 1010 5 February 2007 Truman C. Ellsworth, whose title was "executive assistant to the director of National Intelligence," learned only after having served in that position for three months that the title was most commonly used by members of the secretarial sorority to denote those women who were more than just secretaries. Those females who had, in other words, their own secretaries to do the typing, filing, and fetching of coffee.

By the time he found out, it was too late to do anything about it.

Ellsworth, a tall, silver-haired, rather elegant man in his fifties, had chosen the title himself when Charles M. Montvale had asked him to again leave his successful, even distinguished law practice in New York to work for him, as his deputy, in the newly created Directorate of National Intelligence.

He wouldn't have the title of deputy, Montvale explained, because there was already a deputy director of National Intelligence, whom Montvale privately described as "a connected cretin" who had been appointed by the President in the discharge of some political debt.

Montvale said he would make-and he quickly had made-it clear that Truman C. Ellsworth was number two in the Office of the Director of National Intelligence, and that any title would do. Ellsworth chose "executive assistant" because an executive is someone who executes and he was inarguably going to be Montvale's assistant.

In this role, while Charles M. Montvale sat on his office couch, Truman C. Ellsworth sat behind Montvale's desk and called first the secretary of State, Natalie Cohen, whom he knew socially well enough to address by her first name, and told her that the President had asked "the boss" to set up a five o'clock meeting at the White House to discuss "a new development in the Congo business."

She said she would of course be there.

Then Truman called, in turn, Wyatt Vanderpool, the secretary of Defense; John "Jack" Powell, the director of the Central Intelligence Agency; Mark Schmidt, the director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation; and Lieutenant General William W. Withers, U.S. Army, the commanding general of the Defense Intelligence Agency. He told them, somewhat more curtly, that "the ambassador" had told him to call them to summon them to a five P.M. brainstorming session at the White House vis-a-vis the new development in the Congo affair. He wasn't able to reach the secretary of Homeland Security, but he did get through to Assistant Secretary of Homeland Security Mason Andrews.

Ellsworth returned the telephone receiver to its cradle and reported as much to Ambassador Montvale: "I got through to everybody but DHS, Charles. I had to settle for Mason Andrews."

"I wish I had thought of this when you had Jack Powell on the line," Montvale said.

"Thought of what, Charles?"

"Castillo may be involved in this-probably is, in some way-and I have no idea where he is."

Ellsworth's eyebrows rose.

"I daresay that the colonel, retired, in compliance with his orders, has dropped off the face of the earth."

"I want to know where he is," Montvale said. "I forgot that the President told me the next time he asked, he expected me to be able to tell him where Castillo is."

"Well, you can tell Jack Powell to start looking for him when you see him at the White House."

"That's seven hours from now," Montvale said. "Get him on a secure line, please, Truman. I will speak with him."

Ellsworth reached for a red telephone on the desk, and said into it, "White House, will you please get DCI Powell on a secure line for Ambassador Montvale?" [ONE] Estancia San Joaquin Near San Martin de los Andes Patagonia Neuquen Province, Argentina 1645 5 February 2007 From the air, the landing strip at Estancia San Joaquin looked like a dirt road running along the Chimehuin River, which arguably was the best trout-fishing river in the world.

It was only when the manager of the estancia heard the Aero Commander-which he expected-overhead and threw a switch that the aeronautical function of the dirt road became obvious. The switch (a) caused lights marking both ends of the runway to rise from the ground and begin to flash, and (b) another hydraulic piston to rise, this one with a flashing arrow indicating the direction of the wind.

The sleek, twin-engined, high-wing airplane touched down and taxied to a large, thatched-roof farm building near the road. There, part of what looked like the wall of the farm building swung open and, as soon as the pilot shut down the engines, a half-dozen men pushed the aircraft into what was actually a hangar. There was a Bell Ranger helicopter parked inside.

The door/wall closed, the marking lights sank back into the ground, and the airfield again became a dirt road running along the tranquil Chimehuin River.

Edgar Delchamps was the first to emerge from the airplane.

Max ran to greet him, which he did by resting his paws on Delchamps's shoulder as he kissed him.

It was a long moment before the dog had enough and Delchamps could straighten up.

"Funny, I would never have taken you for a trout fisherman," Charley Castillo greeted him.

Castillo was wearing a yellow polo shirt, khaki trousers, a battered Stetson hat, and even more battered Western boots.

"Ha-ha," Delchamps responded.

Delchamps pointed to the helicopter and raised his eyebrows.

"Our host's," Castillo said. "Alek loans it to me from time to time, when I have something important to do, like going fishing."

Alex Darby came out of the airplane next, followed by Liam Duffy, and finally a man wearing a Gendarmeria Nacional uniform and pilot's wings.

Darby and Castillo shook hands. Liam Duffy wrapped his arm around Castillo's shoulders and hugged him.

"Ace, your pal Alek wouldn't happen to be here, would he?" Delchamps asked.

"As a matter of fact, he is."

"Why do I think Alek is not here to fish?" Delchamps said.

"Because in a previous life, you were trained to be suspicious," Castillo replied. "You're going to have to adjust to our changed circumstances." When he saw the look on Delchamps's face, he went on: "But since you ask, at a few minutes after seven this morning, Alek and I were out on the beautiful Rio Chimehuin catching our breakfast."

"Then Pevsner doesn't know about the letter?"

"Charley," Liam Duffy interrupted, nodding at the pilot. "We're going to have to get Primer Alferez Sanchez to the airport."

Primer Alferez, Alferez Sanchez, who had piloted the Aero Commander, was the equivalent of first lieutenant in the gendarmeria. And Castillo saw his unhappy look.

He's thinking, "I'm being gotten rid of so I won't learn what's going on here."

And he's right to be pissed. Liam could have handled that better; the last thing we want is a pilot who knows more than he should harboring a grudge.

Duffy's sometimes the sort of commander whose officers loathe him.

"Sanchez, what did you think of the new avionics in that old bird?" Castillo asked, switching to Spanish, and smiling at the pilot.

"Fantastic!" the pilot replied. "All I had to do was take it off and land it. The navigation was entirely automatic, and when I dropped out of the cloud cover, I was lined up with the runway."

"We're working on that," Castillo said. "The idea is to eliminate pilots like you and me."

"I'm not sure I'd like that, senor."

"As I was just telling my friend here, one has to adjust to changed circumstances. I'm sorry there's no time to offer you a drink, but Aerolineas Argentinas waits for no man, and if you don't get to the San Martin de los Andes airport in the next forty-five minutes…"

"I understand, senor," the pilot said, and then came to attention. "With your permission, mi comandante?"

Duffy nodded. The pilot saluted and Duffy returned it.

"Sanchez," Castillo said, "don't tell anyone about the avionics."

"El comandante made that clear on the way here, senor."

Delchamps waited until the pilot had left the hangar, and then said, "Tell me about the changed circumstances, Ace."

"I hardly know where to start," Castillo said.

"Try starting with telling me whether or not Pevsner has seen Solomatin's letter."

"Gladly," Castillo said. "Okay, starting at the beginning: Alek's man went on the net as scheduled at oh-four-twenty hundred Zulu."

"'Alek's man went on the net'? Our net?"

"I thought you knew that all of us are retired and have fallen off the face of the earth. We now have people to do things like going on the net at one-twenty in the morning."

Delchamps and Darby both shook their heads. This was unexpected.

"So Alek's guy," Castillo went on, "went on the net at oh-one-twenty local time. At oh-one-twenty-two, Colonel V. N. Solomatin's letter came through, five by five. At oh-one-twenty-five, Alek telephoned me here, waking me from the sleep of the innocent, to tell me he had a letter from Cousin Vladlen and that he wanted me to see it as soon as possible."

"Paul Sieno told me Kocian wanted to get the letter to you without anyone else seeing it."

"Don't anyone let Alek know you're surprised that he has seen it. We now have no secrets from Alek."

"Jesus Christ!" Delchamps said.

"So I told him that I'd fire up"-Castillo pointed to the Bell Ranger-"at first light, go pick him up, and he could show me Cousin Vladlen's letter. Or, better yet, bring him back here and he could have breakfast with Sweaty and me, we'd all read Cousin Vladlen's letter, and then go fishing to kill the time until you, Darby, and Duffy got here. Since that was the best idea he'd heard so far this week, Alek said that was fine, and he'd bring Tom Barlow along, since the letter was addressed to him in the first place."

"So Colonel Berezovsky is here, too?" Darby asked. "I wondered where he was."

"Aside from my belief that Colonel Dmitri Berezovsky has also fallen off the face of the earth," Castillo said, "I have no idea where he might be. Tom Barlow, however, is at the San Joaquin Lodge."

"And Sweaty has seen the letter, no doubt?"

"Certainly, Sweaty has seen it. How could I possibly not show it to her? Alek would have anyway."

Delchamps shook his head in resignation.

"Okay. Can we go now?"

"You don't want to know what else has happened?" Castillo asked.

"I'm afraid to ask."

"Well, we had another offer of employment from those people in Las Vegas," Castillo said.

"To do what?"

"It seems that someone sent Colonel Hamilton a rubber beer barrel full of whatever it was Hamilton brought out of the Congo…"

"Jesus H. Christ!" Darby exclaimed.

"… and they wanted us to find out who did it and why."

"And?" Delchamps asked.

"I told them, sorry, we have all fallen off the face of the earth."

"What the hell is that all about?" Darby asked.

"It's none of our business," Castillo said.

"They were supposed to have destroyed everything in a twenty-mile area around that place in the Congo," Darby said.

"So they said," Castillo said.

"You think there's some sort of connection between that and Solomatin's letter?" Darby asked.

"I don't know, but you can count on Alek asking you that question."

He gestured toward an open rear door of the hangar. Two shiny olive-drab Land Rovers sat there.

"I think we can all get in one of those, can't we?" Castillo asked. [TWO] The Lodge at Estancia San Joaquin was a single-story stone masonry building on a small rise perhaps fifty feet above and one hundred yards from the Chimehuin River.

It had been designed to comfortably house, feed, and entertain trout fishermen from all over the world, never more than eight at a time, usually four or five, who were charged three thousand dollars a day. The furniture was simple and massive. The chairs and armchairs were generously padded with foam-filled leather cushions.

The wide windows of the great room offered a view of the Chimehuin River and the snow-capped Andes mountains. There was a well-stocked bar, a deer head with an enormous rack above the fireplace, a billiards table, a full bookcase, and two fifty-six-inch flat-screen televisions mounted so one of them was visible from anywhere in the room.

There were four people in the great room-plus a bartender and a maid-when Castillo and the others walked in: Tom Barlow, his sister Susan, and Aleksandr Pevsner, a tall, dark-haired man-like Castillo and Barlow in his late thirties-whose eyes were large, blue, and extraordinarily bright. The fourth man was Janos, Pevsner's hulking bodyguard, of whom it was said that he was never farther away from Pevsner than was Max from Castillo.

There were fourteen Interpol warrants out for the arrest of Pevsner under his own name and the seven other identities he was known to use.

Barlow was dressed like Castillo, in khaki trousers and a polo shirt. Pevsner was similarly clothed, except that his polo shirt was silk and his trousers were fine linen. The men were at the billiards table.

Susan, who was leaning over a coffee table, fork poised to spear an oyster, was dressed like Castillo and her brother, except her polo shirt was linen and her khakis were shorts. Short shorts. Her clothing and posture left virtually nothing to the imagination about her bosom, legs, and the contours of her derriere.

"Funny," Edgar Delchamps said, "I would never have taken Sweaty for a fisherman."

Susan/Sweaty looked up from the platter of oysters, popped one in her mouth, smiled at Delchamps, and gave him the finger.

It was a gesture she had learned from Castillo and subsequently had used, with relish, frequently.

Pevsner carefully laid his cue on the billiards table, then walked to Delchamps, Darby, and Duffy, and wordlessly shook their hands. Tom Barlow waved at them.

"I'm sure you're hungry," Pevsner said. "I can have them prepare supper for you now. Or, if you'd rather, there's oysters and cold lobster to-what is it Charley says?-munch on to hold you until dinner."

"How the hell do you get oysters and lobster in the middle of Patagonia?" Darby said as he walked to the coffee table to examine what was on display.

"I have a small seafood business in Chile," Pevsner said.

That triggered a tidal wave of doubt and concern in Castillo, surprising him both by its intensity and the speed with which it hit him and then grew.

It started with his reaction to Pevsner's saying he had a "small seafood business in Chile."

A small seafood business, my ass, Castillo had thought sarcastically. It's called Cancun Provisions, Limited, and it flies a Boeing 777-200LR full of seafood to Cancun every other day. The 777 is owned by Peruaire. And you own that, too.

Was that natural modesty, Alek, or was the modesty a Pavlovian reflex of a former KGB colonel?

"Say as little as possible; deflect attention."

How much can I really trust Comrade Polkovnik Pevsner?

Right now he tells me I'm family. In love-intending to marry-his cousin Susan, formerly Podpolkovnik Svetlana Alekseeva of the SVR.

But how long will that last if whatever the hell is going on here threatens his wife and children or his way of life?

Most of the charges laid against him are bullshit.

But, on the other hand, I know he supervised the beating to death with an angle iron a man who betrayed him. Or used the angle iron himself. Probably the latter.

My friend Alek is not a nice man.

Edgar Delchamps neither likes nor trusts Alek, and has told me so bluntly. And I know I can trust Delchamps. He's been dealing with Russian spooks-successfully dealing with them-for nearly as long as I am old.

Castillo was as suddenly brought out of his unpleasant reverie as quickly as he had entered it.

There were soft fingers on his cheeks, the scent of perfume in his nostrils, and light blue eyes intently searching his.

"My darling," Sweaty asked. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing."

"You look like you'd seen a ghost!"

He shook his head, said, "I'm fine, baby." He put his hand on her back and felt her warmth though the linen shirt.

Sweaty rose on her toes and kissed him on the lips with great tenderness.

Edgar Delchamps's face showed signs of amused scorn.

Castillo gave him the finger with the hand that had been against Sweaty's back, and announced, "I need a drink."

He mimed to the bartender what he wanted. The bartender, a shaven-headed, barrel-chested man in his thirties, nodded and reached for a bottle of Wild Turkey bourbon. Castillo knew that the crisp white bartender's jacket concealed a Micro Uzi submachine gun.

The bartender was one of the nearly one hundred ex-members of the KGB or the SVR whom Pevsner had brought out of Russia to work for him. And from the looks of him, the bartender was probably ex-Spetsnaz.

There was the snap of fingers.

The bartender looked at Pevsner, who held up two fingers, and then pointed to two armchairs by the coffee table. The bartender nodded.

Pevsner waved Castillo toward the armchairs. Sweaty steered Castillo away from the armchair and to the couch and then sat beside him. Pevsner's face showed much the same amused scorn as Delchamps's face had. Castillo reacted by leaning over to Sweaty and kissing her.

Max walked to the coffee table, sniffed, decided he would pass on the seafood, and went and lay at Castillo's feet.

The bartender served the bourbon to Pevsner and Castillo, then looked to the others for orders. Sweaty shook her head. Delchamps ordered, in Russian, Scotch whisky on the rocks, two chunks only, and a glass of water on the side.

How did he know he's Russian?

Was that a way to find out?

The bartender looked at Darby and Duffy, and in English said, "What may I get for you, gentlemen?"

Pevsner looked genuinely amused, and he even made a little joke when everyone had their drinks and had taken seats around the plates of cold lobster chunks and oysters laid out on the coffee table.

"Well," Pevsner said. "Now that we're all here, whatever shall we chat about?"

Tom Barlow took the chair Pevsner had wanted Castillo to sit in, bringing with him an ice-covered bottle of vodka and a frozen glass.

"My call?" Delchamps asked.

Pevsner gestured for him to go on.

"Is that letter genuine?" Delchamps asked. "Is it really from Cousin Vladlen, or did Solomatin just sign what somebody put in front of him?"

"That's two questions, Edgar," Tom Barlow said. "Yes, I think the letter is genuine. And I think Cousin Vladlen wrote it. But he would have signed anything put in front of him by General Sirinov. Cousin Vladlen has built his career by doing whatever he is told to do."

"I know people like that in the agency," Delchamps said, smiling. "Is he really your cousin?"

"His father is our mother's brother," Barlow said, pointing at Sweaty.

"How come Cousin Vladlen didn't get burned when you and Sweaty took off?"

"General Sirinov may have believed him when he said he had no hint what Svetlana and I were planning. Vladlen's a respected oprichnik."

"A what?" Darby asked.

"That's right," Castillo said. "You weren't here for this history lesson, were you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Darby said.

"An 'oprichnik' is a member of the Oprichnina, the secret police state-within-the-state that goes back to Ivan the Terrible," Castillo said, and looked at Sweaty. "Did I get that right, sweetheart? Do I get a gold star to take home to Mommy?"

She smiled and shook her head resignedly.

"I'll explain it to you later, Alex," Castillo said.

"Tell me about General Sirinov," Delchamps said.

"General Yakov Sirinov runs the FSB and the SVR for Putin," Pevsner said.

"Putin as in Prime Minister Putin?"

"As in Prime Minister Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin, formerly president of the Russian Federation, and before that, polkovnik of the KGB, and before that…"

"Oh, that Putin," Delchamps said.

Castillo and Barlow chuckled.

"You think Putin's personally involved in this?" Castillo asked.

"Up to the nipples of his underdeveloped chest," Pevsner said.

"I'm getting the feeling you don't like him much," Delchamps said.

Pevsner chuckled.

"Is anyone interested in the possible scenario I've come up with?" Pevsner then said.

"Does a bear shit in the forest?" Delchamps asked in Russian.

"There's a lady present, Edgar," Castillo said.

"She's not a lady, she's an SVR podpolkovnik," Delchamps said.

Sweaty gave him the finger.

"A former lieutenant colonel of the Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki," she corrected him. "Which has nothing to do with whether or not I'm a lady."

"I hate to tell you this, Sweaty, but it's a stretch to think of anyone-how do I put this delicately?-consorting with Ace here as being a lady."

Sweaty and Castillo both gave him the finger.

"Anyway," Delchamps said, "according to that letter, 'all is forgiven, come home.' That sounds as if someone still thinks of you as an SVR podpolkovnik in good standing."

"Alek, do they really think anyone is going to believe that letter?" Castillo asked. "That Tom and Sweaty are going to be 'welcomed home as loyal Russians'?"

"I am a loyal Russian," Svetlana said. "But loyal to Russia, not to Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin."

"That-loyalty, loyalty to Russia, or even loyalty to Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin personally-may be at the bottom of this," Pevsner said.

"What do you mean?"

"Putin wants Dmitri and Svetlana to come home."

"Is he stupid enough to think they'd be stupid enough to go back?" Castillo asked.

"No one who knows him-and I know Vladimir Vladimirovich very well-has ever suggested he's stupid," Pevsner replied. "And Dmitri… Tom… knows him even better than I do."

"I hate to use the word 'genius,'" Tom Barlow said, "but…"

"How about 'evil genius'?" Svetlana suggested.

"Why not?" Barlow said chuckling.

"So what is the evil genius up to?" Castillo asked.

"I wonder if you understand, Charley-at least as well as Edgar and Alek do-how important it is for the FSB and the SVR to appear both to the people and, more important, to its own members as all-powerful and without fault."

Castillo's temper flared.

But when he spoke, his voice was low and soft. Those who knew him knew that meant he was really angry.

"I don't even know what the Federal'naya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti and the Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki are," he said, speaking Russian with a Saint Petersburg accent. "Perhaps before we go any further, someone will be kind enough to tell me."

"I hate to tell you this, Alek," Delchamps said in Russian, "but I think you just pissed Ace off."

After a moment, during which Pevsner looked carefully at Castillo, he said, "More important, Edgar, I once again underestimated my friend Charley. I tend to do that. It probably has something to do with his sophomoric sense of humor. No offense was intended, Charley."

"Offense taken, Polkovnik Pevsner," Castillo said. "In other words, screw you, friend Alek."

Pevsner shook his head, and smiled.

"Let me continue," Pevsner said. "Not long ago, all was right in the world of Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin. He had both finally taken over the KGB and its successor organizations and was president of the Russian Federation.

"He could start to restore the Russian Empire. With a good deal of help from me, he had managed to keep most of the KGB's money out of the hands of those misguided souls who thought it belonged to the people of Russia.

"He would have to deal with me, eventually, of course. I knew too much, and I had too much of what he considered the KGB's money. But that could wait-what does Charley say?-could 'sit on the back burner' until the right time came.

"He was so happy with the way things were going that when General Sirinov came to him with an idea to tweak the American lion's tail at little cost and with minimum risk-using a group of converts to Islam; there would be minimal Russian involvement-he told him to go ahead.

"What he was going to do was have the Muslims crash an airliner into the Liberty Bell in Philadelphia. There was an old American airplane sitting deserted on a runway in Angola. This plane would be stolen, equipped with additional fuel tanks, flown to Philadelphia, and…"

He made a diving gesture with his hand.

"I always thought he came up with that idea himself," Tom Barlow said.

"He could have," Pevsner said. "But Sirinov has the better imagination. It doesn't matter. I think of the both of them as one, as Putin-slash-Sirinov."

"Point taken," Barlow said.

"Enter friend Charley," Pevsner said, waving a hand in Castillo's direction. "A lowly U.S. Army major who, not having a clue about what was going on, jumped to the conclusion that the evil arms dealer Vasily Respin or the smuggler Alex Dondiemo or even the more mysterious and wicked Aleksandr Pevsner had stolen the 727 from the field at Luanda, Angola, for their criminal purposes and set out to reclaim it."

Everyone was aware that "Dondiemo" and "Respin" were two of the identities Pevsner used when he thought it was necessary.

"When this came to my attention through a man I had working for me and at that point trusted-Howard Kennedy-"

"That's the ex-FBI agent who was beaten to death by parties unknown in the Conrad Casino in Punta del Este?" Darby asked.

"That's the fellow. Kennedy looked into Major Castillo and reported what he had learned to me. Some of this-for example, that Major Charley Castillo was also Karl Wilhelm von und zu Gossinger, majority shareholder of the Gossinger Beteiligungsgesellschaft, G.m.b.H., empire and that he was working directly for the American President-made me rethink my original solution to the problem."

"Which was?" Delchamps asked.

"An Indian beauty mark," Pevsner replied matter-of-factly, tapping the center of his forehead with his index finger.

"That sometimes takes care of problems like that," Delchamps said.

"God wouldn't let you kill my Charley," Sweaty said seriously.

"Possibly. I never underestimate the power of divine intervention," Pevsner said. "But at the time, I thought it was just common sense. My primary motive was to avoid drawing attention to myself. But, now that I think about it, at the time, I was asking God's help to avoid taking anyone's life unnecessarily, so perhaps, Svetlana, you're right, and God was involved."

Charley smiled when he saw Alex Darby's face. It showed that he was having difficulty with Sweaty's and Pevsner's matter-of-fact references to the Almighty.

They don't sound much like godless Communists, do they, Alex? Maybe more like members of the Flaming Bush Church of Christ in Porter's Crossroads, Georgia?

"So," Pevsner went on, "I arranged to meet Charley in Vienna, to see if I could reason with him, come to some kind of understanding-"

"What you did, Alek," Castillo interrupted, "was have that sonofabitch Kennedy blindside me while I was taking a leak in the men's room of the Sacher Hotel bar. Then he dragged me, at gunpoint, up to the Cobenzl."

"Lovely spot," Delchamps said. "I know it well. Just hearing 'Cobenzl' makes me think of fair-haired madchen and hear the romantic tinkle of the zither."

This earned him a look of mingled disbelief and annoyance from Pevsner.

After a moment, Pevsner said, "The moment I first saw Charley, I realized that it would be painful for me to have to give him a beauty spot. And, Svet, now that I think about, I did ask God to help me spare his life."

Darby was now really confused. He kept looking at Delchamps and Duffy to get their reaction to Pevsner's continued references to the Deity. But knowing of the genuine-if more than a little unusual-deep faith of Pevsner and the other Russians, their faces showed neither surprise or confusion.

"And that's the way it worked out," Pevsner went on. "Charley and I had a cigar and a little cognac watching night fall in Vienna, and then we went to dinner."

"At the Drei Hussars," Charley furnished. "Around the corner from the Opera House. By the time it was over, Alek and I were buddies."

Pevsner gave him an annoyed look.

"Charley," Pevsner continued, "said that he would do what he could with the President to call off the CIA and the FBI-they were then trying very hard to find me-if I would help him find the missing aircraft. I took a chance and trusted him.

"I admit that finding the missing 727 wasn't difficult for me. I operate a number of airplanes in sub-Saharan Africa, and all of my crews always keep their eyes open for things in which they think I might be interested.

"Cutting a long story short, Charley was able to take the 727 back from the Muslims before they could do any damage with it. And, as he said he would, he got the President to call off the FBI and the CIA.

"I did not know of General Sirinov's plan to tweak the American lion's tail, and Sirinov had no reason to suspect that I even knew Charley, much less that I was the one who had been instrumental in upsetting it.

"He did learn, of course, that Charley had flown the aircraft into MacDill Air Force Base in Florida. Charley was thus added to Sirinov's list of people to be dealt with when the opportunity presented itself.

"Next, friend Charley messed up another SVR operation. Sirinov sent a team-under Cuban Direccion General de Inteligencia Major Alejandro Vincenzo-to Lieutenant Colonel Yevgeny Komogorov, his FSB man in charge of operations in Argentina, Chile, and Uruguay, to eliminate a man who knew too much and had also made off with sixteen million dollars of the SVR's money. When that escapade was over, Vincenzo and his men were dead, and Charley had the sixteen million dollars.

"Since Komogorov needed somebody to blame for that disaster, he decided to blame it on me, reasoning that if I were dead, I couldn't protest my innocence. So he paid a large sum of money to my trusted assistant, the late Mr. Howard Kennedy, to arrange for me to be assassinated in the garage of the Sheraton Hotel in Pilar, outside Buenos Aires.

"When that was over, I was alive and Komogorov wasn't. Corporal Lester Bradley had put an Indian beauty spot on his right eye. The others on his team were taken out by others working for friend Charley. And Mr. Kennedy went to meet his maker shortly thereafter.

"All of this tended to reduce the all-powerful, faultless image of both the FSB and the SVR, which meant that the power of Sirinov and Vladimir Vladimirovich was becoming questionable.

"Sirinov decided to settle the matter once and for all. With a great deal of effort, Sirinov ordered the simultaneous assassinations of a man in Vienna known to be a longtime deep cover asset of the CIA; a reporter for one of Charley's newspapers who was asking the wrong questions about Russian involvement in the oil-for-food program; Liam Duffy, who had interrupted a previously successful SVR drug operation in Argentina and Paraguay; and-"

"So they're all connected," Alex Darby said.

"Oh, yes. Please let me finish," Pevsner said. "And the assassination of another of Charley's men, a policeman in Philadelphia, who knew the Muslims who planned to crash an airplane into the Liberty Bell were not smart enough to conceive of, much less try to execute, an operation like that by themselves and suspected the SVR was involved.

"When only the assassinations of the CIA asset in Vienna and of the journalist were successful, Sirinov had to report this failure to Putin. So far as Vladimir Vladimirovich is concerned, there is no such thing as a partial success. And Sirinov knew that the only thing worse than reporting a failure to Vladimir Vladimirovich was not having a credible plan to make things right.

"And he had one: Dmitri and Svetlana had been ordered to Vienna to participate in a conference of senior SVR officers. The cover was the presence in Vienna of Bartolomeo Rastrelli's wax statue of Peter the First, which the Hermitage had generously loaned to the Kunsthistorisches Museum.

"The Tages Zeitung journalist whom he had managed to eliminate was going to be buried with much ceremony in Marburg an der Lahn, Germany. There was no question that Eric Kocian and Otto Gorner, managing director of Gossinger G.m.b.H. would be there. With a little bit of luck, so would Karl von und zu Gossinger, who was not only the owner of the Gossinger empire but Lieutenant Colonel Castillo, who had been causing the SVR so much trouble. All three-plus at least some of Charley's people who would be with him-could be eliminated at the same time.

"Tom's train would pass through Marburg on its way to Vienna. So Sirinov dispatched a team of Hungarians-ex-Allamvedelmi Hatosag-to Marburg, with orders to report to Polkovnik Berezovsky. Sirinov knew Dmitri-Tom-could be counted upon to supervise their assassination assignment with his well-known skill for that sort of thing. And then catch the next train to Vienna.

"Well, that turned out to be an even greater disaster for General Sirinov, as we all know."

"Through God's infinite mercy," Svetlana said very seriously.

She crossed herself.

"Svet," Pevsner said seriously, "you may very possibly be right, but there's also the possibility that it was the incompetence of the CIA station chief in Vienna that saved Charley and Kocian from the ministrations of the Allamvedelmi Hatosag."

"It was the hand of God," Svetlana said firmly.

"Possibly, Sweaty, it was the hand of God that contributed to Miss Eleanor Dillworth's incompetence," Delchamps said. "Same result, right?"

Svetlana looked at him coldly, not sure-but deeply suspecting-that he was being sarcastic.

"Eleanor is not incompetent," Alex Darby said loyally.

"Come on," Delchamps said. "She was incompetent in Vienna. The rezident there… what was his name?"

"Podpolkovnik Kiril Demidov," Barlow furnished. "He used to work for me."

"Demidov was onto Dillworth," Delchamps said firmly. "Maybe he didn't know it was Tom and Sweaty, but he knew that-Jesus Christ!-Dillworth had a plane sitting at Schwechat airfield ready to haul some defector, or defectors, away from the Kunsthistorisches Museum."

"You don't know that," Darby protested.

"I know that your pal Eleanor should have known that Demidov was going to take out the Kuhls. And once that happened, she didn't have a clue what to do next. I asked her. She said she was 'waiting for instructions from Langley.'"

"If I may continue, gentlemen?" Pevsner said a little impatiently.

"I didn't trust her, Edgar," Tom Barlow said, ignoring Pevsner. "I don't know if it was that I thought she wasn't professional or what."

"It was the hand of God," Svetlana insisted.

"But once I saw the picture in the Frankfurter Rundschau of Charley getting off his private jet," Barlow went on, "I decided that Svetlana and I were going to leave Europe on that aircraft if I had to give him Sirinov and all the ex-Allamvedelmi Hatosag people."

"And from that moment, until we walked into Alek's house here, everything went smoothly," Svetlana said. "Does no one see the hand of God in that?"

"I do," Castillo said.

When Sweaty looked at him, he sang, "Jesus loves me, this I know, for the Bible tells me so."

"Don't mock God, Charley!" she snapped furiously and moved away from him on the couch.

"Well," Pevsner said, "Dmitri and Svetlana were not intercepted in Vienna, and that was the end of that. Except of course that Liam applied the Old Testament eye-for-an-eye principle to Lavrenti Tarasov and Evgeny Alekseev, who had come to Argentina in search of Tom and Svetlana."

"Not quite," Delchamps said. "Alex's good buddy, Miss Dillworth, sicced a reporter-a good one: Roscoe J. Danton of The Washington Times-Post-on Charley. He came to Alex's apartment just before we got out of there."

"A reporter? What did he want?" Castillo asked.

"He wanted you, Ace. He probably wants to know why you stole Sweaty and Tom out from under Miss Dillworth's nose. And if Dillworth told him about that, I wouldn't be at all surprised if she told him you left the Vienna rezident-what was his name? Demidov?-sitting in a taxi outside our embassy with an Allamvedelmi Hatosag garrote around his neck, and her calling card on his chest."

"I had nothing to do with that, as you goddamn well know. The story going around is that some old company dinosaur did that."

"You sound like you think I had something to do with it," Delchamps said.

"Do I?" Castillo said sarcastically.

"Funny thing about those old company dinosaurs, Charley. You're too young of course to know much about them. But they really believe in what it says in the Old Testament about an eye for an eye, and if they do something like what happened to Demidov, they never, ever, 'fess up to it."

"Changing the subject just a little," Tom Barlow said. "I think we should throw this into the facts bearing on the problem: Just as soon as Sirinov and/ or Vladimir Vladimirovich heard that the Americans had taken out the Fish Farm, they realized that information had to have come from me."

"You don't know that," Castillo argued.

"In our profession, Charley," Tom said, "we never know anything. All we ever have is a hypothesis-or many hypotheses-based on what we think we know."

"Touche," Castillo said.

"We all forget that at one time or another," Barlow said.

Castillo met his eyes, and thought, That was kind of you, Tom.

But all it did was remind everyone in this room that I am the least experienced spook in it.

Which, truth be told, I am.

"One of the things I was tasked to do in Berlin was make sure that the Fish Farm got whatever it needed," Barlow went on. "It's not hard to come up with a hypothesis that Sirinov and Vladimir Vladimirovich reasoned that since Polkovnik Berezovsky knew about the Fish Farm and it was destroyed shortly after Polkovnik Berezovsky defected to the Americans, whose CIA had looked into the matter and decided the factory was indeed a fish farm, Polkovnik Berezovsky told the Americans what it really was."

"You knew what the CIA thought?" Charley asked.

"Of course," Barlow said.

"You had… have… a mole?"

"Of course, but you don't need a mole to learn things like that," Barlow said. "Actually you can often learn more from a disgruntled worker who wouldn't think of betraying her country than from an asset on the payroll."

"Your pal Dillworth, for example, Alex," Delchamps said. "What is it they say, 'Hell hath no fury like a pissed-off female'?"

"Eleanor is a pro," Darby said, again showing his loyalty.

"She pointed Roscoe Danton at Charley," Delchamps argued. "What hypothesis does that suggest?"

Darby looked at Delchamps angrily, looked for a moment as if he were going to reply, but in the end said nothing.

Castillo said, "What's your hypothesis, Tom, about the stuff from the Congo suddenly showing up at Fort Detrick?"

"Well, it's clear it's got something to do with this," Barlow replied. "What, I don't know."

"It could have something to do with Vladimir Vladimirovich's ego," Pevsner said.

"He couldn't resist the temptation to let us know that we didn't wipe the Fish Farm off the face of the earth?" Delchamps offered.

Pevsner nodded.

"If he's got that stuff, he could have used it, and he didn't," Castillo said thoughtfully.

"So, what's next?" Delchamps said. "I buy that stick-it-up-your-ass motive, Alek, but I don't think that's all there is to it."

Pevsner nodded his agreement.

"So Charley has to tell those people in Las Vegas that he's changed his mind about working for them," Barlow said.

"Why would I want to do that?" Castillo replied. "The Office of Organizational Analysis no longer exists. I am in compliance with my orders to fall off the face of the earth and never be seen again. Sweaty and I are going to build a vine-covered cottage by the side of the road and live happily therein forever afterward."

"There goes that sophomoric sense of humor of yours again," Pevsner snapped.

"How so?" Castillo replied.

"Vladimir Vladimirovich is going to come after you. And Svetlana," Pevsner said. "You ought to read a little Mao Zedong. He wrote that 'the only real defense is active defense.'"

"Did he really?" Castillo said. "I wonder where he got that?"

"Probably from Sun-tzu," Svetlana said seriously. "That's where most people think Machiavelli got it."

"Sun-tzu?" Castillo asked. "That's the Chinaman who turned two hundred of the emperor's concubines into soldiers and won the war with them? I've always been an admirer of his."

"It was one hundred eighty concubines," Svetlana said. "He got their attention by beheading the first of them who thought it was funny and giggled, and then he beheaded the second one who giggled, and then so on down the line until he came to one who understood that what was going on was no laughing matter."

"Does anybody else think Sweaty's trying to make a point?" Delchamps asked innocently.

"Let me make a point, several points," Castillo said seriously. "One, as far as the intelligence community is concerned, I'm a pariah. So is everybody ever connected with the OOA. They hated us when we had the blessing of the President, and now hating us is politically correct. I'll bet right now both the company and the FBI-hell, all the alphabet agencies-have a 'locate but do not detain' bulletin out on us. They're not going to help us at all. Quite the opposite: If we start playing James Bond again, we'll find ourselves counting paint flecks on the wall at the Florence maximum security prison in Colorado.

"And, if I have to say this, we'll have less than zero help from anybody."

"I think you're wrong about that, Charley," Barlow said. "We know that-"

"Let me finish, Tom," Castillo said sharply. "Point two-probably the most important thing-is that any operation we might try to run would have to have a leader. And C. Castillo, Retired, cannot be that leader. What did President Johnson say? 'I shall not seek, nor will I accept…'"

"You're wrong about that, too, Ace," Delchamps said. "I for one won't go-and I don't think any of the others will-unless you're running the show. And we have to go, since the option to that is sitting around waiting for some SVR hit squad to whack us. And, Romeo, what about the fair Juliet? You're going to just sit around holding Sweaty's hand waiting for the hit squad to whack her? Worse, drag her back to Mother Russia?"

"You don't know how the others will feel," Castillo said, more than a little lamely.

"Hypothesis: They'll all go. Any questions?" Delchamps said.

"Count me in, Charley," Alex Darby said.

"I wouldn't know where to start," Castillo said.

"I'm not sure if you've ever heard this before," Barlow said. "But some people in our line of work think collecting as much intelligence as possible as quickly as possible is a good way to start."

"And how would I go about doing that?"

"That's what I started to say a moment ago," Barlow said. "You were there, Charley, in that suite in the Venetian Hotel in Las Vegas when those people as much as told us that the director of Central Intelligence is either one of them, or damn close to them."

"I don't remember that," Castillo said.

"The man who was a Naval Academy graduate quoted verbatim to you the unkind things you said to the DCI, something about the agency being 'a few very good people trying to stay afloat in a sea of left-wing bureaucrats.' Who do you think told him about that?"

"I remember now," Castillo said. "But I really had forgotten. That's not much of a recommendation, is it?"

"Charley, I said I'd take your orders," Delchamps said. "But… You saw The Godfather?"

"Yes, of course."

"Both Brando and the son-Pacino? De Niro? I never can keep them straight-had a consigliere. Think of me as Robert Duvall."

"Think of us both as Robert Duvall," Barlow said. "It was Al Pacino."

"I don't think so," Delchamps said.

"Can either of my consiglieri suggest how I can get in touch with those people?"

"Well, if you hadn't been gulping down all that Wild Turkey, I'd suggest you fly everybody to Carinhall in Alek's chopper. But since you have been soaking up the booze, I guess we'll have to drive over there and get on Casey's radio."

"No," Castillo said. "There's a Casey radio in the Aero Commander."

"It fits?" Delchamps asked, surprised.

"Aloysius's stuff is so miniaturized it's unbelievable," Castillo said. "But call your house, Alek, and tell your man to stand by. There's no printer in the airplane. And you'd better call down to the airstrip and have them push the plane from the hangar."

"Yes, sir, Podpolkovnik Castillo, sir," Svetlana said, and saluted him. Then she saw the look on his face. "My darling, I love it when you're in charge of things; it makes me feel comfortable and protected."

"It makes me think Ace's had too much to drink," Delchamps said. "Aloysius, you think the offer from those people is still open?" Castillo asked.

Castillo was sitting in the pilot's seat of the Aero Commander. Delchamps was in the co-pilot's seat. Svetlana was kneeling in the aisle and her brother was leaning over her. Pevsner, Duffy, and Darby were sitting in the cabin. Max and Janos were standing watchfully outside by the nose of the airplane.

"I told them you'd change your mind," Casey said. "This thing sort of scares me, Charley. There was another beer keg of that stuff sitting on a road near the Mexican border in Texas this morning."

"Another one?" Castillo asked.

"Another one. They left it where the Border Patrol couldn't miss it. It's been taken to Colonel Hamilton at Fort Detrick. We're waiting to hear from him to tell us if it's exactly the same thing."

"Well, send me whatever intel you have, everything you can get your hands on. Everything, Aloysius."

"Done."

"What shape is the Gulfstream in?"

"Ready to go."

"Tell Jake to take it to Cancun. They'll expect him."

"You don't want him to pick you up down there?"

"No. I'll come commercial."

Svetlana was tugging at his sleeve.

She rubbed her thumb and forefinger together, mouthed Money, and then held up two fingers.

"Aloysius, I'm going to need some cash," Castillo said.

"No problem. How much?"

"Will those people stand still for two hundred thousand?"

"Where do you want it?"

Castillo was now aware Svetlana was shaking her head in what looked like incredulity but could have been disgust.

"Send it to Otto Gorner and tell him to put it in my personal account."

"Otto will have it within the hour. Anything else?"

"That's all I can think of."

"Let me know," Aloysius Casey said. "And thanks, Charley. Break it down."

Castillo looked over his shoulder at Svetlana.

"You're going to tell me what I did wrong, aren't you, my love?"

"I meant two million dollars. Now those people are going to think they can hire you for an unimportant sum. The more people pay you, the more important they think you are."

"Well, my love, you'll have to excuse my naivete. This is the first time I've signed on as a mercenary."

"Well, my darling, you'd better get used to it."

"What you'd better get used to, Ace," Delchamps said, "is thinking of Sweaty as Robert Duvall." [THREE] The Oval Office The White House 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, N.W. Washington, D.C. 1715 5 February 2007 It had proven impossible to gather together all the people the President had wanted for the meeting. The secretary of Defense was in Europe at a NATO meeting, and the commanding general of the Defense Intelligence Agency had gone with him. The secretary of Homeland Security was in Chicago.

When Charles M. Montvale, the director of National Intelligence, and Colonel J. Porter Hamilton, MC, USA, walked into the Oval Office, the secretary of State, Natalie Cohen; John Powell, the director of the Central Intelligence Agency; and Mark Schmidt, the director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, were sitting in chairs forming a rough semicircle facing the President's desk.

So were Assistant Secretary of Homeland Security Mason Andrews, standing in for the secretary, and General Allan B. Naylor, USA, commanding general of United States Central Command, who was representing both the secretary of Defense and the commanding general of the Defense Intelligence Agency. Presidential spokesman Jack "Porky" Parker sat at a small table-just large enough to hold his laptop computer-to one side of the President.

"I'm sorry to be late, Mr. President," Montvale said.

"It's my fault, Mr. President," Hamilton said. "I was engaged in some laboratory processes I couldn't interrupt."

"Not even for the commander in chief?" Clendennen asked unpleasantly.

"If I had stopped doing what I was doing when Mr. Montvale asked me to, it would have caused a two- or three-hour loss of time," Hamilton said. "I considered a fifteen- or twenty-minute delay in coming here the lesser of two evils."

"Until just now, Colonel, I wasn't aware that colonels were permitted to make decisions like that," Clendennen said sarcastically.

Hamilton didn't reply.

"What were you doing that you considered important enough to keep us all waiting for you to finish?" Clendennen asked.

"Actually, I had several processes working, Mr. President," Hamilton, un-cowed, said. "The most important of them being the determination that Congo-X and Congo-Y were chemically-perhaps I should say 'biologically'-identical-"

"What's Congo-Y?" the President interrupted.

"I have so labeled the material from the Mexican border."

"And are they? Identical?"

"That is my preliminary determination, Mr. President."

"Colonel, two questions," General Naylor announced.

"Sir?"

Clendennen didn't like having his questioning of Hamilton interrupted by anyone, and had his mouth open to announce Excuse me, General, but I'm asking the questions when he changed his mind.

Clendennen liked General Naylor, and had been pleased when he had shown up to stand in for the secretary of the Defense and Defense Intelligence Agency general. He knew he could always believe what Naylor told him. This was not true of the people he was standing in for: The secretary of Defense had assured President Clendennen that the infernal laboratory in the Congo had first been completely reduced to pebbles and then incinerated. Clendennen had never heard the DIA general mouth an unqualified statement.

