The Sum of All Fears

34 PLACEMENT

Ryan was surprised to see that the snow hadn't stopped. The walkway outside his top-floor window had almost two feet piled up, and the maintenance crews had failed completely to keep up with things through the night. High winds were blowing and drifting snow across the roads and parking lots more quickly than it could be removed, and even the snow that they did manage to move simply found another inconvenient place to blow over. It had been years since a storm like this had hit the Washington area. The local citizenry was already beyond panic into desperation, Jack thought. Cabin fever would already be setting in. Food stocks would not easily be replaced. Already some husbands and some wives were looking at their spouses and wondering how hard to cook they might be… It was one thing to laugh about as he went to get water for his coffee machine. He grabbed Ben Goodley's shoulder on the way out of the office.

“Shake it loose, Dr. Goodley.”

The eyes opened slowly. “What time is it?”

“Seven-twenty. What part of New England are you from originally?”

“ New Hampshire, up north, place called Littleton.”

“Well, take a look out the window and it might remind you of home.”

By the time Jack returned with fresh water, the younger man was standing at the windows. “Looks like about a foot and a half out there, maybe a little more. So, what's the big deal? Where I come from this is called a flurry.”

“In D.C., it's called The Ice Age. I'll have coffee ready in a few minutes.” Ryan decided to call the security desk of the lobby. “What's the situation?”

“People calling in saying they can't make it. But what the hell — most of the night staff couldn't get out. The G.W. Parkway is closed. So's the Beltway on the Maryland side, and the Wilson Bridge — again.”

“Outstanding. Okay, this is important, so listen up — that means anybody who makes it in is probably KGB-trained. Shoot 'em.” Goodley could hear the laughter on the phone from ten feet away. “Keep me posted on the weather situation. And reserve me a four-by-four, the GMC, in case I have to go somewhere.” Jack hung up and looked at Goodley. “Rank hath its privileges. Besides, we have a couple of them.”

“What about people who have to get in?”

Jack watched the coffee start to come out of the machine. “If the Beltway and G.W. are closed, that means that two-thirds of our people can't get in. Now you know why the Russians have invested so much money in weather-control programs.”

“Doesn't anybody down here —”

“No, people down here pretend that snow is something that happens on ski slopes. If it doesn't stop soon, it'll be Wednesday before anything starts moving in this town.”

“It's really that bad here?”

“You'll see for yourself, Ben.”

“And I left my cross-country skis up in Boston.”

“We didn't hit that hard,” the Major objected.

“Major, the breaker board seems to disagree with you,” the crew chief replied. He pushed the breaker back in position. The small black plastic tab hesitated for a moment, then popped right back out. “No radio because of this one, and no hydraulics 'cause of that one. I'm afraid we're grounded for a while, sir.”

The metering pins for the landing gear had arrived at two in the morning, on the second attempt. The first, aborted, attempts had been by car, until someone had decided that only a military vehicle could make it. The parts had arrived by HMMWV, and even that had been held up by the various stopped cars on the highways between Washington and Camp David. Repairs on the helicopter were supposed to have started in another hour or so — it was not a difficult job — but suddenly they were more complicated.

“Well?” the Major asked.

“Probably a couple of loose wires in there. I gotta pull the whole board, sir, inspect the whole thing. That's a whole day's work at best. Better tell 'em to warm up a backup aircraft.”

The Major looked outside. This was not a day he wanted to fly anyway. “We're not supposed to go back until tomorrow morning. When'll it be fixed?”

“If I start now… say around midnight.”

“Get breakfast first. I'll take care of the backup bird.”

“Roge-o, Major.”

“I'll have them run some power out here for a heater, and a radio, too.” The Major knew the crew chief was from San Diego.

The Major trudged back to the cabin. The helicopter pad was on a high spot, and the wind was trying very hard to blow it clear of snow. As a result, there was only six inches to worry about. Down below, the drifts were as much as three feet deep. The grunts out walking the woods must be having a fine time, he thought.

“How bad?” the pilot asked, shaving.

“Circuit panel is acting up. The chief says he needs all day to get it back on line.”

“We didn't hit that hard,” the Colonel objected.

“I already said that. Want me to make the call?”

“Yeah, go ahead. Have you checked the threat board?”

“The world's at peace, Colonel, sir. I checked.”

The “threat board” was mainly an expression. The alert level of the government agencies that dealt with various problems depended on the expected level of danger in the world. The greater the possible danger, the more assets were kept ready to deal with them. At the moment there was no perceived threat to the United States of America, and that meant that only a single aircraft was kept ready to back-stop the President's VH-3. The major placed the call to Annacostia.

“Yeah, let's keep dash-two warm. Dash-one is down with electrical problems… no, we can handle it here. Oughta be back on line by midnight. Right. Bye.” The Major hung up just in time for Pete Connor to enter their cabin.

“What gives?”

“Bird's broke,” the Colonel replied.

“I didn't think we hit that hard,” Connor objected.

“Well, that makes it official,” the Major observed. “The only one who thinks we did hit that hard's the friggin' airplane.”

“The backup's on alert status,” the Colonel said, as he finished shaving. “Sorry, Pete. Electrical problem, maybe has nothing to do with the touchdown. The backup can be here in thirty-five minutes. Our threat board is blank. Anything we need to know about?”

Connor shook his head. “No, Ed. We know of no particular threat.”

“I can bring the backup bird here, but it means exposing it to the weather. We can take better care of it down at Annacostia. That's your call, sir.”

“You can leave it down there.”

“The Boss still wants to watch the game up here, right?”

“Correct. We all get a day off. Lift off for D.C. tomorrow about six-thirty. Problem with that?”

“No, ought to be fixed before then.”

“Okay.” Connor left and walked back to his cabin.

“What's it like out there?” Daga asked.

“About how it looks,” Pete said. “The chopper's broke.”

“I wish they'd be more careful,” Special Agent Helen D'Agustino observed as she brushed her hair.

“Not their fault.” Connor lifted the phone to the Secret Service command center, located a few blocks west of the White House. “This is Connor. The chopper is down with a mechanical problem. Backup is being kept at Annacostia because of weather conditions. Anything on the board I need to know about?”

“No, sir,” the junior agent responded. On his status board, in LED characters he could see that the President of the United States — designated POTUS on his display — was shown to be at Camp David. The First Lady of the United States — FLOTUS — space was blank. The Vice President was at his official residence on the ground of the U.S. Naval Observatory off of Massachusetts Avenue, North West, along with his family. “Everything's nice and calm, far as we know.”

“How are the roads down there?” Pete asked.

“Bad. Every Carryall we have is out retrieving people.”

“Thank God for Chevrolet.” Like the FBI, the Secret Service used the big Chevy four-wheel-drive trucks to get around. Heavily armored and with roughly the fuel-efficiency of a tank, the Carryall was able to do things that only a tank could excel. “Okay, it's nice and snug up here.”

“I bet the Marines are freezing their cojones off.”

“What about Dulles?”

“The Prime Minister is due in at eighteen hundred. The guys say Dulles has one runway open now. They expect to have everything clear by afternoon. Storm's slacking off a little here, finally. You know, the funny thing…”

“Yeah.” Connor didn't need to hear the rest. The funny thing was that weather like this made the job of the Secret Service easier. “Okay, you know where to reach us.”

“Right. See ya tomorrow, Pete.”

Connor looked outside when he heard the noise. A Marine was driving a snow-plow, trying to clear the paths between the cabins. Two more were working on the roads. It seemed rather odd. The equipment was painted in the Pentagon's woodland camouflage pattern of greens and browns, but the Marines were in their whites. There were even white pull-over covers for their M-16A2 rifles. Anyone who tried to get in here today would find, too late, that the perimeter guard force was totally invisible, and these Marines were all combat veterans. At times like this, even the Secret Service could relax, and that came rarely enough. There came a knock on the door. Daga got it.

“Morning papers, ma'am.” A Marine corporal handed them over.

“You know,” D'Agustino observed after she closed the door, “sometimes I think the guys who deliver these things are the only people you can really depend on.”

“What about the Marines?” Pete asked with a laugh.

“Oh, them, too.”

“Aspect change in Sierra-16!” the sonarman called. “Target is coming left.”

“Very well,” Dutch Claggett replied. “Mr. Pitney, you have the conn.”

“Aye aye, sir, I have the conn,” the navigator said as the XO went into the sonar room. The fire-control tracking party perked up, waiting to restart their calculations.

“Right there, sir,” the sonarman tapped the screen with his pencil. “Looks like a beam aspect now. Conn, sonar, bearing is now one-seven-zero, target is coming left. Radiated noise level is constant, estimate target speed is unchanged.”

“Very well, thank you.”

It was the third such turn they had tracked — Claggett's estimation appeared to be correct. The Russian was conducting a very methodical, very conservative — and very smart — search pattern of this patrol area, just like the 688s did in looking for Russian subs. The interval between the rungs of this ladder seemed to be about forty thousand yards.

“X, that new feed pump they have is a beaut,” the sonarman observed. “His plant noise is way the hell down, and the sucker's doing ten knots according to the tracking party.”

“Couple more years and we're going to have to worry about these guys.”

“Transient, transient — mechanical transient on Sierra-16, bearing is now one-six-four, still drifting left. Speed constant.” The petty officer circled the noise blip on the screen. “Maybe, sir, but they still got a lot to learn.”

“Range to target is now four-eight thousand yards.”

“Mr. Pitney, let's open the range some. Bring her right,” the executive officer commanded.

“Aye, helm, left five degrees rudder, come to new course two-zero-four.”

“Turning for another leg?” Captain Ricks asked as he entered sonar.

“Yeah, looks like the legs are pretty regular, Cap'n.”

“Methodical son of a bitch, isn't he?”

“Turned within two minutes of our estimate,” Claggett replied. “I just ordered us right to maintain distance.”

“Fair enough.” Ricks was actually enjoying this. He hadn't been aboard a fast-attack boat since his first assistant-department-head tour. Playing tag with Russian submarines was something he had not done in the past fifteen years. On the rare occasions he'd heard them at all, his action had always been the same: track long enough to determine the other sub's course, then turn perpendicular to it and head away until it faded back to random noise.

Necessarily, the game was changing somewhat. It wasn't as easy as it used to be. The Russian subs were getting quieter. What had been an annoying trend a few years ago was rapidly turning into something genuinely troubling. And maybe we just had to change the way we do business…

“You know, X, what if this becomes the standard tactic?”

“What do you mean, Cap'n?”

“I mean, as quiet as these guys are getting, maybe this is the smart move…”

“Huh?” Claggett was lost.

“If you're tracking the guy, at least you always know where he is. You can even launch a SLOT buoy and call in assets to help you dispose of him. Think about it. They're getting pretty quiet. If you break off as soon as you detect the guy, what's to say you don't blunder into him again? So, instead, we track at a nice, safe distance and just keep an eye on him.”

“Uh, Captain, that's fine as far as it goes, but what if the other guy gets a sniff of us, or what if he just reverses course and boogies backwards at high speed?”

“Good point. So, we trail on his quarter instead of just off his stern… that will make an accidental closure less likely. Banging straight aft for a trailer is a logical defensive measure, but he can't go punching holes all over the ocean, can he?”

Jesus, this guy is trying to develop tactics… “Sir, let me know if you sell that one to OP-02.”

Instead of trailing dead aft, I'm going to hold off his northern quarter now. It gives us better performance off the tail anyway. It should actually be safer."

That part of it made sense, Claggett thought. “You say so, Cap'n. Maintain fifty-K yards?”

“Yes, we still want to be a little cautious.”

The second storm, as predicted, hadn't done very much, Ghosn saw. There was a light dusting — that seemed to be the term they used — on the vehicles and parking lot. Hardly enough to bother with, it duplicated the most severe winter storm he'd ever seen in Lebanon.

“How about some breakfast?” Marvin asked. “I hate to work on an empty stomach.”

The man was remarkable, Ibrahim thought. He was completely free of jitters. Either very brave or… something else. Ghosn considered that. He'd killed the Greek policeman without a blink, had taught a brutal lesson to one of the organization's combat instructors, shown his prowess with firearms, and been completely contemptuous of danger when they'd uncovered the Israeli bomb. There was something missing in this man, he concluded. The man was fearless, and such men were not normal. It wasn't that he was able to control his fear as most soldiers learned to do. Fear simply wasn't there. Was it merely a case of trying to impress people? Or was it real? Probably real, Ghosn thought, and if it were, this man was truly mad, and therefore more dangerous than useful. It made things easier for Ghosn to think that.

The motel didn't offer room service from its small coffee shop. All three walked out into the cold to get their breakfasts. Along the way, Russell picked up a paper to read about the game.

Qati and Ghosn only needed a brief look to find one more reason to hate Americans. They ate eggs with bacon or ham, and pancakes with sausage — in all three cases, products of the most unclean of animals, the pig. Both men found the sight and smell of pork products repulsive. Marvin didn't help when he ordered some as unconsciously as he'd ordered coffee. The Commander, Ghosn noted, ordered oatmeal, and halfway through breakfast he went suddenly pale and left the table.

“What's the matter with him anyway? Sick?” Russell asked.

“Yes, Marvin, he is quite ill.” Ghosn looked at the greasy bacon on Russell's plate and knew the smell of it had set Qati's stomach off.

“I hope he's able to drive.”

“That will not be a problem.” Ghosn wondered if that were true. Of course it was, he told himself, the Commander had been through tougher times — but such bluster was for others, not for times like this. No, because there had never been such a time as this, the Commander would do what must be done. Russell paid for the breakfast with cash, leaving a large tip because the waitress looked like a Native American.

Qati was pale when they got back to the rooms, and wiping his face after a long bout of nausea.

“Can I get you something, man?” Russell asked. “Milk, something good for your stomach?”

“Not now, Marvin. Thank you.”

“You say so, man.” Russell opened his paper. There was nothing to do for the next few hours but wait. The morning line on the game, he saw, was Minnesota by six and a half. He decided that if anyone asked, he'd take the Vikings and give the points.

