The Sum of All Fears

29 CROSSROADS

MV Carmen Vita cleared the Straits of Gibraltar right on schedule, her Pielstick diesels driving her at a constant nineteen knots. The crew of forty officers and men (this ship did not have any women in the crew, though three of the officers had their wives with them) settled down for the normal sailing routine of watch-keeping and maintenance. They were seven days out from the Virginia Capes. On her deck and stowed below were a goodly number of standard-sized container boxes. These actually came in two sizes, and they were all loaded with various types of cargo which the captain and crew neither knew nor cared very much about. The whole point of containerization was that the ship was used exclusively as a contract-hauler, much as a trucker was used by various businesses. All the ship's crew needed to worry about was the weight of the containers, and that always seemed to work out rather uniformly, since the containers themselves were always loaded to reflect what a commercial truck could legally pull along a public highway.

The ship's southerly routing also made for a fairly sedate and uneventful passage. The really bitter winter storms followed a more northerly track, and the ship's master, a native of India, was happy for it. A youngish man for such a substantial command — he was only thirty-seven — he knew that good weather made for a fast and fuel-efficient voyage. He aspired to a larger and more sumptuous ship, and by keeping Carmen Vita on schedule and under budget, he'd get that in due course.

It was the tenth day in a row that Clark hadn't seen Mrs. Ryan. John Clark had a good memory for such things, honed by years of field operations of one sort or another, in which one stayed alive by keeping track of everything, whether it seemed important or not. He'd never seen her more than twice in a row. Jack worked an inconvenient schedule — but so did she, with early-morning surgery at least twice a week… and she was awake this morning. He saw her head through the kitchen window, sitting at a table, probably drinking coffee and reading the paper or watching TV. But she hadn't even turned her head to look at her husband when he left, had she? Ordinarily she got up to kiss him goodbye like any wife. Ten days in a row.

Not a good sign, was it? What was the problem? Jack came out to the car, his face dark and looking down. There was the grimace again.

“Morning, Doc!” Clark greeted him cheerily.

“Hi, John,” was the subdued reply. He hadn't brought his paper again, either. He started reading from the dispatch box as usual, and by the time they reached the D.C. Beltway, he'd just be staring, a grim thousand-yard stare in his eyes as he lit a continuous chain of cigarettes. Clark decided that he just couldn't stand it anymore:

“Problem at home, Doc?” he asked quietly, watching the road.

“Yeah, but it's my problem.”

“Guess so. The kids are okay?”

“It's not the kids, John. Leave it, okay?”

“Right.” Clark concentrated on his driving while Ryan went through the message traffic.

What the hell is the problem. Be analytical, Clark told himself, think it through.

His boss had been depressed for over a month now, but it had really gotten worse — the news article, that thing from Holtzman? A family problem, not involving the kids. That meant trouble with the wife. He made a mental note to recheck that piece and any subsequent pieces when he got into the office. Seventy minutes after picking Ryan up — traffic was light this morning — he headed for CIA's rather impressive library and got the staff there busy. It wasn't hard for them. The Agency kept a special file for all the pieces that concerned it, arranged in folders by the authors' by-lines. The problem, Clark thought, was immediately clear.

Holtzman had talked about financial and sexual misconduct. Right after that article came out…

“Aw, shit,” Clark whispered to himself. He made copies of the various recent pieces — there were four of them — and went for a walk to clear his head. One nice thing about being an SPO, especially an SPO assigned to Ryan, was that he had very little work to do. Ryan was a homebody while in Langley. He didn't really move around all that much. As he took a quick walking tour of the grounds, he reread the news articles and made another connection. The Sunday piece. Ryan had gone home early that day. He'd been upbeat, talking about getting away right after the Mexican job, taking John's advice for a trip to Florida — but the next morning he'd looked like a corpse. And he wasn't bringing the paper out with him. His wife must have been reading it, and something had gone very bad between Ryan and his wife. That seemed reasonably clear. Clear enough for Clark.