"They're related, obviously," Naylor began. "First, do you know with reasonable certainty who developed this terrible substance? And, second, how would you say they intend to use it against us?"

"Sir, I have nothing to support this legally or scientifically, but something tells me the origins of this substance go back at least to World War Two and perhaps earlier than that."

"Go down that road," Clendennen ordered.

"During the Second World War, sir, both the Germans and the Japanese experimented with materials somewhat similar to Congo-X. That is to say, biological material that could be used as a weapon. The Japanese tested it in China on the civilian population and the Germans on concentration camp inmates."

"And did it work?" the President asked.

"All we have is anecdotal, Mr. President," Hamilton said. "There is a great deal of that, and all of it suggests that it was effective. There is strong reason to believe material similar to this was tested on American prisoners of war by the Japanese…"

"Do we know that, or don't we?" the President asked impatiently.

"A number of POWs were executed by the Japanese immediately after Hiroshima. Their bodies were cremated and the ashes disposed of at sea," Naylor said.

"Nice people," the President said.

"And there is further evidence, Mr. President, that the Chinese sent several hundred American POWs captured in the early days of the Korean war to Czechoslovakia, where they were subjected to biological material apparently similar to something like this. Again, no proof. We know the prisoners were sent to Czechoslovakia. But no bodies, not one, were ever recovered. We still have Graves Registration people looking."

"Why don't we know more about the chemicals, about whatever was used on the prisoners?"

"At the time, Mr. President," Naylor said, "the greatest threat was perceived to be the possibility the Russians would get their hands on German science vis-a-vis a nuclear weapon and rocketry. We were quite successful in doing so, but the effort necessary was at the expense of looking more deeply into what the Germans had been doing with biological weapons.

"In the Pacific, actually, we acquired what anecdotal information we have about the executed and cremated POWs primarily because MacArthur was passionately determined to locate, try, and hang as quickly as possible those Japanese officers responsible for the atrocities committed against our prisoners. They were, so to speak, just one more atrocity."

The President considered that for a moment.

"So, then what is your theory about this, Colonel Hamilton?" he asked.

Hamilton began: "It's pure conjecture, Mr. President-"

"I thought it might be," the President interrupted sarcastically, and gestured for Hamilton to continue.

Hamilton ignored the interruption and went on: "It is possible that, at the end of World War Two, the Russians came into possession of a substance much like Congo-X. They might even have acquired it from the Japanese; there was an interchange of technical information.

"They very likely acquired at the same time the German scientists working with this material, much as we took over Wernher von Braun, his rocket scientists, and the rockets themselves.

"If this is true-and even if it is not, and Russian scientists alone worked with it-it had to have become immediately apparent to them how incredibly dangerous it is."

"Why is it so 'incredibly dangerous'?" the President interrupted yet again.

Hamilton looked at Clendennen a long moment, then carefully said: "With respect, Mr. President, I believe I'm repeating myself, but: The Congo-X in my laboratory, when placed under certain conditions of temperature and humidity, gives off microscopic particles-airborne-which when inhaled into the lung of a warm-blooded mammal will, in a matter of days, begin to consume the flesh of the lung. Meanwhile, the infected body will also be giving off-breathing back into the air-these contaminated, infectious particles before the host has any indication that he's been infected.

"When I was in the Congo and saw the cadavers of animals and humans who had died of this infestation, I told the President-our late President-that the Fish Farm, should there be an accident, had the potential of becoming a greater risk to mankind than the nuclear meltdown at Chernobyl had posed."

"That's pretty strong, isn't it, Colonel?" the President asked.

"Now that I have some idea of the danger, Mr. President," Hamilton said, "that was a massive understatement."

"Is there a way to kill this material?" Naylor asked.

"I've had some success with incineration at temperatures over one thousand degrees centigrade," Hamilton said, looked at the President, and added: "That's about two thousand degrees Fahrenheit, Mr. President."

"I seem to recall the secretary of Defense telling me that the attack produced that kind of heat," the President said.

"Then where did the two separate packages of Congo-X come from?" Secretary of State Natalie Cohen asked.

"There're only two possibilities," Ambassador Montvale said. "The attack was not successful; everything was not incinerated and someone-I suspect the Russians-went in there and picked up what was missed. Or, the Russians all along had a stock of this stuff in Russia and that's what they're sending us."

"Why? What do they want?" Cohen asked.

"We're not even sure it's the Russians, are we?" Mark Schmidt, the director of the FBI, asked.

"Are we, Mr. Director of National Intelligence?" the President asked. "Are we sure who's been sending us the Congo-X?"

"Not at this time, Mr. President," Montvale replied.

"Have we the capability of sending someone into the Congo?" Assistant Secretary of Homeland Security Mason Andrew asked. "To do, in the greatest secrecy-what do they call it?-'damage assessment'?"

"Not anymore," Natalie Cohen said.

There was a long silence.

"Madam Secretary," the President asked finally, icily, "would I be wrong to think that you had a certain Colonel Costello in mind when you said that?"

She met his eyes.

"I had Lieutenant Colonel Carlos Castillo in mind, yes, sir," she said. "I was thinking that since he managed to successfully infiltrate Colonel Hamilton into the Congo and, more importantly, exfiltrate him-"

"Weren't you listening, Madam Secretary, when I said that in this administration there will be no private bands of special operators? I thought I had made that perfectly clear. Castillo and his men have been dispersed. He was ordered by my predecessor to-the phrase he used was 'fall off the face of the earth, never to be seen again.' I never want to hear his name mentioned again, much less to see him. Is everybody clear on that, absolutely clear?"

"Yes, Mr. President," Secretary Cohen said.

There was a murmur as everyone responded at once: "Yes, sir." "Yes, Mr. President." "Absolutely clear, Mr. President."

"Mr. President, there may be a problem in that area," Porky Parker said.

The President looked at him in surprise, perhaps even shock. The President thought he had made it absolutely clear to Parker that the spokesman's role in meetings like this was to listen, period.

"What did you say, Jack?" the President asked softly.

"Mr. President, Roscoe Danton of The Washington Times-Post is looking for Colonel Castillo."

"How do you know that?"

"He came to me, sir."

"And what did you tell him?"

"I told him I had no idea where he was," Parker said.

"Charles?"

"Sir?" Montvale replied.

"Where is Castillo?"

"I don't know, Mr. President."

"I told you the next time I asked that question, I would expect an answer."

"I'm working on it, Mr. President, but so far without any results."

"Wonderful! It's so nice to know that whenever I want to know something, all I have to do is ask my director of National Intelligence!"

There was another thirty-second silence, and then the President went on: "Far be it from me to try to tell the director of National Intelligence how to do his job, but I have just had this probably useless thought: If Roscoe Danton is looking for Colonel Castillo, perhaps he has an idea where he is. Has anyone thought of that? Where's Danton?"

There was no reply.

"Find out for me, Charles, will you, please?"

"I'll get right on it, Mr. President," Montvale said. [FOUR] The Office of the Director of National Intelligence Eisenhower Executive Office Building 17th Street and Pennsylvania Avenue, N.W. Washington, D.C. 1805 5 February 2007 "I can't think of anything else to do, can you?" Ambassador Montvale asked Truman C. Ellsworth, his executive assistant.

When Ellsworth had called The Washington Times-Post for Roscoe J. Danton, they refused to tell him where he was. They said they would contact Danton and tell him Ambassador Montvale wanted to speak with him. Ellsworth finally called the publisher, Bradley Benjamin III, and told him what had happened, and asked for his help. Mr. Benjamin told him that what he had already been offered was all he was going to get, and please give Ambassador Montvale his best regards.

Since both Truman C. Ellsworth and Charles M. Montvale would swear-because they believed it-that they were incapable of letting anger, or a bruised ego, interfere in the slightest with their judgment, or the execution of their offices, what happened next was attributed to the fervor with which they chose to meet the President's request to locate Mr. Roscoe J. Danton.

The National Security Agency at Fort Meade, Maryland, was directed as the highest priority to acquire and relay to the ambassador's office any traffic by telephone, or over the Internet, containing Mr. Danton's name.

The Department of Homeland Security was directed to search the flight manifests of every passenger airliner taking off from either Reagan International Airport or Dulles International Airport during the past forty-eight hours for the name of Roscoe J. Danton, and if found to immediately report his destination and time of arrival thereat.

The Secret Service was ordered to obtain the residential address of Mr. Roscoe J. Danton and to place such premises under around-the-clock surveillance and to immediately report any sighting of Mr. Danton. They were further ordered to send agents to the National Press Club to see if any clue to his whereabouts could be obtained.

The cooperation of the FBI was sought and obtained to put out an immediate "locate but do not detain" bulletin on Mr. Danton.

"I just had an idea," Mr. Ellsworth said when asked if he could think of anything else that could be done.

He told the White House operator get The Washington Times-Post for him again, this time the Corporate Travel department.

Montvale's eyebrows rose, but he didn't comment.

"Hello, Corporate Travel?" Ellsworth then said. "Yes, hi. Brad Benjamin just told me you would know where I can find Roscoe Danton."

Not sixty seconds after that, he said, "Got it. Thank you," hung up the phone, and turned to Ambassador Montvale and reported, "Danton went to Buenos Aires. They made a reservation for him at the Marriott Plaza."

"The Marriott Plaza?" Montvale replied, obviously surprised.

"That's what they told me. You want me to put in a call to our ambassador?"

"I wouldn't believe that sonofabitch if he told me what day it is."

"The CIA station chief, then?"

"Get me John Powell. I'll have the DCI call the station chief and tell him I'll be calling."

Ellsworth told the White House operator to connect the director of National Intelligence with the director of Central Intelligence on a secure line and then pushed the LOUDSPEAKER button and handed the receiver to Montvale. "Jack, Charles M. Montvale. I want you to give me the name of the station chief in Buenos Aires, and something about him, and then call him and tell him I'll be calling on an errand for the President."

"Hang on a second, Charles," Powell replied.

He came back on the line ninety seconds later.

"Got a little problem, Charles. We had a really good man there, Alex Darby, but he went out the door with Castillo. A kid just out of The Farm has been filling in for Darby, until Bob Lowe, another good man, can clear his desk in Mexico City. I don't know if Lowe made it down there yet."

"Well, please call the kid, and tell him I'll be calling." "Clendennen."

"Charles M. Montvale, Mr. President. I've located Mr. Danton. He's in the Marriott Plaza Hotel in Buenos Aires."

"That would suggest he knows where Colonel Castillo is, wouldn't you say?"

"That's a strong possibility, Mr. President."

"I presume your next call will be to the ambassador down there."

"I was thinking of calling the CIA station chief, Mr. President."

"Okay, your call. That might be best, now that I think of it."

"There's a small problem there, Mr. President. The acting station chief is a young man just out of agency training. John Powell just told me that the man he's sending down there to replace the former station chief, who, sir, fell off the face of the earth with Castillo, has not reported for duty."

"So what are you planning to do?"

"I thought I would send Truman Ellsworth down there, sir. Just as soon as he can get to Andrews."

"I dislike micromanagement, Charles, as you know. But if I were in your shoes, I would go down there myself. Take What's-his-name with you if you like."

"Yes, sir. That's probably the right thing to do."

"It would be better if someone of your stature were the person to suggest to Costello that he would be ill-advised to get anywhere near our little problem. You understand me?"

"Yes, sir."

"Keep me advised," President Clendennen said, and Montvale heard the click that signaled the commander in chief had terminated the call.

"I'll call Andrews and have the plane ready," Truman Ellsworth said. Their presidential mission began in a two-GMC-Yukon convoy from the Executive Office Building. The first Secret-Service-agent-driven, black-tinted-window Yukon held the driver; the two Secret Service agents assigned to protect Montvale; and the two assigned to protect Ellsworth. The second Yukon carried Montvale and Ellsworth and everyone's luggage.

On the way to Andrews Air Force Base, Montvale and Ellsworth consoled themselves for having to travel all the way down to Argentina by agreeing that it wouldn't be that bad a trip. The C-37A-the Air Force designation for the Gulfstream V-on which they would fly was just about as nice an airplane as airplanes came.

It had a range greater than the 5,100-odd miles between Washington and Buenos Aires, and could cruise nonstop at Mach 0.80, or a little faster than five hundred miles per hour. There was room for eight passengers, which meant that Montvale and Ellsworth-rank hath its privileges-could make the most of the journey spread out on bed-size couches. Or they could sit up on the couches and have a drink or two from the portable bar in one of the Secret Service agent's luggage.

And they were sure to get one of the two Gulfstream Vs at Andrews: Ellsworth had made a point of telling the commanding officer of the presidential flight detachment that he and Montvale were traveling at the direct personal order of President Clendennen.

That, however, did not come to pass.

At Andrews, they learned that one of the two Gulfstream V jets had carried Mrs. Sue-Ellen Clendennen to Montgomery, Alabama, where the First Lady's mother was sick in hospital.

Both Montvale and Ellsworth habitually took a look at the reports of the presidential security detail. They therefore knew the President's mother-in-law was not in a hospital per se but rather an "assisted-living facility" and that her being sick therein was a sort of code which meant the old lady had once again eluded her caretakers and acquired a stock of intoxicants.

That was moot. They knew they were outranked by the First Lady. And the second Gulfstream V at Andrews was not available to them either, as it was being held for possible use by someone else who outranked them, the Speaker of the House of Representatives, who could be counted upon to throw a female fit of monumental proportions if a Gulfstream V was not immediately available to take her to her home in Palm Beach if she suddenly felt the urge to go there.

That left only a C-20A-what the Air Force called the Gulfstream III-from the half-dozen kept by the Air Force for VIP transport at Andrews for their flight to Buenos Aires. While just about as fast as a C-37A, the C-20A is a somewhat smaller aircraft with a maximum range of about thirty-seven hundred miles. That meant that not only was a fuel stop necessary en route to Buenos Aires, but that the couches on which Montvale and Ellsworth would attempt to sleep were neither as wide nor as comfortable as those on the Gulfstream V would have been.

They had finally gotten off the ground at Andrews just before midnight. Flight time was a few minutes under twelve hours. The fuel stop added another hour and forty-five minutes. There was a one-hour difference between time in Washington and in Buenos Aires. They would arrive, if there were no problems, at Jorge Newbery Airport in Buenos Aires at about one in the afternoon. [ONE] Estancia San Joaquin Near San Martin de los Andes Patagonia Neuquen Province, Argentina 2130 5 February 2007 Aleksandr Pevsner took a sip of his after-dinner brandy, then took a puff on his after-dinner cigar, and then pointed the cigar at Castillo.

Castillo also had a cigar, but no brandy. In the morning he was going to have to fly the Bell Ranger to the airport at San Carlos de Bariloche, where, Pevsner had decided earlier, his Learjet would be waiting to fly them over the Andes to El Tepual International Airport in Puerto Montt, Chile. They would travel to Cozumel on a Peruaire cargo plane carrying foodstuffs for the cruise ship trade and Pevsner's Grand Cozumel Beach amp; Golf Resort. Castillo would have to do that twice; there wasn't room in the helicopter to fly everybody at once.

"I have been thinking, friend Charley…" Pevsner announced.

"Uh-oh," Castillo replied.

Pevsner shook his head in resignation, and then went on: "Two things: First, I think it would be useful if I went to Cozumel with you. I have contacts in Mexico that might be useful, and if you're going to use the Beach and Golf as a base, certain arrangements will have to be made. Comments?"

"Makes sense," Tom Barlow said.

"I agree," Svetlana said.

"Pay attention, Marlon Brando," Delchamps said. "Your consiglieri have been heard from."

"This meets with your approval, Charley?"

"Who am I to argue with my consiglieri?"

But I wonder what you would have said if I had said, "That's a lousy idea."

"Second, I've been thinking that it would be best if you flew the Aero Commander to Puerto Montt. That would both save us time in the morning, and we would be less conspicuous. The latter depends, of course, on whether you can fly that airplane over the Andes. Can you?"

"Quick answer, no," Castillo replied. "The Commander's cabin is not pressurized, and the service ceiling is about thirteen thousand feet. There are lots of rock-filled clouds in the Andes much higher than that."

"Actually, the average height is about thirteen thousand feet," Pevsner said. "Could you fly around the peaks?"

"Probably," Castillo said. "I'd have to look at the charts, and I don't have any charts."

"Janos, call down to the hangar and have them bring the necessary aerial charts," Pevsner ordered. "And when you've finished that, call the house and have our luggage prepared."

"If, after I look at the charts and decide I can fly around the peaks, I'd still have to make two flights," Castillo said. "We can't get everybody in the Commander at once. Have you considered that?"

"You'd have to make two flights in the Lear, too. Taking the little airplane still makes more sense," Svetlana said.

"Concur," Tom Barlow said.

"There they go again!" Delchamps said. "What would you do without them whispering sage advice in your ear, Don Carlos?"

Tom Barlow chuckled. Svetlana gave him the finger. [TWO] El Tepual International Airport Puerto Montt, Chile 0830 6 February 2007 The first flight in the Aero Commander from Estancia San Joaquin through the Andes mountains had carried Alek Pevsner-who had said he wanted to make sure things went smoothly in Puerto Montt-plus Janos, Tom Barlow, Sweaty, and of course Max.

The Casey avionics worked perfectly, and everyone but the pilot seemed to enjoy the flight. In the early light of day, the snow-capped Andes were incredibly beautiful. The pilot spent much time during the flight-whenever the altimeter showed that he was at or just over thirteen thousand feet-remembering that the U.S. Army had taught him that at any altitude over twelve thousand feet, the pilot's brain is denied the oxygen it needs.

Despite its grandiose title, El Tepual International was just about completely deserted when they landed. There was no Peruaire cargo jet in sight; just three Chevrolet Suburbans whose drivers looked more Slavic than one would expect of Chileans.

Svetlana immediately exercised her female right to change her mind and announced she would return to Estancia San Joaquin with Castillo to pick up Alex Darby and Edgar Delchamps.

That could be because my lover can't bear to be even briefly separated from me.

But on the other hand it could be because former Podpolkovnik Svetlana Alekseeva of the SVR thinks she had better keep an eye on the crazy American to make sure that he doesn't do something stupid. The second flight went smoothly, and this time the pilot elected to fly more closely to the terrain, rather than trying to attain as much altitude as he could.

And when he turned on final approach, he saw that there was another aircraft on the tarmac: a Peruaire Boeing 777-200LR.

Jesus, that's one great big beautiful sonofabitch!

When he taxied up close to it, feeling like one of the little people Gulliver had encountered in his travels, he saw that a swarm of workers had just about finished loading it with refrigerated containers.

What was the Triple-Seven freighter's revenue payload?

I think Alek said just over a hundred tons-one hundred twelve tons, was what he said.

Jesus, that's a lot of seafood and beef!

Ten minutes after he landed at El Tepual, he was strapped into one of the ten seats in the passenger compartment just behind the 777's cockpit.

The plane began to taxi and when it turned onto the main runway, the pilot simply advanced the throttles and it began the takeoff roll.

One of Marlon Brando's consiglieri caught his hand with one of hers and crossed herself with the other. [THREE] Jorge Newbery International Airport Buenos Aires, Argentina 1305 6 February 2007 As the Gulfstream III carrying Ambassador Montvale and his party had made its approach to the airport, Montvale had remembered that the last time he had met with the sonofabitch in Argentina, Lieutenant Colonel C. G. Castillo had pointed out to him that inasmuch as they were in a foreign and sovereign nation, his Secret Service security detail did not enjoy diplomatic immunity and therefore had no right to bear arms, and were thus liable to be arrested for doing so.

He elected not to mention this to anyone. If there was a problem, Ambassador Juan Manuel Silvio would have to deal with it. And deal with it, he would have to: I'm here at the direct order of the President of the United States. I look forward to making that point to that slick bastard and pal of Castillo's.

Before the Gulfstream III had reached the end of its landing roll, Jorge Newbery ground control directed it to the commercial side of the airfield on the bank of the River Plate.

There they were met by Argentine immigration and customs officers and two members of the staff of the United States embassy. They were passed through both bureaucratic procedures quickly and without incident. Importantly, no Argentine official searched the persons of anyone, which neutralized the problem of his armed security detail, at least for the moment.

There were two diplomats from the American embassy on hand to meet the Gulfstream. One introduced himself as Colonel C. C. "Call me CC" Downs, the military attache. He said he was there to take care of the crew. There were three crew members: the male pilot, a major; the male co-pilot, a captain; and a stout woman wearing the chevrons of a senior master sergeant. She had delivered a stewardess-type speech about the safety features of the C-20A, ordered everybody to fasten their seat belts, and then taken a seat, from which she had arisen only once to announce that intoxicants were prohibited aboard Air Force C-20A aircraft and if the Secret Service agent in the process of pouring Scotch into glasses for the Montvale party continued to do so, she would have to make an official report to her superiors.

"CC" said he would take care of the crew, and that Mr. Spears would know how to contact them when their services were required. He then loaded the crew into an embassy's Yukon and drove off.

Mr. I. Ronald Spears was carried on the books as an assistant consular officer but was in fact the acting CIA station chief for Buenos Aires. He had assumed that duty following the unexpected retirement of Alexander W. Darby.

The director of the Central Intelligence Agency had first planned to replace Darby with Paul Sieno, the CIA station chief in Paraguay, only to learn that Sieno, too, had suddenly retired, presumably to join Lieutenant Colonel Castillo in his disappearance from the face of the earth, and was therefore not available. Next, the CIA station chief in Mexico City, Robert T. Lowe, had been ordered to Buenos Aires to replace Darby, but he was still in the process of clearing his desk in Mexico City.

I. Ronald Spears was twenty-four years old, looked to be about nineteen, and had graduated from CIA training four months before.

Apparently unaware that the director of National Intelligence and his deputy each had Secret Service protection details, Spears had brought to the airport a single embassy Yukon, into which the four Secret Service agents, Montvale, Ellsworth, and their luggage could be loaded only with great difficulty.

Spears lost no time somewhat smugly telling Ambassador Montvale that he had "taken the liberty" of changing the reservations Ambassador Montvale had requested. The ambassador and his party would now be housed in the Alvear Palace Hotel, rather than the Marriott Plaza, as Spears had learned that the former was "much classier" than the latter.

With great effort, Montvale did not say what he wanted to say. Instead, he asked, "Do you happen to know, Spears, if Mr. Danton is in the Marriott Plaza?"

"Mr. who, Ambassador Montvale?"

At that point, Montvale remembered that he had asked Jack Powell, the DCI, only to tell the acting station chief that he was going to Buenos Aires, and had not asked him to tell the acting station chief to start looking for either Roscoe J. Danton or Lieutenant Colonel Castillo.

"My first order of business is to see the ambassador," Montvale then announced. "So we'll go to the embassy first."

The pleasure of envisioning that confrontation-"Mr. Ambassador, I am here at the personal order of the President"-was quickly shattered when Spears told him that the ambassador and most of his staff would be out of town until the next day.

I shouldn't be surprised by that. The moment that sonofabitch heard I was coming down here, Silvio got on his horse, and galloped his miserable ass out of town.

"Certainly someone's minding the store, right, Spears?"

"Yes, sir. Mizz Sylvia Grunblatt has the duty."

"And she is?"

"The embassy press officer, Mr. Ambassador."

Roscoe J. Danton is either still in the Marriott Plaza, or he isn't. And even if the press officer can't tell me where to find Castillo, she might know where that station chief-Darby-is, and Darby can lead me to Castillo.

At the very least, this female has the authority to order up another vehicle and driver. Riding around Buenos Aires in a stuffed-to-the-gills Yukon is simply not acceptable.

"Take me to see Miss Grun… whatever you said her name is," Montvale ordered.

"Grunblatt, Mr. Ambassador. Mizz Sylvia Grunblatt." "Miss Grunblatt, the President has sent Mr. Ellsworth and me down here to have a word with Lieutenant Colonel C. G. Castillo. Do you know who I mean?"

"Yes, I do, Mr. Montvale."

"Do you happen to know where I can find him?"

"I'm afraid not," Grunblatt said. "There's been a journalist-a good one, Roscoe J. Danton, of The Washington Times-Post-down here looking for him, too. What's that all about?"

"You said has been? May I infer that Mr. Danton is no longer here?"

"The last I heard, he was in the Marriott Plaza."

"What about Alexander Darby, Miss Grunblatt?"

"If you don't mind, Mr. Montvale, I prefer 'Ms.'"

After a perceptible pause, the director of National Intelligence said, "Excuse me, Mizz Grunblatt."

"What did you mean, Mr. Montvale, when you asked, 'What about Alexander Darby?' I assume you know he resigned."

"I don't suppose it would surprise an experienced foreign service officer such as yourself, Mizz Grunblatt, if I told you Mr. Darby had duties beyond those of commercial attache?"

"If you're asking did I know that Alex was a spook, yes, I did. I've known that he was in the agency's Clandestine Service since we served in Rome, and that's… oh, twenty years ago."

"And do you know where he is now, by any chance, Mizz Grunblatt?"

"Haven't a clue. The last time I saw him was at Ezeiza. The airport."

"He was going where, do you know?"

"What he did, Mr. Montvale, was go through the departing Argentina immigration procedure on his diplomatic passport, and then he turned right around and came back, so to speak, into Argentina on his regular passport. He then gave me-as an embassy officer-his diplomatic passport and carnet. Then I drove him here to the embassy, where he got out of my car, and got in a taxi."

"Then he's still in Argentina. Would you know where?"

"I didn't say that he's still here. I don't know if he is or not. I know his wife and children aren't here any longer; I put them on a plane to the States."

"But not Mr. Darby?"

"No. Not Mr. Darby. I don't know where Alex is."

"Do you happen to know where Mrs. Darby was going?"

"I do. And I'll give you the address once you tell me you're acting in an official capacity."

"I've already done that."

"That's right, you have," Grunblatt said.

She picked up a pen and wrote an address on a piece of notepaper and handed it to him.

Montvale glanced at it, saw that it meant nothing to him, then handed it to one of his Secret Service men.

"Hang on to that."

"Yes, sir."

The Secret Service agent looked at it, and then said, "Mr. Ambassador, I know what this is, this 7200 West Boulevard Drive. It's the Alexandria house Colonel Castillo and the others had. I drew the duty there a couple of times when it was under Secret Service protection."

"Mizz Grunblatt, I'm going to have to get on a secure line to the Secret Service in Washington."

Grunblatt considered that a moment, then said, "Yes, I can arrange that for you. I presume you'd prefer to talk from a secure location?"

You're damned right I would.

There's absolutely no reason for you to hear what I'm going to say.

"Could that be arranged?"

"It'll take me a minute or two to set it up," she said. "You'll have to go to the commo room."

"I understand. Thank you very much."

"Not a problem," Grunblatt said as she pushed herself out of her chair.

"And while I'm on the phone, Mizz Grunblatt, do you suppose you could rustle up another car for me? All we have is a Yukon, and we're stuffed into it like sardines."

"The call I can do. The car I can't. All of our vehicles are out of town with the ambassador. Tomorrow afternoon, if he returns as scheduled, it should be no problem at all."

Is that Cuban sonofabitch capable of that? Taking all the cars with him, so that I have to ride around town like a fish in a can? "Secret Service, Claudeen."

"This is the State Department switchboard. I have Ambassador Montvale on a secure line for the senior agent on duty."

"Hold one, please, for Supervisory Special Agent McGuire."

"It will be a moment, Ambassador Montvale."

"Not a problem."

Montvale knew Supervisory Special Agent Thomas McGuire. He had once been in charge of the presidential protection detail.

A good man.

More important, he knows who I am.

"McGuire."

"Tom, this is Charles M. Montvale."

"Good afternoon, Mr. Ambassador. How are you, sir?"

"Much better now that I've got you on the phone, Tom. I need someone with a grasp of the situation."

"What situation is that, sir?"

"There are two facets of it, Tom. I'm sure you know what happened to the Office of Organizational Analysis?"

"That's not much of a secret, sir."

"And you've heard, I'm sure, about what's been going on in the last few days at Fort Detrick?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, I'm in Buenos Aires. The President sent Mr. Ellsworth and me down here to locate Colonel Castillo to make sure he understands that he is not to go anywhere near that problem. I am to personally relay that presidential order to Castillo, once I find him."

"Castillo's in Argentina, sir?"

"I don't know where he is. But I've come across a lead. One of the members of the now-disbanded OOA was an agency officer named Alexander W. Darby. He retired when Castillo got the boot. Now, I can't find him. But I have reason to believe his wife… Got a pencil…?"

"Yes, sir."

"… is in a house at seventy-two hundred West Boulevard Drive in Alexandria."

"Isn't that the place we used to protect?"

"Yes, it is. That's what I meant by your having a grasp of the situation. Now, what I want you to do is send a couple of your best men out there-better yet, go yourself-and see if Darby is there, and if he's not, ask his wife if she knows where he is. I'm sure Darby knows where Castillo is."

"Have you got a first name on the wife, sir?"

Call her "Mrs. Darby," you Irish moron!

"No, I'm afraid not."

"Well, then I'll just call her Mrs. Darby."

"That'll work. Now, Tom, there is a possibility that she might deny he is there, and another possibility, slight but real, that Castillo himself might be there, and even a remote possibility that two Russians we're looking for-former SVR Colonel Dmitri Berezovsky and former SVR Lieutenant Colonel Svetlana Alekseeva-may also be in that house. Castillo is just arrogant enough, wouldn't you agree, to try to hide himself, and the Russians, in plain sight, so to speak."

"Would you spell those Russian names for me, please?"

Montvale did so. Then added: "So, do a really thorough job of searching the place."

"Yes, sir. And what do I do if I find these people?"

"If you find Darby"-you Irish moron-"you find out from him where Castillo and the Russians are. If you find Castillo or the Russians, you detain them, and immediately notify the President, or his chief of staff."

"Yes, sir. And whom do I see at Justice for the warrants, sir?"

"What warrants?"

"The search warrant for the premises, and the arrest warrants for Castillo and these Russians."

"You don't need a warrant"-you cretin-"you're acting on the authority of the President."

"Yes, sir. I understand. And from whom do I get that, sir?"

"Get what?"

"The presidential authority."

"I just gave it to you."

"Sir, it has to be in writing. I would suppose if I'm to act on the authority of the President, President Clendennen would have to sign it himself."

Well, what did I expect? McGuire is part of the Washington bureaucratic establishment.

You don't rise in that-for that matter, stay in that-unless you have mastered the fine art of covering your ass.

"Tom, I'm not sure if President Clendennen would be available to do that at this time. So here's what I want you to do. Just go out there with enough of your people to place the premises under around-the-clock surveillance-discreet surveillance. This situation requires, as I'm sure you understand, the greatest discretion."

"Yes, sir. I understand."

"Do you happen to know either Darby or his wife, Tom?"

"I've met them, sir."

"Then could you just knock at the door, unofficially, and tell Mrs. Darby you were in the neighborhood and took a chance to see if Darby was at home?"

"That would work, sir. And if he is?"

"Then you tell him that you're looking for Colonel Castillo; that you have a message for Castillo from me that has to be personally delivered."

"Yes, sir. And if he directs me to Colonel Castillo-I mean, if I find him-then what do I do?"

"You don't actually have to talk to him, Tom. Just locate him. Put him under really tight surveillance. Then call my office and tell them to get word to me that you've found Colonel Castillo. I'll take it from there."

"Yes, sir. I'll get right on it."

"Good man! I can't tell you how pleased I am that you were on duty, Tom. I know I can rely on you."

"Thank you, sir. I'll do my best."

There may be just about a dime's worth of silver in this black cloud. Darby might be at the house in Alexandria. He might know where Castillo is. And he might tell McGuire.

Montvale found I. Ronald Spears waiting for him outside the communications room.

"Get in touch with that Air Force colonel, Spears. Tell him to keep the pilots off the booze. Something has come up that might require my immediate return to Washington."

"Yes, sir."

"Do that immediately after you drop me off at the hotel."

"Yes, sir." [FOUR] 7200 West Boulevard Drive Alexandria, Virginia 1525 6 February 2007 Dianne Sanders, a grandmotherly type in her early fifties, was wearing an apron over her dress when she answered the chimes.

"Well, hello, Mr. McGuire. What brings you to our door?"

"I'm hoping Mrs. Darby is here," Tom McGuire said.

"Can I wonder why you might hope that? Or would that be impolite?"

"Come on, Dianne," McGuire said.

"I'll see if Mrs. Darby is at home. If you'll please wait?"

"Lock up the liquor," Mrs. Julia Darby said thirty seconds later. "The Secret Service is here."

She walked up to McGuire, and said, "I'm not sure if I'm glad to see you or not. But I'll give you a kiss anyway."

She stood on her toes and kissed his cheek.

"Are you here socially or otherwise, Tom?" she asked.

"Otherwise, I'm afraid."

"Uh-oh."

"Why did I suspect that?" Dianne Sanders asked.

"I have been ordered here by Ambassador Montvale to see if Alex is here, and if not, to ask you to tell me where he is."

"Did he say why he was curious?"

"He hopes Alex will point him to Charley Castillo. He says he has a message for him."

"Why didn't he come himself?"

"He called me from Buenos Aires."

"Ah-ha! The plot deepens," Julia Darby said.

"Is Alex here?"

She shook her head.

"Can you point me either to him or Charley?"

"The question is not whether I can, but whether I will. If I pointed at somebody, you would feel duty-bound to tell Montvale, right?"

"Yes, I would."

"I cannot tell a lie, especially to a senior officer of the United States Secret Service," she said. She then took a moment to orient herself and pointed in the general direction of South America. "To the best of my knowledge and belief, both of them are somewhere down there."

"Your cooperation is deeply appreciated. You were pointing at South America, right?"

"In that general direction, yes."

"Can you… will you be more specific?"

She shook her head.

"Not even if I told you that Ambassador Montvale told me he's acting for President Clendennen?"

"Especially if you told me that."

"One final question, Julia. You're not concealing two ex-SVR officers on the premises, are you?"

"I will answer that question. No, I am not."

"And you wouldn't know where such people would be, either, right?"

Julia Darby again pointed toward South America.

"They could be down that way," she said. "But on the other hand, maybe not. Those SVR people are slippery, you know."

He chuckled.

"Is my interrogation over, or is there anything else you'd like to know?" Julia Darby asked.

"This interview is concluded, Mrs. Darby. Thank you for your cooperation."

"I'm always willing to cooperate with the Secret Service, Mr. McGuire. It's my duty as a patriotic citizen." Julia smiled warmly, then said: "Dianne and I were about to have a Bloody Mary. Would you like one?"

He hesitated.

"Come on, Tom. The interrogation is over. I swear Montvale will never know."

He smiled. "Why not?"

"Let's go in the kitchen," Julia said. "Dianne is baking brownies for the boys. I was never much in the kitchen department, but I do make great Bloody Marys." In the kitchen, McGuire asked Dianne Sanders, "Where's Harold?"

"My husband is shopping. He shops. I cook. Should be back anytime now."

Dianne Sanders had spent most of her working career as a cryptographer and later as a highly respected cryptographic analyst. Harold, her husband, had been a Delta Force special operator until he developed heart disease and had been medically retired.

For a while he had been what he described as a "camp follower," taking care of their house while Dianne stayed on active duty. That hadn't worked, and eventually-Hell, with both our retirements we can live pretty damned well-Dianne had retired, too.

That hadn't worked either.

They both had been climbing the walls of their garden apartment in Fayetteville, North Carolina, when CWO5 Colin Leverette, aka Uncle Remus, who had been around the block many times with Harold, asked them if they would be interested in running a safe house for Charley Castillo outside Washington. Harold had been around just as many blocks with Castillo as he had with Uncle Remus, and the Sanderses had jumped at the chance to get out of the garden apartment.

Julia Darby made Bloody Marys and handed them to Tom and Dianne.

"Take a sip of that, and then go back on duty," she said.

He did so, and said, "Okay."

"Ask me how Alex is," Julia said.

"Okay. How's Alex?"

"I hope that miserable sonofabitch and his hot-pants, large-breasted, twenty-year-old Argentine girlfriend freeze together in Ushuaia," she said.

"Where or what is Ushuaia?"

"It's the southernmost city in Argentina, way at the end. Coldest place I've ever been, including the personnel office at Langley."

"You don't expect me to believe that about Alex, do you?"

"I don't care if you believe it or not, but I hope Charles M. Montvale does. I'd love to hear that he's running around down there freezing his ass looking for Alex."

Tom McGuire grinned.

"You have always been an evil woman, Julia," he said admiringly, and tapped his Bloody Mary against hers. "How do you spell 'Ushuaia'?" [FIVE] Penthouse B The Grand Cozumel Beach amp; Golf Resort Cozumel Quintana Roo, Mexico 1805 6 February 2007 En route to Cozumel-somewhere over Peru-a dozing Castillo woke to find Sweaty's head resting on his neck. Upon smelling her perfume, he realized with more than a little pleasure that there was going to be enough time between their arrival in Cozumel and dinner for what the French-who sometimes do things with a certain style-called a cinq a sept.

He dozed off again considering this pleasant possibility, to be wakened perhaps an hour after that by one of the pilots of the Boeing 777 offering him a very nice luncheon plate fresh from the microwave.

Sweaty already had hers.

Castillo waited until the pilot had moved away, then asked her in French: "Ma chere, what does 'a five-to-seven' mean to you?"

"Five to seven means what it sounds like," she replied in Russian. "I have no idea what a five-to-seven means."

"Just as soon as we get to our room in the hotel, I'll show you a"-he pronounced the term phonetically-"sank-ah-set."

She kissed his cheek. "But I have other plans for you just as soon as we get to our room in the hotel, my darling."

Svetlana then removed any doubt he might have had that there was a certain sexual overtone to her remark by quickly groping him. It was not to be.

When they got to Penthouse B, they were not alone. Everybody who had been on the plane was with them.

"We had to move some guests," Alek Pevsner explained. "That shouldn't take long. I always like to know who's in the room next to mine."

"How long is 'long'?" Castillo asked. "As in 'shouldn't take long'?"

Pevsner ignored him and went to the bar and reached for a bottle of bourbon.

Alex Darby opened a sliding glass door and inhaled appreciatively.

"The final death blow to my marriage will come when my wife hears I'm in a penthouse in Cozumel by the Sea," he announced, "while she is in the snow and slush of Washington, trying to find some roof over her and our abused children."

"Is that good or bad?" Delchamps asked.

Max pushed Darby out of his way, having seen Penthouse B's swimming pool, which had obviously been put there for his use. He immediately decided that a quick dip after the long flight was just what he needed.

A Bouvier des Flandres is a large animal and can cause a substantial splash when diving into a pool.

The splash reached Darby.

Everyone laughed.

Pevsner went to a bathroom and returned with a towel for Darby.

By then Max, having enough aquatic activity, had climbed out of the pool and was now standing on the edge of the pool shaking the water from his body. The fur of a Bouvier des Flandres can hold an astonishing amount of water. Pevsner's shirt and trousers had received a good deal of flying water, and there were drops all over his face, which was now pale with anger and tight-lipped.

Everyone waited for Pevsner's explosion. When it didn't come, Castillo poured gasoline on the smoldering embers.

"Well, it was high time you had a bath," Castillo offered. "And Max was just being helpful."

Pevsner looked at him and then said, "I have just had a horrible thought."

"I can't wait to hear what that is," Castillo replied.

"Those adorable puppies you gave my Elena and Dmitri's Sof'ya are going to turn into uncontrollable beasts like that."

Pevsner took another look at his drenched trousers, and announced, "Believe it or not, this place makes it clear on all the advertising that it is not a pet-friendly hotel."

"I hear that they make exceptions for friends of the owner," Castillo said.

"Sometimes the owner is sorry he has certain friends," Pevsner said as he patted his clothing with a towel.

"Sweaty, I think he means me," Castillo said. "Say something rude to him."

"Why doesn't everybody get out of here so that I can have a shower?" Sweaty said.

"Methinks the lady has carnal desires on our leader's body," Delchamps said.

Throwing water on that topic, Pevsner said, "Colonel Torine and the others are on their way from the airport."

"They just got here?" Castillo asked.

"The manager just told me. I told him to send them here when they arrive," Pevsner said, and glanced at Svetlana. "While we're waiting for rooms."

"Further delaying Svet's bath and the satisfaction of her other desires," Tom Barlow said. "Now she will say something rude."

"Very probably," Pevsner said, and smiled warmly at her and Castillo.

Castillo thought: My God! Aleksandr Pevsner, you're good!

I've known you long and well enough to know when you're really pissed off, and the last time I saw you this pissed was when you learned that Howard Kennedy had betrayed you.

If you could, you'd happily throw Max off the balcony, a la Ivan the Terrible, who Svetlana told me threw dogs off the Kremlin walls so he could watch them try to walk on broken legs.

But right now, you need all the help you can get to protect you and your family from Putin and the SVR-which means you think that's a real threat, which is nice to know-and you can't afford to piss me off-which means you think I have what you don't have and can't do without, which is also nice to know-so you smile warmly at the uncontrollable beast's owner and his girlfriend as if you agree that he's an adorable puppy and you didn't mind getting soaked at all.

They call that professional control, and it's one facet of character I don't have and really wish I did. Ten minutes later, the doorbell chimed, and when Alex Darby answered it, seven former members of the now-defunct Office of Organizational Analysis-two more than Castillo expected-walked in.

They were Colonel Jake Torine, USAF (Retired); former USAF Captain Richard Sparkman; former USMC Gunnery Sergeant Lester Bradley; Major H. Richard Miller, Jr., USA (Retired); First Lieutenant Edmund Lorimer, MI (Retired); Chief Warrant Officer (Five) Colin Leverette (Retired); and former FBI Special Agent David William Yung, Jr.

"I knew in my bones that there would be no rest for the weary," Leverette greeted him. "How they hanging, Charley?"

Colin Leverette was an enormous black man, a legendary Special Operations man, known to his close friends-and only his close friends-as Uncle Remus.

"You and Two-Gun got yourselves kicked out of Uruguay, did you?" Castillo said, and turned to Torine. "You actually went to Uruguay to pick them up? Wasn't that a little out of your way?"

"It was a supply run, Charley," Torine said, and then, seeing the confusion on Castillo's face, added, "about which, I gather, you didn't know?"

"I'm always the last to know anything, Jake. You know that."

"We went down there with a planeload of the newest Casey radios," Torine said. "That's not precise. We went down there with a bunch of the newest Casey radios. You won't believe how small the new ones are. And they don't need the DirecTV dish antenna."

Leverette said, "Colonel Torine was kind enough to take pity on us when we met him in Montevideo and told him that unless he took us with him, we couldn't get here in less than seventy-two hours."

"He was weeping piteously," Torine said. "He said you needed him."

"To do what, Uncle Remus?" Castillo asked.

"To get you out of whatever trouble you're in," Leverette said.

"And your excuse, Two-Gun?" Castillo asked.

"I came to deliver this," Yung said, and handed Castillo a small package.

"What's this?"

"Two hundred thousand in used-therefore nonsequentially numbered-hundreds, fresh from the cashier's cage at the Venetian," Yung said. "When Casey told me you'd asked for the money, I told him to give it in cash to Jake. It would have been too easy to trace if it went into and out of your personal German account."

"I don't recall asking for volunteers," Castillo said.

"Oh, come on, Charley," Leverette said. "Come and let Uncle Remus give you a great big kiss."

"Screw you," Castillo said.

