Threat Level Black

Chapter 1

Tyler tapped the keys of his laptop, jotting the notes about the performance of the different weapons systems as the major assigned to brief him continued. Though he wasn’t here to evaluate weapons or the unit’s performance, Tyler let the officer vent. He was complaining about the failure of the coordinated information system that was supposed to provide battlefield commanders with coordinated real-time information from a variety of sources. Potentially revolutionary in design — in theory, the smallest fighting unit would have access to battlefield intelligence that only a few years before would have been hard to get at any level — the system was prone to failure. In place of real-time topographic maps with enemy positions, soldiers had found blue screens on the vehicle displays, laptops, and handheld computers they had carried into battle.

The NCOs were especially bitter, noted the major, as they’d been complaining for months about the systems. Tyler knew that while the sergeants generally ran the show, the upper-level people rarely paid enough attention to their advice. As a captain, he’d worked hard to be different; he knew a lot of other officers — this major undoubtedly was one — did, too, but the split between enlisted and officer was somehow ingrained in the culture.

Somers seemed amused by the failures of technology. He sat back on his metal folding chair, finger against his lip as he listened.

“The key point here,” said the historian as the major’s tirade finally ran out of steam, “is that your people found suitable work-arounds at the crisis point. Which to my mind illustrates their resourcefulness and training. It requires a supportive command structure as well. So, despite the technology screwups, once more the human factor came to the fore.”

“Sure. Of course,” said the major.

“The NCOs and the officers did well despite having one hand tied behind their backs with the technology screwups.”

“And the men.”

“Absolutely,” said the officer.

Had the praise come from Tyler, it would have probably been dismissed as ass-kissing, or worse. But Somers made it sound more important and somehow more genuine. He was right, of course: The fact of the matter was that the Army had done well not because of its cutting-edge doodads — they’d screwed up — but because of its training and a command structure and culture that emphasized personal initiative in combat.

As they turned to the matter at hand, the major proved insightful and well connected; he picked up a phone and arranged a helicopter for a tour of several units to the east in the countryside.

“Did you butter him up on purpose?” Tyler asked Somers as they walked toward the chopper later.

“Butter him up?” Somers made a face. “Sometimes it’s important to state the obvious. We lose track of it. This was the sort of advance that will be studied for a long time. Partly it succeeded because it was made against a demoralized, ill-equipped army that had no reason to fight. But such armies have surprised generals for centuries. Napoléon, Guderian, Burgoyne. Studying failure is instructive,” added the historian as he pulled himself up into the Blackhawk. “The technology has to be straightened out. But we can’t let the shortcomings obscure the successes.”

Even from the helicopter, the poverty of the North Koreans was clear. Roads were rutted and empty, houses in the countryside were little more than shacks and often in disrepair. The country’s abject state was almost a caricature. How, Tyler wondered, could a ruler so badly fail his people?

The translator, a South Korean on loan to the group, was somewhat prejudiced against the peasants they spoke to after putting down at a forward outpost. He shook his head as he explained that the people had no idea what they would eat when winter came.

“Ask if they have guns,” said Tyler.

The translator practically rolled his eyes, but he asked. There had been rumors that the government had handed out weapons shortly before its fall, but these seemed false, at least here.

“We do not need guns, we need rice,” said one old man when they asked.

They made four stops, spending much of the day talking to anyone they could find: American officers, sergeants, privates, and any North Korean brave enough to come near.

“They think of Americans as devils and look for your tails,” said the translator at one point. He didn’t seem to be joking.

“So?” asked Somers as they trudged toward their temporary headquarters at the end of the day. “What have we learned?”

Tyler smiled at the academic’s pedantic style but played along. “That North Korea is a hellhole and that we have to get these people food fast.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“Can they mount a guerrilla campaign?”

“Some of the units are still intact. There are still weapons. But the population won’t support it.”

“I agree,” said Somers. “What’s really interesting, though, is the animosity between North and South,” Somers continued. “You saw our translator, and the people’s reactions to him. They thought he was arrogant.”

“Sure,” said Tyler.

“You don’t think that’s important?”

“Do you?” said Tyler.

“The friction is important,” explained Somers. “I know you’re here basically to see what the potential for resistance is from a military point of view, but the underlying realities are also important. Back home, people think that North and South want to be reunited. They think of Germany at the end of the Cold War. There is a lot of that, don’t get me wrong. But there’s also friction, as we’ve just seen. The North Koreans are looking at us with curiosity. They haven’t formed real opinions yet. But they do know the South. Or at least they think they do. And vice versa.”

“Okay,” said Tyler, nodding.

Somers smiled. “It wouldn’t be a minor matter to you if you were in charge of keeping the peace in a rural town. Think about it. For the most part you’d be relying on South Korean translators, and probably technical experts, to get the water running and electricity flowing. Could you trust what the translators were saying? Could you trust the people he spoke with to be open and honest?”

“Good points,” said Tyler.

“I assume you were pointing out the obvious and not buttering me up.”

Tyler laughed. As they turned toward the administrative building where they’d been assigned space, an MP came up in a Hummer.

“Major Tyler?”

“That’s me.”

“Sir, I need you to come to the secure communications center.”

Tyler started to tell the soldier that he would be along after checking in with the rest of his group, which was waiting inside. But before he could say anything the MP added, “Major, you’re wanted on the line to Washington immediately.”

Tyler was surprised to find that the call wasn’t from the Pentagon but rather an NSC staffer, who immediately began quizzing him about Tacit Ivan. The major answered the questions warily; he’d of course heard what had happened to Howe and was afraid that someone — maybe even Howe — was being set up as a sacrificial lamb for the failure of intelligence that had led to the botched mission. After a few routine questions about when they’d arrived there and how his men had infiltrated the field, the staffer began asking questions about the airstrip.

“Were you close enough to the field at Pong Yan to see into the hangar at the southeastern end?”

“Personally?” asked Tyler.

“Yes, sir.”

“I couldn’t see inside. But I didn’t have an angle to look at it. I wasn’t on the base.”

“Who was?”

Tyler gave the names of the team that had infiltrated the abandoned base. The staffer then asked if Tyler had seen UAVs at the field, or heard about them.

“You mean, flying reconnaissance for us?” asked Tyler. “We were there by ourselves.”

“No, sir, I mean based at the field. North Korean assets.”

“Not that I know of.”

“Yes, sir. Please hold the line.”

Before Tyler could say anything, Dr. Blitz came on the line.

“Ken, how are you?”

“I’m very well, sir,” he said cautiously.

“You saw no UAVs at the field?”

“No, sir.”

“Are you in a position to get up there now?”

“I, uh, can be if you want me to.”

“I do. Colonel Brott will get back to you with whatever orders you need. The sooner the better on this,” added the national security advisor. “Tomorrow morning if not tonight.”

“Yes, sir,” said Tyler. “Right away.”

“One other thing, Major. You enlisted Colonel Howe in the operation, didn’t you? Initially,” added Blitz.

“Yes, sir. He was the only person qualified to fly the aircraft. It was suggested by one of the CIA planners on the mission staff originally who’d been briefing the Russian flights; they had been touring the country the week before.”

“Was he eager to go on the mission?”

“I think he wanted to do his duty. The, uh-to be candid, Tacit Ivan wasn’t seen exactly as the first choice.”

“Did Colonel Howe know that?”

“He might have figured it out.”

“Did he push it?”

“No, sir. He just answered questions, that sort of thing. At one point I think he did volunteer to go — I mean, that was kind of implicit in his coming over, since he would have known that he was the only pilot available.”

“But you suggested the mission.”

“We suggested it to him, yes.”

“Very good,” said Blitz. “On this UAV project: You report directly to me. No one else is authorized to receive the information. Anything you need to do to accomplish the mission, anyone you want along — well, you know the drill. But otherwise strictly need-to-know. Strictly.”

“Okay.”

“Stand by for Colonel Brott.”

Chapter 2

Andy Fisher believed strongly in the value of sharing intelligence with brother agencies. Especially when cooperation might lead to the rapid conclusion of a case.

“Great bagels on Fourteenth Street,” he told Kowalski, dropping the bag on his desk at the Defense Intelligence Center in D.C. The DIA agent had returned to D.C. following the press conference announcing the sarin bust.

“Fisher, you got past security without being arrested? I can’t believe it.”

“Yeah, pretty slack. Hey, these are nice digs,” he said, glancing around. “You’d never know it used to be a laundry room.”

“What brings you here? You want to change careers and start working for the good guys for a change?”

“No, actually, I wanted to tell you that you were right.”

“You know, we have a doctor on call,” said Kowalski, a concerned look on his face. “He’ll give you sedatives.”

Fisher laughed.

“You really are sick, aren’t you?” said Kowalski.

“Talk to me about the E-bomb intelligence. How good was it?”

Utterly confused, Kowalski got up and went to his door. When he had closed it, he returned to his desk and sat down. “You all right, Andy? You look a little… ragged.”

“You mean that as a compliment?” asked Fisher, reaching into his pocket and taking out his cigarettes.

“You can’t smoke in here.”

Fisher put the pack away.

“I was kidding before, but now I know you’re sick.”

“So tell me about the weapon,” said Fisher. “Why did we stop taking that seriously?”

“Everybody thinks it’s smoke,” said Kowalski. “It was part of a plan to get some big shot out of Korea before the shit hit the fan.”

Fisher listened to the details of Tacit Ivan.

“After what happened to you in Moscow, everybody should have realized this was a setup,” said Kowalski. “The whole deal. They showed you the real scientist, then pulled the switch in Korea.”