Clark came back into the building, going through the normal routine of passing through the computer-controlled gates, then setting off to locate Chavez, who was in the New Headquarters Building. John found him in an office, going over schedules.

“Ding, get your coat.” Ten minutes later, they were on the D.C. Beltway. Chavez was checking a map.

“Okay,” Chavez said. “I have it. Broadway and Monument, up from the harbor.”

Russell was dressed in coveralls. The photos of the ABC vans in Chicago had turned out very well, and he'd had a lab in Boulder blow them up to poster size. These he compared to his van — it was exactly the same model of utility van — to make precise measurements. What came next wasn't easy. He'd purchased a dozen large sheets of semi-rigid plastic, and he began carving them to make an exact match of the ABC logo. As he finished each, he taped it to the side of his van and used a marker pencil to scribe in the letters. It required six attempts to get it right, and Russell next used the knife to make reference marks on the van. It seemed a pity to score the paint on the van, but he reminded himself that the van would be blown up anyway, and there was no sense in getting sentimental about a truck. On the whole, he was proud of his artistic talents. He hadn't had a chance to exercise them since he'd learned a trade in the prison shop, many years before. When the logo was painted on, black letters on the white-painted truck, nobody would be able to tell the difference.

The next job of the day was to drive to the local motor-vehicle agency to get commercial tags for the van. He explained that he would use it for his electronics business, installing and servicing commercial phone systems. He walked out with temporary tags, and they promised delivery of the real ones in four working days, which struck Russell as unnecessarily efficient. Getting the license was even easier. The international licensing documents that Ghosn had provided to go along with his passport were honored by the State of Colorado, after he passed a written test, and he had a photo-certified license card to go along with the tags. His only “mistake” was messing up one of the forms, but the clerk let him sign a fresh one while Russell dumped the first in the trash can. Or appeared to. The blank form slid into the pocket of his parka.

Johns Hopkins Hospital is not located in the best of neighborhoods. As compensation for that fact the Baltimore City Police guarded it in a way that reminded Clark of his time in Vietnam. He found a parking place on Broadway, just across from the main entrance. Then he and Chavez went in, walking around the marble statue of Jesus which both found rather admirable in size and execution. The large complex — Hopkins is a vast facility — made finding the right part difficult, but ten minutes later they were sitting outside the Wilmer Eye Institute office of Associate Professor Caroline M. Ryan, M.D., F.A.C.S. Clark relaxed and read a magazine while Chavez cast his lecherous eyes on the receptionist whom Mrs. Ryan evidently rated. The other Dr. Ryan, as Clark thought of her, showed up at twelve-thirty-five with an armful of documents. She gave the two CIA officers a who-are-you look and breezed into her office without a word. It didn't take much of a look on his part either. She'd always appeared to him a very attractive and dignified female. Not now. Her face, if anything, was in worse shape than her husband's. This really was getting out of hand, John thought. Clark gave it a ten-count and just walked past the open-mouthed receptionist to begin his newest career, marriage counsellor.

“What is this?” Cathy asked. “I don't have any appointments today.”

“Ma'am, I need a few minutes of your time.”

“Who are you? Are you going to ask me about Jack?”

“Ma'am, my name is Clark.” He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out the card-sized CIA photo-pass, attached as most were, to a metal chain that went around his neck. “There may be some things you need to know about.”

Cathy's eyes went hard almost at once, the anger taking over from the hurt. “I know,” she said. “I've heard it all.”

“No, ma'am, I think that you do not know. This isn't a good place to talk. May I invite you to lunch?”

“Around here? The streets aren't all that—”

“Safe?” Clark smiled to show just how absurd her observation was.

For the first time, Caroline Ryan applied a professional eye to her visitor. He was about Jack's height, but bulkier. Whereas she had once found her husband's face manly, Clark 's was rugged. His hands looked large and powerful, and his body language proclaimed that he could deal with anything. More impressive was his demeanor. The man could have intimidated almost anyone, she realized, but he was going out of his way to appear gentlemanly, and succeeding, like the ballplayers who sometimes came here to see the kids. Teddy bear was what she thought. Not because he was, but because he wanted to be.