Moving with astonishing speed for his bulk, Leverette walked quickly to Castillo, wrapped his massive arms around him, which pinned Castillo's arms to his sides, and then proceeded to wetly kiss both of Castillo's cheeks and then his forehead.

Castillo saw that Pevsner was smiling.

That's a genuine smile.

Because Uncle Remus is kissing me?

Or because he's really happy to see the reinforcements?

Leverette finally turned Castillo free.

"Now," Leverette announced, "just as soon as I have a little something to cut the dust of the trail, we will see what Charley's problem is, and set about solving it. I already have the essential ingredient." He dug in his pocket and came out triumphantly with a small bottle. "Peychaud's bitters. I never leave home without it. I shall also require rye whisky-good rye whisky-some simple syrup, absinthe, lemons, ice, and a suitable vessel in which to assemble the above."

"I feel better already," Castillo said.

"What is he talking about?" Pevsner asked.

"A Sazerac," Castillo said.

"And what is a Sazerac?" Tom Barlow asked.

"Nectar of the gods," Leverette said. "God's reward to the worthy."

He examined the stock of intoxicants in the bar, finally coming up triumphantly with a bottle of Van Winkle Family Reserve rye in his left hand and a bottle of Wild Turkey rye in his right.

"These will do nicely, but I can't find any syrup, absinthe, or lemons. Presumably, there is room service?"

"Lester," Castillo ordered, "get on the horn and tell room service that Mr. Pevsner requires immediately what Uncle Remus just said."

"Yes, sir," Bradley said, and started for the telephone.

"You're all going to sit around and get drunk, is that the idea?" Pevsner asked unpleasantly. "We have a serious problem and-"

Leverette interrupted him. "Charley, I hate to tell you this, but I'm starting to dislike your Russian buddy. Again."

"Me, too," Edgar Delchamps said.

"Who do you think you're talking to?" Pevsner demanded angrily.

"Somebody who thinks he's Ivan the Terrible, Jr.?" Leverette asked innocently.

Castillo laughed, but even as he did, he realized that was not the wise thing to do.

"Not one more word from anybody!" Svetlana snapped. "Not one!"

Everyone looked at her in surprise.

Castillo and Leverette had much the same thought at the same moment, but Leverette was the first to say it out loud: "Be careful," he said in Russian. "Sweaty just put on her podpolkovnik's hat."

"You'd better be careful," Castillo said. "That's way over your word limit. What Podpolkovnik Alekseeva said was 'Not one more word.'"

"I said from anybody and that includes you," Svetlana snapped. "For God's sake, Charley, you're in command. Act like a commander!"

Everyone looked at Castillo to see what his reaction to that would be.

His first reaction was a sudden realization: This is getting out of control.

And the commander is in large measure responsible.

Sweaty's right about that.

His next reaction was: On the other hand, Sweaty should not have snapped at the commander like that, telling him to act like a commander.

One of the problems of having women subordinates is that one cannot jump all over their asses when they deserve it.

Especially when said female subordinate is sharing one's bed.

This sort of situation was not dealt with in Problems of Leadership 101 at West Point, nor anywhere else since I've been in the Army.

Correction: During the time I was in the Army.

So, what are you going to do now, General MacArthur, so that everyone can see you are in fact acting like you're in command?

Confidently in command.

There's a hell of a difference between being in command, and being confidently in command.

And those being commanded damned well know it.

You better think of something, and quick!

Colin Leverette came to his rescue.

"I know what," Leverette said. "Let's start all over."

"What?" Svetlana asked.

"No, Mr. Pevsner," Leverette went on, "we are not all going to sit around and get drunk. We're going to have one-possibly two-Sazerac cocktails, and then we're going to get down to business."

Pevsner didn't respond.

Castillo looked between them, and thought: I believe Uncle Remus just saved my ass.

What is that, for the two hundred and eleventh time?

"That was your cue, Mr. Pevsner," Delchamps said, "to say, 'I should not have said what I did. Please forgive me.'"

Pevsner looked at him incredulously.

"It's a question of command, Aleksandr," Tom Barlow said, his tone making it clear that now he was wearing his polkovnik's hat. "If Charley, the commander, doesn't object to something, you have no right to. Now, ask Uncle Remus to forgive your runaway mouth."

"You have just earned my permission, Podpolkovnik Berezovsky," Leverette said, "to call me Uncle Remus."

Now, everyone looked at Pevsner.

"Uncle Remus is waiting, Mr. Pevsner," Delchamps said after a long moment.

After another long moment, Pevsner smiled, and said, "If an apology for saying something I should not have said is the price for one of Mr. Leverette's cocktails, I happily pay it."

Castillo had another unpleasant series of rapid thoughts:

Well, Pevsner caved, and quicker than I thought he would.

Problem solved.

Wait a minute! Aleksandr Pevsner-unlike me-never says anything until he thinks it through.

He knew the apology meant he understood he can't question me.

But what about the first crack he made?

Was that an attempt to put himself in charge?

If we'd caved, that would have put him in a position to question-question hell, disapprove-of anything.

Alek, you sonofabitch!

His chain of thought was interrupted by the arrival of the butler-not a bellman; penthouses A and B shared the full-time services of an around-the-clock butler-bearing simple syrup, absinthe, a bowl of ice, a bowl of lemon twists, and a tray of old-fashioned glasses.

"The first thing we will do-actually, Lester will do," Leverette announced, "is fill the glasses with ice. This will chill them while I go through the rest of the process. Now, how many are we going to need?"

Everyone expressed the desire to have a Sazerac.

Leverette arranged all the old-fashioned glasses in two rows.

"You understand, Sweaty," he said, "that one of my Sazeracs has been known to turn a nun into a nymphomaniac?"

"I'll take my chances. Stop talking and make the damned drink."

"First, we muddle the syrup and the Peychaud bitters together," Leverette announced. "When I've done that, we will carefully measure three ounces of rye per drink and a carefully measured amount of ice into the mixing vessel."

He picked up a champagne cooler, and quickly rinsed it in the sink of the wet bar.

"This will serve nicely as a mixing vessel," he said, and then demonstrated that his notion of a carefully measured three ounces of rye and ice per drink was to upend the bottle of Wild Turkey over the champagne cooler and empty it. He shook it to get the last drop, then repeated the process with the bottle of Van Winkle Family Reserve. He then added four handfuls of ice cubes.

He stirred the mixture around with one of the empty bottles.

"You'll notice that I did not shake, but rather stirred. I learned that from Double-Oh-Seven," he said, then looked at Bradley. "Lester, dump the ice."

Lester emptied into the sink the melting ice from all the glasses.

"I will now pour the absinthe, and Lester will swirl. I know he will do a good job of swirling because I taught him myself."

Leverette then picked up the bottle of absinthe, and ran it very quickly over the lines of glasses in one motion. This put perhaps a teaspoon of the absinthe in each glass.

Lester then picked up each glass, swirled the absinthe around, and then dumped the absinthe into the sink.

Leverette picked up the champagne cooler. Lester picked up a silver strainer and held it to the lip of the champagne cooler to hold back the ice cubes as Leverette poured the chilled liquid content of the cooler into the glasses.

"There is a slight excess," Leverette announced as he looked into the cooler. "Stick this in the fridge, Lester. 'Waste not, want not,' as my saintly mother was always saying."

Leverette then picked up handfuls of the lemon twists and squeezed them in his massive hands, which added not more than two drops of the essence into each glass.

"Finished!" he announced triumphantly.

He handed one to Castillo and another to Pevsner. He handed a third to Sweaty, and took a fourth with him as he walked to the couch.

He raised his glass to Pevsner, took an appreciative sip, and then asked, "And what do you think, Mr. Pevsner?"

Pevsner sipped his cocktail.

"Unusual," Pevsner said. "But very good."

"I will pretend that I don't know the only reason you said that is because you knew I would tear off both of your arms and one leg if you hadn't, and will accept that as a compliment."

"You're insane," Pevsner said with a smile.

"Genius is often mistakenly identified as insanity," Leverette said. "I'm surprised you didn't know that. Now, shall we deal with our problem?"

He came to attention, gestured at Castillo, and gave the Nazi salute.

"Mein Fuhrer, you have the floor."

Pevsner's eyes rolled in disbelief.

Castillo rose from his chair, walked to the bar, and leaned his back against it.

"Two-Gun," he began, "I think you'd better take notes."

Yung gave him a thumbs-up, then reached for his laptop computer.

"To bring everybody up to speed," Castillo began, "let's start with what we do know. First, somebody sent Colonel Hamilton a barrel of Congo-X. Then, in Budapest, Colonel Vladlen Solomatin of the Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki handed Eric Kocian a letter asking him to get it to Tom Barlow. The letter said, in essence, 'Come home. All is forgiven.' I think it's likely the two actions are related."

"About as likely as the sun will come up tomorrow," Svetlana said.

She waited for a chuckle. When she didn't get one, she looked at Castillo.

"We won't know," Castillo said, "about the sun rising until tomorrow morning, will we, Svet? Until then, it's just likely that it will. And the way this works, Svet, is that no one offers an opinion, clever or otherwise, until I ask for it. Got it?"

Her face colored and her eyes flared angrily, but she didn't reply.

Well, Commander Casanova, guess who's not going to get laid tonight?

Castillo took a sip of his drink, then went on: "Let's start with the Congo-X. Where did it come from? That raises the question, 'Did we destroy it all in the attacks on the Fish Farm or not?' Colin?"

"Sir, I respectfully suggest Colonel Torine can answer that better than I can," Leverette said.

"Jake?" Castillo asked.

Torine nodded. "Charley, you know as well as I do, except for nukes, there is no such thing as total destruction of anything by high explosive or incendiary saturation bombing. The question then becomes: 'How much was not destroyed? ' And I suggest Colin can answer that better than I can. He (a) was there, and (b) he's done a lot of damage assessment."

Castillo motioned with his hand toward Leverette.

"The Fish Farm was a collection of concrete block buildings, none of them over three stories, most of them just one," Leverette said. "The few I got into had basements, and I saw a half-dozen buried and half-buried steel-door revetments-like ammo bunkers. Let's say the bombs and the incendiaries took out ninety-five percent of everything."

"Jake?" Castillo said.

Torine nodded his agreement. "Leaving five percent," he said.

"Until we run into a stone wall, let's try this scenario," Castillo said. "Five percent of the Congo-X in barrels survived the bombing. Let's say that's six barrels. Two of them got to the States. How and by what means? Tom?"

"I'm sure one of the first things Sirinov did after the bombing-"

Alex Darby interrupted: "General Yakov Sirinov, who runs the SVR for Putin?"

Barlow nodded, and went on: "What he did was send in a Vympel Spetsnaz team for damage assessment and to see if anyone was still alive."

Castillo said, "Can we presume (a) the Spetsnaz made it into the Fish Farm, and (b) while they were there found-more important, took control of-the six barrels of Congo-X?"

"If Tom is talking about Spetsgruppa V," Leverette said, and looked at Barlow.

Barlow nodded. He said, "Also known as the Vega Group of KGB Directorate B."

"The Russian Delta Force, Charley," Leverette said. "They're damned good."

"It is because they are so good that they were selected to provide security for the Congo operation," Barlow said. "I was surprised that you didn't encounter at least one or two of them, Uncle Remus, when you were there."

Leverette met his eyes for a moment.

"Quickly changing the subject," Leverette said, making it clear there had been a confrontation with at least one or two Spetsnaz special operators and that they had lost. "So they found the six barrels of Congo-X. What did they do with it?"

"This is conjecture," Barlow said, "based on my knowledge of how Sirinov's mind works. The Spetsnaz were parachuted onto the site from a great height, probably from a specially adapted Ilyushin Il-96 passenger transport on a flight path duly reported to aviation authorities. The parachutists would not have opened their canopies until they were quite close to the ground, so they would appear only momentarily, if at all, on radar screens."

"That's what we call HALO," Castillo said. "High-altitude, low opening."

"Copyright, Billy Waugh," Leverette said.

Castillo, Torine, and Peg-Leg Lorimer chuckled or smiled or both.

"Excuse me?" Barlow said.

"The first guy to do that was Billy Waugh, a friend of ours," Leverette explained.

Castillo said, "Okay, back to the question of now that Spetsnaz has six beer barrels full of Congo-X, what do they do with it?"

"They would have to truck it out," Barlow said. "But since-using Uncle Remus's ninety-five percent destruction factor-there would be no trucks, at least not as many as would be needed, left at the Fish Farm, I don't know how they could have done that."

"They leave the Fish Farm area and steal some trucks," Castillo said. "And then truck it out. But where to?"

"Any field where a Tupolev Tu-934A can get in," Jake Torine said. "And that wouldn't have to be much of a field."

"You know about the Tu-934, Jake?" Tom asked.

"I've never seen one but, oh yeah, I know about it," Torine said.

"I don't," Castillo said.

"Ugly bird," Torine said. "Can carry about as much as a Caribou. Cruises at about Mach point nine. Helluva range, midair refuelable, and it's state-of-the-Russian-art stealth. And it can land and take off from a polo field. The story I get is that the agency will pay a hundred twenty-five million for one of them."

"You do know about it," Barlow said, raising his drink in a toast, demonstrating he was clearly impressed.

Torine returned the gesture, and they both sipped their Sazeracs.

"Okay, picking up the scenario," Castillo said. "The Spetsnaz load their six barrels of Congo-X onto their stolen trucks and drive it to some dirt runway in the middle of Africa, and then load it and themselves onto this… what was it?"

"Tupolev Tu-934A," Torine furnished.

"… which then takes off and flies at Mach point nine to where? To Russia?" Castillo pursued.

"No. They don't want Congo-X in Russia. They know how dangerous it is," Svetlana said. "They remember Chernobyl. That's why the Fish Farm was in the Congo."

"Could this airplane make it across the Atlantic?"

"Sure. With an en-route refueling, it could fly anywhere," Torine said.

"Where's anywhere? Cuba? Mexico?"

"Distance-wise, sure," Barlow said. "But politically…"

"They'd spot it on radar, right?" Castillo said.

"Charley, it has stealth technology," Torine said. "And even if it didn't, it could fly under the radar."

"So why not Cuba, Tom?" Castillo asked.

"The Castro brothers would be too expensive," Barlow said. "Both in terms of cash and letting them in on the secret. More the latter. Sirinov doesn't like to be obligated to anybody."

"Then right into Mexico," Edgar Delchamps said. "Getting it across the border into the States would be easy."

"I think we could say getting it across the border was easy," Castillo said. "But I have a gut feeling Mexico is not-was not-the final stop."

Alex Darby then said, "Drop off the Congo-X and enough people to get two barrels of this stuff into the States via Mexico, then fly the rest of it on to… where?"

"Venezuela," Delchamps suggested. "Hugo Chavez is in love with Communism, and has yet to be burned by the Russians, as the Castros were burned. And, God knows, Fat Little Hugo is no rocket scientist. Sirinov could easily have put him in his pocket."

Barlow pointed at Delchamps, and said, "You're on it, Edgar."

"Okay, then. Now what?" Leverette said. "We've located the Congo-X in Venezuela. What do we do about it?"

"We start to prove-or disprove-the scenario," Castillo said. "First step in that will be when we get from Aloysius the intel he's going to get from the DCI."

"You don't know that's who's giving him the intel he's promised to send, my darling," Svet said.

Castillo, at the last split second, kept himself from saying something loving and kind-for example, What part of "Don't offer a goddamn opinion unless I ask for it" didn't you understand, my precious?

Instead, he said: "Who else could it be?"

Svetlana replied, "The value of the intel we get from Casey is only as reliable as the source, and we don't know it's coming from the CIA, do we? So I suggest we take what Casey sends us with a grain of salt."

"She got you, Ace," Delchamps said. "Listen to your consigliere."

"Yeah, she did," Castillo admitted. "Okay, Sweaty: Give us your take on the 'Come home, all is forgiven' letter from Cousin Vladlen."

"You haven't figured that out? It is meant to let your government off the hook, my darling. It'll come out that we've returned to Russia-"

Castillo interrupted, "What do you mean, 'we've returned to Russia'?"

"You asked me a question: Let me finish answering it," Svetlana said. "Maybe I should have said if we return to Russia and it comes out-and it would-then your government couldn't be accused of cruelly and heartlessly sending us home to the prison on Lubyanka Square. Your press will get that letter. It says 'All is forgiven.' Your government can then say all they did when they loaded us aboard an Aeroflot airplane was help us go home to our loving family."

"Score another one for Sweaty," Delchamps said.

"The U.S. government is not going to put you on an Aeroflot plane," Castillo said.

"You better hope, Ace," Delchamps said.

"Over my dead body," Castillo said.

"Thank you, my darling," Svetlana said. "I will pray that it doesn't come to that."

"Me, too," Tom Barlow said. "May I offer a suggestion, Charley?"

"Sure."

"Before we get whatever Casey is going to send us, why don't we all, independently, try to find fault with our scenario?"

Castillo nodded. "Sure. Good idea."

"And while we're all doing that, independently come up with a scenario on how to deal with this?"

"Another good idea," Castillo said.

"Are we going to try to grab this stuff in Venezuela?" Lorimer asked.

"What I would like to do is grab that Tupolev Tu-934A in Venezuela," Torine said.

Everyone was quiet for a long moment.

Then Pevsner said: "I'll check, but I think everybody's rooms should be ready by now. Shall we meet here in, say, an hour and have another of Leverette's cocktails and then dinner?" [ONE] Claudio's Shell Super Service Station State Highways 203 and 304 Centreville, Maryland 0730 7 February 2007 There was nothing unusual about the GMC Yukon XL that turned off State Highway 304 into the gas station. Indeed, there were two near twins-three, if one wished to count a Chevrolet Suburban-already at the pump islands.

The driver of the arriving Yukon pulled up beside one of the pumps, got out, and fed the pump a credit card. Other doors opened and three men-all dressed in plaid woolen jackets-got out and walked quickly toward the men's room, suggesting to a casual witness that it had been a long time between pit stops.

A Chrysler Grand Caravan turned off State Highway 203 and drove right up to the men's room door. The van's sliding door opened and three men-also in plaid woolen jackets and also apparently feeling the urgent call of nature-hurried into the restroom.

A minute or so later, the first of the men came out of the restroom, and got into either the Yukon or the Grand Caravan. In two minutes everybody was out of the men's room. The Caravan backed up and stopped at a pump. The Yukon driver walked quickly to the men's room.

By the time he came out, the driver of the Caravan had topped off his tank and returned to the wheel. By the time the Yukon driver got behind his wheel, the Caravan was out of the station. Ninety seconds later, so was the Yukon.

If anyone had been watching it was unlikely that they would have noticed that one of the men who had gone to the restroom from the Yukon had gotten into the Grand Caravan when he came out and that one of the Caravan passengers had gone to the Yukon when he came out of the men's room. The man in the front passenger seat of the Grand Caravan turned and offered the man who had just gotten in a silver flask.

"What is it they say about 'beware of Russians passing the bottle'?" A. Franklin Lammelle, deputy director of the Central Intelligence Agency, asked. "And it's a little early for vodka, even for me."

"It's not vodka, Frank. It's Remy Martin," Cultural Counselor Sergei Murov of the Washington embassy of the Russian Federation replied.

"In that case, Sergei, I will have a little taste," Lammelle said, and reached for the flask. He held it up in a toast, and said, "Here's to Winston Churchill, who always began his day with a taste of fine cognac."

Both men were stocky, in their midforties, fair-skinned, and wore small, rimless spectacles. Murov had a little more remaining hair than Lammelle. They could have been cousins.

Murov was the SVR's Washington rezident. Lammelle knew this, and Murov knew that Lammelle had known that since the Russians had proposed Murov to be their embassy's cultural counselor. Ten minutes later, the convoy turned onto Piney Point Farm Lane. A quarter of a mile down the lane, ten-foot-high chainlink fences became visible behind the vegetation on both sides of the road. On the fencing, at fifty-foot intervals, there were signs: PRIVATE PROPERTY! TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED!

Finally, the Caravan came to the first of two chainlink fence gates across the road. Outside the outer gate there was a black Ford sedan with MARYLAND STATE POLICE lettered on the body. Two state troopers in two-tone brown uniforms sat in the front seats. When the Caravan came a stop, one got out of the passenger door and carefully examined the minivan, but made no attempt to do anything else. The three SUV's parked on either side of the lane.

The outer gate swung open, and a man in a police-type private security guard uniform inside the second gate motioned for the Caravan to advance. When the van had done so, the outer gate closed behind it. The security guard came from behind the second gate, walked to the Caravan, and opened the sliding door.

When he was satisfied that there was no one in the vehicle determined to trespass on what-like the Russian embassy itself-was legally as much the territory of the Russian Federation as was the Lubyanka Square headquarters of the KGB in downtown Moscow, he signaled for the interior gate to be opened. Frank Lammelle knew a great deal about what was known as the "Russian dacha on the Eastern Shore." Some of what he knew, he had known for as long as he had been in the CIA. Back in the bad old days when Russia had been the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, young Frank Lammelle of the Clandestine Service had thought it was ironic that the ambassador of the USSR spent his weekends in a house built by John J. Raskob, almost a caricature of a capitalist. Raskob had been simultaneously vice president of General Motors and E. I. du Pont de Nemours and Company-which owned forty-three percent of GM-and had ordered the construction of the Empire State Building in New York City with the mandate to the architect that it be taller than the Chrysler Building.

Raskob's three-floor brick mansion had not been quite large enough to house him and his thirteen children, so he had built another one just about as large for them and his guests, who included such people as Walter Chrysler, Henry Ford, and Thomas Edison.

The Soviet government had bought both houses from Raskob's heirs in 1972 and later enlarged the estate by swapping land the Americans wanted in Moscow for land adjacent to the Maryland property.

The Russians then further improved the property by importing from Finland fourteen small "rental" houses for the use of embassy employees.

Some of what Lammelle knew about the Russian dacha on the Eastern Shore he had learned more recently. At five-thirty that morning, he had met with J. Stanley Waters, the CIA's deputy director for operations, and several of his deputies in The Bubble at CIA headquarters in Langley. Only the people in The Bubble-plus of course DCI Jack Powell-knew that Lammelle had accepted Sergei Murov's invitation to go boating in Maryland.

The meeting had been called both to guess the reason Murov wanted to talk to Lammelle-probably it had something to do with Congo-X, but no one was sure-and to prepare Lammelle for it.

To that end, the latest-just taken-satellite photos of the compound were shown. "Photos" was probably a misnomer, as these were satellite motion pictures. The infrared and other sensors showed life in only four of the rental cottages, including the two known to house the Russians' communications center. The analysts agreed there was no significant change from the data taken over the past week.

The NSA at Fort Meade reported they had been unable to pull anything of interest from the ether-that is, any reference to Lammelle, Murov, or a meeting between the two-and that the level of traffic between Moscow, the dacha, the embassy in Washington, and the Russian Mission to the United Nations in New York City was normal. Nothing had been sent either in a code, or by any technical means the Russians erroneously believed had not been detected or cracked at Fort Meade.

The FBI liaison officer reported that the FBI agents tracking Murov had seen nothing out of the ordinary in his behavior, and that the FBI agents on-site-one of the two state troopers stationed around the clock at the gate was always an FBI special agent-had similarly seen nothing of special interest.

Lammelle had closed the meeting with a reminder that the visit had to be kept a secret. Secrecy was important because Senator Homer Johns (Democrat, New Hampshire), the chairman of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee, who loved to be on TV and despised the CIA, would-should he learn of the meeting-love nothing better than to call DCI Powell to ask about the meeting, then quickly leak the secret to CNN and/or C. Harry Whelan, Jr., the syndicated columnist, who didn't like the CIA either. There were three Mercedes-Benz automobiles lined up in the circular drive before the three-story brick mansion: a CLS 550 sedan-the pilot car-then an elegant twin-turbo V12 CL600-obviously the ambassador's vehicle-and then another CLS 550-the chase car.

The precautions are necessary, Lammelle thought, not to protect the ambassador from the Americans, but from his fellow Russians.

Chechen rebel leader Doku Umarov would be delighted to sacrifice a half-dozen of his associates if that was the price for taking out the ambassador.

"It looks as if the boss is about to go to work," Murov said. "Why don't we say hello?"

This is not a coincidence, Lammelle decided. The ambassador probably waited until the gate reported their arrival before he came out of the house.

Obviously, he wants me to know that he knows I'm here, and, as important, to know that he knows Murov invited me. "What a pleasure to see you, Mr. Lammelle," the ambassador said, offering his hand.

He was a ruddy-faced, somewhat chubby fifty-five-year-old.

"It's always a pleasure to see you, Mr. Ambassador," Lammelle said.

"Sergei tells me you're going boating," the ambassador said.

"That's not exactly true, Mr. Ambassador. Going out on the river in February may be sport for a Siberian, but for an American it's insanity."

The ambassador laughed.

"What I thought I would do, Mr. Ambassador, is look through a window in the hunting lodge and watch Sergei turn to ice."

"I'm not a Siberian, Frank. I was born and raised in Saint Petersburg," Murov said.

Which at the time was called Leningrad, wasn't it, Sergei?

"In that case, I suggest we both look out the windows of the hunting lodge at the frigid waters."

The ambassador laughed again, and laid his hand on Lammelle's arm.

"If I have to say this, the door here is always open to you."

"That's very gracious of you, Mr. Ambassador."

"Perhaps if you're still here when I get back, we can have a drink," the ambassador said, and then gestured for his chauffeur to open the door of the Mercedes.

"I don't think that's likely, but thank you, Mr. Ambassador."

"Give my best regards to the President and Mr. Powell when you see them, please."

"I'll be happy to do so, Mr. Ambassador."

And say "Hi!" to Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin for me, please, Mr. Ambassador, when you get the chance. "I thought we'd have breakfast in the hunting lodge, rather than in the house, if that's all right with you, Frank," Murov said as they watched the ambassadorial convoy of three luxury cars roll away.

"Fine with me, Sergei," Lammelle said.

Murov waved him back into the Caravan for the short ride to the hunting lodge, which was a small outbuilding that had been converted into a party room. There was a table that could seat a dozen people. A small kitchen was hidden behind a half-wall on which was a mural of two old-time sailors-one Russian and the other American-smiling warmly at each other as they tapped foam-topped beer mugs with one another.

Lammelle thought: In the professional judgment of our best counterintelligence people, somewhere on that mural and on that oh-so-charmingly-rustic chandelier with the beer mugs overhead and God only knows where else are skillfully concealed motion picture camera lenses and state-of-the-Russian-art microphones. All recording for later analysis every syllable I utter and every movement and facial expression I make.

And as much as I would love to roll my eyes and grimace for the cameras before giving them the international signal for "Up yours, Ivan," I can't do that.

Doing so would violate the rules of proper spook deportment, and we can't have that!

Unless we play by the rules, we would never learn anything from one another. Murov waved Lammelle into one of the two places set at the table, and a cook-a burly Russian man-immediately produced coffee mugs and set a bottle of Remy Martin and two snifters on the table.

That's really a little insulting, Sergei, if you thought I was going to oblige you by getting sauced and then run my mouth.

Or it could simply be standard procedure: "Put the booze out. The worse that can happen is that the American won't touch it."

"I asked Cyril to make eggs Benedict," Murov said. "That all right with you, Frank?"

"Sounds fine," Lammelle said, "but looking the gift horse in the teeth, can we get on with this? I really have to get back to the office."

"Just as soon as he lays the eggs Benedict before us, I'll ask Cyril to leave us." "I hardly know where to begin," Murov said as he finished his breakfast.

The hell you don't.

Item two on your thoughtfully prepared agenda-item one being put out the Remy Martin-was to suggest you don't know what you're talking about and simply are going to have to wing it and thus be at my mercy.

"How about this?" Murov went on. "I think there are certain areas where cooperation between us would be mutually advantageous."

"Does that mean, Sergei, that I have something you want, and you hope that what you're going to offer me will be enough to convince me I should give it to you?"

Murov considered that a moment, then shrugged, smiled, and nodded.

"You can always see right through me, Frank, can't you?"

"Only when you want me to, Sergei. If you don't want me to…"

"I know how to neutralize Congo-X," Murov said.

Now, that's interesting!

Starting with: How does he know that we're calling it Congo-X?

"I didn't know you had assets in Fort Detrick. Now I'll have to tell the counterintelligence guy there to slit his wrists."

"I have people all over. Almost as many as you do, Frank."

"Did your assets tell you that we've already just about figured out how to neutralize Congo-X?"

"They told me Colonel Hamilton has had some preliminary success," Murov said.

I don't think there's an SVR agent inside Detrick.

What I think we have is some misguided noble soul, a tree-hugger-or a half-dozen of them-who is making his-or their-contribution to world peace and brotherhood among men by feeding anything they think is another proof of our innate evilness to the Russians, who are no longer godless Communists, and thus no longer a threat.

The proof of how good they are now is that when they reburied the tsar and his family in Moscow, Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin was there on his knees. Somehow that photograph of that born-again Christian made front-page news all over the world.

"Just for the sake of conversation, Sergei, what have I got that you want?"

"Colonel Dmitri Berezovsky and Lieutenant Colonel Svetlana Alekseeva."

"Since you have assets all over, Sergei, I'm really surprised you don't know that we don't have either of them, and never have had."

"But in a manner of speaking, Frank, if you have someone who has anything-a bottle of Remy Martin, for example-wouldn't it be fair to say you also have that bottle of cognac?"

"If you're suggesting I have someone who has your two defectors, I don't. And I think you know that, Sergei."

"What about Lieutenant Colonel Carlos Castillo? Doesn't he have Berezovsky and Alekseeva? And since that name has come up, he wants Colonel Castillo, too."

"Who 'he,' Sergei? Who 'wants Colonel Castillo, too'?"

Murov smiled, but now his eyes were cold.

"Frank, we never lie to one another," Murov said.

True. But we obfuscate as well as we know how-and we're both good at it-all the time.

"So far, that's been the case, Sergei," Lammelle said.

"That being the case, you're not going to deny that Berezovsky and Alekseeva left Vienna on Castillo's airplane, are you?"

"Several people I know have told me that, so I'm prepared to believe it. But I don't know it for a fact."

"Or that Castillo works for you?"

"It's my turn to ask a question. You didn't answer my last question: Who 'he' that wants Castillo?"

Murov took a moment to organize his thoughts, and then asked, "How much of the history of the SVR do you know, Frank?"

"Not nearly as much as I should," Lammelle said. "I know that the Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki used to be the First Directorate of the KGB, and there's a story going around that the reason it's so powerful is because, in addition to his other duties to the Russian Federation, Vladimir Putin runs it."

"You do know how to go for the jugular, don't you, Frank?"

"Excuse me?"

"My question was: How much of the history of the SVR do you know?"

"Putin doesn't run it? For a moment there, I was beginning to think that Putin was he who wants Castillo, too."

"Once more, Frank: How much of the history of the SVR do you know?"

"Why don't you tell me, Sergei, what you think I should know about it?"

Murov looked at him carefully and pursed his lips as he framed his reply.

Finally, he asked, "Would you be surprised to learn that its history goes back beyond the Special Section of the Cheka? Back beyond the Revolution?"

"I don't know. I never gave that much thought."

"Where do you think the Cheka came from?"

"I know it really became important in 1917-1918?-when Felix Dzerzhinsky took it over."

"Did you ever hear that Dzerzhinsky was an oprichnik?"

"I don't know what that is. But I have heard that Dzerzhinsky had been locked up and nearly starved to death by the Bolsheviks until just before he was given the Cheka."

"That's what you and I would now call 'disinformation,' Frank. I think it unlikely that he ever spent a day behind bars. Dzerzhinsky was in fact an oprichnik."

"And I told you I don't know what that means."

"I'm about to tell you. In 1565, Ivan the Terrible moved out of Moscow, taking with him a thousand households he'd selected from the nobility, senior military officers, merchants, and even some serfs. Then he announced he was abdicating.

"The people left behind were terrified. Ivan the Terrible was really a terrible man, but those who would replace him were as bad, and before one of them rose to the top, there would be chaos."

Where the hell is he going with this history lesson?

"So they begged Ivan to reconsider, to remain the tsar. He told them what that would take: the establishment of something, a 'separate state' called the 'Oprichnina,' within Russia. The Oprichnina would be made up of certain districts and cities, and the revenue from these places would be used to support Ivan and his oprichniki.

"To make the point that it would be unwise to challenge this new idea, Ivan first had Philip, the Metropolitan of Moscow-who had said the Oprichnina was un-Christian-strangled to death. Then Ivan moved to Great Novgorod, Russia's second-largest city, where the people had complained about having to support the new state-within-the-state.

"There he killed all the men and male children, raped all the women, seized all the crops and livestock, and leveled every building. No one ever questioned the Oprichnina again."

"Not once, in the next-what?-four hundred fifty give-or-take years?"

Murov ignored the sarcasm, and went on: "In 1825, after Tsar Nicholas the First put down the Decembrist Revolution, he realized the revolution would have succeeded had it not been for the assistance-more important, the intelligence-provided by trusted elements of the Oprichnina, so he made them into a separate state within the separate state. He called this the Third Section, or sometimes the Special Section.

"When the Bolsheviks, Mensheviks, and, finally, the Communists took over, Lenin, on December 20, 1917, formed from the tsar's Special Section what was officially The All-Russian Extraordinary Commission for Combating Counterrevolution and Sabotage, but commonly known by its acronym as the Cheka. He placed an aristocrat named Felix Dzerzhinsky in charge."

"The tsar's secret police became the Cheka under an aristocrat named Dzerzhinsky?" Lammelle asked incredulously.

Murov nodded.

"Dzerzhinsky's father had been one of the more important grand dukes under the tsar. One of the oprichniki. There were no more grand dukes, of course-or any 'nobility.' But there was the Oprichnina, and Dzerzhinsky was one of them.

"He apparently decided he could best serve Russia by serving Lenin. The family still lives on the estates they had under the tsar. That's the point of this history lesson, Frank. To make sure you understand how important the Oprichnina remains even today."

"I guess you wouldn't know all these fascinating details if you weren't one of them, huh, Sergei?" Lammelle said, more than a little sarcastically.

Murov either missed the sarcasm or chose to ignore it.

"My family has been intelligence officers serving the Motherland for more than three hundred years," Murov said with quiet pride. "We have served in the Special Section, the Cheka, the OGPU, the NKVD, the KGB, and now the SVR."

"And Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin is one of you, too, I suppose?"

"I've answered your question truthfully. Now answer mine: You're not going to deny that Colonel Castillo works for you, are you?"

"Lieutenant Colonel Castillo does not now, nor has he ever, worked for the agency. That's the truth, Sergei."

"But you're-how do I put this?-in touch?"

Lammelle shook his head. "No."

"Do you know where he is?"

Lammelle shook his head again. "No, but if I can find out, I'm going to warn him that Putin's after him."

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to," Lammelle said. "Are you going to tell me what that's all about? Why does Putin want his head?"

"I didn't say President Putin is in any way involved in this, Frank."

Of course you didn't.

Those cameras and microphones also are recording everything you say, aren't they?

"Okay. Let me rephrase. Why does He Who Wants Castillo want him? And please don't tell me 'wants' isn't shorthand for 'wants eliminated.'"

"There are several reasons, most of which-probably all of which-have occurred to you. For one thing, Colonel Castillo has left a great many bodies behind him in his travels around the world. Do I make my point?"

"That accusation would be a good deal more credible, Sergei, if you put names to the bodies," Lammelle said.

"If you insist," Murov said. "I suppose the first was Major Alejandro Vincenzo of the Cuban Direccion General de Inteligencia. You're not going to deny Castillo was involved in that, are you?"

"As I understand that story, that was self-defense," Lammelle said.

"Whatever the circumstances, Vincenzo and half a dozen others were shot to death in Uruguay by a commando team under Colonel Castillo."

"There was a confrontation and Vincenzo lost. Sometimes that happens in our line of work, Sergei. The good guys don't always win."

Murov smiled.

"That comment can be interpreted in two ways, Frank, depending on who one thinks are the good guys."

"I suppose it could."

"In any event, Vincenzo's death was an embarrassment to General Sirinov, who had to explain it to the Cubans."

"General who?"

"Contrary to your beliefs, General Yakov Sirinov is the man in charge of the FSB and the SVR."

"You mean he runs them for Mr. Putin?"

"President Putin has nothing to do with either the FSB or the SVR."

"You keep telling me that."

Not because you believe it, or expect me to believe it, but because the cameras are rolling.

Murov met Lammelle's eyes for a moment, but did not reply directly, instead saying, "Podpolkovnik Kiril Demidov."

"Is Podpolkovnik Demidov somebody else Podpolkovnik Castillo is supposed to have killed?"

Murov smiled and shook his head.

"All right, Frank, Lieutenant Colonel Demidov was a lifelong friend of mine."

"Another member of the oprichniki?"

Murov nodded. "More important, his family and that of General Sirinov were close-more than close, distant cousins, that sort of thing-and even more important than that, close to other powerful people."

"Like he whose name we're not mentioning, who wants Castillo eliminated?"

Murov nodded.

"Vienna is not nearly as important a post as it once was, but when Kiril was named rezident there, there were those who said he was too young and did not have the experience he should have."

"But they didn't complain, right, because that might annoy he whose name we are not mentioning who arranged his appointment?"

Murov shrugged in admission.

"Well, I hate to tell you this, Sergei, but I happen to know that Lieutenant Colonel Castillo was nowhere near Vienna when someone strangled your friend and left him in a taxi in front of our embassy."

"We're back to my analogy about who controls the brandy bottle," Murov said. "And the other bodies had names, too: Lieutenant Colonel Yevgeny Komogorov, for one."

Lammelle said, "There was a story going around that he was the FSB man for Argentina, Chile, and Uruguay. The story I heard about what happened to him was that he made the mistake of trying to assassinate Aleksandr Pevsner."

"And then there was Lavrenti Tarasov and Evgeny Alekseev, whose bodies were found near the airport in Buenos Aires. Evgeny was another old friend of mine. I'm sure you know that he was Podpolkovnik Svetlana Alekseeva's husband."

"Why would you think I would know that?"

"Because you're the deputy director of the CIA," Murov said coldly.

"Do I detect a subtle tone of disapproval in your voice, Sergei?" Lammelle said.

"How about disappointment? I really hoped we could have a serious discussion and resolve our problem. As professionals."

"As a professional, Sergei, I find it hard to believe that you thought we could have a serious discussion when what I'm hearing from you strikes me as nonsense."

"Nonsense?"

"Right now I don't have a clear picture of the long-term implications of Congo-X turning up at Fort Detrick and on the U.S.-Mexico border. If you wanted to hurt someone with it, you would have. If you had hurt someone, that could have led anywhere, right up to a nuclear exchange. If you do hurt something that hurts us badly, for example, killing as many people as the rag-heads taking down the World Trade Center towers killed, then the missiles will fly. We didn't know whom to nuke after 9/11. But if something happens involving Congo-X, we know just where to go: Lubyanka Square, Moscow, and you damned well know it.

"And what you're suggesting here is that you're willing to risk a nuclear exchange unless we turn over to you three people, a colonel and two lieutenant colonels! You're right, Sergei, that's not nonsense. It's not even a clumsy attempt at blackmail. What it is, is pure bullshit!"

Murov looked at him for a moment, then reached for the bottle of Remy Martin cognac. He poured two inches of it into one of the snifters, and then looked at Lammelle.

"Why not?" Lammelle said. "Not only are the gloves off, but I'm about to walk out of here."

Murov poured cognac into another snifter, then handed it to Lammelle.

They touched glasses.

"Mud in your eye," Murov said.

"Up yours, Sergei," Lammelle said unpleasantly.

"I used the word 'disappointed' a moment ago, Frank. And I am. I'm disappointed that you don't really understand power."

"And what don't I understand about it?"

"In your government, your leader, your President, doesn't really have absolute power. There are things he simply cannot do because he wants to. In other governments-Cuba, for example, North Korea, Venezuela, and one or two others-the leader can do anything that pleases him. Anything."

Lammelle felt a chill at the base of his neck.

"Russia wouldn't be one of those other countries, would it?"

"Of course not. We are a democracy now. Our president and other officials must-and always do-follow the law and the will of the people."

Lammelle took a healthy swallow-half of the cognac in the glass-and felt the warmth move through his body.

"That's utter bullshit, too," he said.

"I'll tell you what's going to happen now, Frank," Murov said. "You're going to go back to Langley and report this conversation to Jack Powell. And he will be as unbelieving as you were. This will evolve into anger. And then you'll go to the President. And he will be as unbelieving as you were and Jack Powell will be. And then he will become angry. Fortunately-for all of us-President Clendennen is not nearly as impulsive as his predecessor. He will think things over carefully, and in the end he will tell you to call me back and say that you will do whatever you can to resolve this problem. As you yourself pointed out, in the balance, the lives of a colonel and two lieutenant colonels aren't really worth all that much."

"Fuck you, Sergei."

"I'll have the car brought around," Murov said, and reached for a telephone.

"Let me call first," Lammelle said, and Murov slid the telephone to him.

Lammelle punched in a number from memory.

"It's time to pick up the dry cleaning," he said a moment later, and then hung up.

He slid the telephone back to Murov.

"Don't bother to make note of the number," he said. "In ten minutes, it will be out of service."

"You didn't have to tell me that, Frank," Murov said, and then punched in a number and said, in Russian, "My guest will be leaving." Murov walked him to the Caravan.

When Lammelle was in the front passenger seat, Murov motioned for him to roll down the window. Lammelle found the switch, but the window remained up.

"Unlock his fucking window," Murov called nastily in Russian.

Lammelle tried the switch again, and this time the window went down.

"Well?" Lammelle asked.

"Frank, the problem people like you and me have is that sometimes we have to do things we don't like at all. I took no pleasure in what happened between us today. There was no feeling of 'Score one for our side.'"

Lammelle met his eyes, but said nothing. He found the switch, put the window up, and then in English said, "Okay, let's go." [TWO] The President's Study The White House 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, N.W. Washington, D.C. 1225 7 February 2007 "Fascinating," President Joshua Ezekiel Clendennen said when Deputy DCI Frank Lammelle had delivered his report on what had happened that morning in the Russian dacha. "How much are we supposed to believe?"

He turned in his high-backed blue leather judge's chair and pointed at Secretary of State Natalie Cohen.

"I think Frank can answer that better than I can, Mr. President," Cohen said. "He was there."

"I'll rephrase, Madam Secretary," Clendennen said, a long way from pleasantly. "Presuming Mr. Lammelle told us the truth and nothing but, how much of what this Russian told him can we believe? Make that two questions: How much of what the Russian told Lammelle are we expected to believe, and, two, how much can we believe?"

If she felt insulted, it didn't show on her face or in her tone of voice.

"Mr. President, I always like to start with what we do know. In this case, we know the Russians were involved with the bio-chem laboratory in the Congo. And since they know we call this substance Congo-X, and that some of it was delivered to Fort Detrick and some left for us to find on the Mexican border, I suggest that it is safe to presume they have more of it. The threat, therefore, is real."

"Natalie, we don't know that," DCI Jack Powell said. "For all we know, the stuff they sent us may be all they have. This whole thing may be a bluff."

"I asked her, Jack," the President said. "You'll get your chance."

"I think, Mr. President," Cohen said, "to respond to your questions directly, that they expect us to believe everything they told Frank, and I think we should."

Clendennen grunted, then looked at Powell.

"Okay, Jack, your chance," the President said. "Do these bastards have more of this stuff, or not?"