“Maybe,” said Fisher. “What about the bomb plans? Were they real or not?”

“Experts said they were. Sure.”

“And we don’t have the guy who sent them.”

“Probably dead the second he got back to Korea from Russia.”

Fisher settled back in the seat. Whoever Howe transported had figured out somehow that the scientist wanted to defect and had decided he might be a useful insurance policy in case he needed to get out. But that didn’t mean that the E-bomb didn’t exist. On the contrary, it argued that it did.

Unless the whole thing was a setup from the beginning, which was possible.

“If this guy has that much power, why doesn’t he escape himself?” said Fisher. “Just get on the plane and go to Moscow instead of sending Dr. Park?”

“Because he’s more afraid of his own people than us,” said Kowalski. “They must hate him. And they’d recognize him. Besides, he’s got too much to lose to just walk out. He only pulls the plug when the shit’s hitting the fan.”

Fisher reached for his cigarettes. “How do I go about finding Colonel Howe these days?”

Chapter 3

The ship appeared in the distance. It was a small tanker, riding low in the water as if carrying fuel, though as a man who had spent his whole life on land, Kuong did not appreciate this piece of deception.

What he did appreciate was the tarpaulin-covered deck amidships. His revenge.

The helicopter swooped lower, its skids within six feet of the deck at the stern. There was not enough space for it to land, but Kuong was prepared. He opened the door and stepped out, grasping the line at the side that had been prepared for him. He lowered himself slowly, using his feet rather than his hands to control the brief descent. As he reached the deck he handed his thick gloves to the crewman who had come to assist him, then turned and opened his arms to the captain, a childhood friend who was one of the few men in the world he would trust with his life.

The captain folded him against his chest, then turned and yelled an order.

The helicopter had begun to rise, starting away. There was a light swoosh nearby, a plume of smoke as the ship’s crewman fired an antiair missile. A half-second later the shoulder-launched SAM struck the helicopter. Kuong turned to watch as the aircraft stuttered forward in the sky for a few meters before bowing down into the waves.

Things were proceeding very well indeed.

Chapter 4

The NADT security people looked embarrassed and even pained, but neither would budge nor say anything except that they were following their directions. Colonel Howe was not permitted in the facility.

“All right, get me Nancy Meile,” Howe said finally, asking for the head of security.

“Sorry, sir, she’s unavailable.”

“She’s not here, or she’s not available?”

“Not available, sir.”

Howe knew from experience that Meile generally did not schedule meetings after eight A.M., just so she could be available to the security details. Nonetheless, he asked for the shift supervisor. He was told the man was also unavailable.

“And my access is denied?”

“Your clearance expired.” The guard twisted the screen around so Howe could see it from the car. The other man came over to the window and squatted down. “Sir, it’s probably just a computer glitch, we know. But we can’t let you past. It’s the rules. It would be our jobs if we did. We’re sorry. It’s not like we don’t know who you are.”

The man rose. Howe knew the guards were just doing their duty — and that they were in no-win positions. They probably thought he’d have them fired when his appointment was made official.

On the other hand, they could also be fired immediately for letting him through now.

“All right,” he said, stifling his anger, “I know it’s nothing personal. Just do your jobs.”

The guards nodded grimly as he backed up to turn around.

Howe’s first call was to Delano, who apparently was in the same meeting as the security people. Howe didn’t bother leaving a message.

He put in a call to Blitz and ended up talking to his assistant, who of course was sympathetic but had no idea what was up. She promised to have the national security advisor call, but warned him it might be a while: The Korea situation had made him even busier than normal.

Howe ended up at a diner, thinking things through. Halfway through his first cup of coffee he decided it had to be just a computer glitch. He called Meile and left a message, asking her to get back to him; he did the same with Delano. The second cup of coffee made him suspicious once more and he made a call to a friend of his who worked in the Joint Chiefs of Staff J2 intelligence section and asked for some background on how the clearance system worked, explaining what had happened. His friend told him mistakes were certainly possible, though the circumstances seemed odd. The fact that he hadn’t been notified argued for a mistake. But his friend had no way of finding out why the clearance had been cut, and he was too busy today to hunt around. Howe thanked him anyway. He was just hitting the End button on his cell phone when Andy Fisher came into the diner and walked over to his booth.

“Colonel Howe. How’s the coffee?”

“Andy Fisher. What are you up to?”

“Looking for you,” said the FBI agent, sliding into the booth.

“Excuse me, sir,” said the waitress coming over. “You can’t smoke in here.”

“Don’t those laws annoy you?” asked Fisher.

The waitress was unmoved. Fisher asked for a cup of coffee but made no sign of extinguishing the cigarette.

“You’re looking for me?” Howe asked.

“All morning,” said Fisher.

“What for?”

The waitress reappeared with two coffee cups: one filled with coffee, and one with water to extinguish the cigarette.

“I heard you took a trip overseas,” said Fisher as the waitress walked away.

“I can’t talk about that,” said Howe.

“Sure you can. My clearance is higher than yours.”

You don’t know how true that is, thought Howe.

“Obviously, I already know about Korea,” said Fisher.

Howe didn’t answer.

“Look, Colonel, I can get the paperwork and the official orders to make you spill the beans if I have to, but what’s the sense?” asked Fisher. “Making me spend the whole day chasing down my boss, the military liaison, the NSC people — you know how many cups of coffee that’s going to take?”

“Let’s go for a ride,” Howe suggested. “We can’t talk here.”

It was the sort of deal Fisher appreciated: straightforward tit-for-tat, no strings. Howe would tell him everything he knew without making him go through the bureaucratic rigmarole to get proper authorization. In exchange, Fisher would use his wiles to find out who had pulled his clearance.

“It’s not that I don’t trust the people I’m asking already,” Howe told him. “I just want to make sure.”

“Oh, I get it,” said Fisher, who was now curious himself to find out who was screwing Howe and why.

As it turned out, though, Howe’s description of what had happened in Korea and Japan gave Fisher no more insight than what Kowalski had told him.

“Had to be somebody very, very important,” said Fisher. “Close to the top. Somebody the military would know.”

“A general or somebody?”

“At least.” Fisher’s list of missing North Korean leaders was extensive and started with Kim Jong Il himself.

“Thing that bugs me is why they didn’t kill you when they had the chance,” said Fisher. “He just knocked you out.”

Howe shrugged. “I made him get rid of his gun.”

“Probably had another one. Or he should have. Sets this up so carefully — probably covered a dozen bases with people — then doesn’t kill you? You sure there isn’t a deposit in a bank account somewhere I ought to know about?”

“Fuck you,” said Howe.

“What did he hit you with?”

“I didn’t see.”

“What’s the doctor say?”

“Something hard.”

“Big or small?”

“Hard.”

“Maybe it was a gun that couldn’t fire,” suggested Fisher. “It jammed or something. Maybe it was your lucky day.”

“I guess.”

Howe was the touchy type; the bank account question still bugged him. Most likely he thought his honor besmirched. Tough to live like that around here, thought Fisher, though it wasn’t useful to point out.

“You don’t believe in luck, Colonel?” Fisher asked.

“Not hardly.”

“Luck is greatly undervalued in America. Except by people who play the lottery.” Fisher took a puff of his cigarette. “I would lay money that they’re looking for you now.”

“Why?”

“Because you can identify who it was who got away.”

“I can’t,” said Howe. “I’ve already looked at all sorts of pictures. The debriefers had me do that at the embassy.”

“Yeah, but the bad guy doesn’t know that. You being followed?”

Howe twisted his head to look. “Am I?”

“I don’t think so. Let me off up there.” He pointed to a convenience store just ahead.

“What about your car?”

“Ah, it’s a Bureau car, don’t worry about it,” said Fisher. “You’re not going back to the diner, are you?”

“I’ll take you back if you want.”

“Actually, I don’t,” said Fisher.

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

Howe stopped the car. Fisher dug into his pocket and pulled out a business card. “Day or night, you call me,” he said, tapping his satellite phone. “This sucker always rings.”

“You’re going to keep your end of the bargain, right?”

“I will. One more favor,” added Fisher.

“What?”

“You see my boss, don’t give him the number. Okay? I’m pretty sure the paperwork on it got lost before it made his desk.”

Chapter 5

Disaster had followed disaster. Providence had saved Faud from being arrested like the others, but the news of the raid on the warehouse in Staten Island shocked him. For surely the all-knowing God could have prevented such a catastrophe.

Blasphemy. It was a grave sin even to think that.

Faud knew sin. He knew sin very well. He was trying to redeem himself, purify his soul as it must be purified.

Was this God’s way of testing him? Or was Faud’s way to paradise being blocked by a devil?

Surely it was the latter. Faud heard it in the boasts on the TV in the corner of the store, the policemen bragging that they had stopped a “nefarious plot.”

Nefarious. What precisely did that word mean?

“Terrible,” said the woman behind the counter. Her skin was dark; she came from Pakistan. But he knew where she stood before she continued. “It shames us all. And makes it more difficult.”

“Yes,” Faud told her. He handed over a dollar for the newspaper. The system of passing messages was complicated: One paper would have a key or a clue referring to another. In this case he needed the Times to know which classified in the other to follow.

“What do you do?” demanded a voice behind him.

Faud froze. He was the only other person in the store, so it was clear he was being addressed.

Had they caught him too?

He turned slowly to face the person who had spoken. He saw with some relief that it was only the middle-aged black man who ran the store.

“What do you do?” asked the man again.

“I’m a student.”

“I meant, what do you do about these terrible things?” said the man, shaking his head.

Faud nodded and started to leave.

“Wait!” said the woman at the counter.