“There's a place right down Monument Street.”

“Fine.” Clark turned and lifted her overcoat from the clothes tree. He held it almost daintily for her to put it on. Chavez joined them outside. He was much smaller than Clark, but more overtly dangerous, like a gang kid who was trying to smooth off his edges. Chavez, she saw, took the lead as they walked outside, preceding them up the sidewalk in a way that was almost comical. The streets here were not what she thought safe — at least not for a woman walking alone, though that was more a problem at night than during the day — but Chavez moved like a man in battle. That, she thought, was interesting. They found the small restaurant quickly, and Clark steered everyone into a corner booth. Both the men had their backs to the wall so that they could stare outward at any incoming threat. Both had their coats unbuttoned, though they both seemed outwardly relaxed.

“Who exactly are you?” she asked. The whole affair was like something from a bad movie.

“I'm your husband's driver,” John replied. “I'm a field officer, paramilitary type. I've been with the agency for almost twenty years.”

“You're not supposed to tell people stuff like that.”

Clark just shook his head. “Ma'am, we haven't even started breaking laws yet. Now I'm mainly a Security and Protective Officer, an SPO. Ding Chavez here is also an SPO.”

“Hello, Doctor Ryan. My real name is Domingo.” He held out his hand. “I work with your husband also. John and I drive him around and protect him on trips and stuff.”

“You're both carrying guns?”

Ding almost looked embarrassed. “Yes, ma'am.”

With that, the adventurous part of the meeting ended, Cathy thought. Two obviously very tough men were trying to charm her. They had even succeeded. But that didn't change her problem. She was about to say something, but Clark started off first.

“Ma'am, there seems to be a problem between you and your husband. I don't know what it is — I think I know some of it — but I do know that it's hurting the guy. That's bad for the Agency.”

“Gentlemen, I appreciate your concern, but this is a private matter.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Clark responded in his eerily polite voice. He reached into his pocket and pulled out Xerox copies of the Holtzman articles. “Is this the problem?”

“That's not any of your…” Her mouth clamped shut.

“I thought so. Ma'am, none of this is true. I mean, the sexual impropriety part. That's definitely not true. Your husband hardly goes anywhere without one of us. Because of where he works and who he is, he has to sign out for every place he goes to — like a doctor on call, okay? If you want, I can get you copies of his itinerary for as far back as you want.”

“That can't be legal.”

“No, it probably isn't,” Clark agreed. “So?”

She so wanted to believe, Cathy thought, but she couldn't, and it was best to tell them why. “Look, your loyalty to Jack is very impressive — but I know, okay? I went through the financial records, and I know about that Zimmer woman, and I know about the kid!”

“What exactly do you know?”

“I know that Jack was there for the delivery. I know about the money, and how he tried to hide it from me and everybody else. I know that he's being investigated by the government.”

“What do you mean?”

“A government investigator was here at Hopkins! I know that!”

“Dr. Ryan, there is no such investigation at CIA, and no investigation at the FBI, either. That's a fact.”

“Then who was here?”

“I'm afraid I don't know that,” Clark answered. It wasn't entirely true, but Clark figured this lie was not pertinent to the matter at hand.

“Look, I know about Carol Zimmer,” she said again.

“What do you know?” Clark repeated quietly. The response he got surprised him.

The answer almost came out as a scream. “Jack's playing around, and she's the one! And there's a kid involved, and Jack is spending so much time with her that he doesn't have any time for me and he can't even—” She stopped, at the point of sobbing.

Clark waited for her to settle down. His eyes didn't leave her face for an instant, and he saw it all as clearly as though it had been printed on a page. Ding merely looked embarrassed. He wasn't old enough to understand.

“Will you hear me through?”

“Sure, why not? It's over, the only reason I haven't just walked out is the kids. So go ahead, make your pitch. Tell me that he still loves me and all that. He doesn't have the guts to talk about it to me himself, but I'm sure he had something to do with this,” she concluded bitterly.