"Off the top of my head, Mr. President, I would say they have at least a little more, enough of it so they can leave us a couple more samples."

"And that's all they have?"

"Mr. President, we leveled and then burned everything in a twenty-mile radius of the Fish Farm. Either we somehow missed this, or they had some of it in a laboratory in Russia. Or someplace else. My gut tells me there's not much of Congo-X anywhere."

"But we don't know that, do we?" Clendennen asked.

"No, sir, we don't."

"Why would Putin do something like this?" Clendennen wondered aloud.

"Was that a question, Mr. President?" Mark Schmidt, the director of the FBI, asked.

"Does that mean you have an answer?"

"No, sir. Just that I've been thinking about motive."

"Well, out with it."

"For one thing, we humiliated the Russians when we took out the Fish Farm," Schmidt said. "For another, Castillo and his people-"

"My predecessors' loose cannon and his merry band of outlaws humiliated the Russians?" the President interrupted, sarcastically incredulous.

"Yes, sir. Castillo and his people have not only humiliated the Russians-which is to say Putin-all over Europe and South America but-according to what the Russian told Frank-has killed a lot of them. I think it's credible that Putin did know some of them personally, and wants revenge."

"Madam Secretary?" the President asked.

Natalie Cohen nodded her agreement with Schmidt's theory.

"And he could well be reasoning that we really don't want a confrontation when that could be avoided by returning their two defectors. We can't give him Castillo, of course-"

"Why can't we?" the President asked.

"Jesus Christ!" Lammelle exclaimed.

"Let's go down that road," Clendennen said. "No. Of course we can't give him Colonel Castillo or any of his people. As much as I might want to. But we can go along with that notion…"

"Let me go on the record here," Natalie Cohen said. "I will not be part of any agreement which will turn over the two defectors, much less Colonel Castillo or any of his people, to the Russians."

"Duly noted," President Clendennen said. "Let me finish, please. I said we can let the Russians think we're willing to give them all three of them. So far as the Russians are concerned, we weren't responsible for their defection."

"Castillo flew them out of Vienna on his plane, Mr. President," Powell said. "And if he hadn't, we had a plane waiting at Schwechat to do the same thing."

"If they had gotten on a plane sent by the CIA, Mr. Powell," the President said coldly, "we would have some sort of moral obligation to protect them. They didn't. Castillo was not acting on behalf of the U.S. government when he flew them to South America. Therefore, we have no such moral obligation."

"I don't agree with that at all, Mr. President," Powell said.

"I don't care, Mr. Powell, if you agree with it or not. I'm telling you that's the way it is."

He let that sink in for a moment, and then went on: "Madam Secretary, I want you to call in the Argentine ambassador and tell him that it has come to our attention that there are two people in his country illegally… what are their names?"

"Presumably, Mr. President, you are referring to Dmitri Berezovsky and Svetlana Alekseeva," she said.

"… for whom Interpol has issued warrants alleging the embezzlement of several millions of dollars."

"Excuse me, Mr. President," Mark Schmidt said. "Interpol has canceled those warrants at the request of the Russian Federation. Three days ago. Berezovsky and Alekseeva are no longer fugitives."

"You're sure?" the President said.

"Yes, sir. I'm sure."

"Well, so much for that idea," the President said. "That would have been easier. We'll have to come up with something else. So here's what we're going to do: Lammelle, get in touch with your Russian and tell him he has a deal."

"Am I to tell him the deal includes Colonel Castillo?"

"Yes. I told you I was not about to turn over an American to those Russian bastards, but if they think I am, so much the better for us."

"Yes, sir."

That sonofabitch is lying through his teeth. He'd happily turn Castillo over to the Russians, or anyone else, if it would get him out of this mess.

"The next step is to locate the Russians. You think they're in Argentina?"

"I have no idea where they are, Mr. President," DCI Powell said.

"Well, I want them found and I want them found quickly. Do whatever has to be done. Send as many people down there-or to anywhere else you think they might be-and find them. Run down the people who used to work for Castillo. See if they know where the Russians are. And Castillo is."

"Yes, sir."

"This is a no-brainer, Mr. Powell. If we can get these Russian bastards to keep that stuff out of the country, and all it costs us is giving them back two traitors, that's a price I can live with. I've always thought that people who change sides are despicable."

"Even if the side they change from is despicable, Mr. President?" Natalie Cohen asked.

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear you say that, Madam Secretary," the President of the United States said. [THREE] Penthouse B The Grand Cozumel Beach amp; Golf Resort Cozumel Quintana Roo, Mexico 1310 7 February 2007 A good deal of conversation and thought had not shot many holes in the scenario of what was probably going on, but on the other hand it also hadn't done much to confirm it.

Neither had "all the agency intel" that Casey had furnished. The CIA's analysts also seemed to feel the Congo-X sent to Fort Detrick and left for the Border Patrol to find on the Mexican border had most probably come from the Fish Farm in the Congo. But they had no idea how it had been moved from Africa to the United States, and apparently had not considered that the Tupolev Tu-934A might have been involved.

Castillo had called Casey and asked him to see if his source could find anything about Tupolevs moving anywhere, and again asked him to send any intel, no matter how unimportant or unrelated it might seem.

The only thing to do was wait for something to happen. Everybody was frustrated, but everybody also knew that sitting around with your finger in your ear-or other body orifice-waiting for something to happen was what intelligence gathering was really all about.

So everybody but Castillo, Svetlana, Pevsner, and Tom Barlow had gone deep-sea fishing on a forty-two-foot Bertram owned by the Grand Cozumel Beach amp; Golf Resort.

Castillo had seen everybody's departure as an opportunity. But Tom Barlow had come to the penthouse and asked if he wanted to play chess before he could take advantage of the opportunity. Castillo no more wanted to play chess than he wanted to lunch on raw iguana, but the alternative was saying, "No, thanks, as I'm planning to spend the morning increasing my carnal knowledge of your sister."

When the door chime went off, they were playing chess, and Svetlana-in a bikini-was taking in the sun on a chaise longue by the pool, with Max lying beside her.

The latter went to answer the door.

Aleksandr Pevsner, Janos, and another man were standing there.

Before Pevsner knew what was happening, Max put his paws on Pevsner's shoulders and licked his face.

"Look at that!" Tom Barlow called happily. "Max loves you, Alek."

And then he recognized the man with Pevsner and exclaimed, "I'll be damned!"

The man with Pevsner was plump, ruddy-faced, and in his early fifties. His short-sleeved blue shirt had wings and epaulets with the four stripes of a captain on it.

"Well, my God, look who's all grown up and wearing lipstick! And not much else," the man said, and spread his arms.

"Uncle Nicolai!" Svetlana cried happily and ran into his arms.

Castillo watched, then thought: Well, that explains that. Another relative.

But what is Uncle Nicolai doing here?

Tom Barlow was now waiting patiently for his chance to exchange hugs with Uncle Nicolai. When it came, the two embraced and enthusiastically pounded each other's back.

"Aleksandr said you were in Johannesburg," Svetlana said.

"I spend a good deal of time there," Uncle Nicolai said. He looked at Charley and offered his hand. In fluent, just slightly accented English, he said, "I'm Nicolai Tarasov."

"Charley Castillo."

"Who has captured Svetlana's heart. Alek told me."

"So what brings you to Cozumel by the Sea, Uncle Nicolai?" Castillo asked.

Tarasov avoided the question.

"Alek and I go back to our days with Aeroflot," Tarasov said. "When I tried without much success to teach him to fly Ilyushin Il-96s."

Castillo felt his temper turn on.

"Why don't you want to tell me what brings you to Cozumel by the Sea, Uncle Nicolai?" he repeated, then added: "Somehow I don't think this is a happy coincidence and that you're all going to sit around eating fried chicken and telling stories about Grandma."

"Why are you going out of your way to be unpleasant, Charley?" Svetlana asked.

Castillo switched to Russian: "Because Cousin Alek"-he pointed at Pevsner-"can't seem to get it through his thick Russian skull that since I'm running this operation, it's not nice to spring surprises on me. Like Uncle Nicolai just happening to drop in from Johannesburg to say hi."

"You speak Russian very well; you sound like you're from Saint Petersburg," Tarasov said. "Aleksandr told me you did. Just after he told me to be very, very careful not to underestimate you."

"I still don't have an answer," Castillo said.

"Just for the record, Charley," Tom Barlow said, "I'm as surprised to see Nicolai as you are."

"Goodbye, Uncle Nicolai," Castillo said, motioning toward the door. "The next time you're in town, make sure you call."

"Now, wait just a minute, Charley!" Pevsner flared.

"Why do I have to spend all my time making peace between you two?" Svetlana asked.

"Maybe because Alek the Terrible has trouble understanding I don't recognize him as the tsar," Charley said.

Both Barlow and Tarasov chuckled.

Pevsner gave them both an icy glare.

"'Alek the Terrible'?" Tarasov quoted. "I like that."

"I got in touch with Nicolai to see what he could contribute to our scenario," Pevsner said after a moment.

"And can he?" Castillo challenged, and then looked at Tarasov. "Can you?"

"I'm trying to run down something I heard, about an incident that took place at the El Obeid Airport in Sudan," Tarasov said. "That may take a little time. And I think there's at least a good chance that if a Tupolev Tu-934A was used in this operation, I know where they landed in Mexico."

"What took place in Sudan?"

"They found a lot of dead people at the burned-down airport," Tarasov said. "From what little I know so far, it sounds like something that one of Yakov Sirinov's Vega Groups would do. No witnesses."

"And the airport in Mexico?"

"Laguna el Guaje," Tarasov said. "In Coahuila State."

"Laguna el Guaje mean anything to you, Charley?" Pevsner asked.

Castillo shook his head.

"It's sort of the Mexican version of Groom Dry Lake Test Facility," Nicolai explained. "Far fewer aircraft, and different secrets."

Castillo knew that Groom Lake, on the vast Nellis Air Force Base near Las Vegas, was rumored to be where-in Area 51 thereon-the CIA was holding little green men from Mars, or elsewhere in the universe. He hadn't seen any of them when he had been to Area 51, but he had seen some very interesting experimental aircraft.

"I have never heard of either what you just said or Area 51," Castillo said. "But if I had, and talked to you about it, I'd have to kill you."

Nicolai laughed out loud and punched Castillo's shoulder.

"I like him, Alek," he said.

"Don't speak too soon," Pevsner said.

"Why do you think that might be the place?" Castillo said.

"Because we use it from time to time," Tarasov said.

And what do you use it for, from time to time?

Moving cocaine around?

"How do we find out?"

"A man who you should know is going to meet us there," Pevsner said.

"And how do we get there?"

"Fly," Tarasov said. "It should take us about an hour."

"Two of the three pilots who can fly our Gulfstream are deep-sea fishing. It may take some time to get them back here. And when they get here, they'll probably be half in the bag. They didn't expect to go flying. And I really don't like flying that airplane by myself."

"But you could if you had to, right? I hear you're quite a pilot." He paused, then added: "Schwechat-Ezeiza via Africa is a long way to go in a G-Three unless you really know how to fly a Gulfstream."

"Flattery will get you nowhere, Uncle Nicolai. Goodbye, Uncle Nicolai," Castillo said.

Tarasov seemed unaffected by Castillo's belligerence.

"Actually, Colonel Castillo," he said, "I have an airplane. I just picked up a Cessna Citation Mustang at the factory in Wichita. That's what I was doing when Aleksandr called, getting checked out in it."

"And now you're going to fly it to Johannesburg, right?" Castillo said sarcastically. "I hope you know how to swim. The specs I saw on the Mustang gave it a range of about eleven hundred nautical miles, and the last time I looked, the Atlantic Ocean was a lot wider than that."

"He's not going to fly it to South Africa," Pevsner said. "The casino here bought the Mustang to replace the Lear it uses to pick up good casino customers and bring them to Cozumel."

The last I heard, Cessna was happy not only to deliver a plane like that to the customer, but also to have whoever delivered it teach the new owner or his pilot how to fly it.

And since you own the casino, please forgive me for wondering what almost certainly illegal services this new Mustang will render to you when it's not hauling high-rollers around.

What's behind all this bullshit?

You know, but you don't like to think about it.

Fuck it. Get it out in the open.

"Alek, listen to me carefully," Castillo said. "Whatever we do to solve our current problem, we are not going to get involved with the drug trade or anybody in it."

"Friend Charley, you listen carefully to me," Pevsner said, icily furious. "I am not, and never have been, involved with the drug trade."

Castillo considered that a moment, and then realized: I'll be a sonofabitch if I don't believe him!

Why? Because I want to?

"Why do I keep waiting for you to say 'but'?" Castillo asked.

"Aleksandr, I think you should answer Charley's question, and fully," Svetlana said.

Pevsner glared at her.

"Svet took the words from my mouth, Alek," Tom Barlow said. "Not only is he entitled to an answer, but the last thing we need right now is Charley questioning your motives."

"I'm not used to sharing the details of my business operations with anybody," Pevsner said. "I told you I am not, and never have been, involved with the drug trade. That should be enough."

"I keep waiting for the rest of the sentence beginning with 'but,'" Castillo said.

"Colonel Castillo," Tarasov said, "let me try to explain: Once a month-sometimes three weeks, sometimes five-certain businessmen-most often Mexican, Venezuelan, and Colombian, but sometimes from other places-want to visit Switzerland, or Liechtenstein, or Moscow, without this coming to anyone's attention.

"We pick them up at Laguna el Guaje. It's always two of them. Each has two suitcases, one of them full of currency, usually American dollars, but sometimes euros or other hard currency. But only cash, no drugs."

"How do you know that?"

"Because we open them to count the cash, which determines the fare, which is five percent of the cash. We bring them here, where they travel to El Tepual International Airport at Puerto Montt, Chile, aboard a Peruaire aircraft returning from a foodstuff delivery here. At El Tepual, they transfer to an aircraft- depending on their final destination-of either Cape Town Air Cargo or Air Bulgaria-"

"Both of which the tsar here owns?" Castillo asked.

"The tsar or one of the more charming of the tsar's grand dukes," Tarasov said. "To finish, the aircraft is carrying a cargo of that magnificent Chilean seafood and often Argentinean beef to feed the affluent hungry of Europe. Getting the picture? Any questions?"

"Oh, yeah," Castillo said. "And the first one that comes to mind is: Are all you Russian expatriate businessmen really related? Aren't you worried that you'll corrupt the gene pool?"

Tarasov laughed. "I'm starting to understand you, Colonel Castillo. You say things designed to startle or outrage. People who are startled or outraged tend to say things they hadn't planned to say. Alek was right to warn me not to go with my first impression of you, which-by your design, of course-is intended to make people prone to underestimate you.

"Got me all figured out, have you, Uncle Nicolai? Tell me about the gene pool."

"We're not really related, except very distantly. Our families have been close, however, for many years."

"Do I see the Oprichnina raising its ugly head?" Castillo asked.

"Why ugly?" Tarasov said. "Did what you may have heard of the Oprichnina make you think that?" He turned to Pevsner. "How much did you tell the colonel about the separate state, Alek?"

"What I didn't tell him, Svetlana did," Pevsner said.

"And what Svet didn't tell him, Nicolai, I did," Tom Barlow said, and then turned to Castillo. "Charley, when Alek first left Russia and bought the first Antonov An-22 and went into business, the man who flew it out of Russia was an ex-Aeroflot pilot and Air Force polkovnik named Nicolai Tarasov."

"And we have been in business together since then," Tarasov said. "Does this satisfy your curiosity, Colonel Castillo, or have you other questions?"

This could all be bullshit, which I am, in my naivete, swallowing whole.

On the other hand, my gut tells me it's not.

"Just one," Castillo said. "Are you going to check me out in the Mustang on our way back and forth to Area 51?"

"It would be my pleasure," Tarasov said.

"Can I go like this?" Sweaty asked, twirling in her bikini.

Castillo saw in Pevsner's eyes that he was considering discouraging her notion, and wondered why, and then that Pevsner had decided she could-or even should-go, and wondered about that, too.

"You can go as naked as a jaybird, as far as I'm concerned," Pevsner said, "but you probably would be more comfortable in a dress."

"Your dog thinks he's going," Tarasov said, pointing at Max, who was sitting on his haunches by the door.

And again Castillo saw something in Pevsner's eyes, this time that Max going was a good idea. He wondered about that, too.

"Max goes just about everywhere with Charley, Nicolai," Pevsner said. There were two Yukons with darkened windows waiting for them in the basement garage of the luxury hotel, and two men standing by, each not making much of an effort to conceal the Mini Uzis under their loose, flowered shirts.

Castillo wondered if all the security was routine, and then considered for the first time that if the Russians were successful in getting Svetlana and Tom back to Russia, they would probably-almost certainly; indeed Pevsner had said so-be coming after Pevsner.

And if that's true, they will also be coming after Tarasov.

I'll have to keep that in mind.

And continue to wonder when Alek will decide that if throwing me-and possibly even Tom and Sweaty-under the bus is the price of protecting his family and his businesses, then so be it.

Am I paranoid to consider the possibility that that's what may be happening right now? When we get to this mysterious airfield, is there going to be a team of General Yakov Sirinov's Spetsnaz special operators waiting for us, to load us on the Tupolev Tu-934A and fly us off to Mother Russia?

That would solve everyone's problems.

No. That's your imagination running away with you.

Scenario two: The crew of the Bertram terminates all the fishermen and tosses their suitably weighted bodies overboard to feed the fishes.

That would get rid of everybody else who knows too much about the affairs of Aleksandr Pevsner.

And nobody knows-except Pevsner and his private army of ex-Spetsnaz special operators-that any of us have ever been near Sunny Cozumel by the Sea.

Come to think of it, there was no real reason we couldn't have passed through customs under our own names, or the names on the new passports we got in Argentina.

You are being paranoid, and you know it.

On the other hand, you have had paranoid theories before, and on more than several occasions, acting on them has saved your ass. The Yukon convoy drove directly to the airport, and then through a gate which opened for them as they approached, then onto the tarmac and up beside a Cessna Citation Mustang.

There were two pickup trucks parked close to the airplane. An air-conditioning unit was mounted in the back of one, with a foot-wide flexible tube feeding cold air through the door. The other held a ground power generator.

As soon as the doors of the Yukons opened, the air-conditioning hose was pulled out of the door.

Max knew his role in the departure procedure: He trotted up to the nose gear, sniffed, then raised his right rear leg.

"Does he do that often?" Tarasov asked.

"Religiously," Castillo said.

"You want to do the walk-around with me?" Tarasov said.

Castillo would have done the walk-around without an invitation-no pilot trusts any other pilot to do properly what has to be done-but he intuited Tarasov's invitation was more than courtesy, and even more that it wasn't something a pilot about to give instruction would do.

"Max, go with Sweaty," Castillo ordered in Hungarian, and the dog went to the stair door and politely waited for Svetlana to board, then leapt aboard himself, pushing Pevsner aside as he did.

Castillo's suspicion deepened when Tarasov said, "Why don't you come with us, Dmitri?" and was confirmed when they came to the rear end of the port engine, which could not be seen from inside the airplane.

"Colonel," Tarasov asked, "are you armed?"

"No," Castillo admitted. "Should I be?"

"Dmitri?"

Tom Barlow shook his head.

Tarasov squatted beside his Jeppesen case, opened it and came out with two pistols. Castillo was surprised to see that both were the officer's model-a cut-down version-of the Colt 1911A1.45 ACP semiautomatic pistol.

They held five cartridges-rather than seven rounds-in the magazines in their shortened grips. The slides and barrels had been similarly shortened. They had once been made from standard pistols by gunsmiths at the Frankford Arsenal for issue only to general officers but later became commercially available.

That's my weapon of choice, Castillo thought.

I wonder where Uncle Nicolai got them. And if by coincidence, or because he's aware that they're about the best people shooter around.

"I'm sure you know how to use one of these," Tarasov said to Charley, and handed him one of the pistols. Then he turned to Barlow. "Dmitri?"

Barlow took the extended pistol, said, "They work like the regular ones, right?" and proceeded to quickly check the pistol to see if there was a round in the chamber. There was. He ejected the magazine, then worked the action, which ejected the round in the chamber. He caught it in the air, said, "Lester showed me how to do that," put it back in the magazine, shoved the magazine back in the pistol, and worked the action. It was now ready to fire.

"Am I going to need this, Nicolai?" he asked.

"I hope not. But Alek said to give them to you, and he always has his reasons. Try not to let Svetlana know you have them."

"Why not?" Castillo challenged.

"I think Alek wants the people we're going to talk to think she's somebody's girlfriend."

"Why?" Castillo pursued.

"If somebody brings his girlfriend to a meeting with people like these, it means either that he's not afraid of them, or stupid, and these people know that whatever he is, Alek is not stupid."

"Neither is Sweaty. If she's going to play a role, she should know what's expected of her."

"You want to tell Alek that?" Tarasov asked.

"My immediate reaction to that is an angry 'Hell, yes, I'll tell him.' But since I tend to get in trouble when I react angrily, let me think about it."

"In the meantime, why don't we get aboard?" Tarasov asked. The small cabin of the jet was crowded. Castillo and Tarasov had to step carefully around Max, who was sprawled in the aisle, to get to the cockpit.

"Would you like to follow me through?" Tarasov asked when Castillo slipped into the co-pilot's seat.

"You fly, I'll watch," Castillo said.

"Good. You're cautious. Follow me through start-up, and have a look at the panel. It's a very nice little airplane. The latest Garmin, the G1000," he said, pointing at the panel. "When we're ready to go, you can have it. It handles beautifully, and will not try to get away from you, which cannot be said of the G-Three."

"And we're going GPS?" Castillo asked, nodding at the Garmin's screen.

"Very few navigation aids where we're going," the pilot said, smiling, "and we'll be flying, I hope, under the radar."

Tarasov threw the master buss switch, and then reached for the engine start control.

"Starting number one," he announced, and then turned to Charley: "Get on the radio and tell Cancun Area Control that we're going on a four-hour VFR low-level sightseeing ride, with a fuel stop at Santa Elena." [ONE] Aboard Cessna Mustang N0099S North Latitude 27.742, West Longitude 103.285 1425 7 February 2007 "You're not going to find an approach chart in there," Nicolai Tarasov said to Castillo, who had just gone into Tarasov's Jeppesen case searching for exactly that.

"I don't even see a runway on these," Castillo replied. "How do we know where to land? And how do we know there won't be boulders on it?"

"Presuming there's no water in the lake-and it usually is dry-you can land practically anywhere. Your Instructor Pilot will show you physical features used to locate the best place to land."

"And if an IP's not handy?"

"That's the idea, Colonel. If you don't know where to land, you shouldn't try. There won't be any boulders, but you're liable to find large tree trunks in your way. Your IP will show where there are no tree trunks."

"Meaning there are people here who remove them?"

Tarasov nodded, then said, "May I call you 'Charley'? Or 'Carlos'?"

"I wish you would-'Carlos'-as I ain't a colonel no more."

"Once a colonel, Carlos, always a colonel," Tarasov said. "Put it into a shallow descent on this course. Go into a low-level pass to make sure there really are no dead trees on the runway, and then you can land."

"What about the wind?"

"When they hear us coming, a wind sock will miraculously appear next to the runway."

"I gather there is no Laguna el Guaje tower?"

"That's the idea, Carlos. Since there is no tower, curious ears cannot overhear it clearing aircraft in and out of here." The "physical feature" Tarasov pointed out was a sprawling ranch house and some outlying buildings on the high terrain next to the lake.

"Immediately down the hill you should see-there it is-the wind sock," Tarasov said. "Usually there are negligible crosswinds. Just land into the wind, remembering, of course, to lower the wheels first."

"I have a tendency to forget that," Castillo said as he began a one-hundred-eighty-degree turn.

"Wheels coming down," Tarasov said a moment later, "and down and locked."

And a moment after that, Castillo greased the Cessna Mustang onto the lake bed.

"Not too bad a landing for a beginner," Tarasov said. "After another, say, twenty hours of my masterful instruction, I might be prepared to sign you off to fly this aircraft."

Castillo gave him the finger. Tarasov smiled at him.

"What now?" Castillo asked.

"Taxi back toward the house. You'll see sort of a hangar."

What Castillo saw just over a minute later was "sort of a hangar" dug into the side of the hill lining the dry lake bottom. It was invisible from the air, and to him as he landed, but now an enormous dirt-colored tarpaulin had been raised out of the way, revealing a cavelike area in which Castillo could see a Learjet.

A burly man in khakis walked out of the opening, holding wands and motioning him to taxi inside. An Uzi hung around his shoulder and when Castillo turned the nose, he could see three other men similarly dressed and armed.

"They don't look very friendly," Castillo said.

"They're not," Tarasov said.

Castillo turned the Mustang nose out and shut down the engines.

"Now what?" he asked.

"Now it gets interesting," Tarasov said as he unfastened his harness. Charley followed suit, and when he stood up, saw that Max and Pevsner were standing by the door.

"Maybe you better tell Max to stay onboard," Pevsner said. "Those people are liable to shoot first and ask questions later."

The best defense is usually a good offense.

"Maybe I should get off first," Castillo said, and reached for the opening mechanism.

When the stair door dropped in place, he jumped to the ground.

The men with the Uzis moved toward the airplane.

"Good afternoon," Castillo said in Spanish. "My dog is about to get off the airplane. If anyone looks like he's even thinking about pointing a weapon at him, I'll stick it up his ass, before I kill him."

The men stopped moving toward him.

He snapped his fingers and Max jumped easily to the ground. Castillo pointed to the nose gear. Max headed for it. He would have anyway, but the men with the Uzis didn't know that, and they were as much impressed with the obedient, well-trained dog as they were with his size.

"Okay, Alek," Castillo called. "You're next. This is your show."

Janos came down the doorstairs, followed by Pevsner, then Tom Barlow, and finally Svetlana.

The men's faces made it clear that she surprised them even more than the dog.

"El Senor Garcia-Romero is presumably here?" Pevsner asked, more than a little arrogantly.

There was a faint flash from Castillo's memory bank: I know that name.

Hector Garcia-Romero headed a law firm which maintained offices in Mexico City, San Antonio, and New York.

Among its clients was Lopez Fruit and Vegetables Mexico, a wholly owned subsidiary of Castillo Agriculture, Inc., of San Antonio, Texas, whose honorary chairman of the board was Dona Alicia Castillo, whose president and chief executive officer was Fernando Lopez, Charley's cousin, and whose officers included Carlos Castillo.

This can't be my Tio Hector. What the hell would he be doing here at a thug-guarded secret airfield that might as well have a sign reading WELCOME TO DRUG CARTEL INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT?

And there are probably two hundred ninety-seven thousand and six Mexicans named Garcia-Romero.

"Si, senor. In the house."

"Then what are we standing around here for?"

"Excuse me, senor, but we must check to see if you are armed."

"That's none of your business," Pevsner snapped. "Now, get on the telephone and tell Senor Garcia-Romero that I am here with a pistol in each hand."

One of the men considered that briefly, then turned, and walked quickly deeper into the cave. The remaining three men eyed everyone, except for Svetlana, warily. In Svetlana's case, the adjective was "lustfully."

In under a minute, the man who had walked away came back.

"If you will be good enough to come with me, senor?"

In the back of the cave, incongruously modern and high-tech against the gray stone into which it had been cut, was a stainless-steel-framed elevator door.

Carefully staying out of Max's way, the men ushered them onto the elevator, but did not get on it. The door closed and just as Pevsner reached for a button with an UP arrow on it, the elevator began to rise.

A Haydn string quartet came over speakers.

The door opened.

Four people were waiting for them, three of them much better dressed than the guards in the cave, but just as obviously guards. The fourth was a superbly tailored, portly, silver-haired man in his sixties.

I will be goddamned.

"Please accept my apologies for the misunderstanding down there," Hector Garcia-Romero said, and then he took a closer look at Castillo.

"Holy Mother of God, is that really you, Carlitos?"

"It's been a long time, Tio Hector," Castillo said.

"What did you call him?" Svetlana asked.

"Carlitos," Hector Garcia-Romero said. "It means 'Little Carlos.'"

"That's sweet!" Svetlana said.

"I have known him since he was this tall," Garcia-Romero said, holding his hand flat a few inches below the level of his shoulder. "You were what, Carlitos, eleven?"

"Twelve," Castillo said.

"I saw Dona Alicia ten days ago in San Antonio," Garcia-Romero said. "She said you were in Hungary with Billy Kocian."

"I was."

And now we're both in the VIP Lounge of Drug Cartel International Airport in the middle of the Mexican desert.

What the hell are you doing here, Tio Hector?

"I had no idea you knew Senor Pevsner," Garcia-Romero said.

"Likewise," Castillo said. "And I've been wondering what sort of business you do together."

"Carlitos's grandfather was one of my dearest friends," Garcia-Romero said. "If he had one flaw, it was his habit of asking indelicate questions. Carlitos has apparently inherited that, along with his more desirable character traits."

"Why don't you answer the indelicate question?" Castillo asked.

"Why don't we all go sit in the great room, have a little snack, and a little something to drink, and then we can sort this out?" Garcia-Romero said, and waved them into the house. An elaborate buffet had been laid out on an enormous low table. Silver coolers held wine, champagne, and beer bottles, and there was an array of whisky bottles at the end of the table.

Max went immediately to examine them, and with great delicacy, helped himself to a wafer topped with salami and cheese. And then helped himself to another.

"I thought Dona Alicia was exaggerating when she told me how big your dog is," Garcia-Romero said.

"And what did Dona Alicia tell you about me?" Svetlana asked.

"That Carlitos had brought a girl to the Double-Bar-C Ranch she really hoped would be the one with whom he would finally settle down and start a family."

"That's the plan," Svetlana said.

"And that's about all she told me," Garcia-Romero said.

"Hector," Pevsner said, "Svetlana and I are cousins."

"And this gentleman?" Garcia-Romero asked, indicating Tom Barlow.

"Dmitri and Svetlana are brother and sister," Pevsner said.

"And Carlitos fits in how?"

"We think of him as family," Pevsner said.

"He is family," Svetlana corrected him.

"And I have always thought of Carlitos and his cousin Fernando as my nephews," Garcia-Romero said.

"So, in a manner of speaking," Pevsner said, "we're all family."

"Above the sound of the violins softly playing 'Ave Maria,'" Castillo said, "I keep hearing a soft voice asking, 'Charley, who the hell do these two think they're fooling?'"

"Excuse me?" Garcia-Romero asked.

"You heard me, Hector," Castillo said. "How come I never saw you surrounded by thugs with Uzis before?"

"They're necessary security, Carlos," Garcia-Romero said.

"To protect you from whom?"

"You're a Mexican, a Mexican-American. You know there's a criminal element here."

"I'm a Texican, and you goddamned well know the difference between a Mexican-American and a Texican."

Garcia-Romero did not answer.

"I saw surveillance cameras in that cave downstairs," Castillo said. "What I want from you now, Tio Hector, right now, is to see the tapes of the Tupolev Tu-934A when it was here."

He could see in Garcia-Romero's eyes that that had struck a chord.

"The what?" Garcia-Romero asked.

"The Russian airplane," Castillo qualified. "And please don't tell me you don't know what I'm talking about. I've had about all the bullshit I can take."

Garcia-Romero looked at Castillo and then at Pevsner.

"You know about that? Is that why you're here?"

"Why don't you show us the tapes, Hector?" Pevsner replied.

"I was going to show them to you anyway," Garcia-Romero said.

"Mommy, I was only trying to see how many cookies were in the jar. That's the only reason I had my hand in it. I wasn't going to eat any of them. And that's the truth."

"Let's go, Hector," Castillo said. "Where are they?"

"In the security office," Garcia-Romero said. "It's on the upper floor."

He gestured toward the center of the building, and then led everybody out of the great room into the foyer, and then up a wide, tiled stairway to an upper floor.

The security room was at the end of a corridor to the right.

Garcia-Romero didn't even try to work the handle, instead pulling down the cover of a keypad and then punching in a code. And even then he didn't try to open the door.

"I wondered what kind of an airplane that was," he said. "I'd never seen one before."

There was the sound of a bolt being drawn, and then the door was opened by a man in khakis. He had a pistol in a shoulder holster.

"We want to see the tapes of that strange airplane," Garcia-Romero said.

"Shall I bring them to the great room, Don Hector?"

"No," Castillo said. "We'll look at them here."

The man looked at Castillo in surprise, and then at Garcia-Romero for guidance.

Garcia-Romero courteously waved Svetlana ahead of him through the door, and then motioned for the others to follow.

Inside, there was a desk and chairs and a cot, and another door. That was opened only after another punching of a keypad-this one mounted in sight beside the door-and the sliding of another bolt.

Inside the interior room there was a wall holding more than a dozen monitors. A man sat at a table watching them. There was room and chairs for two more people at the table.

Castillo looked at the monitors. He was not surprised to see that it was a first-class installation, which covered just about everything in and around the house, the "airfield," and the cave. And he was pleased to see a battery of recorders; that meant that whatever had happened when the Tupolev Tu-934A had been at Drug Cartel International had been recorded and would be available.

"We want to see whatever the cameras picked up when that strange airplane was here," Garcia-Romero said. "So I suspect we had better start with the arrival of the cars from the Russian embassy."

The man who had opened the door for them went to a rack, quickly found what he was looking for, and inserted it into a slot of the desk.

"It will be on Monitor Fourteen, Don Hector," he said.

"What cars from the Russian embassy?" Pevsner demanded a split second before Castillo had finished opening his mouth to ask the same thing.

"There were three," Garcia-Romero said, "two Ford sport-"

He stopped and pointed to Monitor Fourteen.

The monitor showed two enormous black Ford Expeditions and a Mercedes sedan being waved past khaki-clad guards at a gate across a dirt road.

"Aleksandr, I was told that the aircraft would be on the ground here just long enough for the people from the Russian embassy to take the two crates from it," Garcia-Romero said.

"Hector, anything you have to tell anybody about this, you tell me," Castillo said. "Alek is not the tsar of this operation, I am."

Pevsner's face whitened but he didn't say anything.

"Are you going to tell me what 'this operation' is all about, Carlos?" Garcia-Romero asked.

"Probably not. Who told you about the Tupolev coming and the involvement of the Russian embassy?"

Garcia-Romero hesitated before replying, then said, "Valentin Borzakovsky."

"Who's he?"

Garcia-Romero hesitated again.

"He's a businessman who lives in Venezuela."

"What kind of a businessman? FSB or drug cartel?"

"I don't think I like the question, or your tone, Carlos," Garcia-Romero said.

"Probably both, Carlos," Nicolai Tarasov answered Castillo. "He's one of the people we often fly out of here. And then back in here."

"With suitcases full of money?"

Tarasov nodded, smiled, and added, "On the way out. He always comes back empty-handed."

Monitor Fourteen now showed the cave. The Expeditions and the Mercedes were driving into it.

Then it showed the sky, the camera obviously looking for an aircraft.

Or cameras, plural, Castillo thought as the view which had shown some terrain changed to one showing only the sky.

How do they know to expect it?

He looked around the control room and found a radar screen.

I wouldn't want to make an instrument landing using that, but that's not what it's intended for. That's just to let the authorities of Drug Cartel International know that an aircraft has entered their area.

There was a blip on the radar screen.

I wonder how far away that airplane is. How far and how high.

Monitor Fourteen showed a dot in the sky that quickly grew into an airplane.

Castillo looked at Tarasov to see if he had seen it. Tarasov nodded.

Castillo went back to the screen. The airplane had now grown an enormous vertical stabilizer and engines above the fuselage.

Castillo looked at Tarasov again.

Tarasov nodded and mouthed, "Tu-934A."

That's one weird-looking airplane. If I had ever seen one-even a picture of one-I would have remembered.

Monitor Fourteen showed the weird-looking airplane coming in low for a landing.

"I'd never seen an airplane like that before," Garcia-Romero said.

Well, the Russians certainly didn't show it off at the Paris Air Show. That's a Special Operations special.

That it exists can't be kept a secret but the fewer people who know anything else about it, the better.

The landing roll looked normal, until all of a sudden it decelerated at an amazing rate until it was almost at a complete stop and then turned.

He must have spotted the cave.

Proof of that came when Monitor Fourteen showed the Tu-934A coming into the cave, and the camouflaged tarpaulin being lowered into place once the plane was inside.

The rear door of the Mercedes opened and a man in a business suit walked toward the Tu-934A.

The monitor pulled in on his face.

"Well, hello, Pavel," Tom Barlow said.

"Who is he?" Castillo asked.

"Pavel Koslov," Svetlana said. "The Mexico City rezident."

"And that means this is important, and probably that there's somebody notorious on the plane," Barlow said.

Monitor Fourteen showed the ramp at the rear of the Tu-934A's fuselage lowering. Before it quite touched the ground, two men in rather tight, hooded black coveralls, their faces masked, and carrying Kalashnikov rifles, trotted down it and looked the area over.

One of them made a come on gesture and two more similarly dressed and armed men came down the ramp.

"We call people who dress up like that 'ninjas,'" Castillo said. "What do you call them, Sweaty?"

"Spetsnaz."

Another man, in the black coveralls but not wearing a mask, came down the ramp. The camera moved in for a close-up.

"And a very good afternoon to you, General," Barlow said. "I trust the general had a pleasant flight?"

"That's General Yakov Vladimirovich Sirinov," Svetlana said. "Which tells us that Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin is indeed behind all this."

"Behind all what?" Garcia-Romero asked. "May I ask?"

"Right now, Tio Hector…" Castillo began and then stopped when another man, this one in a business suit, came down the ramp, and again the camera moved in for a close-up.

"That's Valentin Borzakovsky," Garcia-Romero said.

"Why do I think he didn't just come from Venezuela?" Castillo asked.

"A fuel stop at friendly Jose Marti International Airport?" Tarasov said.

"I'd bet Ciego de Avila," Castillo said. "They wouldn't want the Tu-934A to be seen at Jose Marti."

"You're right, that's more likely," Tarasov said.

"Where Whatsisname… Bora-something?"

"Borzakovsky, Valentin Borzakovsky," Svetlana furnished, a touch of impatience or resignation in her voice.

"… where he boarded FSB Airlines Flight 007, one-stop-here at Drug Cartel International-service to Maiquetia International Airport in the People's Democratic Republic of Venezuela."

Tarasov and Barlow chuckled.

Barlow then said: "I don't think Hugo Chavez would want the Tu-934A… I rephrase: I don't think General Sirinov would want-as much as Hugo would want it to put it on display-the Tu-934A to be seen at Maiquetia. Maybe the Santo Domingo Air Base?"

"More likely La Orchila," Svetlana said. "That's on an island. And it's a pretty decent air base. The runways will take a 747, and Chavez has moved all the civilians off the island."

"Which would add to the security," Barlow agreed.

"If you Russians have no ambitions in the Caribbean, how come you know so much about all the military airfields?"

"Charley, my darling, Alek is right," Svetlana said. "You really have a sophomoric sense of humor."

"My precious, I'll bet you don't even know what a sophomore is."

"The term probably has its roots, my precious darling, in one of the late sophist Dialogues of Plato, but what it means is 'tricky and superficially plausible, ' so therefore a sophomore is someone who is tricky and superficial, with emphasis on superficial. Does the shoe fit?"

"Not at all, my precious beloved darling. A sophomore is a second-year student at a college or university. You really should try to be sure of your facts before you open your adorable mouth to challenge your intellectual betters."

Svetlana made a gesture to Charley involving the use of the index fingers on both hands held in upward position.

Tom Barlow laughed out loud.

"You will pay for that, Charley," he said.

"Look what's coming down the ramp," Tarasov said.

Monitor Fourteen showed a tracked front-loader rolling off the Tu-934A's ramp. Two blue plastic vessels, looking not unlike beer kegs, were suspended from its arms.

It moved to the rear of one of the Expeditions and, under the watchful eyes of General Sirinov and one of the ninjas, was carefully loaded into it.

Then it moved to the second Expedition, where the process was repeated.

General Sirinov held a brief conversation with the man who had helped him supervise the loading of the barrels; Pavel Koslov, the Mexico City rezident; and Valentin Borzakovsky, the Venezuelan "businessman."

Then they all shook hands, except for the ninja, who first saluted and then shook hands. Koslov got back in his Mercedes and immediately drove off. Borzakovsky and the ninja and two others got in one of the Expeditions, and four of the ninjas in the other.

The Expeditions drove off.

Monitor Fourteen showed first the Mercedes, and then, a minute later, the Expeditions moving up a road in the hill surrounding the dry lake.

"They're wearing their ninja suits?" Castillo thought out loud.

"There's probably clothing for them to wear over their tactical suits in the trucks," Barlow said.

The monitor now switched back and forth between the moving vehicles, and what was happening in the cave. General Sirinov himself drove the front-loader back aboard the Tu-934A. The ramp was raised. The monitor followed Sirinov and two men Castillo guessed were the pilots to the stainless-steel elevator and showed them getting in.

"Nothing much happened after this," Garcia-Romero said. "Those three men-you said you knew one of them?"

"How far is that-are we-from the Mex-U.S. border?" Castillo asked, ignoring the question.

"At the closest point, seventy-five, eighty miles," Garcia-Romero said.

"And McAllen-Matamoros, that area? What's that, five hundred miles?"

"Probably," Garcia-Romero said.

"The ninjas came back, right? And the Venezuelan 'businessman'?"

Garcia-Romero nodded. "They returned about four hours after what you just saw."

"So that means they got the barrels across the border near here," Castillo said. "How would they do that, Tio Hector?"

Garcia-Romero hesitated for a moment, but finally said, "There are people who make a profession of getting people across the border…"

"People and drugs, right?"

"Yes, Carlos, sometimes drugs. They call them 'coyotes.'"

"What?" Svetlana asked.

"A coyote is something like a cross between a wolf and a German Shepherd, sweetheart," Castillo said. "With all of the bad, and none of the good, characteristics of both. They attack calves, lambs, dogs, cats, rabbits, and sometimes children. Their numbers are increasing, and there doesn't seem to be much that can be done to control them. In other words, they're sort of a canine drug cartel."

"You really don't like people involved with drugs, do you, baby?" she asked softly.

"Moving right along, Hector," Castillo said, "would it be reasonable to assume that somewhere near the border, some of these coyotes had been pre-positioned, either by the Venezuelan businessman or the guy from the Russian embassy, to move those two barrels into the United States?"

"If they wanted to move those barrels into the United States, that would be the way to do it. Do we know that they wanted to do that? What's in those barrels, anyway?"

"We know they moved those barrels into the States. What we're trying to figure out is how and where. And you don't want to know what's in those barrels, Tio Hector. Believe me."

"They somehow got one of the barrels to Miami, sweetheart?" Svetlana suggested. "And shipped it from Miami to Colonel Hamilton? And later left the other where your border guards would find it?"

"Yeah. Probably to make us think the first barrel was smuggled into Miami from Cuba."

Garcia-Romero began: "I had no idea anything like this-"

"Let me see if I have this right," Castillo interrupted him. "Borzakovsky came to you… Wait. Let me back up. You're in charge of Drug Cartel International, right, Tio Hector?"

"I can't believe I'm hearing from you what you're suggesting, Carlos," Garcia-Romero said. "I am not in the drug business; this airfield is not a transshipment point for drugs."

"When you accuse Hector of that, friend Charley," Pevsner said in Russian, "you're accusing me. And that's something I cannot accept, even from you."

"Okay, then, tell me what goes on here," Castillo said.

"Nicolai has already told you," Pevsner said. "There are people who need large amounts of currency shipped from place to place."