Faud turned to her. Something in her eye showed him he had given himself away.

Fear had betrayed him. He was unworthy; his cowardice was shameful in the sight of angels.

“You forgot your change,” she said.

He forced a smile, went back for the money. Hopefully this would end soon.

Chapter 6

Blitz rushed into his office, head tilted forward, walking so fast that he nearly bowled Mozelle over. As if the difficulties in Korea weren’t enough, the Israelis had just launched a massive raid against Palestinian terror groups, rounding up more than a hundred leaders of Hamas. Under other circumstances Blitz might have applauded the move, but it came at a particularly bad time: The U.S. secretary of state was due in the region next week for the latest round of peace talks, and now there were sure to be reprisals and more unrest. Blitz’s staff was already working on a paper listing potential fallout.

“Colonel Howe needs to talk to you,” said Mozelle as she backed up to let him pass.

“God, I forgot all about him. Did John call about the CIA review?”

“He was going to e-mail you.”

Blitz dropped into his chair behind his desk, grumbling to himself. He wasn’t sure exactly what to tell Howe, but he couldn’t let the poor guy hang out there, either.

“Coffee?” asked Mozelle. She’d already figured out the answer: A fresh cup was in her hand.

“Thanks.”

“Where do you want to start?” she asked.

“Better get Howe on the line,” he told her. “Might as well get that over with.”

“Then you’ll want to talk to Keiger at State.”

“All right.”

Blitz opened his e-mail queue and began going through his messages. He was about three e-mails in when Mozelle buzzed through, indicating Howe was on the line.

“Colonel, I’m sorry,” said Blitz immediately, without waiting for Howe to say anything. “The CIA is throwing a roadblock up.”

“That’s why my clearance was pulled?”

“It’ll be restored. They moved ahead before I could cut it off.” Blitz had decided to simply have interim clearances posted through his office; he scanned the list of his e-mails to see if he had received confirmation that this would happen.

“What’s going on?” Howe asked. “Am I being screwed here? Because if I’m being screwed, I don’t want the job. The hell with it.”

“Colonel… Bill. You have to calm down. This is unfortunately something that occasionally happens around here. I’ll deal with it. I promise you, I’ll deal with it. What happened was that the CIA launched a review, and as part of the standard practice, certain individuals who aren’t under immediate control — say, a military person still working in a certain area — the clearance gets—”

“The CIA is screwing me?”

“It’s not clear, precisely,” said Blitz, who wasn’t about to stick up for the agency. “On the one hand, the investigation has nothing to do with you. But on the other hand, they may be using it — may, I emphasize — they may just be trying to put pressure on. You’re in a bit of a unique position. It’s possible that they’re looking for you to genuflect.”

“You know what they can do with that.”

Blitz drew a breath.

“Colonel, let me ask you a question,” he said. “You knew nothing about the Korea operation until the Pentagon contacted you, correct?”

“That’s a question?”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t know anything about it, no.”

“And you’ve already told several people everything that happened.”

“Absolutely.”

“Then there’s not going to be a problem. One of my aides will clear this up for you. As a matter of fact, it may already have been cleared up. In the meantime, you can just go about talking to the board members.”

“How the hell am I supposed to do that?”

There were already two other lights lit on his phone, the next calls he had to make. Blitz decided to push on: Either Howe would stick with him or not. He couldn’t afford any more time on this today.

“It’s important that NADT be headed by someone with your experience and abilities,” Blitz told him. “This isn’t a roadblock, this is a pothole. Please don’t get discouraged.”

“Right.” Howe hung up, clearly unhappy.

Blitz hit the Next button, moving ahead.

Chapter 7

Fisher had the cabdriver drop him off behind the department store that sat next to the diner. He waited for the cab to drive off, then went over to the Dumpster near the loading dock. The aroma mixed stale aftershave with week-old fish, and it got ten times worse when he opened the lid. But Fisher had given his nose for his country before; he took a step away, gulped semifresh air, then came back and began climbing up on the garbage bin.

“Yo, dude, what you up to?” said a store worker, appearing from the back.

“Stargazing,” said Fisher, putting his hands on the roof and pulling himself up.

“Dude. Dude,” said the store worker below as Fisher got up to the top. The roof was covered with tar, and Fisher realized he’d have to try vouchering the shoes on his expense account. But there was nothing to be done; he walked out to the end of the roof, peering over the side toward the parking lot where he’d left his car.

The car was there. If someone was watching it, they weren’t being obvious about it.

“Yo, dude, you can’t climb up on our roof, man,” said the store employee, who’d climbed up after him.

“You don’t think?” asked Fisher.

“What are you doing, dude?”

“FBI,” Fisher said.

“Really. Like, whoa. Cool. You got, like, a badge?”

“Sure,” said Fisher, without showing it to him. “I’m, like, with the roof-climbing division. We’re checking to see if there have been any UFO landings here.”

“No shit, whoa,” said the kid. He turned his eyes toward the sky. “I think I saw a flying saucer the other week.”

“You filed the report?”

“Wasn’t me, dude.”

Fisher went back to the spot where he’d climbed up.

“Hey, dude, I think I’m stuck in this tar.”

“I’ll send a helicopter.”

On the ground, Fisher tracked around the back of the lot adjoining the diner, still looking to see if anyone was watching his car. Finally he went back inside, going up to the counter to order a takeout coffee. A man in the front booth near the window got up promptly and left; Fisher turned and watched him, trying to decide if he’d seen the man earlier or not. There was a problem in the kitchen about an order of hash browns after the eleven A.M. cutoff; by the time Fisher got his coffee, the man had driven off.

Fisher took a sip from his cup and surveyed the area. Either the surveillance operation on Howe was pretty good or it was nonexistent.

Or they had other places to watch.

Fisher went back inside to use the restroom, checking again to see if there were any obvious henchmen inside; henchmen, in his experience, were always obvious.

Outside, he went back to his car. He was just reaching for the door when he noticed there was something on the pavement underneath the back.

“Shit,” he yelled as he threw himself down.

As he hit the ground the ground, the car exploded.

Chapter 8

Howe’s conversation with Blitz had left him even more frustrated and angry. He drove around for a while, debating with himself whether to just go home and say, “The hell with everything.”

This was exactly what he hated about Washington: bullshit political games. Why in the world did he think NADT would be different?

Belatedly, he remembered he’d told McIntyre to meet him for lunch. He made it to the restaurant only ten minutes late; McIntyre didn’t appear concerned at all, and claimed he hadn’t even noticed the time.

“Drinks?” asked the waitress.

“I’ll have a beer,” said Howe. It was clear he wasn’t getting any real work done today.

“Not for me,” said McIntyre. “Can’t,” he explained to Howe when she left.

McIntyre and Howe had not been close before Howe saved his life, but the former NSC aide was well known as an after-hours partyer, and the few times that Howe had lunch with him McIntyre had at least two drinks. He had also been more than a little full of himself, smarter than nearly everyone he dealt with and quick to admit it. But now he seemed humbled — not shattered so much as sobered.

“Are you really sick?” Howe asked.

“I was stressed. I’m dealing with it. I’m better than I was a few weeks ago, and I was better then than a few weeks earlier than that.” He took a sip of his seltzer. “I don’t know if there’s an okay. I take an antidepressant, and I’m not supposed to drink alcohol, so I don’t.”

He shrugged.

“You were depressed?” asked Howe. “Like suicide?”

“No, it’s more like being, I don’t know… anxious? Super nervous? Like you have this adrenaline rush but no energy. And edgy.” McIntyre shrugged again. “The doctor has all these metaphors. Basically, he calls it post-traumatic stress because of what happened in Kashmir. I killed somebody.”

“You had to,” said Howe.

“No. It was a mistake, what I’m talking about. It’s not in the, uh, reports. It was a kid. I’d take it back but I can’t.” McIntyre took another sip of his soda. “You can’t change things.”

Howe saw no obvious signs of distress. If anything, the man sitting in the booth across from him seemed more analytical, more reasoned, than the one he’d known as a member of the NSC.

“You think you could hold down a job at NADT?” Howe asked.

“I don’t know. I think so.”

Howe looked up as the waitress arrived. He hadn’t planned on offering McIntyre a position; he’d thought yesterday after talking to him that he wouldn’t because of McIntyre’s psychological stress or problems or whatever. But if Howe was going to take the job at NADT, he needed somebody exactly like him to help.

So he wasn’t bailing out, then.

“What exactly are you thinking?” asked McIntyre.

Howe told him that he was looking for someone who would have a pretty high rank, preferably a vice president, who could deal with the political end of things.

“Me?”

“Is it the sort of thing you’d be interested in?” Howe asked.

“Well…”

McIntyre said nothing else for a while. Their sandwiches came; they ate in silence.

“I think the situation you were in, it was a tremendous jolt,” said Howe. “I don’t blame you for getting sick. I might have myself.”

“No.” McIntyre shook his head gently. “No. You and I are different. It’s okay, you can say it.”

“I don’t know,” said Howe honestly. “If uh, if I had to kill someone face-to-face — I don’t know.”

“Well, I didn’t really have to kill him, did I? Because I screwed up.”

Neither man spoke for several minutes.

“I think you can do the job,” said Howe finally. “I think you’d do well.”

“I might be able to do it, for you,” said McIntyre. “For you. Because there would be a lot of people with their knives out. A lot.”

“Like the CIA?” Howe explained that his clearance had been mysteriously pulled.

“Interesting,” said McIntyre. “But… it might be just routine. Depends on who’s running the investigation. Or it could be an excuse.”

“How do you tell the difference?”