Special Agent Walter Hoskins, Assistant Special Agent in Charge (Corruption and Racketeering), of the Denver Field Division knew that he would miss the game despite the fact that his wife had given him a ticket for Christmas. This he had sold to the S-A-C for two hundred dollars. Hoskins had work to do. A confidential informant had scored at the annual NFL Commissioner's party last night. That party — like the ones preceding the Kentucky Derby — always attracted the rich, powerful, and important. This one had been no exception. Both U.S. Senators from Colorado and California, a gaggle of congressmen, the states' governors, and approximately three hundred others had attended. His CI had been at the table with Colorado 's governor, senators, and the congresswoman from the third district, all of whom were targets of his corruption case. Liquor had flowed, and in the vino had been the usual amount of veritas. A deal had been made last night. The dam would be built. The payoffs had been agreed upon. Even the head of the Sierra Club's local branch had been in on it. In return for a large donation from the contractor and a new park to be authorized by the governor, the environmentalists would mute their objections to the project. The sad part, Hoskins thought, was that the area really needed the water project. It would be good for everyone, including the local fishermen. What made it illegal was that bribes were being made. He would have his choice of five federal statutes to apply to the case, the nastiest of which was the RICO law, the Racketeer-Influenced and Corrupt Organization Act that had been passed over twenty years before without a thought about its possible scope of coverage. He already had one governor in a federal penitentiary, and to that he would add four more elected officials. The scandal would rip Colorado state politics asunder. The confidential informant in question was the governor's personal aide, an idealistic young woman who had decided eight months earlier that enough was enough. Women were always best for wearing a wire, especially if they had large breasts, as this one did. The mike went right in the bra, and the geometry of the location made for good sound quality. It was also a safe spot, because the governor had already sampled her charms and found them lacking. The old saw was right: hell really did have no fury like a woman scorned.

“Well?” Murray asked, annoyed to have to be in his office on another Sunday. He'd had to ride the subway in, and now that was broken down. He might be stuck all day here.

“Dan, we have enough to prosecute already, but I want to wait until the money gets passed to do the bust. My CI really delivered for us. I'm doing the transcript myself right now.”

“Can you fax it?”

“Soon as I'm done. Dan, we've got them all by the ass, all of 'em.”

“Walt, we just might put up a statue to you,” Murray said, forgetting his annoyance. Like most career cops he loathed public corruption almost as much as he loathed kidnappers.

“Dan, the transfer here is the best thing that ever happened to me.” Hoskins laughed into the phone. “Maybe I'll run for one of the vacant Senate seats.”

“ Colorado could do worse,” Dan observed. Just so you don't carry a gun anywhere, Murray thought unkindly. He knew that was unfair. Though Walt wasn't worth beans on the muscle end of the business, the other side of his assessment the previous year had also been correct: Hoskins was a brilliant investigator, a chessmaster to equal Bill Shaw, even. Walt just couldn't bring down a bust worth a damn. Well, Murray corrected himself, this one wouldn't be very hard. Politicians hid behind lawyers and press-spokesmen, not guns. “What about the U.S. Attorney?”

“He's a good, sharp kid, Dan. He's on the team. Backup from the Department of Justice won't hurt, but the fact of the matter is that this guy can do it if he has to.”

“Okay. Shoot me the transcript when it's done.” Murray switched buttons on his phone, calling Shaw's home in Chevy Chase.

“Yeah.”

“Bill, Dan here,” Murray said over the secure phone. “Hoskins scored last night. Says he's got it all on tape — all five principal subjects cut the deal over their roast beef.”

“You realize that we might have to promote the guy now?” the FBI Director noted with a chuckle.

“So, make him a deputy-assistant director,” Dan suggested.

“That hasn't kept you out of trouble. Do I need to come in?”

“Not really. What's it like there?”

“I'm thinking of putting up a ski-jump in the driveway. Roads really look bad.”

“I took the Metro in, then it shut down — ice on the tracks or something.”

“ Washington, D.C., the City that Panics,” Shaw replied. “Okay, I plan to relax and watch the game, Mr. Murray.”

“And I, Mr. Shaw, will forgo my personal pleasures and work for the greater glory of the Bureau.”

“Good, I like dedication in my subordinates. Besides, I got my grandson here,” Shaw reported, watching his daughter-in-law feed him from a bottle.

“How is Kenny Junior?”

“Oh, we just might make an agent out of him. Unless you really need me, Dan…”

“Bill, enjoy the kid, just remember to hand him back when he messes the diapers.”

“Right. Keep me posted on this. I'll have to take this to the President myself, you know.”

“You expect problems there?”

“No. He's a stand-up guy on corruption stuff.”

“I'll be back.” Murray walked out of his office towards communications. He found Inspector Pat O'Day heading the same way.

“Were those your sled dogs I saw in the drive-thru, Pat?”

“Some of us drive decent cars.” O'Day had a four-wheel-drive pickup. “The 9th Street barrier is frozen in the up position, by the way. I've told 'em to leave the other one down.”

“What are you in for?”

“I have the watch in the command center. My relief lives out in Frederick. I don't expect to see him until half-past Thursday. I-270 is closed until spring, I think.”

“Christ, this is a wimpy town when it snows.”

“Tell me about it.” O'Day's last field assignment had been in Wyoming, and he still missed the hunting out there.

Murray told the communications staff that the inbound fax from Denver was code-word material. Nobody would get to see it but him for the moment.

“I can't match this one,” Goodley said, just after lunch.

“Which one?”

“The first one that shook us up — no, excuse me, the second one. I cannot reconcile Narmonov's and SPINNAKER 's schedules.”

“That doesn't necessarily mean anything.”

“I know. The odd thing is, remember what I said about linguistic differences in his reports?”

“Yeah, but remember my Russian is pretty thin. I can't catch nuances like you can.”

“This is the first place it shows up, and it's also the first one where I can't satisfy myself that they definitely met.” Goodley paused. “I think I might have something here.”

“Remember that you have to sell it to our Russian department.”

“That's not going to be easy.”

“That's right,” Ryan agreed. “Back it up with something, Ben.”

One of the security guys helped Clark with the case of bottles. He restocked the bar supplies, then headed to the upper level with the remaining four bottles of Chivas. Chavez tagged behind with the flowers. John Clark put the bottles in their places and looked around the compartment to be sure that everything was in order. He fussed with a few minor items to show that he was being sincere. The bottle with the transceiver in it had a cracked top. That should make sure that nobody tried to open it, he thought. Clever of the S&T guys, he thought. The simple things usually worked best.

The flower arrangements had to be fastened in place. They were mainly white roses, nice ones, Chavez thought, and the little green sticks that held them in place looked like they belonged. Ding next went downstairs and looked at the forward washrooms. In the trash bin of one he dropped a very small, Japanese-made, tape recorder, making sure beforehand that it was operating properly. He met Clark at the base of the spiral stairs, and then both left the aircraft. The advance security people were just starting to arrive as they disappeared into the terminal's lower-level.

Once inside, both men found a locked room and used it to change clothes. They emerged dressed like businessmen, hair recombed, both wearing sunglasses.

“They always this easy, Mr. C?”

“Nope.” Both men walked to the opposite side of the terminal. This put them half a mile from the JAL 747, but with a direct line of sight to it. They could also see a Gulfstream-IV business jet liveried as a private aircraft. It was supposed to take off right before the Japanese aircraft, but would head on a diverging course. Clark took a Sony Walkman from his briefcase, inserted a tape cassette, and donned the earphones. In fact, he heard the murmurs of the security men on the aircraft, and the tape was recording their words as his eyes scanned a paperback book. It was a pity that he couldn't understand Japanese, Clark thought. As with most covert operations, the main component was sitting around and doing precisely nothing while he waited for something to happen. He looked up to see the red carpet being rolled out again, and the troops forming up, and a lectern being set up. It must have been a real pain in the ass for the people who had to handle these things, he thought.

Things picked up rapidly. The President of Mexico personally accompanied the Japanese Prime Minister to the aircraft, shaking his hand warmly at the base of the stairs. That might have been evidence right there, Clark thought. There was elation that the job was going well, but sadness that such things as this really happened. The party went up the stairs, the door closed, the stairs were hauled off, and the 747 started its engines.

Clark heard the conversation pick up in the airplane's upstairs lounge. Then sound quality went immediately to hell when the engines fired up. Clark watched the Gulfstream begin taxiing off. The 747 began rolling two minutes later. It made sense. You had to be careful sending aircraft into the sky behind a jumbo. The big wide-bodies left behind wake turbulence that could be very dangerous. The two CIA officers remained in the observation lounge until the JAL airliner lifted off, and then their job was done.

Aloft, the Gulfstream climbed out to its crushing altitude of forty-one thousand feet on a heading of zero-two-six, inbound to New Orleans. The pilot eased off on the throttle somewhat, coached by the men in the back. Off to their right, the 747 was leveling off at the same altitude, on a course of zero-three-one. Inside the bigger aircraft, the supposed bottle of scotch was pointed out a window, and its EHF transmissions were scattering out towards the Gulfstream's receptors. The very favorable data-bandwidth of the system guaranteed a good signal, and no less than ten tape recorders were at work, two for each separate side-band channel. The pilot eased his course as far east as he dared until the two aircraft were over the water, then he turned back left as a second aircraft, this one an EC-135 that had struggled to get out of Tinker Air Force Base in Oklahoma, took up station thirty miles east, and two thousand feet below the larger Boeing product.

The first aircraft landed at New Orleans, unloaded its men and equipment, refueled, then lifted off to head back to Mexico City.

Clark was at the embassy. One of his additions to the operation was a Japanese-speaker from the Agency's Intelligence Directorate. Reasoning that his test reception would be useful to determine the effectiveness of the system, he had further decided that it would be better still to get an immediate read on what was being said. Clark thought that this was a reasonable demonstration of operational initiative. The linguist took his time, listening to the taped conversation three times before he started typing. He generated less than two pages. It annoyed him that Clark was reading over his shoulder.

“'I wish it was this easy to make a deal with the opposition in the Diet,'” Clark read aloud.“'We merely must take care of some of his associates also.'”

“Looks to me that we got what we want,” the linguist observed.

“Where's your communications guy?” Clark asked the Station Chief.

“I can do it myself.” It was, indeed, easy enough. The Station Chief transcribed the two typed pages into a computer. Attached to the computer was a small machine that looked like a video-disc machine. On the large disc were literally billions of random digital numbers. Each letter he typed was randomly transformed into something else and transmitted to the M ERCURY room at Langley. Here the incoming signal was recorded. A communications technician selected the proper description disc from the secure library, slid it into his own machine, and pressed a button. Within seconds, a laser printer generated two pages of cleartext message. This was sealed in an envelope and handed to a messenger, who made for the seventh-floor office of the Deputy Director.

“Dr. Ryan, the dispatch you were waiting for.”

“Thank you.” Jack signed for it. “Dr. Goodley, you're going to have to excuse me for a moment.”

“No problem.” Ben went back to his pile of papers.

Ryan pulled the dispatch out and read it slowly and carefully twice. Then he picked up the phone and asked for a secure line to Camp David.

“Command center,” a voice answered.

“This is Dr. Ryan at Langley. I need to talk to the Boss.”

“Wait one, sir,” the Navy chief petty officer replied. Ryan lit a cigarette.

This is the President," a new voice said.

“Mr. President, this is Ryan. I have a fragment of conversation off the 747.”

“So soon?”

“It was made before engine startup, sir. We have an unidentified voice — we think it's the PM — saying that he made the deal.” Jack read off three lines verbatim.

“That son-of-a-bitch,” Fowler breathed. “You know, with evidence like that I could prosecute a guy.”

“I thought you'd want this fast, sir. I can fax you the initial transcript. The full one will take until twenty-one hundred or so.”

“It'll be nice to have something to read after the game. Okay, send it up.” The line went dead.

“You're welcome, sir,” Jack said into the phone.

“It is time,” Ghosn said.

“Okay.” Russell stood up and got into his heavy coat. It would be a really cold one outside. The predicted high temperature was six above, and they were not there yet. A bitter northeast wind was sweeping down out of Nebraska, where it was even colder. The only good thing about that was the clear sky it brought. Denver is also a city with a smog problem, made all the worse by winter-temperature inversions. But today the sky was literally cloudless, and to the west Marvin could see streams of snow being blown off the Front Range peaks like white banners. Surely it was auspicious, and the clear weather meant that the flight out of Stapleton would not be delayed as he had feared a few days before. He started the engine of the van, rehearsing his lines and going over the plan as he allowed the vehicle to heat. Marvin turned to look at the cargo. Almost a ton of super-high explosives, Ibrahim had said. That would really piss people off. Next he got into the rental car and started that one, too, flipping the heater all the way on. Shame that Commander Qati felt so bad. Maybe it was nerves, Russell thought.

A few minutes later, they came out. Ghosn got in next to Marvin. He was nervous, too.

“Ready, man?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” Russell dropped the van into reverse and backed out of the parking place. He pulled forward, checking that the rental car was following, then headed off the parking lot onto the highway.

The drive to the stadium required only a few uneventful minutes. The police were out in force, and he saw that Ghosn was eyeing them very carefully. Marvin was not concerned. The cops were only there for traffic control, after all, and they were just standing around, since the traffic had scarcely begun. It was almost six hours till game time. He turned off the road onto the parking lot at the media entrance, and there was a cop he had to talk to. Qati had already broken off, and was now circling a few blocks away. Marvin stopped the van and rolled his window down.

“Howdy,” he said to the cop.

Officer Pete Dawkins of the Denver City Police was already cold, despite the fact that he was a native Coloradan. He was supposed to guard the media and VIP gate, a post he'd been stuck with only because he was a very junior officer. The senior guys were in warmer spots.

“Who are you?” Dawkins asked.

“Tech staff,” Russell replied. This is the media gate, right?"

“Yeah, but you're not on my list.” There was a limited number of available spaces in the VIP lot, and Dawkins couldn't just let anyone in.

“Tape machine broke in the ”A“ unit over there,” Russell explained with a wave. “We had to bring down a backup.”

“Nobody told me,” the police officer observed.

“Nobody told me either until six last night. We had to bring the goddamned thing down from Omaha.” Russell waved his clipboard rather vaguely. Out of sight in the back, Ghosn was scarcely breathing.

“Why didn't they fly it down?”

“'Cause FedEx don't work on Sunday, man, and the damned thing's too big to get through the door of a Lear. I ain't complaining, man. I'm Chicago tech staff, okay? I'm Network. I get triple-time-and-a-half for this shit, away from home, special event, weekend overtime.”

“That sounds pretty decent,” Dawkins observed.

“Better'n a week's normal pay, man. Keep talking, officer.” Russell grinned. “This is a buck and a quarter a minute, y'know?”

“You must have a hell of a union.”

“We sure do.” Marvin laughed.

“You know where to take it?”

“No problem, sir.” Russell pulled off. Ghosn let out a long breath as the van started moving again. He'd listened to every word, sure that something would go disastrously wrong.

Dawkins watched the van pull away. He checked his watch and made a notation of his own on his own clipboard. For some reason, the captain wanted him to keep track of who arrived when. It didn't make sense to Dawkins, but the captain's ideas didn't always make sense, did they? It took a moment for him to realize that the ABC van had Colorado tags. That was odd, he thought, as a Lincoln town car pulled up. This one was on his list. It was the commissioner of the NFL's American Conference. The VIPs were supposed to be pretty early, probably, Dawkins thought, so they could settle into their sky boxes and start their drinking early. He'd also drawn security at the Commissioner's party the night before and watched every rich clown in Colorado get sloppy drunk, along with various politicians and other Very Important People — mostly assholes, the young cop thought, having watched them — from all over America. He supposed that Hemingway was right after all: the rich just have more money.

Two hundred yards away, Russell parked the van, set the brake, and left the engine on. Ghosn went in back. The game was scheduled to start at 4:20 local time. Major affairs always ran late, Ibrahim judged. He'd assumed a start time of 4:30. To that he added another half hour, setting T-Zero at 5:00, Rocky Mountain Standard Time. Arbitrary numbers always had zeros in them, after all, and the actual time of the detonation had been set weeks before: precisely on the first hour after game start.

The device did not have a very sophisticated antitamper device. There was a crude one set on each access door, but there hadn't been time to do anything complicated, and that, Ghosn thought, was a good thing. The gusting northeast wind was rocking the van, and a delicate tumbler switch might not have been a good idea after all.

For that matter, he realized rather belatedly, just slamming the door closed on the van might have… What else have you failed to consider? he wondered. Ghosn reminded himself that all such moments brought up the most frightening of thoughts. He swiftly ran over everything he had done to this point. Everything had been checked a hundred times and more. It was ready. Of course it was ready. Hadn't he spent months of careful preparation for this?

The engineer made a last check of his test circuits. All were fine. The cold had not affected the batteries that badly. He connected the wires to the timer — or tried to. His hands were stiff from the cold, and quivered from the emotion of the moment. Ghosn stopped. He took a moment to get control of himself and attached them on the second try, screwing down the nut to hold them firmly in place.

And that, he decided, was that. Ghosn closed the access door, which set the simple tamper switch, and backed away from the device. No, he said to himself. It is no longer a “device”.

“That it?” Russell asked.

“Yes, Marvin,” Ghosn answered quietly. He moved forward into the passenger seat.

“Then let's leave.” Marvin watched the younger man get out, and reached across to lock the door. Then he exited the van, and locked his. They walked west, past the big network up-link vans with their huge dish antennas. They had to be worth millions each, Marvin thought, and every one would be wrecked, along with the TV weenies, just like the ones who had made a sporting event of his brother's death. Killing them didn't worry him a bit, not one little bit. In a moment, the bulk of the stadium shielded them from the wind. They continued across the parking lot, past the ranks of early-arriving fans and the cars which were pulling onto the lot, many of them from Minnesota, full of fans dressed warmly, carrying peanuts and wearing hats, some of them adorned with horns.

Qati and the rental car were on a side-street. He simply slid over from the driver's seat, allowing Marvin to get behind the wheel. Traffic was now becoming thick, and, to avoid the worst of it, Russell took an alternate route he'd scouted out the previous day.

“You know, it really is a shame, messing with the game like this.”

“What do you mean?” Qati asked.

“This is the fifth time the Vikings have made it to the Superbowl. This time it looks like they're going to win. That Wills kid they have running for them is the best since Sayers, and because of us nobody'll see it happen. Too bad.” Russell shook his head and grinned at the irony of it all. Neither Qati nor Ghosn bothered to reply, but Russell hadn't expected them to. They just didn't have much sense of humor, did they? The motel parking lot was nearly empty. Everyone staying there must have been a fan of one sort or another, Marvin thought as he opened the door.

“All packed?”

“Yes.” Ghosn traded a look with the Commander. It was too bad, but it could not be helped.

The room hadn't been made up yet, but that was no big thing. Marvin went into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. When the American emerged, he saw that both Arabs were standing.

“Ready?”

“Yes,” Qati said. “Could you get my bag down, Marvin?”

“Sure.” Russell turned and reached for the suitcase that lay on the metal shelf. He didn't hear the steel bar that struck the back of his neck. His short but powerful frame dropped to the cheap all-weather carpet on the floor. Qati had struck hard, but not hard enough to kill, the Commander realized. He was weakening by the day. Ghosn helped him move the body back into the bathroom, where they laid him face up. The motel was a cheap one, and the bathroom was small, too small for their purposes. They'd hoped to set him in the tub, but there wasn't room for both men to stand. Instead, Qati simply knelt by the American's side. Ghosn shrugged his disappointment and reached for a towel from the rack.

He wrapped the towel around Russell's neck. The man was more stunned than unconscious, and his hands were beginning to move. Ghosn had to move quickly. Qati handed him the steak knife that he'd removed from the coffee shop after dinner the previous night. Ghosn took it and cut deeply into the side of Russell's neck, just below the right ear. Blood shot out as though from a hose, and Ibrahim pushed the towel back down to keep it from splashing on his clothes. Then he did the same thing to the carotid artery on the left side. Both men held the towel down, almost as though to staunch the bloodflow.

It was at that moment that Marvin's eyes came completely open. There was no comprehension in them, there was no time for him to understand what was happening. His arms moved, but each man used all his weight to hold them down and prevented the American from accomplishing anything. He didn't speak, though his mouth opened, and, after a last accusing look at Ghosn, the eyes went dreamy for a moment, then rolled back. By this time, Qati and Ghosn were leaning back to avoid the blood that now filled the grooves between the bathroom tiles. Ibrahim pulled back the towel. The blood was trickling out now, and was not a concern. The towel was quite sodden, however. He tossed it into the tub. Qati handed him another.

“I hope God will be merciful to him,” Ghosn said quietly.

“He was a pagan.” It was too late for recriminations.

“Is it his fault that he never met a godly man?”

“ Wash,” Qati said. There were two sinks outside the bathroom. Each man lathered his hands thoroughly, checking his clothes for any sign of blood. There was none.

“What will happen to this place when the bomb goes off?” Qati asked.

Ghosn thought about that. “This close… it will be outside the fireball, but—” he walked to the windows and pulled the drapes back a few centimeters. The stadium was readily visible, and a direct line of sight made it easy to say what would happen. “The thermal pulse will set it afire, and then the blast wave will flatten the building. The whole building will be consumed.”

“You're sure?”

“Completely. The effects of the bomb are easy to predict.”

“Good.” Qati removed all the travel documents and identification he and Ghosn had used to this point. They'd have to clear customs inspection, and they had already tempted fate enough. The surplus documents they tossed in a trash can. Ghosn got both bags and took them out to the car. They checked the room once more. Qati got into the car. Ghosn closed the door for the last time, leaving the “Do Not Disturb” card on the knob. It was a short drive to the airport, and their flight left in two hours.

The parking lot filled up rapidly. By three hours before game time, much to Dawkins' surprise, the VIP lot was filled. Already the pre-game show had begun. He could see a team wandering around the lot with a minicam, interviewing the Vikings fans, who had converted one entire half of the parking lot into a giant tail-gate party. There were white vapor trails rising from charcoal grills. Dawkins knew that the Vikings fans were slightly nutty, but this was ridiculous. All they had to do was walk inside. They could have any manner of food and drink, and consume it in sixty-eight-degree air, sitting on a cushioned seat, but no — they were proclaiming their toughness in air that couldn't be much more than five degrees Fahrenheit. Dawkins was a skier and had worked his way through college as a ski patrol at one of the Aspen slopes. He knew cold and he knew the value of warmth. You couldn't impress cold air with anything. The air and wind simply didn't notice.

“How are things going, Pete?”

Dawkins turned. “No problems, Sarge. Everybody on the list is checked off.”

“I'll spell you for a few minutes. Go inside and warm up for a while. You can get coffee at the security booth just inside the gate.”

“Thanks.” Dawkins knew that he'd need something. He was going to be stuck outside for the whole game, patrolling the lot to make sure nobody tried to steal something. Plainclothes officers were on the lookout for pickpockets and ticket-scalpers, but most of them would get to go inside and watch the game. All Dawkins had was a radio. That was to be expected, he thought. He had less than three years on the force. He was still almost a rookie. The young officer walked up the slope towards the stadium, right past the ABC minivan he'd checked through. He looked inside and saw the Sony tape machine. Funny, it didn't seem to be hooked up to anything. He wondered where those two techies were, but getting coffee was more important. Even polypropylene underwear had its limits, and Dawkins was as cold as he had ever remembered.

Qati and Ghosn returned the car to the rental agency and took the courtesy bus to the terminal, where they checked in their bags for the flight, then headed in to check their flight's status. Here they learned that the American MD-8o for Dallas-Fort Worth was delayed. Weather in Texas, the clerk at the desk explained. There was ice on the runways from the storm that had just skirted past Denver the previous night.

“I must make my connection to Mexico. Can you book me through another city?” Ghosn asked.

“We have one leaving for Miami, same departure time as your flight to Dallas. I can book you a connecting flight in Miami.” The ticket agent tapped the data into her terminal. “There's a one-hour layover. Oh, okay, it's only a fifteen-minute difference into Mexico City.”

“Could you do that, please? I must make my connection.”

“Both tickets?”

“Yes, excuse me.”

“No problem.” The young lady smiled at her computer. Ghosn wondered if she'd survive the event. The huge glass windows faced the stadium and even at this distance the blast wave… maybe, he thought, if she ducked fast enough. But she'd already be blinded from the flash. Such pretty dark eyes, too. A pity. “Here you go. I'll make sure they switch the bags over,” she promised him. That Ghosn took with a grain of salt.

“Thank you.”

“The gate is that way.” She pointed.

“Thank you once more.”

The ticket agent watched them head off. The young one was pretty cute, she thought, but his big brother — or boss? she wondered — looked like a sourpuss. Maybe he didn't like to fly.

“Well?” Qati asked.

“The connecting flight roughly duplicates our schedule. We've lost a quarter hour buffer time in Mexico. The weather problem is localized. There should be no further difficulty.”

The terminal was very nearly empty. Those people who wished to leave Denver were evidently waiting for later flights so that they might watch the game on TV, and the same appeared to be true of arriving flights, Ibrahim saw. There were scarcely twenty people in the departure lounge.

“Okay, I can't reconcile the schedules here either,” Goodley said. “In fact, I'd almost say we have a smoking gun.”

“How so?” Ryan asked.

“Narmonov was only in Moscow two days last week, Monday and Friday. Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday he was in Latvia, Lithuania, the Western Ukraine, and then a trip down to Volgograd for some local politicking. Friday's out because of when the message came over, right? But Monday, our friend was in the Congress building practically all day. I don't think they met last week, but the letter implies that they did. I think we got a lie here.”

“Show me,” Jack said.

Goodley spread his data out on Ryan's desk. Together they went over the dates and itineraries.

“Well, isn't that interesting,” Jack said after a few minutes. “That son of a bitch.”

“Persuasive?” Goodley wanted to know.

“Completely?” The Deputy Director shook his head. “No.”

“Why not?”

“It's possible that our data is incorrect. It's possible that they met on the sly, maybe last Sunday when Andrey Il'ych was out at his dacha. One swallow doesn't make a spring,” Jack said with a nod towards the snow outside. “We need to make a detailed check on this before it goes any farther, but what you've uncovered here is very, very interesting, Ben.”

“But, damn it—”

“Ben, you go slow on stuff like this,” Jack explained. “You don't toss out the work of a valuable agent on the basis of equivocal data, and this is equivocal, isn't it?”

“Technically, yes. You think he's been turned?”

“Doubled, you mean?” Ryan grinned. “You're picking up on the jargon, Dr. Goodley. You answer the question for me.”

“Well, if he'd been doubled on us, no, he wouldn't send this sort of data. They wouldn't want to send us this kind of signal, unless elements within the KGB—”

“Think it through, Ben,” Jack cautioned.

“Oh, yeah. It compromises them, too, doesn't it? You're right, it's not likely. If he'd been turned, the data should be different.”

“Exactly. If you're right, and if he's been misleading us, the most likely explanation is the one you came up with. He stands to profit from the political demise of Narmonov. It helps to think like a cop in this business. Who profits — who has motive, that's the test you apply here. Best person to look at this is Mary Pat.”

“Call her in?” Goodley asked.

“Day like this?”

Qati and Ghosn boarded the flight on the first call, taking their first-class seats and strapping in. Ten minutes later the aircraft pulled back from the gate and taxied out to the end of the runway. They'd made a smart move, Ghosn thought. The flight to Dallas had still not been called. Two minutes after that, the airliner lifted off and soon turned southeast towards the warmer climes of Florida.

The maid was having a bad day already. Most of the guests had left late and she was way behind on her schedule. She clucked with disappointment at seeing the keep-out card on one doorknob, but it was not on the other, connecting room, and she thought it might be a mistake. The flip side of the card was the green Make Up Room NOW message, and guests often made that mistake. First she went into the unmarked one. It was easy. Only one of the beds had been used. She stripped off the linen and replaced it with the speed that came from doing the same job more than fifty times per day. Then she checked out the bathroom, replaced the soiled towels, put a new bar of soap in the holder, and emptied the trashcan into the bag that hung from her cart. Then she had to make a decision — whether to make up the other room or not. The card on the knob said no, but if they didn't want it, why didn't they do the same thing for this room? It was worth a look at least. If anything obviously important was laid out, she'd stay clear. The maid looked through the open connecting door and saw two ordinarily messed-up beds. No clothing was on the floors. In fact, the room was as neat today as it had been the day before. She stuck her head through the door and looked back towards the wash area. Nothing remarkable there either. She decided to clean it, too. The maid got behind her cart and turned it to push through the door. Again she did the beds, then headed back to—

How had she missed that before? A man's legs. What? She walked forward and—

It took the manager over a minute to calm her down enough to understand what she was saying. Thank God, he thought, that there were no guests on that side of the motel now; all were off to see the game. The young man took a deep breath and walked outside, past the coffee shop and around to the back side of the motel. The door had closed automatically, but his pass-key fixed that.

“My God,” he said simply. At least he'd been prepared for it. The manager was no fool. He didn't touch anything, but rather walked into the connecting room and out that door. The desk phone in his office had all the emergency numbers printed on a small card. He punched up the second one.

“Police.”

“I want to report a murder,” the manager said, as calmly as he could manage.

President Fowler set the fax down on the corner table and shook his head. “It really is unbelievable that he'd try something so blatant.”

“What are you going to do about it?” Liz asked.

“Well, we have to verify it, of course, but I think we'll be able to do that. Brent is flying back from the game tonight. I'll want him in my office early for his advice, but I figure we'll just confront him with it. If he doesn't like it, that's just too damned bad. This is Mafia stuff.”

“You really do have a thing about this, don't you?”

Fowler opened a bottle of beer. “Once a prosecutor, always a prosecutor. A hood is a hood is a hood.”

The JAL 747 touched down at Dulles International Airport three minutes early. Out of deference to the weather, and with the approval of the Japanese Ambassador, the arrival ceremony was abbreviated. Besides, the sign of a really important arrival in Washington was informality. It was one of the local folkways that the ambassador had explained to the current Prime Minister's predecessor. After a brief but sincere greeting from Deputy Secretary of State Scott Adler, the official party was loaded into all the four-wheel-drive vehicles that the embassy had been able to assemble on such short notice, and headed off to the Madison Hotel, a few blocks from the White House. The President, he learned, was at Camp David, and would be coming back to Washington the following morning. The Japanese Prime Minister, still suffering from the lingering effects of travel, decided to get a few more hours of sleep. He'd not yet taken off his coat when another clean-up crew boarded the aircraft yet again. One man retrieved the unused liquor, including one bottle with a cracked neck. Another emptied the wastebaskets of the various washrooms into a large trash bag. They were soon on their way to Langley. All of the chase aircraft except the first landed at Andrews Air Force Base, where the flight crews also began their mandated rest periods — in this case at the base officers' club. The recordings started their trip to Langley by car, arriving later than the tape recorder from Dulles. It turned out that the machine off the 747 had the best sound quality, and the technicians started on that tape first.

The Gulfstream returned to Mexico City, also on time. The aircraft rolled out to the general-aviation terminal and the flight crew of three — it was an Air Force crew, though no one knew that — walked into the terminal for dinner. Since they were Air Force, it was time for some crew rest. Clark was still at the embassy, and planned to catch the first quarter at least, before heading back to D.C. and all that damned snow.

“Be careful or you're going to fall asleep during the game,” the National Security Advisor warned.

“It's only my second beer, Elizabeth,” Fowler replied.

There was a cooler next to the sofa, and a large silver tray of munchies. Elliot still found it quite incredible. J. Robert Fowler, President of the United States, so intelligent and hard-minded in every possible way, but a rabid football fan, sitting here like Archie Bunker, waiting for the kickoff.

“I found one, but the other one's a son-of-a-bitch,” the crew chief reported. “Can't seem to figure this one out, Colonel.”

“Come on inside and warm up,” the pilot said. “You've been out there too long anyway.”

“Some kind of drug deal, I'll bet you,” the junior detective said.

“Then it's amateurs,” his partner observed. The photographer had snapped his customary four rolls of film, and now the coroner's men were lifting the body into the plastic bag for transport to the morgue. There could be little doubt on the cause of death. It was a particularly brutal murder. It seemed that the killers — there had to be two, the senior man already thought — had to have held the man's arms down before they slashed his throat, and then they had watched him bleed out while using the towel to keep their clothes clean. Maybe they were paying off a debt somehow or other. Perhaps this guy had done a rip-off, or there was some old grudge that they had settled. This was clearly not a crime of passion; it was far too cruel and calculated for that.

The detectives noted their good luck, however. The victim's wallet had still been in his pocket. They had all his ID, and better than that, they had two complete sets of other ID, all of which were now being checked out. The motel records had noted the license numbers of both vehicles associated with these rooms, and those also were being checked on the motor-vehicle-records computer.

“The guy's an Indian,” the coroner's rep said as they picked him up. “Native American, I mean.”

“I've seen the face somewhere before,” the junior detective thought. “Wait a minute.” Something caught his eye. He unbuttoned the man's shirt, revealing the top of a tattoo.

“He's done time,” the senior man said. The tattoo on the man's chest was a crude one, spit-and-pencil, and it showed something that he'd seen before… “Wait a minute… this means something…”

“Warrior Society!”

“You're right. The Feds had something out on — oh, yeah, remember? The shooting up in North Dakota last year?” The senior man thought for a second. “When we get the information from the license, make sure they send it right off to Washington. Okay, you can take him out now.” The body was lifted and carried out. “Bring in the maid and the manager.”

Inspector Pat O'Day had the good luck of drawing watch duty in the FBI's command center, Room 5005 of the Hoover Building. The room was oddly shaped, roughly triangular, with the desks of the command staff in the angle, and screens on the long wall. The quiet day they were having — there was adverse weather across half the country, and adverse weather is more of an obstacle to crime than any police agency — meant that one of the screens was showing the teams lining up for the coin toss in Denver. Just as the Vikings won the toss and elected to receive, a young lady from communications walked in with a couple of faxes from the Denver P.D.

“A murder case, sir. They think we might know who this is.”

The quality of photographs on driver's licenses is not the sort to impress a professional anything, and blowing them up — then sending them via fax — didn't improve matters very much. He had to stare at it for a few seconds, and almost decided that he didn't know the face, until he remembered some things from his time in Wyoming.

“I've seen this guy before… Indian… Marvin Russell?” He turned to another agent. “Stan, have you ever seen this guy?”

“Nope.”

O'Day looked over the rest of the faxes. Whoever he was, he was dead, with a slashed throat, the Denver cops said. “Probable drug-related killing” was the initial read from the Denver homicide guys. Well, that made sense, didn't it? John Russell had been part of a drug deal. The other initial data was that there had been other IDs at the scene of the crime, but that the licenses had been fakes — very good ones, the notes said. However, they had a truck registered to the victim, and also a car at the scene was a rental that had been signed out to Robert Friend, which was the name on the victim's license. The Denver P.D. was now looking for the vehicles, and wanted to know if the Bureau had anything useful on the victim and any likely associates.

“Get back to 'em, and tell 'em to fax us the photos from the other IDs they found.”

“Yes, sir.”

Pat watched the teams get onto the field for the kick-off, then lifted the phone. “Dan? Pat. You want to come on down here? I think an old friend of ours just might have turned up dead… No, not that kind of friend.”

Murray showed up just in time for the kickoff, which took precedence over the faxes. Minnesota got the ball out of the twenty-four-yard line, and their offense went to work. The network immediately had the screen covered with all sorts of useless information so that the fans couldn't see the players.

“This look like Marvin Russell to you?” Pat asked.

“Sure as hell does. Where is he?”

O'Day waved at the TV screen. “Would you believe Denver? They found him about ninety minutes ago with his throat cut. Local P.D. thinks it's drug-related.”

“Well, that's what did his brother in. What else?” Murray took the faxes from O'Day's hand.

Tony Wills got the first handoff, taking the ball five yards off tackle — almost breaking it for more. On second down, both men saw Wills catch a swing pass for twenty yards.

“That kid is really something,” Pat said. “I remember seeing a game where Jimmy Brown…”

Bob Fowler had just started his third beer of the afternoon, wishing he'd been at the game instead of being stuck here. Of course, the Secret Service would have gone ape, and the security at the game would have to have been beefed up to the point that people would still be trying to get in. That was not a good political move, was it? Liz Elliot, sitting next to the President, flipped one of the other TVs to HBO to catch a movie. She donned a set of headphones so that she could hear it without disturbing the Commander in Chief. It just made no sense at all, she thought, none. How this man could get so enthusiastic about something as dumb as a little-boy's game…

Pete Dawkins finished his pre-game duties by pulling a chain across his gate. Anyone who wanted to get in now would have to use one of the two gates that were still open, but guarded. At the last Superbowl, a very clever gang of thieves had prowled the parking lot and come away with two hundred thousand dollars' worth of goods from the parked cars — mainly tape decks and radios — and that was not going to happen in Denver. He started his patrol, along with the three other officers. By agreement, they'd circulate all around the lot instead of sticking to specific areas. It was too cold for that. Moving around would at least keep them warm. Dawkins' legs felt as stiff as cardboard, and moving would loosen them up. He didn't really expect to stop any crimes. What car thief would be so dumb as to prowl around in zero-degree weather? Soon he found himself in the area the Minnesota fans had occupied. They were certainly well-organized. The tailgate parties had all ended on time. The lawn chairs were all stowed away, and they'd done a very effective job of cleaning up the area. Except for a few puddles of frozen coffee, you could hardly tell that they had done something here. Maybe the Minnesota fans weren't such idiots after all.

Dawkins had a radio plugged into his ear. Listening to a game on the radio was like having sex with your clothes on, but at least he knew what the cheers were about. Minnesota scored first. Wills took it in by sweeping left end from fifteen yards out. The Vikings' first drive had taken only seven plays and four minutes fifty seconds. Minnesota sounded pretty tough today.

“God, Dennis must be sick,” Fowler observed. Liz didn't hear him, concentrating instead on her movie. The Secretary of Defense immediately had cause to feel sicker. The kickoff was fielded at the five, and the reserve running back who handled that duty for the Chargers made it all the way to the forty — but there he fumbled, and a Viking fell on the ball.

“They say Marvin was a clever little bastard. Look at the numbers on the other licenses. Except for the first couple of digits, they're the same as his… I bet he got — well, somebody got — one of these ID machines,” Murray said.

“Passports and everything,” O'Day replied, watching Tony Wills do it again for eight yards. “If they don't figure a way to key on that kid, this game's going to be a blowout.”

“What kind of passports?”

“They didn't say. I've asked for more information. They'll fax the photos when they get back into the office.”

In Denver the computers were humming. The rental car company was identified, and a check of their system revealed that the car had been returned to Stapleton International Airport just a few hours earlier. That made a really hot trail, and the detectives drove directly there from the motel, after taking initial statements from the first pair of “witnesses.” The descriptions of the other two matched the photos on the passports. These were on their way to police headquarters. Already, they knew, the FBI was yelling for information. That made it sound more and more like a major drug case. Both detectives wondered where the victim's van was.

Dawkins finished his first circuit of the stadium just as Minnesota made its second touchdown. Again it was Wills, this time a four-yard pass out of the backfield. The guy already had fifty-one yards rushing and two receptions. Dawkins found himself looking at the ABC van he'd checked through. Why the Colorado tags? They'd said they were from Chicago, and that they had brought the tape widget in from Omaha. But the truck was painted like an official network truck. The local TV stations were not network-owned. They all showed network affiliation, but the big letters on them were for the local call-letters for the stations. Something to ask the sarge about. Dawkins circled the entry on his clipboard and wrote a question-mark next to it. He walked inside to the security booth.

“Where's the sarge?”

“Out walking the lot,” the officer at the booth replied. “The dumbass has twenty bet on the Chargers. I don't think he can take it.”

“I'll see if I can get him to lay a little more,” Dawkins replied with a grin. “Which way did he go?”

“North, I think.”

“Thanks.”

The Vikings kicked off again, with the score 14-0. The same return man took the kick, this time three yards deep in the end zone. He ignored the safety man's advice to down the ball and went up the middle like a shot. Breaking one tackle at the sixteen, he took advantage of a picture-book block and broke for the sidelines. Fifteen yards later it was clear that only the kicker had a chance, but the kicker was slow. At one hundred three yards, it was the longest kick return in Superbowl history. The point after was good, and the game was now 14-7.

“Feeling better, Dennis?” the Secretary of State asked the Secretary of Defense.

Bunker set his coffee down. He had decided not to drink. He wanted to be stone sober when he accepted the Lombardi Trophy from the Commissioner.

“Yeah, now we just have to figure a way to stop your boy.”

“Good luck.”

“He's a great kid, Bruce. Goddamn if he can't run.”

“He isn't just an athlete. Kid's got brains, and a good heart.”

“Bruce, if you educated him, I know he's smart,” Bunker said generously. “I just wish he'd pull a hamstring right about now.”

Dawkins found his sergeant a few minutes later. “Something funny here,” he said.

“What's that?”

“This truck — little white van on the east end of the row of big satellite trucks, 'ABC' painted on it. Colorado commercial tags, but supposedly it's from Chicago or maybe Omaha. I check 'em through, said they had a tape deck to replace a broken one, but when I walked past it a few minutes ago, it wasn't hooked up, and the guys who brought it in were gone.”

“What are you telling me?” the sergeant asked.

“I think it might be a good idea to check it out.”

“Okay, call it in. I'll give it a walk-past.” The sergeant looked at the clipboard to check the tag number. “I was headed off to help out the Wells Fargo guys at the loading dock. You take that for me, okay?”

“Sure, Sarge.” Dawkins headed off.

The watch supervisor lifted his Motorola radio. “Lieutenant Vernon, this is Sergeant Yankevich, could you meet me down at the TV place?”

Yankevich started walking back south around the stadium. He had his own personal radio, but it lacked an earpiece. San Diego stopped the Vikings on downs. Minnesota punted — a good one that required a fair catch at the Chargers' thirty. Well, maybe his team could get the game even. Somebody ought to shoot that Wills kid, he thought angrily.

Officer Dawkins walked to the north end of the stadium and saw a Wells Fargo armored car parked at the lower-level loading dock. One man was trying to sling out bags of what had to be coins.

“What's the problem?”

“The driver's beat his knee up, he's off having it fixed. Can you give me a hand?”

“Inside or outside?” Dawkins asked.

“You hand them out, okay? Be careful, they're heavy mothers.”

“Gotcha.” Dawkins hopped inside. The interior of the armored truck was lined with shelves holding innumerable bags of mainly quarters, it looked like. He lifted one, and it was as heavy as he'd been told. The police officer stuck his clipboard in his belt and went to work, handing them out to the loading dock, where the guard set them on a two-wheel hand-truck. Trust the sarge to stick him with this.

Yankevich met the Lieutenant at the media entrance. Both walked over to the truck in question. The Lieutenant looked inside. “A big box with 'Sony' written on it… wait a minute. Says it's a commercial videotape machine.”

Sergeant Yankevich filled his boss in on what Dawkins had told him. “It's probably nothing, but—”

“Yeah — but. Let me find the ABC guy. I'm also going to call the bomb squad. Stay here and keep an eye on the thing.”

“I have a Slim Jim in my car. If you want, I can get in easy enough.” Every cop knows how to break into cars.

“I don't think so. We'll let the bomb guys think it over — besides, it's probably just what it looks like. If they came down to replace a broken tapedeck — well, maybe the broken one was fixed and they decided they didn't need it.”

“Okay, Lieutenant.” Yankevich walked inside to get another cup of coffee to keep warm, then returned to the out-of-doors he loved so much. The sun was setting behind the Rockies, and even in zero weather with a bitter wind, it was always something beautiful to watch. The police sergeant walked past the network uplink vans to watch the glowing orange ball dip through one of the blowing snow clouds. Some things were better than football. When the last edge of the sun dipped below the ridge line, he turned back, deciding to take another look at the box inside the truck. He would not make it.