"And I'm supposed to believe those large amounts of money are not connected with the drug business? Come on, Alek!"

"You are really trying my patience, friend Charley, but since you are being so intentionally dense, let me spell it out for you-"

"I don't speak Russian," Garcia-Romero interrupted.

Pevsner ignored him, and continued in Russian: "What I do, as you well know, is move things around."

"Like drugs?" Castillo asked sarcastically.

"Not knowingly," Pevsner said. "Not that I think drugs are any more reprehensible a cargo than, say, the shipments of arms I have moved on many occasions and for years for your Central Intelligence Agency, but rather because when, inevitably, one of my shipments of arms, for example, is intercepted by the authorities, all that happens is that I lose the shipment and pay a fine. If the authorities intercept a cargo of drugs, my airplanes are confiscated and the authorities try very hard to make sure everyone goes to jail.

"That said, and again as you very well know, in recent years I have severed my connection with the CIA and, for that matter, with the SVR, when that involves the shipment of arms.

"Just about everything that Nicolai and I now transport around the world is perfectly legal. Moving currency, and the bearers of that currency, from one place to another may not be perfectly legal, but if there is a violation, it is of customs and immigration laws. People caught by the authorities attempting to illegally enter a country are simply returned to where they came from. If customs officers discover they have in their luggage undeclared large amounts of currency, the usual punishment is the seizure of half of it.

"In that connection, an amateur attempt by Hugo Chavez several months ago to send about a million dollars to the president of Argentina-"

"'An amateur attempt'?" Castillo interrupted sarcastically.

"-without it coming to the attention of the authorities failed because the courier used a chartered private jet-a Gulfstream like yours, if memory serves. People using chartered jets attract the attention of the authorities. The Argentine customs people carefully searched the courier's bags as he passed through customs, found the money, refused his offer of a little gift, and confiscated half of the money. The courier had dinner that night with the president. You getting the picture?"

"I really would like to know what you two are saying," Garcia-Romero said.

"If moving money around is so easy, why do they need you to do it?" Castillo asked.

"Discretion, Carlos," Nicolai Tarasov said. "The people we move money for are as much-perhaps more-concerned that no one finds out they are moving money as they are for the money itself. They don't want to be embarrassed as the president of Argentina and Hugo Chavez were when their courier was caught.

"If one of their couriers is caught aboard one of our aircraft-which very rarely happens-we say we didn't know he had the money with him, and the courier tells them he was carrying the money for someone not remotely connected with the people he's actually carrying it for. Half of the money-presuming the customs officials cannot be bribed, and they usually can-is confiscated. The owners of the currency write the loss off as the cost of doing business, and that's the end of it."

"You're telling me the only thing Drug Cartel International is used for is moving money?" Castillo said.

"That's exactly what I'm trying to tell you," Pevsner said. "And that's why I was so surprised when Nicolai said he thought it likely the Tu-934A had come here. I had trouble believing your Uncle Hector could be that stupid."

Pevsner turned to Garcia-Romero, who of course had recognized his name being said, and switched to Spanish. "I just told Carlos that I had trouble believing you could be so stupid," he said. "Now, let's turn to that. Start at the beginning, Hector, and tell us how this fiasco came to happen."

Garcia-Romero looked very uncomfortable.

"Let's hear it, Hector," Pevsner said coldly.

"Valentin Borzakovsky came to me and said the Russian embassy had a problem," Garcia-Romero began. "He said they had reason to believe the CIA had infiltrated Aeromexpress Cargo…"

"What won't those evil Yankees be up to next?" Pevsner asked.

"… which the Russians use as their air-freight forwarder. Borzakovsky said the Russian embassy really needed to get something from Moscow the Americans couldn't know about," Garcia-Romero finished.

"Do you think those blue beer kegs they unloaded from the Tu-934A might have contained nuclear weapons?" Castillo said jokingly.

But what the hell am I joking about?

They contained Congo-X, which is just about as bad.

"I'm not as naive as you seem to think, Carlos," Garcia-Romero said. "There were radiation detectors waiting for that shipment."

And if the needles on your radiometers had gone off the scale, and you had said anything, you and everybody who works for you in the cave would be dead and the nukes would be in Mexico.

"Go on, Hector," Pevsner said.

"He said there would be very little risk. Pavel Koslov of the Russian embassy-who of course has diplomatic immunity-would come here to meet the airplane, immediately load this cargo into Russian embassy trucks, and be gone within minutes."

"How much else do you think your friend Valentin Borzakovsky, this Venezuelan businessman good friend of yours, told Koslov about what goes on here?" Pevsner asked angrily.

Garcia-Romero didn't respond, and instead said, "He offered me one hundred thousand euros for the service."

"You risked everything we have here for a hundred thousand euros?" Pevsner asked incredulously.

"Do you know how much it costs to maintain this facility, Aleksandr?"

"To the penny!" Pevsner snapped. "And the last time I looked, the income made the cost look like a minor operating expense. And you risked losing all that income for a hundred thousand euros? My God, you are a fool!"

"I also thought it might be useful to have the Russian embassy owe us a favor," Garcia-Romero said.

"Did it occur to you, Tio Hector," Castillo asked, "that once you did this hundred-thousand-euro 'favor' for the Russians that you had jumped into their pocket, and they would be back asking for other 'favors' and this time there would be no euros, just the threat to expose you for what you did?"

"Or that once this happened, we couldn't take the risk of ever using this place again?" Nicolai Tarasov put in before Garcia-Romero could open his mouth.

"Is that all the bad news, Hector?" Pevsner asked. "Or is there more?"

Garcia-Romero hesitated a long moment before replying.

"There is more," he said. "I don't know whether you think it will be bad news or not."

"Let's have it."

"My men have heard gossip that the coyotes-there were seven or eight of them-were found shot to death near the American border."

"Dead men tell no tales," Castillo said. "You might want to write that down, Alek."

Pevsner's response was not what Castillo-or, for that matter, any of the others-expected.

"Have you any further questions for your Uncle Hector, friend Charley?" he asked matter-of-factly.

"I've got a couple, including one I expected you to ask," Castillo said.

"Which is?"

"How much does your friend Borzakovsky know about Nicolai and Alek's operations here?"

"Nothing," Garcia-Romero said immediately. "I swear your name didn't come up, Aleksandr."

I don't believe you, Uncle Hector, and I don't think Pevsner will either.

Did you commit suicide when you made this deal with the Russians?

"Anything else you want to know, Charley?" Pevsner asked.

"How long is it going to take you to put all those surveillance tapes in a box for me?"

"You're going to do what with them?" Pevsner asked.

"Slide them-or copies of them-under the door of that big building in Langley, Virginia."

Pevsner considered that for a long moment, but made no comment.

"And after you've done that, Hector," Pevsner said, "what you're going to do is shut this place down. I want all the surveillance tapes that Charley doesn't take destroyed. I want the system removed. I want everybody who has worked here to find employment as far from here as possible. If this place should suddenly attract the attention of the Mexican government, I want them to find nothing that will tie me-or, for that matter, you-to it in any way."

"You think that maybe we should burn the house down?" Garcia-Romero said sarcastically.

Pevsner considered that a moment, and then said, "You use bottled gas here, right? Bottled gas explodes. Can you handle that, or should I have Janos show you how that's done?"

"You're serious?"

"Yes, I'm serious. You have a problem with that?"

Careful, Tio Hector.

The wrong answer will get you in more trouble than you can imagine.

"How much time do I have?" Garcia-Romero asked. "I have several men I trust completely. I could leave them here to arrange the… accident."

"While you go where?"

"I was about to say Mexico City, but I think San Antonio would be even better. Better yet, New York."

Pevsner considered that.

"New York would be better," he said. "Twenty-four hours from now, Nicolai will fly over this place. When he looks down, he will expect to see the burned-possibly still burning-ruins of this building."

"That's what he will see," Garcia-Romero said.

Congratulations, Uncle Hector. You have just said the magic words.

And your bullet-ridden corpse will not be found in the burned ruins of your house in the desert. [TWO] Penthouse B The Grand Cozumel Beach amp; Golf Resort Cozumel Quintana Roo, Mexico 1915 7 February 2007 The fishermen had apparently come home from the sea shortly before the hunters had come home from the hills around Drug Cartel International.

When Castillo and the others walked into the penthouse, the tiled area around the swimming pool was being converted by the resort staff-under the direction of Uncle Remus-into a high-in-the-sky grilled seafood outdoor restaurant. A long table had been set up, and flames were still rising from the just-ignited lava coals in two barbecue grills. An enormous insulated box seemed to be stuffed with king mackerel, and another cooler with bottles of Dos Equis beer.

Max immediately went to sniff at the fish.

Everybody but Colin Leverette and Lester Bradley, who stood at the grills, was sitting around the pool on chaise longues under umbrellas, most of them holding bottles of the Dos Equis.

"I knew Our Noble Leader would return when he smelled food," Uncle Remus said. "And he'd tell us where he's been. Right, Charley?"

"I'll even show you movies of where I've been," Castillo replied, and looked at Lester. "Lester, can we send tapes from surveillance cameras to Casey? Or look at them on the TV? Both?"

Bradley thought about that a moment, nodded, and said, "Yes, sir. That shouldn't be a problem."

"Have at it," Castillo said.

"I'll take over the grill," Svetlana said. "Somehow I suspect cooking is not among Uncle Remus's many skills. And I don't want that fish ruined. I'm hungry."

"You are in the presence, madam, of one of New Orleans's most skilled piscatorial chefs," Uncle Remus said. "Be humble."

"They have parrillas in Mother Russia, do they, Sweaty?" Delchamps said as he pushed himself off his chaise lounge.

"We have everything in Mother Russia, Edgar," Svetlana said. "I'm surprised you don't know that."

"I think everybody should have a look at these tapes before we send them to Casey," Castillo said. "Logical conclusion: Let Sweaty get the grills going." He gave in to the temptation, and added innocently, "Aleksandr can help her."

Surprising him, Pevsner went immediately to the grills and politely asked for, and was given, Lester's chef hat. He put it on, then tested the heat coming from the no-longer-flaming lava briquettes by holding his hand, palm down, over them.

"Another seven minutes, I would estimate," he said. "While you're showing the tapes, I will ensure the fish have been properly filleted." And then he smiled at Castillo and added, "Never underestimate people, friend Charley. You might want to write that down." "Two-Gun, get your laptop," Castillo ordered as Lester hooked up cables from Casey's radio to the television. "I'm going to offer a running commentary as the tapes run, identifying the players, et cetera. We'll then edit the tape and the commentary to make sure the CIA can't identify or locate the airfield or all the players."

"Two questions," Yung replied. "This is going to the CIA? And why shouldn't they locate the airport?"

"Pevsner has a connection with the airport. I don't want them to start linking things."

"Make that three questions," Yung said. "How are you getting it to the CIA? Through Casey?"

"I'd rather slip it under the door, but I haven't figured out how to do that."

"Lester," Edgar Delchamps said, "can you send these tapes to the house in Alexandria?"

"Yes, sir. No problem."

"And can you get me a number in Arlington, Virginia, without it coming to the attention of those nosy people at Fort Meade?"

"According to Dr. Casey, all they will hear at Fort Meade is what sounds like static on the line. And I can make it sound as if the call was made from anywhere."

"Who do you want to receive the tapes, Ace?" Delchamps asked.

"Either the DCI or Frank Lammelle."

"If I have one of the dinosaurs call on Madam Darby and pick up the tape and commentary, and then he slips that under the door addressed to Lammelle, and you also send it to Casey, he will probably send it to the DCI. He's close to those people, right? Then we'd be sure both the DCI and Lammelle got it."

"Then that's what we'll do," Castillo agreed.

"Let's see the tapes, Lester," Delchamps said. "So our scenario wasn't far off the mark," Edgar Delchamps said, when the tapes had been played. "They did use the Tupolev Tu-934A to move that stuff. The question then is, from where did they move it? From a warehouse full of the stuff in Mother Russia or…?"

"Sweaty says they wouldn't have Congo-X in Russia," Castillo said. "Too dangerous."

"That would tie in with what Tarasov heard happened at that airport-El Obeid-in Sudan," Delchamps said. "Okay, they picked it up in Africa and flew it here… Nonstop?"

"They probably stopped in Cuba," Castillo said. "Probably at Ciego de Avila. They wouldn't want the Tu-934A to be seen at Jose Marti."

"And from Ciego de Avila to this dry-lake airfield?" Alex Darby asked.

Castillo nodded.

"And then where? Back to Cuba?" Darby asked.

"Venezuela," Castillo said. "Tom says the price for getting the Cubans to do more than fuel the Tu-934A would be too high. Chavez, on the other hand, is not half so smart as the Brothers Castro. Sweaty thinks it's probably at La Orchila… that island air base."

"What is that, another proof you can't judge a book by its cover?" Delchamps asked.

"What the hell does that mean?" Castillo asked.

"You never heard, Ace, that 'the true test of another's intelligence is how much he-in this case she-agrees with you'? I think your girlfriend's right on the money. Hidden inside that gorgeous body is an unquestionable genius."

"You may get to eat after all," Svetlana called from the grill. "And speaking of that, can we start to cook?"

"Absolutely." [THREE] The Lobby Bar The Alvear Palace Hotel Avenida Alvear 1891 Buenos Aires, Argentina 1955 7 February 2007 Ambassador Charles M. Montvale had liked the Alvear Plaza Hotel from the moment he walked in the door. He had liked it even better when, following a bellman to a very nice suite, he had walked past the Lobby Bar, an oasis of polished wood and brass, a vast array of liquor bottles, white-jacketed barmen, and a remarkable number of attractive women-at least three of whom were astonishingly beautiful.

"Tell you what, Truman," he said to Ellsworth as their elevator rose silently. "Why don't we have a quick shower and then go down to that bar for a little taste? God knows, it's been a tough day. Say, thirty minutes?"

"Splendid idea," Truman Ellsworth had replied. "I'll see you there in thirty minutes."

Ellsworth's eye had also fallen upon the astonishingly beautiful women in the bar.

Neither had intentions of enticing one of the beautiful women to their suites, there to break the vow both had taken to keep only to the women who had marched down the aisle with them so many years ago.

But it never hurt just to look. Both of them would have agreed if God hadn't wanted men to look at women, He would have made the female of the species flat-chested and given them green teeth and lizardlike skin.

But unexpected things did happen from time to time.

And they were, after all, human. Ambassador Charles M. Montvale had just finished saying, "It's been an awful day, and I think I'm entitled to another little taste," when I. Ronald Spears appeared at the entrance to the Lobby Bar.

Montvale was not pleased to see him. He had really been looking forward to his second drink. The ceremony that went with the delivering of a Johnnie Walker Black on the rocks in the Lobby Bar of the Alvear was something, he had immediately decided, that the watering holes of the nation's capital and his various clubs would do well to emulate.

First, the bartender laid a tray before his customer. It held a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label Scotch whisky; a larger-than-to-be-expected squat glass; a bowl of ice; a silver pitcher of water; silver tongs; and what at first Montvale had thought was a tea strainer, but then he had seen that it had no holes. It was sort of a shot glass with wings.

First the bartender lifted an ice cube-not something spit out of an ice maker, but a real ice cube, about an inch square-with his tongs and dropped it into the glass. Then he picked up another and wordlessly asked if his customer wanted a second ice cube. Montvale had stopped this process at three ice cubes, using a gesture he had learned playing blackjack.

The bartender laid the tea strainer/shot glass on the whisky glass. Next, he picked up the bottle of whisky and with great elan filled the shot to overflowing. And then kept pouring. And then he tipped the wings of the shot glass, slowly emptying the contents into the glass over the ice cubes. Finally, with a silver gadget, he stirred the ice cubes gently around in the glass.

Montvale impatiently waved I. Ronald Spears over to the table.

"Mr. Ambassador, there are two telephone calls for you at the embassy."

"Why didn't you transfer them here?" Montvale snapped.

Even as he did so, he knew what the answer was going to be, and was: "Mr. Ambassador, they're on a secure line."

Montvale looked around first for the bartender, to cancel the order for the drink he would now not get to drink, and to sign the bill, and then for the Secret Service agents who were drinking Coke and tonic water elsewhere in the bar. The communications officer told them he had two calls, one from Supervisory Special Agent McGuire and the other from John Powell, the director of the Central Intelligence Agency.

"Get McGuire on here first," Montvale said as he picked up the secure telephone. "I have Ambassador Montvale on the line. The line is secure."

"Good evening, sir."

"What did you find out, Tom?"

"None of the people in whom you were interested were in the house in Alexandria, sir, but Mrs. Darby told me she believes Mr. Darby is in Ushuaia."

"Where?"

"I understand it's the southernmost city in Argentina."

"What is she doing, pulling your leg? What the hell is he supposed to be doing there?"

"I understand from her-she seemed rather angry, sir-that he's in the company of a young Argentine woman. You take my meaning, sir?"

"You mean he's down there with some floozy?" Montvale asked incredulously.

"That's what Mrs. Darby implied, sir."

"And you believe her?"

"All I can say, sir, is that's what she told me. She seemed quite upset about it."

"You're keeping that house under surveillance, right, Tom?"

"There will be three agents on it twenty-four/seven, sir."

"Well, keep that up, and keep me informed."

"Yes, sir."

"Thanks, Tom." "I have Ambassador Montvale on the line, Mr. Powell. The line is secure."

"Hey, Jack, what's up?"

"A good deal. The Russians have been heard from. Sergei Murov-the rezident-invited Frank Lammelle over to their dacha to go fishing."

"In the middle of the winter?"

"And when he got there, told them what they want. They will give us all the Congo-X they have. With an implied promise they won't find any more. In exchange, they want the two defectors. And Charley Castillo."

"They say why?"

"Frank had the impression this came right from Putin. Frank said Murov told him, or implied, that not only has Putin's ego been bruised, but some of the people Castillo and his merry band have been whacking around the world were friends-maybe even relatives-of his."

"And you believe this?"

"Frank does. More importantly, President Clendennen does."

"Which means what?"

"That as soon as we find those two Russians Castillo snatched from our station chief in Vienna, we put them on the next Aeroflot to Moscow."

"Did Frank tell Murov we don't have the two Russians?"

"He did. Murov didn't believe him. Anyway, that's moot. My orders are to find the Russians so that we can turn them over."

"Clendennen's going to stand still for that blackmail?"

"I'll say it again, Charles: My orders are to find the Russians so that we can turn them over."

"And Castillo? He's going to turn him over, too?"

"I didn't hear that, because you didn't ask it. But a moment ago, I should have said that my orders are to find the Russians and Lieutenant Colonel Castillo, Retired."

"And do what with Castillo when we find him?"

"The President did not share his thoughts on that with me, Mr. Ambassador."

"Jesus Christ!"

"Yeah. So how you doing? Have you found Castillo?"

"No, but I learned that Alex Darby's in Ushuaia-that's at the southern tip of South America-with some young floozy."

"Darby's doing what?"

"I'm afraid the source is reliable."

"Have you talked to him?"

"I found that out about five minutes ago."

"That might be a good place to stash those Russians."

"That thought occurred to me about ten seconds ago."

"There will be six officers-the most I could scare up on short notice meeting the criteria of reliable and available-on whatever American Airlines flight there is today from Dallas to Buenos Aires, one most likely landing in Argentina in the wee hours of tomorrow morning."

"What the hell is that all about?"

"The President ordered me to send however many men it took to locate and detain the Russians. Shortly, they're on their way there."

"If they should find them, and that's a big if, what are they going to do, kidnap them? The Argentines won't stand for that. No country would."

"This line is terrible. I don't think you heard me when I said, 'The President ordered me to send however many men it took to locate and detain the Russians.'"

"Jesus Christ!"

"Have you found Roscoe J. Danton? More important, have you learned (a) why he's looking for Castillo, and (b) whether he's found him?"

"I'm going to see him tomorrow. After I see the ambassador. I don't know what I'm going to tell him about these people you're sending down here."

"You'll think of something. That's why they pay you the big bucks, Charles."

"Fuck you," Montvale said, and then said, "Break it down." Truman Ellsworth, Mizz Sylvia Grunblatt, I. Ronald Spears, one of his Secret Service agents, and a middle-aged man he did not recognize were waiting for him in the hall outside the communications cubicle.

"Ambassador Montvale," the man said, "I'm Robert Lowe."

When Montvale didn't immediately reply, Lowe added: "From Mexico City."

And you were ordered down here, what? A week ago?

You should have been here the next day.

Where the hell have you been? In one of those hotels on the white sandy beaches of Cancun or Cozumel, saying a tearful goodbye to your twenty-year-old tootsie?

"I'm really glad to see you, Lowe," Montvale said. "We have a situation here that requires someone of your experience, and I might add, of your reputation."

"I'm here to serve, sir."

"I just got off the horn with the DCI," Montvale said. "He tells me there will be six very good officers of the Clandestine Service on the next American Airlines flight from Dallas to help deal with the problem."

"Which is?"

"I can't get into that here." He turned to Sylvia Grunblatt. "Nothing personal, Mizz Grunblatt, but I'm afraid you don't have the need-to-know."

"Mr. Montvale, in Ambassador Silvio's absence, I am acting for him." She lost her diplomatic cool at that moment, and added: "That makes me, as I'm sure you know, the senior officer of the United States in Argentina."

Jesus, now the goddamned press agent is going to give me trouble?

"What you say may well be true, Mizz Grunblatt, but I have only your word for it. On the other hand, I have been-and Mr. Ellsworth has been-sent down here by the President of the United States personally, and until the President tells me otherwise, I'm not going to breach security. Do we understand one another?"

"I think we'll let Ambassador Silvio decide who's right," Grunblatt said.

"I'm looking forward to that," Montvale said. "What I need from you now, Mizz Grunblatt, is a vehicle to pick up these agency people in the morning."

"Can't help you," she said. "For one thing, I told you there are no free vehicles; the ambassador needed everything in the garage. And, now that I think about it, inasmuch as I presume these six spooks are traveling as tourists, rather than government employees-much less accredited diplomatic personnel-I couldn't order the use of government vehicles if I wanted to."

"I'll look forward to seeing you in the morning when I call on the ambassador, Miss Grunblatt," Montvale said. "Where are you staying, Mr. Lowe?"

Sylvia Grunblatt answered for him: "I'm going to put him in the apartment recently vacated by the Darbys."

"You can move in there tomorrow," Montvale said. "We need to talk. I'll put you up in the Alvear Plaza with us. Let's go, gentlemen." The manager on duty at the Alvear was the epitome of courtesy and regret, but there wasn't an available room of any type in the house. He could, however, remove the king-size bed in either Mr. Montvale's suite or Mr. Ellworth's, and replace it with two single beds.

"Put them in Mr. Ellsworth's suite," Montvale ordered, and turned to Ellsworth. "It's only for one night, Truman." An otherwise marvelous dinner in the Alvear Palace's La Bourgogne restaurant was tainted midway by the appearance of the manager on duty. He was profusely sorry to report that the single beds he had planned to put in Mr. Ellsworth's accommodation had already been put into service. He had found another king-size bed, but regrettably, there was not room for it in Mr. Ellsworth's room.

"Would Mr. Montvale possibly consider having it placed in his room?"

"It's only for one night, Charles," Truman Ellsworth said, dripping with compassion. After dinner, I. Ronald Spears was dismissed with orders to find decent accommodations for the men who would arrive in the morning. He was ordered to meet their plane, install them in wherever he had found for them to stay, and then bring them to the Alvear.

Montvale, Ellsworth, and Lowe then went to the Lobby Bar for an after-dinner drink. It was crowded with people of good cheer, but not one of the patrons of either sex would ever see sixty-or maybe sixty-five-again.

They then all went to Montvale's suite, where, after the hotel staff had very carefully-and thus very slowly-installed the extra king-size bed, Montvale explained the situation to the new CIA station chief, Buenos Aires. "So what I would suggest you do, Bob, is send two of the guys coming in to Ushuaia, taking Spears with them. Maybe he can learn something from good officers."

"I still have trouble accepting that Alex Darby is catting around down there with a hooker…"

"Maybe she's not a hooker, Bob. It could be a midlife crisis and he's in love. It could also be-unlikely but possible-that he's sitting on these two Russians for Castillo down there. It sounds like something Colonel Castillo would think up. Anyway, I want two good men down there-with I. Ronald Spears-as soon as they can get there. And I want that town really searched. Got it?"

"Yes, sir."

"And the other ones, I think, should nose around the embassy. See if they can get anything from the DEA people, the FBI people, the Secret Service people. Someone has to know something about where to find Castillo and these Russians."

"Yes, sir. As soon as they get here tomorrow, I'll brief them on what we have, and what we want them to do." Montvale and Lowe went to bed in their adjoining king-size beds shortly thereafter.

Lowe almost immediately went to sleep and began to snore. [ONE] Penthouse B The Grand Cozumel Beach amp; Golf Resort Cozumel Quintana Roo, Mexico 2215 7 February 2007 Castillo was standing at the railing of the patio, taking an occasional pull at the neck of a Dos Equis bottle and somewhat inhospitably wishing that the fish-eaters would get the hell out of the penthouse-which would leave him alone with Sweaty-when Edgar Delchamps joined him.

"Got a minute, Ace?" Delchamps asked.

"Always," Castillo said.

Delchamps pointed to a far corner of the patio surrounding the swimming pool. As they started walking toward it, Castillo saw that Alex Darby and Dick Miller were also headed in that direction.

And he knew that he had fucked up somehow and was about to learn how the moment Edgar Delchamps began the chat by saying, "We know that even though you have a lot on your mind, you probably have thought about this…"

"But?" Castillo interrupted.

"I recognize that tone of voice, so I'll cut to the chase," Delchamps said. "We just got word from one of the dinosaurs that the tapes and the narrative are in that building at Langley in a position where Frank Lammelle can't help but find them when he goes to work in the morning."

"That was quick!" Castillo said, genuinely surprised.

"Real dinosaurs move much more quickly than the ones you saw in the Jurassic Park movies, Ace. You might want to write that down."

"If you say so."

"And when Lammelle and Company finish authenticating the tapes, someone is going to say, 'Hey, you know what? I'll bet this came from Charley Castillo.'"

"What was I supposed to do, not send it?"

"What you were supposed to do-what we were all supposed to do-was fall off the face of the earth and never be seen again."

"Same question: What were we supposed to do once we came up with this? Keep it to ourselves?"

Delchamps didn't respond directly. He looked between Darby and Miller, then back at Castillo, and went on: "And even if Lammelle or one of his guys doesn't attach you to the tapes, Casey is going to send the tapes to the DCI himself, and Casey is going to say something like, 'You can rely on this; I got it from Castillo.' So the President will know you didn't fall off the face of the earth as ordered."

"And you don't think he'll be happy I didn't? According to Casey, they don't have a clue about what's going on with the Congo-X. All I'm guilty of is lending a helping hand."

"You really have no idea how much the agency-everybody in the quote unquote intelligence community-hated the Office of Organizational Analysis, and in particular Lieutenant Colonel C. G. Castillo, do you? And how overcome with bureaucratic joy they were when the President cut your throat and told you to disappear, taking OOA and all its wicked members with you?"

"I did have some small inkling that I wouldn't have won any popularity contests," Castillo said. "Actually, Edgar, I thought about that when I sent the tapes. I would have preferred they would have come from an unknown source. But there were two things wrong with that, starting with I don't think it would have been possible, because of Casey's connection with somebody-probably, but not certainly, the DCI-at the agency. But say I had managed to convincingly send them from Mr. Unknown Source. I don't trust unknown sources, and I don't think Lammelle would have either. So let him know the tapes came from me. I didn't expect a letter from Lammelle-or Jack Powell-like the one Sweaty and Tom got. 'Come home. All is forgiven. We love you.'"

"Let me try this on you: If our late President-who was a really good guy, and for whom you did everything he asked you to, including coming up with the Fish Farm-was willing to cut your throat to cover his ass, what do you think Joshua Ezekiel Clendennen, who is the master not only of covering his own ass, but also of throwing people who have done him a service under the bus so he can take the credit, will be willing to do to you?"

"For example?"

"Turning Tom and your girlfriend-and maybe you-over to the Russians, for one thing."

"Where the hell did you get that?"

Delchamps and Darby exchanged glances, then Edgar said, "That's the scenario Alex and I have come up with for what's behind this whole Congo-X operation. If they wanted to hurt us with that stuff, they would have. They haven't hurt us, just let us know they can. Why? They want something. What do they want? They want Tom and Sweaty back. Clendennen gives them to the Russians, they give Clendennen the Congo-X, the problem is done. If he also gives them you, that solves that problem."

Castillo didn't respond for a moment, then looked at Darby.

"That's the way I see it, Charley," Darby said.

"What supports that scenario?"

"Nothing concrete yet, Ace, except the thing that I've developed-that Alex and I have developed-in our long service as spooks: a feeling in the gut that just won't go away."

"You talk to either Tom or Sweaty about this?" Castillo asked softly.

Both Delchamps and Darby shook their heads.

"You've got a solution?" Castillo asked.

"I've got a suggestion that may not be a solution, but it's all I have."

"All we have, Charley," Darby said.

Castillo gestured for Delchamps to tell him.

"Disperse," Delchamps said. "Fall off the face of the earth."

Castillo looked thoughtful for a moment, then gestured again for Delchamps to continue.

"If Clendennen isn't already looking for us-even though my gut tells me that he is-he'll really start looking when Lammelle shows that tape to him. They'll probably start in Argentina-"

"We know Roscoe J. Danton is down there looking for you," Darby interjected. "So, they likely do, too."

Delchamps went on: "And when they don't find you-us-down there, they'll look elsewhere, and inevitably find us all gathered here getting sunburned and eating broiled fish in a penthouse."

"I'm sure there's already a satellite picture of the Gulfstream sitting here in somebody's database," Darby interjected again.

"Cut to the chase," Castillo said.

"Darby flies to Washington, where he immediately goes to a bank and asks for a mortgage to buy the house in Alexandria, and then starts looking for a job suitable for his talents with one of those hire-a-spook companies. Blackwater, for example.

"Britton returns to Philadelphia, where Sandra goes back to the classroom, and Jack starts trying to get back in the police department. Peg-Leg goes back to Vegas, where Casey has already given him a job." He looked at Dick Miller, then went on: "Dick, Jake, and Sparkman go to Panama City, Panama, where they immediately put the Gulfstream up for sale, start looking for a better airplane, and go into the private-jets-for-hire business. Two-Gun goes to Montevideo and opens a financial management-read money-laundering-business. Getting the picture?"

Darby added: "The Gulfstream has six-maybe seven-of Casey's latest radios in the baggage compartment. We'd all be in contact."

"What happens to Lester?" Castillo asked.

"He stays here-or around here-with you, Sweaty, Tom, and Uncle Remus. You own a farm here in Old Meh-hee-co, right?"

"And you?"

"I go to Budapest. Where I will find employment with Billy Kocian."

Darby put in: "Everybody could be back here-or be anywhere else-in twenty-four hours, when you decide what we have to do about the Congo-X. And how to keep Sweaty and Tom from being loaded on an Aeroflot flight to Mother Russia."

"And Pevsner?"

"He disappears once again into the wilds of Argentina."

Castillo exhaled audibly.

"Apparently, you have given this some thought."

"There we were, floating around on the ocean, catching our supper and giving this a lot of thought," Delchamps said.

When Castillo didn't immediately reply, Delchamps added, "Your call, Ace. But I think we'd all be more efficient if we didn't have members of the Clandestine Service breathing down our necks. Or trying to put handcuffs on us. But if you-"

"Everybody's willing to go along?"

Delchamps nodded.

"They would have joined this little chat," he said, "but Uncle Remus said that you get really antsy when you feel outnumbered."

"When do you plan to leave?" Castillo asked.

"First thing in the morning," Delchamps said.

"I wonder what Pevsner's going to think about this," Castillo said.

"Well, he probably won't like it when he learns he has just sold his new fly-the-high-rollers-around airplane to the LCBF Corporation, but the bottom line there, Ace, is you don't ask your Russian pal anything. You tell him the way it is." [TWO] The Oval Office The White House 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, N.W. Washington, D.C. 0915 8 February 2007 "Good morning, Mr. President and Madam Secretary," John Powell, the director of the Central Intelligence Agency, said as he walked into the Oval Office.

"This had better be important, Jack," President Clendennen replied. "I am supposed to take off for Chicago in fifteen minutes, and Natalie has a lunch in New York with a gaggle of UN morons."

"I believe it is important, Mr. President," the DCI replied. "And all I have to do is slip this in the machine…"

With a DVD disc in his hand, Powell walked toward a large flat-screen television monitor mounted on a wheeled table.

"Let him do that," Clendennen said, indicating a Secret Service agent. "I know he won't screw up the TV."

"Yes, sir," Powell said, and handed the disc to the Secret Service agent.

"Before it starts to play, Mr. President, I'd like to say, if I may, that we believe this disc to be authentic. That is, the surveillance tapes from which we made this are authentic. And that what you will see when it plays is authentic and has not been altered or changed in any way."

"I'm delighted to hear that, Jack," Clendennen said. "Play your movie." "What kind of an airplane is that?"

"That's a Tupolev Tu-934A, Mr. President."

"I don't think I've ever seen one before," Natalie Cohen said.

"Few people have. It's a Russian Special Operations aircraft. Magnificent airplane. It's practically invisible to radar, can fly nonstop-with aerial refueling, of course-anywhere in the world at Mach zero point nine and land on a football field. We are offering a hundred twenty-five million for one."

"You better hope Senator Johns doesn't hear about that," the President said. "A hundred twenty-five million! Are the Russians that far ahead of us?"

"In this area, yes, sir. We have nothing like it; the Air Force really wants to take a close look at the Tu-934A. And, in a manner of speaking, sir, the Russians have been ahead of us before. They beat us into space of course, and before that, Igor Sikorsky-who fled the Communist revolution to come here-is generally recognized as the man who made rotary-wing flight practical."

"And exactly where is this example of Russian aeronautical genius landing, Jack?"

"In a dry lake in Mexico, sir. Specifically, Laguna el Guaje, in Coahuila State."

"How do you know that?"

"Our analysts worked with the angle of sun, Mr. President," Powell said. "And with the date and time on the surveillance tapes. At the time shown, the angle of the sun would be like that on the tapes at only Laguna el Guaje."

"I'm impressed, Frank, I really am. What I'm wondering is where you got the tapes."

Powell did not respond directly, and instead said, "The man walking toward the Tupolev, sir, is, with a ninety-nine-point-nine-percent certainty, Pavel Koslov, the FSB rezident in Mexico City. We computer-compared the image on the surveillance tapes with images in our database."

"I'll be damned."

"Those men, sir, coming down the ramp of the Tupolev are almost certainly Russian Spetsnaz-Russian Special Forces. And that man, sir, is General Yakov Vladimirovich Sirinov. We made that identification ninety-nine-point-nine-percent certain by comparing this image with images of him in our database. Sirinov runs the FSB for Vladimir Putin, Mr. President."

"What are those barrels?" Clendennen asked.

"What we believe, sir, with an eighty to eighty-five degree of certainty, is that those barrels are the ones sent to Colonel Hamilton at Fort Detrick. The scenario is that they were taken across the border near the dry lake; that the first was then moved to Miami, and from there FedExed to Colonel Hamilton, and the second left for the Border Patrol to find near McAllen."

Natalie Cohen said, "If you can compare pictures of people on a computer, Jack, and say they're just about a perfect match, why can't you do the same thing with a couple of what look like blue beer barrels?"

Powell said, "According to Stan Waters-"

"Who?" the President asked.

"J. Stanley Waters, the deputy director for operations, Mr. President. He supervised the analysis of these tapes. He's an old analysis type."

"And what did he tell you?"

"There are more details on a human being that can be compared to another image of that person, Mr. President. An object like these blue 'beer' barrels is more difficult; they look like every other barrel."

"Are these the same barrels? Yes or no?"

"With an eighty to eighty-five percent degree of certainty, Mr. President, we believe they are."

President Clendennen snorted.

"Where did you get these tapes, Jack?" Natalie Cohen asked, and immediately, when she saw the look on his face, regretted having asked. She had guessed the source.

"I think we can safely proceed on the assumption that these are the barrels of Congo-X now at Fort Detrick, Mr. President," Powell said.

"Answer Natalie's question, Jack," the President said.

"They were, in a manner of speaking, slipped under our door, Mr. President, addressed to DDCI Lammelle."

"Tell me what that means," Clendennen said.

"Sir, parties unknown delivered them to my outer office yesterday."

"In other words, you don't know where these came from?"

"No, sir. I don't know where they came from."

"Mr. President, it doesn't matter, does it?" the secretary of State began. "We have them, and they have been determined to be genuine. We now can send Frank Lammelle back to Sergei Murov-"

"Maybe God slipped them under your door, Jack," the President cut her off. "Or little green men from Mars. Or maybe, as incredible as it might sound, Lieutenant Colonel Castillo might even be responsible. Isn't that true?"

"Mr. President, since I don't know where these tapes came from, anything is possible."

"You were both here, I seem to recall, when I made it as plain as I knew how that I didn't want my predecessor's loose cannon, or anyone associated with Colonel Castillo, Retired, connected in any way with our Congo-X problem. Is that right?"

"Yes, sir," Powell said.

"I was here, Mr. President," the secretary of State said.

"Where is Castillo?" the President asked.

"I have no idea, Mr. President," Powell said.

"Nor do I," Cohen said.

"What about Ambassador Montvale, my Director of National Intelligence? Has anyone heard from him?"

"I spoke with the ambassador last night, Mr. President. He's in Buenos Aires. As is Truman Ellsworth. At your orders, sir."

"And has he found Castillo and delivered my orders to him that he is not to get involved in any way with Congo-X?"

"No, sir."

"Did Montvale have anything at all to say?"

"He believes he knows where Mr. Darby is, sir."

"Who is Darby?"

"Until he was recruited for OOA, Mr. President, he was the CIA station chief in Buenos Aires. He retired when OOA was disbanded."

"And he's in Argentina?"

"Ambassador Montvale has information suggesting that Mr. Darby may be in Ushuaia."

"Where the hell is that?"

"It's the southernmost city in South America, sir."

"What's he doing there?" the President asked, and then, before Powell could reply, went on: "Is Usah… whatever you said… a place where Castillo could hide the defectors?"

"That has occurred to Ambassador Montvale and myself, sir."

"And what have you done about it, either of you?"

"I sent six first-class officers of the Clandestine Service down there, Mr. President, to assist the new station chief. And of course Ambassador Montvale. They should be in Argentina this morning. I'm sure that as soon as they get there, Ambassador Montvale will send at least two of them to Ushuaia."

Clendennen nodded.

"But I must tell you, Mr. President, that Ambassador Montvale told me he has also developed intelligence that suggests that Mr. Darby's presence in Ushuaia has nothing to do with Castillo or the Russians."

"What the hell else would he be doing in some town on the southern tip of South America?"

"He may be there with an Argentine national, a young woman not his wife, if you take my meaning, Mr. President."

"Where the hell did Montvale get that?"

"From Mrs. Darby, sir. She's here in the States."

"I'll be a sonofabitch!"

"May I speak, Mr. President?" the secretary of State said.

The President made an impatient gesture giving her permission to do so.

"Mr. President, I respectfully suggest that this whole business could be put behind us by sending either DCI Powell or-probably preferably-DDCI Lammelle back to Sergei Murov with this tape. And this time, Frank delivers the ultimatum: 'Turn over whatever Congo-X you have, give us a written statement that you neither have control of nor have knowledge of any more of this substance, or we'll call an emergency session of the United Nations and play this tape for the world.'"

The President didn't respond for a moment, then he asked, more or less courteously, "Are you through, Madam Secretary?"

"Yes. For the moment."

"The female is really the deadlier of the species, isn't it?" the President asked rhetorically. "Natalie, do you know what would happen while we're calling the Russian bluff? We'd be right back where we were when my impulsive predecessor sent the bombers to take out the Fish Farm: at the edge of a nuclear exchange."

"With respect, Mr. President, I don't think so," Cohen said.

"What you think doesn't really matter, does it, Natalie? I'm the President."

"With respect, Mr. President, I associate myself with the position of the secretary of State," Powell said.

The President ignored him.

"Now, what's going to happen is that nothing will be done with these tapes until I say so," the President said. "What I intend to do is find those Russians and put them on a plane to Moscow. Once we have done that, we'll evaluate the Russian reaction, and go from there.

"And since the way to find the Russians is to find Colonel Castillo, that is the priority. When I get back from Chicago this afternoon-somewhere around three, I would guess-I want you both back here. Plus the secretary of Defense and the director of the FBI."

"The secretary of Defense is in India, Mr. President," Cohen said.

"I was about to say, Madam Secretary, 'Then his deputy,' but when I think about it, when I think about who that is, I don't want to do that. Have General Naylor here, and if Naylor is in Timbuktu or someplace, get word to him to return immediately. When I walk back in this office this afternoon, I want to see Naylor, or you holding the general's estimated time of arrival in your hand, Madam Secretary.

"This meeting is concluded. Thank you for coming," the President said.

And then he walked out of the Oval Office without shaking hands with either Powell or Cohen. [THREE] Aboard Cessna Mustang N0099S Bahias de Huatulco International Airport Near Pochutla, Mexico 1015 8 February 2007 "Huatulco, Mustang Double Zero Double Nine Sugar," Castillo called in Spanish. "Will you close out my VFR flight plan from Cancun, please? We just decided to stop for lunch."

"Double Zero Double Nine, are you on the ground?"

"No. I'm on final to a dirt strip next to a marvelous restaurant on Route 200 near Bajos de Chila."

"I know the place. Report when on the ground. Have a nice lunch." Castillo passed over the coastline and made a slow, sweeping descent over the Pacific Ocean. Although there was a marvelous restaurant near Bajos de Chila, he had no intention of landing on the dirt strip behind it.

When he had dropped almost to the surface of the sea-and had thus, he hoped, dropped off the Huatulco radar-he touched his throat microphone again.

"Huatulco, Double Zero Double Nine on the ground at one seven past the hour."

"Double Zero Double Nine, Huatulco closing you out as of ten-seventeen."

"Thank you."

Two minutes later, having spotted the pier he was looking for, he picked up enough altitude to pass over a small hill on the coastline. At the peak of the climb, he spotted the landing strip he was looking for, dropped the nose, made a straight-in approach, and greased the landing.

Feeling more than a little smug, he pressed the cabin speaker button.

"Welcome to Grapefruit International Airport. Please remain in your seats with your chastity belts fastened until we reach the terminal. We hope you have enjoyed your flight, and the next time you're running from the CIA that you will choose High Roller Airlines again."

"You are insane," his co-pilot said, but she was smiling. Then she gestured, as he turned the Mustang around, out the windows, at rows of grapefruit trees lining the runway as far as the eye could see. "That's all grapefruit?"

"That's all grapefruit."

He taxied about halfway back down the runway, and then turned the nose toward the closed door of a hangar, and then shut the engines down.

"Carlitos," Svetlana said, her voice tinged with concern. When he looked at her, she pointed out the window.

Three very large, very swarthy men, each bearing a shotgun, had come around the side of the hangar and were approaching the airplane.

Castillo waved cheerfully at them, and after a moment, as they recognized him, they smiled and waved back.

"I better get off first," Castillo said. "Otherwise Max will probably get shot by people I've known since I was twelve."

He unstrapped himself quickly, rose from his seat, stepped into the cabin, and began to open the stair door.