McIntyre smiled. “You can’t.”

“What’s the best way to get it restored?”

“Well, if the professor says he’s on it, he is,” said McIntyre.

“He doesn’t play politics?”

“Oh, he plays politics. He plays pretty damn hard. But if he says something like that, he means it. Besides, he sees you as one of his people.”

“He does?”

“Sure. And there’s a possibility this was aimed at him. All sorts of games go on, Colonel. You wouldn’t believe.”

“That’s why I need somebody like yourself. You. Assuming I get the job.”

“Blitz wants you. That should be enough. His stock is pretty high right now. And he’s always been tight with the President. Have you talked about filling out the board?”

“No.”

“There are a number of vacancies. You’d want some input.”

“I haven’t a clue who should be on it.”

“People who like you.” McIntyre laughed, but Howe could tell he was being serious.

“How do I get them on the board?”

“You do need me, don’t you?” A little bit of the old McIntyre peeked through, a broad grin appearing on his face. Then the humbler version returned, his eyes cast toward the table. “I’ll talk to some people for you and get the lay of the land.”

Chapter 9

“I’m taking you at your word that it wasn’t you,” Fisher told Jack Hunter as they surveyed the bombed-out hulk of the car.

“I’m glad you can laugh at a time like this,” his boss told him. “I’m glad you can laugh.”

“I ain’t laughing,” said Fisher.

The bomb had obliterated the car and shattered the windows of the diner. Two people inside had been cut by the glass, one severely. Fisher had lost his entire cup of coffee and crushed a half package of cigarettes. Otherwise he’d suffered only a few nicks and bruises.

“This is government property they destroyed,” said Hunter. “This really pisses me off.”

FBI agents and the local police were scouring the woods across the street and checking the surrounding area looking for evidence. Fisher theorized that someone had watched and waited for him to come out before pressing a remote control to detonate the bomb. Because of that, he couldn’t be one hundred percent sure that the attempt was related to Howe or even the case he was working on: Too many people with access to explosives hated his guts.

But it seemed sensible to him to assume that it was related to Howe, and that the retired colonel was the real target; under that scenario he was a kind of consolation prize. Maybe the person watching thought he had spotted the bomb and worried that it might yield clues about his identity. Or maybe they just like to see things go boom.

“Look at this damage,” Hunter practically moaned.

“Shame,” said Fisher. “Less and less diners to go around.”

The crime scene people had already set up shop, and now two in their white baggy suits asked Fisher and Hunter to move off to the side so they could finish taking their samples.

“At least we know the E-bomb’s real,” said Fisher.

“How do you figure that?”

“Has to be.”

“Don’t give me that shit, Fisher. How do you figure that? Where’s your proof? This?”

“I have to prove one and one is two?”

“By your math, one and one is a hundred and twenty-seven.”

Fisher ignored the obvious reference to his expense chits.

“We have to get some security people on Howe,” he told Hunter. He’d already tried calling the colonel’s cell phone but it was apparently turned off.

“I’ll talk to the White House about it,” said Hunter.

“We don’t have anybody we can send?”

“Jeez, Fisher, what the hell do you think? I have an army of people working for me?”

“Better do it quick,” said Fisher. “If they were willing to blow me up, they must already have an idea where he is, or at least where he’ll go.”

Chapter 10

Howe started to drive back to his motel after lunch with McIntyre, but then realized that he was near the house Alice Kauss had called her dream home the night before. Recalling the conversation — and mostly recalling her — he turned down the street that led to it, turning to the right and then into the cul-de-sac where the house sat off to the side. He stopped the car and looked at it.

It wasn’t a spectacular house. Oh, it was big — much bigger than anything he’d ever lived in — but it wasn’t ostentatious: no elaborate drive, none of those really fancy pillars at the front, no copper on the roof. It was nice, definitely; the little porch at the front was just big enough for a small bench, a good place to read the paper on a Sunday morning, drinking a cup of coffee.

Not a bad life.

Over a million bucks, though? Sheeeesh.

Could he afford a place like this if he took the job?

Undoubtedly, but why would he want it? Alice had told him it was about 3,200 square feet. He’d be lost.

He drove around the cul-de-sac at the end of the block, then up and through the rest of the subdivision. Howe had grown up in a rural area, next to a farm. The word subdivision in his youth had a tinge to it; usually it meant a farmer had been forced to sell off his land to make ends meet. Things were changing now. The family farm was a thing of the past, even where he’d grown up. Soon it would all be subdivisions.

So, living in a condominium was better?

Howe hadn’t heard back from Blitz or his aide about his security clearance, and figured that he might not for a few days. His best bet, he thought, was to get his personal affairs straightened out: find a place to stay, then go back home for a few days, visit with his relatives and friends. Once the job got going, who knew when he’d get a chance to get away again?

It was only two o’clock, but Howe was near the real estate office and decided he’d take a chance that she might be there. Her car wasn’t in the lot, but he’d already driven up and decided he might as well go inside and see if she’d be back before four.

“I’m not sure,” said the receptionist, peering at him from over her eyeglasses. “She didn’t show up for work today, and she hasn’t answered her phone. It’s very unlike her.”

“Where does she live?” he asked.

He drove by the apartment twice. Alice ’s car was in the lot. As far as he could see, there was no one watching it. He went back out onto the street and drove to a gas station nearby before trying her again.

The answering machine picked up on the second ring.

“It’s Bill Howe again,” he said. “I was wondering if maybe you’d want to push up our appointment this afternoon? But I guess you’re not around.”

He hit End, then called over to the motel to check for messages. Someone from the FBI had called; it wasn’t Fisher but undoubtedly it was related to their talk. Howe took down the name and number but figured he’d talk to Fisher about it first. The only other call was from a newspaper reporter from his hometown, apparently referred by his mom.

He reached into his pocket for Fisher’s card to call him. He thought about mentioning Alice and the fact that she wasn’t around, then realized that would be silly.

Why did he think something had happened to her? More than likely she was inside sleeping, catching up after last night.

Or she was in there with someone else. But hadn’t she been giving him the impression she was unattached?

Howe remembered her walk. Truth was, he was infatuated with her. She wasn’t movie star beautiful but she was…

Beautiful.

And probably busy doing other stuff, attached, and interested in him only as a customer.

He put Fisher’s card back in his pocket. He really didn’t feel like talking to any more FBI agents today, not even Fisher. Howe glanced at the small notebook where he’d written the number of the journalist. The paper was a small weekly that occasionally ran man-in-the-news features on its front page. He wasn’t much interested in being the subject of a story, but it was only fair that he call the guy back and tell him so.

He punched in the number and got a message that it had been disconnected. Thinking the hotel clerk had made a mistake, he called information and got the newspaper’s number; it was nothing like the one that had been left.

The reporter who’d left the message didn’t exist.

Confused, Howe considered calling his mother to see if she knew anything about the story, but then decided not to bother her. It was nearly three o’clock. He could fit in a few calls to the NADT backers before it was time to hook up with Alice.

Chapter 11

Daylight made a big difference.

In the dark, viewed through the night goggles and even in the starlight, Pong Yan had seemed about half the size of a small rural airport in America. In the early-morning light, as Tyler approached the strip where Howe’s Berkut had landed and taken off, it looked more like a beat-up gas station with two sheds at the far side.

Tyler had found a team of Army Rangers as escorts, along with an Air Force officer he’d pressed into duty as a UAV expert. The man was actually a maintenance officer with a helicopter squadron who had only a passing knowledge of UAVs, but, as Tyler told him, just the fact that he could pick a UAV out of a lineup meant he had more experience than Tyler did. Tyler had also taken Somers along as a kind of all-around consultant; the old guy didn’t know much about UAVs, but Tyler liked him and thought he might come in handy. Their job was pretty straightforward: go to the field, inspect the hangar, find the UAVs. If they existed, Tyler was to have them shipped back to the States for study. This mission took priority over the situation report, which Moore could handle without them in any event.

The two Air Force Pave Lows carrying the team circled the area once, the pilots and crewmen getting a feel for the situation. The helicopters were big green brutes armed with machine guns and able to lift vehicles a decent distance; they’d brought gear to attach to the UAVs with the idea that they would carry them sling-style to a large airstrip about seventy-five miles south, where a C-17 could be brought in to ferry them away.

Tyler leaned over the door gunner as the helicopter took a turn. The mountains had a dusty haze over them, a dull shimmer of dirt as if the despair that had settled over North Korea under its Communist rulers was finally being shaken off. The landscape itself was beautiful; from the air the hills and mountains beyond gave no hint of the hardship the people here had withstood for decades.

The helicopters settled down and Tyler climbed out, choking back the dust. The Rangers moved out quickly, fanning across the field to take positions. Tyler walked toward the hangars, then remembered Somers, turned back, and waited for the historian. For the first time since they’d met, he realized that Somers was actually quite short, perhaps five feet six or seven. Something in the older man’s manner gave him a taller presence somehow — made him seem psychologically more commanding.

“That’s what we’re looking for?” asked Somers.

Two oddly shaped aircraft sat wingtip to wingtip in the open-faced hangar. The planes looked like something out of a sci-fi movie. Small — they were about the length of a pickup truck, and not all that much wider — they had no cockpits and short wings that angled up, almost as if they were origami gulls. Unpainted, their metal fuselages had sharp angles in the front, which melted into gradual curves about where the cockpit would normally be. Large, thick pipes sat at one side of the hangar, along with an array of what looked like large cans and tubing.

“That’s it,” said Tyler.

“These things fly?”

Their Air Force expert was bent over, trying to get a piece of dust from his eye. Somers took a step toward the hangar but Tyler stopped him.