“First of all, he does not know we are here. If he finds out, I'll probably lose my job, but that's no big thing. I have my retirement. Besides, I'm about to break bigger rules than that one. Where do I begin?” Clark paused before going on.

"Carol Zimmer is a widow. Her husband was Chief Master Sergeant Buck Zimmer, U.S. Air Force. He died in the line of duty. As a matter of fact, he died in your husband's arms. I know. I was there. Buck took five rounds in the chest. Both lungs. It took him five or six minutes to die. He left behind seven children — eight, if you count the one his wife was carrying. Buck didn't know about that one when he died. Carol was waiting to surprise him.

“Sergeant Zimmer was the crew chief on an Air Force special-operations helicopter. We took that aircraft into a foreign country to rescue a group of U.S. Army soldiers who were conducting a covert mission.”

“I was one of 'em, ma'am,” Ding announced, somewhat to Clark 's displeasure. “I wouldn't be here if the doc hadn't put it out on the line.”

The soldiers had been deliberately cut off from support from this end of the operation—"

“Who?”

“He's dead now,” Clark answered in a way that left no doubt at all. “Your husband uncovered what was an illegal operation. He and Dan Murray of the FBI set up the rescue mission. It was a bad one, really tough. We were very lucky to get it done. I'm surprised you haven't noticed something — nightmares, maybe?”

“He doesn't sleep well — well, yes, sometimes he…”

“Dr. Ryan missed having a bullet take his head off by… oh, maybe two inches, maybe three. We had to rescue a squad of soldiers off a hilltop, and they were under attack. Jack worked one machinegun. Buck Zimmer had another one. Buck took hits as we lifted out, went down hard. Jack and I tried to help him, but I don't even think you Hopkins guys could have done very much. It wasn't real pretty. He died—” Clark stopped for a moment, and Cathy could see that he wasn't faking the pain. "He was talking about his kids. Worried about 'em, like any man would be. Your husband held Zimmer in his arms and promised him that he would look after them, that he'd see they were all educated, that he would take care of the family. Ma'am, I've been in this business a long time, back before you learned how to drive a car, okay? I've never seen anything better than what Jack did.

“After we got back, Jack did what he promised. I mean, of course. I'm not surprised he kept it a secret from you. There are aspects to the total operation that I do not know myself. But this much I do know: that man gives his word, he keeps it. I helped. We got the family moved up here from Florida. He set them up a little business. One of the kids is already in college, at Georgetown, and the second-oldest is already accepted into MIT. I forgot to tell you, Carol Zimmer — well, Carol ain't her name. She was born in Laos. Zimmer got her out when everything went to hell there, married her, and they started punching out kids like movie tickets. Anyway, she's a typical Asian mom. She thinks education is a gift from God Himself, and those kids really study hard. They all think your husband's a saint. We stop in to see them at least once a week, every week.”

“I want to believe you,” Cathy said. “What about the baby?”

“You mean when it was born? Yeah, we were both there. My wife was the coach for the delivery — Jack didn't think it was right for him to be in the room, and I've never been there for one. It kind of scares me,” Clark admitted. “So we waited in the usual place with all the other wimps. If you want, I can introduce you to the Zimmer family. You can also confirm the story through Dan Murray at the FBI, if you think that is necessary.”

“Won't that get you into trouble?” Cathy knew at once that she could trust Murray. He was straight-laced on moral issues; it came from being a cop.

“I will definitely lose my job. I suppose they could prosecute me — technically, I have just committed a federal felony — but I doubt it would go that far. Ding would lose his job, too, because he hasn't had the sense to keep his mouth shut like I told him to.”

“Shit,” Ding commented, then looked embarrassed. “Excuse me, ma'am. John, this is a matter of honor. 'Cept for the Doc, I'd be fertilizer on some Colombian hilltop. I owe him my life. That counts more than a job, 'mano.”

Clark handed over an index card. “These are the dates of the operation. You may remember that when Admiral Greer died, Jack didn't make the funeral.”

“Yes! Bob Ritter called me, and—”

“That's when it was. You can verify all of this with Mr. Murray.”