"I trust the colonel is aware there are some armed, possibly unfriendly, indigenous personnel out there?" Uncle Remus asked.

The stair door opened and Castillo quickly went down it. Max leapt from the airplane, showed the men his teeth, and headed for the nose wheel.

The larger of the men tossed his shotgun to one of the others, spread his arms, and wrapped them around Castillo.

"Dona Alicia will be so happy, Carlos," he said.

"She's here?"

I should have considered that possibility. But it's too late now.

"Fernando brought her down yesterday. Dona Alicia said it was freezing in San Antonio," he said. And then added quietly: "I don't know about the dog, but I like your lady friend."

"Sweaty, say hello to Pablo," Castillo said. "We grew up together. The others are Manuel and Juan."

When all the introductions had been made, Pablo said, "Carlos, why don't you take one of the Suburbans and go up to the house? Just as soon as we push the plane inside, we'll bring your luggage."

"There's two cardboard boxes in the back," Castillo said, and then indicated with his hands the size. "Bring one of them, please?" It was a ten-minute drive from the airstrip to the house, down a gravel road that led between the apparently endless grapefruit trees and over two more ridge lines.

No one was on the verandah of the sprawling, red-tile-roofed building to greet them, which Castillo considered surprising.

Castillo got from behind the wheel of the Suburban, waved for the others to follow him, walked across the verandah, pushed open the door, and bellowed, "Abuela, your favorite grandson is here; you can send the fat and ugly one back to the village."

The door to the living room opened, and Randolph Richardson III walked into the foyer and said, "Good afternoon, sir. I'm very glad to see you." Then he spotted Svetlana. "And you, too, ma'am."

Castillo's heart jumped into his throat. He was literally struck dumb and knew that all that would come out of his mouth if he tried to speak would be a croak.

Svetlana walked quickly to the boy.

"Are you kissing old Russian women this week, Randy?"

She went to the boy, put her arms around him, and kissed his cheek. He stiffened and seemed uncomfortable, but didn't try to free himself.

"What?" Svetlana asked. "I kiss you and you don't kiss me?"

After a moment, he raised his head and gave her a quick peck on the cheek.

Castillo found his voice.

"What you have to understand, Randy," he said as he walked to the boy, "is that you're surrounded by strange people who hug and kiss each other."

Svetlana freed the boy, who then extended his hand to Castillo.

"Pay attention," Castillo said. "We shake hands with people we don't like. We hug and kiss people we like."

He put his arms around the boy.

"Sometimes, if we're related to them," Castillo said, "we even have to hug and kiss ugly fat people like the one in the door."

Fernando Manuel Lopez was now in the doorway to the foyer. And so was Maria Lopez, who did not like Carlos Guillermo Castillo very much in the first place, and whose facial expression showed she really disliked his characterization of her husband as fat and ugly.

Castillo kissed Randy's cheek and hugged him. The boy hugged back and then gave him the same sort of peck on the cheek he'd given Svetlana.

Castillo's heart jumped.

Don't blow this by pushing it.

He let the boy go.

"Sorry it didn't work, Fernando," Castillo said.

"What didn't work, Gringo?"

"The plastic surgery. You're even uglier than before."

"Jesus Christ, Gringo!" Fernando said, shaking his head. Then he embraced Castillo.

"Don't blaspheme, Fernando," Dona Alicia Castillo said as she came through the door. "And…"

"… don't call Carlos 'Gringo,'" Fernando and Castillo finished for her in chorus.

The boy laughed.

Castillo embraced his grandmother.

"You could have let us know you were coming," she said, and then she spotted Svetlana and went quickly to her and kissed her.

"I'm so glad to see you, my dear," Dona Alicia said.

Then she moved to Barlow, Uncle Remus, and Lester, and kissed each of them. Every one seemed delighted to see everyone else except Mrs. Maria Lopez.

And now there was someone else in the foyer.

"How are you, General?" Castillo said as he advanced on Major General Harold F. Wilson, USA (Retired), with his hand extended.

That didn't work, either. General Wilson wrapped his arms around Charley and hugged him.

"Pay attention, Randy," Castillo said.

"I thought I heard a jet flying a little low over here," General Wilson said. "That was you?"

"A Cessna Mustang," Castillo said. "Great little airplane."

"Am I going to get to fly it?" Randy asked. "I flew the Lear here from San Antonio. I mean really flew it. Took it off, navigated cross-country, and landed it."

Castillo knew the boy was telling the truth when he saw the look on Maria's face. Clearly, she regarded fourteen-year-old boys flying as co-pilot of anything more complicated than a tandem bicycle as one more proof of the insanity of the family into which she had made the mistake of marrying.

"I think we can arrange that," Castillo said. "But only if you promise to forget everything Tio Fernando has taught you about flying."

"Now, you stop, the both of you," Dona Alicia said.

"Speaking of tios," Castillo began.

"Excuse me, dear?" Dona Alicia asked.

"It's very important that Tio Hector Garcia-Romero does not know that any of us are here, or that we've been in touch in any way."

"What's that all about? He's our lawyer, for God's sake," Fernando said.

"He's also in bed…"

Castillo stopped and looked at Randy.

"I know," Randy said. "Little pitchers have big ears. This is where I'm told to go play with my puppy, right?"

"You do have a mouth, don't you?" Castillo asked.

"I wonder where he got that from, El Senor Boca Grande?" Fernando said.

"No, Randy," Castillo said. "I'm not going to tell you to go play with your puppy. Where is he, anyway?"

"His father is teaching him how to steal food in the kitchen," Fernando said.

"Well, why not?" Castillo said. "Dogs, like boys, have to grow up sometime. And if you need a teacher, go to an expert."

"Are you talking about your dog or yourself?" Fernando challenged.

"Both," Castillo said, and turned to the boy. "Randy, we both know that you have learned to keep important secrets."

And everybody in this room, from Lester to General Wilson, knows what that secret is.

"I don't think I like where this conversation is going," Fernando interrupted.

"I don't think I do, either," Dona Alicia said.

Castillo ignored both of them. He went on: "So I know, Randy, that if I tell you that this is an important secret-actually secrets, a bunch of them-and if they get out, people can be hurt, or even killed, I know that I can trust you to keep your mouth shut. Okay? If you don't want that responsibility, I'll understand if you want to take Max and his puppy for a walk."

"Jesus Christ, Gringo, he's fourteen years old," Fernando said. "He doesn't need to hear about people getting hurt or killed."

"Carlos, do you know what you're doing?" Dona Alicia asked.

"I'll stay," Randy said. And then added, "Thank you, sir."

"Okay. The family lawyer, Randy, El Senor Hector Garcia-Romero, is up to his ears in the drug business."

"I don't believe that!" Maria Lopez exploded. "Hector is Little Fernando's godfather."

"I don't care if you believe it or not, Maria," Castillo said. "What I'm worried about is your mouth. Will you give me your word to keep it shut?"

"Are you just going to stand there and listen to him talk to me like that?" Maria demanded of her husband.

Fernando looked at Castillo.

"Gringo, you better be sure you know what you're talking about."

"I do."

"Maria, honey, if you don't want to hear this, why don't you-"

Castillo cut him off. He said, "Maria, the best way I know to convince you to keep your mouth shut about Tio Hector, or anything else you will hear if you decide to stay, is to convince you that if you run your mouth, you'll be putting not only Tio Hector's life at risk, but your own, and Fernando's and your kids' lives and probably even Abuela's…"

She glared at him and then icily demanded, "How could you dare to bring this… this garbage… here?"

"Fair question. First, I own half of this place. Second, I didn't know anyone was here. If I had known, we probably wouldn't be here. But the hand has been dealt, and we have to play it."

"You are sure about Hector, Carlos?" Dona Alicia asked earnestly.

"Abuela, I'm sorry, but it's true. We were just at a secret airport he operates in the Laguna el Guaje. He doesn't move drugs out of there, just the cash profits from the drug trade. Suitcases full of hundred-dollar bills."

"My God!"

"It's important that Hector doesn't know we're here. That no one knows we're here. I told Pablo that at the airstrip; he'll deal with it."

"Gringo, what the hell is going on?" Fernando asked.

"You believe him?" Maria asked her husband incredulously.

"Yeah, sweetheart, I believe him. And you better believe him, too."

"I don't want Hector to know you know about him," Castillo said. "If he calls here, and I suspect he will, act normally, but tell him you don't know where I am, and that you haven't heard from me."

Dona Alicia nodded.

"Okay," Castillo then said, "what are we doing here? Randy, you were aware that the Army, the armed forces, went to DefConTwo a while back?"

"Just before we bombed some place in Africa?"

Castillo nodded.

"Yeah. Nobody would talk about it, but the G-Three's daughter heard about it, and snooped around. And she has a big mouth."

"What is that, Carlos? DefConTwo?" Dona Alicia asked.

"DefCon stands for Defense Condition. DefConTwo is the next-to-highest degree of readiness to go to war."

"Let me take the briefing, Charley," Uncle Remus said. "You look pretty beat, and we don't want to leave anything out."

Castillo gave him the floor with a wave of his hand.

"The reason the Defense Department went to DefConTwo," Leverette began, "is because the President had learned that the Iranians, the Russians, and some former East Germans were making a biological weapon in the Congo, and he decided that it had to go."

"How did he learn about it?" Randy asked.

Leverette looked at the boy, then at Castillo. "You're right, Charley. He does have a mouth." He looked again at the boy, and said, "You get one interruption, Randy. And that was it. Next time, raise your hand."

"Yes, sir."

"Your fa-Colonel Castillo was instrumental in getting two senior Russian intelligence officers to defect. They wanted to get out of Russia for a number of reasons, including that they were unhappy about the biological weapons factory in the Congo. As soon as Colonel Castillo got them to Argentina, they told him about it."

Both Leverette and Castillo saw Randy look at Tom Barlow and Svetlana, asking with his eyes if they were the Russians, and then saw Svetlana nod.

"Am I allowed to ask questions, Mr. Leverette?" General Wilson asked.

"Yes, sir. Of course."

"Was that attack based on more than what the defectors told Charley? Or the President? The reason I ask is because there was some talk the President went off half-cocked."

"Sir, it was based on more than what the Russians told us. Colonel Hamilton, from Fort Detrick, went over there himself and brought out samples of the material, and even the cadavers of three people who had died from the effects of the poisonous substance."

"Thank you. I'm really glad to hear that." Then he had a thought and said it aloud: "How the hell did Hamilton get into and then out of the Congo with three bodies?"

"Carefully and surreptitiously, General," Leverette said.

"Tell the general who took Colonel Hamilton into and out of the Congo, Mr. Leverette," Castillo said.

Leverette, clearly uncomfortable, said nothing.

"Why am I not surprised?" General Wilson said.

"That's why they gave him another Distinguished Service Medal when he was retired," Castillo said.

"You were at the retirement parade, Randy," General Wilson said. "You saw both Mr. Leverette and Colonel Castillo being decorated with the DSM."

"Then why did my father say he was kicked out of the Army?"

That pompous asshole and chairwarmer is not your father.

I am.

"He must have been given the wrong information," Castillo said. "It happened so suddenly that it probably looked like we were being thrown out."

"Anyway, we thought the whole thing was over," Leverette went on. "I was in Uruguay, about to go into the cattle business, when the Russian rezident in Budapest handed Mr. Kocian a letter. It said that a mistake had been made and that the Russians should come home, all is forgiven."

"You're not going back, are you, Svetlana?" Randy asked nervously.

"No," Svetlana said. "Now shut up and let Uncle Remus finish."

Leverette went on: "The next thing that happened was a barrel of this stuff was delivered to Colonel Hamilton, at Fort Detrick and…" "… And that brought us, Dona Alicia, to your door," Leverette concluded.

"And what happens now?"

"We eat a lot of grapefruit and maybe do a little fishing while we wait to see what the Powers That Be decide to do with the tapes," Castillo said. "And the one thing we don't do until that happens-for the next four or five days-is talk about this."

"I think we should have an early lunch," Dona Alicia said. "I'll ask them to set up a table on the verandah." [FOUR] The Office of the Ambassador of the United States of America Avenida Colombia 4300 Buenos Aires, Argentina 1315 8 February 2007 Ambassador Juan Manuel Silvio-tall, lithe, fair-skinned, well tailored-stood up behind his desk, smiled, and put his hand out as Ambassador Charles M. Montvale and Truman Ellsworth walked into his office.

"How nice to see you again, Mr. Montvale," Silvio said.

"Ambassador," Montvale said.

"I know you only by reputation, Mr. Ellsworth," Silvio said. "I'm Juan Silvio."

"I've heard about you, too, Mr. Ambassador," Ellsworth said with a smile. Ellsworth knew much more about Silvio than the scathing description of the diplomat Montvale had given him.

Ellsworth was aware that there was more to his story than the bare, commonly known facts that Silvio's family had escaped from Castro's Cuba on a fishing boat.

He knew that the fishing boat had been a sixty-two-foot Bertram, and that the Silvio family had brought out with them not only the clothing on their backs, but an enormous fish box filled with currency, jewelry, and stock certificates; some of the more valuable antiques from their Havana mansion; and the extra keys to the cars they kept at their Key Biscayne house.

Ellsworth knew Silvio had graduated from his father's alma mater, Spring Hill College, a Jesuit institution in Mobile, Alabama, which had been educating South American aristocrats for two hundred years. And that Silvio had earned a law degree at Harvard, and then a doctorate in political science at the University of Alabama. He had joined the State Department on graduation.

He had done so for much the same reason that Truman Ellsworth had become executive assistant to the director of National Intelligence: not because they needed the job, but because they saw it-the term "noblesse oblige" fit-as their patriotic obligation to serve their country.

Most important, Ellsworth knew that Silvio was not afraid of Montvale.

So far as Ellsworth knew, Silvio had never had to use it, but if push came to shove, he had behind him the enormous political clout of the Cuban-American community in south Florida. The Silvio family had spent a great deal of their money helping fellow Cubans escape from Castro and establish themselves in the United States. This was remembered. And gentlemen always repay their debts. "May I offer you a cup of coffee?" Ambassador Silvio asked, waving Montvale and Ellsworth into chairs facing his desk.

"No, thank you," Montvale said. "Mr. Ambassador…"

"That would be very nice, thank you," Ellsworth said.

"… I am here at the personal order of President Clendennen," Montvale finished.

"So Ms. Grunblatt told me," Silvio said. "And as soon as we have our coffee, I'll ask how I may be of service. Are you sure you won't…"

"I'm sure. Thank you." "So how may I be of service to you, Mr. Montvale?"

"My orders are to locate both of the Russian defectors and former Lieutenant Colonel Carlos Castillo."

"'Former'? I was under the impression Castillo had been retired. Was that wrong? Did he resign?"

"No. He retired," Montvale said. "Do you know where he is, Mr. Ambassador? Or the Russians?"

"I'm afraid I don't. The last time I saw Colonel Castillo was when you and he were both in this office."

"Do you think if I got Secretary of State Cohen, or the President himself, on the telephone to confirm my mission here, it would improve your memory, Mr. Ambassador?"

Silvio did not rise to the bait.

"Mr. Montvale, when Ms. Grunblatt told me that you had told her that, I telephoned the secretary of State for verification. Secretary Cohen confirmed that you and Mr. Ellsworth are here at the direction of President Clendennen and instructed me to do whatever I can to help you accomplish your mission."

"And I have told you what that mission is."

"And I have told you I have no idea where Colonel Castillo or the Russian defectors might be. But I'll tell you what I can do: Now that everyone's back from the affair in Mar del Plata, and the embassy's vehicles are back in the motor pool, I'll be happy to augment the Suburban in which you must have been really crammed with a vehicle more in keeping with your rank and position. With a driver, of course. For as long as you're here."

"Thank you very much," Montvale said. "Mr. Ambassador, would you be surprised to hear that your former commercial counselor, and my former Buenos Aires station chief, Alexander Darby, is in Ushuaia?"

"Yes, I would. I was led to believe that Mr. Darby had returned to the United States."

"I have been led to believe he's in Ushuaia with a young Argentine woman."

"I find that hard to believe, Mr. Montvale. How good is your source?"

Montvale ignored the question.

"It occurred to me, knowing what little I do about Ushuaia," he said, "that the southernmost city in South America, as remote as it is, would be an ideal place to hide the Russians. What do you think?"

"I think that's absurd," Silvio said.

"You are telling me, and I will tell the President that you have told me, that you think the possibility that Mr. Darby and/or Colonel Castillo are hiding the Russian defectors in Ushuaia is absurd?"

"Yes, I do. Or, rather, yes, Mr. Montvale, that is exactly what I'm telling you."

"I think I'm wasting my time here," Montvale said, and stood up. "Good afternoon, Mr. Ambassador."

"Good afternoon, Mr. Montvale," Ambassador Silvio said, standing up. "On your way out, ask the Marine guard for your car. If you need to contact me, you have my number."

"Oh, I have your number, Mr. Ambassador," Montvale said, and, without shaking hands, marched out of the office.

Silvio and Ellsworth nodded at each other, and then Ellsworth followed Montvale.

Ellsworth thought: I would bet two cents against a doughnut that nobody-not this fellow Darby, nor Castillo, nor the Russians-is in Ushuaia.

And I will also bet the same amount that the minute we get into the car, Charles is going to say, "Send the other four Clandestine Service officers down there as quickly as possible. That's where everybody is."

Or words to that effect.

Montvale did. [FIVE] Marriott Plaza Hotel Florida 1005 Buenos Aires, Argentina 1620 8 February 2007 It is said that the bar in the Plaza hasn't changed since General Juan Domingo Peron drank there as a corporal. But this is untrue for several reasons, including the fact that General Peron was never a corporal. It can be more accurately said that the bar has changed very little from the time it opened with the hotel a century ago.

It is a warm and comfortable room, with an L-shaped bar tucked into a corner. There are a half-dozen tables and comfortable leather armchairs.

It is as accurate to say the bar is on the floor below the lobby as it is to say it's on the ground floor. Avenida Florida, level for most of its length, takes a steep dip as it passes the Plaza on its way to Avenida Libertador and the main railroad station.

It is thus possible to turn off Florida and enter the bar almost directly. It is also possible, fifty feet away, to turn off Florida and enter the hotel lobby. If one elects the latter choice, then one must take the stairs or the elevator and go down one floor to get to the bar.

The director of National Intelligence, the Honorable Charles M. Montvale, and his executive assistant, the Honorable Truman Ellsworth, entered the bar by coming down the stairs, shortly after being told in the lobby that Roscoe J. Danton was sitting at the bar alone, second stool from the wall.

This information had come to them from Winston Gump, one of the Clandestine Service officers who had arrived in Buenos Aires that morning. Montvale had drafted Gump to attend him-the phrase he used was "work with"-in the belief that one never knew when one might require the skills of a veteran of the Clandestine Service. For his part, Gump was flattered by having been selected to serve-he thought "serve," not "work with"-the most senior person in the American intelligence community and his executive assistant.

Gump did wonder about Executive Assistant Ellsworth. He didn't look like a male version of a super secretary, nor did he look that way, but Gump knew you couldn't always judge a book by its cover, and there were all those stories going around how J. Edgar Hoover and his assistant could hardly wait to get home to put on dresses.

Anything, Gump had learned in his clandestine service, was possible.

"Well, Truman," Montvale said. "Look who's here!"

Ellsworth took the bar stool closest to the wall; Montvale took the one on the other side.

Roscoe J. Danton raised his voice: "Hey, Pedro, look who's here!"

Oh, shit! He's drunk!

On reflection, that might not be entirely a bad thing.

"Friend of yours, Roscoe?" Truman Ellsworth asked as he looked around the bar until he found a man sitting at one of the tables drinking a Coke while trying hard and almost succeeding in pretending he had not heard Danton calling, or seen Danton pointing at Montvale and Ellsworth.

"Not exactly."

"We'll have what our friend is having," Montvale said. "And give him another."

"And maybe one for your not-exactly-a-friend?" Ellsworth asked.

"I'm sure he'd love one, but he's on duty, and from what I've observed, plainclothes officers of the Gendarmeria Nacional do not drink while on duty."

"You're suggesting that you're being surveilled by the Argentines?" Montvale asked.

"It was more a statement than a suggestion, Mr. Ambassador," Danton said. "Either that guy, or one of his cousins, has been with me from the moment I tried to buy a used car."

"You what?"

"A man named Alexander Darby-of whom you may have heard… No. Of whom I'm sure you have heard; he was in the Clandestine Service of the CIA, like the guy I suspect you sent in here a couple of minutes ago-was retiring from government service…"

"You saw Alex, did you, Roscoe?" Ellsworth asked.

Danton nodded, then went on: "… and had put his car up for sale. Clever journalist that I am, I got from the offer of sale his address, which the embassy press officer, Mizz Sylvia Grunblatt, wouldn't give me, citing federal rules vis-a-vis privacy."

"So you saw him?" Ellsworth asked.

"Why did you want to see Darby, Roscoe?" Montvale asked.

The conversation was interrupted by the bartender, who delivered three trays with the proper glasses and other accessories for the whisky-pouring, and a whisky bottle.

"You may have cause to regret your impulsive generosity, Mr. Montvale," Danton said. He pointed to the whisky bottle. "That is The Macallan eighteen-year-old Highland single malt Scotch whisky. Were I not on the expense account-or for your generosity-I would shudder to think of the cost."

"My privilege, Roscoe," Montvale said.

"While he's going through that absolutely marvelous pouring routine, Roscoe, you were about to tell us why you wanted to see Alex Darby," Ellsworth said.

"So I was," Danton said. "So I went to his apartment. He and his wife were there-"

"And how is Julia?" Ellsworth asked.

"Well, now that you mention it, she seemed a little pissed with her husband. But I digress. He was there with another CIA dinosaur, a guy named Delchamps. And, and, and… an Irishman named Duffy, who had with him three guys. Pedro over there was one of them."

Danton waved at Pedro, who did not respond.

"No sooner did I begin to mention that I wanted to ask Darby about a rumor going around-"

"What kind of a rumor?"

"Why do I think you know what kind of rumor?"

"Because, by your own admission, you are a clever journalist," Montvale said. "But tell me anyway."

"Our late, and not too mourned, President had a Special Operations hotshot working for him. Directly for him. An Army guy, a lieutenant colonel named Castillo. Said Special Operations hotshot… I have this from a source I almost believe… is said to have snatched two defecting Russians, big ones-from your CIA station chief in Vienna, Mr. Ambassador-just as she was about to load them on a CIA airplane and ship them to the States. He and they then disappeared.

"I also have heard a rumor that the Russian defectors told this hotshot that the Russians, the Iranians, and other people had a biological warfare factory in the Congo, and that he told the President, whereupon we went immediately to DefConTwo, and shortly thereafter a chunk of the Congo was hit by everything in the arsenal of democracy except nukes."

"You told Alex… and this Irish fellow, Duffy… all that?" Ellsworth asked.

"I didn't get two words beyond mentioning Costello's… Castillo's… name when suddenly I was being asked for my identification and being patted down by Pedro over there."

Danton smiled and waved at Pedro again.

He went on: "Duffy then told me there was a question with my papers, but since I was a friend of Mr. Darby, instead of being hauled off to Gendarmeria Nacional headquarters until it could be straightened out, they would allow me to spend the night here in the River Plate Marriott. And they would be happy to drive me there."

"Where do you think Alex is now, Roscoe?"

"Well, he's not in his apartment. The next morning, Duffy showed up here and said that I was free to go. He was sure that I understood the situation and was grateful for my understanding. He also said that if I thought I would need a remise-that's sort of a taxi-to get around Buenos Aires, he knew one he could recommend.

"So, I got in the remise and went back to Darby's apartment. He was gone.

"I still had one card to play. You remember the Secret Service guy on the presidential protection detail who fell off the bumper of the limousine?"

"Tony Santini," Montvale said. "Good man."

"Yes, he is. We have shared a drink or two on occasion. Well, when I knew I was coming down here I remembered that when he got fired from the protection detail, they sent him down here to look for funny money. So, I tried to call him. I got some other Secret Service guy on the phone who told me Tony had retired, but that he thought he was still in Argentina in a country club-that's Argentine for really tightly gated community-outside of town. I remembered the address: the Mayerling Country Club in Pilar. I've got a cousin named Pilar, and Mayerling was the Imperial Austrian hunting lodge where Emperor Franz Josef's son shot his sixteen-year-old girlfriend and then committed suicide.

"So, I got in the remise Duffy suggested, and told the driver to take me out to this place. We go instead to the Gendarmeria Nacional headquarters. Out comes Duffy, now in uniform. He's the generalissimo or something of the Gendarmeria Nacional. Duffy says I really don't want to go to Mayerling. Too dangerous. People started out for Mayerling and were never heard from again. I got the message."

"So, you never got to see Tony," Montvale said. "Pity. I'm sure he would have helped you."

"Yeah, probably."

"Roscoe, we may be in a position to help each other," Montvale said. "Can we go off the record?"

"Yeah, sure. But why bother? You tell me something, I report it, and then you say, 'I never said that,' and Ellsworth says, 'That's right. I was there and the ambassador never said anything like that.'"

"Let me rephrase. What if these rumors you heard were true? What if there was a renegade lieutenant colonel named Castillo who did in fact snatch two senior Russian defectors from the CIA station chief in Vienna? What if he's now trying to sell them to the CIA?"

"No shit?"

"What if the President sent an unnamed but very senior intelligence official-"

"Who used to be a diplomat, Mr. Ambassador?"

"-down here with orders to find Colonel Castillo and these two Russians and then load them onto an airplane and fly them to the States?"

"You're going to pay the ransom, or whatever?"

"That's the point. I'm trusting your discretion on this, Roscoe. I know you're a patriotic American. No. The United States of America will not ransom the Russians. But they will be returned to the States and turned over to the CIA."

"Kidnap them back, you mean?"

"The Russians will be returned to the United States and turned over to the CIA. And Colonel Castillo will be returned to the United States and the United States Army for what is euphemistically known as 'disciplinary action.'"

"Jesus!"

"My search for these people has met with more success than yours, Roscoe," Montvale said.

"You know where they are?"

"I'm in a position to offer you confirmation of those rumors you heard. I'm further in a position to give exclusive rights to-what shall I say?-'the repatriation process' and to the Russians, and to Colonel Castillo."

"If I what?"

"How do I put this? If, splendid journalist that you are, you nevertheless failed to notice any unpleasantness that may occur during the repatriation process, any minor violations of Argentine law-or, for that matter, of American law. Do you take my meaning?"

Roscoe J. Danton thought: Fuck you, Montvale.

Once I'm back in the States, I'll write whatever the hell I feel like writing about anything I see.

Roscoe J. Danton said: "Deal. When does this come down?"

"Now. Truman, please call that Air Force colonel and have the plane ready by time we get to the airport."

Truman Ellsworth said, "Yes, sir."

Truman Ellsworth thought: If I thought there was any chance at all of Castillo, the Russians, or even Alex Darby actually being in Ushuaia, I would at this moment be experiencing shortness of breath, excruciating pain in my chest, and numbness of my left arm and waiting for the ambulance to haul me off to whatever hospital the embassy sends visiting VIPs suffering a heart attack.

But since I'm sure that all he's going to find down there-at best-is Alex Darby suffering a midlife crisis in the arms of a girl young enough to be his daughter, I'm going to pretend I believe this idiocy.

For one thing, I simply have to see how Charles tries to talk himself out of this fiasco once it comes tumbling down around him. I would never forgive myself if I didn't. [ONE] The Oval Office The White House 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, N.W. Washington, D.C. 1405 8 February 2007 Secretary of State Natalie Cohen, Director of the Central Intelligence Agency John Powell, Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation Mark Schmidt, and General Allan B. Naylor, the commanding general of the United States Central Command, were all in the reception area of the Oval Office when the President of the United States, having returned from his trip to Chicago, entered.

They all rose to their feet when they saw the President. He acknowledged none of them.

Instead, Joshua Ezekiel Clendennen continued walking into his office, sat in the leather chair behind his desk, and issued two orders: "Get me some coffee. And then let them in."

Three minutes later, Cohen, Powell, Schmidt, and Naylor filed into the Oval Office.

"I'm glad you weren't in Timbuktu, General," Clendennen said.

Thinking that the President was joking, Naylor replied in kind: "That's next Thursday, Mr. President."

"You're not going anywhere, General, until this business is finished," the President snapped.

"Yes, sir," General Naylor said.

"Sit down," the President said, gesturing to all of them.

"General, C. Harry Whelan, Jr., and Andy McClarren were talking about you on Wolf News last night. Are you aware of that?"

"Yes, sir."

"Whelan told McClarren that the chief of staff of the Army no longer runs it-he's just in charge of administering it-and that since Central Command controls more troops, more airplanes, more ships, and more military assets in more places all around the world than any other headquarters, then that makes you, as its commanding general, the most important general in the Army. Did you see the program, by any chance?"

"It was brought to my attention, Mr. President."

General Naylor did not think he should get into the details of how the Wolf News program had come to his attention. He had been reading in his living room, and ignoring the television. His wife, Elaine, and their son, Major Allan B. Naylor, Jr., and his family, who had come for supper, were watching the Wolf News program The Straight Scoop.

When the Whelan-McClarren exchange concluded, General Naylor's wife and son went to him on their knees, called him "Oh, Great One!" and mimed kissing his West Point ring, then backed out of his presence into the kitchen convulsed with laughter and to the applause of his daughter-in-law and grandchildren.

He actually had had to demand to be told what the hell was going on.

What was so funny?

And when he was told, he didn't think it was at all funny.

The chief of staff was going to hear about it, Naylor had said, and he wasn't going to find any humor in it.

And then he'd had an even more disquieting thought. He didn't like C. Harry Whelan, Jr., but it was possible that he was right about this, too. It seemed to be a truism that whoever commanded the most troops was de facto, if not de jure, the most important general officer.

The President asked, "Would you agree with that assessment, General?"

"Sir, since the chief of staff gives me my orders and writes my efficiency reports-"

"Well, this is one of those rare occasions on which I fully agree with Mr. Whelan," the President said. And then went on: "Does the name 'Sergei Murov' mean anything to you, General?"

"The SVR rezident in the Russian embassy, sir?"

The President nodded. "And I believe you know Frank Lammelle, the deputy director of the CIA, pretty well?"

"Yes, sir, I do."

"Mr. Powell, will you please tell General Naylor of the meeting Lammelle had with Murov in the Russian compound on the Eastern Shore?"

"Yes, sir," Powell said, and did so.

When Powell had finished, Naylor said, "Very interesting."

"I have never liked traitors," the President then announced, more than a little piously. "And so I have decided to give the Russians these two. What are their names again, Jack?"

"Colonel Dmitri Berezovsky and Lieutenant Colonel Svetlana Alekseeva, Mr. President," the CIA director furnished.

"Mr. President, do we have them?" Naylor asked. "I was under the impression that-"

"That Lieutenant Colonel C. G. Castillo," the President said, "who snatched them away from our CIA station chief in Vienna, has them?"

"Yes, sir."

"I understand, General, that you are personally acquainted with Lieutenant Colonel Castillo."

"Yes, sir, I am." During the Cold War, there had been a custom in the regiments of the United States Constabulary in occupied West Germany called the "Dining In." Once a month, the officers of the regiments met for dinner in their regimental officer's club. These were formal affairs, ones presided over by the regimental commander, with seating at the one large table arranged strictly according to rank. Dress uniform was prescribed. Officers' ladies were not invited.

A splendid meal was served, with appropriate wines at each course. After the food had been consumed, and the cigars and cognac distributed, one of the officers-in a rigidly choreographed ritual-rose to his feet, and said, "Gentlemen, I give you the President of the United States."

Whereupon all the other officers rose to their feet and raised their glasses in toast.

The toasting then worked its way down the chain of command until it had reached the regimental commander.

And then the officers got down to some serious informal drinking and socializing, the intention of which was to raise the awareness of officers-particularly officers just reporting for duty-of their role in the Army, the Army of Occupation, the United States Constabulary, and their regiment.

It was at his first Dining In that newly arrived Major Allan B. Naylor, Armor, had first heard about the Gossinger family. The event had been held at the 11th Armored Cavalry Regiment Officer's Club in Bad Hersfeld, which was in Hesse, very close to the border between West Germany and East Germany.

The 11th ACR-"The Blackhorse Regiment"-had the mission of patrolling the border between East and West Germany. Their patrols ran through the Gossinger family's farmlands, which had been cut by the barbed-wire fence and the minefields erected by East Germans at Soviet direction to separate the East and West Germanys. Most of the Gossinger farmlands had wound up in East Germany.

By the time the story of the princess in Castle Gossinger came up, both alcohol and tradition had eased much of the formality of the Dining In. It was now time to tell war stories and other kinds of stories, the idea being more to entertain those who had not heard them than to present an absolutely truthful version of the facts.

For example, the story went that the barbed-wire fence and the minefields had been erected to keep Americans and West Germans from escaping into the Heaven on Earth of the Communist world.

As far as the Gossinger castle was concerned, the good news was that the Gossinger family-the full family name, identifying them as highly ranked in the Almanach de Gotha, was "von und zu Gossinger"-had lucked out: After the fence had gone up, their castle was in West Germany.

The bad news was that the Gossinger castle didn't look at all like Neuschwanstein Castle, the one built-damn the expense-by Mad King Ludwig in Bavaria. It instead more resembled a tractor factory.

The good news was that there was a fair princess living in the castle who loved Americans.

The bad news was that her loving of Americans was past tense. She had loved one American. He had ridden up to the castle on his white horse-actually flying a Bell WH-1D "Huey"-dallied awhile, left her in the family way, and disappeared, never to return. Nor to be heard from again.

More bad news was that her daddy-formerly Oberst Hermann Wilhelm von und zu Gossinger, who had been one of the last seriously wounded evacuated before von Paulus had surrendered at Stalingrad-did not like Americans. This was possibly because of the American chopper jockey's relationship with the princess. He had made it clear that any contact with Americans would be rare and brief.

Shortly after the Dining In, Major Naylor had been taken to the castle-formally known as Das Haus im Wald-by the Blackhorse's commander, Colonel Frederick Lustrous, and there introduced to former Oberst Hermann Wilhelm von und zu Gossinger, who received them courteously but rather coldly in his office.

Naylor had obeyed Lustrous's order: "Allan, look closely at the pictures on the shelf behind his desk" as Lustrous explained to Herr von und zu Gossinger that as the Regiment's S-3, Naylor would be dealing with the von und zu Gossingers for the regiment.

Major Naylor was surprised at what he saw on the shelf. There was a photo of General George S. Patton standing with his arm around von und zu Gossinger's shoulder. The third man in the photo Naylor recognized after a moment as Colonel John Waters, Patton's son-in-law, who had been captured in North Africa. Patton and Waters were splendidly turned out, while "Von und Zu"-as Naylor had quickly come to think of the starchy German-was in a tattered suit.

The picture had obviously been taken immediately after the war, probably just after Waters had been freed and just before Patton had died of injuries suffered in a car/truck accident in Heidelberg. And, judging by the way Oberst von und zu Gossinger was dressed, not long at all after he had been released from a POW camp and taken off his uniform for the last time.

But the photograph clearly made the point that Von und Zu had some powerful American friends. Waters was now a general officer.

Naylor got his first look at the princess-Frau Erika von und zu Gossinger-that first visit to the castle, but they were not introduced. She was a slim young woman in a black dress, her blonde hair gathered in a bun at her neck, and had been with her son, a towheaded ten- or eleven-year-old.

At the time, Naylor decided that while the story of the princess getting herself knocked up by some American chopper jockey made a great Dining In story, it was probably pure bullshit.

Over the next two years, he became more sure of that as he developed a personal relationship with the princess. Or, more accurately, as his bride, Elaine, and Erika became friends, as did the boy and Allan Junior, who was a year younger than Karl Wilhelm von und zu Gossinger.

The two women became much closer about a year later, after Von und Zu and his son went off a bridge on the Autobahn near Kassel in their Mercedes at a speed estimated by the authorities at one hundred ninety kilometers per hour (one hundred eighteen miles per hour), which left the princess and her son not only alone in the castle but the sole owners of Gossinger Beteiligungsgesellschaft, G.m.b.H.

By that time Major Naylor had learned the Gossinger assets went far beyond the farmlands now split by the barbed-wire fence and minefields. There were seven newspapers all over Europe, two breweries, a shipyard, and other businesses.

At the funeral of Erika's father and brother, Allan had told Elaine that he thought Erika would now be pushed into marrying Otto Gorner, managing director of the Gossinger Beteiligungsgesellschaft, G.m.b.H., empire, who he knew had made his intentions of such known a long time ago, and who had enjoyed the blessing of the late Oberst von und zu Gossinger.

Elaine had told him that Erika had told her she would never marry-Otto or anyone else.

And she hadn't.

Six months after the funeral, Elaine, white-faced, showed up at Naylor's office-something she almost never did-and announced she had to talk to him right then.

"The best of the bad news is that scurrilous story about Karl being the love child of one of our oversexed goddamn chopper jockeys is true," Elaine had reported, and handed him a slip of paper. "That's his name."

On the paper she had written, "WOJG Jorge Castillo, San Antonio, Texas."

"What am I supposed to do with this?" he'd said.

"Find him."

"After all this time? Why?"

"The worst of the really bad news, sweetheart, is that Erika has maybe a month, maybe six weeks, to live. She's kept her pancreatic cancer a secret."

"My God!"

"Very shortly, that Tex-Mex sonofabitch is going to be Karl's only living relative. Find him, Allan."

As any wise major destined for high command would do when faced with a problem that he didn't have a clue how to solve, Naylor turned to the Blackhorse's sergeant major. It took the wise old noncom not even thirty minutes to locate Warrant Officer Junior Grade Jorge Alejandro Castillo. He had remembered the name from somewhere, and then he had remembered where.

The sergeant major handed Major Naylor a book entitled Vietnam War Recipients of the Medal of Honor.

WOJG Jorge Castillo was in San Antonio, in the Fort Sam Houston National Cemetery. His tombstone bore a finely chiseled representation of the Medal of Honor and dates that indicated he had been nineteen years old at the time of his death.

That presented problems for Naylor and the Army that were difficult to express without sounding like a three-star sonofabitch. But they had to be, as Karl Wilhelm von und zu Gossinger was about to become a very wealthy twelve-year-old. And all of that money was now going to come under the control of some Mexican-Americans in Texas who probably didn't even know he existed.

The Army tries to take care of its own. This is especially true when the person needing help is the only son of a killed-in-action officer whose incredible courage in the face of death earned him the nation's most prestigious medal for valor.

The problem went up the chain of command. Senior officers of the Judge Advocate General's Corps were directed to find ways to save the boy's inheritance from squander by his new family.

Naylor was flown to San Antonio to "reconnoiter the situation" two days after Elaine had walked into his office with the bad news. The commanding general V U.S. Corps telephoned the commanding general of the Fifth United States Army at Fort Sam Houston, and told him Naylor was coming and why.

That officer quickly informed Naylor that the problem was not that the Castillo family was going to squander the inheritance-they owned square blocks of downtown San Antonio, and a great deal else, and didn't need anyone else's money.

Naylor's-and the Army's-problem was going to be to convince them that the boy's mother was not some fraulein of loose morality trying to dump someone else's bastard on them to get her hands into the Castillo cashbox.

Naylor found Dona Alicia Castillo at her office near the Alamo.

When she telephoned her husband, who was in New York City on business, to tell him she had just been told that their only son had left behind a son in Germany, he begged her to take things very slowly, and to do nothing until he could return to Texas and look into it himself.

"He has Jorge's eyes," Dona Alicia had said, and hung up.

Juan Fernando Castillo caught the next flight he could get on to Texas. It took him to Dallas, not San Antonio, but that wasn't going to pose a problem. He had called Lemes Aviation and told them to have the Lear waiting for him in Dallas for the final leg to San Antonio.

When he got to Dallas, however, the Lear wasn't there. When he called Lemes Aviation, he was told that Dona Alicia had taken the jet to New York, so that she and some Army officer could make the five-fifteen Pan American flight to Frankfurt.

Within twenty-four hours of meeting Dona Alicia Castillo, Allan and Elaine Naylor stood in the corridor outside Erika von und zu Gossinger's room in the castle and overheard Dona Alicia say, "I'm Jorge's mother, my dear. I'm here to take care of you and the boy."

Juan Fernando Castillo arrived in Germany ten hours after his wife.

A week later-Erika having decided she didn't want the boy to see her in the final stages of her illness-Naylor and Elaine and Allan Junior had shaken hands and hugged the boy, who now carried an American passport in the name of Carlos Guillermo Castillo and was preparing to board a Pan American 747 airliner bound for New York. "You don't happen to know where your friend Lieutenant Colonel Castillo is, do you, General?" President Clendennen asked.

"No, sir, I do not."

"Well, I've got a mission for you, General. I want you-as your highest priority-to find Lieutenant Colonel Castillo, wherever he might be, whereupon you will personally hand him orders recalling him from retirement to active duty. You will then personally order him to turn these Russian traitors over to the CIA. And when he has done so, then I want you to place Castillo under arrest, pending investigation of charges that may be laid against him under the Uniform Code of Military Justice. Do you understand these orders?"

Allan Naylor stood stonefaced, and thought: Goddamn you to hell, Bruce McNab!

He then said: "May I ask questions, sir?"

The President wiggled his fingers, granting permission.

"Sir, what is my authority to detain or arrest the Russians?"

"That won't pose a problem for you, General. Mr. Lammelle will deal with that."

"Sir, I don't understand."

"From right now-or at least from as soon as Mr. Lammelle can get here from Langley-until this mission has been accomplished, you and Lammelle will be, so to speak, joined at the hip. I wouldn't think, General, of asking you or the Army to do anything that would constitute a violation of any law. Nor would I ask that Mr. Lammelle or the CIA violate any laws. Having said that, we all know that the agency has a certain latitude in the gray areas, and I will personally accept full responsibility for any action that Mr. Lammelle feels he should take to carry out the desires of the commander in chief in this matter. Does that answer your question, General Naylor?"

"Yes, sir."

"How soon can you start on this, General?"

"Sir, I'll have to set up things at MacDill so that I can devote my full time to this. So, as soon as Mr. Lammelle gets here, I'll go there."

"Jack," the President said to the DCI, "Lammelle has a radio in his car, right? Why don't you get on the horn and tell him to meet the general at Andrews? There's no reason he actually has to come here."

"Yes, sir."

"Good hunting, General," the President said. "I don't think I have to tell you to keep me posted, do I?"

"No, sir." [TWO] Office of the Commanding General United States Army Central Command MacDill Air Force Base Tampa, Florida 1710 8 February 2007 By the time of the First Desert War, Allan Naylor was a well-respected major general, obviously destined for greater responsibility and the rank that would come with it. He had been selected to be General H. Norman Schwarzkopf's J-3, the Joint Staff's operations officer.

It was the J-3's responsibility to know what assets-usually meaning which units-were available to his general, and lists were prepared and updated daily that showed the names of the units and of their commanding officers.

One day, as they prepared to strike at Iraqi forces, Naylor had noticed on that day's list, under NEWLY ARRIVED IN THEATRE, the 2303rd Civil Government Detachment.

Lieutenant Colonel Bruce J. McNab was listed as the commanding officer.