“Might be booby-trapped,” he told him.

“Nah.”

“Let’s get the experts to check it out,” said Tyler, calling over to the Rangers’ captain.

The planes had not been booby-trapped. According to the Air Force officer — who punctuated everything he said with a disclaimer that he was by no means an expert — the aircraft were surely robots but were missing key parts, starting with their engines. In fact, he wasn’t entirely sure what sort of power plants they would have. Probably a jet, he thought, but the configuration at the rear might be able to fit a turboprop.

“Like I say, I’m no expert.”

Tyler had brought along a digital camera and started snapping pictures. Meanwhile the helicopter crew sized up the aircraft for transport. They debated whether by removing their wings the aircraft would fit within the oversize helicopters, but that idea was soon vetoed; while they had equipment with them to cut off the wings, Tyler interpreted his orders to mean the UAVs should be returned intact if possible. The helicopter could lift 20,000 pounds, or roughly the equivalent of an empty F-16; the Korean UAV looked to be well within the parameters, though ultimately the only way to find out was to try it. Tyler decided they’d take a shot with only one of the craft; not only would that make transport safer and easier but it would leave another here in case something went wrong.

The Air Force crewmen, with help from the Rangers, pulled the UAV from the hangar, rolling it on its thin, tubular gear. The specialists trussed it with thick belts, arranging the sling to get the balance right. This took considerable time, and they knocked off for a bit, breaking with some MREs and some assorted candy bars before the helicopter pilots lifted the Pave Low up and hovered into position to hook up its cargo. Standing well off to the side as the specialists did their thing, Tyler thought the sixbladed helicopter was actually straining to stay down; her tail twisted upward slightly, as if she wanted to tell the men fussing below her to get out of the way and let her do her job.

And then the tail began rotating oddly, and the helicopter pushed hard right. Tyler stared at the big green bug, which looked as if it had been caught in a bizarre wind. He heard something crack: It was as if the sky above him was a large sheet of ice and snapped in two.

The helicopter fell off sideways, flames shooting from the area below the back of the engine, and he heard the explosion of a rocket-propelled grenade landing nearby.

“Take cover!” someone yelled, and he hit the dirt.

Chapter 12

Howe was sitting in Alice ’s office when his cell phone rang. Thinking she was calling him, he answered, only to find Fisher on the line.

“Half the FBI’s looking for you,” Fisher told him. “Where the hell are you?”

“I’m sitting in a real estate office, waiting for someone to show me some houses,” said Howe. “She’s late.”

“Somebody’s trying to kill you. They blew up my car at the diner.”

“They’re trying to kill me and they blew up your car?”

“I didn’t say they were smart,” answered Fisher. “Who’s this girl you’re supposed to meet? You know her?”

“She showed me some houses yesterday. And we had dinner.”

“Give me her address,” said Fisher.

“Why? You think she’s been kidnapped?”

“I don’t think anything. Just give me her address and the one where you are.”

“You think they took her because they want me?” said Howe.

“I try not to think. It gets me in trouble,” said Fisher. “Now give me the addresses.”

Howe did.

“You stay where you are,” Fisher told him.

“I want to wait in my car,” said Howe. If someone was coming after him, he didn’t want innocent people hurt. “If they really did kidnap her, what’s going to happen?”

“They’ll let you know they have her,” Fisher said. “Look, you mind if I bring the FBI in on this? Kidnapping is kind of their area.”

“You are the FBI.”

“Yeah, but these guys are the real FBI agents. You’ll see: fifties haircuts, Sears suits, whole deal. Listen, when you get called, the caller’s going to tell you not to call the police, right? You don’t pay any attention to that part. Okay?”

“I’m not stupid.”

“That’s good to know.”

Howe sat in his car outside the real estate office, worried now and wondering what was going on. He thought of calling Fisher back for an explanation, and even brought the last-call menu up, but then didn’t hit the Send button.

Most likely this was all going to turn out to be a product of overworked imaginations, of people getting tense when the best approach was just to lie back and see what happened.

Of course, if anybody was laid-back it was Fisher. If a tornado was coming, the guy would light up a cigarette, then step to one side at the last minute.

A dark sedan made its way up the driveway finally. Howe got out of his car and walked over to it as it pulled to a stop.

“I’m Howe,” he said, leaning down toward the passenger side as the door opened and a man in a suit got out.

“Into the car,” said the man, pushing a pistol into his stomach.

As Howe hesitated, another man came out from around the other side. He saw a woman’s arms, bound together, reaching from the back.

“Let her go,” he said.

“Into the car,” demanded the first man, this time putting the gun into his ribs. “Or I’ll shoot you here.”

Chapter 13

Fisher had Howe pegged as someone who didn’t like to stay home when everyone else was out partying, so he wasn’t particularly surprised when the FBI agents he’d sent scurrying up to him called back and said he was nowhere to be found.

“This is the girlfriend’s address,” Fisher told the agent. “Send somebody over there to check it out.”

“Hey, listen, Andy, it’s not like we got nothing better to do,” said the agent, Pete McGovern. He was a non-smoker but in every other way extremely dependable, the sort of guy who answered his phone on the first ring and paid off on poker debts. “Me and Christian over here have to finish checking on a whole shitload of references this afternoon.”

“Which would you rather be doing,” asked Fisher, “looking in some guy’s bathroom window so Social Security can hire him to deny a widow’s monthly check, or breaking the biggest national security case of your lifetime?”

“Don’t pull my pud, Andy.”

“That’s what I like about you, McGovern: You have a way with words.”

“Where’s the stinking address?” asked the agent. “And, for the record, these background checks were for the Department of Justice.”

“Even more reason to blow them off.”

The cell phone buzzed in Howe’s pocket. The man sitting next to him turned and pointed his gun at his face.

“If I don’t answer it, they’ll get suspicious,” he said.

“If you touch it, I’ll shoot your head off,” said the man.

Alice sat next to him in the back of the large Mercury, her hands bound and a scarf tied across her mouth. She looked angry, not afraid.

The men had put police-style handcuffs on Howe’s wrists, but his hands were in front of him and he thought he might be able to grab the gun if he lunged. But the men in front also had weapons, and it seemed unlikely that he would be able to overcome all three men before one of them shot Alice.

He’d have a better chance once they stopped the car and they got out.

“What the hell is it you want, anyway?” Howe asked.

No one bothered to answer.

“Are you not telling me because you don’t know?” he asked. “Or because you’re stupid?”

“Just shut the fuck up, okay?” said the man on his right. He pushed the pistol against his head. “Because, really, the easiest thing to do would be to shoot you here.”

“Franky,” said the driver. “Not unless we have to.”

Fisher pulled over to the side of the road to consult his map. As he pulled it out, his cell phone rang. It was McGovern.

“Apartment’s empty. Door was unlocked. Sign of a struggle.”

“Just like in the movies,” said Fisher.

“We’re going to need local help.”

“Yeah, do it,” said Fisher. “I got to keep this line clear.”

He keyed off the call before McGovern could say anything else, then tried Howe again. Once more there was no answer. He went back to looking at the map. Of the hundreds of thousands of roads in the area, Howe could only be on ten thousand or so. Fisher lit a cigarette as he considered the mechanics of roadblocks. He flipped on the radio just in time to hear a traffic report from the WKDC traffic chopper. Fisher listened to smoking buddy Maureen Justice claim that traffic hadn’t moved this smoothly since Madison ’s second administration.

Out of ideas, Fisher snapped off the radio and went to the pay phone to call McGovern.

“Local detectives sent some people right over,” said McGovern. “They were real cooperative until they heard your name. What are you going to do now?”

“Wait for my phone to ring. If Howe calls we can track it down. I already have it set up.”

“What if he doesn’t call?”

“Then we move over to Plan B.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m not sure, but it involves spectacular detective work, a car chase, gunshots, and a hell of a lot of cigarettes smoked down to the nub.”

Howe had to punch two keys on the cell phone to call the last number he had dialed; without taking the phone from his pocket it wouldn’t be easy to find the buttons, let alone hit them in the proper order. And there was little chance of even getting the phone out without the thug next to him seeing.

The driver’s comment earlier seemed to mean that they were under instructions not to kill him. But it could also mean that he wanted to wait until they reached a place where it was more convenient.

They were moving along at a good clip on the highway, but there were enough cars nearby that someone might at least notice if the car veered suddenly, or even see bullets flying through the side glass.

Better to wait and see what developed.

Chapter 14

The world above Tyler ’s head shaded red, pulsing with the short, sharp breaths he took. He forced himself to look for Somers. Three breaths, four — he looked left, looked back right, finally saw the historian sprawled behind him.

God, I killed him.

Tyler scrambled over to him. Somers was breathing. As far as Tyler could tell, he hadn’t been hurt, just lost his wind.

Gunfire popped nearby, the sound ricocheting off the nearby hills. The helicopter lay on its side fifty yards in front of him.

He was too scared to help the people stuck in it; too chicken.

Coward. Stinking coward.

Tyler leaned his head forward in the direction of the stricken aircraft. He felt as if something were holding him back, wind rushing against him. Voices screamed at him:

Coward.

Coward.

Something rippled across the metal of the helicopter. The front burst upward. Tyler couldn’t process it: The big bird seemed to be moving on its own. Again the wind held him back and he pushed his head down, saw something in the metal: a hand. Part of the fuselage rippled from gunfire from a few hundred yards away.