“God!” It all hit her at once.

“Yes, ma'am. All the garbage in these articles. It's all a lie.”

“Who's doing it?”

"I don't know, but I am going to find out. Doctor, I've been watching your guy come apart for the past six months. I've seen it happen before, in combat — I spent quite some time in Vietnam — but this has been worse. That Vatican Treaty, the way the Middle East is settling down. Jack had a big part in that, but he isn't getting any credit at all. Exactly what part he played, I'm not sure. He's pretty good at keeping secrets. That's part of his problem. He keeps it all inside. You do that too much and it's like cancer, like acid or something. It eats you up. It's eating him up, and this crap in the papers has made it a lot worse.

“All I can say, doc, is this: I don't know a better man than your husband, and I've been around the block a few times. He's put it on the line more than the times you know about, but there's people around who don't like him very much, and those people are trying to get him in a way that he can't deal with. It's typical, dirty, underhanded crap, but Jack's not the kind of guy who can deal with that. He plays by the rules, you see. So, it's eating him up.”

Cathy was weeping now. Clark handed her a handkerchief.

“I figured you should know. If you think it's necessary, I want you to check it out as much as you think you have to. That's your decision, and I want you to make the call without worrying about me or Ding or anybody else, okay? I'll take you to see Carol Zimmer and the kids. If I lose my job — the hell with it. I've been in the business too damned long anyway.”

“Christmas presents?”

“For the Zimmer kids? Yeah, I helped wrap them. Your husband can't wrap presents worth a damn, but I suppose you know that. I even delivered some of my own. My two are too grown for fun presents, and they're great kids, the Zimmers. It's nice being an uncle,” John added, with a genuine smile.

“All a lie?”

“I don't know about the financial stuff, just the other things. And they tried to get at him through you, judging by what you just said.”

The tears stopped at that moment. Cathy wiped her eyes and looked up. “You're right. You said you don't know who's doing this?”

“I'm planning to find out,” Clark promised her. Her demeanor had changed completely. This was some broad.

“I want you to let me know. And I want to meet the Zimmer family.”

“When do you get off work?”

“I have to make a few phone calls and some notes — say an hour?”

“I can squeeze that in, but I may have to leave early. They have a 7-Eleven about ten miles from your place.”

“I know it's close, but not exactly where.”

“You can follow me down.”

“Let's go.” Cathy led them out, or tried to. Chavez beat her out the door, and held the point all the way back to the hospital. He and Clark decided to stay outside and get some air, then spotted two youths sitting on their car.

It was strange, John Clark thought as he crossed the street. At the beginning Caroline Ryan had been the angry one, angry and betrayed. He'd been the voice of understanding. Now she was feeling much better — though worse in another way — but he had absorbed all of her anger. It was a little too much to bear, and there in front of him was an outlet for it.

“Off the car, punk!”

“Christ, John!” Ding said behind him.

“Says who!” the youth said, hardly turning to see the man approaching. He got his head around just in time to see the hand grasp his shoulder. Then the world rotated and the brick wall of a building approached his face very rapidly. Fortunately, his boom-box absorbed most of the impact, which, however, had a negative effect on the boom-box.

“Motherfucker!” the kid snarled, coming out with a knife. His companion was six feet away, and also had a knife out.

Clark just smiled at them. “Who's first?”

The thought of avenging his appliance died a quick death. Both youths knew danger when they saw it.

“You lucky I don't have my gun, man!”

“You can leave the knives, too.”

“You a cop?”

“No, I am not a policeman,” Clark said, walking over with his hand out. Chavez backed him up, his coat opened, as both youths noticed. They dropped their knives and started walking away.

“What the hell is—”

Clark turned to see a policeman approaching, with a large dog. Both were fully alert. John pulled out his CIA pass. “I didn't like their attitude.”

Chavez handed the knives over. “They dropped these, sir.”

“You really should leave that sort of thing to us.”

“Yes, sir,” Clark agreed. “You're right. Nice dog you have there.”

The cop pocketed the knives. “Have a good one,” he said, wondering what the hell this had been about.

“You, too, officer.” Clark paused and turned to Chavez. “God damn, that felt good.”

“Ready to go to Mexico, John?”

“Yeah. I just hate leaving unfinished business behind, you know?”

“So, who's trying to fuck him over?”

“Not sure.”

“Bull,” Ding observed.

“Won't be sure until I talk to Holtzman.”

“You say so, man. I like her,” he added. “That's some lady.”

“Yeah, she is. Just what he needs to set things straight.”

“You think she'll call that Murray guy?”

“Does it matter?”

“No.” Chavez looked up the street. “A question of honor, Mr. C.”

“I knew you'd understand, Ding.”

Jacqueline Zimmer was a beautiful child, Cathy thought, holding her. She wanted another, must have another. Jack would give her one, maybe another girl if they were lucky. “We hear so much 'bout you!” Carol said. “You doctor?”

“Yes, I teach doctors, I'm a professor of surgery.”

“My oldes' son must meet you. He want to be doctor. He student at Georgetown.”

“Maybe I can help him a little. Can I ask you a question?”

“Yes.”

“Your husband…”

“Buck? He die. I don't know all the things, just that he die — on duty, yes? Is secret thing. Very hard for me,” Carol said soberly, but without overt grief. She was over that now. “Buck was a very good man. So your husban'. You be nice to him,” Mrs. Zimmer added.

“Oh, I will,” Cathy promised. “Now, we have to make this a secret?”

“What secret?”

“Jack doesn't know that I know about you.”

“Oh? I know there are many secret, but — okay, I un'erstan'. I keep this secret, too.”

“I will talk to Jack about that. I think you should come to our house and meet our children. But for now, we keep the secret?”

“Yes, okay. We surprise him?”

“Right.” Cathy smiled as she handed the child back. “I will see you again, soon.”

“Feel better, doc?” Clark asked her out in the parking lot.

“Thank you…?”

“Call me John.”

“Thanks, John.” It was the warmest smile since his kids at Christmas.

“Any time.”

Clark drove west on Route 50. Cathy turned east for home. Her knuckles were white on the steering wheel of her car. The anger was back now. For the most part, she was angry at herself. How could she have thought that of Jack? She'd been very foolish, very small, and so disgustingly selfish. But it wasn't really her fault. Someone else had invaded their household, she decided as she pulled into the garage. She was on the phone almost immediately. She had to do one more thing. She had to be completely certain.

“Hi, Dan.”

“Cathy! How's the eye business, kid?” Murray asked.

“Got a question for you.”

“Shoot.”

She'd already decided how to do it. There's a problem with Jack…"

Murray 's voice became guarded. “What is it?”

“He's having nightmares,” Cathy said. It wasn't a lie, but what followed was. “Something about a helicopter, and Buck somebody… I can't ask him about it, but—”

Murray cut her off. “Cathy, I can't talk about it over the phone. That's a business matter, kid.”

“Really?”

“Really, Cathy. It's something I know about, but I cannot discuss it with you. I'm sorry, but that's the way it has to be. It's business.”

Cathy went on with a touch of alarm in her voice. “It's not something that's happening now — I mean—”

“It's way in the past, Cathy. That's all I can say. If you think Jack needs professional help, then I can make a few calls and—”

“No, I don't think so. It was really bad a few months ago, but it does seem to be getting better. I was just worried that it might be something at the office…”

“All behind him, Cathy. Honest.”

“You sure, Dan?”

“Positive. I would not kid around on something like this.”

And that, Cathy knew, was that. Dan was every bit as honest as Jack was. “Thanks, Dan. Thanks a lot,” she said in her best medical voice, the one that revealed nothing at all.

“Any time, Cathy.” By the time he hung up, Murray wondered if he'd just been had in some way. No, he decided, there was no way she could have found out about that.

Had he seen the other end of the disconnected phone line, he would have been surprised to discover how wrong he was. Cathy sat alone in the kitchen, crying one last time. She'd had to check, there had not been a choice to purge all the emotions from her soul, but now she was completely certain that Clark had spoken the truth; that someone was trying to hurt her husband, that whoever it was was willing to use his wife and his family against him. Who could ever hate a man so much that they would try that! she wondered.

Whoever it was was her enemy. Whoever it was had attacked her and her family just as coldly as those terrorists had done, but much more cravenly.

Whoever it was would pay for that.

“Where have you been?”

“Sorry, Doc. I had some errands to run.” Clark had come back through the S&T office. “Here.”

“What's this?” Ryan took the bottle. It was an expensive container of Chivas Regal in a ceramic bottle. The sort you couldn't see through.

“That's our transceiver. They made up four of them. Nice job, isn't it? Here's the pickup.” Clark handed over a green stick, almost the thickness of a cocktail straw, but not quite. “It'll look like a plastic doodad to hold the flowers in place. We decided to use three of them. The technics say they can multiplex the outbound transmissions, and for some reason or other they can crunch the computer time down to one-to-one. They also say that if we had another few months to play with the comm links, we could almost real-time the whole thing.”

“What we have is enough,” Jack said. Here and now “almost” was better than perfect too late. “I've funded enough research projects.”

“I agree. What about the test flights?”

“Tomorrow, ten o'clock.”

“Super.” Clark stood. “Hey, Doc, how about you call it a day? You look wasted.”

“I think you're right. Give me another hour, and I'm out of here.”

“Fair enough.”

Russell met them at Atlanta. They'd come across through Mexico City, thence through Miami, where the customs people were very interested in drugs, but not particularly interested in Greek businessmen who opened their bags without being asked. Russell, who was now Robert Friend of Roggen, Colorado — with the driver's license to prove it — shook hands with both of them and helped to collect their baggage.

“Weapons?” Qati asked.

“Not here, man. I have everything you need at home.”

“Any problems?”

“Not one.” Russell was silent for a moment. “Maybe there is one.”

“What?” Ghosn asked with concealed alarm. Being on foreign soil always made him nervous, and this was his first trip to America.

“Cold as hell where we're going, guys. You might want to get some decent coats.”

“That can wait,” the Commander decided. He was feeling very bad now. The latest batch of chemotherapy had denied him food for nearly two days, and as much as he craved nourishment, his stomach rebelled at the mere sight of it in one of the airport fast-food stands. “What about our flight?”

“Hour and a half. How about you get some sweaters, okay? Follow me. I'm not foolin' about the weather. It's like zero where we're going.”

“Zero? That is not so—” Ghosn stopped. “You mean, below zero, centigrade?”

Russell stopped for a second. “Oh. Yeah, that's right. Zero here means something different. Zero's cold, guys, okay?”

“As you say,” Qati agreed. Half an hour later they had thick woolen sweaters to go under their thin raincoats. The mostly empty Delta flight to Denver left on time. Three hours later, they walked off their last jetway for a while. Ghosn had never seen so much snow in his life.

“I can hardly breathe,” Qati said.

“It'll take you a day to get used to the altitude. You guys go get the luggage. I'll get the car and warm it up for you.”

“If he's betrayed us,” Qati said, as Russell walked away, “we'll know it in the next few minutes.”

“He has not,” Ghosn replied. “He is a strange man, but a faithful one.”

“He is an infidel, a pagan.”

“That is true, but he also listened to an imam in my presence. At least he was polite. I tell you, he is faithful.”

“We will see,” Qati said, walking tiredly and breathlessly to the baggage-claim level. Both men looked around as they moved, searching for eyes. That was always the giveaway, the eyes that fixed on you. It was hard even for the most professional of men to keep from looking at their targets.

They collected their luggage without incident, and Marvin was waiting. He could not stop the blast of air from hitting them, and thin as the air was, it was also colder than either had ever experienced. The heat of the car was welcome indeed.

“How go the preparations?”

“Everything is on schedule, Commander,” Russell said. He drove off. The Arabs were quietly impressed by the vast open space, the broad interstate highway — they found the speed-limit signs very strange — and the obvious wealth in the area. They were also impressed with Russell, who had manifestly done quite well. Both men rested easier that he had not betrayed them. It was not that Qati had actually expected it, rather that he knew that his vulnerability increased as they got closer to the final part of the plan. That, he knew, was normal.

The farm was of a good size. Russell had thoughtfully overheated it somewhat, but what Qati noted most of all was its obvious defensibility, with a clear field of fire in all directions. He got them inside and carried the bags for them.

“You guys have to be pretty tired,” Marvin observed. “Why don't you just bed down? You're safe here, okay?” Qati took the advice. Ghosn did not. He and Russell went to the kitchen. Ibrahim was happy to learn that Marvin was a skilled cook.

“What is this meat?”

“Venison — deer meat. I know you can't eat pork, but you got any problems with deer?” the American asked.

Ghosn shook his head. “No, but I have never had it.”

“It's okay, I promise. I found this at a local store this morning. Native-American soul food, man. This is good mule deer. There's a game-rancher around here who grows them commercially. I can try you out on beefalo, too.”

“What the devil is that?”

“Beefalo? Another thing you can only get around here. It's a cross between beef cattle and buffalo. Buffalo is what my people used to eat, man, biggest damned cow you're ever gonna see!” Russell grinned. “Good lean meat, healthy and everything. But venison's the best, Ibrahim.”

“You must not call me that,” Ghosn said tiredly. It had been a twenty-seven hour day for him, counting the time zones.

“I got the IDs for you and the Commander.” Russell pulled the envelopes from a drawer and tossed them on the table. “Names are exactly what you wanted, see? We just have to do the photos and put them on the cards. I have the equipment to do it.”

“Was this hard to get?”

Marvin laughed. “Naw, it's standard commercial stuff. I used my own license form as a master, ginned up the copies, then I got the hardware to do first-class dupes. Lots of companies use photo-passes, and the equipment is standardized. Three hours work. I figure we have all day tomorrow and the day after to go over everything.”

“Excellent, Marvin.”

“You want a drink?”

“Alcohol, you mean?”

“Hey, man, I saw you have a beer with that German guy — what was his name?”

“Herr Fromm, you mean.”

“Come on, it's not as bad as eatin' pork, is it?”

“Thank you, but I will pass on that — is that how you say it?”

“'Pass on the drink'?—yeah, that's fine, man. How's that Fromm guy doing?” Marvin asked casually, looking at the meat. It was almost done.

“Doing well,” Ghosn answered just as casually. “He went off to see his wife.”

“Exactly what were you guys working on, anyway?” Russell poured himself a shot of Jack Daniel's.

“He helped us with the explosives, some special tricks, you see. He's an expert in the field.”

“Great.”

It was the first hopeful sign in a few days, maybe a few weeks, Ryan thought. Dinner was fine, all the better to make it home in time to have it with the kids. Cathy had evidently gotten home from work at a reasonable hour and had taken the time to fix a good one. Best of all, they'd talked. Afterwards, Jack had helped her clean up. Finally, the kids went off to bed, and they were alone.

“I'm sorry I snapped at you,” Cathy said.

“It's okay, I guess I deserved it.” Ryan was willing to say almost anything to calm things down.

“No, I was wrong, Jack. I was feeling bitchy, and I had cramps, and my back hurt. What's wrong with you is that you're working too hard and drinking too much.” She came over to kiss him. “Smoking, Jack?”

He was amazed. He hadn't expected to be kissed. More than that, he expected an explosion if she discovered that he'd smoked. “Sorry, babe. Bad day at the office. I wimped.”

Cathy held his hands. “Jack, I want you to cut back on the drinking, and get your rest. That's your problem, that and the stress. We'll worry about the smoking later, just so you don't smoke around the kids. I haven't been very sympathetic, and I've been a little wrong myself, but you have to clean up your act. What you've been doing is bad for you, and bad for us.”

“I know.”

“Go to bed. You need sleep more than anything else.”

Being married to a physician had its drawbacks. Chief among those was that you couldn't argue with one. Jack kissed her on the cheek and did as he was told.