Naylor felt a little sorry for McNab for several reasons, including that lieutenant colonel was a pretty junior rank for those who had graduated from the Point, and that command of a civil government detachment was not a highway to promotion. But Naylor also had decided that the lowly status was almost certainly Scotty McNab's own fault. He had always been a troublemaker. And Naylor had heard somewhere and some time ago that McNab had gone into Special Forces-another dead end, usually, for those seeking high rank-and this meant that McNab had somehow screwed up that career, too, the proof being that he now held only the rank of a light bird and was commanding a civil government detachment.

Two days later, the list, under CHANGES, noted: "Change McNab, Bruce J. LTC Inf 2303 CivGovDet to COL, no change in duties."

Naylor had thought that McNab had been lucky the Desert War had come along. Now he would be able to retire as a full bird colonel.

And then the shooting war began, and Major General Naylor gave no further thought to Colonel McNab.

Two days after that, Naylor learned from the public relations officer that in the very opening hours of the active war, the co-pilot of one of the Apache attack helicopters sent in to destroy Iraqi radar and other facilities had performed these duties with extraordinary skill and valor.

The Apache had been struck by Iraqi fire, which wounded both the pilot and co-pilot, blinding the former. A lesser man than the co-pilot would have landed the Apache and waited for help. This one, in the belief the pilot would die unless he got prompt medical attention, flew the battered, smoking, shuddering Apache more than a hundred miles back across the desert to friendly lines, ignoring the wounds he had himself received, and the enormous risk to his own life.

"The G-One, General," the public relations officer said to Naylor, "has approved the Impact Award of the Distinguished Flying Cross for this officer. Can General Schwarzkopf find time to make the presentation personally?"

"Why is that important?"

"The public relations aspect of this, General Naylor, is enormous. Once we release this story-especially with General Schwarzkopf personally making the award-it will be on the front page of every newspaper in America."

"Why enormous?"

"The co-pilot is a twenty-one-year-old second lieutenant, General. He just got out of West Point. And there's more, General, much more!"

The first thing General Naylor thought was: Then Charley Castillo probably knows him. He also just got out of the Point.

That was immediately followed by: What the hell is a twenty-one-year-old second lieutenant months out of Hudson High doing flying an Apache over here?

"What more?" Naylor had asked.

"This kid's father won the Medal of Honor in Vietnam, General, flying a Huey helicopter."

"Colonel, you don't win the Medal of Honor. You receive, are a recipient of, the Medal of Honor," Naylor corrected him in a Pavlovian reaction, and then said, "Let me see that thing."

The name of the officer who had performed so heroically was Second Lieutenant Carlos G. Castillo.

"Where is this officer?" he asked softly.

"In your outer office, sir."

"Get him in here," Naylor ordered.

The hand with which Lieutenant Castillo saluted General Naylor was wrapped in a bloody bandage. Much of his forehead and right cheek carried smaller bandages.

"Good afternoon, sir. Allan said if I had a chance, to pass on his regards."

"Right about now, you were supposed to be starting flight school, basic flight school. How is it you're here, and flying an Apache?"

"Well, when I got to Rucker, it came out that I had a little over three hundred hours in the civilian version of the Huey, so they sent me right to Apache school. And here I am."

Naylor had thought: And damn lucky to be alive.

Questions of personal valor aside, standing before me is a young officer who is blissfully unaware that he has been a pawn in what is obviously a cynical scheme on the part of some senior aviation officers who wanted to garner publicity for Army Aviation-"Son of Vietnam Army Pilot Hero Flies in Iraq"-and turned a blind eye to his lack of experience, and the very good chance that he would be killed.

Goddamn them!

They probably would've liked it better if he had been killed. It would have made a better story for the newspapers: "Son of Hero Pilot Dies Like His Father: In Combat, at the Controls!"

Sonsofbitches!

Ten minutes later, General H. Norman Schwarzkopf agreed with Major General Naylor's assessment of the situation.

"What do you want to do with him, Allan? Send him back to Fort Rucker?"

"That would imply he's done something wrong, sir."

"Then find some nice, safe flying assignment for him," Schwarzkopf said. "Anything else?"

"No, sir. Thank you, sir."

That then posed the problem of where to find a nice, safe flying assignment for Second Lieutenant Castillo out of the reach of glory-seeking Army Aviators. "McNab."

"Allan Naylor, Scotty. How are you?"

"Very well, thank you. How may I serve the general?"

"Tell me, Scotty, are there any Hueys on your T O and E?"

"Somebody told me you're the J-Three. Aren't you supposed to know?"

We may be classmates, but I'm a major general, and you're a just-promoted colonel.

A touch more respect on your part would be in order.

"Answer the question, please."

Scotty McNab affected an officious tone, and said, "Rotary-wing aircraft are essential to the mission of the 2303rd Civil Government Detachment, sir. Actually, sir, we couldn't fulfill the many missions assigned to us in the area of civil government without them. Yes, sir, I have a couple of Hueys."

"Colonel, a simple 'Yes, sir' or 'No, sir' would have sufficed," Naylor snapped.

"Yes, sir."

By then Naylor had been half-convinced that McNab's disrespectful attitude was induced by alcohol. He had an urge to simply hang up on him, but that would not have solved the problem of finding Second Lieutenant Castillo a nice, safe flying assignment.

"I'm about to send you a Huey pilot, Colonel. A Huey co-pilot."

"What did he do wrong?"

"Excuse me?"

"What did this guy do to get banished to civil government?"

"As a matter of fact, Colonel, this officer was decorated not more than an hour ago by General Schwarzkopf with the Distinguished Flying Cross," Naylor said sharply. He heard his tone, got control of himself, and went on: "The thing is, Scotty, this officer is very young, has been through a harrowing experience, has been wounded, and what I was thinking…"

"Got the picture. Send him down. Glad to have him."

"Thanks, Scotty."

"Think 'Civil Government,' General. That's what we're really all about." Not long after the shooting war had ended, Schwarzkopf's aide-de-camp arrived in Naylor's office, and announced: "General Schwarzkopf asks you to be in his office at 1500, when he will decorate Colonel McNab, General. You're friends, right?"

"Colonel McNab is to be decorated? With what? For what?"

"With the Distinguished Service Cross, General. And afterward, the President's going to call to offer his congratulations on his promotion. The Senate just confirmed his star."

"Jack, are we talking about Colonel McNab of Civil Government?"

"Well, sir, that's what they called it. But that's not what it really was."

"Excuse me? If it wasn't Civil Government, what was it?"

"Sir, maybe you better ask General Schwarzkopf about that." At 1445, General Naylor went into General Norman Schwarzkopf's office and confessed that he was more than a little confused about Colonel McNab's 2303rd Civil Government Detachment and what he had been told was to happen at 1500.

"You weren't on the need-to-know list, Allan," Stormin' Norman said. "I told McNab I thought you should be, but he said if he ever needed anything from you, he'd tell you what he was up to. And it was his call. My orders were to support him, but he didn't answer to me. He took his orders from the CIA."

"Sir, what was he up to?"

"He ran Special Operations for the campaign. And did one hell of a job. They grabbed two intact Scud missiles and a half-dozen Russian officers-including two generals-who were showing the Iraqis how to work them. Embarrassed the hell out of the Russians. There was a lot more, but you don't have the need-to-know. I'm sure you understand."

Naylor understood, but that was not the same as saying he liked being kept in the dark. At 1500, Colonel Bruce J. McNab, followed by Second Lieutenant Castillo, marched into General Schwarzkopf's office, came to attention, and saluted. Allan Naylor could not believe his eyes.

Colonel McNab was a small, muscular, ruddy-faced man with a flowing red mustache. He wore aviator sunglasses, a mostly unbuttoned khaki bush jacket with its sleeves rolled up, khaki shorts, knee-length brown socks, and hunting boots. On his head was an Arabian headdress, circled with two gold cords, which Naylor had recently learned indicated the wearer was an Arabian nobleman. An Uzi submachine gun hung by a strap from his shoulder.

Castillo was similarly dressed, except he had no gold cords on his headdress, and he had a Colt CAR-15 submachine gun slung from his shoulder.

"What the hell are you two dressed up for, Scotty?" General Schwarzkopf asked.

"Sir, I researched what Lawrence of Arabia actually wore during his campaigns in the desert-and it was not flowing robes-and adopted it for me and my aide-to-be."

"It's a good thing the press isn't here," Schwarzkopf said. "They'd have a field day with you two."

Schwarzkopf offered his hand to Castillo.

"Good to see you again, Lieutenant," he said.

"Thank you, sir."

"And speaking of Lieutenant Castillo," McNab said, and handed Schwarzkopf two oblong blue medal boxes. "These are for him. I'm sure he'd rather get them from you, sir."

"What are they?"

"The Silver Star for the business with the Russian generals. And the Purple Heart, second and third awards."

"I sent him to you, Scotty," Naylor heard himself say, "to get him out of the line of fire."

"Didn't work out that way, General," McNab said. "Charley's a warrior." "I have General McNab for you, sir," Command Sergeant Major Wes Suggins, the senior noncommissioned officer of the United States Central Command, announced to General Naylor from the office door.

Naylor gave him a thumbs-up gesture and snatched the secure telephone from his desk.

"Good evening, sir," Lieutenant General Bruce J. McNab, commanding general of the Special Operations Command at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, said cheerfully. "And how are things on beautiful Tampa Bay?"

"General, I want you in my office at oh-seven-thirty tomorrow," Naylor said.

"Perhaps, if I may make the suggestion, sir, your quarters would be a better place to meet, sir," McNab said. "I suspect we are going to say unkind things to one another, and that sometimes adversely affects the morale of your gnomes."

"Oh-seven-thirty, General," Naylor said, coldly furious. "My office, and leave your wiseass mouth at Bragg."

"I hear and obey, my general," McNab said cheerfully.

Naylor slammed the secure telephone into its cradle.

The damned call didn't take thirty seconds and he made me lose my temper!

Referring to my staff as my "gnomes"! Goddamn him!

Allan B. Naylor had never liked Bruce J. McNab during their four years at the United States Military Academy at West Point. He had come to dislike him intensely in later years, and now he could not think of an officer he had ever despised more. [THREE] Morton's Steakhouse 1050 Connecticut Avenue, N.W. Washington, D.C. 1930 8 February 2007 Sergei Murov sat at the bar of the restaurant, drinking twelve-year-old Chivas Regal while he watched in the mirror behind the row of bottles the headwaiter stand at the entrance. Murov was waiting for the syndicated columnist C. Harry Whelan, Jr., to show up.

Murov knew that the headwaiter-and other restaurant staff-were aware of who the freely spending cultural attache of the embassy of the Russian Federation was. And he was equally certain-Washington being the small town that it really was, where everybody knew each other's business-that they had at least heard and probably believed that he was the head Russian spy.

Murov wanted the word to get out around town that he had had a private dinner in Morton's with Whelan. The FBI would be helpful in this regard. The usual quartet of FBI special agents had been waiting outside the embassy with two cars and had followed him here.

He knew how they worked. The cars were now parked on opposite sides of Connecticut Avenue so that they could easily follow him no matter which direction he took when he left the restaurant. One special agent had followed him into the restaurant and was now sitting at the end of the bar. The second agent-on-foot was now standing in the alley outside the kitchen against the possibility that the wily Russian spy might try to elude surveillance by sneaking out of Morton's through the kitchen.

One of the FBI men had almost certainly already radioed the information to whoever was supervising his surveillance that he was in Morton's, and just as soon as C. Harry Whelan arrived and joined him, that information, too, would be passed on.

That information, however, would not be shared with anyone-at least immediately-outside the J. Edgar Hoover Building. But the information would get around where Murov wanted it to go via the headwaiter, who would be on the receiving end of at least one "Flying C-Note"-he loved that phrase-for making discreet telephone calls to various print and television journalists telling them that C. Harry Whelan, Jr., had just walked into Morton's and was breaking bread with Sergei Murov behind a screen erected at Murov's request. "Good evening, Mr. Whelan," the headwaiter said when the journalist walked through the door. "Nice to see you again. Your regular table?"

"I think I'll have a little taste first, thank you," Whelan said, gesturing toward the bar. "Oh, look who's there!"

Sergei Murov had gotten off his bar stool and was smiling at Whelan. Whelan walked to him and they shook hands.

Whelan, too, knew that a substantial percentage of the headwaiter's income came to him off the books and thus tax-free in the form of Flying C-Notes given him as an expression of gratitude by various print journalists and television producers for keeping them up to date on where C. Harry Whelan and others of Inside-the-Beltway prominence were, had been, or were going to be, and who they were talking to.

Whelan was usually delighted with the system, and especially so today when he knew the word would spread that he had had dinner with Murov. Murov met with only the more important journalists, and actually very few of those.

Whelan had no idea what Murov wanted from him, and would have been very surprised if he got anything at all useful from the Russian. But the word would spread. Among those it would annoy to learn that he was bending elbows with the Russian spymaster was Andy McClarren, anchor of Wolf News's most popular program. Whelan recently had come to think that Straight Scoop McClarren was getting more than a little too big for his kilt.

This was by no means the first, or even the tenth, time that he'd met Murov at Morton's. He knew what was going to happen: There would be some very good whisky at the bar, and then, when they had moved to a table, some really first-class wine, and one of Morton's nearly legendary steaks.

People often quoted Whelan's evaluation of Morton's Steakhouse: "The food is so good in Morton's that it's almost worth about half what they charge for it."

And afterward, Murov would not only insist on paying the check, in cash, but also would leave the actual bill lying on the table, from where he knew Harry would discreetly-and thinking Murov didn't notice-slip it in his pocket.

Murov had diplomatic privilege, which would allow him to turn the bill over to the IRS for a refund of the tax. He had decided, the first time he'd seen Whelan grab the bill, that the Russian Federation could easily afford forfeiting the returned taxes if that meant a very important-and thus potentially very useful-journalist would come to the conclusion that he was putting something over not only on the IRS but also on the rezident of the Russian embassy. It is always better if one's adversary thinks he is far more clever than oneself. "How are you, Sergei?" Whelan greeted Murov.

"What a pleasant surprise!" Murov said. "Have you time for a drink, Harry?"

"I could be talked into that, I think," Whelan said, and slipped onto a bar stool.

He ordered a Famous Grouse twelve-year-old malt Scotch whisky with two ice cubes and half as much water as whisky.

As the bartender was making the drink, Murov said, "I saw you on Wolf News, Harry. 'Straight Scoop something'?"

"You and four million other people," Whelan said somewhat smugly.

"I thought your 'arf-arf' business was hilarious, but I wondered what it did to your relationship with President Clendennen."

"It went from just-about-as-bad-as-it-can-get to worse."

"What was that all about, anyway, at Fort Detrick?"

"I don't know, Sergei. I think you know what really goes on out there."

"I haven't a clue."

"The hell you don't. Okay, they have a biological weapons laboratory out there. That's probably classified Top Secret, but it's really about as much of a secret as McClarren's wig."

"Really? That red hair isn't his?"

"That's why they always shoot him up," Whelan said, demonstrating with his hands a low camera angle pointing upward. "If they shoot him down, or even straight on, you can see the cheesecloth or whatever it is under the hair."

"You really are a fountain of information, Harry," Murov said.

Whelan thought: Actually, of disinformation.

As far as I know, all that red hair comes out of Ol' Andy's scalp.

But the bartender heard what I just said, and before the night is over, it will be all over Morton's.

And before the week is out, Jay Leno will have made a joke about Old Baldy and His Red Rug.

Whelan said, "So, what happened at Fort Detrick was that they had an accident. Somebody dropped a bottle or somebody forgot to close a door. They're prepared for something like that. The emergency procedures were put into play. Since the world didn't come to an end, we know that the emergency procedures worked. But in the meantime, Homeland Security, the Defense Department, every other agency determined to prove it's on the job protecting the people, rushed up there, and the Wolf News photographers in the helicopter got those marvelous shots of everybody getting in everybody's way. Chasing their tails. Arf-arf. " Twenty minutes and two drinks later, Murov called for the bartender, told him he was ready for his table, and asked for the bill. When it was presented, Murov laid three twenty-dollar bills on the bar, and told the bartender to keep the change. The headwaiter appeared, bearing menus and trailed by the sommelier bearing the wine list.

C. Harry Whelan, Jr., slipped the bar bill into his pocket and followed everybody to a table set against a wall behind a folding screen. Ten minutes after that, a waiter had delivered a dozen oysters on the half-shell and the sommelier had opened and poured from a bottle of Egri Bikaver, which Murov told Whelan he had learned to appreciate as a young officer stationed in Budapest.

"'Bull's blood,' they call it," Murov said. "The Hungarians have been making wine for a thousand years."

"What were you doing in Budapest?" Whelan asked. "As a young officer?"

"I was in tanks," Murov said.

Bullshit. You were in the KGB, or the OGPU, or whatever they called the Soviet secret intelligence service in those days.

You are a charming sonofabitch, Sergei, but you didn't get to be the Washington rezident because you're a nice guy.

You're dangerous.

What the hell do you want from me?

They tapped the rims of their glasses together.

"I'm going to tell you a story, Harry," Murov said, "one that would go over very well if you went on The Straight Scoop tonight with it-"

Well, here it comes!

Whelan interrupted: "Sergei, my experience has been that if someone tries to feed you a story…"

Murov went on: "-but I think when you hear the whole story, you will decide to wait a little before coming out with it." Murov paused, then added: "And if you decide to break the story immediately, I will of course deny it. And since it touches on the incredible, I really think people would believe my denial."

"Why are you being so good to me, Sergei?"

"Because it is in my interests to do so. And because, frankly, you are the most important journalist to whom I have access."

Whelan thought: That makes sense.

Murov reached for, and then placed on the table, a very elegant dark red leather attache case. When Whelan saw it, he thought of the wine-bull's blood.

Murov took two sheets of paper from the attache case, laid them on the table, closed the attache case, returned it to the floor, and then handed Whelan the two sheets of paper.

"What am I looking at? It's in Russian."

"Underneath is the translation. What you're looking at is a letter from Colonel Vladlen Solomatin."

Whelan read the translation, and then looked at Murov, his eyebrows raised in question.

"When you have your own translation of the Russian made, Harry," Murov said, "I think you'll find that one's quite accurate. I know that because I did it myself."

"I confess I don't understand what this is all about," Whelan said.

"Those warmongers who scurrilously accuse me of being a member of the SVR rather than the innocent diplomat that I am would also allege that my superior in the SVR is Vladlen Solomatin. The second directorate of the SVR is in charge of SVR agents around the world, exercising that authority through the senior SVR officer in each country, commonly called the rezident. Are you hearing all this for the first time, Harry?"

"Absolutely. This is all news to me."

"I'm not surprised. Anyway, so I'm told, most of these rezidents know each other. We… excuse me… they went to school together, served together, et cetera. You understand?"

"Sort of an old boy's club, right?"

"Precisely," Murov said. "Not very often, but once in a great while, people who are not in the SVR form close friendships with people who are. In our embassies-as, I am sure, in yours-cultural attaches know who the rezident/ CIA station chief is even if that is supposed to be a secret. Am I right?"

"Probably. Are you going to tell me who the SVR rezident in your embassy here is, Sergei?"

"No. But I know who he is, even though I am not supposed to."

"And I'm sure that secret is safe with you," Whelan said as he reached for the bottle of Egri Bikaver. "Vladimir Putin may sleep soundly tonight."

Whelan saw in Murov's eyes something that told him Murov did not like the sarcasm or-maybe particularly-the reference to Putin.

Good!

"Colonel Dmitri Berezovsky and I are friends from childhood," Murov said. "And we went to Saint Petersburg University together."

"And Berezovsky is…?"

"The former commercial attache of our embassy in Berlin."

"Read rezident?"

Whelan had asked the question to annoy Murov and was genuinely surprised when Murov replied: "All right, the former rezident in Berlin. And I was therefore genuinely surprised when word came that he and his sister, who was the rezident in Copenhagen, had deserted their posts shortly before they were to be arrested on charges of embezzlement."

"This letter," Whelan said, tapping the document with his fingers, "says they didn't do it. 'Come home. All is forgiven.'"

"They didn't do it. Svetlana's husband was trying to pay her back for leaving him. In the SVR, husbands are expected to control their wives; if they can't, it puts their character into question."

"Are you pulling my leg, Sergei?"

"Not in the slightest. Svetlana-"

"You keep using her first name. You know her, too, huh?"

"Very well. As I was saying, Svetlana not only moved out of their apartment, but had begun divorce proceedings against Colonel Alekseev. Having one's wife-particularly a wife who is a co-worker, so to speak-find one wanting in the marital situation is very damaging to an officer's career. Evgeny's father was a general-"

"Evgeny's the husband?"

Murov nodded and said, "Colonel Evgeny Evgenyvich Alekseev. And Evgeny wanted to be a general, too. And I would suppose there was a human element in here as well."

"Human element?"

"Aside from everything else, his losing Svetlana. She's a strikingly beautiful woman. Charming, elegant. Evgeny was crazy about her. Jealous."

"Does the term 'soap opera' mean anything to you, Sergei?"

"I know what a soap opera is, of course."

"This sounds like a soap opera. A bad one."

Murov sucked in his breath audibly. And then he was spared having to reply immediately by the waiter.

"Excuse me," the waiter interrupted. "Are you ready to order, gentlemen?"

He was pushing a cart loaded with steaks, chops, lobster, and other items from which one could select one's steak, chop, lobster, or other item.

Whelan seriously doubted one actually got what one selected. For one thing, all the cuts were lying on a bed of ice, and were therefore presumably below room temperature, and you weren't supposed to grill steaks unless they were at room temperature. For another, it was reasonable to assume the diner would pick the best chunk of meat. If this then went to the grill, another good-looking steak would have to be added to the cart.

It would therefore be easier to let the customer think he was selecting his entree, and actually serve him with something from the kitchen, and he was sure they did just that.

"Filet mignon, pink in the middle, with Wine Merchant's sauce, asparagus, and a small salad, please," Whelan ordered without looking at the selection on the cart.

"Twice, except because of the big portions I'll have mushrooms instead of asparagus," Murov said, then looked at Whelan, and said, "We can rob from one another's side dish," then turned back to the waiter, and added, "And bring another bottle of the Egri Bikaver."

The waiter repeated the order and then left.

"You will recall I used the phrase 'touches on the incredible,'" Murov said, "when we began."

"That was an understatement, but go on," Whelan said. "What happened?"

"Well, all of this apparently pushed him over the edge. He decided to punish her. Or maybe he did what he did consciously, thinking that losing a wife who was a thief would be less damaging to his career than a wife who had kicked him out of the marital bed. So he started to set up her and her brother on false embezzlement charges."

"Sounds like he's a really nice guy," Whelan said.

Murov exhaled audibly again.

"One does not get to be the Berlin rezident of the SVR without a very well-developed sense of how to cover one's back," Murov said.

"I suppose that would also apply to the Washington rezident of the SVR."

Murov ignored the comment. He went on: "Dmitri learned what was going on…"

"Why didn't he go to his boss and say, 'Hey, boss. My sister's husband is trying to set me up. Here's the proof.'"

"Because his boss was his cousin, Colonel V. N. Solomatin. I'm sure Vladlen would have believed him, but Solomatin's superior was-is-General Yakov Sirinov, who runs the SVR for Putin. And Sirinov was unlikely to believe either Vladlen or Dmitri for several reasons, high among them that he believed Dmitri was a personal threat to his own career. The gossip at the time Sirinov was given his position was that it would have gone to Dmitri if Dmitri and Putin had not been at odds. And also of course because Vladlen and Dmitri were cousins."

The odds are a hundred to one that I am being fed an incredible line of bullshit.

But, my God, what a plethora of details! Murov should have been a novelist.

Either that, or he's telling me the truth.

Careful, Harry! Not for publication, but you're really out of your league when dealing with the Washington rezident of the SVR.

"So Dmitri did what any man in his position would do."

"The SVR Washington rezident, for example?"

Murov looked at him, shook his head, smiled, and said, "No. What the Washington rezident would have done in similar circumstances would have been to call Frank Lammelle, and say something like, 'Frank, my friend, when I come out of Morton's tonight, have a car waiting for me. This spy's coming in from the cold.'

"Dmitri didn't have that option. He was in Berlin. His sister was in Copenhagen. And they were being watched by other SVR officers. They couldn't just get on a plane and come here. But what they could do, and did, was contact the CIA station chief in Vienna and tell her that they were willing to defect, and thought the best time and way to do that was to slip away from the festivities at the Kunsthistorisches Museum."

"I don't understand," Whelan confessed. "What festivities? Where?"

"There was going to be a gathering in Vienna of rezidents and other SVR officers. As a gesture of international friendship, the Hermitage Museum in Saint Petersburg sent Bartolomeo Rastrelli's wax statue of Russian tsar Peter the First on a tour of the better European museums. First stop was Vienna's Kunsthistorisches Museum."

"Okay."

"The CIA station chief set things up. The CIA sent a plane to Vienna with the plan that, as soon as Dmitri and Svetlana got into it, it would take off, and eight hours later Dmitri and Svetlana would be in one of those safe houses the agency maintains not far from our dacha on the Eastern Shore here.

"So far as General Sirinov was concerned, the business at the Kunsthistorisches Museum was going to provide him with two things. First, an opportunity to get all his people together without attracting too much attention. Second, when everybody was gathered, and people asked the whereabouts of Colonel Dmitri Berezovsky and Lieutenant Colonel Svetlana Alekseeva, Sirinov was going to tell them they were under arrest for embezzling funds of the Russian Federation, and then put them on an Aeroflot aircraft to Moscow."

"Sirinov… is that his name?"

Murov nodded.

"He knew these two were going to defect?"

Murov nodded.

"And here is where the plot thickens," Murov said. "There were CIA agents waiting in Vienna's Westbahnhof for Dmitri and his sister. And there were representatives of the SVR waiting for them. And they never showed up."

"What happened to them?"

"It took General Sirinov several days to find out. There were two problems. First, the officer responsible for meeting them at the railway station, the Vienna rezident, Lieutenant Colonel Kiril Demidov, was found the next morning sitting in a taxicab outside the American embassy with the calling card of Miss Eleanor Dillworth, the CIA station chief, on his chest. Poor Kiril had been garroted to death."

"Jesus Christ!" Whelan exclaimed.

"And then, the second problem was that General Sirinov was naturally distracted by world events. You will recall that your President somehow got the idea that the Iranians were operating a biological warfare laboratory in the Congo and rather than bring his suspicions to the United Nations, as he was clearly obligated to do, instead launched a unilateral attack and brought the world dangerously close to a nuclear exchange."

Do I let him get away with that?

What good would arguing with him do?

"Are you going to tell me what happened to Colonel Whatsisname and his sister?"

"That is the real question," Murov said. "Eventually, General Sirinov learned that within hours of their scheduled arrival in Vienna, they were flown out of Schwechat on Lieutenant Colonel Carlos G. Castillo's Gulfstream airplane. That was the last time anyone has seen them."

"How did Castillo get involved?"

Murov shrugged.

"General Sirinov's intention had been to present the arrest of Dmitri and Svetlana to Putin as a fait accompli. Now he had to report that not only were they not under arrest, but no one had any idea where they might be, although of course the CIA was presumed to be somehow involved.

"Putin-who, as I said, has known Dmitri and Svetlana for years-thought there was something fishy about the embezzlement charges and ordered Sirinov to have another look. Sirinov discovered Evgeny's little scheme. Putin was furious, both personally and professionally."

"What does that mean?" Whelan asked.

"In addition to his personal feelings about the injustice done to Colonel Berezovsky and Lieutenant Colonel Alekseeva, Putin knew that SVR officers all over the world were thinking, That could happen to me."

"Including you, Sergei?"

"Well, since I'm not an SVR officer, no. But to answer what I think you're asking, 'Was the Washington rezident thinking that what happened to two fine SVR officers like Berezovsky and Alekseeva could happen to him?' I happen to know he was. And Putin, knowing this, ordered that things be made right. If he could get through to Berezovsky and Alekseeva and get them to come home, and they were promoted… If the injustice done to them…"

"I get the point," Whelan said.

Why am I starting to believe him?

"So Putin went to Vladlen Solomatin and told him what he wanted to do. And that letter was written. The problem then became how to get the letter to Berezovsky and his sister. The decision was made-by Putin personally-to go right to the top. So the Washington rezident invited Frank Lammelle to our dacha on the Eastern Shore-you know where I mean?"

Whelan nodded.

"And explained the situation, gave him the letter from Solomatin, and asked that he deliver it, and made it clear that his cooperation in the matter would not be forgotten.

"Lammelle, however, said he was sorry, but he didn't think he could help, as much as he would like to. Then he related an incredible story. Castillo had had no authority to take Berezovsky and Alekseeva from Vienna. Castillo had never been in the CIA, but had been in charge of a private CIA-called the Office of Organizational Analysis, OOA-that your late President had been running. OOA was disbanded, and its members been ordered to disappear the day before you bombed the Congo. Lammelle said he had no idea where Castillo or Berezovsky and Alekseeva could be."

"You're right. That's incredible," Whelan said.

"What's really incredible, Harry, is that the rezident believed Lammelle. They had over the years developed a relationship. In other words, they might say 'No comment' to one another, but they would not lie to one another. Over time, that has worked to their mutual advantage."

Murov topped off their wineglasses.

"That's why I asked you to dinner, Harry," Murov said. "To propose something I think will be mutually advantageous."

Whelan said, "'And what would that be?' Harry Whelan, suspicious journalist, asked, as he put one hand on his wallet and the other on his crotch."

Murov chuckled.

"Your wallet, maybe, Harry. But I am really not interested in your crotch. Would you like me to go on, or should we just forget we ever had this conversation?"

"I'm all ears."

"Putin wants this problem resolved. There is great pressure on the rezident to solve it. He came to me and said he thought the greatest obstacle to solving it is President Clendennen…"

"Clendennen? He's the obstacle? How's that?"

"The rezident thinks the President just wants the problem to go away, and he thinks the President believes the best way to do that is to do nothing. His predecessor never told him a thing about the OOA. He has no idea what it is, or was. He's never heard of Lieutenant Colonel Castillo, and therefore knows nothing of Castillo taking two Russian defectors away from the CIA, and if he did, he has no idea why, or what Castillo has done with the defectors. Getting the idea?"

"Yeah," Whelan said. "So, what am I supposed to do about it?"

"Start looking for Castillo and the OOA… at the White House. Ask Clendennen to tell you about his secret private CIA, and the man who runs it for him. When he tells you he knows nothing about it, ask him why you can't find Castillo. Tell him you suspect he's hiding Castillo, and that unless you can talk to Castillo and get a denial from him, that's the story you're going to write: 'President Denies Knowledge of Secret Special Operations Organization.'"

"And he says, 'Go ahead, write it. I don't know what you're talking about.' Then what?"

"Then you tell him that after you write it, and he denies it, you're going to write another story: 'Former CIA Station Chief Confirms That Rogue Special Operator Stole Russian Defectors from CIA.' And that the only way you're not going to write the story is if Castillo tells you it's not true."

"And who is this former CIA station chief? And why would he tell me this?"

"It's a she. Her name is Eleanor Dillworth. The day after Kiril Demidov was found in the taxicab outside the American embassy with Dillworth's calling card on his chest, she was fired. She feels she has been treated unfairly."

"Why should I believe her?"

"Roscoe J. Danton does. She went to him with this story. He's now in Buenos Aires looking for Castillo."

"How do you know that?"

"The rezident there told me. He's actually very good at what he does."

He wouldn't tell me that if it wasn't true.

It's too easy to check out.

"Just for the sake of argument, Sergei: Say I believe you. Say I do all this-I'd start by talking to this Dillworth woman-what's in it for me?"

"Well, Harry, it would be a hell of a story. Especially once we get Colonel Berezovsky and his sister out in the open, if they told their story to you, and only to you. And of course I would be very grateful to you. And so would the rezident. That might be very useful in the future, wouldn't you agree?"

"I can see that," Whelan said. "But I can't help but wonder why you're being so good to me."

"Because you are not only a very nice fellow, Harry, but the most important journalist I know."

"Oh, bullshit!" Whelan said modestly.

But I probably am the most important journalist you know.

Murov took his cell phone from the breast pocket of his suit, opened it, punched buttons, and then put it on the table.

"What's this?" Whelan asked.

"It's what they call a cell phone, Harry."

Whelan took a closer look, and then picked it up.

The telephone was ready to call a party identified as DILLWORTH, E.

"You said you'd want to start by talking to Miss Dillworth," Murov said.

If I push the CALL button, I'll probably wind up talking to some female Russian spy.

But what good would that do him?

He pushed the CALL button.

A female voice answered on the third buzz.

"Miss Eleanor Dillworth, please."

"May I ask who's calling?"

"My name is C. Harry Whelan."

"What can I do for you, Mr. Whelan?"

"Do you know who I am, Miss Dillworth?"

"If this is the talking head I see on Wolf News, yes, I do."

"Miss Dillworth, I'm running down a story that a rogue special operator named Castillo stole two Russian defectors from you. Would you care to comment?"

"Where did you hear that?"

"I'd rather not say just now, Miss Dillworth, but if this story is true…"

"It's true."

"I'd like to talk to you about it at some length."

"Okay. When and where?"

I have had too much of the Egri Bikaver.

"It's too late tonight. But what about first thing in the morning? Would it be convenient for you to meet me at the Old Ebbitt Grill? Do you know it?"

"What time?"

"Half past eight?"

"See you there, Mr. Whelan."

"How will I recognize you?"

"I'll recognize you. Half past eight."

She hung up.

Whelan closed the cell phone and handed it back to Murov. Murov returned it to his jacket pocket and then put out his hand.

"I presume we have a deal, Harry?" he asked.

Whelan took the hand.

Forty-five minutes later, Sergei Murov laid three one-hundred-dollar bills on the waiter's leather check folder and told him to keep the change.

"Mind if I look at that?" Whelan asked, and picked up the bill.

"They don't give that Egri Bikaver away, do they?" he asked.

"They don't give anything at all away," Murov said.

Whelan slipped the check in his pocket, and followed Murov out of the restaurant. [ONE] Quarters #1 MacDill Air Force Base Tampa, Florida 2015 8 February 2007 The driveway of Quarters One was empty as the Chrysler Town amp; Country minivan that General Allan B. Naylor, Sr., had chosen over a staff car for his official vehicle pulled into it. The vehicle had of course come with a driver, and Naylor was traveling with his senior aide-de-camp, Colonel J. D. Brewer.

"I wonder where the hell she is," Naylor said, making obvious reference to his wife.

"Does she know you're here?" Brewer replied.

"Who knows?" Naylor said as he opened his door. "Can I interest you in a drink? I hate to drink alone."

"Allan's here," Colonel Brewer said, pointing back to the street at a Chevrolet Suburban.

"Offer's still good," Naylor said.

"Offer is accepted."

"You can take off, Tommy," Naylor said to the driver. "I'll see that Colonel Brewer gets home. Don't be late in the morning."

"No, sir. I won't be. Good night, sir. Good night, Colonel."

The two got out of the van and walked up the driveway and entered the house by the kitchen door.

Major Allan B. Naylor, Jr., in khaki trousers and a flowered Hawaiian shirt, was sitting at the kitchen table holding a bottle of Heineken beer.

"Well, if it isn't the commanding officer of Headquarters and Headquarters Company," Brewer said.

"With all possible respect, Colonel, sir, go fuck yourself," Allan Junior said.

When Allan Junior had been released from the hospital, mostly recovered from mortar shell wounds suffered in Afghanistan, he had been placed on limited duty and assigned "temporarily" as executive officer of Headquarters and Headquarters Company, Central Command. It was a housekeeping job and he hated it.

Armor Branch Officer Assignment had asked him where he would like to be assigned when he was taken off the "limited duty" roster. He had requested, he'd said, "any of the following": the 11th Armored Cavalry at Fort Irwin, California, where The Blackhorse now served as "the enemy" in training maneuvers; Fort Knox, Kentucky, the Cavalry/Armor Center; or Fort Hood, Texas, which always had at least one armored division.

When his orders had come, ten days ago, they had named him commanding officer of Headquarters and Headquarters Company, Central Command, and informed him it was at least a two-year assignment.

Brewer was not really offended by Allan Junior's comment. For one thing, he had known the young officer since he was a kid in Germany; he thought of him as almost family. And he really felt sorry for him.

"If you don't watch your mouth, Major, you're liable to find yourself an aide-de-camp. Trust me, that's a much worse assignment."

"Well, Jack, you can go to hell, too," General Naylor said, and then asked, "Allan, where's your mother?"

"She and my wife and my sister and all your grandchildren are in Orlando, at Disney World. I am under maternal orders to look after you." General Allan B. Naylor, Sr., USA, Commanding General, United States Central Command, had four aides-de-camp-a colonel, two lieutenant colonels, and a captain.

They were his personal staff, as opposed to his command staff at Central Command. The latter was headed by General Albert McFadden, USAF, the deputy commander. Under General McFadden were nine general officers-four Army, three Air Force, and two Marine Corps-plus four Navy flag officers-one vice admiral, two rear admirals (upper half), and one rear admiral (lower half), plus enough full colonels, someone had figured out, to fully staff a reinforced infantry platoon if the fortunes of war should make that necessary.

Approximately one-third of these generals, admirals, and colonels was female. All of General Naylor's personal staff were male.

Despite what Senator Homer Johns frequently said-and apparently believed-General Naylor's personal staff did not spend, at God only knows what cost to the poor taxpayer, their time catering to the general's personal needs, polishing his insignia, mixing his drinks, shining his shoes, carrying his luggage, peeling his grapes, and myriad other acts, making him feel like the commander of a Praetorian Guard enjoying the especial favor of Emperor Caligula.

Colonel J. D. Brewer, whose lapels had carried the crossed sabers of Cavalry before he exchanged them for the insignia of an aide-de-camp, was in overall charge. One of the lieutenant colonels dealt with General Naylor's relationship with Central Command. The other dealt with General Naylor's relationship with Washington-the Pentagon, the chief of staff, Congress, and most importantly, the White House.

The captain was in charge of getting the general-which meant not only Naylor, but those officers he needed to have at his side, plus the important paperwork he had to have in his briefcase-from where he was to where he had to be. This involved scheduling the Gulfstream, arranging ground transportation and quarters, and ensuring that Naylor never lost communication with either MacDill or Washington.

Jack Brewer and his boss went back together a long time. Brewer had been a second lieutenant in The Blackhorse on the East German-West German border when Naylor had been there as a major. Later, Brewer, as a major, had been the executive officer of a tank battalion in the First Desert War. He had been a promotable light colonel during the Second Desert War, and now he was waiting, more or less patiently, to hear that his name had been sent to Capitol Hill for confirmation by the Senate of his promotion to brigadier general.

It was said, with a great deal of accuracy, that Brewer's rapid rise through the ranks had been the result of the efficiency reports that Naylor had written on him over the years. "Following your mother's orders," General Naylor said, "you can start looking out for your old man by getting that bottle of Macallan from the bar and fixing Jack and me a drink."

"The Macallan?" Allan Junior asked. "What are we celebrating?"

"Actually, what we're marking is almost the exact opposite of a celebration," Naylor said.

The telephone rang as Allan Junior was walking out of the kitchen to get the single malt. He snatched its handset off the wall.

"Quarters One, Major Naylor, sir."

He listened, then put his hand over the microphone, and turned to his father.

"It's Charley," he said to his father, referring to Captain Charles D. Seward III, his father's junior aide. "He says that Mr. Lammelle is having dinner with Mr. Festerman and will spend the night with him, rather than in the VIP Quarters. He wants to know what you want him to do."

Bruce L. Festerman was the liaison officer of the Central Intelligence Agency to the United States Central Command.

Naylor walked to his son and took the telephone receiver from him.

"Charley," he ordered, "ask Mr. Lammelle if it would be convenient for him to have you pick him up at half past eight in the morning. If so, drive him slowly to the office. I want to be through with General McNab before he gets there. If that doesn't work, call me back."

When Naylor had returned the telephone to its cradle, Allan Junior said: "The deputy director of the CIA and Scotty McNab. What the hell's going on?"

Colonel Brewer had wanted to ask the same questions, first when Lammelle had been waiting for him and General Naylor at Andrews Air Force Base in Washington, and later at MacDill, when General Naylor had walked into his office and, even before he sat down, had told Sergeant Major Wes Suggins to get General McNab on the horn.

But he hadn't asked. He knew Naylor would tell him what he thought he should know when he thought he needed to know it.

Brewer's natural curiosity-both personal and professional-was not to be satisfied now, either.

"I thought you were fetching the bottle of Macallan," General Naylor said.

"Yes, sir," Allan Junior said. "Coming right up, sir."

The younger Naylor returned with two bottles of Scotch whisky-the single malt Macallan and a bottle of blended Johnnie Walker Red Label. General Naylor's father had taught him-and he had taught his son-that one never took two drinks of really superb Scotch in a row. One drank and savored the superb whisky. A second drink of the superb would be a waste, however, as the alcohol had deadened the tongue to the point where it could not taste the difference between a superb Scotch and an ordinary one-or even a bad one.

General Naylor drank his Macallan without saying a word. When that was gone, he poured a double of the Johnnie Walker, added a couple of ice cubes to his glass, moved the cubes around with his index finger, and then looked up.

"Did either of you see that actor-the guy who usually has a big black mustache-in the movie where he played Eisenhower just before D-Day?"

"Tom Selleck," Brewer said. "Countdown to D-Day."

"Something like that," Naylor said. "Allan?"

"Yeah, I saw it. Good movie."

"Very accurate," Naylor said. "Down to his chain-smoking those Chesterfields. My uncle Tony, who was at SHAEF, said Eisenhower's fingers were stained yellow from the cigarettes."

He took another swallow of his drink, and his son and aide waited for him to go on.

"There was a segment where one of his officers, a two-star, let his mouth run in a restaurant. Do you remember that?"

His son and his aide nodded.

"That was also quite accurately shown in the movie. Uncle Tony knew all the players. The officer was in his cups, in a restaurant, and came close to divulging when the cross-channel invasion would take place. He was overheard, and someone reported him."

"Eisenhower should have had the sonofabitch shot," Allan Junior said. "Instead, they knocked rings and he walked. He didn't even get thrown out of the Army."

"Did you read that line in the Bible that says something about 'Judge not, lest ye be judged'?" General Naylor said. "He was Ike's roommate at the Point."

"What are you saying, Dad? That if that general had gotten his commission from ROTC and/or wasn't Ike's classmate, that would have been different?"

"Would you so callously order your roommate at West Point shot under similar circumstances?"

Allan Junior raised his eyebrows, then said, "I thought about that when I saw the movie. I don't know whether I'd have either one of them shot, but I damn sure wouldn't let either one of them walk. When that two-star put men's lives at risk letting his mouth run away with him, he forfeited his right to be an officer."

"He was reduced to colonel and sent home," General Naylor said.

"And the men whose lives he put at risk were sent to the landing beaches of Normandy. This Long Gray Line we march in, Dad, isn't perfect, and I don't think we should pretend it is."

Allan Junior turned to Colonel Brewer and started to say something.

"Stop right there, Allan," Brewer cut him off. "I'm not going to get in the middle of this."

"I am now facing a somewhat similar, personally distasteful situation," General Naylor said, "involving an officer who also marches in the Long Gray Line, and of whom I'm personally very fond."

His senior aide-de-camp and his son looked at him, waiting for him to continue.

"If I have to say this, this is highly classified, and to go no further," General Naylor said. "Classification, Top Secret, Presidential."

"Which explains why Mr. Lammelle is here?" Brewer asked.

Naylor nodded.