Tyler jumped to his feet and ran to the chopper. A body sprawled against a spar just inside the open hatchway. Tyler leaned in and grabbed it. The metal beneath his chest gave way; he fell into the Pave Low in slow motion, the side of the helicopter squishing as if it were held up by Jell-O. Tyler started to choke and blinked his eyes, grabbed hold of something — body or metal, he couldn’t even tell — and pulled.

“I’m okay. Get Chris.”

Someone pushed through the twisted metal on his right. There was smoke, something brown in his face. Tyler leaned into the dark hole, knowing he wasn’t coming out of here. He didn’t want to; he wanted to get away from the voices persecuting him, wanted to just fall into this black hole. He was a coward and he wanted to just disappear, to be sucked into oblivion.

“Help,” said someone.

“I’ll help you,” Tyler answered.

It seemed as if he were swimming, as if he were out on the river at night, under a bridge or a ledge, trapped as the current twisted around him.

“Out — we’re getting out,” he said, and there were raindrops now, the splatter of something against the surface of the water nearby.

He pulled and then pushed and could stand, and wasn’t in the water anymore. And someone yelled, “Here,” and the voice inside his head once more called him a coward. And then he saw that his hand was grabbing at a shirt. He stood and he pushed; he moved backward. Then he started to move forward.

“Come on,” someone shouted. “You’ve got them all, come on. They’re gunning for the helicopter.”

Tyler threw himself backward, tumbling onto a sandy beach.

Not a beach: the strip, away from the downed helicopter, away.

The ground was farther than he’d thought it could be — so much farther. His head finally hit and the pain shot up against his mouth and then back to his ears and to his neck and down his spine, and he vibrated as he swam again, the voice calling him a coward over and over.

Chapter 15

They drove over a set of railroad tracks, down a road with weeds tall enough to flank the sides of the car. Howe saw two buildings ahead, metal warehouses with green and white walls. They hadn’t been driving long enough to get out of Virginia, but where exactly they were he had no idea.

Howe looked at Alice. She blinked her eyes at him.

“Run,” he mouthed silently.

She blinked again but didn’t nod. The man in the front passenger seat got out of the car and walked around the front of the car.

Telling her to run was useless. Where would she go?

The door on her side opened. Howe grabbed her arms, holding her in the car.

“Let her go. You want me, right? Just let her go and we can work this out.”

“Just shut up,” said the man next to him. He opened his door and, as he was climbing out, gave Howe a sharp elbow in the side. Howe groaned and bent forward over Alice ’s lap; he felt her press down on top of him.

“Run as soon as you get a chance,” he told her. “Just run.”

Alice pushed her chin down into his back; if she said something, he couldn’t hear.

If he was going to make the call, now was the time; they couldn’t see him. He reached into his pocket and slid out the phone, fingers jabbing the buttons. The man who had gotten out of the car reached back and pulled him out. Jerked upward, Howe dropped the cell phone near Alice ’s feet and stumbled out. He managed to fall down and rolled on the ground; he figured he might be able to overpower one of the goons if they got close enough.

But the men weren’t that stupid. One squatted down in front of him, well out of reach, pointing his weapon at his face.

“You fuck with us, we shoot you and the lady. You want that?”

“I want you to let her go,” said Howe.

One of the other men had come around on the other side of him and kicked him in the ribs.

“Just let her go,” Howe groaned. “What do you need her for?”

The man kicked him again.

Fisher twisted the phone around so he could see the number as he hit the button to receive the call.

“Where are you?” he asked, but he got only a muffled reply. He pressed the phone to his ear, listening.

By the time the man grew tired of kicking him, Howe was writhing in pain. The kicker stooped down and picked him up, hauling him to his feet. Howe wobbled somewhat, moving forward unsteadily, trying simply to get his breath back. He couldn’t seem to manage it, and though he willed his body to help, it just didn’t seem able.

“Hey, this way,” said one of the other goons.

“Let her go,” muttered Howe.

“Tough guy, huh?” The man pushed him backward; Howe slipped and fell against the car.

“You know who I am?” Howe said.

The man laughed. “Like I give a fuck, right?”

He reached down and pulled Howe to his feet. Somewhere in the back of his head Howe heard a voice tell him to grab for the gun. This was certainly the right time for it: It loomed right in front of his stomach, angled away; it was far from a sure thing but it was a decent chance, maybe fifty-fifty. But his body wouldn’t cooperate. His arms stayed frozen in front of him, weighed down by the handcuffs; his chest refused to supply the energy he needed, and the moment passed.

Alice was out of the car, being pushed toward the building. Howe finally willed himself toward her.

Slow, go as slow as you possibly can, he told himself.

But don’t let them kill her.

Chapter 16

Coward! Coward!

“That was a brave thing you did, saving those kids in the helicopter,” said Somers, helping Tyler up. “Foolhardy, but brave.”

Tyler stared at him.

“Major?”

He turned around. The Ranger captain had a distressed look on his face.

“You okay, Major?” asked the captain.

“Yeah.”

“We have two gunships inbound. We’ve chased the North Koreans out of their hide holes and have a pretty good idea where they were firing from. Mortar fire has stopped. We got their machine gun.”

“Good work,” managed Tyler.

“Everybody’s okay,” the Ranger commander added.

“Yeah, good,” said Tyler. He frowned.

“I’m sorry, sir. I know we fucked up.”

“What do you mean?” Tyler asked.

“We should have found those bastards before they fired.”

“This is war,” said Somers. “You can’t see everything. The other side has a vote.”

“That’s right,” said Tyler.

The Ranger captain had a pained expression on his face; he didn’t believe him. Tyler grabbed his arm. “That’s right. It’s not your fault. If it’s anybody’s fault, it’s my fault.”

The man blinked, not understanding, then nodded.

“It’s my fault,” said Tyler.

“Thank you, sir,” said the captain.

“No, I mean it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Let me talk to the helicopter people and see if they can rig up another sling with the other UAV,” Tyler said. “Get it the hell out of here before we’re attacked again.”

Chapter 17

Howe walked toward the warehouse, his heels kicking against pebbles and broken glass. A railroad track was embedded in the macadam; he stepped on the worn rail, sole scuffing. The gun was now a few feet away, on his left, behind him just enough so he couldn’t see it without turning back to look at his captor. Another of the thugs pulled Alice ahead to the right, heading toward a door. The third was behind him somewhere — but where?

Rusted oil drums sat in a pile at the corner of the building; the other direction lay bare.

He could grab the gun, shoot the thug with Alice, take her around the side of the building.

Guy in the back would nail him, then her.

He turned right, trying to see. The low groan of the highway filtered past the buildings, making its way up the embankment. They were alone here, very alone. He heard a Cessna nearby and realized the civilian airport sat on the other side of the highway.

Someone would see them. Someone.

He heard a helicopter approaching.

“Move it.” The thug on his left took a step forward and smacked him in the ribs with the blunt grip of the gun.

He can’t shoot me that way, Howe realized, and in that second he sprang.

“There-go!” yelled Fisher into the headset. He grabbed at the door of the helicopter, pushing his elbow hard against it, only to have the wind slap him back into the seat.

“How close do you want to get?” asked Maureen Justice.

“Hit them!” Fisher undid his seat belt and leaned forward against the side of the forward panel of the traffic helicopter.

“Hit them? Andy, I don’t owe you that much.”

“You’ll be able to broadcast it live. You’ll be as famous as the helicopter pilot in the O.J. case.” He pulled out his pistol.

“Hey, wait a second,” she shouted. “You didn’t say you were going to shoot somebody.”

“I told you, it’s national security.”

“Andy!”

“Got to get their attention!” said Fisher, firing off two rounds from his revolver.

“Good, they’re taking out guns! They’re shooting at me!”

“Took ’em long enough. Come on, run ’em over.”

“Jesus!”

Maureen swung the helicopter in an arc to the north, tilting wildly as she lurched away from the gunmen. Fisher was sure she’d seen much worse on her daily traffic reports, but there wasn’t time to argue.

“Put me down on the roof!” he told her, whipping off the headset.

“The roof?”

Fisher hung on the helicopter door with one hand, belatedly realizing that the metal was thinner than it appeared. He swung his feet around, searching for the skids beneath. He looked down, saw gray concrete.

Between the wind and the engine noise there was no way the pilot could hear him, but Fisher knew that there were moments in every case when a strategic shout was your best and only option.

“The roof!” he yelled. “The roof!”

Ribs of white metal appeared below. Fisher felt his grip slipping and tried to swing his body toward what he thought was the thicker part of the roof as he fell. He misjudged both his direction and the distance, crashing down four or five feet from the gutter. But the mistake was fortuitous: He hit between two rafters, and the metal absorbed a good deal of the shock as he rolled down against the surface. His pistol flew away, spinning wildly before sliding into the gutter, its long nose pointing skyward. Fisher threw himself out after it, sliding hands-first down the slope.

Howe grabbed at the thug’s weapon, shoving his shoulder into the goon’s midsection. The world narrowed to a blue-smoke oblong, a thick hard rectangle in the middle of his eye, the middle of his head. Everything around him blackened, became a void. He felt the warmth of the metal on his fingers, then nothing; ice froze his eyes and chest and hand. He found himself revolving, then floating, then on the ground.

The gun sat a few feet away. Something clawed at him, a wild animal, a lion. A howl shook his ears. Howe threw himself in the direction of the screech, then flew toward the L-shaped metal, the Beretta in the gravel. Something stomped on the back of his head, and the black void squeezed the side of his face. Howe pushed forward, determined to get the gun now, determined to get it and beat the blackness back.

Fisher couldn’t stop his momentum as he hit the end of the roof. He grabbed at the gutter but the metal wasn’t tightly fastened; the lightweight aluminum shot out from the building and then immediately bent downward under the FBI agent’s weight. Fisher tried swinging his legs up and over as he fell, but he could only get them halfway before the other end of the gutter gave way. He tried to get his feet down to hit the ground in a reasonable manner, but instead slapped against the building and then crashed into the pile of barrels, which fortunately broke most of his fall as he hit the ground. He rolled in the middle of them, head spinning so badly that he had trouble reaching for the small gun in the holster on his leg.

Howe realized he had the gun in his hand and scraped against the pavement, his skin tearing away as he tried to get up. He jerked around, saw his captor running back toward the car.

Where was Alice?

“ Alice!”

Where was Alice?

Fisher struggled to his feet, both hands on the hideaway Glock and ears ringing loudly. He fired twice, winging the man who’d started to run to the car and sending him to the pavement. Fisher saw Howe on his right, just getting up; the girl must be inside the building.

There was a window on the side of the building behind him. Fisher took a step backward toward it. Howe yelled something.

“Yo, Colonel, cover those assholes near the car until the cops come,” Fisher said, shouting over the banging that had taken over his head. Then he went to the window and smashed it open with a metal shovel that lay in the grass and jumped through.

Or at least tried to jump through. A piece of glass snagged his trousers and then his shoe, ripping them and sending him crashing to the floor off balance.

“My third-best pair of brown pants,” he complained, pulling himself against the wall and looking at his exposed calf and sock. “Now I’m pissed.”

Howe leaped through the open door, throwing himself to the ground. Something crashed on the far side of the building; he cringed, expecting bullets to slash through him.

Still cringing, shaking now with fear, he got to his knees. He had the gun in his hand.

Where was she?

He was in a large, empty room. There were two doors twenty feet across from him, hallways into the back. Howe got up and started for them, his knees stiffening. He got to the wall and leaned against it, listening.

Fisher saw something move in the filtered light across the open space.

“FBI. Give it up,” he yelled.

“I’ll kill her!”

“That’d be really stupid,” said Fisher.

The man replied by firing three times in Fisher’s direction. The FBI agent hit the deck, crawling around the back of what appeared to be a desk.

“Give it up, I’m telling you,” he yelled.

“Screw yourself.”

Two more shots, one of which splintered the desk.

“Maybe we can make a deal,” yelled Fisher.

“Fuck off.”

Two more shots, both so close that splinters sailed just over Fisher’s head. He sprawled out on the floor, pushing himself to a second desk.

“I know you want to give up,” said Fisher. “And I’m the guy you want to talk to.”

Only one bullet this time, and back at the other desk. The gunman was about halfway through his magazine — unless, of course, he had another mag or two with him.

“Look, we can work a deal,” said Fisher. “Why’d you want Howe? Who hired you?”

This time the bullets sailed within inches of Fisher’s head. He heard a muffled sound, then footsteps; Fisher started to get up then threw himself down, another bullet flying in his direction.

Howe saw her and flew up toward her. As he leaped he saw the other hand, then the face of the man who held her. But he was already launched, already sailing into them. He crashed against their bodies and rolled downward, a siren sounding in his ear, the floor rattling as if by gunfire or thunder. He grappled for the man, threw a punch and then another punch, felt something smash against his face hard. He punched back harder and harder, furious now, his fists compressing against the hard bone of a skull.

And then something lifted him from the floor and pushed him to the side, gently yet with a good amount of force.

“Take it easy, Colonel,” said Andy Fisher. “You scramble his brains and I’m not going to be able to trust what he says.”

Chapter 18

By the time Tyler and his people were ready to lift the UAV, the backup units had arrived. Two large gunships circled overhead as a company’s worth of soldiers scoured the hills, looking for more attackers. The unit commander was excited because they’d heard reports that there were stragglers in the area but had not been able to hunt them down; the incident represented an opportunity to put one more nail in the coffin of the old regime.

Tyler ’s stomach knotted tighter as the Pave Low moved forward. Somebody shouted something and he winced; he whirled around, found himself staring into Somers’s face, then turned back, cringing: He knew, just knew, he would see the helicopter keeling over, in flames, gunfire erupting all over again.

But nothing like that happened. Sling attached and taut, the helicopter lifted upward and ahead, taking the North Korean robot aircraft under it as easily as a man might pluck a piece of paper from the floor. Tyler watched as the helicopter flew toward the well-secured air base to the south.

“You all right?” asked Somers after the Pave Low disappeared.

“Yeah,” said Tyler.

“That was a damn brave thing, getting those guys out of the helicopter.”

Tyler looked at Somers. “You keep saying that.”

“You’ve seen a lot of action, haven’t you, Major?”

“Not really.”

Tyler knew many, many people in the Army who had seen much more combat. And certainly when viewed against the long history of conflicts — wars that extended years rather than weeks — he had seen almost none.

“Getting to you?” asked Somers.

The question caught Tyler off guard. He liked the historian: He was a smart guy, insightful, and easy to like. But there was a line.

“It’s not getting to me,” said Tyler, turning away and walking toward the Chinook that had brought the reinforcements.

Somers caught up with him as he neared the door to the massive helicopter.

“I didn’t mean to offend you,” said the older man.

Tyler looked at him. He didn’t know how to explain what he felt and what he had done; he couldn’t describe how fear had crept beneath what just a few weeks ago had been easy conviction, how second-guessing had wrapped itself around his determination. Everything he did now he questioned. Everything he did was wrong. And he was always afraid.

To the people on the outside, it wasn’t there. Somers saw only him jumping into the chopper.

Why had he done it? Not because it was the right thing to do or the brave thing to do, but because it was the only thing to do. He had been scared — damn scared.

“It was nothing,” Tyler told Somers, then climbed aboard the chopper.

Chapter 19

Fisher leaned forward against the back of the chair, watching through the one-way glass as the two local detectives continued the interview. He’d found some safety pins to clip his torn pants together with, and had washed his face and hands. As soon as they brought his coffee he’d feel good as new.

“Got no idea who hired us,” said the man the detectives were interviewing. He’d been the one back by the car when Fisher arrived and Fisher assumed he was the driver. As a general rule, drivers didn’t know all that much about the operation they were involved in, but the two detectives apparently hadn’t learned that from NYPD reruns. They kept circling around and taking fresh starts at the same question, and the suspect kept coming back with essentially the same answer: Damned if I know.

The other two goons were in the hospital. The one Howe had wrestled with was in pretty serious condition, with internal bleeding and a concussion. Fisher thought that was a waste: If he was going to beat him senseless, he might just as well have killed the guy and saved the county some dough.

“Like I been telling you, I got no idea,” said the suspect one more time.

One of the detectives made a big show of disgust, slapping his hands down on the table and walking out, playing the first strains of the time-honored good-cop-bad-cop routine. Fisher watched the suspect twitch nervously for a few seconds, then got up from his chair. He met the policewoman who’d gone for coffee at the door.

“Just in time,” he told her.

“I’m sorry. I had to clean the cup.”

“Shouldn’t have bothered,” said Fisher. “Scum adds flavor.”

Fisher took the coffee and went into the interrogation room, where the other detective was speaking in the low, confidential tones that were considered de rigueur for the nice-guy part in the play.

Fisher had never been much of a fan of good-cop-bad-cop. It seemed to him that anyone stupid enough to fall for it wasn’t much of a source to begin with. Sure, it had worked for Eliot Ness, but Fisher suspected the brass knuckles Ness’s sidekick got to use in the back room were more responsible for success than the crumpled cigarette Ness stuck in a suspect’s mouth.

But you had to go with what you had. Fisher tossed a pack of cigarettes on the table, along with some matches.

The man looked up at him. “I don’t smoke.”

Fisher pushed out the chair and sat down, thinking they just didn’t make goons the way they used to.

“You’re with the Genovese family, right?”

“Huh?” said the man.

“Genovese. He’s trying to muscle into the D.C. area,” said Fisher, pulling over the cigarettes. He punched one out of the pack.

“What do you mean?”

“What I said. You’re on DiCarlo’s crew, right? You guys clipped some poor fuck by the river two weeks ago.”

“I had nothing to do with that,” said the man. “And I’m not with the Genovese family.”

“They don’t call it Genovese anymore, right? Those New York guys — that would be like calling it omertà or Our Thing or something, right? I mean, even the word mob, that’s no good.”

“I ain’t with fuckin’ Genovese, right? I’m not from New York. I ain’t with those guys.”

“Word is, you are.”

“What word?”

“Word I hear,” said Fisher. He took a long pull from the cigarette, held it a tick, then let it out. “Word that’s going around the street. And the jail.”

“Hey, screw you. Who are you?”

“Andy Fisher. FBI. I was doing some checking inside. You’re with Genovese.”

“I’m with Sammy Gorodino.”

“Sammy the Seal?” said Fisher. “No way.”

“Hey, bullshit on you, asshole.”

“So, what’s the story on Howe? He owes your boss money?”

The goon glanced at the Virginia detective, then back at Fisher. “You for real?”

Fisher shrugged.

“I just do what I’m told. Sammy tells me what to do and I do it.”

“Sammy’s where?” said Fisher.

“Oh, fuck you. I’m not telling you that.”

Fisher took a sip of his coffee. It occurred to him again that it might have been much better if the cup hadn’t been washed.

“I can find Sammy,” said the detective next to him. “He owns a restaurant in a strip mall out near Circleville.”

The goon’s face twitched ever so slightly.

Fisher pulled out his satellite phone and slid it across the table.

“Call him,” he told the goon. “And tell him you’re going to be released on your own recognizance this afternoon. Tell him there are some rumors going around that he ought to know about, rumors that you were talking about his auto parts business. False rumors, and you don’t want him getting upset. Because you told that asshole FBI agent nothing, and the raid that’s coming had nothing to do with any sort of information you gave out. And you’re being let go free was just some sort of trick by this jerk Andy Fisher.”

The man looked at Fisher, then at the detective, then at the phone.

“There’s a bowling alley,” he said. “It’s over by Kirdwood Park.”

Chapter 20

Alice looked much younger asleep. She had pulled her hair back and tied it so the doctors could treat the small cut on the right side of her mouth. The strands at the top of her forehead looked like the fine threads at the edge of a scarf.

Howe gazed at the down in front of her ear, a shade lighter than the trio of freckles beneath it. Her lips were a soft pink, loosely pressed together; her body moved upward gently with her breathing.

“Who were they?” she said without opening her eyes.

Howe stooped down. “ Alice?”

“Who were they?”

Her left lid opened slowly.

“I’m not sure,” said Howe. “They were after me. I’m sorry they hurt you.”

Fisher had told Howe that the goons had probably started following him sometime the day before and seen where Alice lived. They probably had left someone there to watch her as a backup.

“They thought I was your girlfriend.” Alice pushed her legs off the bed and sat up.

In the hallway Howe heard the footsteps of the detective and FBI agent who’d been waiting to see her.

“You going to be okay?” Howe asked.

“I’m okay.” She was still in her jeans and the T-shirt she’d been wearing earlier. Aside from a bruise where one of the thugs had squeezed her arm, she was unhurt.

One of the investigators pushed back the curtain behind him. “Uh, Colonel Howe,” said the woman. “Excuse us, but we’d prefer if you didn’t talk with Ms. Kauss until we’ve had a chance to interview her.”

“Protocol,” said the other detective.

“Yeah, I’m sorry,” said Howe. He looked at Alice as he spoke. “I just wanted to make sure she was okay.”

“I’m okay,” she told him.

“I guess we have to reschedule,” he said.

“Call my office.”

“I will.” He nodded. He couldn’t tell how angry she was with him, though he figured she must be very angry. “Okay,” he said, leaving.

Chapter 21

Fisher had never quite gotten the point of bowling. Maybe it made sense as a metaphysical exercise, the round sphere of the life force laying low the solid pins of orthodoxy, but the people who played it regularly didn’t seem to be the metaphysical type. Most of them seemed to be in some sort of pain: They unleashed the ball, stared as it rolled down the alley, then cringed as it toppled its targets. A few did odd dances, as if calling on the gods of thunder to be merciful, and even those who emerged from the process with smiles on their faces set off immediately to handle the paperwork.

Not much sense in it that he could see.

Fisher walked through the alley, turned past the shoe rental register — another activity he didn’t understand — and through the double doors that led to the lounge. He went to the bar and pulled open his coat, removing his Magnum to the wide-eyed stare of two rather large men standing a few feet away.

“There’s six bullets in that, and I’m counting them when I leave,” he said, placing the long-barreled gun down. He walked over to the table where Sammy the Seal was sitting with a few of his bodyguards.

Sammy was only thirty-three, but Fisher’s sources on the local organized-crime task force had him pegged as an old-line mob type too dull to make the transition to semi-legal activities like the movies or stock market. He relied on muscle and wits to keep afloat, which meant he’d be a prime candidate for the federal Witness Security Program in a few months. Fisher appreciated this, actually: There was something admirable about a man too dumb to be successfully dishonest.

Fisher sat down and tossed the thin wallet with his Bureau credentials on the table.

“FBI,” he told Sammy. He glanced up at the two bodyguards clutching their chests behind him. “Don’t have heart attacks, guys. I’m here to talk. And not about auto parts, prostitution, or the movies. Though I might mention that the coffee you serve in your pizza parlors is class A heartburn material, a plus in my book.”

“Who the hell are you?” said Sammy.

“Andy Fisher. I picked up a couple of your people earlier today. They should’ve called by now.”

“I don’t have people.”

“Well, I didn’t bother to run DNA tests on them,” said Fisher, taking out a cigarette, “but they looked human. Walked and talked.”

Sammy looked at his cigarette.

“Mind if I smoke?” Fisher asked.

“I do mind, yeah. It’s against the law in this county.”

Fisher lit up anyway. “Maybe you can use the charge for a plea bargain.”

“Why are you here?”

“Somebody hired you to freeze William Howe. Problem is, they didn’t tell you Howe was a national hero.”

“He’s no hero,” said Sammy, making a face.

“You look at his résumé?”

Belatedly realizing he had said far too much, Sammy shut up.

Fisher leaned forward. “All I want to know is who hired you? Between you and me.”

“You think I’d screw a client like that?”

“I hope so,” said Fisher.

Sammy laughed. “Get out before I throw you out.”

“Flip on the news,” said Fisher. “Put on CNN. See what kind of shit you’re in.”

A dim light began to shine somewhere in Sammy’s brain. He called over to the bartender and told him to turn on the television.

“And bring a round of drinks. What are you having?”

“Coffee,” said Fisher.

“Coffee’s old.”

“Can’t be any worse than the crap they have over at police headquarters.”

Sammy frowned. The station came back from a commercial. A picture of Howe flashed on the screen. Sammy stared at the television, doing a rather convincing impression of Paul on the road to Damascus. If his jaw hadn’t been attached, it would have been part of the rug.

“Guy told us what hotel he was in, had a name, that was it. We didn’t know, I swear to God,” said Sammy. “I swear. Off the record. ’Cause you ain’t read me my rights or anything, and you can’t use this.”

“Oh, yeah, way off the record,” said Fisher. “So, who hired you?”

“A Chink,” said Sammy. “Guy named Sin Ru Chow. We do some deals sometimes. He’s who you want to talk to.”

“That’s the best you can do?” Fisher.

Sammy was too distracted to answer, absorbed in the television broadcast. Every one of his limited brain cells was now devoted to trying to figure out how to extricate himself from this very serious mess.

“If you happen to think of something,” said Fisher, pushing a card to the middle of the table, “call that number.”

He picked up his credentials and took his gun from the bar. Outside, the SWAT team was just getting into place for the raid.

“Short guy with the dumbstruck look on his face in the lounge,” Fisher told the commander. “You can’t miss him.”

Chapter 22

“Howe.”

“Colonel, stand by for Dr. Blitz.”

Howe held the cell phone away from his body. He was sitting at the side of a desk in a large room that filled most of the second story of the Circleville police station, going over the incident with one of the detectives for the third time.

“I have to take this, and it’s kind of private,” he told the man.

“My part is wrapped up just about anyway,” said the detective amiably. “I’m going to go get a Coke. When you’re off the phone, we’ll go talk to my boss, okay? Back in room two downstairs?”

“Yeah, okay,” said Howe as the detective got up.

“Colonel, I hope you’re okay,” said Blitz over the cell phone.

“I’m fine,” said Howe.

“I understand the FBI caught some of the people involved.”

“Yes.”

“I have some other news.” The national security advisor paused for a moment; Howe could hear him murmuring something to one of his assistants before coming back on the line. “Your clearance has been restored. The CIA people made a mistake.”

“Okay.”

“I’m wondering if you could come over to my office and look at some photos we have. We want to confirm they’re the UAVs you saw in Korea.”

“All right. It may take a while. I’m at the police station, making a statement,” said Howe.

“Understood. But the sooner the better.”

“Yes, sir.”

Chapter 23

Sin Ru Chow, whose status as lowlife was attested to by all and sundry, had vanished, and not even the experts on lowlifes at the Washington, D.C., Police Department could locate him. Fisher told the detective he talked to there that they could remove the underworld thug’s photo from their rogue’s gallery; it was a good bet that the next time he was seen, it would be on a mortuary slab.

With the safety pins holding his pants together beginning to chafe, Fisher returned to his apartment for a fresh suit. The phone rang as he was coming through the door; he answered it, hoping it was someone trying to sell him vinyl siding.

“Andy, where are you?” asked Cindy Malone, Jack Hunter’s secretary. “Jack’s been trying to get ahold of you all day.”

“Shouldn’t cost more than a few thousand to repair,” Fisher.

“A few thousand for what?”

“Which?”

“Don’t be smart, Andy.”

“That’s what they pay me for, isn’t it?”

“What did you break this time?”

“I’m not telling you until the bill comes in,” said Fisher. He’d been thinking of the warehouse roof; the repair bill for the bullet holes in the helicopter would undoubtedly hit five figures if not six.

“Jack is having a press conference first thing in the morning and he wants you there,” said Malone. “Since you rescued Howe.”

“No, thanks. I have to get up to New York. Listen, if you want my advice, tell him not to hold a press conference.”

“Why not?”

“We haven’t broken the case yet.”

“But Howe’s okay. The press wants a hero.”

“Or a goat,” said Fisher. “Tell Hunter to hold off.”

“But, Andrew, please.”

He hated it when she said please.

“I’m telling you, Cindy, we haven’t figured it all out yet.” He glanced at his watch. “What are you still doing in the office? It’s after eight. You’re missing your Wheel of Fortune reruns.”

“I had to stay until I got you.”

“Well, now you can go.”

“Please. The press conference is already scheduled. It’ll make Jack very happy. And problems with your expenses are much easier to smooth over when he’s happy,” she said. “Tell you what: You do this, and I’ll get him to sign some blank vouchers right when he’s smiling for pictures. How’s that?”

“I have more important things to do than press conferences,” Fisher told her.

“Like what?”

“Like putting on my pants,” he said, hanging up.