"President Clendennen this afternoon ordered me to locate Lieutenant Colonel C. G. Castillo, Retired, wherever he might be, and to place him under arrest pending investigation of charges which may be laid against him under the Uniform Code of Military Justice."

"What charges?" Allen Junior demanded.

"Mr. Lammelle was similarly ordered by the President this afternoon to accompany me wherever this mission might take us. If, when we find Colonel Castillo, he has two Russian defectors with him, as he most probably does, Lammelle is to take them into custody. It is President Clendennen's intention to return them to the Russians."

"What are the charges someone's laying against Charley?" Allen Junior demanded.

His father did not reply directly. He instead said, "Jack is thoroughly conversant with all the details of our strike on the Congo. How much do you know, Allan?"

"Not very much beyond the Russians and the Iranians were operating a biological weapons lab, and the previous POTUS decided that taking it out made more sense than taking the problem to the UN. If that's correct, then I say, hooray for him."

"What was being made in that laboratory was a substance now known as Congo-X. It is highly dangerous to an almost unimaginable degree. Our leading expert on that sort of thing, a colonel at our biological warfare operation at Fort Detrick, told the previous POTUS-to borrow your nomenclature-that any accident at the Congo laboratory would be infinitely more catastrophic than the nuclear meltdown at Chernobyl was. It is not hard to extrapolate from that what damage would result should this substance be used as a weapon against us.

"It can be fairly said that the previous POTUS took action not a minute too soon."

"Then thank God he had the balls to do it," Allan Junior said.

General Naylor nodded, sipped his Scotch, then said, "Unfortunately, the raid-as massive as it was-apparently did not destroy all the Congo-X. Two quantities of it-packed in what look like blue rubber beer barrels-have turned up. One was sent to Fort Detrick by FedEx from a nonexistent laboratory in Miami. A second was found on our side of the Mexican-U.S. border where the Border Patrol could not miss it. Colonel Hamilton, the expert at Fort Detrick, has confirmed both barrels contained Congo-X.

"The next development was when the Russian rezident in their Washington embassy had Lammelle to their compound-they call it their dacha-in Maryland. There he as much admitted that they had sent the Congo-X to Fort Detrick. He then strongly implied that Prime Minister Putin is personally determined to have the two Russians returned to Russia. Putin also, it was implied, holds Castillo personally responsible for the deaths of several SVR officers in various places around the world. He wants Colonel Castillo, too.

"If this is done, the Russians will turn over to us all stocks of Congo-X in their control and offer assurances that no more of it will ever turn up."

"Dad, Clendennen's not actually thinking of caving in, is he? He can't possibly believe the Russians-Putin, specifically-will live up to their promises."

"The President has decided the most prudent course for him to follow is to turn the defectors over to the Russians. He said several times he's always held traitors in the utmost contempt."

"And Charley? Is he going to turn Charley over, too?" Allan Junior asked incredulously.

"I can't believe that he would do so," General Naylor said.

"Did you ask him?"

"No, I didn't ask him. He's the President of the United States."

"So what are you going to do?"

"Follow my orders."

"What are the charges they're bringing against Charley?" Allen Junior asked.

"I don't know."

"But you're going to arrest him anyway?"

"I don't like the tone of your voice."

"And I don't like what I'm hearing here."

"That's not really germane, is it?"

"What I'm hearing is bullshit," Allan Junior pursued.

"That's quite enough, Allan."

"Starting with that Top Secret Presidential classification," Allan Junior went on. "Information is classified to keep it from our enemies. The Russians know all about this. This is classified to keep it off Wolf News, so that Clendennen can cover his political ass."

"I said, enough!"

"Tell me this, Dad: What has Charley done wrong? Exactly what article of the Uniform Code of Military Justice has he violated?"

"Willful disobedience of a lawful order."

"What order was that?'

"When he flew the defectors out of Vienna to Argentina-without any authority to do so-Ambassador Montvale came to me and suggested the best way to deal with the problem was for me to send an officer from Special Operations Command-Charley was then assigned to Special Operations Command and thus subject to its orders-down there and order him to turn the Russians over to the CIA officers Montvale would have with him. I did so. I sent a colonel from Special Operations with Ambassador Montvale. He ordered Charley to turn the Russians over to Montvale. Charley refused to do so."

"Charley was then working for the President," Allan Junior said. "He was not subordinate to Special Operations Command. Your colonel had no authority to order him to do anything."

"Okay, that's it, Allan. I am not going to debate this with you."

Allan Junior stood up, and said, "Good evening, Colonel Brewer. It's always a pleasure to see you, sir."

He walked to the door.

"Where do you think you're going?" General Naylor challenged.

"I'm going to see if I can find Charley, and if I can, I'm going to warn him about what you're trying to do to him."

"Major, you have been advised that what you heard here tonight is classified Top Secret Presidential," General Naylor said, coldly angry.

"So court-martial me. Let's see how Wolf News plays that story."

He walked out of the kitchen and slammed the door closed after him.

After a long moment, General Naylor said, "I don't think he knows where Castillo is any more than we do."

"I hope he doesn't. In his frame of mind, if he finds him, he will tell him."

"Suggestions solicited."

"I think you ought to keep him on a short leash until this is over."

"Particularly since I know the lieutenant colonel promotion board is sitting."

"Has sat. And selected Allan from below the zone. I suspected that was why he was here when we got here; he wanted to tell you."

"Get him back here, Jack," Naylor ordered.

Brewer took a cell phone from his pocket and pushed an auto-dial button.

"Major Naylor," he said twenty seconds later. "This is Colonel Brewer. General Naylor's compliments. It is the general's desire that you attend him immediately. Acknowledge."

He pushed the OFF button.

"Major Naylor is on his way, sir."

"Don't you mean 'Lieutenant Colonel (Designate),' Jack?" Lieutenant Colonel (Designate) Allan Naylor, Jr., returned to the kitchen of Quarters One two minutes later.

He walked to where his father was sitting, came to attention, saluted, and recited, "Major Naylor reporting to the Commanding General as ordered."

General Naylor glanced at Colonel Brewer, then met his son's eyes.

"Major," he said, "you are attached to my personal staff for an indefinite period. You are not to communicate with Lieutenant Colonel Castillo or anyone connected in any way to him in any way under any circumstances. Neither will you communicate in any way under any circumstances with any sort of media. That is a direct order. Indicate that you understand and intend to comply with that order by saying 'Yes, sir.'"

"Yes, sir."

"You will proceed to your quarters and will remain there until you receive further orders from either myself or Colonel Brewer. You will pack sufficient uniforms and civilian clothing to last for a period of seven days. You will go into no further detail when discussing this with your wife or anyone else than that you will be accompanying me on official business. The foregoing has been a direct order. Indicate that you understand and intend to comply with that order by saying 'Yes, sir.'"

"Yes, sir."

"You are dismissed."

"Yes, sir."

Major Naylor saluted his father, and when it was returned, did an about-face, and marched out of the kitchen.

When General Naylor heard the sound of Allan Junior's Suburban starting, he held up his glass in a toast, and said, "Congratulations on your promotion, son. You've made me very proud of you." [TWO] 7200 West Boulevard Drive Alexandria, Virginia 0705 9 February 2007 The convoy of four blackened-window Secret Service GMC Yukons turned off West Boulevard Drive and drove-not without difficulty; four inches of snow had fallen during the night-up the steep drive to the house.

Four men in business suits quickly got out of the first vehicle in line and moved as swiftly as they could through the fresh snow and the drifts of previous snowfalls to the sides and rear of the house.

Three men-Supervisory Special Agent Thomas McGuire, Special Agent Joshua Foster, and Mason Andrews, the assistant secretary of the Department of Homeland Security-got out of the second Yukon and made their way-again not without difficulty; the snow-covered walk was steep-to the front door. McGuire pushed the button for the doorbell. Chimes could be heard.

They waited a full minute. Nothing happened.

McGuire pushed the doorbell again, and again there was no response from within the house.

McGuire took a cell phone from his pocket and punched an auto-dial number.

"With whom am I speaking, please?" he asked a moment later. Then he said, "Mrs. Darby, this is Supervisory Special Agent McGuire of the United States Secret Service. We are at your front door. Will you please open it to us?"

He put the telephone back in his pocket and announced, "She said she'll open the door as quickly as she can."

"She damned well better," Mason Andrews said, brushing snow from his bald spot. The door opened. Mrs. Julia Darby stood there in her bathrobe. Another woman, also in her bathrobe, stood beside her. To their side stood a man of obvious Asian extraction. The unknown woman in the bathrobe held a cell phone to her face and there was a flash.

Mason Andrews thought: I'll be goddamned! She just took our picture.

"Hello, Tom," Mrs. Darby said. "I'm afraid you're wasting your time. We gave at the office."

Andrews stared at her. What did she say?

"Mrs. Darby," McGuire said, holding out his credentials for her to see, "this is Secret Service Agent Foster, and this is Mr. Mason Andrews, the assistant secretary of Homeland Security."

"Hello, I'm Julia Darby."

"May we come in?" Mason Andrews asked.

"I don't think so," the Asian man said. "The introduction of Mr. McGuire's credentials implies this is somehow official business of the Secret Service. The Third Circuit Court of Appeals has held that granting law enforcement officials access to a residence constitutes a waiver by the home owner of his or her rights against unlawful search and seizure. We do not wish to waive those rights."

Mason Andrews thought: Who the fuck is this guy?

He demanded: "Who are you?"

"My name is David W. Yung, Jr. I am Mrs. Darby's attorney."

"And you're refusing to let us in?"

"That is correct," Two-Gun Yung said. "Unless you have a search warrant, I am on behalf of my client denying you access to these premises."

"We're the Secret Service!" Special Agent Foster announced.

"So Mr. McGuire has said," Two-Gun said. "We are now going to close the door, as all the cold is getting in the house."

"We'll be back with a search warrant!" Assistant Secretary Andrews announced as the door closed in his face. "I don't believe that!" Assistant Secretary Andrews said in the front seat of the Yukon. He mopped at the melting snow on his bald spot with a handkerchief. "Absolutely incredible! We should have just pushed that little Jap out of the way and grabbed Darby."

"Unfortunately, Mr. Secretary, the lawyer was right. Without a search warrant, we have no right to enter those premises," McGuire said.

"Well, we'll get a goddamned search warrant! Where does one get a goddamned search warrant at…" He looked at his watch. "Quarter after seven in the morning?"

"That may be difficult, Mr. Secretary," McGuire said. "In order to get a search warrant, you have to convince a judge that you have good and sufficient reason to believe that illegal activity is taking place on a certain premises, or that a fugitive is evading due process of law-in other words, arrest-on said premises."

"Goddamn it, we know that Darby is in there! We know he entered the country in Miami and flew here, and your own goddamned agents reported they saw him entering that house. What else do we need, for Christ's sake?"

"Sir, we have no reason to believe that any activity violating federal law is taking place in the house. And Mr. Darby is not a fugitive; no warrants have been issued for his arrest on any charge."

"You're telling me there's not a goddamned thing we can do? I don't believe this."

"Sir, what I hoped would happen when we came here was that Mrs. Darby, or perhaps Mr. Darby himself-we've been friends for years-would invite us into the house and we could discuss the location of Colonel Castillo amicably. If you want to, I can have another shot at that."

"Jesus Christ!"

"Other than that, sir, I don't know what else to tell you." "Just stand there in the door, please, Mr. Secretary," Two-Gun Yung said ten minutes later.

There were now two photographers inside the house, the woman who had used the photographing capability of her cellular telephone earlier, and a man now holding what looked like a professional-grade video camera.

Andrews stood in the door.

"Ready, Harold?" Two-Gun asked.

"Lights, action, camera!" Harold replied, intentionally botching the sequence.

"Mr. Secretary, please identify yourself and give us the date and time."

Andrews complied.

"Now, repeat after me, please: 'I make the following statement voluntarily and without mental reservation of any kind.'"

Andrews did so.

"I acknowledge that I have informed Mrs. Julia Darby that by allowing me and Mr. McGuire of the Secret Service into her home, a compassionate gesture to get us out of the cold and snow, she in no way gives up her rights against unlawful search and seizure as provided by the U.S. Constitution-"

"Go slowly," Andrews interrupted. "I can't remember all that."

"We'll try it again. 'I acknowledge that I…'" "'… and further that anything said in conversation by anyone here today will not be used in any court of law for any purpose,'" Two-Gun finally concluded.

With some obvious effort, Andrews repeated that.

"Is that it, Counselor?" Mrs. Darby then asked.

"It will be as soon as Harold sends a copy of that digital recording to that great file room in the sky," Two-Gun replied.

"Consider it done," Harold replied.

"Why don't we all go in the living room and have a cup of coffee while Dianne makes breakfast?" Julia Darby suggested. "Hello, Tom," Alex Darby said, putting out his hand. "Long time no see."

"How are you, Alex?" McGuire replied. "Alex, this is my boss, Assistant Secretary of Homeland Security Mason Andrews."

"How do you do?" Darby said.

"You're a hard man to find, Mr. Darby."

"I guess that would depend on who's looking for me," Darby said.

"A lot of people are looking for you, including Ambassador Montvale."

"Whatever would make Ambassador Montvale look for me?"

"The President of the United States sent him to find you, Mr. Darby. Right now, he's in Ushuaia."

"Whatever for? I mean, why is he looking for me in Ushuaia, of all places?"

"Oh, Tom," Julia Darby said. "I was kidding you about that."

"Kidding him about what?" Darby asked his wife.

"I told him you were probably down there with your girlfriend," Julia said. "I never for a moment thought he would take me seriously. Especially the girlfriend part."

Darby looked at McGuire. "Yeah, I'm a little long in the tooth for that sort of thing, Tom."

Mason Andrews said, "There is reason to believe that you know where Colonel Dmitri Berezovsky, Lieutenant Colonel Svetlana Alekseeva, and Lieutenant Colonel Carlos G. Castillo are."

"As I think you know, Mr. Andrews," Darby replied, "Colonel Castillo was ordered by the President-the late President, not Mr. Clendennen-to fall off the face of the earth and never be seen again. I believe that Colonel Castillo is obeying those orders."

"You're telling me you don't know where he is-where the Russians are?"

"I didn't say that. What I said was that I believe Colonel Castillo has obeyed the order from the President to disappear."

"Then you do know where he is? Where the Russian defectors are?"

"I didn't say that, either."

"Are you aware that it's a felony, Mr. Darby, to lie to, or mislead, a federal officer?"

"Mr. Andrews, a point of order," Two-Gun said. "One, right now, you're not a federal officer, but rather simply someone whom Mrs. Darby has compassionately allowed to warm himself in her house. Two, if Mr. Darby were ever to be interviewed by any federal officer, he would, on advice of counsel, refuse to answer any questions put to him that either might tend to incriminate him, or cause him to violate any of the several oaths he took as an officer of the Clandestine Service of the CIA to never divulge in his lifetime anything he learned in the performance of those duties."

Mason Andrews looked between Two-Gun and the Darbys, then announced, "I can see that I'm wasting my time here. Let's go, McGuire."

"But you haven't had any breakfast," Julia Darby said. "Dianne's making a Spanish omelet."

"And breakfast is the most important meal of the day," Two-Gun offered. "Haven't you heard that, Mr. Secretary?"

Andrews glared at him but didn't respond.

"And one more thing, Mr. Andrews," Two-Gun said. "Those Secret Service agents of yours who have been watching the house?"

"What about them?"

"The right of a governmental agency to surveille does not carry with it any right to trespass. The next time I see one of them on this property, I'm going to call the Alexandria police and charge them with trespass. And if they are indeed Secret Service agents, since you and I have had this little chat, that would constitute trespass after warning, which is a felony."

Andrews, his face white, marched toward the front door, calling over his shoulder, "Goddamn it, McGuire, I said let's go." In the Yukon, Andrews slammed the door shut and turned to McGuire.

"As of this minute, McGuire, you're placed on administrative leave. It is my intention to have you separated from the Secret Service and I think you know why."

"I haven't a clue, Mr. Secretary."

"Goddamn it! Whose side are you on, anyway? You enjoyed watching those bastards humiliate me."

"Mr. Secretary, I took an oath to defend the Constitution against all enemies foreign and domestic. I have done so to the best of my ability."

"Sending the director of National Intelligence on a wild-goose chase to Ushuaia is your idea of defending the Constitution? Jesus H. Christ!"

"I told Ambassador Montvale that Mrs. Darby said Mr. Darby might be there. That's all."

"You'd better be prepared to tell a grand jury that Mrs. Darby did just that. Lying to or making a misrepresentation to a federal officer is a felony. Your pal is going to jail, McGuire, and if I can figure out some way to get you before a grand jury for lying to Ambassador Montvale, I will."

"Oh, come on, Andrews. You know Montvale almost as well as I do. Can you really imagine the Great Charles M. getting up in a courtroom and testifying under oath that one of his underlings sent him on a wild-goose chase anywhere? Much less all the way to the bottom of the world? And that doesn't even touch on the question of who he was looking for and why."

Secretary Andrews considered that for thirty seconds.

"Get out of the car, you sonofabitch! Walk back to Washington!"

McGuire got out of the Yukon.

But instead of walking back to Washington, he went to the door of the house, rang the bell, and when the lady of the house answered, asked if there was any Spanish omelet left to feed someone who had just lost his job. [THREE] Office of the Commanding General United States Army Central Command MacDill Air Force Base Tampa, Florida 0730 9 February 2007 "General, General McNab is here," Colonel J. D. Brewer announced at Naylor's office door.

"Ask the general to come in, please," Naylor said.

McNab marched into the office, stopped six feet from Naylor's desk, raised his right hand to his temple, and said, "Good morning, General. Thank you for receiving me."

McNab was wearing what was officially the Army Service Uniform but was commonly referred to as "dress blues." The breast of his tunic was heavy with ribbons and devices showing his military qualifications, including a Combat Infantry Badge topped with circled stars indicating that it was the sixth award; a Master Parachutist's wings; seven other parachute wings from various foreign armies; and the Navy SEAL qualification badge, commonly called "The Budweiser." The three silver stars of a lieutenant general gleamed on his epaulets.

Naylor was wearing a camouflage-patterned sandy-colored baggy uniform called Desert Battle Dress Uniform. On it was sewn the insignia of Central Command, the legend US ARMY, a name tag reading NAYLOR, and, attached with Velcro to the button line of his jacket, a strip with four embroidered black (called "subdued") stars, the insignia of his rank.

Naylor took his time before returning the salute, and after McNab had dropped his hand, took his time again before saying, "You may stand at ease, General. Please take a seat."

"Thank you, sir," McNab said as he settled into one of the two leather armchairs before the desk. "I trust the general is well?"

"Just so we understand one another, General, there was an implication you made just now that you were invited here. You were ordered here. There is a difference I think you should keep in mind."

"Yes, sir. Permission to speak, General?"

"Permission granted."

"Sir, the general errs. Sir, the general does not have the authority to issue orders to me."

Naylor blurted, "That's what you think, McNab!"

"It's what the chief of staff thinks, General. I telephoned him yesterday following your telephone call. I thought perhaps my status-or your status-had changed and I hadn't been notified. The chief of staff said there was no change in your status or mine. We are both commanders of units directly subordinate to Headquarters, U.S. Army. The only officer who can give orders to either of us is the chief of staff."

"You called the chief of staff?" Naylor asked incredulously.

"Yes, sir. And the chief suggested that a way out of this little dilemma would be for me to make a courtesy call on you. Which is what I'm doing now, General."

Naylor thought: You sonofabitch!

McNab went on: "I got a look at the lieutenant colonel's promotion list on the way down here, General. And saw that Allan has been selected, below the zone. May I offer my congratulations?"

"Thank you."

"How may I assist the general, now that I'm here?"

"Prefacing this by stating I am acting at the direct order of the President, you can tell me where I can find Lieutenant Colonel Carlos G. Castillo."

"The chief of staff didn't mention that you were working for the President, General. Perhaps he had reasons he did not elect to share with me."

"Are you questioning my word, General?"

"No, sir. If the general tells me the general is working at the direct order of the President, I will of course take the general's word."

"Where can I find Castillo, General?"

"I have no idea, General."

"You have no idea?"

"Are you questioning my word, General?"

"No."

"Good."

"What can you tell me, General, about Castillo?" Naylor asked.

"You mean about how the President wants to make a human sacrifice of him to the Russians?"

"What did you say?"

"When I came here, I held the naive hope that you were going to close the door, and then say, 'You may find this hard to believe, but the President wants to turn our Charley over to Putin, and what are we going to do about it?' How foolish of me."

"You don't know that President Clendennen intends to do that," Naylor said.

"Do you know he doesn't? Or didn't he tell you that Murov told Frank Lammelle that Putin wants the Russians and Charley?"

"How do you know about that?"

McNab met Naylor's eyes, and said, "You don't really expect me to answer that, do you, Allan?" After a long moment, he added, "Yeah, now that I think about it, I think you do."

"What I do know, General-"

"Haven't we played your silly little game long enough, Allan?"

"What silly game is that, General?"

"You sitting there in that ridiculous desert costume-as if you expect the Castros or Hugo Chavez to start dropping parachutists on Tampa Bay in the next ten minutes-pretending to be a soldier when all you are is a uniformed flunky carrying out the orders-which you damned well know are illegal-of a political hack who would turn his mother over to Putin if he thought it would get him reelected."

"You are speaking, General, of the President, the commander in chief."

"Did you get it all, or should I say it again?"

"What I should do is place you under arrest!"

"How did you get to be a four-star general-never mind, I know-without learning you never should issue an order-or carry one out-without considering what the secondary effects will be?"

"Stand up and come to attention, General!" Naylor ordered.

McNab crossed his legs, shook his head, and chuckled.

"Goddamn you!" Naylor flared. "I said, come to attention!"

"For example, Allan," McNab said calmly as he took a cigar case from an inside pocket, "one of the thoughts that occurred to me when I heard what the bastard was up to was to take him out. I thought that through and realized that would cause more damage to the country than it would do good. Since we presently don't have a Vice President, the order of succession would put the Speaker of the House in the Oval Office, and from what I've seen, he's as much an idiot as Clendennen is.

"Anyway, I took an oath to defend the Constitution, and unfortunately there's nothing in that that says you can shoot the President, even if the bastard deserves it, as this one clearly does."

"McNab, you're out of your mind!"

"I also considered taking this story to that red-headed guy on Wolf News. What's his name? Oh, yeah…"

He paused as he bit the end off a long, thin, black cigar and then carefully lit it.

"You can't smoke in here," Naylor said. "You can't smoke in any government building."

Naylor stared at McNab and thought: He's sitting here calmly discussing the pros and cons of assassinating the President of the United States, and I'm scolding him for smoking?

What the hell is the matter with me?

What I should do is push the button for the sergeant major, and when he and Jack Brewer come in, say, "I have placed General McNab under arrest. Please escort the general to the visiting senior officers' quarters and hold him there."

And then what do I do?

Call the chief of staff and tell him?

Tell him what?

McNab has friends. Somebody who was there in the Oval Office when the President gave me this mission not only told him exactly what was said, but lost no time in telling him.

Is there a plot against the President? Is that what this is all about?

That's a credible possibility.

McNab is entirely capable of being involved in something like a coup d'etat.

So do I go to the chief of staff with that? Or the President?

With what? All I have is suspicions.

What I have to do is find out as much as I can from the sonofabitch!

McNab blew a smoke ring.

"I always have trouble with names," McNab said. "Okay! I got it! His name is Andy McClarren and the show is called The Straight Scoop. Are you familiar with it?"

Naylor thought: I'm not going to let him drag me into a discussion.

When it became evident that Naylor wasn't going to reply, McNab went on: "You really should watch it, Allan. They say it's the most watched show on television. You might learn something from it.

"Anyway, as soon as I thought that through, I realized that when the dust had settled, all that that would accomplish would be Congress considering impeaching the sonofabitch, and that would tell the world what an idiot we have in the White House, which wouldn't do the country any good, and even if the impeachment went through, which would take a lot of time, all we'd be doing is replacing one idiot with another.

"So I decided to put Andy McClarren on the back burner. I may have to go that route, but I'd rather not."

"So, then what are your intentions, General?"

And I will be very surprised if you don't tell me them in sufficient detail to hang yourself, you egotistical maniac!

"Well, the first thing, obviously, is to find Charley and see what he wants to do."

"To see what he wants to do?" Naylor blurted incredulously.

"By now, I'm sure, Charley knows people are looking for him and his girlfriend-"

"His girlfriend?"

"Her name is Svetlana. They call her 'Sweaty.' Real beauty. Dark red hair, built like a brick… outdoor sanitary facility."

"You've lost me, McNab. What does this woman have to do with any of this?"

"She's one of the defectors Putin wants back. She was a light colonel in the SVR. The other one-he was a full bird-is her brother."

"And Castillo is… emotionally involved with her?"

"Think Romeo and Juliet, Allan."

"Has he lost his mind?"

"His heart, certainly. His mind, I don't think so. If Charley doesn't want to be found, finding him is going to be difficult. And if you think he's going to pop to attention, salute, and load himself and his girlfriend and her brother on an airplane en route to Moscow, think again."

"He's a retired officer. Subject to recall."

"He's also Karl Wilhelm von und zu Gossinger, a German national, who owns a bunch of newspapers. I wonder if our commander in chief had that in mind when he told you to go fetch him. What is it the politicians say? 'Never get in an argument with somebody who buys ink by the barrel.'

"Let's say that Charley and the Russians are in Germany. In his house in Fulda, eating knockwurst and drinking beer, not a care in the world, as Charley/ Karl is a German citizen, and the Russians have been granted political asylum by the German Republic in exchange for their cooperation in certain intelligence matters."

"Is that what he's done?" Naylor asked.

"I don't know. I'm sure he's considered it. But I hope he doesn't have to. That would really piss Putin off, and there would be bodies all over the place as Putin's SVR assassins tried to whack Charley's girlfriend and her brother for traitorously spilling the beans about the SVR to the Krauts, and Charley's pals took them out. Several of Charley's pals, as I'm sure you heard, are very good at taking out officers of the SVR."

"And you don't think Putin knows these Russians told us about the bio-warfare laboratory in the Congo?" Naylor exploded. "Don't you think Putin considers that a traitorous act?"

McNab took a moment to form his reply, then said, "One: President Putin stood in the well of the UN, you will recall, and told the whole world the Russians knew nothing, absolutely nothing, about the so-called Fish Farm. Two: As the CIA has never had the Russians under their benevolent control, the Russians have not spilled the beans about the Fish Farm to us, either. How could they? The Russians knew absolutely nothing about it."

"They know the Russians told us. That's why they want them back."

"That's why they want Charley, too. That's what this whole thing is all about. That's why I want to ask Charley what he wants to do about all this. Maybe he's got some ideas. He's always been very resourceful, Allan, you know that."

"What makes you think you can find him?"

"That will take me a couple of days. First, I have to find someone who knows and who trusts me. I can think of several people who are in that category."

Naylor thought: What I should do now, McNab, is tell the President that you know how to get in contact with Castillo and have the President order you to find him.

Naylor said: "General, since you tell me that you believe you know how to locate Colonel Castillo and the Russian defectors, I feel duty-bound to inform the President of that fact."

"If you did that, Allan, this whole sordid story would be on The Straight Scoop with-what's his name again?-with Andy McClarren tonight."

"You could be held incommunicado-"

"That would last only until Andy McClarren, or C. Harry Whelan, Jr., heard about it. And they would."

"-and ordered not to discuss this with the press or anyone else. You are not immune to the provisions of the Uniform Code of Military Justice, General, and it would behoove you to keep that in mind."

"We took an oath-the day we threw our hats in the air so long ago-to obey the lawful orders of officers appointed over us. I can't understand how you think an order making a human sacrifice of a fellow officer can possibly be considered legal."

"Perhaps a general court-martial would determine that."

McNab stood up. He said, "Well, it's been a pleasure talking to you, General. We'll have to do this more often."

"I didn't give you permission to leave, General."

McNab ignored him. He said, "What I'm going to do is go find Charley and see what he wants to do. You do what you want, Allan. But if you're smart you'll mark time until I get back to you. Which reminds me: I'm going to leave a GS-Fifteen civilian with you. His name is Vic D'Allessando, and before he was a GS-Fifteen, he was a CWO-Five, and before that, he was a sergeant major. Some people think he's associated with Gray Fox, but I can't comment on that, as-as I'm sure you know-everything connected with Gray Fox is classified.

"Vic has a radio which will allow him to stay in touch with me no matter where I am. I will keep him posted on how I'm doing in finding Charley, and he will tell you. Vic will also keep me posted on your location, and if you leave MacDill, or Lammelle does, before I tell you that you can, Plan A-that's telling Andy McClarren-will kick in. I don't think you want that to happen."

"You think you can sit in my office and tell me what to do? Goddamn you, McNab!"

"Of course not. But what I can do is tell you what's going to happen if you elect to do certain things. And in that regard, if Vic D'Allessando suddenly becomes not available to me or other people on that net, Plan A-McClarren-will automatically kick in."

McNab put on his green beret, popped to attention, and saluted.

He did not wait for Naylor to return it, but immediately did an about-face movement, and marched out of his office.

Naylor knew that Franklin Lammelle, the deputy director of the CIA, was in his outer office when he heard McNab say, "Well, hello, Frank. Whatever brings you to beautiful Tampa Bay?"

The automatic door closer shut off any reply Lammelle might have made.

The door opened thirty seconds later, and Colonel Jack Brewer put his head in.

"General, Mr. Lammelle is here."

"Ask him to come in, please," Naylor said.

"And Major Naylor and a man from Global Communications, who says he has an appointment."

"Ask them to wait, but you come in, please, Colonel."

Naylor got up from behind his desk and met Lammelle as he came through the door.

"Good morning, General," Lammelle said. "Can I ask what Scotty McNab was doing here? Is he going to be working with us, I hope, on this?"

"Actually, Mr. Lammelle, I've just about decided I made a terrible mistake vis-a-vis General McNab."

"Excuse me?"

"What I am now convinced I should have done was place him under arrest."

"Excuse me?"

"Let me tell you what just happened, and then you tell me what you think I should have done-should do-about it." Five minutes later, Frank Lammelle said, "General, I'm in no position to comment upon, much less judge, your differences with General McNab vis-a-vis insubordination, that sort of thing, but-and you may not like hearing this-it looks to me that instead of being a problem, McNab may be the answer to ours."

"I don't see that," Naylor said.

"Our problem is that we have been charged with locating Colonel Castillo, and through him, to take control of the two Russians. And we don't know where any of them are."

"A subparagraph of 'facts bearing on the problem' there, it seems to me," Naylor said, "would be 'how to transport the Russian defectors and/or Castillo from where we find them to where they have to go.' Or words to that effect. And where do they go, to add that factor?"

"Castillo," Lammelle replied, "is going to have to be transported to either Washington, or, perhaps, some military base in the United States. The Russians only have to be transported someplace where they can be turned over to the SVR. I think that will probably mean that we'll have to transport them to some place served by Aeroflot. We turn them over at the airport to officers of the SVR, who will then repatriate them."

Naylor glanced at Colonel Jack Brewer, then looked at Lammelle, and said, "And how are we going to do that? Am I supposed to take soldiers with me? Soldiers for that sort of thing come from Special Operations, the Delta Force, or Gray Fox. Which of course are commanded by General McNab."

"General, since eight o'clock this morning, a Gulfstream V has been sitting at Saint Petersburg-Clearwater International. It is registered to a CIA asset-a chicken-packing company in Des Moines, Iowa. I was amazed to learn how much chicken the United States exports.

"Anyway, the plane will attract no undue attention. The crew are CIA. The aircraft is equipped with the very latest-and I mean the very latest-avionics that the AFC Corporation has for sale. All sorts of bells and whistles. Communication with that airplane and Langley is available wherever that airplane is-on the ground or in the air, anywhere in the world. That airplane is going to follow you and me no matter where General McNab leads us. There are four Clandestine Service officers aboard. Once we lay eyes on Colonel Castillo and the Russians, transporting them wherever they have to go will pose no problems at all."

"What if they resist?" Colonel Brewer asked.

"The officers are equipped with the very latest nonlethal weaponry-and the other kind as well, of course. What the nonlethal weaponry provides, in a pistol about the size of a Glock, are six darts with a range of about fifty feet. Anyone struck with one of these darts will lose consciousness in fifteen seconds or less. They will regain consciousness without intervention in about two hours. They can be brought back immediately by injection."

"Fascinating," General Naylor said. "Then, if I understand you, Mr. Lammelle, it is your recommendation that we sit tight and do nothing while we wait for General McNab to find Castillo and the Russians?"

"That is my recommendation, General."

Naylor looked at his aide-de-camp, and said, "You see anything wrong with that, Jack?"

Colonel Jack Brewer said, "No, sir. It makes a lot of sense to me."

"And what about the man McNab left here?" Naylor asked.

"He's very good," Lammelle said. "I've known Vic D'Allessando for a long time. He's been around Delta Force and Gray Fox for years."

"Which tends to suggest that his greatest loyalty may be to General McNab," General Naylor said.

"Well, I suggest we treat him with respect and as a member of the team," Lammelle said. He stopped and opened his briefcase. "And if he shows any suggestion of being about to interfere with our mission, General…" He paused and took from the briefcase what looked like a Glock semiautomatic pistol with a grossly swollen slide. He aimed it at a leather couch and pulled the trigger. There was an almost inaudible psssst sound. "… in fifteen seconds or less, General, your couch will be sound asleep."

"I will be damned," Naylor said, and went to the couch, found the dart, and pulled it free. He held it up for a better look, and then held it against his pinkie finger. It was about as long, and perhaps half as thick.

"Amazing," General Naylor said, then looked at Brewer. "Can you think of anything else, Jack?"

"Yes, sir," Brewer said. "Lieutenant Colonel (Designate) Naylor."

"What about him?" Lammelle asked.

Naylor told him.

"Just to be sure, General," Lammelle then said, "I suggest you maintain the current close personal supervision. I'm frankly uncomfortable, taking into consideration what you've told me, with the thought of leaving him here when we go off wherever we're going. There's no telling…"

"I agree. Where we go, Allan Junior goes," General Naylor said.

"May I see that dart, General?" Colonel Brewer asked.

Naylor handed it to him. [ONE] The President's Study The White House 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, N.W. Washington, D.C. 0929 9 February 2007 Assistant Secretary of Homeland Security Mason Andrews was more than a little nervous when he entered the President's study with Frederick P. Palmer, the United States attorney general.

He was fully aware that he was the assistant secretary of Homeland Security and that the secretary should be dealing with the President on this matter. Andrews had the previous evening telephoned the secretary, who was in Chicago, brought her up to speed, and asked her for direction. She had agreed with him that it was a very delicate area, and that proceeding carefully was obviously necessary. She said she'd like to sleep on the problem, and that he should call her back in the morning, say at about nine, before his nine-thirty appointment with the President.

When he had done so, he had been informed that the secretary was not available at the moment; something-not specified, but important-had come up and the secretary simply was not available.

Mr. Andrews then had had an unkind thought.

That bitch is covering her fat ass by staying out of the line of fire.

Again.

But, fully aware that one does not make an appointment on an urgent matter with the President of the United States and then break it, he was in the outer office at nine-twenty with the very-reluctant-to-be-there attorney general. It had been necessary to tell the attorney general that if the AG couldn't find time in his schedule for the meeting, he would tell the President just that. "All right, Andrews," President Clendennen greeted them. "Make it quick."

"Mr. Darby has been located, Mr. President," Andrews announced.

"Ambassador Montvale was told to keep me posted. Why am I hearing this from you?"

"Sir, I don't believe Ambassador Montvale knows about this."

"I'm confused. I don't like to be confused. Why don't you start at the goddamn beginning, Andrews? Maybe that way…"

"Yes, Mr. President. Sir, at half past four yesterday, Immigration, in response to the LDND order, notified the Secret Service that Mr. Darby had entered the United States-"

"In response to the what?" the President interrupted.

"The LDND order. That means 'locate, do not detain.'"

"And that means?"

"When the subject of an LDND order is located by any agency, that agency notifies the agency that issued the order-in this case, the Secret Service-where and under what circumstances the subject was located. In this case, as I said, Immigration yesterday afternoon notified the Secret Service that Alexander Darby had arrived in Miami on a flight from Panama."

"Cut to the chase, Andrews. And what did Darby have to say about Castillo and the Russians?"

"Nothing, sir."

"He was arrested, right? He's in custody?"

"No, sir."

"You're telling me the Immigration people had this guy, and then he got away? My God!"

"Sir, there never has been a warrant out on Mr. Darby-just the LDND order."

"What's the point in locating somebody and then not arresting him?"

"Sir, even if there is an arrest warrant," the attorney general explained, "and in this case no warrant has been issued, it's sometimes useful to see where the subject goes, and to whom he talks."

"Well, where did Darby go, and who did he talk to?"

"He flew here, sir, into Reagan National," Andrews said. "By that time, the Secret Service was on him, and they followed him to a residence at 7200 West Boulevard Drive in Alexandria. That site, sir, was already under Secret Service surveillance. It has been since the LDND order was issued. It is owned by Colonel Castillo."

"Don't tell me Castillo has been there, right under the nose of the Secret Service, all the time?"

"No, sir. We don't believe that he is."

"So, when you finally found out where this Darby character is, and who he was talking to, what did he say when you asked him where Castillo and the Russians are?"

"What happened at that point," Andrews began, "was that Supervisory Special Agent McGuire-"

"I know Tom," the President interrupted. "Good man, if it's the same guy. Used to be on the presidential protection detail, right?"

"Yes, sir. That's the man. Sir, McGuire notified me about Darby's location, and first thing this morning, a minute or two after seven, I was at the door-"

"He notified you last night! Why didn't you go over there last night?" the President demanded.

"It was after midnight, Mr. President."

"So what?"

"Perhaps you're right, Mr. President. I deferred to Mr. McGuire's judgment. Now I realize that was probably a mistake, too."

"Okay, so there you were-was McGuire with you…?"

"Yes, sir."

"… at the door of this house at seven in the morning. Then what happened?"

"At first, Mr. President, they wouldn't even let us in. They had a lawyer, a Japanese gentleman, who said his name was Yung-"

"Sir," the attorney general interjected, "I think there is a very good chance that this lawyer is a former FBI special agent named David W. Yung, Jr., who is also under a LDND order. And he's of Chinese, not Japanese, ancestry-"

"Why are we looking for this ex-FBI agent-slash-lawyer of some kind of Oriental ancestry?" the President interrupted. "And what's that got to do with anything?"

"He was one of Castillo's men in OOA, Mr. President," the attorney general said.

"So, what happened at the door?" the President asked.

"We identified ourselves, and asked if we could come in. Yung said not without a search warrant. He also said that if they did let us in, it would constitute a waiver of the owner's rights against unlawful search, and they weren't going to do that."

"It has to be Yung," the attorney general thought aloud. "An FBI agent, lawyer or not, would know about that decision of the Third Circuit Court of Appeals."

"So you didn't get in. Then what?" the President said.

"We got in, sir," Andrews said. "After I promised that I understood we were being admitted only as a compassionate gesture on the part of Mrs. Darby to get us out of the snow and the cold, and that she had not waived any of her rights vis-a-vis unlawful search and seizure. And they filmed us acknowledging that, sir."

"They filmed you?" the President asked incredulously.

"Yes, sir. There was another man there with what looked to me like a professional movie camera."

"And then? Jesus Christ, cut to the goddamned chase!"

"Mr. Darby was in the kitchen, sir," Andrews said.

"And did you ask him if he knew where Colonel Castillo and the two Russians are, and if you did, what did he say?"

"He was evasive, sir. And the lawyer said that if Mr. Darby found himself being interrogated by a federal officer, he would advise him, as his lawyer, not to answer any questions the answers to which might tend to either incriminate him, or cause him to violate the CIA secrecy laws which forbid him to ever disclose anything he learned while he was an officer of the Clandestine Service."

"Mr. President, I'm afraid we're not going to learn much from Mr. Darby," the attorney general said.

"I was beginning to suspect that," the President said, thickly sarcastic.

"There is one thing we can do, Mr. President," Andrews said.

"What's that?"

"We can squeeze Mrs. Darby. When she told McGuire her husband was in Ushuaia with his girlfriend, information on which Ambassador Montvale based his decision to go to Ushuaia, she had invited McGuire into her home. She had waived her rights when she did so. Giving false information to a federal officer is a felony."

The President considered that a long moment.

Then he picked up his telephone and said, "Come in here."

A secretary and a Secret Service agent appeared almost immediately.

"Are we in touch with Ambassador Montvale?"

"Yes, sir," the Secret Service agent said. "He's in Ushuaia, Argentina. There's a communications radio in his Gulfstream III."

"Send the ambassador a message, please," the President said. "'Mr. Darby is in Alexandria, Virginia. You can come home now, repeat, now.'"

"Yes, sir," the secretary said. "Is that all of it, Mr. President?"

"That's all of it. Get that right out, please."

"Yes, Mr. President," the Secret Service agent said.

When they had left, closing the door behind them, the President turned to Mason Andrews.

"You heard that, Andrews?"

"Yes, sir."

"If you think, when the ambassador gets back here, that Wolf News is going to take a picture of him in a courtroom, with his hand on a Bible, swearing before God and the world that he-my director of National Intelligence-went halfway around the world on my orders as commander in chief on the word of a housewife having her little joke at our expense, you're even more incredibly stupid than you showed you were this morning, Andrews.

"Now get the fuck out of the goddamned Oval Office and never come back!" [TWO] 1155 9 February 2007 Word had quickly spread among the inner circle of White House functionaries that President Clendennen's current rage was one that would go down in history. So it was with a certain trepidation that White House Press Secretary John David "Jack" Parker stood at the door of the President's study and waited for permission to enter.

It was almost a minute in coming, but finally President Clendennen signaled with his fingers for Parker to enter.

"And what bad news are you bringing, Porky?" Clendennen asked.

"I'm afraid it's not good news, Mr. President."

"Why doesn't that surprise me?" Clendennen asked rhetorically. "Are you aware of what happened in here this morning?"

"No, sir. I understand the attorney general and Assistant Secretary Andrews asked for an appointment, but-"

"You know where Ambassador Montvale is?"

"In Argentina."

"The stupid sonofabitch! Director of National Intelligence, my ass. His title should be Director of National Stupidity. He'd damned well better be on his way back here."

"I'm afraid, Mr. President, that I don't understand."

The President related what had transpired earlier in his office, ending his narration with a question: "How would you describe, Porky, Ambassador Stupid standing up in court, with Wolf News filming him, and swearing on a Bible that he went to some goddamn place I can't pronounce in Argentina on my orders looking for a man who was just across the Potomac in Alexandria?"

Parker took a deep breath before replying.

"Sir, I would describe that as a public relations disaster."

"You're goddamn right it would be. But what could be worse than that?"

"Excuse me, sir?"

"How about some press sonofabitch-C. Harry Whelan, Jr., for example-asking Ambassador Stupid why he was looking for this Darby guy in the first place. That would be worse, Porky. And Ambassador Stupid would be stupid enough to tell him."

"Speaking of Mr. Whelan, sir…"

"Dare I hope he's been run over by a truck?"

"Mr. Whelan came to see me just now, sir."

"Close your mouth and put your hand on your wallet, Porky. I'm afraid to ask why."

"Sir, Mr. Whelan said he was about to publish this, and wanted to give us a chance to correct any errors he might have made before he did."

Parker handed the President a sheet of paper.

Clendennen snatched it, and read: