White House

ONE

Kirk Cullough McGarvey had nearly lost his life three months ago in Moscow. Although the pain he felt from his wounds had already begun to fade, the scars, both physical and mental, would never go away. This time his daughter, Elizabeth, had almost been killed, and he blamed himself.

He pulled up at the CIA main gate in his leased Nissan Pathfinder a few minutes before 8:00 A.M. Friday. It was a beautiful summer morning with a perfectly blue sky and almost no haze. Everything that had to be said after the operation — the summaries, the debriefings, the contact sheets and budget lines and weapons reports — had been gone over in endless detail with the headhunters in Internal Security. Yet he was answering the summons again, as he had been doing for twenty-five years.

“The general would like to see you tomorrow morning, eight sharp.” Tommy Doyle, deputy director of Intelligence, had phoned last night. He supposed that the DCI wanted to have a final word, as he himself did. In fact he had a lot to say, most of which Roland Murphy was not going to like.

He gave his driver’s license to the uniformed security guard, who checked his name from a list then handed the license back. “Visitor’s parking lot is on the left, sir.”

“Thanks,” McGarvey said. Coming back from Moscow he’d been angry because of the way the Company had bungled everything, and had involved his daughter against all rules of ethics and decency. But that had faded. Most of the people responsible were gone.

The grounds were lush and August green, the trees in full foliage as they’d been the first time he’d come here as a young case officer from the Agency’s training facility near Williamsburg, Virginia. He’d been full of ambition, a real sense of purpose, “gung ho,” as his instructors described him, but with some inner demons that drove him to excel beyond the level of any trainee before or since. Now it was very nearly over. After a quarter-century of service to his country, good times and bad, he was getting out.

He had to show his license again to the guard at the visitor’s lot, where he found an empty parking space, then walked up to the main building. Bad times, he thought. He’d had plenty of them. The men he’d killed in the line of duty weren’t a legion, but there were a lot of them. He remembered each of their faces, the look in their eyes when they died. Anger, rage, disappointment, surprise. They were flesh-and-blood human beings with dreams and ambitions like anyone else, their lives ended suddenly by an assassin’s bullet. Bad men, Phil Carrara would have said, but men nonetheless. Not fair, they’d wanted to say at the end. And he had empathy for them, the killer for his victims. It was a special bond like no other. He agreed, it had never been fair.

Nearing fifty, McGarvey was tall, with the physique of a rugby player and the coordination of a ballet dancer. He had thick brown hair, gray at the temples, and a wide, honest face that many women found handsome. His eyes were deep, sometimes green, other times gray and almost always filled with emotion, an attitude that he knew something, had seen things that most people couldn’t know, let alone understand. His friend Jacqueline said he had Dr. Zhivago eyes from the movie staring Omar Sharif. He ran and swam everyday, rain or shine, unless he was in the middle of an operation, fenced when he could find a worthy opponent and honed his skills with firearms on any firing range or gun club that would have him.

But it was never enough. He never felt as if he were completely ready. He always doubted his competence, always pushed himself to the limit.

It was over, he told himself again, passing through the automatic doors into the main reception hall. And after this morning’s meeting he was going to try to convince Liz to get out while she still could. One spook in the family was enough. He didn’t want his daughter following in his footsteps, despite the fact she was very good, very dedicated and, according to what he was hearing, the best student at the Farm, maybe even better than he was.

Tommy Doyle, the tall, thin, dapper-dressing deputy director of Intelligence, was waiting for him at the security checkpoint in the lobby with a visitor’s pass.

“Thanks for coming out this morning,” he said. “The general asked me to bring you directly upstairs, the others should already be in his office.” He seemed harried, but McGarvey had seen the look before.

“Others?”

“Yeah,” Doyle said, handing McGarvey the pass. “We have a situation brewing in the Sea of Japan.” Doyle was one of the old school, the “Club,” and along with the late Phil Carrara, who’d been deputy director of Operations, Larry Danielle, the deputy director of Central Intelligence and General Murphy, he had been responsible for bringing the CIA back from near emasculation after the Carter administration.

“I’m out, Tommy. That’s what I came to tell him this morning. It’s the only reason I’m here.”

Doyle’s lips compressed. “Maybe that’s not possible right now.”

“It’s the way it’s going to be.”

Doyle faced him. “Ryan is gone and the situation in Moscow has stabilized for the moment, if that’s what’s worrying you. All we’re asking is that you listen to us, for Christ’s sake. You can give us that much.”

McGarvey glanced over at the inscription on the marble wall. “And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.” John VIII: 32. In twenty-five years he’d heard so many lies that he sometimes doubted if anyone here had ever read the biblical quote.

He put the security pass on a chain around his neck, nodded tightly and fell in beside Doyle back to the elevators.

Santiago, Berlin, Lausanne, Lisbon, Paris, Tokyo and three months ago, Moscow. His past came crushing down on him like a load of bricks as he rode up to the seventh floor. Each incident had been started by a man or men with the frightened, uncertain, desperate look that he was seeing now in Doyle’s eyes. A “situation” they called such things. Already McGarvey could smell the stench of death.

It was exactly 8:00 A.M. when they entered the large, well-appointed office of Roland Murphy, director of Central Intelligence. The general was seated at his desk watching CNN and drinking a cup of coffee. He was a large man with thick arms, a broad, square face and deep-set eyes beneath bushy eyebrows that were patient rather than cynical, as one might expect. He’d survived four presidents as DCI and was considered one of the toughest, most competent men ever to sit at this desk. He was apolitical, and no president was willing to replace him for fear of what his loss would mean to the CIA.

Seated across from him was Carleton Paterson, the patrician former New York lawyer who was the agency’s new general counsel.

Murphy muted the sound on the television. He motioned toward an empty chair. “Thanks for coming out here this morning.”

Lawrence Danielle, aging, stoop-shouldered, his jowls looser, his hair thinner and whiter than the last time McGarvey had seen him more than two years ago, came from his office adjoining the DCI’s and laid a bundle of files on the desk. “Good Morning, Kirk. How are you feeling, wounds healing and all that?”

“Good morning, Larry,” McGarvey said. “I’ll live.”

“I should hope so,” Danielle said brightly. Unlike the others he still seemed to have his sense of humor. But then he’d been around even longer than Murphy. He was deputy director.

When they were all seated, Murphy called his secretary and told her to hold everything until he advised her differently. “Coffee?” he asked McGarvey.

“No.”

Murphy studied him for several seconds. “I’ve never believed that assassination solved anything. But I was wrong this time, and you were right. If you hadn’t killed Tarankov, Russia would have become the same threat to the world that Hitler’s Germany was.”

“It remains to be seen.” McGarvey shrugged. Now that he was here he decided that he had no final words after all. It no longer seemed to matter. Seeing the worried looks on their faces had dissipated his anger. “I’m here, what do you want?”

“We need your help.”

“I won’t accept another assignment, General.”

“I’m told the DGSE wants Ms. Belleau to return to Paris,” Doyle said. “Will you go back to France with her?” Jacqueline Belleau worked for the French secret service. She was in love with McGarvey, and after the Moscow operation she had come to Washington with him.

“I don’t know,” McGarvey said.

“I’m not offering you an assignment,” Murphy said. “I’m offering you a job.”

“Doing what?”

“Deputy director of Operations.”

McGarvey had to laugh. “You have to be kidding.”

“You’re the perfect man for the job, Kirk,” Danielle said reasonably. “No one has your operational experience. And you say that you won’t take another field assignment.”

“I’m out,” McGarvey said. “And even if I wanted the job, which I don’t, my appointment would never make it through the Senate. I was a shooter. No one in their right mind would even consider me.” McGarvey looked at them. “I’m an anachronism, remember?”

“You have too much valuable experience to waste teaching Voltaire to a bunch of kids who couldn’t care less,” Murphy said.

McGarvey looked out the bullet-proof windows behind the general’s desk. Outside was freedom from knowing the frightening secret of just how fragile the world really was. In here they waged a constant battle that never seemed to end. And it was up to the deputy director of Operations to see that the war was fought efficiently in a way that seemed to make the most sense. With the most honor.

That had never seemed clearer than during the Rick Ames affair. Fifteen or twenty good people had been killed because no one inside this building, the deputy director of Operations included, had bothered to ask the most obvious question: How could Ames afford an eight-hundred-thousand-dollar house, and thirty thousand a month in credit card bills on a salary of fifty or sixty thousand?

Ames had sold out to the Russians, and every agent he’d identified had been murdered. Blood had been shed. A river of blood because of bullshit, timidity and indifference. And still the battle raged on.

He studied the general’s eyes. Everything was different now. Less clear than it had been during the Cold War when we knew who our enemy was. We’d been the good guys and the Russians bad. But times had changed. Now just about everyone was a potential enemy. No place was truly safe; not New York City, not Oklahoma City, not Waco.

So who was left to fight the battles, McGarvey asked himself. The incompetents? If that were the case then we’d already lost.

“I’ll listen.”

“Good,” Murphy said, and he seemed genuinely relieved, as did the others.

Paterson took a form from a file folder. “Before we get started we’d like you to sign this. Outlines your responsibilities to the information you’ll be given this morning. Most of it is classified top secret or above.”

McGarvey signed the document without reading it and handed it back. A brief look of annoyance crossed the general counsel’s face.

“What’s going on in the Sea of Japan that has you worried enough to offer me Ryan’s old job? If it’s Japan, you have a lot of good people in this building who know more about them than I do.”

“Your name was put up two months ago,” Danielle said. “But the decision was to give you five or six months to catch your breath after Moscow.” Danielle shrugged apologetically.

“There was an underground nuclear explosion in North Korea twelve hours ago,” Murphy said. “It was at one of their abandoned nuclear power stations on a deserted section of their east coast. A place called Kimch’aek.”

“Was it a test, like India’s and Pakistan’s?”

“That’s how it’s going to play when the story breaks later today. The White House is going to stonewall it, at least for the time being, because frankly nobody knows what the hell to do. At the very least calling it an underground test is going to put a lot of pressure on Kim Jong-Il.”

“The Japanese are already screaming for help,” Doyle said. His mood was brittle. “They want us to move the Seventh Fleet into the Sea of Japan as a show of force.”

McGarvey watched the interplay between them. “If it wasn’t a test, what was it?”

“The North Koreans were using the place to stockpile what we believe were five working bombs. Three days ago they started moving something out of there in a big hurry, and then this happened.” The general looked tired. “There were North Korean soldiers there, and civilian technicians, when the blast occurred. Maybe as many as two hundred of them.”

“An accident?”

The general shook his head. “The skipper of one of our Seawolf submarines on patrol in the area spotted a Japanese MSDF submarine about five miles off the coast, possibily communicating with someone in the power station. Could be they sent a team ashore to verify what the North Koreans were storing there.”

“Either that or it was a kamikaze team,” Doyle said.

“If it had been a test, Pyongyang would have made a statement by now,” Danielle put in glumly. “It’s not something Kim Jong-Il would sit on.”

“The Seawolf radioed back that the Japanese submarine was damaged in the blast and sent up an emergency beacon. The Japanese are sending rescue units.”

“Which the North Koreans will try to block,” McGarvey said. He thought that he’d lost his capacity for surprise. But he wasn’t so sure now.

“It gets worse,” Murphy said. He looked as if he hadn’t slept in a week. “Within two hours of the explosion, a pair of Chinese Han class nuclear submarines were spotted leaving the inlet at Qingdao and heading into the Yellow Sea.”

“Not much of a threat. They’re rust buckets.”

“It’s more of a political statement, I should think,” Danielle said.

“Are we going to send the Seventh Fleet out there?”

“The President is considering it,” Murphy said after a brief hesitation. “But for the moment the bulk of the fleet is still at Yokosuka. If we send them into the Sea of Japan, Kim Jong-Il will take it as a direct threat.”

“So what?” McGarvey asked. “He won’t attack us or Japan, he’s not that stupid. And sending the Seventh would be a clear message: Back off. Even the Chinese would stand down just like they did a few years ago when Taiwan held its elections. Nobody is going to start a shooting war over there. And North Korea has lost its nuclear weapons.”

“The explosion had an estimated yield of twenty kilotons,” Doyle said. “One bomb. We think they had five, four of which they’d managed to move out of there.”

“I don’t buy it, General,” McGarvey said. “They’re not going to start a war they couldn’t win.”

“Unless they’re nudged,” Doyle said. He took a couple of photographs from a folder and handed them to McGarvey. “Do you recognize either of these men?”

Both pictures were of the same two old men seated across from each other in what appeared to be a Japanese teahouse garden. They were dressed in expensive-looking business suits. In one photograph a geisha girl was serving them something, and in the second picture she was gone.

McGarvey looked up. “Should I know them?”

“The man on the left is Hiroshi Kabayashi, who controls the Bank of Kobe. The other man is Shin Hironaka, the former director general of defense. They were part of the group that, along with Sokichi Kamiya, nearly brought down the government two years ago, and damned near got us in an all-out shooting war with Japan.”

“I thought they were in jail.”

“These pictures were taken ten days ago in Nagasaki,” Doyle said. “About thirty miles south of the Japanese navy base at Sasebo where we think the disabled submarine came from.”

McGarvey studied the photographs, a flood of memories coming back to him. The old men looked happy, even confident. Conspirators again, or just two old friends having tea?

“They call themselves superpatriots,” Doyle said. “Unfortunately that’s about all we’ve found out about them so far.”

“Who’s running operations these days?”

“Dick Adkins,” Murphy said. “He’s a good man, but he doesn’t have your operational experience. Something he himself admits. Dick recommended that you be offered the job, and I agreed with him. We all did.”

McGarvey handed the photographs back to Doyle.

“Well?” Murphy asked.

“Convince the President to get Seventh Fleet out of Tokyo Bay, then have Tokyo station find these guys, kidnap them if need be, and find out what’s going on. But don’t screw around. It looks as if you don’t have much time.”

“I meant the job offer.”

“I’ll think about it,” McGarvey said.

“Goddammit,” Doyle said.

“I said I’ll think about it, Tommy.”

Murphy nodded after a moment. “Very well. But as you say, we don’t have much time, so don’t take too long.”

“I won’t,” McGarvey said.

Doyle got to his feet. “I’ll take you downstairs.”

Murphy stopped McGarvey at the door. “The DO is in shambles, Kirk. It’s gotten beyond Dick’s control. We need someone like you to put it back together.” The general ran a hand across his eyes. “It was Ryan.”

There were a dozen things McGarvey could have said, but he held his reply in check. Howard Ryan had hurt a lot of good people because of Murphy’s blind devotion to expediency. The former DDO had been a wizard on the Hill. The CIA had been run into the ground under his leadership, but relations with Congress had risen to an all-time high.

Elizabeth McGarvey crossed the creek fifty yards behind the operational exercise area and, keeping a narrow strip of woods between her and the edge of the confidence course, raced to the rear of a complex of concrete bunkers. She held up against the bole of a large tree to catch her breath and tuck her medium blond hair in her fatigue cap. The noon sun was behind her so that anyone looking her way would be partially blinded.

She was a pretty woman of twenty-three with intelligent green eyes, an oval face with high, round cheekbones and a slender figure hidden by a black jumpsuit. She exuded self-confidence. Her mother, who came from old West Virginia money, and her father, who had been a field officer with the Central Intelligence Agency before she was born, were divorced. Because of the separation, her parents had overcompensated with love and permissiveness so that she was spoiled. She was used to making decisions for herself.

By now the instructors would be wondering where she had gotten herself to. The object of this exercise was for her to approach the bunkers, take out the two guards, get inside, kill the commandant, steal his briefcase and get back out to the ops center in the safe zone.

But it was a trap. They knew which direction she was supposed to be coming from. She’d found that out last night by breaking into the operation officer’s computer.

Stepping out from behind the tree, she ran the last twenty-five yards down a gently sloping grassy field to the featureless back wall of the west building.

In the distance she could hear the rattle of small arms fire on the range and the crump of an explosion, then another. She loved this, every minute of it. Her mother warned that if she wanted to attract a man she would have to exchange her war paint for makeup. But unless she found a man like her father, she didn’t care.

At the end of the bunker she took a quick look around the corner. Two guards were hunched down behind a sandbag barrier. Impossible to take both of them out before an alarm was sounded.

Change the rules. She’d read her father’s record; he’d never played by any rules except his own. It was one of the reasons he’d survived in the field for so long.

She laid her head against the rough wall for a few moments, going over everything she’d learned from the CIA field officer trainers for the past three months since Moscow. A wicked smile finally curled her lips. When all else failed, try the unexpected. She could almost hear her father saying something like that.

Checking her paintball pistol to make sure that it was ready to fire, she stuffed it in the web belt at the small of her back, then unzippered the top of her jumpsuit and pulled it down around her waist, making sure that she could still reach her gun.

She pulled off her sports bra, stuffed it in a pocket, took a deep breath, then let out a shriek and leaped around the corner.

The two guards, caught completely by surprise, turned toward her, their mouths dropping open as she leaped around like a crazy woman, frantically slapping her arms and shoulders and back.

“Ants!” she screamed desperately. “Ants! Help me, I’m on fire!”

Both men leaped over the sandbag barrier and came running, their paintball rifles slung over their shoulders. They were not much older than she was, both of them ex-Green Berets.

When they got within five feet, Elizabeth pulled out her pistol and shot both of them in the chest, bright orange paint covering their fatigue shirts, stopping them in their tracks.

“Shit,” said the guard whose name tag read Jones, falling back.

“Sorry, gentlemen, but you’re dead,” she told them sweetly, as she holstered her pistol. “Now, if you’ll be so good as to lie down, with your heads turned, I’ll get dressed.”

Jones laughed. “I may be dead, ma’am, but I’ll be damned if I’ll turn around.”

The other instructor, named Gomez, was laughing too. He shook his head. “They warned us that you might try something cute.”

Elizabeth put her bra on and pulled up her jumpsuit top and rezippered it. “Macho pigs,” she said brightly, pulling out her pistol again.

“Yes, ma’am,” Jones happily agreed.

The flag of Iraq flapped gently in the light breeze above the entryway as Elizabeth ducked inside. She waited a full minute for her eyes to adjust to the relative darkness before sprinting down the narrow corridor. She flattened herself against the wall next to the commandant’s door, then rolled left, kicked it open and burst into the small office, sweeping her gun left to right.

The briefcase sat in plain sight on top of the unoccupied desk and even before Don Billings, the instructor playing the role of the commandant, stepped out from behind the door and wrapped his arms around her, she realized her mistake.

For an instant she tried to struggle free, but then willed her body to go limp in his arms. “Dammit,” she said softly.

“Nice try, McGarvey, but I was watching from up front,” Billings drawled. He was from Memphis, and the first time she sat in on one of his classes she’d pegged him as a smarmy, oily bastard. His hands were on her breasts. “Nice,” he said in her ear.

She slowly turned in his arms and raised her face to his, her lips parted in a seductive smile. “I’m glad you approve,” she told him, her voice husky.

He started to kiss her, when she grabbed his testicles and squeezed hard. His face turned white and he reared back on his tiptoes.

“Nice balls,” she said, then she let go, stepped back and shot him in the chest at point-blank range. “You’re dead.”

Billings was enraged. “Fuck,” he said through clenched teeth.

“Keep your hands to yourself, Mr. Billings,” she said. “Next time I won’t be so gentle.”

“This exercise is over.”

“Tell it to your wife.”

“Goddammit, your approach wasn’t in the scenario.”

Elizabeth laughed, the look on his face was rich. “Neither was yours.”

She grabbed the briefcase, slipped out of the office, waved merrily at the two guards, then made her way back across the creek. It was Friday, the late-summer weather beautiful, and as she walked she sang a little French song her father had taught her on one of his infrequent visits when she was a young girl, the day and nearly everything about her life just now absolutely perfect.

Kirk McGarvey parted the venetian blinds in the ops officer’s office as Liz marched up the hill, her shoulders back, the briefcase in her left hand, the paintball pistol in her right as if she were willing and able to take on the world. His heart swelled with pride. The failure rate for the exercise she’d just successfully completed was almost one hundred percent.

“She’s on her way up,” he said, turning back to the ops officer.

Paul Isaacson, a big, red-faced Swede originally from Minnesota, laughed. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

“I want you to flunk her out, Paul. I want her out of here as soon as possible.”

“You’re kidding, right?” Isaacson said seriously.

“No, I’m not.” There was a flutter in McGarvey’s gut just thinking about her back in the field.

“I can understand your reason. My own daughter, Chrissy, is about her age. But hell, Kirk, she’d find a way around me, just like she did this morning.” He shook his head. “She’s not the kind to take a simple no for an answer. Anyway, I’m not going to do your dirty work for you. If you want her out, you can fire her when you take over the DO.”

McGarvey looked sharply at him. “Where the hell did you hear that?”

“The word’s out,” Isaacson said. He and McGarvey went way back together. Though Isaacson had never wanted to be chief of station, he’d handled just about every foreign desk at Langley. In one way or another he’d been involved in almost every assignment McGarvey had ever been given. For the past five years he’d been in charge of training the new kids to survive the first couple of crucial years in the field. He’d not lost any of them because those who’d graduated under his tutelage were ready. And he still had an inside track at Langley for the simple reason that he’d trained half of the current staff in Operations, and the other half wished he had. He heard things.

“Well, I told the general no.”

“Right,” Isaacson said. He wasn’t convinced. “Are you taking Liz for the weekend?”

“Unless her class is going to be busy.”

“Hell week doesn’t start until the twenty-fifth, so we’re taking it easy on them right now.” He popped a videocassette out of the recorder behind his desk and gave it to McGarvey. “Her only real mistake was not checking for hidden cameras.”

McGarvey chuckled. “She’s not going to be happy.”

“What about Don Billings? He was way out of line, but if he’d really been an Iraqi commandant it would have been worse.”

“They’re even. And I expect he’ll think twice the next time he wants to grope a woman.”

Isaacson gave McGarvey a long appraising look. “Working behind a desk would be different than being out in the field. You’d have to get used to the idea of sending green kids out there, who in your estimation wouldn’t know how to wipe their own noses. Might be some tough calls.” He glanced toward the window. “But it’d be a shame to throw away your experience, even if the Company has treated you like shit. I know a lot of guys over there who’d like to see you take the job. They’d feel more comfortable than they did under Ryan.”

“I’ll get her back to you Sunday night.”

“Do that,” Isaacson said. “But give her a chance, Kirk. You had yours, don’t take this one away from her.”

“Maybe she’d be one of the green kids I’d have to send out.”

“Maybe,” Isaacson said. “That’s the whole point of this place.”

McGarvey nodded, then headed out to where his daughter was perched on top of a picnic table with several of her classmates, all of them young men who eagerly hung on everything she was saying. He was even more unsettled than he had been in Murphy’s office this morning.

It took Liz less than twenty minutes to shower, change clothes and pack a few things, then meet her father outside the barracks where he was smoking a cigarette. It was a few minutes before one, and the Farm was already winding down for the weekend. She looked bright and innocent in a crisp white cotton blouse, short khaki skirt and sandals, her hair pulled back and still damp.

“Are we having dinner with Jacqueline tonight?” she asked, tossing her bag in the backseat. She had a bittersweet look on her face.

“We’re meeting her for drinks at Jake’s at four, so we’re going to have to hustle,” McGarvey said. “Do you know something that I don’t?”

“Just girl talk,” she said mysteriously. “But I’ll let her tell you.” She gave her father a look that said it would be totally useless for him to try to pry anything else out of her.

The Farm was in Camp Perry off Interstate 64 outside of Williamsburg, about 150 miles south of Washington. Traffic was moderately heavy but moved well.

When they were away McGarvey gave his daughter the videocassette. “Paul gave this to me. Presumably it’s the only copy.”

“What is it?”

“You might want to take a look and then get rid of it. But don’t let your mother see it.”

Sudden understanding dawned on her face and she looked from the tape to her father. “Hidden cameras?”

“All over the place.”

A rueful smile curled her lips. “Did you see it? Everything?”

McGarvey nodded. “They’re going to come down on you pretty hard at Monday’s debriefing.”

“I got the briefcase, Daddy,” she retorted defiantly.

“If that had really been Iraq you wouldn’t have made it.”

“I gave them a distraction.”

McGarvey had to laugh. “One that’s going to make the rounds this weekend.”

“Billings is a prick.”

“He’s one of your primary instructors, and you’ve still got a lot to learn from him if you’ll keep your mouth shut long enough to listen.”

Liz gave her father an appraising, manipulative look that McGarvey caught. He’d spanked her once when she was a little girl for the same thing. “I thought you wanted me out,” she said.

“Don’t play games, Liz. And don’t count on the operational experience you got in France and Moscow, because you didn’t do such a hot job. Nearly got yourself killed, as a matter of fact.”

She lowered her eyes. “I know, Daddy.”

He wanted to take her in his arms, cradle her, protect her. But she was too big for that now. It was something he should have done years ago, but never had. “I want you to get out of the Company, or at least out of the DO. But if you’re going to do a thing, then do it right.”

“I know,” she said, looking up. “I’m a McGarvey.”

“Don’t forget it,” McGarvey said, trying to be stern.

She smiled warmly. “Never happen.”

Jake’s was a trendy new sidewalk cafe on Canal Street much frequented by the younger set of Washington’s movers and shakers. Traffic was heavy by the time McGarvey and his daughter arrived a few minutes before four. They found a parking place a block away and walked back to the crowded restaurant.

Liz hadn’t said anything else about Jacqueline, but it hadn’t been difficult to figure out what was going on from her odd mood. The two of them had been doing a lot of talking over the past couple of weeks. Jacqueline had even driven down to Williamsburg to take Liz to dinner. And at the odd moment Mac’s old teaching position at Delaware’s Milford College had come up. Jacqueline had even reread his partially finished book on Voltaire and had made a few suggestions, from a Frenchwoman’s perspective.

They had to wait for the light to change before they could cross at the corner. Jacqueline was seated at a sidewalk table near the entrance, and when she spotted them she waved gaily. She was wearing the pale blue Hermés scarf McGarvey had given her in Paris. It was like a wedding ring to her, a mark of possession.

Time finally to settle down? he asked himself, crossing the street. He was afraid of it.

She was Mediterranean classic. With a pretty oval face, dark eyes, a flawless olive complexion and rich, sensuous lips. She had the earthy look of Sophia Loren. Like the actress, she was aging beautifully, and would continue to do so. But whatever else she was besides that, she was an intelligent and very capable French secret service officer.

She raised her face to him, and McGarvey kissed her before he sat down.

“Liz has a secret which she refuses to share with me,” McGarvey said. “Girl talk.”

Elizabeth pecked Jacqueline on the cheek, then rolled her eyes. “I’m going to the ladies’ room. Be back in five.” She gave her father a significant look then was gone.

“She’s a wonderful girl,” Jacqueline said, watching her thread her way between the tables. She turned back. “Like you in many ways.”

“Stubborn.”

Jacqueline nodded. “And a little bit difficult.” She averted her eyes. “Lonely.”

“That’s one of the reasons I want her to get out of the business.”

“It won’t happen unless she wants it. I don’t think even you could force her to leave.”

The waiter came. Jacqueline was drinking a kir, and she ordered another. McGarvey ordered a cognac neat; he figured he was going to need it.

“She’s been talking about her mother. What does she have to say about all this?”

“Katy doesn’t want her to follow in my footsteps.”

“Neither would I, if I were her mother,” Jacqueline said.

McGarvey studied her troubled face. He’d been against her coming back to Washington with him. There were still too many issues unresolved from his past. Dangerous issues which could hurt her. But she wouldn’t listen to him, or to her control officer in Paris. She’d resigned, but the DGSE had simply placed her on an extended leave of absence.

“Is that what these past couple of weeks have been all about, Jacqueline?” he asked. “You want me to get out of the business and take my old job at Milford? Finish the book? The two of us settle down in a little cottage by the Chesapeake? Happy forever after?”

His remark hurt her, which is what he’d intended, because he was frightened again for her safety. “You’re a real shit,” she flared, suddenly angry, her French accent thicker than usual. “Who do you think you are, Candide? Wandering through life an innocent. No blood ever sticks to your hands?” She shook her head in frustration. “Merde. Who made you God anyway? Judge, juror, executioner? You kill anyone you want and nothing happens to you. It slides off your back because you’ve convinced yourself that what you’re doing makes for a better world. Well, killing never solved anything. Don’t you understand? Can’t you get that through your head? You can’t fix the world with a gun! Salopard!”

It was as if she had plunged a knife into his chest, directly into his beating heart. “Go back to Paris,” he said softly.

She said nothing, and he waited. When he’d lived in Lausanne, the Swiss police had sent Marta Fredricks to watch over him. Like Jacqueline she’d fallen in love with him, and like Jacqueline she’d followed him after a particularly bad assignment. It had gotten her killed. He was desperately afraid for Jacqueline. As he was for his daughter. The only one finally clear was his ex-wife, Kathleen. She was safe. It was one of the few constants in his life.

“I love you, Kirk,” Jacqueline finally said, reaching for him.

“I know,” McGarvey said. He kept his hands folded on the table in front of him.

Her face dropped again. “I must know if you have any feelings for me.”

“You want me to make a decision so you can tell it to Paris,” McGarvey said hurtfully. “So you can justify your decision not to return.”

Jacqueline was fighting back tears. This moment had been coming for a long time. “I want you to be safe.”

“You want me to marry you. But first I have to give you my word that I’m out of the business, permanently, otherwise you’d never be able to return to France, even for a visit.”

It was the reason for Liz’s bittersweet mood. She liked Jacqueline, but she still held the faint hope, almost a fairy-tale hope, that somehow her mother and father would get back together. If he married Jacqueline, Liz’s impossible dream would fade even farther into the background.

Jacqueline met his eyes and nodded.

“Return to Paris, Jacqueline,” he said. “You have a life back there, a home, roots, family. I can’t give any of that to you.”

“But I love you,” she said defiantly.

“That will fade,” McGarvey said, hating himself for what he was doing to her. But he’d known it would come to this from the beginning, and yet he’d been selfish enough, lonely enough, not to end it before it had begun.

Jacqueline studied his face for a very long time, her eyes filling. “It’s eating you alive, my darling,” she said very softly, almost a whisper. “Get out while you still can, if for no one’s sake except your own.”

She gathered her purse, got up and headed for the exit as Elizabeth returned from the bathroom.

“Jacqueline?” Liz called out.

McGarvey was about to turn back to his daughter, his mood dark, his emotions rubbed raw by what he had just done, when he noticed a black Mercedes E320 darting through traffic on Canal Street toward them at a high rate of speed and accelerating. There was a man in the front passenger seat and one in the backseat, the windows down. Assassins, something in his gut told him. They were meant for him. Somehow they knew that he would be seated outside this restaurant at this moment.

Jacqueline started to turn back at the same moment the Mercedes passed the restaurant entrance and the man in the backseat tossed something out the window.

“Bomb!” McGarvey shouted. He shoved the heavy wrought-iron patio table over on its side as he jumped up and reached for Elizabeth.

The package fell short at Jacqueline’s feet.

McGarvey caught Elizabeth’s wrist and dragged her to the floor as the bomb went off with a tremendous flash and bang, glass and metal fragments tearing through the fifty or sixty restaurant patrons who’d had no time to react. People screamed in terror and agony even as glass shards continued to fall around them.

The patio table McGarvey had pushed over had saved him from the brunt of the blast, which had taken out the front of the restaurant, the wrought-iron fence and striped awnings. Traffic had come to a complete halt, several cars nearest to the restaurant damaged by the explosion.

McGarvey raised up in time to see the Mercedes round the corner to the right on 31st Street, the wrong direction, he thought, if they were trying to get across the river on Key Bridge. They would have to double back on South Street.

Two police officers trailed by a civilian came running across the street. Jacqueline was gone, the spot where she’d been standing nothing but a smoking crater two feet deep.

“Oh God, Daddy?” Liz cried weakly and McGarvey turned to her.

Her right side from the waist up was a mass of blood and gashed flesh, glass sticking out of dozens of wounds, and a six-inch piece of smoking metal was jutting from her side just below her left armpit. She was looking up at him, her eyes wide.

“The bastards were after you,” she said through clenched teeth.

“Here!” McGarvey shouted. He was at the edge of panic. “Over here!”

“How’s Jacqueline—” Elizabeth tried to raise up.

“Take it easy, Liz.” McGarvey held her down. “Over here!” he shouted. “We need help!”

Elizabeth looked down at her wounds. “I’m okay, Daddy. Did they get away?”

The civilian reached them. “I’m a doctor,” he said, pushing McGarvey aside. “Over here,” he called to one of the cops carrying a first aid kit.

Elizabeth looked up into her father’s eyes. “Is Jacqueline dead?”

He nodded.

“Get the bastards.” She mouthed the words.

McGarvey was torn by indecision. Jacqueline was dead, his own flesh and blood lay gravely wounded at his feet and there was nothing he could do about it. But then a black rage rose up inside of him. Once again his little girl had been put in harm’s way because of him. This time the bastards had hurt her badly. They’d torn her body, shed her blood. But for a split second she would be dead like Jacqueline, her body torn into a million pieces of flesh and bone.

All of that from the instant of the explosion was less than thirty seconds. Already the doctor was opening the paramedics’ kit and was attending to Liz. Other people were coming to help.

McGarvey stepped back, Liz’s eyes still locked with his. She nodded and smiled grimly. “Go,” she whispered.

McGarvey turned and sprinted out of the restaurant, slipping and nearly falling on the glass and gore. He reached the street and raced toward Wisconsin Avenue, the opposite direction the killers had taken. At the corner, traffic had slowed, and in the distance he could hear sirens. Some people had gotten out of their cars to see what was happening.

The Mercedes was nowhere in sight. But it had to come back this way, because there was no other route out other than the ferry terminal under the freeway at the foot of Wisconsin Avenue. Unless it had made a U-turn on 31st Street, in which case he’d lost them already.

Taking out his pistol as he ran, he switched the safety off. A half block away, just before the canal bridge, he moved out into the street between parked cars. The farther away from the blast, the more normally traffic flowed. Most people a block away from the restaurant had no idea what had happened, except that a man with blood on his side and carrying a gun was running up Wisconsin Avenue.

Traffic parted as he crossed the bridge, and then the Mercedes was heading directly toward him.

McGarvey stepped into the middle of the street and raised his gun. People on the bridge stopped to stare, scarcely believing what they were witnessing.

“Get down!” McGarvey shouted at them. “Get down!”

The Mercedes accelerated directly toward him. McGarvey walked toward it, firing at the windshield, one measured shot at a time, like a bullfighter calmly walking into the charge of a two-ton animal bent on his destruction.

He could see the glass starring, then shattering. Fifty feet away the car suddenly swerved left and smashed into a bridge stanchion, then careened right, crossed both lanes and finally crashed into the concrete railing.

The front passenger door popped open and a slightly built Asian man dressed in a dark shirt and slacks leaped out. He had a pistol. McGarvey fired three shots, all of them catching the man in the chest, driving him backwards half into the car.

The driver was dead and the rear-seat passenger jumped out the other side. McGarvey crossed behind the car and fired one shot, missing as the man ducked down behind the fender. McGarvey’s gun was empty, the slide locked in the open position. Still moving around the back of the car, McGarvey ejected the spent magazine with one hand while pulling out a spare magazine from his pocket with his other. He rammed it home and released the ejector slide as the second man suddenly leaped up, smashing a karate blow to McGarvey’s right collarbone, making him drop the gun, his arm and hand instantly numb.

He parried the Asian’s next blow with his left forearm, and before the killer could come around to the right, McGarvey hooked his foot behind the man’s right ankle, pulling him completely off balance and pitching him backward to the pavement.

Before he could recover, McGarvey dropped down hard, his knee in the man’s groin, his forefinger and middle finger in the man’s eyes.

“Who sent you?” McGarvey demanded, the blackness threatening to block out all sanity. He couldn’t see anything but his daughter’s bloody body and the smoking crater where Jacqueline had been standing.

The man clapped his hands against the sides of McGarvey’s head, a fierce pain shooting through his ears into his skull. McGarvey drove his fingers through the killer’s eyes, deep into the man’s skull, then picked his head up by the eye sockets, blood spurting out, and slammed his head against the pavement, once, twice, a third time until the man’s body went limp.

“Christ!” McGarvey pulled his bloody hand away, the black rage slowly dissipating. People at the sides of the street looked at him in horror. Traffic had backed up on both sides of the canal bridge, and sirens were coming from all over the city. He wiped his hand on the dead man’s shirt front. He’d gone berserk, completely out of control. No force on earth could have stopped him from destroying the three men who’d hurt his child. Now nothing mattered except getting back to her.

He stumbled backward off the killer’s body, retrieved his gun and holstered it at the small of his back as he headed back to the restaurant.

The first of the police units were arriving at the canal bridge as McGarvey rounded the corner onto Canal Street into a scene of utter bedlam. Dozens of ambulances, fire-rescue units and police cars had already arrived, and others were coming in as the first of the wounded were being taken away. A pall of smoke and dust still hung in the air. Glass littered the entire street from shop and office windows that had been blown out by the blast. People were everywhere, some of them rescue workers, onlookers gawking at the carnage and others affected by the explosion wandering around in a daze.

“Hey, you can’t go in there,” a cop shouted as McGarvey pushed his way through the crowd.

“My daughter is in there,” McGarvey said.

“She’ll be okay, buddy, people are taking care of it.” The cop tried to steer McGarvey toward one of the paramedic trucks, but McGarvey pulled away.

“My daughter’s in there,” he repeated himself, and he shoved the cop aside. “She’s hurt. I’m going to her, okay?”

The cop saw something dangerous in McGarvey’s eyes, and he backed down. “Suit yourself.” He turned away.

Elizabeth, strapped onto an ambulance gurney, was just being wheeled out of the devastated remains of the restaurant as McGarvey reached the spot where the exit had been. She was unconscious, her face pale, her blond hair matted with blood.

“She’s my daughter. Where are you taking her?” McGarvey asked the paramedics.

“Columbia.”

“You’re taking her to Georgetown. It’s almost as close and it’s better,” McGarvey said. He was having trouble focusing.

“We don’t have time to argue—”

“We’re going to Georgetown, and I’m coming with you. Do you fucking understand what I’m saying?”

The attendant opened his mouth to argue, but then nodded. “Yes, sir,” he said. “Georgetown.”

TWO

Ever since he was a boy growing up in war-torn Formosa at the end of World War II, Joseph Lee had wanted to make his mark on the world. Dressing in the Lincoln bedroom for cocktails with President Lindsay and the boorish first lady, his dream was nearing fruition. His ambition then, as now, was the same as the Japanese goal in the thirties: an East-Asian co-prosperity sphere. One hemisphere, one power. He was one of its new architects, and he would be one of its major players.

His San Francisco-born wife, Miriam, came from the bathroom as he struggled with his bow tie in the gilded mirror above the dresser.

“You’re all thumbs,” she said, her voice and movements like a little bird’s. At five feet she was only four inches shorter than her husband. In Taiwan, where they maintained one of their half-dozen homes, they were normal-sized. But here, in the land of giants, and especially next to President Lindsay, whom the press described as “Lincolnesque,” they were practically midgets. She was fond of telling her husband this as often as he would listen to her. His response was always the same: A true measure of people is their net worth in assets, influence and friends, not in inches above the soles of their shoes.

“We treat our guests considerably better than this,” he said. The bedroom was shabby.

“But this is the White House,” she replied, finishing with his tie. She looked up into his face. “I’m just so darn proud of you, Joseph. Not even an American citizen and you have brought me here like this.” She let her eyes stray around the room with obvious happiness. “My parents would have been so proud.”

Lee cracked a narrow, thin-lipped smile. “So would mine,” he said. “But for different reasons.”

She gave her husband a shrewd look. “They wanted to have this by force. You’ve gotten it by finesse.”

Outwardly his wife was a diffident Chinese-American of the old school. In actuality she was as astute in business as her husband, and she helped manage their nearly four-billion-dollar ventures with an iron fist. After thirty-five years of childless marriage they were extensions of each other.

It was a few minutes before six when he put on his tuxedo jacket and helped his wife with the corsage the staff had sent up an hour ago. The house was shopworn, but the service under this administration was good.

“What do you suppose they’ll want to talk about?” his wife asked. “Money for the vice president’s campaign?”

“I would think they’ll want to know our reaction to the business in North Korea.”

“It’s not made the news yet.”

“That won’t last much longer.”

Her eyes crinkled at the corners, as they did when she was figuring the odds. Her favorite event was the Hong Kong horse racing season, from which she always came away a big winner. “There could be an advantage to be gained by the correct timing.”

“Or disadvantage,” Joseph Lee said.

“Yes, that too, but profit can be found in the most unlikely of places.” She let her eyes stray around the bedroom again, mentally rearranging, redecorating. “I’ll speak with Mrs. Lindsay. It’s time that I get to know her.” She smiled. “Waterloo, Iowa. What a strange place to be from.”

McGarvey cleaned up and went down to the hospital cafeteria a few minutes after ten, unable to get the vision of what he had done on the bridge out of his mind. The few people seated at the tables did not object when he switched off the television, though the networks were running specials on the terrorist attack. Fifty-eight people had been hurt, and eighteen had been killed. But it would be days, perhaps weeks before all the bodies were identified. Some of them had been so badly torn apart it would take DNA analysis to make sure who they were.

Jacqueline was dead, and there wasn’t a thing he could do about it. Nor could he turn back the clock on his daughter’s injuries because that would have taken him all the way back to the day he’d joined the CIA.

He got a cup of coffee and went to a corner table. His hand shook a little. He’d been close to death before, but this time the people he’d most wanted to protect had gotten hurt despite his best efforts. He hadn’t been good enough, fast enough, and in the end he had lost all control. Nothing had mattered to him on that bridge except destroying the monsters. He lowered his head and closed his eyes, a deep depression threatening to block out his sanity. Three more dead men and a city street filled with broken glass and blood. God almighty, when would it stop?

He looked up as the chief surgeon Dr. Edwin Magnuson, still dressed in his scrubs, came in, spotted McGarvey and walked over. He was in his forties, tall and heavily built. He looked tired but satisfied.

“Your daughter is going to be fine,” he said. “It’ll be some time before she gets back to one hundred percent, but it’ll happen.”

McGarvey let out his pent-up breath, the veil of depression lifting a little. “Thank you,” he said. “May I see her?”

“I’m keeping her in the ICU at least through tonight, so I want you to wait until we move her.” The doctor gave him a serious smile. “There’s not a whole hell of a lot you can do for her. She’ll be fine. She just needs time to heal.”

The relief was sweet. “Will there be any permanent damage? Any disability?”

“Too early to say, but I think she’ll come out of this with nothing more than some scars, which a competent plastic surgeon can all but eliminate. I’ll give you the name of a colleague of mine. One of the best in the business.”

“How are the others?”

A dark look crossed the doctor’s face. “Let’s just say that your daughter is a lucky young woman to be alive and back in one piece.”

The vise around McGarvey’s heart closed again. He had almost lost her twice in three months, but now that he knew his daughter was going to be okay he came back to Jacqueline. There was nothing left of her to repair. What pieces they found would probably fit in a very small rubberized bag for transport back to Paris.

McGarvey lowered his head, not sure if he wanted to weep or lash out at somebody or something. The killers were dead, but they had been directed by someone.

“Time for you to get some rest,” the doctor said sympathetically. “You look as if you could use it.”

“You’re right,” McGarvey mumbled, but there wasn’t going to be much time for rest now. Or for Milford and his job as a teacher, or for the book on Voltaire Jacqueline had wanted him to finish. No time even to mourn Jacqueline, no time to walk away from a twenty-five-year history that had once again caught up with him.

Once Liz had been stabilized and taken into the operating room McGarvey had telephoned his ex-wife at her Chevy Chase home, but she wasn’t there, nor did the message on her answering machine say where she was or how long she’d be gone. He left a message for her to call the hospital as soon as possible. It was all he could do for the moment, all he was prepared to do. He needed to work this out for himself first.

Meeting with the general at Langley bothered him more than he wanted to admit. And seeing Liz at the Farm hadn’t done much for his already morose mood either. He had gone over the sequence of events a dozen times, looking for something, anything that might give him a clearer understanding. It was possible that the attack has been nothing more than a random act of terrorism. Many of Washington’s brightest and best could have been expected to be there at that moment. He wanted to believe that scenario with all of his heart, because it was the least complicated for him. But he was having trouble with the timing. And with the fact the killers had been Asians.

Too many coincidences.

Something was floating around at the back of his head, some memory, some connection, something he should know that would give a reason for this afternoon’s attack. Something to make sense of. Something he could understand. If it was there, it would come, he thought.

When he looked up the doctor was gone, and two men in rumpled suits were coming toward him. Cops, he mentally catalogued them. They had the look. Probably federal.

“Mr. Kirk McGarvey?” the taller of the two asked. He was very tall and fit, in his thirties with short hair and wire-rimmed glasses. His partner, who was almost as tall, but with gray hair and wise eyes, was probably in his fifties and looked like an aging street thug or Teamsters boss. He stood back and to the left.

“Who are you?”

The cop took out his ID. “I’m Special Agent Bob Salmon. Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

The other cop held out his ID, a dangerous look on his face. He held himself like a boxer. “Thomas Kosiak,” he said. “You McGarvey?”

“What can I do for you?”

“We asked if your name is McGarvey,” Kosiak said.

“Yes, it is. What do you want?”

“You’re coming with us.”

“My daughter just came off the operating table, and I still haven’t got in contact with her mother,” McGarvey said. He knew what they wanted.

Kosiak unbuttoned his suit coat.

“We’d like to ask you about the bombing this afternoon,” Salmon said. “Several witnesses place you at the scene.”

“I was there.”

“It doesn’t look as if you took a hit,” Kosiak said. “You were lucky.” His eyes tightened. “Get to your feet.”

“Am I being charged with something?”

“Not yet,” Salmon said. “Let’s go.”

“Give me your card, and I’ll call you in the morning after my daughter wakes up,” McGarvey said. The situation was accelerating, and he didn’t want it to happen. But he wanted to stay at the hospital until he talked to Katy. He didn’t want Liz to be alone.

“Mr. McGarvey, believe me when I say that we do not want to use force unless we have to,” Salmon said, his voice level. “But you are coming with us one way or the other.” Salmon was respectful, and Kosiak was wary.

“What’s it going to be?” Kosiak asked.

McGarvey finished his coffee and got to his feet. There was no doubt that they had placed him on the Canal Bridge, and there were going to be a lot of questions he was going to have to answer. He withdrew his gun, ejected the magazine, cycled the live round out of the chamber, reloaded it in the magazine and handed the gun and clip to Salmon who sniffed the barrel.

“This gun has been fired recently.”

“Yes, it has.”

They arrived at 10:45 P.M. McGarvey was taken directly upstairs to a small fourth-floor conference room, with space enough for only ten people around a mahogany table. There were no windows in the solemn, no-nonsense room. The drive over had been in silence, giving McGarvey time to work out his options. Foremost among them was that he needed his freedom if he was going to find out who tossed the bomb, and why. He was going to be tied up here answering questions, and there would be a CIA Internal Affairs investigation into why the man they’d proposed as DDO had killed three men in broad daylight in front of a dozen witnesses. They weren’t going to buy a father’s rage. He was a trained intelligence officer who should have been in better control of himself and the situation. But time was critical, and whatever it took he had to get out of here.

He closed his eyes and he could see the bright flash, feel the concussion, smell the burned Semtex, hear the screams, the jingle of falling glass, and see the look of agony on his daughter’s face. Christ, it was happening all over again. He was unable to protect the people he loved, and now it was another link in the heavy chain that he had to drag with him.

They’d parked in the underground garage, and after they signed in, rode up in an elevator, the building very quiet. Salmon brought in a carafe of coffee and several mugs, then laid out several ruled pads and a small tape recorder.

They were joined by a third man, well dressed, perhaps in his early forties, whom McGarvey took to be a senior agent or division head. Salmon and Kosiak were deferent toward him.

He sat across the table from McGarvey, laid a file folder down and switched on the tape recorder.

“I’m Fred Rudolph, assistant director of the Bureau’s Special Investigative Division. Has it been explained why you’ve been brought here for questioning?”

“No,” McGarvey said.

“Have your rights been read to you?”

“I’ll waive them.”

“State your name and current address for the record.”

He’d rented a small apartment in Georgetown a dozen blocks from the sidewalk cafe. He gave them that address.

“Are you aware that charges may be brought against you depending on the outcome of our investigation and this interview?”

“What charges?”

“Three counts of murder,” Rudolph said, looking directly at McGarvey.

He nodded. “They tossed the bomb.”

Rudolph’s lips pursed. “You admit it?”

“They were trying to get away,” McGarvey said. “I had to take out the driver, and after that it was self-defense. Believe me, I didn’t want it to happen that way.”

“The last one was quite a mess,” Rudolph said dryly. “Witnesses said you went berserk.”

“I shouted for everybody to get down.”

“They said that too.” Rudolph glanced at the other two agents.

“How’d you know they’d be coming up Wisconsin Avenue?” Kosiak asked.

“It was the only way out. After they tossed the bomb they went the wrong way on Thirty-first. It was a dead end, so they had to double back.”

“Let me get this straight. You witnessed the bombing?” Rudolph asked.

“I was in the restaurant, and I saw the car coming.”

“That’s what we figured. But how is it that you managed to get out of there without an injury?”

“I saw what was about to happen, shoved over a table and pulled my daughter to the floor.”

“Saved yourself and your daughter, but no one else,” Kosiak said with a smirk. It was all McGarvey could do to keep from going across the table after him.

“There wasn’t much time to do anything else,” McGarvey said, holding his temper in check. His nerves were rubbed raw.

“But you did look up in time to see which direction the terrorists took,” Kosiak said. “Then you ran out, leaving your daughter and a lot of other seriously injured people to bleed to death on their own.”

“A doctor and a couple of cops came from across the street. They were more qualified than me to help the wounded,” McGarvey said.

Rudolph and the others exchanged glances, and he checked something in his file. “Where are you working now, Mr. McGarvey?”

“I’m a teacher. Milford College, in Delaware.”

“That must be quite a school,” Rudolph said. “Are all the teachers down there armed and dangerous like you?”

McGarvey didn’t answer.

“Did you know those men?” Salmon asked. “The guys you took out on the bridge?”

“Never saw them before.”

“The car was rented yesterday in Baltimore, on a valid D.C. driver’s license with a gold Visa. But there’s no such name or address. Same with the ID on the other two men, valid but nonexistent names and addresses. Does that ring a bell?”

“It’s more sophisticated than your ordinary terrorist,” McGarvey said, his thoughts racing ahead.

“That’s what we thought,” Rudolph agreed. He shoved a file folder across to McGarvey. “What do you make of that?”

The folder contained a half-dozen photographs of McGarvey, some taken outside his apartment in Paris, and one showing him coming out of CIA headquarters in the Nissan Pathfinder. A single sheet of paper contained a partial transcript of a phone intercept from McGarvey’s apartment to Jake’s. Jacqueline had telephoned this morning to make the reservation.

“They knew you would be there,” Rudolph said. “We found this in their car. It would seem that the attack was meant for you. Can you tell us why?”

“No,” McGarvey said, and it was the truth, or almost the truth. The only thing that had changed for him in the past twenty-four hours leading to the attack was Murphy’s job offer. “Did you find the bug?”

Rudolph shook his head. “If there was one on your phone, or at the junction box under the street it was gone by the time we got to it this evening.” He held his peace for a few moments. “Do you still work for the CIA, Mr. McGarvey?”

“I don’t work for the CIA,” McGarvey said. “But they’ve offered me a job.”

“Doing what?”

“I can’t say.”

“Might this attack have something to do with that job offer?”

“I don’t know,” McGarvey said. There were no processing stamps on the back of the photographs, nothing on the single sheet of paper to give any clue who’d been watching him or why. The Paris pictures could have been taken anytime in the past year, but the photograph of him coming out of CIA headquarters had to have been taken in the past few days. He’d picked up the leased Nissan on Tuesday. And the transcript was from this morning. The list of those people who knew he was being offered the DDO wasn’t very long, but starting at the White House it contained some pretty powerful names. If, as Rudolph had asked, the attack was related to the job offer it raised some very disturbing possibilities. Like who had the most to lose if he became DDO? Was it something out of his past after all?

“What about their fingerprints? Have you found a match in your files?”

“Not yet. Our best guess is that we won’t. They’re probably foreign nationals. Possibly Japanese. We’re asking for their help.”

“Good luck,” McGarvey said.

“Goddammit, was this one of your fucking operations gone bad?” Kosiak yelled.

The agent’s outburst stunned them all.

“Get him out of here,” McGarvey said. He could feel his control slipping.

“What are you going to do, big man, pull my fucking face off?”

“The attack wasn’t my fault,” McGarvey said tiredly. “And I don’t want a confrontation with you. I’m not the enemy.”

“How the hell do we know that? You don’t have a recent background. No U.S. driver’s license, no voter registration card, no gun permit. Hell, you haven’t even filed an income tax return, that we can find, for the past ten years. Who the hell are you?”

“I’ve lived in Europe for a long time.”

“You’re a fucking cowboy.”

“That’s enough,” Rudolph cautioned mildly enough to make McGarvey wonder if they were setting him up. Good cop, bad cop. Rudolph made a show of shutting off the tape recorder. “We’ll need a detailed statement from you, of course. But then the question will be what do we do with you?” He shook his head. “You’ve committed a number of crimes which must be answered for. Murder, working out of your jurisdiction, discharging a firearm for which you have no permit, leaving the scene of a crime, actually of two crimes, failure to fully cooperate with a federal investigation.”

“I want to know what happened as much as you do,” McGarvey said.

“Tell me about Ms. Jacqueline Belleau. We found her purse. The French embassy is very interested in her. She was a friend?”

“Yes,” McGarvey said.

“Had you known her long? Was she a good friend?”

“We were close,” McGarvey said.

“You spooks stick together, is that it?” Kosiak said.

“Were you aware that Ms. Belleau was an employee of the French secret service?” Rudolph asked blandly. “The reason I mention this is because our counterespionage division has a file on her. There was an incident with a Canadian at the United Nations a few years ago. The boy committed suicide, and Ms. Belleau was asked to leave the United States. Were you aware of this?”

“Not all the details,” McGarvey replied cautiously. He had no idea where Rudolph was taking this.

“Yet three months ago she got a visa to return here apparently with no problem. Can you explain that?”

“No,” McGarvey said. “What’s your point?”

“Just this. There is an outstanding federal warrant for your arrest on unspecified charges. It was issued about four months ago. So far as we could tell the warrant was still valid this afternoon.” Rudolph’s eyes never left McGarvey’s. “Odd thing, but when I went to check on it for further details this evening, I was told that the warrant was a dead issue. It was no longer in force.”

McGarvey shrugged.

“Point is, Ms. Belleau’s name was also on that warrant,” Rudolph said. “Would you care to comment?”

“I can’t.”

“You and she were more than friends, you were working together on something that probably resulted in the attack at the restaurant this afternoon in which a lot of innocent people were hurt or killed.” Rudolph’s thin lips compressed. “That’s the part that gives me the most difficulty. Why didn’t you take your troubles elsewhere?”

“We weren’t working on anything,” McGarvey said.

“Well, the thing is, I don’t believe you,” Rudolph said. “The CIA is not cooperating with us on this one, so I’ve been given the authorization to take this investigation wherever it leads.” His beeper chirped, and he glanced at it then looked over at Salmon and Kosiak. “Take him downstairs and read him his rights this time. We’ll keep him here until morning when we can transfer him to the metropolitan police.” Rudolph got up. “I’m sorry about your friend, and about your daughter’s injuries, Mr. McGarvey. But there were other people at that restaurant whom you should have considered.” He gave McGarvey a last look then left.

“On your feet,” Kosiak said, with obvious relish.

McGarvey got up. “Do I get a phone call?”

“Depends on how well you behave yourself.” Kosiak turned McGarvey around and cuffed his hands behind his back.

He and Salmon led him back down the corridor to the elevator, where they had to wait for the car to come up from the first floor.

“Did the car rental agency in Baltimore say which one of the three rented the Mercedes?” McGarvey asked.

Kosiak gave him an elbow in the ribs.

“You’re going to learn to control your mouth, CIA boy,” Kosiak said.

The elevator door opened when Rudolph called to them from the end of the corridor. “Wait up.”

They turned as he and Tommy Doyle came down the hall. The FBI man was mad, and he seemed embarrassed. “Take the cuffs off him.”

“Sir?” Kosiak asked.

“I said take the handcuffs off Mr. McGarvey. There’s been a mistake.”

For a second Kosiak wasn’t going to comply, but then he hauled McGarvey around and did as he was told.

“Stop at the counter downstairs; your weapon will be returned to you,” Rudolph said.

“If you come up with anything, please let me know,” McGarvey said. “So far as I can, I’ll do the same for you.”

“I appreciate that,” Rudolph said tightly. “Now get the fuck out of here.”

As a matter of routine, deputy directors had a car and driver at their disposal, but Doyle drove his own, a BMW, this evening. He was shook up and he drove fast and erratically.

“Tell me that was a simple act of terrorism and you happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“They had a tap on my phone, so they knew Jacqueline and I would be there. The Bureau found a file with part of the phone intercept and a half-dozen pictures of me.”

“Did you recognize them?”

“No,” McGarvey said. “They might have been Japanese: at least that’s the Bureau’s thinking. No fingerprint records. All their IDs were good fakes. So it wasn’t a simple hit-and-run; they were professionals, they knew what they were doing, except for the one mistake.”

Friday night traffic was heavy on Constitution Avenue as they passed the Ellipse, the front of the White House illuminated in the distance.

“The general wants to see you as soon as possible,” Doyle said. “And IA has already opened a file.” He shook his head. “We got word from the hospital that Elizabeth is going to be fine.”

“Have a guard put on her room, would you, Tommy?”

“As soon as we heard, we sent a couple of people over from Security. They’ll stick around for the duration.” Doyle glanced over at McGarvey. “How about you?”

“I’ll be fine.” McGarvey hoped that they’d send someone else after him. One on one. He’d give almost anything for the opportunity to have a heart-to-heart chat with one of them. Next time he would be thinking a little straighter than he had on the Canal Bridge.

“Sorry about Ms. Belleau. From what we hear she was on the way out and took the brunt of it.”

“Yeah,” McGarvey said softly. He was reliving the exact moment the package dropped at her feet. He was on the deck with Liz, the table overturned, and Jacqueline was just turning around, her mouth opening as if she was about to say something. Then there was the flash and bang and she was gone.

“Do you want me to drop you off at your place?” Doyle asked. “You look as if you could use a couple hours sleep.”

“I need to get back to the hospital.”

Doyle shook his head. “What’s your take on it, Mac? Someone from one of your old operations gunning for you? The Japanese have no love for you, that’s for sure.”

“I hope it’s that simple.”

“Because if it isn’t, then someone wants you dead because of the DDO thing,” Doyle said. “And that would lead to some pretty heavy-duty places that none of us would care to go.”

“You’d better start putting together a list of everyone who knows I’m being put up for the job.”

“Won’t be much of a problem on our side of the river, but there’s no telling who on the President’s staff knows. They’re planning on ramrodding your name through the Senate, so there’re a few key people on the hill who already know. Lots of opportunity for a leak.”

“You only have to look for two factors. A connection to the Japanese, or to me. Could be something we missed during one of my past assignments.”

“I don’t understand,” Doyle said.

“If they know me well enough, they might guess I’d go through operations with a fine-toothed comb if I signed on as DDO. Could be we missed something the first time around that has them frightened now.”

“No telling what old wounds we’ll dig up,” Doyle said.

“Nobody’s closet is totally clean.”

“Throw a stick into a pack of dogs, and the one that yelps is the one that got hit.”

“Except some of these dogs have teeth, and they might bite.”

“Again,” McGarvey said.

“Right,” Doyle agreed morosely. “Again.” He glanced over at McGarvey. “Are you taking the job?”

“I don’t know.”

Dick Yemm from the Office of Security in the Directorate of Management and Services was seated outside the door to the ICU on the fifth floor when McGarvey got off the elevator. Despite the overheated corridor he wore a dark windbreaker. He got to his feet, his compact motions fluid and sure. He looked dangerous.

“Good evening, Mr. McGarvey.”

McGarvey couldn’t place the man’s face. “How’s she doing?”

“They’re not saying much, except that they expect to move her upstairs to a private room about eight. I’ve got someone up there now checking it out.”

“Anyone give you a hard time about being here?”

“No, sir,” Yemm said, a faint flicker of a smile at the corner of his mouth as if the idea were ludicrous.

“Has my ex-wife shown up yet?”

“No, sir.”

“She’ll be here sooner or later. Do you know what she looks like?”

“I’ll recognize her,” Yemm said. “Now, if you don’t mind me saying so, Mr. McGarvey, they’re not going to let you in there to see your daughter, and anyway you look like shit. So why don’t you go up to her room — it’s six-oh-two — and catch a few hours sleep. If anything changes I’ll get word to you.”

McGarvey took out his cell phone and called the night duty officer at Langley. “This is Kirk McGarvey. Do you know who I am?” His eyes never left Yemm’s.

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m at Georgetown Hospital. DM and S sent someone over to keep an eye on my daughter.”

“Yes, sir. Dick Yemm. He’s a good man.”

“Pull up his file and describe him.”

“Don’t need his file, Dick’s a friend of mine. Short, dark, skinny, ugly as hell with a big mouth. That about cover it, sir?”

“Thanks.” McGarvey broke the connection.

Yemm cracked a slight smile. “I was wondering if you were slipping, or if everything I heard about you was a crock.”

McGarvey returned the smile. “Keep a close eye on her.” “Will do, sir.”

McGarvey went upstairs to the sixth floor, explained to the floor nurse who he was and went back to the room Liz would be brought to in the morning. Peter Weisse, the second security officer from Langley, was seated outside the room.

“There are two beds, Mr. McGarvey, you might as well take one of them,” Weisse said respectfully.

“If anybody shows up let me know.”

“Will do, sir. Do you want me to have one of the nurses get something for you?”

“No,” McGarvey said. Weisse closed the door behind him, so that he didn’t see McGarvey walk to the window and take a cigarette out of the pack with hands that shook so badly the simple task of lighting it was almost impossible.

McGarvey came slowly awake as the first light of dawn began to tinge the windows red. For a moment he wasn’t sure where he was, but it all came back to him about the same time he turned and saw his ex-wife standing at the window looking outside. Her head was bent, her narrow shoulders slumped, and her normally perfectly coiffed blond hair a mess. He hadn’t realized how much he needed her until now.

“Hi, Katy,” he said.

Kathleen McGarvey turned slowly to face her ex-husband. She’d been crying, something else out of character, and her makeup was a mess. “How are you feeling?”

“I’ll live,” McGarvey said, sitting up and swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. “Did they let you see Liz?”

She nodded. “They weren’t going to at first.” She looked away for a second. “She’s a mess, but her doctor says she will heal.”

“They’ll be bringing her up here later this morning.” McGarvey got a cigarette. “I’m sorry it took so long to get a message to you.”

“I was with friends in New York.” She was tall and slender, with sharply defined features, high, delicately arched cheekbones, full lips, brilliantly green eyes and a classic beauty. She was fifty, but could pass as an haute couture fashion model anywhere in the world.

“When did you get in?”

“A couple hours ago.” Commercial airlines did not fly in the early morning hours, which meant she’d probably chartered a plane and bullied the pilot to fly her back to Washington. She was an inventive, forceful woman when she had to be. It was one of her attributes that McGarvey admired most.

“You must be tired, Katy.”

“Kathleen,” she corrected. “Tell me everything that happened, exactly. The television networks haven’t got it right yet.” Her eyes sparkled. “I have to know,” she said with subdued passion. She was strung out. “Where were you when it happened? Where was Elizabeth?”

“Are you sure that you’re up to this?”

She gave him an exasperated look, as if he were a complete idiot for asking such a question. But there was something else at the back of her eyes. Fear?

“I picked up Liz at the Farm for the weekend. We were meeting Jacqueline for drinks and then dinner later,” McGarvey said.

“They didn’t say anything about her. How is she?”

“Dead,” McGarvey said quietly. “She was leaving, going back to France, but she didn’t get any farther than the exit when the bomb landed at her feet.”

Kathleen reached out a hand against the window frame to steady herself. “I’m sorry, Kirk. Truly sorry. Elizabeth said that she was a good friend to both of you.”

“I have a habit of putting my friends and family in harm’s way,” McGarvey said. He’d known that facing his wife would be difficult.

“Where was Elizabeth when the bomb went off?”

“Coming back from the bathroom. She saw that Jacqueline was leaving, and she called out.”

“Then what?”

“I saw the car coming, the guys in the front and back, windows down. It didn’t fit, something wasn’t right. I don’t know. Instinct.” McGarvey was back there. “I shoved a table over, grabbed Liz and hit the deck.” He looked into his ex-wife’s eyes. “But I was too slow, she was too far away and she got hurt.” He shook his head. “I didn’t get a scratch. All those people killed, torn apart, and Liz was cut to shreds, and there was nothing I could do for her. It was too late.” He hung his head. “Twenty-five years too late.”

Kathleen came to him, took the cigarette and stubbed it out in a water glass, then took him in her arms, his head against her bosom. “You saved her life. If you hadn’t seen the car coming and recognized the monsters for what they were, and if you didn’t have your reflexes, your abilities, your strength and courage, our baby would be dead. Whatever else happens, whatever anybody says to you, my darling — including me — you saved our daughter’s life. Don’t forget it. Please don’t forget it.”

Twenty-five years for what, McGarvey thought bitterly. What difference had he and people like him ever made? Had he saved the world from Communism? The Soviet Union had disintegrated of its own accord, with perhaps a nudge from the Star Wars initiative dog fight, but he’d had no direct part in it. And certainly there were no major changes in Chile or Europe or Japan because of what he’d done in the name of good old-fashioned, red-blooded American loyalty. Almost every night he came back to the faces of the people he’d killed. Their look of fear, of surprise and pain at the end, would haunt him forever, because in a large measure they had died for nothing. It was a game, with human lives the score.

“Did you know who they were?” Kathleen asked.

“No.”

“Will they catch them?”

“They’re dead.”

Kathleen stepped back and looked down at him.

“A doctor came from across the street. As soon as he was with Liz I went after them.”

“On foot?”

McGarvey nodded.

She looked at her husband for a long time, a strange, almost dreamy expression on her pretty face. “Did they say anything to you?”

“No.”

“But they’re dead. You’re sure of that? They won’t stand trial and maybe make some sort of political statement. Maybe get charged with second-degree murder, God only knows what?” She was starting to shiver, but there was nothing McGarvey could do for her.

“They’re dead.”

“Good,” she replied reasonably. “But your coming back has created another problem too.” She gave him a searching look. “Are you involved in another project?”

“They’ve asked me to come back to work for them as deputy director of Operations. But I don’t know if I’ll do it. It doesn’t mean anything to me now.”

“Well, it better,” she said. “Because they almost killed your daughter, and they’ve come after me. You are the only one who can stop them.”

The same fist as before closed over his heart. “What are you talking about, Kathleen?”

“In the last three days I’ve received two phone calls and one e-mail that crashed my computer. Nothing works. It’s a virus or something. They want me to tell you to back off. They blocked my caller ID, so there’s no way of tracing them. I laughed at them.” She looked toward the door. “I didn’t think they’d go after Elizabeth.”

“Was it the same voice for both calls?”

“It wasn’t human,” she said. She was starting to come unglued. “It was a machine-generated voice. You know, the same computer voice you hear when you call somebody at their office. You get fucking choices.”

“They want you to tell me to back off from what?”

“It was a warning, not a dialogue,” Kathleen said. She searched his eyes. She’d given him comfort, and now she was asking him to repay the loan. She needed his reassurances. “Someone from your past wants you scared off or dead, and they’re willing to come after your daughter, your girlfriend and me.” She laughed at the edge of hysteria. “If I didn’t know better I’d say it was that pompous ass Howard Ryan. He hated you, and he’s certainly capable of something like this. You ruined his career, after all. Made him look like the fool he always was. But it couldn’t be Ryan. Not like this. Could it?”

“It’s not Ryan,” McGarvey said. He got up and took her in his arms. “I want you to listen to me, Katy. They weren’t after Liz, and they’re not after you. It’s me they want. And now they know that when they come after my family I’ll hit back, so you’re going to be okay.”

She studied his face. “It’s not going to be okay. Not since Greece. They’re playing by a different set of rules now. Everyone is. You can get killed for parking your car in the wrong spot. It’s crazy out there.” She shook her head. “You, of all people, should know that.”

McGarvey got an outside line and phoned the Operations duty officer at Langley. It was the same man from last night. He was pulling an all-nighter. “I want somebody watching my ex-wife,” he said. “She’s been receiving threats for the last three days.”

“I’ll have to clear this with Mr. Adkins when he comes in—”

“Do it now,” McGarvey said without raising his voice. “It would mean a lot to me.”

The OD didn’t hesitate. “You got it, Mr. McGarvey,” he said. “Do you know her whereabouts now?”

“She’s with me at the hospital. Pull up her file, but I want her house and movements covered. She’s had two blind telephone calls and one e-mail with a virus, warning her to make be back off.”

“Makes it Company business, in that case, sir.”

“That it does,” McGarvey said, looking at his ex-wife. She was watching him, a defiant, proud look in her eyes that made him feel like he was twelve feet tall. Why had he ever let her go? It was beyond all reason.

THREE

Commander Thomas Harding sat at the tiny desk in his cramped compartment writing a letter to Suzanne, his wife of twenty-three years. It was a few minutes after 10:00 A.M. Greenwich Mean Time, the time zone they kept aboard while on patrol, which made it around 7:00 P.M. local. The sun would be setting soon, but three hundred feet beneath the surface there was no such concept as night or day, only the watch system.

He’d been on duty almost continuously since the nuclear explosion and he was starting to get short-tempered, though it didn’t show in his letter, nor would his crew ever suspect. COMSUBPAC’s orders had been precise: Stand by and monitor.

It was exactly what they were doing. But it bothered Harding that if Washington was taking the incident seriously the word hadn’t filtered down to the Seawolf yet. In some respects it was as if the Pentagon had expected something like this to happen. Even the North Koreans were making no response, though something would have to be happening ashore.

He’d moved them twenty-five miles farther southwest where they hovered just off the continental shelf. If the need arose they could go deep and hide in the subsea canyons that paralleled the Korean coast. So far there’d been no need.

Twelve hours ago a lone Japanese rescue vessel showed up and in six hours had pulled the crew off the stricken submarine, doing absolutely nothing to hide the reason they were operating so far inside North Korean territorial waters.

Harding put down his pen and leaned back in his chair. Something funny was going on out here, and he had a gut feeling that it wasn’t over by a long shot.

He was the son of an MIT professor of engineering who taught that every cause had an effect, and every effect had a cause. But the world wasn’t quite as neat as it was taught in science classes. Especially if man and his institutions were figured into the equation.

The Japanese MSDF had apparently sent a party ashore at the supposedly abandoned nuclear facility, and through either sabotage or an accident had set off a nuclear explosion. And nobody was doing anything about it, except wait and see. That made absolutely no sense.

He pulled down the growler phone. “Conn, this is the captain. Anything new from sonar?”

“Negative, Skipper,” officer of the deck Lieutenant Karl Trela said.

Harding wasn’t satisfied. Something was gnawing at his gut. “Tell them to look again, real close. I’ll stand by.”

“Yes, sir.”

He glanced down at the unfinished letter to his wife. It would have to wait until later. The Japanese simply did not throw away valuable assets such as a submarine worth several hundred million dollars. Nor did the North Koreans ever miss an opportunity to rattle a few sabers. But none of that was happening now.

Trela was back. “Nothing, sir. Water’s clear all around us. Do you want to start a search pattern with the twenty-three?” The TB-23 was a thin-line sonar array that could be unreeled more than three thousand feet behind the slowly moving submarine. Consisting of an array of hydrophones, itself nearly a thousand feet in length, the system could detect low frequency noises at extremely long ranges. But the submarine had to be moving in order for the system to work.

Harding thought it out. “Not yet. Bring us to periscope depth. I’m on my way.”

“Yes, sir.”

Harding pulled on a fresh shirt, grabbed a cup of coffee from the officers’ wardroom and went up one level to the control room. The boat was already on its way up and everybody aboard knew that something was going on. The captain was on the prowl, things were happening. But the mood radiating outward from the control room was one of calm. Always calm. Harding insisted on it.

“Passing two hundred fifty feet,” Trela reported unnecessarily.

“Very well,” Harding said. Trela was new to Harding’s crew, but he’d come from the Mississippi highly recommended. He was still trying to prove himself on the Seawolf. Harding called the radio shack. “This is the captain.”

“Yes, sir.”

“As soon as you can raise your masts, I want a passive all-band search. But it’s going to have to be a snapshot, because I’m not going to give you much time.”

“Aye, Captain.”

The executive officer Lieutenant Commander Rod Paradise came in, buttoning the top button of his shirt. “Am I missing something?”

“I’m going up to take a look.”

“I see,” Paradise said, a faint smile at the corner of his mouth. “You’re supposed to be getting some rest.”

“There’s no traffic, Rod.”

Paradise shrugged, but then realized the point the captain was making. “Should be some commercial traffic to the southeast.”

“Nothing,” Harding said.

“Passing one hundred feet, Skipper,” Trela reported.

Paradise pulled a phone from the overhead. “Sonar, this is the XO. How’s it look?”

“Nothing, sir. My displays are all clear.”

“Very well.”

“Level and steady at six-zero feet, sir,” Trela said.

“Prepare to dive on my command,” Harding said. He raised the search periscope and made a quick 360-degree sweep. The western horizon was tinged red. The seas looked as if they were in the eight to ten foot range, and the weather looked cold.

“Conn, ESMs, I have two contacts, designated Romeo One and Romeo Two. Orions, bearing one-six-five, course three-four-five, estimated speed four-two-zero knots.”

“Are their search radars active?” Paradise asked.

“Roger.”

Harding retracted the periscope. “Get us out of here, Karl.”

“Dive, dive, dive,” Trela ordered.

“Make your depth three hundred feet.”

“Aye, Captain, make my depth three hundred feet,” Trela responded crisply.

The boat’s deck canted sharply forward. Harding called the radio shack. “ESMs, this is the captain. Were we detected?”

“Negative, Skipper. At least I don’t think so. They were fifty miles out and making maximum speed. They weren’t doing any serious looking, they were beatin’ feet.”

“Sonar, this is the captain. Are we still clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

Harding and Paradise went back to one of the plotting tables where the captain laid out the course and bearing of the two sub-hunter aircraft. They were American made, but Seventh Fleet would not have sent them out here, which meant they were Japanese MSDF.

“They know where their submarine is sitting on the bottom, which means they’re out here looking for someone else,” Harding said. “Us?”

“Could be,” Paradise said, studying the chart. “Or it could be that they’re expecting a response from the North Koreans now that the sub has been abandoned.”

“They’ll be sending help.”

“Most likely.

Harding smiled gently. “In that case we’ll have a ringside seat. I kind of like that.” He turned to Trela. “Belay the dive, and prepare to bring us back to periscope depth.”

“Are we going to phone this home?” Paradise asked.

“We’ll give them time to get past us first. They shouldn’t be looking over their shoulders.”

DCI Murphy’s Lincoln Town Car limousine pulled up at the west portico a couple of minutes before 9:00 A.M. His bodyguard Ken Chapin opened the rear door for him and escorted him inside, where he took the stairs down to the situation room. This morning he felt every minute of his sixty-five years, and for the first time he could remember he thought about his retirement. He had served four presidents, this one no better or worse than the others, and he was fairly well insulated from Beltway intrigues, but the pressure of his position was finally wearing him down. Like McGarvey said, maybe he too was an anachronism. Maybe all the Cold War warriors needed to be put out to pasture. New enemies, new problems, new imperatives were looming on the horizon, trouble spots like Iran, Iraq, Pakistan and now North Korea and perhaps even Japan, were blossoming all over the globe.

A secret service agent greeted him at the bottom. “Good morning, General.”

“Is the President here yet?”

“No, sir.”

Murphy hesitated at the door, shifting his briefcase to his left hand. He’d been thinking lately of getting back to his forty-two-foot Hans Christian sloop on the Chesapeake, the same kind of boat Walter Cronkite used to sail. In fact, they’d been in the Bermuda race twice, neither of them winning, and he had to feel that those had been simpler times. But then they’d all been unsophisticated then by comparison to now. He used to quote Shakespeare to Cronkite just to show that he ran the CIA with something a step above a bureaucratic sensibility. Light verses, silly even: “As if we were God’s spies.” A snatch of something else from King Lear had been running around inside his head lately, and it wasn’t so light. “The weight of this sad time we must obey; Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say.” Maybe that was the trouble after all, perhaps only men like McGarvey had ever known how to speak the truth.

Most of the President’s crisis team had already arrived and were talking quietly among themselves around the highly polished oblong table. Murphy took his place on the left next to Thomas Roswell, director of the National Security Agency, General Arthur Podvin, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and the other three Joint Chiefs of Staff.

To the right of the President’s position were Harold Secor, his national security adviser, a studious Harvard professor whom the media maintained was the most intelligent man ever to hold that position, and Secretaries Jonathan Carter of State and Paul Landry of Defense.

Roswell had been saying something to General Podvin. He turned to Murphy and slid a bulky file folder over to him. “These came over from the National Reconnaissance Office just before I took off. I don’t think you’ve seen them yet.” Roswell was a stern-faced man who dressed impeccably, as if he’d just stepped from a CitiCorp board meeting. He had a sharp mind and ran a tight shop in an agency three times the size of the CIA.

Murphy studied the first of what appeared to be high resolution KH-13 satellite photos of Japan’s three main islands. Numerous areas were highlighted in red, and he recognized them for what they were, Japanese air force and navy bases.

“The Japanese are on the move,” he said.

“Across the board, Roland. Looks as if you were right, they’re expecting trouble.”

Murphy flipped through the rest of the two dozen photos. “What about the Koreans?”

“Not a thing.” Roswell gave him a searching look. “How about your sources on the ground. Anything happening in Pyongyang that we should know about?”

“It’s quiet.”

“Too quiet,” Roswell said. “What the hell are they up to?”

The President came in, took his place and when everyone was settled he looked around the table. “We have a lot of ground to cover this morning, so let’s get started. Roland, give us what you have and we can go from there.”

“Yes, Mr. President. In the past forty-eight hours there’ve been some disturbing developments in North Korea, the Sea of Japan and on the Japanese main islands themselves.” He took a leather-bound folder from his briefcase and handed it down the table to the President.

“Much of what we’ve put together comes from one of our own submarines which happened to be on patrol off the North Korean coast and spotted what the captain thought was an unusual situation.”

“The Seawolf,” Admiral Howard Mann said. “I know the skipper, Tom Harding. He’s one of the best. Whatever he has to say you can take as gospel.”

“As you all know by now, there was an underground nuclear explosion Thursday at a supposedly abandoned nuclear power station on North Korea’s Sea of Japan coast. At the moment our best estimates are that it was in the fifteen to twenty-five kiloton range, about the same strength as the bomb we dropped on Hiroshima. To this point we have no information from Pyongyang or any of our other resources on the ground, although the South Korean CIA has promised something by this afternoon. Apparently they’ve sent a team to Kimch’aek, which is the coastal town nearest to the site.” The truth, Murphy thought. Every director before him had learned that as far as the administration they worked for was concerned, the truth was relative and highly subjective.

“What you may not fully appreciate is that we do not believe the explosion was a test. Nor do we believe it was caused by a problem with the abandoned reactor. In fact we think the explosion was caused by sabotage and involved a nuclear weapon.” Murphy paused a moment. “One of five that we believe the North Koreans have managed to build over the past seven years.”

It was a bombshell. The men in this room were not dumb, but they were accustomed to dealing in hard cold facts. Although there had been speculation that the North Koreans were developing an active nuclear weapons program, there’d never been any direct evidence.

“Can you support that, General?” Secretary of Defense Landry demanded. He obviously felt as if he’d been left out of the loop on something critical to his job. “Hell, the entire country is an accident looking for a place to happen.”

“During the 1997 Seoul debriefings of Hwang Jang Yop, he told the South Koreans that five gun-type weapons — that is, nuclear devices using U235 rather than plutonium — had already been built or were nearing completion. Until now there has been no confirmation. Yop specified that the weapons were in the twenty kiloton range and would be stored at one of North Korea’s coastal nuclear generating stations. Over the past five days there has been some intense activity at Kimch’aek that we’ve been trying to evaluate. They were moving something out of there in a big hurry and under a great deal of secrecy. Apparently the Japanese beat us to the punch.”

“Are you saying that the Japanese sub delivered a suicide crew to destroy the facility?” the President asked.

“It’s likely they sent a team ashore to gather proof that the North Koreans did in fact possess nuclear weapons. For whatever reason they may have found themselves in a situation where escape was impossible, so they did the only thing they could to prove what they’d found. And that was to explode the bomb.”

“Have all five of them been destroyed?” Landry asked.

“Just one,” Murphy said. “The other four had already been moved out.”

“You say that we monitored the previous activity at the station. Do we know where they took the four weapons?”

“No, sir. We have no resources on the ground, and the weather closed in, making our satellite useless for about twenty hours. By then it was too late. The bombs could be anywhere in North Korea.” Murphy spread his hands. “The South Koreans are sending people in, but it’s anybody’s guess if they’ll have any luck, or just how long it might take them to come up with some answers.”

“In the meantime the situation out there is getting even worse,” the President said.

“That it is,” Murphy said. “The crew from the stricken Japanese submarine were rescued overnight, with no interference from the North Koreans. But Captain Harding reported that a pair of Orion sub-hunter-killer aircraft are searching the waters in the vicinity of the downed submarine. We’ve confirmed that the aircraft are Japanese, from the MSDF base at Sasebo, but the question is what are they looking for? We don’t have that answer yet.”

“They know where their damned submarine is located,” General Podvin said. “Do they suspect that we’ve got one of our subs in the area?”

“Tom Harding doesn’t think so,” Admiral Mann said. His manner suggested he could not listen to any criticism of his sub driver.

“The Seawolf is still standing by out there, is that correct?” the President said.

“Yes, sir.”

“Is there any possibility that the Japanese will find them?”

“Given enough time and assets, it’s possible,” Admiral Mann conceded. “But it’s more likely they’re looking for North Korean submarines, although we don’t have any evidence that Pyongyang has made such a response.”

“How soon before the two Chinese submarines reach the area, assuming that’s where they’re heading?” the President asked Murphy.

“Submerged they’re capable of making twenty-five knots, which could put them on site in another fifteen or twenty hours. But they’re still running on the surface, at twelve knots, which means they won’t be showing up for another three days. Gives us time to sort out the situation.” Murphy glanced at the photos Roswell had handed him, the line from King Lear coming back to him again. “But we have another developing problem that might lead to an even more disturbing conclusion.”

“Okay, for now the Seawolf says where it is, because without reliable satellite data they’re our only source of information,” the President said. “Or are you going to tell me that this other problem will make that impossible?”

“It depends on the Japanese,” Murphy said. “We have some National Reconnaissance Office satellite pictures of the Japanese main islands. It appears that most, if not all, of their military installations have gone to a full state of readiness.”

“We’re not finished with our analysis, but the photographs seem to be fairly conclusive,” Roswell said.

Murphy passed the file around the table. General Podvin shook his head. “I’ve heard nothing about this.”

“They’re keeping it quiet,” Murphy said. “In the past they’ve always informed us when they were conducting any sort of an exercise, especially one of this magnitude. But this time they haven’t.”

“Why not?” the President asked. “What disturbing conclusion are you suggesting?”

“The Japanese wanted proof that North Korea had in fact developed operationally ready nuclear weapons. Apparently they have the proof now, and they intend to do something about it.”

“By invading North Korea?” Secretary of State Carter asked incredulously.

“The North Koreans have the Taepo Dong ballistic missile with sufficient range and power to lift a nuclear weapon the seven hundred miles to Tokyo,” Murphy said. “Even if Kim Jong-Il has no intention of doing something as insane as that, the mere fact that he now has the weapons and the capability to do it is enough to make the Japanese very nervous. It’s almost as bad as when the Russians tried to put nukes in Cuba.”

“It’s those goddammed Chinese submarines,” Admiral Mann said. “It’s going to end up a Mexican standoff, with the Seawolf caught in the middle.”

“What do we do about it?” the President said. “Tokyo will deny everything, and we can hardly tip our hand by admitting the Seawolf is up there. Pyongyang is stonewalling it. And the Chinese are merely on a routine patrol. Nobody is doing anything wrong.”

“The Japanese are not going to war, I can guarantee it,” Secretary of State Carter stated flatly and he looked around the table challenging anyone to dispute him.

“Unless they were nudged,” Murphy said.

The President gave him a bleak look. “What else does the CIA have?”

“It’s possible that alert is an after-the-fact reaction to a situation that caught Tokyo by just as much surprise as it did us.”

“Wait a minute,” Carter said. “You’re not going to tell us that this was another renegade submarine captain, like a couple of years ago, because we’re not going to buy it. I’m recommending that we get word to Tokyo, Pyongyang and Beijing to back off immediately. And I’m willing to leave this morning to personally deliver just such a message.”

“Shuttle diplomacy won’t work this time, Mr. Carter, just as it wouldn’t have worked in Cuba, because like Castro, Prime Minister Enchi may not have all the facts, or be completely in charge of the situation.”

“Jesus Christ, General—” Carter said, but the President held up a hand.

“Proceed, Roland.”

“On pages fifty-seven through sixty-two you’ll see photographs and dossiers on two men who were seen meeting near Sasebo eleven days ago. The stricken submarine was homeported there, and that’s where the Orions are based.”

The President’s eyes never left Murphy. “Who are these men?”

“Hiroshi Kabayashi and Shin Hironaka, part of the organization that nearly brought down Enchi’s government two years ago and almost got us into a shooting war.”

“Hironaka was their director general of Defense,” General Podvin said. “The sonofabitch is in jail.”

“Not anymore.”

“But he’s no longer directly involved with the government or the defense establishment,” Podvin said. “I know that for a fact.”

“I shouldn’t have to ask if your source is reliable,” the President said.

“It is.”

“What you’re saying is that these two men may have formed another organization — a zaibatsu, if I remember the Japanese word — to manipulate their own government.”

Murphy nodded. “That’s what we believe.”

“To do what?”

“Protect Japan against the nuclear attack by North Korea that Hwang Jang Yop warned about in 1997.”

“The man was a maniac,” Carter said. “No one believed a word he said. Even the South Koreans dismissed most of his story as rubbish.”

“That’s just the point, Mr. Carter. Seoul didn’t believe it, we didn’t and neither did Tokyo. But someone did, and they’re doing something about it.”

“Okay, assuming what you’ve told us is true, what do you think we should do?”

“Get Seventh but of Tokyo Bay, as the Japanese requested.”

“And send them where?”

“The Sea of Japan by the northern route over the top of Honshu. In the meantime inform Prime Minister Enchi that we also detected the underground nuclear explosion at Kimch’aek, and we’re going to investigate.”

“With the entire fleet,” Admiral Mann said disparagingly. “That’s going to send them one hell of a message.”

“Better than having the fleet bottled up if something should occur. It’ll give us time to work out our other options.”

“Which are?” the President asked, a flinty note in his voice. He wasn’t liking what he was hearing.

“We want to interview Kabayashi and Hironaka.”

“You’d have to kidnap them to do it,” Carter said.

“That’s a possibility,” Murphy replied, not backing down. “We’re working on a number of scenarios now.”

“Can you pull it off, General?” Secor asked. “With plausible deniability in case something goes wrong?”

“I don’t know the answer to that. It’s something we’re working on.”

Secor turned to the President. “Even if Enchi is in the dark we could get in some real trouble if this blew up in our faces. There are other considerations.”

“What about the Russians?” the President asked Murphy. “Has there been any activity at Vladivostok?”

“Not yet, but they are certainly aware of what’s going on.”

“Will they become a factor?”

“I don’t think so.”

“How long would it take for Seventh Fleet to be ready to sail?” the President asked Admiral Mann.

“Twelve hours, if we want all our crews aboard. It’s summer and one-third of our people are on leave, most of them in Japan.”

“How long before the CIA can come up with a reasonably tight plan to grab these two Japanese?”

“I should have something by this afternoon,” Murphy said, but it was just a guess and it was clear that the President understood it.

“Before anything else happens I want to see those plans in writing on my desk, including contingencies if something should go wrong. In the meantime have Seventh prepare to sail.” The President glanced up at the wall clock. “I want them ready to get underway by nine this evening. But they’re to stay put until I give the order.”

“Yes, sir,” Admiral Mann said.

“I want this kept from the media for as long as possible,” the President warned, “No screw-ups.” He looked around the table but no one said anything. “If there’s nothing else, we’re finished here for this morning.”

Everybody gathered their papers and headed out, but the President motioned for Murphy and Secor to remain. When they were alone he picked up the telephone. “Send Pierone down.” Dr. Gerald Pierone Jr. was director of the FBI.

“How is McGarvey holding up?” the President asked. “It was his girlfriend, the Frenchwoman, who was killed, wasn’t it? And his daughter hurt?”

“Yes, sir,” Murphy said. “I haven’t spoken to him since the bombing, but Tom Doyle has. McGarvey is holding up okay, but he’s mad as hell.”

“So am I. But is he mad enough to take the job?”

“I don’t know. I wish I did, but he’s had a lot of crap thrown at him in the past six months. First the business about his parents, then Howard Ryan’s handling of his daughter and now this. But it was his idea to get Seventh Fleet out of Tokyo Bay and round up Kabayashi and Hironaka.”

“Does he think kidnapping them is possible?”

Murphy had to smile. “With McGarvey just about anything is possible if he’s motivated.”

“I would think that the attack on his daughter and girlfriend would be plenty of motivation,” Secor said, wide-eyed behind his wire-rimmed spectacles.

“I wouldn’t care to put it to him quite that way, Harold,” Murphy said.

“I didn’t mean that as crassly as it sounded, and you know it. We’ve all had our share of crap, as you put it, thrown at us. Doesn’t stop us from doing our jobs. At this point we need him.” Secor came from a privileged family, he held doctorates in history and political science and before he’d been tapped for government service he had been head of Harvard’s department of history. He didn’t know the meaning of personal adversity.

“I’ll be talking to him soon. Right now he’s with his daughter and ex-wife at the hospital.”

“Bring him over here, and I’ll talk to him if you think it’ll help,” the President said.

“That won’t be necessary. McGarvey will only take the job if he believes he can made a difference,” Murphy said. He had to wonder if in the end any of them made any difference.

Dr. Pierone walked in and set his briefcase on the table. “Good morning, Mr. President.”

“Morning, Gerald. I asked the general to sit in on this since the investigation concerns one of his people.”

Pierone turned to Murphy. He was a medical doctor. Before he’d been appointed to head the FBI, he’d served on the boards of four major hospitals and an HMO. “If you’re talking about McGarvey, he’s our prime resource. He was right there in the middle of it, and he took out three terrorists in the middle of Canal Bridge on Wisconsin Avenue in front of a dozen witnesses. We’d very much like to finish interviewing him.”

“Our Internal Affairs people are handling the investigation, and if they come up with anything of value to your case we’ll hand it over, naturally,” Murphy said.

Pierone was fuming. “Twenty people are dead and three others probably won’t make it. We want some answers, because this was no Oklahoma City. The attack wasn’t some random act of terrorism. It was directed. And at the very least Mr. McGarvey will have to stand a coroner’s hearing on the three men he killed.”

“We’ll see about that last part. But if you’re right about the rest, and I’m not saying that you’re not, we may be in for some further trouble,” Murphy said heavily. On the way over he’d decided to hold nothing back, no matter how disturbing it might be.

“You’re talking about somebody from McGarvey’s past, right?” Secor said. Murphy thought that the President’s national security adviser looked diffident.

“It could have been a reaction to proposing him as DDO.”

This was news to Pierone. “I hadn’t heard about that. But the list of people who did know could be a start.”

“There are only a few of us at the CIA, plus the President’s staff, and, I’m assuming, a few key people on the Hill.”

“That’s right,” the President said, tightly. “These terrorists were Asians?”

“Yes, Mr. President,” Pierone said. “We don’t have any identification on them yet, their fingerprints are not in our files, but we’re working with Interpol and a few other international agencies.”

“Could they have been Japanese?”

“It’s possible, even likely.”

The President shot Murphy a significant look. “Where’s the FBI’s investigation right now?

“We’re interviewing witnesses,” Pierone said. “Naturally we want to talk to McGarvey. Of all the people who survived, his would be the most useful testimony.” He turned again to Murphy. “What has he said to your people?”

“He thinks the attack might have been directed at him by someone who doesn’t want him taking the job.”

“That’s not what he told my people.”

“Since then he found out that his ex-wife has received a number of anonymous threats warning her to convince her husband to refuse the job.”

“Is the CIA making a connection between McGarvey and someone in Japan who might want him dead?” Pierone.asked.

“It’s one of the possibilities I think you should consider.”

“Then I think it’ll be a good idea if I send someone over later this morning to begin liaising. I don’t want this to turn out like two years ago. We still haven’t fully recovered.”

“There are other considerations here,” Secor said.

“The only consideration is that there’s been another terrorist act on American soil. The fifth in as many years. And if you want to bring down an administration, just stop protecting the people. Or become perceived as ineffectual in stopping terrorism.”

“Your point is made,” the President said. “The CIA will fully cooperate with you, in so far as the investigation concerns domestic issues. But if foreign evidence is uncovered that in our opinion directly involves your work you’ll be given access to that material as well. In the meantime, Mr. McGarvey is off-limits unless he turns down our offer.”

“We’ll debrief him and send along the pertinent details,” Murphy conceded. It was clear that Pierone thought his hands were being tied, which in fact they were.

He nodded finally. “Then I’ll do my best, Mr. President.”

“That’s all I can ask,” the President said.

Harold Secor walked over to the office of Tony Croft, the President’s adviser on foreign affairs, in the Executive Office Building a few minutes after ten, a worried frown on his professorial face. The President was meeting with the national Democratic Party chairman in the Oval Office and would be tied up for at least a half hour. It gave Secor a few minutes to sit in on a meeting that he considered politically explosive.

Croft and a half dozen of his staffers were seated around his office with Stewart Dewitt, the President’s assistant for economic affairs; Clinton Scott, special consultant to the President for fund-raising activities and Joseph Lee, the major foreign contributor to President Lindsay’s reelection campaign. Considering all the media attention over the past three or four years on political fund-raising activities, the Taiwanese businessman’s presence here was dangerous, and Secor had told the President just that. But Lee was willing to continue contributing large sums of money, for so-called soft access to the White House, and the administration was willing to keep receiving it.

“Good morning, Tony,” Secor said. “I hope you don’t mind if I just sit in the corner for a few minutes. I promise to behave myself.”

“Always glad to have you aboard, Harold.” Croft laughed heartily. He was a corpulent man whose clothes seemed to be tailored for a man three sizes larger. He usually looked like an unmade bed. “Have you met our distinguished guest, Mr. Joseph Lee?”

“I can’t say that I’ve had the pleasure, though I’ve certainly heard a lot of good things.” Secor had purposely kept himself at arm’s length. He shook hands with the slightly built man whose eyes held a look of amusement as if he’d just been told an off-color story.

“I’m sorry that my wife and I missed you and Mrs. Secor for cocktails and dinner last night. But the President and Mrs. Lindsay were most gracious.”

“Perhaps next time.”

“Yes, of course.”

One of the staffers brought a chair, and Secor sat down near the door. “Please go ahead, Tony. I only have a few minutes before I have to get back.”

“Actually we were just about finished here,” Croft said. “I’ve gone over in rough terms the incident at Kimch’aek and the response, or rather lack of response from Pyongyang, and Mr. Lee was about to give us his words of wisdom on what effect this situation might have on the region.”

Secor was stunned, but he covered his discomfiture without missing a beat. Croft would not have discussed the situation so openly unless the President had given his okay. “I would be most interested in his views.”

“I can only truly speak for Taipei, but I think my government’s reaction must be very similar to Singapore’s, Malaysia’s, the Philippines’s, and of course Japan’s. Kim Jong-Il is quite simply insane, and he means to embroil the entire region in an all-out war.”

“One that he cannot possibly win,” Secor said.

Lee turned his bland gaze to Secor. “The chances are very much against him winning such a conflict. But his chances for survival should he do nothing may be, in his perception, even less. An animal with its back to the wall is likely and capable of doing some amazing things.”

“Do you think such a conflict is likely?”

“I truly wish that I could say no with certainty, but there are other factors to consider. Such as appropriate responses.”

“By whom?” Secor asked. He could scarcely believe he was having this conversation.

“By someone with a firm hand,” Lee said without batting an eye. “A government willing to take decisive steps, shall we say, definitive steps, to rein in Kim Jong-Il.”

“Is this a message we should take to President Lindsay?” Croft asked.

“I discussed the issue with the President last night, but of course at the time I did not have all the facts. It is, I suspect, why he wished you to brief me this morning.”

“Do you have any sense of exactly what these definitive steps should be?” Secor asked.

Lee smiled and shrugged. “I am a businessman, so naturally my immediate concern is to keep the peace in the region. A protracted war never benefited anyone — neither the loser nor the winner.”

“That I can agree with wholeheartedly,” Dewitt said, practically falling all over himself with good cheer and bonhomie. The President still owed eighteen million from his last campaign, plus legal fees, and the vice president was already gearing up for a major campaign fund-raising push.

Secor suddenly got to his feet. He couldn’t take any more of this. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Lee. I hope that you and your wife are having a good visit.” He smiled. “But unfortunately duty calls, so I’ll leave you in these gentlemen’s capable care.”

Croft shot him a concerned, worried look. “Do you have a few minutes this afternoon, Harold?”

“Of course,” Secor said. “Have a good day.” He shook hands again with Lee and left, concerned that they were all chasing too recklessly after the bitch goddess money. It was something else that had fallen on deaf presidential ears.

McGarvey was having a cup of coffee in the sixth-floor waiting room, sun shining brightly through the windows, when Kathleen came down the corridor. She’d gotten no sleep overnight, and she looked all in, but some of the worry was gone from her face, and she held herself a little more erect, more like the old Kathleen, than she had earlier this morning.

“She’s awake, and she’s asking for you,” Kathleen said.

“How is she?”

“The doctor just left. He said she’ll be on her feet in a few days.” Kathleen gave her ex-husband a searching look. “She can go back to work in a few weeks, but it’ll be six months before she’s back to normal.”

“Did he say if there’ll be any permanent damage?”

“Some scars that can be taken care of, but other than that no permanent physical damage.” Kathleen looked away momentarily. “She’s only a baby girl, Kirk. Make her quit. Tell her that she can return to her job in New York with the UN.” Kathleen shook her head in desperation. “I don’t know how much more of this I can live with.”

“If she won’t quit, I’ll have her fired.”

“We were able to divorce each other, but we cannot divorce our daughter.” Kathleen was shaking. “Oh, Christ, Kirk, I don’t want to lose her. I’ll die if anything else happens to her, can’t you understand that?”

“I’ll do what I can, Katy.”

“Kathleen,” she corrected automatically. “You’re going to have to convince her that she has to leave. She has to do it of her own free will. She’s as bad as you are, she wouldn’t let you fire her. Nobody could fire her, because she’s your daughter.” Kathleen closed her eyes. “It was my fault. I could have turned her against you when I had the chance. Especially after Greece, but I didn’t.”

McGarvey’s heart was aching for his ex-wife. If he could he would have gladly taken her pain into his own body, erase it from her as if it had never been there. He could have done that a long time ago, but not now. He remembered the night he returned from Santiago and she’d given him the ultimatum. She wanted him to choose between her or the CIA. She didn’t know that the CIA had already fired him, but at the time it would not have made any difference to him. His terrible fault was that he hadn’t even tried to explain it to her that night. Instead, he’d walked out of the house without looking back. He’d run to Lausanne, Switzerland, where he’d hidden himself as a bookstore owner until the CIA came to him for the first of many freelance assignments. By then, coming back was impossible.

Elizabeth was a mass of bandages, an IV drip attached to her left hand and a wire from the monitor to her left arm. Her mother had fixed her hair, but she’d refused any makeup. She looked pale and very small in the middle of the hospital bed, but her face lit up when McGarvey came in.

“Daddy, am I ever glad to see you. Nobody wants to give me a straight answer.”

McGarvey pecked her on the cheek, it was all he could do not to take her in his arms. “You look a lot better than you did yesterday. How do you feel, Liz?”

“Like I’ve been hit by a Mack truck,” she said sharply. “Next question?”

“I take it that your talk with your mother wasn’t entirely successful.”

Her lips compressed and she fought back a tear, but she didn’t turn away. “She simply doesn’t understand.”

“Understand what? That she loves you and that she’s worried about you?” The same vise was clamped on his heart seeing how battered she was. She was extremely brittle. “And being a smart aleck will get you nowhere. They were trying to kill me, Liz, and they damned near succeeded. It was blind luck that you and I got out of there alive. Jacqueline wasn’t so lucky. So before you condemn your mother, think about Jacqueline’s mother. What do you suggest I say to her?”

“You got the bastards, Daddy. Mother told me about it. They never had a chance.”

“I was lucky,” McGarvey said.

“Bullshit!”

McGarvey’s fear suddenly turned to anger. “You willful little bitch, do you think all of this is some little game for your pleasure? Twenty people are dead; real people whose families are mourning for them and wanting to find out who did it and why such a terrible thing happened to them. Do you want to say something to them? Some smart-ass, flip remark? Something about how your father killed three men in front of a dozen people who will probably never walk down a street in broad daylight and feel safe for the rest of their lives?”

Elizabeth refused to cry or back down. “I’ll tell them that without men like you the carnage would be a hundred times worse. And they’d better thank their lucky stars that you were able and willing to do what you did.”

“You’re wrong, Liz, and this time your mother is right. She’s probably been right all along.”

“Don’t say that, Daddy,” Elizabeth said softly, the words choking in her throat. “Ever since I was little and found out that you worked for the Company, it’s what I wanted to do. I used to dream about it. About working with you, about making a difference, because without the Company we’d all be in serious trouble.” She closed her eyes for a moment. “You’re all I have to believe in; don’t take that away from me.”

McGarvey’s heart was aching. “If you’re going to believe in something, you need to know all there is about it first.”

“I know enough.”

McGarvey shook his head, an infinite sadness coming over him. “No you don’t. And maybe it’s time I told you everything, starting with your grandparents.”

“May I sit in on this?” Kathleen said from the doorway. Her anger had changed to compassion.

“Come in and close the door, Katy.”

“PARA/MEDIC is on the move,” the radio in the Perfection Cleaning Company van blared. The FBI surveillance vehicle was parked in the Corcoran Gallery of Art parking lot on E Street. The primary team was watching the White House from a suite in the Hay Adams Hotel.

FBI Special Agent Paul Kuchvera pulled out into traffic and shot up 18th Street in time to spot the black Mercedes limousine with Virginia plates passing the Renwick Gallery on Pennsylvania Avenue across the street from the Executive Office Building.

“Unit Two, we have the subject in sight,” Special Agent Mark Morgan, riding shotgun, radioed.

“Is PARA/MUTUAL traveling with the subject?”

“Affirmative.”

As the Mercedes entered Washington Circle, Morgan took three photographs showing the limo, its license plate and the clearly defined landmark. The date and time were automatically stamped on the negatives.

The FBI, under the orders of the special prosecutor investigating illegal campaign funding, which in the last presidential campaign had set an all-time precedent for the huge amounts of off-shore money, had concentrated the bulk of their efforts over the past six months on Joseph Lee. His code name was PARA/MEDIC, his wife’s code name PARA/MUTUAL.

It had come as no real surprise that Lee and his wife had been invited to spend the night in the Lincoln bedroom and attend a lavish reception and dinner at the White House. But what had come as a surprise was that one of their sources inside the White House told them that Lee had attended a briefing earlier this morning with Tony Croft and some other staffers and special assistants. Not only had Lee’s money, the source of which was also under intense scrutiny, gained him and his wife access to the President, it had also apparently gained him a voice that the White House policy makers were listening to. It made Morgan mad thinking that while his father had won the Medal of Honor early in Vietnam, he and his family did not have the ear of the President or anyone else in government for that matter, while a wealthy Taiwanese businessman, not even a U.S. citizen, did.

Kuchvera was an expert driver, sometimes tailing directly behind the limo, at times dropping back behind several cars, and sometimes even passing, only to fall back again, so that by the time the Mercedes crossed the Key Bridge and headed north on the George Washington Memorial Parkway, they were certain they had not been spotted, though it was likely that Lee’s people knew that they were under surveillance.

“They’re heading for home,” Morgan said.

“Looks like it,” the taciturn Kuchvera agreed.

Morgan got on the radio. “We have subject north on the G.W. Parkway. Looks like they’re heading for OREGON.” It was the codeword for the Lees’ palatial home overlooking the Potomac River between Langley and Great Falls Park. It was something else the average hardworking American couldn’t afford, and every time Morgan thought about it, he was frosted. This op had become something personal to him, and it was going to give him a great deal of pleasure to be there when the sonofabitch was knocked off his perch.

FOUR

It was five o’clock in the morning when Frank Ripley hauled himself out of bed and stumbled into the pocket-sized bathroom to splash some cold water on his face. Just about everything in this country was tiny. And after three weeks the confinement was starting to get on his nerves. Aboard the shuttle, and during his three months on Mir, it had been different. There you expected to be confined. Besides, the science was exciting, and weightlessness made everything seem larger because you not only lived on the floor, but you were able to live and work on the walls and ceilings too. Here the only things full scale were the fourth-generation H2C multistage rocket and boosters, the vehicle assembly building and the big gantry at the Yoshinabu launch complex down on the beach.

Only a few days to go, and if the launch went off without a hitch he and his NASA Tiger team of expediters would be out of here, back to Houston where they could get a steak dinner that didn’t cost a month’s salary — the steaks here were small too — and be among people who smiled and actually meant it.

He was in front of the visitors’ housing building in his sweats and jogging shoes at five-fifteen, the predawn air thick with humidity and redolent with the smells of the sea and something else he could only describe as Oriental: a sort of sweet soya sauce and fragrant wood chips odor. All around him for as far as he could see were various buildings and structures illuminated in a complex jumble of lights and shapes, very reminiscent of the Kennedy Space Center after which Tanegashima was modeled.

Although the tension among the staff and security people had taken a quantum leap for some reason two days ago, the armed guards were used to his morning runs. They no longer stopped him to check his identification, which he’d learned always to take with him after the first day, but they never waved or cracked a smile. It was as if the Japanese were seriously pissed off that they had to put up with the American team.

“Frank, hold up.”

Ripley turned around as Margaret Attwood, dressed in MIT sweats, jogged up to him. They embraced, and she gave his butt a playful squeeze. There was nothing indirect about her.

“Morning, Maggie. I didn’t think you’d be up this early.”

She grinned. “Good sex gives me energy.” She looked toward the VAB and beyond it the broad gravel road that led to the brilliantly lit launch complex three miles farther. The giant H2C would be trundled to the pad later today, so this would be the last morning they could jog out there and back.

Like most astronauts, Ripley was not a large man. At five eleven with short cropped hair, a spare compact body and lean features, he gave the appearance of being agile, like a gymnast without a spare ounce of meat on his frame. But Maggie was even smaller, the Olga Korbet of the astronaut corps, and almost pretty enough to be a model or actress. In fact NASA had used her in some of their television advertisements and promotional videos. In three months she would ride the shuttle up to Freedom, the international space station, for a six-month stint which would give her the record for the longest any American woman stayed in space. She was looking forward to the assignment with a lot of enthusiasm. She was divorced and there were no children for her to miss. Her husband, jealous of her career, had tried to bat her around the night NASA had selected her for astronaut training. When the fight was over she had a bloody nose and a couple of bruises, but her husband had to be taken to the hospital with a broken arm and collar bone, a couple of fractured ribs and a dislocated hip. The next morning she filed for a divorce which he did not contest. Her nickname for a long time afterwards was Mighty Mouse, but no one messed with her.

An open Toyota Land Cruiser with National Space Development Agency markings passed on the road; the two uniformed guards glanced at them, but didn’t slow down.

“Is it just me, or is something going on?” Maggie asked as they jogged toward the VAB.

“Prelaunch jitters.”

“I went over to Hiroshi’s office before dinner last night to talk to him about the locking collar problems we’ve been having. I’m not sure about the fix they installed. But he refused to see me. His secretary said that he had a busy schedule and was flying up to Sasebo.” Hiroshi Kimura was the chief engineer in charge of satellite preparation, and of necessity he had more contact with the five-member NASA team than any of the other project engineers and scientists. He often flew to the Mitsubishi Satellite Design Center in Sasebo overnight, returning in the morning.

“He’s got a full plate.”

“He didn’t go. After I left your place, I went for a walk down by the payload building. I saw him coming out.”

“Did he see you?”

“Damn right he did, but he didn’t say a thing to me, didn’t even acknowledge my presence.”

“So he had a change of plans,” Ripley said. “Come on, Maggie, I think it’s you who’s getting prelaunch jitters now.”

“Three days ago he was the old Hiroshi, at least, he was still pretending to tolerate us. Suddenly I don’t even get a nod. It’s the same with everyone else. Nobody’s saying a thing. Hell, they don’t even want to make eye contact.”

“Has Hilman said anything to you about it?” Among the other NASA advisory team members, Hilman Hammarstedt, a metals stress management engineer, was at fifty-three the oldest, and the only one who’d never been an astronaut and never wanted to be. A dour, emotionless man, he never told a lie, never exaggerated and was above all a consummate listener and judge of people.

“He brought it up to me yesterday when you were at launch control. Wondered if he had BO or something. Neil and Don noticed the shift in attitude too.” Neil Johnson was an electrical engineer, and Don Wirth was their metallurgical engineer. They’d both completed astronaut training and were waiting for assignments on Freedom.

“What’d you tell them?”

“We’ve got a job to do, and when it’s done we’re out of here.”

Ripley nodded. “Good advice. If the Japanese have a bug up their asses, then so be it. In the meantime they want to link their satellite with our space station so they’re going to have to put up with us a little while longer.”

“The rub is that I like the Japanese. They’re neat, organized and polite.”

“Raw eggs mixed with rice as a breakfast treat I won’t forget real soon.” In his opinion Japanese food was even worse than the rations he’d endured aboard Mir, although slices of frozen raw salt pork eaten with canned black bread and reconstituted onions came close. Susan, his ex-wife, who’d had pretensions of becoming the wife of a ranking air force officer at the Pentagon and becoming involved in the Washington scene, could not understand what she called his “blue-collar” thinking. Right now he’d give a week’s pay for a McDonald’s Quarter Pounder with cheese, large fries and a real Coke.

Working with the NASA Tiger team for twenty-one days straight without a break had not softened Hiroshi Kimura’s attitude toward Americans; if anything he’d become even more distant than in the beginning. There was no doubt that he was a brilliant man and knew everything there was to know about satellite design and construction, but he walked around with a permanent chip on his shoulder. Ripley and his crew rode over from the visitors’ mess hall where they found him in the diagnostic center overlooking the main assembly bays where the Greyhound bus — sized satellite was being made ready to load aboard the H2C.

Ripley sent his people downstairs and knocked on the open door. “Good morning, Hiroshi.”

Kimura, dressed in white coveralls like everyone else, was studying a display over the shoulder of one of the technicians seated at a console. He looked up, his narrow black eyes expressionless. “Good morning, Major. Did you get my message?”

“What message is that?”

Kimura’s bland expression didn’t change. He said something to the technician, then motioned for Ripley to follow him back to his office down the corridor. The airless little room was furnished only with a desk, on which sat a computer monitor and keyboard, and a stand on which was displayed a perfect scale model of the satellite which the Japanese called Hagoromo II, the veil of the angel, after the 1990 Hagoromo which achieved lunar orbit, making Japan only the third nation ever to achieve such a feat.

Ripley sat down across the desk from Kimura and handed him the line-item diagnostic test manual.

“Margaret has some concerns about the upper locking collar which we’d like to work on this morning. In addition I’ve marked a dozen tests I’d like redone. Some of the original data seemed contradictory.”

“The locking collar has been brought up to specifications.” Kimura opened the thick manual to the first of the pages Ripley had marked with paper clips. “This has been done, the data is on your terminal.”

“Wasn’t there yesterday,” Ripley said.

“We did the testing overnight.” He flipped the page. “This has been done too.”

“Margaret said she saw you down here. Works the same at the Cape, you know, last-minute tweaking. We can’t seem to avoid it. But I’d like you to look at the rest of the items, some of them in our opinion are crucial.”

“Everything is crucial.” Kimura looked up from the manual. “Why did you bring this to me this morning?”

“Because this stuff is important. And it’s my job, remember? We’re here to ask questions, for which you’ll give us the answers. Then you ask us questions, which we’ll answer. When we’re finished you’ll put the satellite into mid-Earth orbit and a few days later it’ll rendezvous with Freedom. Nobody wants this project to fail.”

“Nobody is talking about failure.”

“That’s why we’re here to make sure there are no glitches, so that when the satellite is transferred to the pad tomorrow and strapped aboard your space ship we’ll all have a reasonable expectation that everything works like it’s supposed to.”

Kimura was angry, Ripley could feel it, but the Japanese showed no emotion whatsoever. “This is not Cape Kennedy.”

“Nor is Freedom a Japanese space station, it’s international. And three of my people will be flying aboard her soon, so I have a vested interest to make certain everything is right.”

“There are two Japanese astronauts aboard at this moment, so I too have, as you say, a vested interest in making certain that all goes as it should.” Kimura ran a hand across his forehead, a gesture so unlike him that Ripley had to think it was simple theatrics. “These last days have been trying.” He cracked a faint smile. “Prelaunch jitters, I believe you call such nervousness.”

Ripley kept his surprise from showing. They were the same words he’d said to Maggie this morning. A term he’d never heard the Japanese use. “Then we can do the tests?”

“Naturally, though it will cost us additional time. But we want this mission to develop fully without glitches as much as you do.”

“Okay, I’ll get my people on it right away, maybe we can cut the time, and get the bird out to the pad tomorrow on schedule. We’re willing to work with your team all night if it’s necessary.”

“Major, I want you to understand that, like you, I too must follow orders. Sometimes I may not necessarily agree with what I am told, but then neither of us knows everything. Seeming contradictions may not be in fact so.”

“Let’s just get Hagoromo II into orbit and then we’ll get out of your hair. Make everybody happy.”

Kimura nodded.

“Oh, you said you had a message for me?”

“Thomas Hartley would like you to telephone him in Houston.” Hartley was NASA’s Freedom Foreign Missions Project manager and Ripley’s boss.

“Fine, I’ll get my people started on the diagnostics and run over to my office.”

“You may call from here.”

Ordinarily Ripley would have taken him up on his offer, it would save time because his own office was in a separate building near launch control two miles away, but he wanted to have some privacy. “That’s okay, I’ll probably have to pull out a couple of files.”

“I can send somebody over for whatever you need.”

“Don’t bother, Hiroshi.” Ripley took the test manual, nodded curtly and went downstairs to the main assembly bay. After he got his people started with the tests, he headed across the base, wondering what the hell was going on.

Ripley parked in front and went up to his second-floor corner office that looked across a complex of pipes and electrical conduit toward the low, circular launch control facility. Admin was busy this morning, but no one said a word to him; it was as if he didn’t exist.

It was a little past four in the afternoon in Houston when Ripley got through. Hartley seemed out of breath, as if he’d just run up a flight of stairs. Like a lot of men in key positions at Houston and the Cape, Hartley was an ex-astronaut. In the eighties and early nineties he had amassed more shuttle time than any pilot or mission specialist before or since. He’d logged more EVA (extravehicular activity) hours than anyone else, and when he found out that he had developed a heart murmur, and would never get a chance to fly again let alone spend time on Freedom, he slid not so easily into a desk job. He became a gourmand, and almost overnight his weight shot up to nearly three hundred pounds. The running joke was that Thiokol refused to design and build a new solid rocket booster that would be necessary to lift his increased bulk into orbit because of the lack of funding so the only thing open was a ground job. He took it good-naturedly most of the time, but every time the shuttle launched he went into a funk for a couple of days afterwards. He wanted space.

“How’s it going, Frank?” Hartley asked.

“Everything is looking good. We’re running some final diagnostics on the bird today, but she should be ready to load on schedule tomorrow.”

“Is the H2C on the pad yet?”

“It’s going out this morning, providing the weather holds, which it looks like it will.” Ripley glanced out toward launch control. A lot of cars were parked in the lot. “So, what did you want to talk to me about this morning?”

“About you and the mood over there,” Hartley said almost too casually. “Are you running into any difficulties?”

“What kind of difficulties?”

“Oh, I don’t know specifically. Are you getting full cooperation? The diagnostics are looking good, no one messing with anything?”

Ripley turned away from the window so that he could watch the corridor through his open door. He wished he’d closed it. “What the hell are you talking about?” he said lowering his voice.

“I flew up to Washington last night with Unger for one of the damnedest meetings I’ve ever attended in my life.” Carl Unger was the director of the National Aeronautics and Space Administration. He spent more than half of his time in Washington because his job was more political than scientific or technical even though he was a Cal Tech physicist who’d run Los Alamos until his appointment to NASA.

“Meeting with who, about what?”

“That’s the hell of it, Frank, we met in Unger’s conference room, but I didn’t know half the people there, and no introductions were made. But the topic of conversation was you and the launch in three days. Will it go off on schedule?”

“If we can finish the diagnostics over night, there should be no delays,” said Ripley. “Now do you want to tell me what you’re talking about? In English.”

“I’ve got to ask you one more thing first. And believe me, Frank, I’m just as mystified as you’re going to be, because no one explained it to me. I was just told to ask and report back to Unger. Have you noticed any change in attitudes by the Japanese over the past forty-eight hours or so? Anything, any incident no matter how slight that has struck you or the others as out of the ordinary?”

“Nothing slight about it, Tom. It’s as if we’ve all been infected with HIV. No one wants to come near us, let alone talk to us. What’s going on?”

“Can you give me a for instance?”

“I think they’re bugging our conversations,” Ripley said. He explained Kimura’s uncharacteristic use of the term prelaunch jitters so soon after Ripley had said the same thing to Maggie.

Hartley hesitated for a beat, then he laughed, but it wasn’t like him. Nor was his too-jovial tone of voice. “You’ve been away from home too long, Frank. I told them they were barking up the wrong tree. The Japanese have always been tight on security. I can’t blame them. We seal the Cape up a few days before a launch. It makes sense, considering all the crazies out there.”

It was a stupid mistake on his part, speaking his concerns on an open line, and Ripley felt like a fool. If someone was monitoring his conversations, they would certainly have a bug on his telephone. But he was an astronaut not a spy.

“You’re right, we have been here too long. But the problem is that Unger has become too much of a politician. He’s trying to make points on the Hill. He’s probably trying to convince anybody who’ll listen that the Japanese couldn’t pull off this launch without NASA’s help. My guess is those guys you met with were reporters, and Unger promised them some kind of a scoop. You know, ex-astronauts saving the Japanese bacon.”

“That’s about what I thought,” Hartley said too loudly. “When you get back, Jo and I will have you guys over for a barbecue and a couple of beers.” Hartley despised backyard cookery and hated beer. Ripley figured that Hartley was telling him that he understood something unusual was going on out here. Engineers had a hard time with hidden meanings.

“I’ll tell the others.”

“Do that,” Hartley said. “See you in a few days.”

After he hung up, Ripley turned again to stare out the window, even more confused than before. If he’d read Hartley right, something had apparently happened in the past couple of days to make the Japanese even more sensitive about security than they normally were. Whatever it was had apparently got the attention of the top brass. What Hartley had really said was that he wanted Ripley and his Tiger team to keep their eyes and ears open and their mouths shut. They were supposed to spy on the Japanese.

It was 9:00 A.M. when Ripley got back. Guards had been posted at the door and he had to show his ID before he was allowed inside, where he pulled on paper booties over his shoes and a paper cap over his scalp and went into the assembly bay.

Hagoromo II, which was to dock with Freedom from where it would send a series of probes to the moon, was attached to a massive trolley arrangement that allowed it to be carefully moved to and from a loading crane that would place it on a huge truck for transport to the launch pad. Because of the increased size of the new H2C, the satellite could not be mated to the rocket in the vehicle assembly building. It had to be done on the pad until a larger VAB was constructed.

Towering nearly forty feet above the floor, the gigantic satellite was twelve feet in diameter in its stowed position and weighed nearly ten metric tons. It was to be the largest object ever sent into earth orbit by any country except the U.S. and Russia, and it would mark Japan’s first serious entry into the space launch business. Not even the French Arianne rockets could launch such a complex payload into orbit.

Once it rendezvoused with Freedom, gigantic solar panels would extend like the wings of a butterfly to a distance of 150 feet on each side. Narrow beam antennae and compact satellite dishes would be uncovered, as would a dozen variously shaped probes that would be used to study everything from the solar wind to the Earth’s magnetic field and the forces of microgravity caused by the bulk of the international space station itself.

Almost completely sheathed in gold foil for heat management in space, only six access panels at various points on the big satellite were open, exposing the electronic circuitry within, to which were attached cables and leads from a dozen pieces of test equipment. As many technicians, including the four NASA Tiger team members, were putting the satellite through its electronic paces in a procedure called fault tree analysis. One by one, each point in each circuit was artificially brought to a failure mode, and the results were monitored and analyzed. So far the Japanese-designed redundant systems seemed to work perfectly.

Maggie was studying the display on a Tektronix frequency spectrum analyzer and she looked up. “Did Hartley give you the usual pep talk?”

“He’s invited us for some beers and a cookout when we get back,” Ripley said. “Just like old times.”

She gave him a double take. The others were out of earshot for the moment. “What are you talking about, Frank?” she asked in a low voice.

Ripley reached over and adjusted a control on the scope. “I’m not sure, but Hartley wants us to keep our eyes open. Something’s going on that has the brass worried. They’ve even posted guards on the front door now.”

“About the Japanese, the launch?”

“I guess so. He wanted to know if we’d noticed any change in attitudes around here over the past couple of days.”

“What’d you tell him?”

“Not much, because I think we’re being spied on.” He told her about the conversation he’d had with Kimura.

Maggie stepped back. “What the hell is going on?”

“Take it easy and do your job. But watch what you say and keep your eyes open, okay?”

She wanted to argue but she didn’t.

“I’ll get the word to the others. In the meantime, how are the diagnostics coming?”

“Everything is suddenly within specs, Frank. And I mean everything. Until now I was happy, but I’m not so sure anymore.”

“Don’t go looking for something that’s not there,” Ripley warned.

She managed a smile. “That’s why they pay us the big bucks. But this isn’t going to take us six hours. We’re already mostly done. Don has okayed the locking collar. He says it was replaced last night.”

Ripley glanced up at the portalift platform raised to the top of the satellite. Don Wirth, their metallurgical engineer, was lying on his stomach inspecting the retaining bolts that held the collar in place. “How do you know?”

“He put his initials under one of the latches. They were gone this morning.”

“You’re kidding.”

Maggie shook her head.

“Kimura is going to have a bird when he finds out.”

“They probably haven’t noticed. The collar was bad, so they replaced it. If Kimura was going to say something he would have nailed us with it first thing this morning.” Maggie was smiling as if she had a secret.

“What?”

“They won’t find my initials.”

Astronauts had the biggest egos in the world, and there were times when they acted like children. The practical joke had risen to an art form at Houston and especially at the Cape. But their hijinks were never at the safety of a mission. Never.

“Maybe that’s why they suddenly got pissed off at us. They don’t take jokes lightly.”

“I did it a half hour ago.”

“Are you going to tell me where?”

“Nope,” she said, smiling sweetly. They would never have anything more than a casual affair, which also was quite common among the engineering staff, but Ripley did care for her, and he suddenly found that he was worried about her and the others. Hartley’s strange phone call had set him off.

He glanced up at the diagnostic center windows. Kimura, his hands behind his back, was staring down at them, a frown on his face.

“They want to treat us like hell, we’ll give it right back to them,” Maggie said. She smiled and waved at Kimura, who just stared at her. “It’s a one-way street with them, Frank. They take our technology, but they don’t give anything back in return.” She looked at the towering satellite. “We don’t know one-tenth of what’s inside this bird.”

“We’ve seen the blueprints and schematics.”

“That’s right, but we never got to look inside from the mainframe out. That was all done long before we got here.”

“What are you getting at?”

“I’m going to spend six months on Freedom with this thing attached to it. I’d like to know a little more about it than I’ve been told, that’s all.”

Ripley looked up again at the bay windows. Kimura was gone, but he retained the impression that they were being watched. Hartley’s warning was beginning to seem ominous, and the sooner they were out of here the better he was going to feel.

FIVE

Howard Ryan’s house was a surprisingly modest split-level on a large lot with a lot of trees, shrubbery and rose bushes in full bloom. The backyard overlooked Lake Barcroft, and getting out of his Nissan in the driveway a few minutes after 7:00 P.M. McGarvey could smell a charcoal grill in action somewhere. Some kids were shooting buckets in a driveway down the street. The neighborhood was very pleasant, not at all what McGarvey had expected.

Ryan had two children, but the young man who answered the door in a T-shirt and cutoffs came as another surprise. He was the spitting image of his father, but whereas Ryan almost always seemed to be scowling, his son, who McGarvey figured was fifteen or sixteen, had a big grin on his face.

“Mr. McGarvey?”

“Yes.”

“Dad’s in back.” The young Ryan led McGarvey through the pleasantly furnished house and through the big kitchen to the patio where the elder Ryan, dressed in swim trunks, was reclining in a chaise lounge next to the pool, while his twelve-year-old daughter was swimming. Ryan’s son raced the last few feet and jumped into the water next to his sister, swamping her.

Ryan’s wife, Evangeline, dressed in a tennis skirt and polo shirt, glanced nervously at McGarvey from where she was slipping steaks on the built-in grill. McGarvey got the impression that the scene had been staged for his benefit, to show him that Howard Ryan wasn’t such a bad guy after all. It was a Ryan insulation factor, one of the tricks he’d used to stay in power so long.

“Well, I never expected to see you as a guest in my home.” Ryan motioned McGarvey to the chaise lounge next to his. “Care for a drink?”

“A beer will be fine,” McGarvey said.

While Evangeline went into the kitchen to get the beer, McGarvey watched Ryan making a point of watching his children playing in the pool. Even in swim trunks the former Wall Street attorney looked like he was dressed in his habitual three-piece suits. As general counsel for the CIA he had been nothing short of brilliant, and for a few years the agency had enjoyed an unprecedented run of excellent relations with Congress and the White House. When he’d been made deputy director of Operations, however, he’d become a dangerous fool and had caused the agency almost as much harm as Aldrich Ames. After he was fired, he started up a consulting firm for congressional relations. His chief clients were the CIA and the National Security Agency. He was still well connected.

In a way, McGarvey figured his coming here was an exercise in futility. And seeing Ryan relaxing with his family in this setting was depressing. It brought home to McGarvey what he had given up in service to his country. His work, so far as he could see, had never made a difference, except that his ex-wife and daughter had been placed in harm’s way. No matter what kind of a fool Ryan was, he had this.

“I didn’t come here to make trouble,” McGarvey said. “We could have met on neutral grounds.”

Ryan turned a skeptical gaze to him. “The advantage would have been yours. I suppose congratulations would be in order, except for that horrible terrorist attack. Will your daughter recover?”

“Physically, yes.”

Ryan looked at his own children again. “I hope so,” he said wistfully. “I never meant for the situation in Russia to get so out of hand. Poor judgement on my part.” He shrugged. “I should never have become DDO. It was a mistake, I can see that now. I was out of my depth. But I don’t love my country any less than you do.”

Ryan had sent Liz into a situation in Europe in which she was way over her head, and it had almost cost her her life. General Murphy had finally fired him because of it, and had McGarvey been able to get to him at the time, he might have killed the man. Now it didn’t matter, though it had nothing to do with Ryan’s disingenuous admission.

“I don’t expect you do, which is why I’ve come to ask for your help.”

Ryan looked at him with genuine surprise and a little pleasure tinged with suspicion. “With what?”

“Somebody doesn’t want me to take the job.”

“You think the attack was meant for you and was directed by someone who knew there was a good chance you might escape unharmed. By killing a lot of innocent bystanders they hoped that pressure would be brought to bear to force you to step down. Is that what you’re intimating?”

“Something like that.”

Ryan looked startled. “Good heavens, you can’t possibly think that I had anything to do with it?” Ryan absently touched a scar on his cheek. He’d almost been killed by an assassin’s bullet meant for McGarvey a few years ago. “I may be a lot of things you don’t like, but not that.”

“I think you might try to cut me off at the knees legally or politically, but not that way,” McGarvey said. Ryan seemed genuinely relieved, but he was still suspicious.

Evangeline brought the beer, handed it to McGarvey without a word then went back to the grill. She seemed a little frightened. McGarvey figured his name probably wasn’t a household word, but it had been mentioned.

“You know a lot of people in town, I want to know what you’ve been hearing.”

“There’s a lot of turmoil in Russia, if that’s what you’re talking about. The Mafia is doing business as usual, but I don’t think they would make any effort to have you eliminated, though that kind of terrorism is right down their alley. They simply would have nothing to gain or lose by you becoming DDO. Nor would what’s left of Tarankov’s old regime. They’re trying to hang on until the dust settles. Nobody knows what’ll happen after the elections. Could just all be swept under the rug and forgotten, a course of action I’d certainly recommend.”

“Not the Russians,” McGarvey said. “I’m guessing it’s the Japanese again.”

“Because of that thing with Kamiya and Guerin Airplane Company?”

“Something else has come up. It hasn’t hit the media yet, but it will.”

Ryan looked over at Evangeline at the grill. “Pull the steaks off the heat for now, sweetheart. I won’t be long.” He got up, grabbed a terry cloth jacket and motioned for McGarvey to follow him back into the house.

They went into the study on the opposite side of the house from the pool, and Ryan closed the door. In addition to books, the walls were filled with framed photographs of Ryan with several presidents and congressional leaders, as well as a number of certificates of recognition and his law degree from Harvard.

“I used to make everyone sign the secrets act acknowledgement before I would brief them. Now that the tables are reversed all I can do is give you my word that anything said won’t leave this room unless we both agree to it first. But you have come to me for help.”

McGarvey nodded. “Fair enough, Howard.” He thought that Ryan wouldn’t dare cross him again. “The day before yesterday there was an underground nuclear explosion at an inactive power station on North Korea’s east coast.”

Ryan whistled long and low and sat back in his chair. “Was it the reactor? An accident?”

“One of our subs spotted a Japanese sub that probably put a party ashore. The explosion was most likely sabotage, but it wasn’t the reactor. It was probably a North Korean nuclear weapon. One of five.”

Ryan’s mind was going a thousand miles per hour, obvious from the look on his face. “What’s Pyongyang saying?”

“Nothing. Neither is Tokyo. But the Chinese are sending in a couple of submarines.”

“The North Koreans have said or done nothing?”

“So far.”

“All right, what does this have to do with you? Where are you seeing the connection, because frankly from what you’ve told me, this is nothing more than the Japanese taking a threat seriously enough to do something about it. What does your taking the DDO slot have to do with them?”

“Two of Kamiya’s people, who were in jail until recently, were spotted together near Sasebo, the base from which the submarine sailed. And the terrorists Friday were Asians. Lots of coincidences.”

“That part wasn’t in the papers either,” Ryan said. “Have they been identified?”

“Not yet. But the FBI thinks they were Japanese.”

Ryan thought it out. “You’ve gone up against the Japanese twice in the past four years, and they lost both times. As DDO you’d be an even bigger thorn in their side. Could it be that simple?”

“What do you think?” McGarvey asked.

“It could be that easy, or it could be somebody else from your past gunning for you. Or both.” Ryan thought for a few moments. “What do you know about a man by the name of Joseph Lee? A Taiwanese businessman?”

“Never heard of him.”

“He’s a heavy hitter. From what I’ve been hearing — and this is very hush-hush — Lee and his wife are under investigation by the FBI for illegal campaign contributions. Sam Blair is the special prosecutor, and he’s one tough bastard.”

“What does Taiwan have to do with this?”

“Nothing. Point is that Lee’s background is suspect. He may have some connections with the Japanese government. His business interests include a number of think tanks in Hong Kong, Singapore, Seoul and Tokyo. As it turns out he’s in town now, meeting with President Lindsay. Matter of fact he and his wife spent last night in the White House. I think he’d be worth a look. Maybe he’s somehow connected with Kamiya’s old crowd. He’s worth something over four billion dollars, and guys at that level have connections with just about everybody. If he is working with the Japanese he might be interested in seeing you dead, or at least forcing your nomination to be sidetracked.”

“Can you find out more for me?”

Ryan shrugged. “I guess I owe you,” he said. “But this goes all the way to the White House, so you have to understand that in my position I’m going to have to be damned careful. I have a lot to lose here. If I were you I’d search the Agency’s records to find out if you ever had any connection with Lee or any of his business interests. Might be a starting point. That, and ID the terrorists, see if they can be traced back to one of Lee’s businesses.”

“Will you help?”

Ryan nodded. “Like I said, I owe you. But what about your daughter? Is she going to be okay?”

“She’s a tough kid, she’ll survive.”

Ryan smiled. “She’d have to be, wouldn’t she. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry, but at the time I thought I was doing a good job so I made a lot of mistakes. And part of it was that I hated you.”

“I know,” McGarvey said. He got up to go.

“Did you really think that there was a possibility I had something to do with the bombing?”

McGarvey looked at him. “It crossed my mind, but I dismissed it almost immediately. You might have been a lousy DDO, but you’re not a murderer.”

“Thanks for that. I’ll leave word at Langley if I come up with something.”

“Do that,” McGarvey said, and he left, his feelings about Ryan confused.

Because of the crisis in the Sea of Japan, the CIA was on emergency footing. Tommy Doyle met McGarvey at the front entrance at 8:30 P.M. and took him upstairs to his office.

“Where’ve you been?” Doyle asked, settling down behind his desk.

“Am I being followed?”

“We’re watching your apartment. You haven’t been there all day, and you left the hospital at two.”

“I drove down to Milford to check on my house and tell them I won’t be taking the teaching post after all.”

Doyle was strung out. He raised his eyebrows. “Are you coming aboard?”

McGarvey had fought depression all of his adult life, starting when he’d discovered by chance that his parents might have been spies for the Russians during the war. He used to tell himself that the CIA had made him what he was. An assassin. But you couldn’t make a lamb into a leopard by simply painting spots on its fleece. So he’d come to accept who and what he was, but after each assignment he fell into deep depressions which sometimes lasted months. He’d also learned that his only way out was by action. Not necessarily another assignment, but physical or mental action of any sort. One step at a time, beginning with the first. Fencing, swimming or running to the point of absolute exhaustion. Pushing himself to his limits, and then pulling up a reserve and continuing. The exercise gurus talked about the release of mood altering endorphins, but for McGarvey, pushing himself was simply one method of clearing his mind, bringing his entire being into the sharp focus of self-preservation.

He’d told all of that to Katy and Liz this morning at the hospital. And they’d listened without comment. Afterward he’d driven to Milford on the Chesapeake, where at Slaughter Bay he had run ten miles in the sand.

Back in Georgetown, he’d spotted the surveillance unit outside his apartment, sneaked past them into the building next door, where he took to the roof, crossing to his own apartment building. He’d taken a shower; changed clothes; dug out his emergency kit of spare passport and identification papers including credit cards, ten thousand dollars in cash and his gun, silencer and spare magazine of ammunition hidden in a fake laptop computer, then left the apartment the same way.

From the time he’d left the hospital until he’d shown up at Ryan’s house, he’d made no decision. He’d simply given himself the option of running to ground if need be. He’d thought of going to Japan on his own to seek out Kabayashi and Hironaka, working independently as he had most of his life. But he didn’t think there was anything to be accomplished there. Even if they admitted there was some kind of a plot to make war on North Korea, he would be no closer than he was before in finding out who had killed Jacqueline and nearly killed his daughter. For that he was going to need the CIA, and Ryan had provided him with the first possible clue. The rest would have to come from his past, documented in the Agency’s archives.

“Is Murphy here?”

“Yes. I’ll tell him we’re on the way over.” Doyle reached for the telephone.

“Wait a minute, Tommy,” McGarvey said, and Doyle drew his hand back. “We’ve known each other for a long time. Am I going to get the runaround here?”

Doyle smiled wistfully. “You better believe it. Bureaucratic bullshit comes with the job. But I have a feeling you’ll find a way to cut through most of it. Dick Adkins is a good man. He knows what he’s doing, and you won’t get anything but a hundred percent from him. No resentments.”

“Whose idea was it to offer me the job?”

Doyle shrugged. “I don’t know, but the consensus was that you were just what we needed, but that there wasn’t a chance in hell that you’d take it.”

“Why?”

“You can answer that yourself,” Doyle said. “But Carrara used to say that if you ever got rid of that chip on your shoulder you’d make one hell of a DDO.”

“Has it been that bad?” McGarvey asked, but he knew it had been.

Doyle looked at him for a long moment. “Do you want the truth?”

McGarvey nodded.

“You’re afraid of responsibility, of commitment, and you’ve been running away all of your life on one big adventure after another. One relationship after another. You say you leave to protect the people you love because being around you is dangerous. From where I sit, I think that’s a load of crap. If I want to protect someone I stick around and do it. I don’t take off.”

Doyle’s words were like hammer blows between his eyes, all the more so because McGarvey knew that they were true.

“Let me hazard a guess, Mac. You got past our people outside your apartment and picked up your gun and papers. Either that or you’ve stashed them somewhere you can get to them easily. A little hidey-hole somewhere.”

“Is that the consensus around here too?”

“Screw the consensus. No one is going to beg you to take the job, and frankly Howard Ryan was probably right when he said you were a prima donna pain in the ass. But if you can stop for one minute blaming everybody else for who and what you are, there are a lot of good people in this building — including me and the general — who think you’d be the most effective DDO there ever was. The bullshit would definitely stop at your desk, and we could get back to kicking some serious ass around here.”

Coming back he would be facing his own past in living color, a past McGarvey had to admit he’d been running from all of his life. He no longer knew if he had the stomach for it. But seeing Liz lying in the hospital bed gave him resolve.

“Call Murphy,” he said.

“It’s too bad we can’t follow him.” Mark Morgan watched Joseph Lee disappear through the security arches leading to the blue concourse. They were scheduled to pull another twelve-hour shift, but now that Lee was leaving their jurisdiction, it would be up to their Los Angeles field office, which would have him only long enough to watch him switch planes for Honolulu and then again for Taipei.

“I don’t get why he’s not taking his own plane,” Kuchvera said. “Unless it’s down with a maintenance problem. Something we’re going to have to check out. But you gotta ask why he’s in such a big hurry all of a sudden.”

It didn’t make sense to Morgan either. Lee’s secretary had called from his home barely three hours ago to make the last-minute reservations. United to L.A. and Honolulu, and then Taiwan Air to Taipei. It had come out of the blue, and they had to scramble to alert their field officer. But until Lee actually left U.S. soil, he’d have a tail.

“If I had to make a wild-ass guess, I’d say he learned something at the White House and wants to get back home with it as soon as possible.” He looked at Kuchvera. “Something so hot he couldn’t even trust it to his encrypted phone line.”

McGarvey and Doyle walked over to the DCI’s office and went straight in. Murphy was just finishing up a phone call.

“How is your daughter?” he asked, hanging up.

“The doctor says she’s going to come out of it just fine.” McGarvey said. “But I want a guard kept on her and my ex-wife for the duration.”

“No problem. And as soon as Elizabeth gets out of the hospital we’ll put her and her mother into a safe house. That’s if they’ll stand for it.” Murphy was genuinely concerned about them, and it gave McGarvey some comfort. “As of this moment Seventh Fleet is ready to sail, but they’re not going anywhere until the President gives his word.”

“Convince him to at least get them out of Tokyo Bay. But the logical place for them is going to be off North Korea’s coast.”

“I tend to agree with you, but he also wants to know how we’re going to get away with kidnapping Kabayashi and Hironaka.”

“We’re not, at least for the moment. They wouldn’t tell us anything we don’t already know. At this point the situation out there is still a political one. If we can put the Seventh between Japan and North Korea before the Chinese submarines show up, and before either North Korea or Japan does something stupid, we have a good chance of heading off a confrontation. Or at least delaying it. Has there been any word from Pyongyang or Tokyo?”

“Nothing.”

“What about Seoul? Have they sent someone up there?”

“They have, but there’s been no word yet,” Murphy said.

“Anything new from our submarine?”

“The Japanese have sent a couple of P-3s from Sasebo, and they’re running search patterns.”

“Will they find her?”

“I’m told it’s possible,” Murphy said. “But if Seventh Fleet shows up it’ll become a moot point. Podvin would like to avoid a confrontation, but under the circumstances no one is suggesting that we simply ignore what’s going on.”

McGarvey glanced at Doyle, and he knew what the DDI was thinking. “What about Internal Affairs?”

“These kinds of investigations tend to take a long time. What you did on the bridge was crude, ill thought out and dangerous, but I don’t think anyone will recommend you stand trial for it. A lot of us have daughters too.”

“I’ll take the job, if it’s still open, General.”

Murphy nodded. “As of this moment you’re my acting DDO, until we can get Senate confirmation. I’ll inform the President. Carleton will work with the White House staff on a strategy, something that’ll make sense.”

“We’ll have to sanitize his background,” Doyle suggested.

A faint smile crossed the general’s face. “Larry can work with records on that bit of legerdemain, but Mac is going to have to help out. In the meantime Dick will have to get him up to speed. The sooner the better.”

“Tomorrow,” McGarvey said. “I’m going to do a little digging myself.”

“Do you think that the bombers were directed by someone out of your past? Have you any idea who or why?”

“I’m going to need Otto Rencke.”

Murphy sat back. “I was wondering when his name would come up. Is he still in France?”

“He’s gone to ground somewhere; maybe Rio, but I’ll find him and convince him to come back with no repercussions.”

Murphy had to smile at that. “I wouldn’t know where to start, because if I made a mistake he’d wipe out every computer in the building.”

“It’d be better to have him on the inside,” Doyle observed.

Murphy nodded after a moment. “I’ve been wrong about a lot of things, Mac. About you, about Otto. But I don’t want to compound my mistakes by being even more wrong now than I was before. You’re getting a shot here, but it’s your last shot. No vendettas, no rogue operations. As you’re fond of saying, ‘Don’t shit the troops.’ I expect the same from you, complete honesty.”

“Don’t try to micromanage me, General. Just let me do my job.”

“Fair enough, but don’t blindside me either.” Murphy got up and extended his hand.

McGarvey took it and looked into his eyes. “Thank you.”

SIX

The main display, which covered the back wall ninety feet wide and thirty feet tall, showed the real-time position and track of every U.S. intelligence-gathering satellite in orbit. Ranged in semicircular tiers facing the board were the individual control consoles from which satellites could be directed and to which downlinks provided the data, some of it electronic emissions monitoring, but most of it high-resolution photographs or infrared images. Far Eastern Division night supervisor air force Captain Louise Horn, seated above and behind her six console operators, nervously lit a cigarette, as she always did when something of interest crossed her board, and immediately placed it in an overflowing ashtray.

A half-dozen or more heat blooms had suddenly shown up along China’s northeast coast, leaving tracks heading south into the Yellow Sea. She didn’t have to ask what they represented; she knew, and she shivered in anticipation. They had been waiting for three days for this development.

She dialed up a large scale map of that section of coastline on her console master display and quickly clicked and dragged the pointer icon on reverse headings from the IR tracks, all of them originating, as she expected they would, from three coastal cities.

Next she pulled up the short list of available KeyHole and Lacrosse satellites, which would be coming up on the region within the next hour and computed tracks, times and camera angles so that the two available birds could take real-time images of the ships at sea, if that’s what they were, and automatically downlink the digital signals produced by the CCD, or charge coupled device, aboard. One of the satellites was already in position, and within seconds data began to flow on the downlink. She brought up the first images on an adjacent screen and waited impatiently for the computer to enhance the pictures.

The NRO was an air force agency that until the freedom of information decade of the eighties had been so supersecret that only a select few people in the business even knew it existed. Responsible for all intelligence-gathering satellite operations and reconnaissance aircraft overflights, the agency shared its product with the CIA and the National Security Agency. In the past few years there’d been a fight going on between the two spy agencies for control of the NRO, which, like the NSA, still primarily employed air force officers and technicians for the day-to-day data-gathering and photo interpretation duties.

Louise Horn, who’d graduated third in her class at the Air Force Academy, had originally wanted to fly jets. But at six five, she was too tall, and with an IQ bordering on the brilliant, she was too smart. Here is where she belonged and she knew it. She was a mole in her burrow who never saw the light of day except coming to or from work, but the NRO was an exciting place to be, because it was from here she had the ability to eavesdrop on the entire world. The ultimate voyeur’s playground.

It was one in the afternoon in the Yellow Sea, the cloud cover was only partial, and the first KH-13 satellite was about 45 degrees above the horizon, the conditions perfect, yet even Louise was startled by the clarity of the pictures.

She immediately started the transfer of data upstairs to Major Hubert Wight, the chief night duty photographic interpreter, then telephoned him. They were old friends.

“Hi, Bert. I’m sending something hot up to you.”

“I’m printing it now. Looks like the Tianjin from Qingdao.” The warship was a Russian-built Sovremenny class destroyer that had been delivered along with her sister ship, the Fuzhou, a couple of years ago. At 7,900 tons, the 511-foot warships carried Helix ASW helicopters and were armed with SSM and SAM missiles, eight Gatling guns, torpedoes and a pair of six-barrelled antiship RBU 1000 rocket launchers.

“That’s not all. I’m showing at least six strong IR tracks originating from Qingdao, Lushun and Xiaopingdao, all of them heading southeast.” They were the three major bases in China’s North Sea Fleet.

“Okay, this is what we’ve been expecting. What else can you put in position? We’ve got another cold front coming through, so we’re not going to have much time.”

“You’re seeing Yankee-three, and I have Whiskey Clipper-four coming in range within eighteen minutes.”

“Where are they heading, Louise?”

“My projected track takes them between Cheju and the South Korean mainland. Means they’re in a big hurry.”

“They sure as hell aren’t heading for Taiwan.”

“Could be an exercise.”

Major Wight chuckled. “Sell it to the navy, because I’m not buying it. The Tianjin is on the same track as the two submarines they sent. Does that tell you anything?” Major Wight was Louise Horn’s mentor; she’d hooked her career rise with his, and there were times like this when she was glad she’d done it. He was a no-nonsense straight shooter who didn’t hold it against her that she was smarter than him.

Louise manipulated some controls on her primary console while the image of the second target was being enhanced. “If she goes to best cruising speed of thirty-two knots she’ll catch up with the submarines in about thirty-six hours.”

“Good work.”

“Here comes the second target. Another destroyer?”

“You betcha. That’s the Fuzhou; they definitely mean business. Is that all from Qingdao?”

Louise switched back to the wide view on her primary console on which she’d picked up the heat blooms. The area displayed was the entire northeast coast of China. “That’s it for now. The other four tracks originated from Lushun and Xiaopingdao. We’re going to have to wait for Whiskey Clipper— four.”

“Okay,” Major Wight said. “I want you to keep with it. Soon as you get something solid get it up here. In the meantime I’ll prep these and get them next door.”

“What’s going on out there, Bert?” Louise asked. Her only problem, if it was a problem, was her curiosity. She wanted to know not only what she was looking at, but why it was happening and what effect it was going to have.

Major Wight chuckled. “Ours is not to question why. But I’d suggest if you’re planning on taking your next leave in Tokyo, you cancel it.”

“I hear you.”

“Listen, Louise. This is hot, and you’ve done a damned fine job down there. It won’t go unnoticed.”

“Thanks.”

“Onward and upward,” Major Wight said, and he disconnected, leaving Louise Horn to light another cigarette and stare at the big board. What the hell was going on out there, she wondered.

“How about that?” Hilman Hammarstedt observed emotionlessly.

“What the hell?” Ripley said. He was driving the van back from lunch with his Tiger crew, Hammarstedt was riding shotgun.

“Looks as if they’re pulling a fast one,” Hammarstedt said.

The huge payload transporter vehicle was backed up to the open bay doors of the payload building. A gigantic crane was delicately loading the Hagoromo II satellite under a dust-proof shroud on the flatbed. The move to the clean room on the launch gantry wasn’t supposed to have taken place until tomorrow.

Periphery barriers were set fifty meters around the truck, and Ripley had to park the van on the west side of the building. Someone said something to Kimura, who was watching the loading procedure from an open NASDA Toyota. He looked over, then stepped down and came across the parking lot, ducking under the barrier tapes. Several armed guards were conspicuously present.

Kimura reached them as Ripley and the others got out of the van. “We may be getting some weather overnight, so it was decided to move the satellite now,” he explained, his mood brighter than usual.

“We haven’t finished our tests,” Ripley said.

“Ah, yes, we finished them for you. It’s the weather.” Kimura glanced over his shoulder at the satellite. “I have my orders.”

Maggie stepped forward. “Are you taking us out of the loop, Hiroshi?” she demanded. “Because if you are we’ll have to report that we can’t possibly sign off on this launch.” Before the satellite would be allowed to dock with Freedom, the NASA Tiger team had to certify that the bird was ready to fly in space. It was part of the agreement.

Kimura seemed genuinely surprised. “Heavens, no. As soon as we have everything secured in the white house you’ll be able to continue with your prelaunch sequence. In fact this will give you more time to do your jobs. We don’t want to rush anything. This must not fail.” Kimura looked at them. “In addition to the very large investment in yen, this project represents a great deal to Japan. It is our national honor at stake here.”

“You should have informed us,” Maggie said.

“We would not interrupt your lunch.”

“Okay, we’re here as observers, let’s observe,” Ripley said.

He and the others started toward the barriers when Kimura handed a piece of gold foil a half-inch wide by three inches long to Maggie.

“Your reputations have preceded you, of course. But for this and the locking collar, we would have been correct in sending you all home. But no one here wished to delay the launch while waiting for a new team to be sent from Houston.”

Kimura turned and walked back to the truck, leaving Maggie to stare at the neat initials she had pressed into the foil, and she got a chill up her spine.

McGarvey spent a couple of hours on one of the CIA computers trying to find Otto Rencke on several international Usenet news groups without luck. But he left word in enough places that he didn’t think it would take long for his friend to surface. It was a few minutes after eleven by the time he made it back to the hospital. The guard posted outside Liz’s room knew McGarvey but didn’t know where Kathleen had gone.

“She got out of here a half hotir ago, sir. Dick Yemm is with her, so if you want to know where she is right now I can call him.”

“Did she say when she was coming back?”

“No, sir.”

The hospital was very quiet at this hour. The nurses at the floor station across from the elevators talked in hushed tones. Liz was asleep, her television tuned to CNN, the sound very low. He watched her for several minutes, bile rising up in the back of his throat again thinking how close to dying she’d come, and finally feeling the pain of Jacqueline’s death hitting home. Doyle was right, he had been running away from commitments all of his life. If he had done what Jacqueline had wanted him to do, it would not have saved her life. But if he had forced the issue, forced her to stay in France, she would still be alive. At the time it had been another instance of ducking his responsibilities. He’d known in his heart of hearts why she followed him, what she wanted, and that was something he could not give to her. He was not husband material, not for Jacqueline, nor for Marta Fredericks, who’d lost her life chasing after him.

Liz stirred in her sleep, and McGarvey went to turn off the television.

“Don’t turn it off, it helps me sleep,” she said, groggily.

“Did I wake you, sweetheart?”

“I’ve been drifting in and out,” she said. “Just lying here is driving me nuts. When can I go home?”

“The doctor says in a couple of days. Can I get you anything?”

She smiled tiredly. “A Big Mac and a Coke.” Her expression suddenly darkened. “Jacqueline never had a chance, did she?”

“No.” McGarvey pulled a chair over to her bedside and sat down. He closed his eyes for a second, instantly reliving the moment when the bombs went off with a flash and bang.

Liz reached out and touched his face. “You look tired, Daddy. Maybe you should get some sleep.”

“I was on my way home. I just stopped by to check on you. Did your mother say where she was going?”

“Home to take a shower and change clothes. She said she’d be back in the morning.” Liz studied her father’s face for a long second. “Is Mom going to be okay? This has gotten to her pretty badly. She’s having a rough time of it.”

“She’ll be all right.”

“I don’t want to worry her, but I can’t change who I am.” She looked away. “After what you told us this morning, she can’t ask for that. It’s not fair.”

“Your mother sees it differently.”

“My mother is a manipulator,” Liz flared, and she instantly regretted the remark, her eyes suddenly filling. “Shit, what a dysfunctional family we are. Grandma and Grandpa were targeted by the Russians. Aunt Sally won’t talk to us. And my parents are divorced. What am I supposed to do, how am I supposed to act?”

“Take it easy, Liz.”

“If Mother were here, she’d make you say Elizabeth, not Liz.”

She wanted to continue being angry, but McGarvey grinned at her, which eased the mood.

“Are you taking over the DDO?”

One thing about his daughter, she never dwelled on any topic of conversation for very long. She’d been a dynamo from the moment she’d been born. “I told the general yes.”

“Thank God for that. With Ryan gone and you running the show upstairs, maybe the CIA will get back on track, because you’ve got to admit the Company has been dropping the ball a lot lately. Even I saw what was going down in Russia before anybody upstairs would admit there was a problem.” Liz blinked. “Whoever hit the restaurant is going to try again. They’ll probably go ballistic once the word gets out.”

He’d decided not to tell his daughter about the threats her mother had received on the phone. But Liz was bright enough to realize that they were in danger too. She’d seen the guards on the door and knew that her mother had left with one. “That’s a possibility we’re going to have to watch for.”

“As DDO you get a driver and a bodyguard, don’t you?”

“That’s my choice, but you’ve got a bigger one you’re going to have to face.”

Liz’s lips compressed and her eyes narrowed. She was digging in her heels, the same way her mother did when she knew she was going to be pressed on something disagreeable. “It’s the doctor’s call when I can get out of here and back to the Farm.”

“I want you to quit.”

“No way,” she said softly.

“Not the CIA, just fieldwork. I’ll put you on the Russian desk.”

“Where you can keep an eye on me.”

“That’s right.”

“What if I were a man?” she flared. “You’d jump at the chance to hire me, with my operational experience.”

“You’re not a man, and you’re not just somebody off the street, Liz.”

“That’s Mother talking. She wants me to get married, have babies and join the Junior League, take up tennis, volunteer for something.” Her voice was rising. “She wants me to settle down, and you want a son.”

The remark hurt. This was a lot worse that he’d thought it would be. “A son would have been nice,” he said slyly. “Of course, by now I would have taught him how to use a gun, how to defend himself, hand-to-hand combat, knives, clubs, fencing foils. He’d certainly know how to swear and spit and tell a good joke.”

She looked forlorn. “I can’t spit.”

He smiled, his heart filled with sadness for all the years he’d missed with her. “I was never good at it myself; Grandma and Grandpa didn’t approve.”

She raised her free hand to her eyes to hide her tears. “Oh, Christ, Daddy, I’m so scared. I don’t want to disappoint you or Mother.”

McGarvey got up, gently took her hand away from her eyes and wiped her tears with his handkerchief. “You could never disappoint us.” He kissed a spot on her forehead that wasn’t bandaged. “We love you for exactly who you are. And it’s I who’ve disappointed you, but I’m going to try to make it up to you, if you’ll let me.”

She held his hand tightly and searched his eyes. “I won’t quit,” she said in a small but defiant voice. “It’s what I am, what I want to do. Is that so wrong?”

“No, sweetheart, it isn’t,” McGarvey said tenderly. “I just wish you’d picked something else.”

“It’s what I wanted to be ever since I was a little kid in school. And I’m getting good performance reps at the Farm, at least as good as half the men.”

“You’re at the top of your class, and I’m proud of you, even if you’re just a girl.”

She finally managed a smile. “That part was your fault. I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

McGarvey looked at her for a long time, and he could feel his strength returning, flowing into his daughter by dint of his will. It wouldn’t heal her wounds, but it was all he could do for now. “I love you, Liz,” he said.

“I love you too, Daddy.”

“Now, I want you to get some sleep. I want you out of here as soon as possible.”

She nodded.

He kissed her forehead again. “Sleep, and that’s an order.”

“Yes, sir,” she replied, her eyes beginning to droop. “Maybe you should check on Mother. She could use a pep talk too.”

Sitting in his car in the country club parking lot across the street from Kathleen’s two-story colonial, McGarvey telephoned Dick Yemm’s mobile number. The Security Service agent’s van was parked half a block away. The upstairs bedroom lights were on, otherwise her house was in darkness.

“Yemm.”

“This is McGarvey, how’s everything look?”

“It’s been quiet until you showed up, sir.”

“You have me spotted?”

“When you came in. I recognized the car and scoped you with the low light.”

“When’s your relief due?”

“Another six hours,” Yemm said. “You thinking about coming over, or are you going to stay there all night?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Don’t mean to get nosy, sir, but Mrs. McGarvey probably could use some company. She seemed pretty strung out to me.”

“Thanks,” McGarvey said. He broke the connection and phoned Kathleen’s number. She answered on the second ring. She sounded brittle.

“Hello, who is it?”

“It’s me.”

“Are you at the hospital?”

“I just came from there. Elizabeth is sleeping. How about you, Kathleen, how are you doing?”

“I’ve been better,” she said. “Are you at home, Kirk?”

“No. I’m across the street in the club parking lot.”

She didn’t hesitate. “Care for a nightcap?”

“I’ll be right over.” McGarvey drove across the street and parked beside Yemm’s gray government issue van.

The Security Service agent rolled down his window. He was drinking a cup of coffee. “Good evening, sir,” he said. The passenger seat was filled with electronic equipment including a computer monitor and keyboard.

“Are you monitoring her phone lines?”

Yemm nodded. “Yours has been the first since we got back here. We’ve got bugs on the doors and windows and inside too, in case someone tries to get in from the back.”

“Good,” McGarvey said. “Shut down the inside bugs for now, would you?”

“Sure thing,” Yemm said. He brought up a screen and typed in a few commands. “It’s done, sir.” He looked up. “I heard you were taking over the DDO. Congratulations.”

“Not much of a secret,” McGarvey said wryly.

“Not in this town.”

Kathleen, dressed in a terry cloth robe, her hair wrapped in a towel, opened the door for him as he crossed the veranda. She’d been crying, her eyes were red and puffy, a slight flush on her cheeks.

The grandfather clock in the hall chimed once for the hour as she let him inside and closed and locked the door. For a long moment or two they stood very close, looking into each other’s eyes. She was strung out, but she seemed a little relieved now that he was here.

She handed him her wineglass. “There’s an open bottle in the refrigerator. Why don’t you pour me some and get yourself a drink and come upstairs. I have to finish my hair.”

“Are you sure this is what you want?”

She chuckled. “I’m sure I want a glass of wine.” She went up the stairs leaving him standing alone in the empty hall.

He listened to the sounds of the house for a few seconds, then went into the kitchen where he poured her wine. He fixed himself a brandy at the sideboard in the living room and then went upstairs where the door to the master bedroom suite was ajar.

The bathroom door was open too. Kathleen was drying her hair at the vanity when McGarvey set the drinks on the table in front of the settee in the sitting room. The rooms, like Kathleen, were perfectly done, feminine without being overly frilly, with expensive furnishings, thick carpeting and several pieces of very good art on the walls.

“You may smoke if you want,” she called from the bathroom. “There’s an ashtray on my nightstand.”

McGarvey went into the bedroom to get the ashtray. The big bed was turned down, the lights low, soft music playing from the stereo. There was a package of Kool lights and a gold lighter on the nightstand, two half-smoked butts in the ashtray. He brought them into the sitting room.

“When did you start smoking, Katy?”

“Kathleen,” she automatically corrected. But then she grinned sheepishly. “Sorry, old habits, I guess.”

“Me too,” McGarvey said.

“I started smoking this summer,” she said, brushing her hair. “Didn’t seem much reason not too, even though it’s another stupid habit. Probably kill me sooner or later.” She laughed without humor.

“Maybe we should both quit.”

“Sounds good to me.” She finished in the bathroom, shut off the light, came into the sitting room and sat down on the edge of the couch. She pulled her robe primly over her knees.

McGarvey handed her the glass of wine.

“Light me a cigarette, please.”

He did it, and she smoked without inhaling, holding the cigarette like a movie starlet. She looked as if she were on the verge of falling apart, breaking into a million pieces, holding on with everything in her power and trying to hide the effort.

“Elizabeth will be getting out of the hospital in a couple of days. I’m going to put her up at a safe house. I’d like you to go with her.”

“For how long?” Kathleen asked reasonably.

“Until we find out who tried to kill me and who is threatening you. Will you do it?”

“We don’t have much of a choice, do we?” she asked. “Are you taking over the DO?”

“Yes.”

“Good. At least you’ll be around more than before. That’ll make our daughter happy.”

McGarvey had to look away for a moment, unable just then to face his ex-wife. “She won’t quit.”

“I didn’t think she would,” Kathleen said. “Please look at me when you’re speaking.”

He turned back to her. “She’ll be recuperating for a while, and afterward I’ll make sure her training is delayed.”

“That won’t last forever.”

“If need be, I’ll quit and take her out with me.”

Kathleen’s left eyebrow rose. “You’d do that for her?”

“If it comes to it. I don’t want her to get hurt.”

Kathleen studied him, as if she were trying to gauge his true meaning and figure out what to say next. “Is that why you were sending Ms. Belleau back to Paris, because you thought something was about to happen?”

“She wanted to marry me.”

“Why not, Kirk? Elizabeth said she was a lovely woman, intelligent, warm, a spy like you.”

“I’m not ready to be someone else’s husband.”

Kathleen was taken aback, and her hand shook as she put down her wine and stubbed out her cigarette. Her moods were mercurial, and she seemed angry now. “The trouble with you is that you never understood women. You’re coming close with your daughter. But she’s a special case because she’ll accept you on any terms. With her you don’t have to make any compromises. That’s not the case for the rest of us.”

“I know.”

“You know,” she said harshly. “After all this time, with your daughter lying in a hospital bed, all you can say is that you finally know?”

McGarvey put his drink down, a great weariness coming over him. “I don’t know what else to say, Katy.”

She got up and went into the bedroom where she stood staring at the bed, her back to him. He went to her.

“It was never supposed to be like this,” he said. He took her into his arms, her back still turned to him, and she laid her head back on his shoulder.

“Like what?” she asked. “With a grown daughter who idolizes you and an ex-wife who is still in love with you?” She turned in his arms, and raised her face to his to be kissed.

Her body seemed frail, and he could feel that she was shivering. For a long time she clung to him as if she were never going to let go, but then she stepped back, her face even more flushed than before.

“Can you stay tonight?”

“If it’s what you want, Kathleen.”

“Katy,” she corrected. She opened her robe and let it fall to the floor. Her body was wonderful, not as tight and firm as it had been when they were young, but in McGarvey’s eyes, even more wonderful than he remembered.

“Make love to me, my darling,” she said, coming back into his arms. “No compromises this time. I want you. Plain and simple, no strings attached, no promises, no questions. Just us.”

SEVEN

Thomas Harding cocked an ear to listen to the sounds of his boat. It was 0900 GMT, which put them three hours into the first morning watch, the time when the crew, the majority of whom had too little to do, began making mistakes. Twenty-four hours ago, after they had deployed listening sensors on a forty-mile track, he had ordered the Seawolf rigged for silent running, which meant no unnecessary noises. Their job was to make like a hole in the water and simply listen. So far he’d heard nothing inside his boat, nor had sonar heard anything outside. It couldn’t last forever.

He stood at one of the plotting tables where their present position was marked twenty-five miles off the North Korean coast in relationship to the downed MSDF submarine and the tracks of the two P-3s that had overflown them yesterday. They’d expected to hear the splash of sonobuoys being dropped in the water, but it had never happened. If the Orions were looking for a submarine it wasn’t them. At least not for the moment.

“Conn, sonar.” Lieutenant Karl Trela, officer of the deck, answered it.

“Conn, aye.”

“We have two possible targets, one submerged, but very faint.”

Trela glanced over at Harding, who motioned that he would check it out. “Okay, good work. The captain’s on his way.”

Harding got a cup of coffee and went forward to the sonar compartment located starboard and below the weapons loading hatch. Chief sonar operator Seaman First Class Mel Fischer was studying displays on two consoles, the three other operators working as backup.

Fischer’s division officer, Lieutenant Charles Pistole, stepped aside to give the captain some room. “We don’t have an identification on either target yet, Skipper.”

“Are they North Korean?”

“Probably not, they’re well east of us, and possibly inbound. Maybe Japanese.”

Fischer suddenly held his earphones tighter. He adjusted a control on his BSY-1 console. “Conn, sonar. Designate first target Sierra one-seven. Konga class destroyer. Target bearing zero-eight-seven, range twenty thousand yards plus, making screw sounds for twenty knots. I’m not sure of the course yet, but it’s definitely closing.”

A printer behind Fischer spit out two lines of data, and he reached back and pulled it off.

“Conn, sonar, I have a positive ID now. She’s the Kirishima, DD174 from Sasebo.” He adjusted his controls again. “Course steady on two-six-seven, speed steady at twenty knots.”

Harding used a growler phone to call the conn. “Karl, start a fire control track.”

“Already on it, Skipper.”

Fischer had switched to another console. He made a grease pencil mark on the Busy-one display, adjusted the controls and made another mark. He looked over his shoulder at the captain. “It’s a submarine, Skipper. Real faint, a few miles south of the Kirishima, but closer to us.”

“What’s your best guess, Mel? Japanese?”

Fischer stared at the display, tweaked the controls and made another grease pencil mark. “She’s a Yuushio class, I’ve got that much, but coming up with a sail number is going to be dicey until she gets closer.”

“Inbound?” Harding asked.

“Definitely, making eight knots, maybe a little better, but very quiet. She’s not advertising her presence, and the noise the Kirishima is making isn’t helping.”

“Are those the only two targets?”

“So far, Skipper.”

“Don’t lose them,” Harding said, and he went back to the control room where Trela and Rod Paradise were hunched over one of the plotting tables. The computers would automatically plot the course, speed and position of the targets fed into the BSY-1 consoles, but paper tracks were kept manually as a backup.

“Unless the Kirishima changes heading, she’s going to pass about twenty miles north of us,” Paradise said. “Same for the submarine.”

“They sent scouts yesterday, and now this,” Trela observed. “What do you suppose they’re up to, Skipper?”

“Good question, Karl, but I think this just may be the beginning.”

“Conn, communications.”

Harding answered it. “This is the captain.”

“We just received a one-group ELF message from COMSUBPAC. Reads, AAA.” ELF, or extremely long frequency, was the way in which U.S. submarines submerged at sea could be contacted anywhere in the world. The drawback was that the ELF bandwidth was so narrow that only extremely brief messages in one-time cipher codes could be transmitted, and even at that it took a minute and a half just to transmit one three-letter grouping. In this case AAA was the order for Seawolf to go to periscope depth for a longer message sent burst transmission via an SSIX satellite in geosynchronous orbit. There was little danger that the approaching Japanese destroyer would pick up their burst transmission — it was still too far away — but it paid to be careful. They would only spend a minimum time near the surface with their masts up.

“Take us to periscope depth and prepare to dive on my order,” he told Trela, then he turned back to the phone. “I’ll have one to send as soon as we’ve received the incoming.”

“Aye, Skipper.”

As they headed up, Harding wrote the first part of his message for the commander of Pacific Fleet Submarine Operations at Pearl Harbor. He phoned sonar. “Have you identified that submarine yet?”

“Just came out of the computer, Captain. She’s the Sachishio from Sasebo.”

Harding added that bit of information to his message and sent it forward to the communications shack across the passageway from sonar for encryption and preparation for transmission. The radio operator would add the proper headings.

When they were settled at sixty feet, Harding called ESMs. “This is the captain. I want to know if those Orions are still around.”

“Standing by.”

“Prepare to dive,” he told Trela, then raised the search periscope, ESM antenna and the UHF antenna which would link them with Pearl via the satellite.

It was late afternoon on the surface, and although the sky was still somewhat overcast, the seas had dropped considerably. He made a quick 360-degree sweep but saw nothing.

“Conn, ESMs. We’re showing a faint radar signal to the southeast, but nothing else. The P-3s are gone.”

“Good.”

“We have the incoming,” the radio operator called.

“Send our message.”

A few seconds later the radioman was back. “Message sent and confirmed, sir.”

“Very well.” Harding lowered the periscope and masts. “Karl, take us to three hundred feet and move us about ten miles north. I want to be a little closer to the action when these guys pass us.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.”

Paradise brought the message back from the radio shack. “The ante has just been raised a notch,” he said, handing it to Harding.

“If we’re going to get some help out here, Seventh is going to have to get out of the barn right now,” Harding said.

“This ought to be their wake-up call,” Paradise agreed. “One thing for sure, it’s going to get interesting around here real soon.”

“That it is, Rod.” Harding glanced at the ship control station from where the submarine was actually driven. “Soon as we’re in position I want all the senior officers in the wardroom. It’s not only going to get interesting, it’s going to get dicey, and I want everyone to know what we’re facing.”

The same crisis team as yesterday was already gathered in the situation room a couple of minutes after nine in the morning when Roland Murphy showed up and sat down next to Roswell.

“Good morning, Mr. President,” he said, and he nodded to the other men around the table. It was Sunday, and none of them wanted to be here. It showed on their faces.

“Good morning, Roland. I think by now that everyone here knows about the Chinese naval deployment and the increased readiness of all Japanese forces. Has there been anything new from the NRO overnight?”

“Only that the six surface ships and two submarines have not altered their course or speed. They’re still heading for the Sea of Japan through the slot between the Korean mainland and the island of Cheju.”

“Their submarines have not submerged?”

“No, sir. The surface ships should catch up with them sometime tonight, and the entire flotilla will be in position off the North Korean coast by Friday night or sometime Saturday. They’ve slowed way down, for some reason.”

“Have we shared this information with the Japanese?”

“There’s no need for it. They have their own satellites monitoring the region. They knew the same time we did.”

“I ordered Seventh Fleet to sail this morning right after we received the message from Seawolf about the two Japanese warships he detected.”

“We’ll be in position about the same time the Chinese show up,” Admiral Mann said. “But it’s going to be damned dangerous out there. Especially if the Japanese decide to throw more assets into the mix, which we think they will.”

“Has the CIA gotten anything new from the South Korean team that was supposed to check out Kimch’aek?” the President asked.

“Unfortunately not, Mr. President. As of midnight no one had heard from the team. Could be nothing more than a communications problem, but no one in Seoul is sure. They’re going to sit tight for another twenty-four hours before they send a second team in.”

“What about the special operation to kidnap Kabayashi and Hironaka?”

“We’re still working out scenarios,” Murphy said. “But McGarvey thinks we should hold off for the moment. They might not tell us anything we don’t already know, or at least nothing significant enough to justify the risk if the operation should go bad. At this point he thinks we should concentrate on the political solutions.”

“Under the latest circumstances, I have to agree with him.”

“What circumstances, Mr. President?”

“Seoul and Pyongyang will issue statements this morning. They’ll be breaking on all the networks in another hour, but we were advised of the content overnight. They were looking for a reaction.”

Secretary of State Carter handed copies around the table. “These came to us on the back burner, which I think was damned wise of both countries. Finally shows some restraint. The gist of Kim Jong-Il’s statement is that there was a nuclear accident at Kimch’aek with the loss of at least one hundred and fifty lives, which he says was caused by outside pressures forcing them to cut corners in closing down their old nuclear facilities. The heart of the matter is that he’s issuing a warning that should anyone take this as a sign that he is weak, or that should anyone try to take advantage of the situation, an appropriate response will be forthcoming.”

“It’s probably why the Chinese navy is on the way,” the President’s national security adviser Harold Secor observed. “He’s asked for their help.”

“The Japanese showing up in force won’t do much to stabilize the situation.”

“No, it won’t.”

“Apparently Kim Jong-Il hasn’t seen the latest from Seoul,” Carter said. “They’ve trotted out Hwang Jang Yop again, and this time he’s outdone himself. The short version is that he claims North Korea engineered the accident themselves as an excuse to prepare for an all-out war. Scorched earth. Yop is warning that North Korea is planning to launch its nuclear arsenal at any moment.”

Murphy could scarcely believe what he was hearing. “Is this the government’s official position?”

“All South Korean forces have gone to DEFCON Two,” General Podvin said unhappily. “Came out of the blue at 0600. Ken Addison is scrambling to play catch up. Caught him completely off guard.” General Addison was commander in chief of all forces in South Korea.

Murphy sat back in his chair as he tried to work it out. “This could mean that the South Koreans heard something from their Kimch’aek team that they’re not telling us,” he said. “Wouldn’t be the first time they held out.”

“They’re playing a dangerous game,” Secor said.

“That they are,” Murphy agreed.

“All right, gentlemen,” the President said. “North Korea and South Korea are both rattling their sabers. In the meantime the Chinese are sending warships into a region where Japan already has deployed two ships of its own, not including the submarine of theirs that sank. What do we do about it?”

“We put Seventh Fleet between them,” General Podvin said. “The Chinese backed down before over Taiwan, and they have a much greater interest there than they do in North Korea.”

“What orders do we give Hamilton?” the President asked pointedly. Admiral James Hamilton was CINC of Seventh Fleet.

“To defend himself,” Podvin said. “But nobody’s going to shoot at us.”

“They have before.”

“Not the Chinese, Mr. President,” Podvin said. “And the incident two years ago between us and Japan was an accident they’re not going to repeat.”

The President was troubled, but he nodded. “I tend to agree with you,” he said. “Which is why I ordered the Seventh out of Tokyo Bay. But we have another kettle of fish to deal with. The Japanese embassy hand-delivered a letter from Prime Minister Enchi to me forty-five minutes ago.”

Harold Secor was the only man around the table who didn’t seem surprised.

“He’s asked for our help,” the President said.

“Did he admit they sabotaged Kimch’aek?” Murphy asked.

“No. But he’s taking Kim Jong-Il’s threats seriously enough to tell me that if the North Koreans so much as twitch he’ll order an all-out offensive against them and expect our support.”

“Then it’s up to us to prevent Kim Jong-Il from twitching,” Murphy said. “We do exactly what we’ve set out to do, because the North Koreans aren’t going to do a thing without the support of the Chinese. If we make them back down, Kim Jong-Il will back down.”

“What if the Japanese navy gets into it with the Chinese?” Podvin asked.

“Won’t happen unless they know something that we don’t,” Murphy said, but even as the words came out of his mouth he wasn’t so sure. In the past few years the Japanese had done some surprising things. Their economy was going down the drain, and yet they continued to build up their military and even continue with the space program. They’d taken up slack left by Russia’s inability to keep pace with the Freedom space station, even though the cost to them was so enormous it was straining their budget at the seams.

“What do you mean?” President Lindsay asked.

“Japan going up against North Korea is one thing. They’ve been enemies for five hundred years, and the North Koreans are technologically no match for them, even with their four nuclear weapons and million-man army. But going up against China is another matter entirely. It’d be a war Japan couldn’t possibly win.”

“What could they know that we don’t that would make the difference?” the President pressed.

“I was just thinking out loud,” Murphy said. “The Japanese took the North Korean threat seriously enough to try to sabotage it, and Prime Minister Enchi sent a letter to you this morning knowing that the Chinese were sending a naval force. Makes me wonder if something else is happening that we’re not aware of.”

“It might be a good idea if I fly out to Tokyo this morning after all,” Carter said. “Maybe a face-to-face meeting might slow things down a bit. Give us a chance to work something out.”

“We owe them at least that much,” Tony Croft, the President’s adviser on foreign affairs, put in.

“I agree,” the President said. “But we’re going to keep the trip out of the media.”

“They’ll have to be told something,” Secor said.

“I’ll hold a news conference this afternoon to deal with Pyongyang’s and Seoul’s statements, but beyond that there will be no leaks.”

Everyone around the table nodded. This was one president who did not enjoy being second-guessed by the media.

“In the meantime I want no slipups. As soon as the Seventh Fleet shows up, there are going to be a lot of tense trigger fingers. I’m going to need every piece of hard information that the CIA and NSA can provide me as soon as it occurs. Are we clear on that?”

“Yes, sir,” said Murphy and Roswell.

“Then, let’s get to it, gentlemen. I want a diplomatic solution this time. No shots fired.”

After the meeting, Murphy went with Secor and Croft upstairs to Secor’s office, where CIA General Counsel Paterson had just arrived. Paterson, a look of exasperation on his long face, was dressed as usual in a dark three-piece business suit.

“Sorry to disturb your Sunday morning,” Murphy told him as they went inside.

“Comes with the territory, General,” he said briskly. “Nothing more than I expected when I signed on.” He shook hands with Secor and Croft. “We have our work cut out for us if we expect to get McGarvey confirmed by the Senate.”

“The President doesn’t want to take a hit, so we can’t drop the ball,” Secor said. “But I have to agree with you, it’s going to be tough, if not impossible. I don’t know what he’s thinking.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier to convince the President to pick someone else?” Croft asked. He was scowling, as if he had a toothache, none of his usual good cheer showing. “There has to be somebody else over there who can do the job.”

“Not as good as McGarvey,” Murphy said. “You’ve looked at his record, you know what he’s done for us.”

“From what I’ve seen he’s a one-man killing machine, and a maverick to boot,” Croft said. “Is he the one you want for the job, General?”

“Frankly I wouldn’t have picked him, but only because I never thought he’d accept the offer. And I’m even more surprised that the President wants him.”

“Has he accepted?” Secor asked.

“He’s been acting DDO as of yesterday.”

Secor and Croft exchanged a worried glance. “That’s not so good. You should have waited,” Croft said.

Paterson took several files out of his briefcase and handed them around. “Our battle plan,” he said. “And believe me we’re going to need it because this is going to set a record for the all-time toughest appointment in our history.”

Paterson, a New York lawyer like Ryan, had many of the same pretentious attitudes as his predecessor, but although he wasn’t quite as effective on the Hill yet, he had none of Ryan’s ambitions to become a spy. When Murphy had hired him he’d done so with the warning that people in the business tended to be odd ducks, hard to figure by an outsider and even harder to control.

“As I see it, we have four major concerns to deal with if we’re going to make this fly, the first of which is McGarvey’s past. It’s going to have to be sanitized, which means we’re going to end up lying through our teeth to Congress.” Paterson looked over the rim of his reading glasses at Secor. “Does the President understand this?”

“Let’s sidestep that part for the moment, Carleton, because we’re not going to back the President into any corners. If there’s any heat, we’re going to take it. So I think we’d better find a way through this that we can all live with.”

“McGarvey’s official record with the CIA is actually quite brief,” Murphy said. “And his special operations for us have all been black, so I don’t know how much of that will have to come out.”

“It’s all grist for their mill,” Paterson said. “And don’t think otherwise. If something comes up that’s too secret to share with the public, the subcommittee will meet in camera. What I’m telling you is that if McGarvey’s full record comes out he’ll never be confirmed, not in a thousand years.” Paterson shook his head. “Just the Russian operation four months ago would be enough to sink him. What he did was illegal. Plain and simple. So what do we do about it?” he asked them all. He put his file folder down. “Because if we can’t overcome this first stumbling block then we might just as well give it up here and now. Save us all the work and save the CIA a black eye.”

“We lie to Congress,” Murphy said it for the others.

“Just the high points,” Secor said.

Paterson looked pointedly at Murphy. “I will not be a party to changing the actual record in CIA archives.”

“Nor will it be changed,” Murphy said. “We’ll sanitize McGarvey’s past as needed and present his record entirely in closed session.”

“Very well,” Paterson said. He picked up his folder. “The next two issues concern the terrorist attack against him in Georgetown and his response. I think we’re all in agreement that the incident probably had something to do with proposing McGarvey as DDO. And it’s now a matter of FBI record that McGarvey single-handedly killed the three alleged terrorists. Violence does surround the man. The question will be asked, then, if he is actually confirmed as DDO, how many similar incidents will occur and how many other innocent civilians will be hurt?”

Croft slumped back in his chair, a dour I-told-you-so look on his pudgy features. “Tell us something to cheer us up.”

“Americans don’t like to be pushed around. If some outside interest is, in actuality, trying to block this nomination it could work as a plus for us, providing the FBI can find out who they are.” He turned to Murphy. “I think this has to become a priority for us on top of everything else that’s happening.”

“McGarvey is working on it because it involved his daughter and his friend.”

“How have the French reacted?” Secor asked with interest.

“The DGSE is sending someone over to help with the investigation.”

“We’re allowing that?” Croft asked, interested too.

“Under the circumstance, of course. There’s no reason to tell them no.”

“Six weeks,” Paterson said. “That’s the timetable we’re working with. We need to develop plausible answers for his background and come up with the people and the reason behind the Georgetown attack to justify McGarvey’s violent reaction.”

“And the fourth hurdle?” Croft asked.

Paterson had to smile. “May be the toughest nut to crack of all. McGarvey himself. I’ve only met him a couple of times but it’s quite obvious that he has, shall we say, a forceful personality.”

“He calls them like he sees them,” Murphy said, understanding exactly where Paterson was taking this. “Won’t set well with the committee if he tells a couple of those senators what he actually thinks. Is that what you’re getting at?”

“He’s not a stupid man,” Paterson said. “Even though the CIA has treated him that way at times. If he wants the job he’ll have to play the game, and I don’t think it’s beyond him. It’ll simply be a matter of motivation. That too will have to be worked out over the next six weeks.”

“That’s my job,” Murphy said, and it would not be an easy one.

“Yes,” Paterson said. “Because he won’t listen to me; he doesn’t especially care for me.”

“He didn’t like Ryan, he’s indifferent to you,” Murphy said.

Paterson laughed again. His skin wasn’t as thin as Ryan’s had been. “Those are the problem issues, and now we have to come up with a plan to deal with them.”

McGarvey entered the fourth-floor conference room a couple of minutes after 10:00 A.M. Fred Rudolph had been surprised to hear from him so soon, but had agreed without hesitation to the unusual Sunday morning meeting. A couple of stacks of file folders were laid out on the table along with a carafe of coffee and a couple of cups.

“Good morning, Mr. McGarvey. Coffee?” Rudolph said. He was dressed in jeans, a short-sleeve yellow Izod and deck shoes. With his short hair and earnest attitude he looked preppy.

“No thanks.” Before McGarvey called for this meeting, he’d telephoned the CIA’s records section from Kathleen’s house for some background on the FBI Special Investigative Division’s assistant director. Rudolph had graduated from Fordham University with a law degree in 1982, summa cum laude, had joined the army’s Staff Judge Advocate’s office as a captain, rising to the rank of lieutenant colonel in a short seven years. He worked briefly for the U.S. Supreme Court and the Department of Justice until signing on with the FBI five years ago. Although he’d had no direct experience in law enforcement, his specialty had been criminal law and he had headed a number of special investigative efforts for the military and Justice, so he was well qualified for his present position. The recommendations in his file all indicated that he was a straight shooter who might never head the Bureau but would almost certainly be its assistant director one day.

“I understand that congratulations are in order. Dr. Pierone said you’ve been appointed as deputy director of Operations. It’s an important position.”

“Yes it is, thank you. It’s one of the reasons I wanted to talk to you this morning.”

“We got off on the wrong foot Friday, but I was coming up short on a bunch of serious questions.”

“Forget it,” McGarvey said. “The attack was meant for me because someone doesn’t want me to take over the DO. It’s up to us to find out who it was and exactly what they have to lose.”

“Or hide,” Rudolph said. “Do you have any ideas?”

“A few. But first I want to get something straight between us, all bullshit aside. If there’s been trouble in the past between the CIA and the Bureau it stops now.”

“Fair enough.”

“That means I’m accessible twenty-four hours a day with one provision. You talk to me and you tell me the truth, all of it. Nothing held back, nothing classified for Bureau reasons. And if you have a problem with that, take it up with your boss.”

“I can envision some exceptions, but we’ll deal with them as and when they arise,” Rudolph said seriously. “It’s a two-way street.”

“Yes, it is,” McGarvey replied. “Tell me about the Bureau’s investigation of Joseph Lee.”

A flinty look came into Rudolph’s eyes. “Where did you hear that name?”

“Lee’s name was mentioned in a roundabout way by my predecessor, Howard Ryan, who knows Blair.”

Rudolph took a moment to answer. “Joseph Lee is very close to the President, so I’m going to have to ask you why you want to know about him. Where’s the connection?”

“It’s a tenuous one at best, but I was involved in a couple of operations that dealt directly with the Japanese. Could be there is something else going on out there that might involve some of the same people I came up against.”

“Two years ago, the airline disasters?”

McGarvey nodded. “I was told that Lee may have some connection with the Japanese, could be one of the groups I was involved with. He has a think tank in Tokyo which could be a front for something. If there’s a connection between that operation and the group that sabotaged our Air Traffic Control system it might provide a bridge back to me.”

“It’s all over, why come after you now?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I missed something last time, maybe, like I said, something else is going on. Two of the men involved who were sent to jail are out. In fact they were seen together a couple of weeks ago in Nagasaki.”

“Are you sending someone to interview them?”

“We’re working on it, but something is going on right now over there that might make that too politically risky for us to take the chance.”

“Are you going to tell me about it?” Rudolph said. “Because there are a lot of coincidences piling up here, all leading back to the White House. Lee spent Friday night in the Lincoln bedroom.”

“If I come up with a connection, I’ll brief you, but right now you don’t want to know.”

Rudolph was trying to come to a decision. It was obvious he was troubled. “Wait here,” he said. He got up and left, returning a minute later with a thick file folder bordered by orange stripes.

“Have you ever heard of Joseph Lee in any other connection, at any other time?” he asked, searching for something in the folder.

“First time I ever heard the name was from Ryan yesterday.”

“Shit,” Rudolph said. He looked up and stared at McGarvey for a long moment, then took a photograph from one of the other file folders and passed it across the table. It showed a young man wearing some kind of a uniform, a handgun at his hip. He looked like a cop.

“He was the one driving the car,” McGarvey said.

“His name is Akira Nishimura. Hong Kong police provided us with a fingerprint match. He’s Japanese, born in Kobe, but raised in Tokyo. Two years ago he was fired from his job as a security guard in Hong Kong at a place called Pacific Rim Development Institute.”

“What about the other two?”

“Nothing on them yet,” Rudolph said. He looked again at something in the thick folder. “Pacific Rim is a Joseph Lee operation.”

“Bingo,” McGarvey said, but for some reason he wasn’t really surprised. He did not believe in coincidences.

“The Hong Kong police report came in yesterday afternoon, but there was no reason for us to connect the two investigations.” Rudolph shook his head in amazement.

“Where is he now?”

“On his way back to Taiwan, but his wife didn’t go with him. Looked as if he was in a big hurry to get out, and it came right after he was briefed at the White House.”

“Who gave the briefing?”

“Tony Croft, the President’s adviser on foreign affairs. That’s all we were able to come up with. No telling what they gave him.” Rudolph looked cornered. “The problem is, if you’re suggesting that Lee was involved in the attempt on your life it’s going to take us to some places I don’t know if I’d care to go. Do you know what I mean?”

“Comes with the job,” McGarvey said.

“Don’t I know it.” Rudolph glanced at the files spread out on the table. “Will the CIA give us a hand with this? We’re going to need someone watching him in Taiwan, and we’re going to need more background information on his other operations because right now it looks as if we’re going to have to combine both investigations, and I’m going to need something solid to bring to Dr. Pierone.”

“There might be no connection after all,” McGarvey said, though he didn’t believe it. “Nishimura was fired two years ago.”

“You have to ask yourself what else a man like Lee has to hide, I mean in addition to funneling money into the White House? What does he have to fear from you?”

“We’re going to find out.”

Rudolph’s expression softened momentarily. “How is your daughter?”

“She’ll be getting out of the hospital in a couple of days. I’m putting her in a safehouse until this is all over.”

“The sonofabitch,” Rudolph said. “For money and power.”

Maybe something else too. McGarvey told himself. Something none of them had thought about yet.

EIGHT

McGarvey was still beating himself up over Jacqueline’s death. He knew he had to stop it if he was to do his job, but last night with Kathleen had only confused him more, deepened his dark mood. He stood at the end of Canal Street looking toward the bombed-out ruins of Jake’s restaurant reliving every moment from the time he and Liz had arrived until the bomb exploded, trying to work out in his mind what he could have done differently to save Jacqueline’s life.

Tourist season was in full swing and traffic was heavy. The street had been cleaned up, but nothing had been done to start rebuilding the shattered restaurant blocked off now by yellow crime scene tape. A police car and two BCI vans were parked in front, and several men were carefully sifting through the rubble looking for clues, bits of bomb fragments, anything that could help them pinpoint what kind of explosive was used and where it was manufactured. The investigation would drag on here for weeks, and in the meantime whoever had targeted him would try again.

A few gawkers lingered as they passed the scene of destruction. The number of deaths had risen to twenty-two, and although this place was not as famous as the Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City, people had died violent deaths here; terrorism on American soil, and people were frightened and curious.

The bombing was still the main story in all the newspapers and on the networks, but so far no solid connection had been made between the attack and the shootout on the Canal Street bridge a couple of blocks away. Washington was a violent city, and life went on, the shooting might have been drug related. It was a story the FBI and Metropolitan Police were doing nothing to dispute.

Sooner or later he was going to have to return to his apartment and face Jacqueline’s things. He’d have to pack them up and send them to her parents in Aix en Provence. He’d never met them, but Jacqueline had spoken fondly about her folks often enough that he felt as if he knew them well. They would be confused and hurting now, and deserved something from the man she’d wanted to marry. But not yet. He couldn’t face that task now.

A lot of flowers had been placed on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant, and McGarvey looked at them for a long time before he flipped his cigarette away and got back in his car. Twenty-one people besides Jacqueline had lost their lives, and their friends and family were grieving, as he was, trying to find answers, trying to find a rhyme or reason, paying their last respects, doing something, anything to help them over this tremendous psychological hurdle. Something. They were doing something.

Time now, he thought, for him to do his thing. The grieving could come later. Like Doyle had said, he’d been running away from commitments all of his life. Time to stop.

Merging with traffic, he called the duty officer at Langley to find out where Dick Adkins was. The former acting DDO was in his office, and the call was rolled over to him.

“Are you coming in today?” Adkins asked. He sounded harried.

“I’m on my way to the hospital now. I’ll see you about noon.”

“How’s your daughter?”

“Better,” McGarvey said. “How’s everything there?”

“Busy,” Adkins said tersely. “See you when you get here.” He broke the connection.

The whole Agency was under pressure, and until McGarvey showed up, Adkins was in the hot seat. But if Dick thought he was going to be able to sit back and take it easy, he was mistaken.

A young, good-looking, athletically built man was seated on a chair next to the bed in Liz’s room when McGarvey showed up. He and Liz were deep in conversation and it took a moment before they realized they were no longer alone and the man jumped up.

“Good morning, sir,” he said. “I’m Todd Van Buren. I have this shift.”

McGarvey recognized him from the Farm. He was one of Paul Isaacson’s people. “Are you a student?”

“No, sir, I’m an instructor. Special weapons, PT and hand-to-hand combat.”

Liz was beaming. Although the left side of her face was almost completely covered in bandages, she had managed to put on some makeup and fix her hair, and she was sitting up in bed. “Good morning, Father,” she said.

McGarvey, amused, gave her a peck on the cheek. “How are you feeling, sweetheart?”

“A lot better. Todd has been telling me about my class. They wanted to know if they could come for a visit later today.”

“Are you up to it?”

“Definitely. It’s been kinda boring around here.”

“They won’t stay long, Mr. McGarvey. I’ll make sure of it,” Van Buren said. “But they’ve been asking about her.”

“I want them screened.”

“Don’t worry, sir, nobody’s getting in here who doesn’t belong.” Van Buren gave Liz a warm, interested look. “They’d have to deal with me first.”

“That’s good to know,” McGarvey said. “Why don’t you get a cup of coffee, give us ten minutes.”

“Yes, sir,” Van Buren said, practically falling over himself to get out of the room, but not before giving Liz another warm look.

Liz was grinning. “Don’t you think he’s beautiful, Daddy?”

McGarvey laughed. “You might embarrass him if you tell him that.”

Liz caught herself and looked sheepish. “I never noticed him before, but he asked for this detail, and he seems competent enough.”

“Good, maybe he can help keep you out of trouble.”

“Okay,” she said demurely.

Kathleen breezed in and gave her ex-husband a kiss. “I thought I’d find you here.” She gave her daughter a kiss. “Good morning, Elizabeth, how are you feeling?”

Liz’s gaze went from her mother to her father and back again, her smile widening. “A lot better, Mother, I mean it.”

“Good,” Kathleen said. “I spoke with your doctor just now and he said you’re about ready to leave the hospital.” She turned back to McGarvey. “This business about our staying in the safe house could last indefinitely, is that right?”

“I don’t know how long it’ll be.”

“We’re not going to sit out there doing nothing, Kirk. Elizabeth is a translator and trained analyst. You’ll get her a computer so that she can do some work. I’ll help.” She hadn’t put it in the form of a request.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“We’re involved now, whether you like it or not. You’re going to have two extra troops in your platoon. We’ll stay behind the front lines, but we won’t be idle.” She glanced at her daughter. “Close your mouth, Elizabeth,” she said, and McGarvey had to shake his head.

“Who’s supposed to be the boss around here?”

“You are,” Kathleen said seriously. “So get the people who ordered this done to us, and let us get on with our lives.”

“I want you to stick with Dick Yemm and the other guards, do what they tell you to do, okay?”

“Yes. But now get out of here and close the door on the way out. Elizabeth and I have some things to work out.”

Van Buren was coming down the hall. “I wouldn’t go in there right now,” McGarvey told him. “She’s with her mother, and if you interrupt they’d probably eat you alive.”

The guards were expecting him, and he was passed through the gate after his ID was checked. The main parking lot was nearly full even though it was a Sunday. Because of the developing crisis in the Sea of Japan the agency was on emergency twenty-four-hour-per-day footing and would stay that way until the situation was fully resolved.

Inside the lobby he was handed a security badge. All the red tabs were filled in, indicating he had access to every section of the vast facility. The plastic pass also allowed him to use the executive elevators, which went directly up to the seventh floor.

“Good morning, Mr. McGarvey,” one of the guards at the security arches said. “Are you armed?”

“Yes, I am.”

“May I see your weapon? I need to log the serial number.”

McGarvey took out his Walther PPK, removed the magazine, cycled the round out of the chamber and handed the pistol to the guard, who logged the serial number then handed it back.

“After this you can use the executive entrance. Your driver will know where to drop you off.” The guard’s name tag read Scrignolli. “Welcome aboard, sir.”

“Thanks,” McGarvey said. He reloaded and holstered his gun, and took one of the elevators upstairs where he had to go through a similar security procedure before he was allowed to continue. Security was tight, but the guards seemed genuinely pleased to see him.

The deputy director of Operations’s office wing occupied the entire east corner of the top floor, adjoined by a conference room, the offices of the deputy director of Central Intelligence and the director and their staffs, including the general counsel. Beyond that was another conference room and finally the deputy director of Intelligence’s wing in the west corner.

Ms. Dahlia Swanfeld, a dowdy old woman with silver-gray hair up in a bun, who had been the private secretary to Howard Ryan and Phil Carrara before him, got to her feet when McGarvey walked through the door. Beyond her the door to the DDO’s office was open, and McGarvey could see that no one was inside.

“Good morning, Mr. McGarvey,” she said, a tight expression on her face, as if she were expecting trouble.

“Did Dick Adkins ask you to come in this morning?”

“No, sir. But I thought I should be here for your first day, and at least until you hire my replacement.”

“Are you leaving the CIA?”

“Not unless I’m asked to leave. You know that I was Mr. Ryan’s secretary during his tenure as DDO.”

“But you also worked for Phil Carrara.”

“Yes, sir.”

McGarvey smiled. “Everyone’s allowed at least one mistake. Are you ready to go to work?”

Her round, pleasant face broke out into a big grin. “Yes, sir.”

“Good, then get me a cup of coffee, strong and black, and bring your notebook, I have a lot of catching up to do.”

“Shall I call Mr. Adkins?”

“Not yet.” McGarvey went into his huge office that looked out over the trees and rolling hills behind the second wing. The weather was absolutely beautiful, the foliage in full bloom, but he didn’t think he would spend much time appreciating the scenery, not from this office.

All of Ryan’s and Dick Adkins’s personal belongings had been cleared out, leaving the desk blank. One door led to a conference room while another led to a good-sized, well-equipped bathroom that included a shower. Bookcases dominated one wall, and a number of file cabinets and a built-in safe for sensitive documents, another. A painting of skipjacks on Chesapeake Bay was hung on the wall above a couch, two chairs and a coffee table.

A lot of history had been made from here, some of it his own personal history, much of it not so pleasant to remember, though now that he was here like this, he harbored no grudges, held no resentment; too much was happening for that.

Ms. Swanfeld came in and set the coffee on the desk. “I took the liberty of stocking your bathroom. There’s an electric razor, toothbrush and a few other things. The way this job sometimes goes, I suggest that you bring a change of clothes, maybe a couple of shirts, ties, a spare jacket, things like that.” She opened one of the locked file cabinets and pulled out several thick file folders and books, which she placed at his elbow. “These are your computer access codes, safe combinations, Agency telephone directory, National Reconnaissance Office, National Security Agency and Federal Bureau of Investigation locator numbers and emergency contact procedures, as well as a White House staff directory of private numbers.

“I assume that you’re going to want to meet with Mr. Adkins and your staff as soon as possible. They’re all here today because of the crisis and because they knew that you were coming in. The only thing on your schedule so far is a three o’clock in the general’s office with Mr. Danielle and Mr. Paterson.

“The General and Mr. Paterson are at the White House, and Mr. Danielle is having lunch with Senator Thomson in town. But the general was keen that you see him at three.” She laid another file folder on the desk. “These are the pool drivers and bodyguards. They’re all good men, but if you have someone else in mind, that’s your prerogative, of course.”

McGarvey set the folder aside. “We’ll put that on hold for the moment. For now I prefer to take care of myself.”

“Not a wise decision, Mr. McGarvey, but it’s your call,” Ms. Swanfeld said. Ryan had wanted to fire her because she wasn’t afraid to speak her mind, but Murphy had not allowed it. She’d been with the CIA for a long time, and she was very good at what she did, taking care of DDOs and keeping them out of trouble.

“How much of my background were you given?”

She smiled faintly. “Enough to tell you that I’m happy you’re here. And I can speak for the rest of the DO as well. It’s about time.”

“You might not be so happy three months from now.”

Her smile broadened. “We’ll just have to see, Mr. McGarvey.” She flipped open her notebook. “How is Elizabeth coming along?”

“She’ll be out of the hospital in a day or two. I want a safe house set up for her and her mother as soon as possible.”

“Mr. Adkins took care of that. He has the file.” Miss Swanfeld handed him a phone memo. “Colonel Guy de Galan from the DGSE would like to speak to you as soon as possible. He’s sent two of his people over to help with the investigation. Mr. Adkins has that file as well. But Colonel Galan wants to speak to you personally.”

“What can you tell me about Dick Adkins?” McGarvey said. Ms. Swanfeld’s nostrils flared.

“If part of my job is telling you tales out of school, you may have my resignation now,” she said.

McGarvey shook his head. “I think you and I are going to get along just fine.”

“I never had any doubt of it, sir,” she said. “I can tell you that Phil Carrara thought highly of Mr. Adkins.”

“I know. And I’m going to count on you and Dick to keep me out of trouble, because I’m no administrator.”

“We’ll do our best.”

“That’s all I can ask. But it’s going to make for some long hours.”

“Whatever it takes.”

“Very well. I want a staff meeting in my conference room in fifteen minutes. And dig out all their personnel files. In the meantime get me Colonel Galan on the phone.”

“Do you wish to see Mr. Adkins first?”

“No,” McGarvey said.

It was coming up on six in the evening in Paris when McGarvey’s call went through. Galan, who headed the French Secret Intelligence Service’s American and Western Hemisphere Division, had been Jacqueline Belleau’s boss and had taken her involvement with McGarvey very personally. Her death had deeply affected him.

“Thank you for returning my call, Monsieur McGarvey,” Galan said. “May I offer my congratulations on your appointment.”

“Thank you, Colonel,” McGarvey said. He could hear the barely suppressed anger in the French intelligence officer’s voice. “I assume you’ve seen the report of the incident.”

“Oui, and it seems as if you did all that could have been done. Are there any further leads on who ordered the bombing?”

“We’re working on it with the FBI. I’m told that you’re sending two of your people over to help.”

“There has been a delay, but they will arrive at our embassy tomorrow afternoon. Will they have your cooperation?”

“Naturally. We can use all the help we can get.”

“Then we will find the bastards, hein?”

“Definitely.”

Galan hesitated a moment. “The report placed Jacqueline at the exit from the restaurant when the bomb exploded. Was she coming or going?”

“She was leaving,” McGarvey said. “I was sending her back to Paris.”

Again Galan hesitated, evidently struggling with what he wanted to say next. His voice was thick. “Better to have sent her home sooner, or perhaps never to have brought her to Washington in the first place.”

“Yes,” McGarvey said. “It would have been better.”

“Tant pis,” Galan said sadly. “Will you write to her parents? They have asked about you.”

“I will.”

“Bon. Then that is all I can ask of you for the moment. Good hunting, monsieur. Get the men who were ultimately responsible for this terrible act.”

“I will, Colonel, you can count on it.”

The Directorate of Operations, which used to be called clandestine services, was, with a staff of more than ten thousand professionals and clerical types, the largest of the CIA’s four divisions. The DDO’s conference room, laid out much like the President’s situation room beneath the White House, was a long, narrow, windowless space dominated by a large conference table that could easily seat twenty people. A large rear projection television monitor was built into the wall at one end of the room, a technician from Technical Services operated the display and projection equipment from a console at the other side. When McGarvey walked in five minutes before noon and took his position at the head of the table, Adkins and six other men were already seated. Each of them had a stack of file folders and other materials in front of them. Miss Swanfeld sat directly behind her boss at a small table equipped with a telephone and recording equipment. She would take the minutes.

“Good morning, gentlemen. Sorry to have interfered with your lunch hour, but we’re under the gun here, and I have a lot of catching up to do. Dick, could you make the introductions?”

“Yes, sir, congratulations on your appointment,” Adkins said. He was a short, husky man with light wavy hair and a pale complexion. He looked as if he hadn’t seen the sun in six months. He sat on McGarvey’s left, and he introduced the other six around the table, starting with Randy Bock, who headed the DO’s Foreign Intelligence staff which was responsible for espionage activities. Beside him was Jared Kraus, the heavyset and sometimes ponderous director of the Technical Services Division, which designed and built the secret equipment field officers used: miniature cameras, disguises, special weapons. Next to him was Scott Graves, chief of Counter Intelligence and then Arthur Hendrickson, head of the Covert Action staff whose job, among others, was propaganda and disinformation. Seated near the end of the table was Raife Melloch, who headed up the DO’s Missions and Programs Division which was responsible for bureaucratic planning and budgeting. Finally, next to him was David Whittaker, Area Divisions chief, responsible for the stations and bases around the world and the area desks for Russia and former Soviet bloc nations, Europe, the Western Hemisphere, the Far East, Near East, Africa and domestic and special operations. His was the largest of the DO’s division, and he’d been running his shop for ten years with such an efficiency that most of his staff thought he was a magician or at the very least a genius.

McGarvey looked around the table. “We’re missing Tyron. Where is he?” Alfred Tyron was the head of Operational Services, which set up cover stories and legends for field officers on clandestine missions.

“He asked that we start the meeting without him,” Kraus said. “He was going to stop by the cafeteria to grab something to eat.”

McGarvey had had a chance to briefly look over all of their dossiers and division personnel rosters before the meeting. Tyron had been one of Ryan’s handpicked men, with a special note attached to his file that he was someone to be watched for possible advancement. He knew his place.

“Mr. Tyron is relieved of his present duties,” McGarvey said. He turned to his secretary. “Have Ms. Jordan join us with the division reports.” Brenda Jordan was Tyron’s assistant division head. “She’ll be our new chief of Operational Services.”

“What do you want done with Tyron?” Adkins asked.

“That’ll be up to his new boss,” McGarvey said. He looked around the table again. “Gentlemen, whatever you’ve heard about me is probably all true. I’m going to make a lousy boss because I don’t accept excuses or apologies, nor will you have to accept them from me. I want straight answers to straight questions. If you don’t know something, admit it, don’t try to blow smoke up my ass.” A few around the table chuckled. “I’m not much of an administrator, which means I’m likely to be in the field more than any other DDO ever was. So as of this moment Dick is no longer my assistant DDO, he’s my chief of staff. Whatever he says, goes, and when I’m out of the office this directorate will not shut down; he’ll make the decisions. Anybody have a problem with that?”

“What if I don’t want the job?” Adkins said evenly.

“That’s not an option, Dick. In the meantime we have work to do, so let’s get going.”

Adkins looked down at the stack of thick file folders in front of him. Each of them was marked with a code name and was color coded to indicate the degree of classification of the material it contained.

“Getting you up to date any time soon is going to require some serious homework on your part, Mr. Director.”

“Mac.”

Adkins looked up. “Okay, Mac.” He handed McGarvey two fat file folders. “There’s no doubt that the top of the agenda today is the developing situation in the Sea of Japan between our forces and those of Japan, China and North Korea. In the meantime you can look through the National Intelligence Estimate and the current Watch Report. There are some points of interest in Iraq, Bosnia, Greece, Columbia, Cuba and of course the current extremely unstable situation in Russia, especially in Moscow and along the border with Iran, as well as India and Pakistan.”

Both documents were produced on a weekly basis by the U.S. Intelligence Board made up of the director of Central Intelligence and the heads of the other intelligence agencies, including the National Security Agency, Defense Intelligence Agency, the military intelligence branches, the State Department, FBI, Nuclear Regulatory Commission and Treasury Department. The National Intelligence Estimate listed targets for the U.S. intelligence community, estimates of future international events and enemy strengths, a technical intelligence review and decisions on which product was to be shared with which allies. A separate document, the Watch Report, indicated trouble spots where armed conflict was possible or even likely. The two reports were issued each Thursday, after the USIB meeting at the CIA, and were delivered to the President and all the top policymakers in the government.

“Okay, I’ll wade through this stuff this afternoon, unless there’s something that needs our attention right now.”

“It’ll wait,” Adkins said. He passed two more thick files to McGarvey both marked Top Secret. “These are the suggested current updates to the National Intelligence Estimate and Watch Reports on the Sea of Japan situation, which for the moment we’ve code named Watchful Thunder. I’m told that you know some of this, but if you’ll give me a couple of minutes I’ll give you a précis of everything we have so far.” The room lights dimmed and a satellite image of what appeared to be a major seaside industrial installation appeared on the monitor.

“This photograph was taken by one of our KeyHole satellites, six days ago,” Adkins said. “It’s the partially dismantled nuclear-powered electrical generating plant at Kimch’aek on North Korea’s east coast. It’s hard to tell from this shot, but NRO and NSA analysts reported seeing a good deal of activity here during the past week. Apparently the North Koreans were moving something out of the facility in great secrecy. It’s now believed that the object of all this activity was the removal of four of their five operational-ready nuclear devices. Over the next several days heavy cloud cover in the region rendered our photographic capabilities useless.”

Another satellite image came up on the screen, this one showing a huge depression in the ground. Nothing of the power plant, its cooling towers, twin reactor containment domes or the distribution yards was left. “Seventy-two hours ago we recorded an underground nuclear event in the range of twenty kilotons directly beneath the installation, which, as you can see, was totally destroyed. The actual event was witnessed by one of our nuclear patrol submarines, the Seawolf which had detected the presence of a Japanese submarine just off shore. It’s believed that this submarine, the Hayshio, home ported at Sasebo, may have sent a party of commandos ashore either to gather intelligence on the nuclear weapons stockpile, or to commit an act of sabotage. The shore party did not return to the Hayshio, which was apparently heavily damaged in the explosion. Twelve hours later, in response to a Mayday, an MSDF rescue vessel showed up and recovered the submarine’s crew.” Adkins looked up. “This was without interference from the North Koreans and apparently without detection of the Seawolf, which has been ordered to stand by and monitor the situation.”

A series of four images came up one after the other. “Since then a number of interesting developments have occurred. The Chinese navy has deployed eight warships, two of them Han class nuclear attack submarines, from their Northern Fleet bases at Qingdao, Lushun and Xiaopingdao. Best estimates place them off North Korea’s coast no later than Friday or Saturday.”

Another series of satellite images flashed across the screen. “These are Japanese military installations across the three main islands, among them air force regional headquarters bases at Misawa, Iruma and Kasuga, as well as navy bases at Yokosuka, Kure, Sasebo, Maisura and Oominato. All of them have gone to a high state of alert without the proper notification to our command structure either in Japan or at the Pentagon. In addition, the MSDF has begun to deploy a number of warships into the area.” Adkins looked at McGarvey. “The actual details are listed in the NIE update, but the situation is extremely fluid at the moment so we’re getting new information hourly.”

“Has the President deployed the Seventh Fleet?” McGarvey asked.

“Yes. They should be in striking range about the same time the Chinese fleet shows up,” Adkins said. “Maybe sooner.”

Brenda Jordan, an earnest-looking woman in her late thirties with flaming red hair, had slipped in and quietly taken her place. She’d brought the Operational Services division files with her.

“Okay, what do we have on the ground at Kimch’aek?” McGarvey asked.

“Not a thing, sir,” Jordan said. “The South Koreans sent one unit up there but they lost contact, so they’re sending another, although they’re not sharing any of the operational details with us.”

“We do have confirmation that there was probably a considerable loss of life in the incident,” Whittaker said. “Pyongyang is saying that it was an accident brought on because we forced them to cut corners in closing the facility. Which of course nobody believes.”

“Is such an accident possible?”

“A meltdown, yes,” Kraus said. “But not an explosion of that magnitude. It was definitely a nuclear device.”

“Have the North Koreans made any military response yet?” McGarvey asked. “Other than calling for help from the Chinese?”

“None, at this point. But all of their military installations are always at a high state of readiness,” Adkins said.

“Has Seoul or Tokyo made statements?” McGarvey asked. The more he was hearing the more the situation became surreal to him. It was as if everyone out there had suddenly gone crazy.

“Kim Jong-Il is warning that if he is pushed too far he’ll strike back. So the South Koreans brought out Hwang Jang Yop, who says that North Korea is getting ready to launch an all-out nuclear attack on Seoul and Tokyo. Scorched earth, he said. Prime Minister Enchi responded that if Kim Jong-Il so much as twitches they’ll mount an all-out offensive against North Korea. Secretary of State Carter is on his way to Tokyo to see if he can talk some sense into them, and the President has scheduled a news conference for two this afternoon.”

“What else?”

Adkins glanced at the others. “That’s about it, except for the details which you have in front on you. The question is what the hell does the CIA do about it?”

“Nothing other than what we’re already doing, only more of it,” McGarvey said. “This is going to have to be worked out politically, because nobody wants to start a shooting war over there. So we have to provide the White House with everything they need. And I don’t mean by that another series of Howard Ryan reports. Only the facts. Right now what we’re short of is human intelligence. I want our chiefs of Seoul and Tokyo stations to lean hard on all of their networks, active or not, to find out what the hell is really happening, and who is directing it.”

“That could ruin a lot of assets,” Whittaker warned.

“I don’t care. We’ll bring them in if need be once they’re blown, but as of this moment this operation is our number-one priority.”

“There is one other operation,” Adkins said. “The general asked me to put something together, but perhaps we don’t need to bring it up here.”

“The kidnapping of Kabayashi and Hironaka,” McGarvey said. “Have you worked out a scenario?”

“Yes.” Adkins handed across a file folder.

“I’m putting this one on hold for the moment, but I want our Tokyo COS to be made aware of what might be coming his way.”

Adkins looked relieved. “Okay.”

“Anything else, even of a peripheral nature in the region that we should know about?”

Adkins shrugged. “Just the upcoming space launch from Tanegashima.”

McGarvey zeroed in on him. “The launch of what?”

“They’re putting up a component for the international space station. Should be launching in four days unless there’s a delay. NASA has a team of inspectors over there helping out.”

“Has the countdown been delayed because of the North Korean situation?”

Adkins spread his hands. “Unknown.”

“Find out,” McGarvey said. “And I want to see the file on it, including dossiers on the NASA team as well as the Japanese launch director and his staff.”

“I’ll get on it as soon as possible—”

“Now,” McGarvey said. “Anything having to do with Japan, China or North or South Korea is priority one. I want everything, no matter how insignificant or off the wall it might seem. Clear?”

Everyone around the table nodded.

“All right, we have another investigation I’m throwing into the mix. Dick will have someone liaise with Fred Rudolph’s staff over at the FBI. We’re going to look into the background of a Taiwanese businessman by the name of Joseph Lee.”

“We’re already on that,” Whittaker said. “Dennis Ford, my Taipei COS, has his people digging around at the Bureau’s request, but we weren’t giving it a very high priority.”

McGarvey eyed him. “Does that have anything to do with the fact that Lee is a personal friend of Jim Lindsay?”

“Hell no. I’m a born and raised Republican,” Whittaker said. He was a large man with a square, honest face. “I didn’t think the CIA needed to get involved with another investigation of this nature. We could spend all of our time doing them.”

“I agree, but this time it’s different,” McGarvey said. “There may be a connection between Lee and the Georgetown bombing to stop me from becoming DDO. The Bureau identified one of the shooters as Akira Nishimura, a Japanese who was fired two years ago as a security guard at the Pacific Rim Development Institute in Hong Kong. Pacific Rim is a Joseph Lee enterprise.”

Whittaker whistled long and low. “I’ll be a sonofabitch. I’ll light a fire under Dennis and have Hong Kong station get on it too.”

“Make it an all stations flash bulletin. Lee has similar operations in Seoul, Bejing and Tokyo.”

“Where are we going with this, Mac?” Adkins asked. “Let’s say for some reason Lee wants you dead. Are you looking for a connection between him and the military situation out there?”

“I don’t know, Dick. But I don’t like coincidences, and right now Joseph Lee’s name keeps popping up all over the place.”

“Could be a connection between him and Kamiya’s old zaibatsu.”

“That’s a start. Lee’s supposedly in Taipei right now, so we’re going to keep him on a tight rein until he comes back here where Fred Rudolph’s people can take over. Do we have the manpower to do that?”

“No problem,” Whittaker said. “I’ll get the word out as soon as we’re finished here.”

“Okay, is that it for now?” McGarvey asked, looking around the table. Everyone nodded. “I have a three o’clock with the general. I want you there, Dick.”

“I’ll be there.”

Taipei, sparkling like a million diamonds scattered across a black velvet cloth, was spread out below Joseph Lee’s sprawling Japanese-style house on Grass Mountain. It was two in the morning, the night air warm and soft with humidity and the odors of night-blooming flowers. He stood deep in thought sipping jasmine tea from a delicate porcelain cup on one of the balconies when Bruce Kondo, his chief of staff, joined him. They had been together for ten years now. Lee had hired him from the Japanese Ministry of International Trade and Industry with the blessings of Tokyo because of certain financial considerations. Japan was also more than happy to be rid of Kondo, who had been one of the men instrumental in the debacle at Yokosuka. He’d become something of an embarrassment. Since that time Lee had never had reason to doubt the man’s loyalties or abilities until now.

“The last of your board of directors has gone,” Kondo said, his voice cultured. He’d received his education at Oxford.

“It went well,” Lee said coolly, not turning to the man.

“As it should have. You’ve done a magnificent job, and they’re happy with the results. They’d be fools to feel otherwise.”

“But they also understand the problems we’re facing.”

“I believe you made that quite clear,” Kondo said. “But they still have complete faith in you. Nine U.S. senators, nineteen representatives and the ear of President Lindsay and much of his staff, all in less than six years. Stunning.”

Lee finally turned to face him. Kondo, like many Japanese, was short of stature, but wiry, with a round face that was almost always devoid of any expression. Lee, whose father had been Japanese, still harbored a deep-seated dislike of the arrogant home island Japanese, which was why he had changed his last name as a young man, but he was pragmatic enough to make use of talent no matter what disagreeable package it might come in. “Do you still have complete faith in me?”

“As always,” Kondo said. “But I think that your trust in me has wavered because of my failure in Georgetown.”

“I’ve learned that McGarvey has finally accepted the post as deputy director of Operations, and may in fact already be busy at work. Now with a clear purpose in his heart because of the injuries to his daughter and the death of his French whore.”

“He cannot work miracles,” Kondo said indifferently.

“I wouldn’t be so certain of that. But it has become a delicate matter of timing. Everything we have worked for is finally coming to fruition. All the chess pieces are in play, and it will be only a matter of days before the end game begins.”

Kondo shrugged. “Killing McGarvey now would create an even bigger storm. He’s no longer a maverick; he is the third most powerful man in U.S. intelligence. There would be repercussions.”

“Are you telling me that you are no longer capable of fulfilling your responsibilities?” Lee demanded harshly.

“Not at all. But the stakes have increased by a quantum jump. There will be a backlash, killing someone so highly placed.”

“Nonetheless it must be accomplished, and within the next three days.”

“With such a deadline the job becomes even more difficult.”

“Impossible?”

“No,” Kondo said looking Lee directly in the eye. “Merely more difficult than before.”

“Then it’s settled. You will personally see to McGarvey’s death and the elimination of another, potentially even more harmful person. A man who has the President’s ear and who may just have stumbled on the key that could unlock all our work, making Morning Sun impossible.”

Kondo’s eyes narrowed for the first time. “Who is this second target?”

Lee took Kondo’s arm. “It’s more secure in my study, less chance of us being heard. It’s time that you were told about the next step and the reasons why both of these men must be eliminated.”

“Skipper?”

“Come,” Captain Harding said, looking up from the letter to his wife he was still trying to finish. It was coming up on 1900 GMT.

His XO, Rod Paradise, came in and handed him a message flimsy. “This just came in on ELF.”

Harding looked up. The SSIX was a military communications satellite system. “They want us to call home about three hours from now. Have sonar keep a sharp watch. If need be we’ll move south; this is one message we have to get.”

“Good news about Seventh,” Paradise said.

“Is it?” Harding asked. “I wonder.”

NINE

The surveillance position was at the edge of a gravel pit across Highway 193 from the long driveway to the Lee mansion on the Potomac. Parking was fifty feet below, but from the crest of the hill they had an unobstructed view of the expansive house and grounds. Morgan was having a sandwich and a cup of coffee in the van when Kuchvera came running down the path, the powerful binoculars banging against his chest. Morgan pulled off the earphones he was using to monitor the radio link to the four telephone lines into the house.

“His driver just pulled out,” said Kuchvera, out of breath. He tossed the binoculars inside, climbed behind the wheel and started the engine as Morgan slammed the side door and climbed up front.

“Has he got the limo?”

“No, he took the Jeep,” Kuchvera said, heading through the woods to the highway slowly, to give Lee’s chauffeur time to reach the end of the driveway. “He’s on his own this afternoon, so I thought maybe we could have a little chat with him. Just one-on-one.”

Morgan grinned wickedly. They weren’t accomplishing much by merely watching Lee’s staff who knew they were being watched. Rudolph said step it up a notch, which is exactly what they were going to do, starting with Lee’s chauffeur, Arnold Toy, a Taiwanese national working in the U.S. on a green card. Morgan keyed the radio. “PARA/MEDIC driver is on the move. We’re going to tag along.”

The Jeep pulled onto the highway and headed toward Washington.

“Is he alone?”

“Affirmative. He’s in the Jeep, Virginia three-two-baker-one-seven-seven. Southbound on one-nine-three.”

“Roger, one. Do you want backup?”

“Negative,” Morgan said.

Tactical command for the PARA/MEDIC surveillance operation was located downtown, but the watch commander this afternoon had either stepped out or didn’t care that they had left their post. Since Lee was out of the country, the operation was somewhat lax, giving the special agents more freedom to act independently.

Two miles later the highway crossed under Interstate 495, and the Jeep pulled into a Texaco station and parked around the side by a pay phone. Toy, dressed in a pair of slacks and a light short-sleeved shirt, was making a call when Kuchvera pulled in out of sight on the other side of the station, and he and Morgan went in one door and came out the other. When Toy saw them, he hung up and started for his Jeep.

“Mr. Toy, could we have a word with you?” Morgan said, pulling out his ID. “FBI.”

Toy stopped, the expression on his face wary but not concerned. “I have to get back to work.”

“We’ll just take a minute of your time, sir,” Kuchvera said.

“Actually, we need your help,” Morgan said. “We’re trying to find one of your friends. He didn’t show up for an appointment yesterday and we’re a little worried.” Morgan watched him closely.

Toy shrugged. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“His name is Akira Nishimura. He said he might have something for us.”

All expression left Toy’s face. “I don’t know anybody by that name.”

“He mentioned you. Said he’d worked with you a couple of years ago in Hong Kong. Pacific Rim Development Institute.”

Toy forced a laugh. “This is a joke, right? I’ve never been to Hong Kong in my life, and I’ve never heard of this company.”

“It’s an institute, actually, one of Mr. Lee’s operations, according to what Akira was telling us. He was here with a couple of his friends, but like I said they just disappeared.”

“Hey, I’m just a chauffeur, I don’t know anything. You want to talk to somebody, talk to my boss when he gets back.”

“When might that be?” Morgan asked.

Toy shrugged.

Kuchvera glanced at the pay phone. “Having trouble with the phones at the house?”

“That’s right. I was reporting the trouble to the phone company.”

Morgan smiled and nodded. “Hope you get it fixed. I’m sure that Mrs. Lee wouldn’t want to miss a call, especially if it was from her husband.”

Toy looked at them, his gaze unblinking. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking.

“That’s it,” Morgan said. “Appreciate your help. We’ll mention your name in our report.”

When Toy was gone, Kuchvera wrote down the pay phone’s number and back at the van called it in to tactical command. If the call had been long distance it would show up in phone company records. It took less than five minutes to come up with the answer. Toy had called the Japanese embassy in Washington. “The plot thickens.”

“Better tell them to flag it for Mr. Rudolph. He’ll want to know about this,” Morgan said, as they headed back to the gravel pit.

McGarvey and Adkins walked down the hall to the DCI’s office a minute before three. He’d spent the afternoon at his desk wading through the National Intelligence Estimates and Watch Reports, as well as the updated material on Watchful Thunder. Although he was a speed reader, he managed only to skim through the material, which ran to five thousand pages, plus five dozen satellite photographs and infrared images. The CIA’s problem was hardly ever a lack of information. In fact in the past ten years the amount of data coming in had risen at such an exponential rate they were having a hard time collating it into manageable chunks, pieces that were recognizable as meaningful.

“I just got a call from Fred Rudolph’s office,” Adkins said.

“Have you set up the liaison already?” McGarvey asked.

“Yeah, and it’s already starting to pay off. The guys watching Lee’s house up in Great Falls followed his chauffeur to a pay phone. You’ll never guess who he called.”

“Who?”

“The Japanese embassy.”

“How about that,” McGarvey said, not really surprised. “Were they able to listen in?”

“No. But when they asked him who he’d called, he said it was the phone company to report something wrong with the phones at the house.” They stopped at the DCI’s door. “I think I’m starting to dislike coincidences as much as you do.”

“Doesn’t take a lot of practice.”

Carleton Paterson and Lawrence Danielle were with the general in his office, sun streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows doing little to dispel the gloomy mood.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” McGarvey said.

“Are you settling in?” Murphy asked.

“If you can call it that. I met with my staff, and I’ve gone through the last NIEs, Watch Reports and the updates on Watchful Thunder. It’s mostly a mess, but it looks as if we’re getting some reliable intel. Oh, and I’ve made Dick my chief of staff, so when I’m out of the office his word will carry the same weight as mine.”

“Good idea,” Murphy said. “How is Elizabeth coming along?”

“She’s on the mend.”

“What conclusions have you drawn?” Danielle asked. He looked tired. Word was out that he’d be retiring in a few months. He was one of the only people left in the building who actually remembered the old days before the Langley facility was built, when the CIA’s offices were spread all over Washington. A legacy from the OSS days.

“Nobody knows what’s going on out there or why. All we can do for now is give the White House as much information as we can get. No speculation or guesswork.”

“Lindsay will appreciate that,” Murphy said. “Did you see his news conference?”

“I was too busy. What’d he say?”

“He called Kimch’aek an accident and said that we were going to cooperate with the North Korean government to find out what happened. About what we expected.”

“Did the media buy it?”

“There were a couple of tough questions, but since there were no Americans on the ground, Lindsay downplayed it as much as possible. The winds out there are blowing the radioactive dust inland over North Korea and into the Gobi Desert, so the impact to human lives will be minimal.”

“What he did was buy us some time,” Danielle said, “which is exactly what we need.

“It’s coming down to a standoff between Japanese and Chinese forces with us in the middle, which makes it political. Secretary Carter is on his way over to Tokyo to see if he can talk some sense into them, and as long as the lines of communications remain open out there, the situation might stabilize.”

“Unless it’s given a nudge,” Murphy said shrewdly.

McGarvey laid a file on the general’s desk. “Joseph Lee, a friend of Lindsay’s. He’s in Taiwan now, so I’ve issued a worldwide bulletin to find out everything we can about him. And I’ve activated all of our in-place networks in Japan, China, Taiwan and North and South Korea.”

“A lot of resources,” Danielle observed.

“One of the terrorists has been identified. He was Japanese, and until a couple of years ago worked for Lee in Hong Kong.”

“Do you think Lee may try to provide the nudge?” Murphy asked.

“I’m going to look for the connections,” McGarvey said. “Coming after me was just too coincidental. Could be something out of my past.”

“What’s your best guess, Mac?” Danielle asked. “What’s your gut telling you?”

McGarvey took a moment to answer. “I don’t know,” he said. “It’s the timing that has me wondering. If there’s a connection between Lee and something in my past, why did he wait until I was put up for DDO to act on it? Why right now in the middle of some Japanese operation against North Korea? If there’s a connection, I don’t see it yet.” He looked at the general. “But if it’s there, I’ll find it.”

“Not much time to do it in,” Murphy said.

“In the meantime we have to get you ready for your confirmation hearings,” Paterson broke in.

“Later,” McGarvey said, barely looking at the general counsel.

Paterson started to object, but Murphy held him off. “All right, it’s your call, but since this involves Joseph Lee, with his ties to the White House, I don’t want to be kept in the dark. You have a habit of stepping on toes, and this time the toes are big ones, so watch your step.”

“General, that’s what I intend doing.”

With the DDO off and running for the moment under Dick Adkins’s capable direction, McGarvey began his search through his past looking for connections between him, Joseph Lee and the recent events in the Sea of Japan. Less than one-tenth of one percent of the CIA’s vast repository of files, stored in the vast underground caverns of an abandoned salt mine sixty miles outside of Washington, was accessible by computer. Indexes and précis of files, however, along with the current and most recent case histories, were kept in the Directorate of Intelligence’s Central Reference Service in a subbasement at Langley. Because of his position he was given immediate and unlimited access to the system. By four-thirty he was set up in a small cubicle furnished with a long table, a blackboard and a computer terminal where he started with the files on the FBI’s deep background investigation of him when he was first issued a secret clearance in the air force, through his top secret and cryptographic access clearances when he was hired by the Company and trained as a black operations field officer. All he was coming up with, however, were references to paper files with addresses at the Fort A.P. Hill Military Reservation near Bowling Green. A few minutes after seven his phone rang. It was Otto Rencke.

“Hi ya, Mac, burning the midnight oil?”

“How the hell did you find me?”

“Dumb question,” Rencke said laughing. “You’re leaving a computer track a mile wide.” His voice was suddenly serious. “How’s Elizabeth? I just found out.”

“She’ll be okay, but she was banged up pretty badly.”

“You’re not shitting an old shitter, are you?”

“It was close, but she’ll recover. Anyway, where are you?”

“I’m on the Parkway about two miles out. Can I come in?”

“I’ll leave word at the gate, and I’ll meet you at the main entrance.”

“This is another big one, isn’t it, Mac?” Rencke said. “I mean Murphy finally pulled his head out and made you DDO, and just in time if what I’m reading between the lines isn’t a bunch of Beltway bullshit.”

“This is a big one, and I need you, Otto.”

“Oh, boy, I knew it!” Rencke said excitedly and the connection was broken.

McGarvey phoned the front gate, then took the elevator up to the ground floor and walked out to the main entry hall, quiet at this hour even though most of the building was busy.

He’d known Rencke for a long time, and over the years they’d developed a close, almost familial bond. Otto had been trained as a Jesuit priest and professor of computer science and mathematics, but he’d been kicked out of the church when he’d been caught having sex with the dean’s female secretary. He enlisted in the army, but had been kicked out six months later for having sex with a young staff sergeant — a male. And a year later he’d shown up at the CIA, his record mysteriously blemish free.

But he was a genius, and nobody looked too hard at his past, or wanted to, because he got the job done. It was Otto who’d brought the Company into the computer age, updating its entire communications system and standardizing its spy satellite analytical section so that everyone’s satellites could cross talk and share information on real-time basis with everyone else’s. He’d also come up with an online system so that field officers on assignment could be fed updated material the instant it became available no matter where in the world they were located.

His past had finally caught up with him, though, in part because he was a maverick and men like Ryan were coming into power within the agency, so he’d been dumped. He’d moved to France a couple of years ago.

More than once he’d backstopped McGarvey, most recently in Russia where without him the operation would have been a total disaster. McGarvey and his daughter both would have been killed were it not for Otto. It was a debt of gratitude that would never be called, and could never be repaid.

McGarvey had arranged for an all-sections pass, and he picked it up at the counter just as Rencke came through the automatic doors. He hadn’t seen his friend in four months, but it could have been four hours ago. Nothing had changed. Rencke’s long, out-of-control fuzzy red hair still stuck out in all directions as if he’d never combed it, and he wore the same faded blue jeans, tattered MIT sweatshirt and unlaced high-top sneakers. He carried a satchel slung over his shoulder which he laid on the floor by the security arches before giving McGarvey a huge bear hug.

“Oh, boy, am I glad to see you. You can’t even imagine what a lonely bitch Rio is, especially this time of year.”

“I figured that’s where you went,” McGarvey said.

“It was getting squirrelly in France. The service wasn’t exactly in love with me.” Rencke was hopping from one foot to the other, which he did when he was happy or excited. “Once I was sure that you and yours were okey-dokey I lit out. Retreat’s the better part of valor and all that happy crappy.” His expression suddenly darkened. “Jackie didn’t make it, but you’re sure about Elizabeth? I mean she’s going to be okay, Mac? You weren’t just saying that to make me feel better? Honest injun?”

McGarvey had to smile. Being around Rencke for more than thirty seconds was like jumping onto an out-of-control carnival ride. “We’ll go over to the hospital and you can see for yourself. She’ll want to see you.”

Rencke cocked his head. “I know just what she’s needing right now.” Rencke turned to the guards who were eyeing the satchel. He opened it for them. “My laptop, passport and a few goodies.”

One of the guards pulled out a package of Twinkies.

“He never leaves home without them,” McGarvey said.

“Yes, sir.”

Rencke signed in, McGarvey gave him the pass, which he hung around his neck, and they took the elevator down to the cubicle in Central Reference Service. Rencke glanced at the computer screen.

“Something out of your past gaining on you?”

“I’m looking for the connections, and we don’t have a lot of time,” McGarvey said.

“Deep past?”

“I just don’t know. But it’s a possibility.”

“Well, we’re not going to find it here. If it’s answers you’re looking for, they’ll be out at Bowling Green.”

“This is a start—”

“I can access this shit from out there,” Rencke said. He looked closely at McGarvey. “This one was even closer than Moscow or Santorini, wasn’t it? Are they after Kathleen as well?”

“A couple of phone calls and a virus to her PC at home.”

“That’s a break. Viruses leave calling cards, and I’ve either invented all the major ones, or know about them. This about North Korea and Japan?”

McGarvey nodded. “The Chinese are getting into it now, and there could be a tie to the White House through a Taiwanese billionaire by the name of Joseph Lee.”

All expression left Rencke’s face for a moment. At forty-one he still looked like a kid in his twenties with a wide-eyed innocence, but behind the facade was a shrewd man, wise well beyond his years in some things.

“Timing,” he said almost dreamily. Then he blinked, and his face became animated again. “Did you know that Japan is launching a module for Freedom in a few days?”

“Yes.”

“Puzzles, Mac. Don’t you see, it’s a big puzzle, and I’ve still got the magic to put it together, because this time chartreuse is the color.”

Bruce Kondo put down the telephone, hesitated a moment, then walked out to the balcony of his penthouse apartment at the base of Grass Mountain. His number two, Shiro Kajiyama, was studying Lee’s mansion, higher up on the mountain, through a powerful pair of tripod-mounted U.S. Navy binoculars. The morning was warm and humid, and a haze had settled over the city and its environs, making viewing difficult.

“Are you able to penetrate the fog?” Kondo asked.

Kajiyama looked up, his lips curled into a cruel grin. “This fog is easy by comparison to the real veil.”

“Has Mr. Lee left?” Kondo asked ignoring the jibe. Kajiyama was number two on the security team, but only Kondo knew the entire picture.

“Ten minutes ago.”

“It’s up to him now to lose his tail, and it’s up to us to get on with our assignment.”

“Then the decision is final?” Kajiyama asked coolly. There was no love between these two men. But Kajiyama was good at what he did, coming out of Japanese intelligence six years ago, and both men respected each other’s abilities.

“Mr. Lee has ordered it,” Kondo said, studying the other man for a hint of uncertainty. “Of course if you do not wish to participate …”

“Your contacts in Washington are ready for us? For both missions?”

“I just spoke with them.”

Kajiyama nodded. “Hai. Then let us hope there will be no dog’s death for us.” It was an allusion to the old Japanese warrior’s code that death for an unworthy cause was a dog’s death. The allusion was not lost on Kondo.

“This is for the most worthy of causes. Honor.” Kondo glanced at his watch. It was a few minutes after nine. “Have the others already gone?”

“Last night and this morning, as you ordered.”

“Good. Then it’s time for us to leave. We’ll be in Vancouver for breakfast and Washington for lunch.”

McGarvey hadn’t gotten much sleep in the past forty-eight hours since the bombing, and he knew that he had to go down soon or he wouldn’t be worth a damn to anybody. But now that Rencke had finally shown up, he felt as if they would begin to make some real progress. Otto would help unravel the puzzle and McGarvey would act on it. They were a team again.

They parked in the garage across the street and walked through the tunnel. Todd Van Buren was stationed in the corridor outside Elizabeth’s room, and he did a double take when he spotted Otto, who was carrying a McDonald’s bag.

“Did they kick you out again?” McGarvey asked.

“Yes, sir. Mrs. McGarvey is with her.” He looked forlorn, and McGarvey almost felt sorry for him.

McGarvey introduced him to Rencke. “Otto is a friend of the family, and he works for me.”

Van Buren nodded uncertainly.

McGarvey knocked once and stuck his head in the door. Elizabeth was propped up in bed, and Kathleen was saying something to her. They looked up.

“Daddy,” Elizabeth said, her face lighting up with pleasure.

“Is this women’s only night, or are you up for a visitor?”

“Who is it?” Elizabeth asked, interested.

McGarvey stepped aside to let Rencke into the room. Kathleen’s mouth dropped open in surprise, but she recovered quickly. For a second Elizabeth was puzzled but then a big grin broke out on her face. She’d never met him face-to-face.

“Twinkie?”

“Oh, wow, Liz,” Otto gushed, grinning from ear to ear. He approached the bed, but then stopped, suddenly unsure of himself.

“Come here,” Liz said, her eyes beginning to fill.

Rencke went to her side, and Liz reached out for his hand, drew him close and kissed him.

“You’re the greatest thing since sliced bread,” she whispered. “I’ve been wanting to tell you that since Paris. You saved my life.”

Rencke drew back and hopped from one foot to the other. “Wonder bread,” he said gleefully, awkwardly clapping his hands. “Oh, wow.” He looked back at McGarvey for reassurance, then gave the bag to Elizabeth. “I thought maybe you could use a Big Mac and some fries. I got you a Coke too, I hope it’s okay.”

“Thank God. You can’t imagine how bad the food is here,” Liz said enthusiastically.

Otto took a package of Twinkies out of his pocket and held it out to her. “I don’t know anybody who likes these things, but sometimes they’re pretty good for dessert.”

Elizabeth’s eyes filled again, and she took the package. “They’re a major food group in my book,” she said. She shook her head. “What a lovely man you are.”

Kathleen came around the bed and offered her hand. “I’m Kathleen McGarvey.”

Rencke wiped his hand on his pant leg and shook hers. “You’re beautiful,” he said simply.

Kathleen smiled. “I want to thank you for what you’ve done for my daughter, and for my husband.”

Otto lowered his head.

“Please look at me when I’m speaking,” she said, and Otto looked up. She smiled warmly. “You’re a little old to be my son. But from this moment you’re to consider yourself a part of this family. Wherever you go, whatever you do, we will always be here for you.”

“Oh, wow,” Otto said, hopping from foot to foot again. But then he stopped, and a serious expression came over his face. “We’ll get them, Mrs. M., the people who did this to Elizabeth. I promise you with everything in my soul, we’ll get them.”

Kathleen looked into his eyes for a long moment. “I know,” she said softly. “But Twinkies? Ugh.”

TEN

Elizabeth was released from the hospital at noon on Monday, a full day earlier than the doctors had forecast because she was healing quickly. McGarvey, after a twelve-hour sleep, was hung up with meetings at Langley so that he could not be there, but Paul Isaacson from the Farm had assured him that he was taking over, and it would take a regiment of marines to break through the security he was planning not only for the move but out at the safe house. Kathleen called around two to assure him that they were safe and sound and starting to settle in already. But McGarvey could hear the concern in his ex-wife’s voice, and it did nothing to dispel his gloomy mood, so that he raced through his final meeting with Murphy over Watchful Thunder and was able to break away by three-thirty and head north on the Parkway, the weather glorious for the fourth day in a row.

The situation in the Sea of Japan would resolve itself either militarily or politically, and there wasn’t much the CIA could do about that except to continue feeding the President accurate intelligence. Rencke was settled in at the CIA’s Bowling Green records repository, and there wasn’t much McGarvey could do to help him either. He would come up with something if it was there. And Adkins was running the DO with a steady hand, which for the moment had no need of McGarvey’s input.

Traffic was light on the interstate — most of it out-of-state plates — when he crossed the Potomac and headed north the final couple of miles. This entire area along the river was federal park land right in the middle of dozens of important Civil War battle sites. The foliage was thick, and seemingly every hundred yards or so there were park entrances, scenic overlooks, historical markers or roadside rest areas with barbecue grills and picnic tables. Just before a curve on the secondary highway he turned right onto an unmarked gravel road that wound its way nearly a mile through a forest dense with undergrowth and marshy patches to a rambling Kentucky horse country house. Three years after the Aldrich Ames case had broken, another mole had been discovered. This one never hit the media because he’d not sold out to the Russians, he’d merely ripped the Agency off for nearly four million dollars. This house and the one hundred acres it sat on had been his, and now it belonged to the CIA. Since there’d been no publicity on the case, and since the thief had worked alone, the Cropley house was unknown and perfectly safe.

The road emerged from the forest to paddocks bordered by white fences, the horse barn and riding arena to the south and the house and five-car garage across a broad lawn, in the center of which was a circular manmade pond complete with a fountain that was lit at night.

There were no cars in sight, nor could he see any activity anywhere, as if the place were deserted, and as he approached the house all sorts of dark visions ran through his head. He parked his Nissan in front and got out. The afternoon was utterly silent. He thought he spotted a movement at the edge of the woods a hundred yards away, and then he caught another movement out of the corner of his eye and he reached for his gun as he turned. One of the instructors from the Farm had come around the corner of the house. He said something into a lapel mike.

“Good afternoon, Mr. McGarvey,” he said, and McGarvey allowed himself to relax.

“I didn’t spot anybody on the way up.”

“No, sir,” the young man said, smiling slightly. “We have a good perimeter.”

Something wasn’t adding up. McGarvey frowned. “How many people do we have out here?”

“Twelve, sir. Of course that’s not counting Mr. Isaacson, Todd Van Buren and the two Frenchmen.”

“Are you expecting trouble?”

The instructor shrugged. “That’s unknown at this point. But we’re ready for it.”

McGarvey glanced again at the woods, but there was nothing to be seen. “Do you want my car in the garage?”

“I’ll take care of it, sir. Mr. Isaacson and the others are waiting for you inside.”

McGarvey got the laptop computer for Liz and went into the house. This place was supposed to be a safe haven where Katy and Liz could hide out. But Isaacson, who never overdid anything, had turned it into a fortress. He found the Camp Perry commandant with two of his people plus the two DGSE officers that Colonel de Galan had sent over in the formal dining room, which had been turned into a command center. Detailed topographic maps were spread out on the table. A powerful shortwave radio and three laptop computers were set up on the buffet and a side table.

“Here he is,” Isaacson said looking up. “Did you spot my people in the woods?”

“Not until I got to the house.”

“Good.” Isaacson introduced the others. Jeff Stromquist and Pat Dyer from the Office of Security, and the two French intelligence officers, Albert Level and Louis Maurois, who were built like Sherman tanks. No one seemed happy.

“What’s going on, Paul?” McGarvey asked. “Why all the muscle?”

“You’re not going to like this,” Isaacson said. He went over to one of the computers and brought up the FBI’s Website. “This is supposed to be secure. But take a look.” He brought up the FBI–CIA liaison page, which detailed not only the location of the Cropley safe house but its current occupants and the reasons they had been brought here.

“When did this show up?” McGarvey demanded, the vise clamped on his heart again.

“We didn’t see it until we got out here, so I brought in some more people. We just finished deploying them.”

“Where are Katy and Liz?”

“In the sitting room upstairs with Todd,” Isaacson said. “And I know what you’re going to say. You want to get them out of here. It was my first thought, but that would be exactly the wrong thing to do. Rudolph is tearing the Bureau apart to find out where the leak came from, but in the meantime there’s no guarantee we wouldn’t run into the same problem at the new place.” Isaacson’s expression softened. “They’re safe here, Kirk.”

“They could have got to them at the hospital,” Level suggested.

“They didn’t have time to plan a new operation,” McGarvey countered.

“But if they are coming, m’sieur, then this is a good place to meet them.” The Frenchman shrugged. “If that’s what you want.”

“It’s my family we’re talking about putting into jeopardy.”

“Before Jacqueline changed her last name she was a Level. She was my sister.”

McGarvey looked at him, but he could detect no anger or resentment, only grim determination. “I’m sorry. She told me that she had a family, but she never mentioned a brother.”

“She would have, eventually. She wanted me to come over to meet you.”

“I was sending her home.”

“Oui,” Level said tightly. “Colonel de Galan told me. The timing was bad.” He held McGarvey off. “That is behind us now. Let’s catch the bastards who did this thing. Is it the Russians?”

“I don’t think so.”

Level shrugged. “Too bad. It would have made things simpler.”

“This attack had nothing to do with Jacqueline?” Maurois asked. “She was merely in the wrong place?”

“That’s right,” McGarvey said.

“Then she was an innocent bystander, which makes it all the more important for us to punish the people behind this act.”

“That might not happen,” Isaacson said, once again taking charge. “But if it does we want to be ready for it. And this is the ideal place, because we’ve had the property long enough to know every possible approach. We’ve even run exercises out here.”

“Okay, let’s see what we’ve got.” McGarvey hunched over the topo map which showed the highway, the entire hillside to a mile on either side of the driveway and a mile to a hiking path behind the house. A creek ran from a gathering pond, crossed beneath the highway and emptied eventually into the Potomac. In the summer Isaacson and some of the other instructors from the Farm came out from time to time to fish for trout. Last year they’d taken a class of eight students along the trail all the way up to the Watts Canal on the northwest side of Highway 189, which led to Rockville. They’d not seen another living soul in the woods the entire weekend.

“It wasn’t just a camp out for the boys and girls, Kirk,” Isaacson said. “We spent most of the weekend installing sound and motion detectors along the path and around the entire perimeter of the property. Since then we’ve run a couple of penetration exercises. We learned that trick from the Mossad, and not even the students who were given a map pinpointing the detectors got through. They’re equipped with fail-safe alarms. If any one of them fails for any reason — malfunction or tampering — an alarm goes off here. So we know someone is coming.”

McGarvey studied the map. “What about the driveway? They could fight their way up to the house with an armored car.”

Isaacson pointed out several asterisks spaced at twenty-five-yard intervals up the road. “Explosive charges. We can set them off in sequence, or set them to explode by pressure switches.” He looked up. “We can kill anything coming from the highway.”

“How about the house itself?” McGarvey asked.

“Bullet-proof windows, steel shutters on the doors and windows, and as a last resort a bomb-proof shelter in the basement.”

“Providing someone inside the house knew that they were under attack.”

Isaacson conceded the point. “But it’s hard to imagine them not knowing with all the alarms and detectors.”

“Power lines?”

“Buried, along with the phone lines. In addition there is a generator in the basement and nonjammable cell phones throughout the house.”

McGarvey went to the large bowed windows that looked out across the lawn past the fountain toward the woods. Isaacson was the best. Everything had been covered. This place was like Fort Knox, and yet a lot of dark thoughts nagged at the back of his head. The best brains in the country, the finest scientists and engineers, had designed and built the space shuttle. Yet in the end it was just a man-made machine, and even Challenger had not been immune to glitches. If a man designed and built it, no matter how cleverly, it was possible that another man could find a way to defeat it. Nothing was immune, nothing or nobody was one hundred percent safe. Yet he had to admit that Katy and Liz were probably much safer from attack here than they had been from a car accident on the drive out from the city. And it wouldn’t be forever, just until the bad guys were caught.

“You can stay if you want to, Kirk, but you’ll be more effective at Langley running the show,” Isaacson said from behind him, and McGarvey turned back. “We’re running triple shifts at the Farm. One for the program, one for sleep and the third out here. We’ve got the manpower willing and able to cover this operation twenty-four hours a day. No one is going to sleep on their posts.”

“Students.”

“Instructors, augmented by motivated students.” Isaacson smiled. “Elizabeth made quite an impression oh everyone. She has a lot of friends. Just like you do.”

McGarvey had been a loner most of his life, so it was hard for him now to accept help. Maybe this was part of what Tommy Doyle had tried to tell him. He nodded. “I owe you one.”

“Yes, you do,” Isaacson said quietly. “Why don’t you say hi to your wife and daughter, and then get the hell out of here so we can button the place up for the night.”

“Keep me in the loop.”

“Just get the bad guys. I don’t want to retire out here.”

Todd Van Buren, wearing a 10mm Colt automatic in a shoulder holster over a military-style short-sleeve khaki shirt, was just coming out of the sitting room when McGarvey got upstairs. He looked irritated.

“Afternoon, Mr. McGarvey,” he grumbled.

“Trouble?”

Van Buren shook his head. “If you don’t mind me saying so, sir, your daughter is one frustrating woman.”

“That she is. What’d she do this time?”

“The docs told her to take it easy. But she’s not doing it. Even her mother can’t talk sense into her.” Van Buren glanced back at the door. “She found a gun somewhere. She’s in there now standing lookout at the window, and she kicked me out ’cause I wouldn’t keep my mouth shut.”

“I brought some work for her, maybe that’ll take her mind off things.”

“I wouldn’t count on it, sir. But it would make my job easier. Paul wants me to stick with her, but it’s going to be tough.”

McGarvey knew what the problem was. Liz wanted to appear independent and capable to a man she found attractive, and Van Buren wanted to play the role of big bad bodyguard. If the situation weren’t so dangerous he would have found their dilemma amusing. Once the operation was resolved it was going to be interesting to watch them work out their differences. The CIA encouraged husband-and-wife teams. They could be posted to a relatively safe station like London or Paris or Bonn. Wishful thinking at this stage, but it was comforting.

Liz was perched on the window seat, a Walther PPK, spare magazine, ashtray and cigarettes next to her, and Kathleen was in the adjoining bedroom, the connecting door open, unpacking a suitcase.

“You make a good target sitting there,” McGarvey said.

Liz lit up in a bright smile. “I told them you’d show up.” Most of the bandages had been removed from her head, but her face was a mass of cuts and bruises. She was dressed in blue jeans, a Snoopy T-shirt and low-top sneakers. She still looked a little weak, but definitely much better than she had in the hospital.

“See if you can talk some sense into her,” Kathleen said from the bedroom. “I certainly cannot.”

McGarvey laid the laptop on a table. “An RKG would take out the entire room, you with it.”

“They’d have to get pretty close to fire a rifle-launched grenade, and in the meantime we’d have plenty of warning.” She glanced at the pistol beside her. “But if someone makes it this far, I want to be ready for them when they come through the door.”

“Where’d you get the gun?”

“I’ve been carrying it ever since Paris,” she said defensively. “And, no, I don’t have a permit yet. The Company hasn’t seen fit to give me one. Maybe you can say something to someone.”

“I want you to get away from the window and stay away from it. I brought some work for you to do, unless you’re ready to quit.”

“Baiting me isn’t going to work, Daddy,” Liz flared.

“I’ve brought you a laptop with a built-in modem and cell phone. I want you to connect with your old boss Toivich in the DI.”

Elizabeth’s brow furrowed. “That’s the Russians. I thought we were dealing with the Japanese.”

“We’re not a hundred percent sure. Could be someone from Moscow, maybe Tarankov’s old crowd. They might figure that they have a score to settle.”

“It’s a dead-end job, a waste of effort.”

“I’m not willing to bet your life, or mine, on it,” McGarvey said harshly. “Either you’ll do this for me, or I’ll have to take someone with more training and experience than you off something vital to run it down. But if you truly want to work in the DO you’re going to have to learn to take orders sooner or later.”

“You’re not going to make me give up my gun?”

McGarvey glanced at his ex-wife and shook his head. “You can keep it. I just don’t want you shooting Van Buren by mistake. It’d make him even less happy with you than he is right now.”

“He’s a strutting shit.”

“Who’s trying to do the job he was ordered to do,” McGarvey told his daughter. “Of course he could be replaced with Don Billings,” he said slyly.

“Yes, sir,” Liz said. “I get the point.”

McGarvey went into the bedroom as Liz hopped stiffly off the window seat and started setting up the laptop.

“Paul Isaacson seems competent,” Kathleen said, lowering her voice.

“It’s a good setup here. You and Liz will be safe.”

Kathleen looked into her ex-husband’s eyes. “I’m not blind, Kirk. Ten minutes after we got here, he called out the cavalry, and most of them are hidden in the woods. What’s going on?”

“The fact that you’re here has shown up on a nonsecure Website. We’re trying to figure out where it came from, but in the meantime since it’s now public knowledge, Paul figured he’d step security up a notch.”

“That should provide a clue as to who’s behind this,” Kathleen said shrewdly.

“It’s possible. We’re looking into it. In the meantime this is still the best bet for you and Liz. If they could get to you here, which they can’t, they’d be able to get to you anywhere. At least here we’re ready for them. No surprises.”

Kathleen touched her husband’s face. “Life is full of surprises, haven’t you learned that yet?”

McGarvey took her in his arms and held her close. “You’ll be fine here.”

“Get the bastards, my darling. I don’t want to live in fear anymore.”

“Guaranteed,” McGarvey said, unaware that their daughter was watching them from the sitting room door, a happy glow on her battered face.

The facility was perfect. Kondo and Kajiyama made a quick inspection tour of the building that had once housed a Kmart store and was now supposedly leased to the government as a surplus office equipment storage center. No one would bother them here, nor would the neighbors in what had become an industrial park take any special notice of the two plain gray vans and gray Ford Taurus with government plates that they would be using.

Sandy Patterson, executive director of the Far East Trade Association, met them in an upstairs office at the back of the building. A small, vivacious woman of fifty with a small round face and pixie hairstyle, she had once been Joseph Lee’s mistress in Hong Kong, and she now oversaw some of his more shadowy, arm’s-length endeavors here in the States. She was totally dedicated to Lee, and if he had taught her nothing else, he had instilled in her the value of ruthlessness.

“Is this place to your liking, Mr. Kondo?” she asked coolly.

“You have done a good job as usual,” Kondo said. “Where are the rest of my people?”

“I put them up in three motels nearby until you arrived and approved the arrangements. I’ll bring them here later this evening.” She pursed her lips. “This time I was given sufficient notice to do it right. I apologize for the last fiasco.”

“There were unforeseen circumstances beyond your control.”

“Yes,” she said dryly.

Kondo turned and looked through the one-way glass at the piles of desks, chairs and file cabinets on the main floor. “The equipment I requested is here?”

“Yes,” the woman answered. “May I ask where you gentlemen will be staying?”

“Mr. Kajiyama will remain here with the others, and I have taken a room at the Hay Adams.”

Sandy Patterson’s left eyebrow rose. “If you’ll be using the car, I suggest you park it someplace inconspicuous and take a cab to and from the hotel.”

“A good suggestion.” Kondo looked at his watch. “Now, if there is nothing else, I have an appointment in town.” He looked at Kajiyama. “Get the men settled in, then inspect the equipment that Ms. Patterson was so kind to arrange for us. I’ll be back no later than nine.”

Kajiyama nodded.

“There is one thing,” Sandy Patterson said, and Kondo turned his expressionless gaze to her. “Arnold Toy and the others at the house are keeping the FBI’s surveillance teams busy, but something did come up that you may not have been told about yet. Unfortunately you were already in transit.”

“What is it?”

“One of the FBI teams stopped Toy and asked if he knew anything about Pacific Rim, or Akira Nishimura.”

Kondo thought about it for a moment. “Is there any way that the FBI could link Nishimura or the others to you?”

“No. But the fool telephoned the embassy for instructions. It’s possible that his call was traced.”

“That won’t present a problem,” Kajiyama said.

Kondo nodded. “Anything else?”

“No,” Sandy Patterson said.

Aside from a couple of CIA historians and a half-dozen file clerks, the vast underground records storage facility was devoid of life and activity. The abandoned salt mine had been fitted out with acoustical tile ceilings, proper walls, painted concrete floors and climate controls. There was absolutely no dust, nor was there any odor. All the old files were in the same condition they’d been in the day they were brought here, and would remain so presumably far into the foreseeable future.

Rencke installed himself in one of the map rooms furnished with a large table so that he had plenty of room to lay out the documents and files he intended retrieving. He hooked up his powerful laptop computer to a printer and to one of the phone lines so that he could connect with the Central Reference Section at Langley, as well as the mainframe here. And, declining the services of a clerk, he was assigned an electric golf cart so that he could get around the miles of eighteen-foot-tall stacks.

He took a package of Twinkies from his canvas bag and a quart of heavy cream from the cooler he’d brought with him, then connected with Langley, bringing up McGarvey’s personnel file, and dumping it across to the printer. If he was going to have any success finding the bad guy or guys out of Mac’s past who might be gunning for him now, and the reasons they were doing it, Rencke figured he first needed to know how accurate the files were. It was possible that someone had come through and sanitized the record, or worse, erased it. If that were the case he would have to direct his efforts toward looking for who did that, instead of looking for the clues in the records.

The watershed at both ends of McGarvey’s career was his parents, who at the end of the second World War were engineers on the Manhattan District Project to build the atomic bomb at Los Alamos, New Mexico. McGarvey had been very close to them, so that in the mid-seventies when he was already working for the CIA and they were killed in a car accident, he was devastated. He went back to their ranch in southwestern Kansas to close out their house, and close out their papers when he made a discovery that was even more devastating to him than losing them. From what he found in Kansas and later in CIA records, he pieced together that his parents had been spies for the Soviet Union. A part of the network that, along with Klaus Fuchs, had sold atomic secrets. From that moment he was a changed man. Except that his parents never were spies. The records had been planted by Valentin Illen Baranov, possibly the most effective spy master ever to work for the KGB. It was an operation designed to ruin McGarvey, whom the Russians were seeing as a serious threat. But it wasn’t until six months ago when the truth finally came out, and again the news had profoundly affected McGarvey, changed him for the second time in his life. He was a man who didn’t know what to believe in or whom to trust. A killing machine, a loner and a lonely man.

The two events — the falsifying of his parents’ records and the subsequent revelation of the truth — were so central to McGarvey’s core that they would make a test of the validity of the records here.

Under McGarvey’s biographical record at Langley there was a reference from this spring of an internal investigation, with a subsequent amendment to his deep background. Rencke retrieved that file and dumped it into the printer. The signatory on the order for the reinvestigation was Howard Ryan, McGarvey’s predecessor as director of Operations. In Rencke’s estimation the man was a jerk and a dangerous fool, but not a traitor.

Bringing up the file address, Rencke drove the golf cart back into the stacks. Avenues were alphabetic A through Z then AA through ZZ, and so on. Streets were numeric beginning with 000. Each stack was divided L, left, and R, right, alphabetized by shelves, and numbered by bins. Nonetheless, because of the vastness of the facility, it took Rencke nearly a half hour to find the bin near the middle of one of the stacks, load the file contained in a drawer-sized plastic container on the cart and make it back to the map room.

The bin contained a dozen or more thick envelopes, each marked with codes that could be cross-referenced to other files and laid out in reverse chronological order, the most recent information at the front. The first file contained the Ryan-instigated investigation and was marked Secret. Otis Brenner, the chief internal security investigator on the case, began with the conclusion that Herbert and Claire McGarvey had never spied for the Soviet Union. The allegations were false and had been planted in CIA records by an unknown party or parties at some unknown time for some unknown purpose. But that was a crock of shit as far as Rencke was concerned. The date on the file was in April this year, and by that time the Russians had already confirmed that the disinformation plot had been engineered by Baranov to discredit McGarvey. The KGB was getting worried that McGarvey would become an even more effective agent than he already was, and that he would possibly rise to some position of considerable power in the CIA. It was something Baranov didn’t want, which gave Rencke pause to wonder if it wasn’t the Russians after all who wanted to stop Mac from becoming deputy director of Operations. But Baranov was long gone, the KGB had been broken into two parts — one for internal security and the other for external operations — and no one was left who cared anymore. Russia’s political agenda had changed since Glasnost and Perestroika, and Baranov’s old circles of influence were either dead or very old men retired to their dachas.

Brenner even lamented at one point in his report that finding anyone who’d been alive at the time was a major problem. It was a dead issue as far as the CIA was concerned, except that it was necessary to set the record straight for the sake of the principal target of the KGB plot, namely, Kirk McGarvey.

The file outlined in fairly precise detail the bits and pieces that in the seventies brought the CIA to believe that the McGarveys were spies. Most of it was circumstantial, such as Russian paymaster decoded transmissions which gave a series of dates and payment amounts. Their dates and dollar amounts matched deposits made in the McGarvey’s checking and savings accounts in the First National Bank of Garden City, the small town in southwestern Kansas where their ranch was located. But there was an alternative explanation, of course, which Rencke spotted immediately. The deposits were money that the McGarvey ranch had earned, and the Russians had lifted the deposit records after the fact to create a backtrack. The dates and payment amounts matched too precisely to bank records, which almost never occurred in real life. But no one at the time bothered to check it out, though why the CIA had investigated the McGarveys’ bank records in the first place was something of a mystery.

An addendum to the first report indicated that after the McGarveys’ death in an automobile accident, Kirk had discovered payment records and a Russian code book hidden in his parents’ personal effects. (See additional files, ref #2237-QQ-CKDONNER.) The addendum also reported that the Kansas Highway Patrol had interviewed one eye witness to the tragic accident in which the McGarveys’ car swerved off the highway one evening and smashed into a power pole, killing them instantly, who said it looked to her as if they’d “been run off the road” by a large dark car, possibly a Cadillac or Chrysler, possibly with out-of-state license plates. But the car was never found, nor did any other witness come forward to corroborate the story. (See additional files ref #2239-QS-CKDONNER.)

Rencke turned next to the reference 2237 file, which outlined Kirk’s discoveries at his parents’ ranch. That had been in the midseventies. But one of the signatories on the final investigation was John Lyman Trotter, a friend of Kirk’s who had eventually become deputy director of Operations and who subsequently had been found out to be a traitor. McGarvey had killed his old friend in a shootout in Germany. But the most interesting aspect of the file, in Rencke’s mind, was that Trotter didn’t sign the file until 1992, only nine months before his death, and a very long time after the car accident. It didn’t make sense, except that Trotter had been working for Baranov. But again no one in the CIA at the time bothered to question the dates.

Sloppy work, Rencke wondered, or had it been a carefully crafted oversight? Trotter certainly had the influence at the time, and in those days proper records were not yet so fully backed up or cross-referenced on computer as they were these days. To this point, however, he was not seeing any indications that the records had been tampered with recently.

The next file was the accident report, complete with copies of the Kansas Highway Patrol’s photographs of the scene. Some of the grainy black-and-white pictures were so graphic that Rencke had to put the file down, get up and leave the room. He drove the golf cart around the vast repository for nearly a half hour, trying without much success to blot the gruesome images out of his head. He hoped to God that Mac had never seen the pictures, or ever would. It wasn’t something a family member should be subjected to. The pain it would cause would be immense and of no use. Rencke figured that his own problem was his overactive imagination. Riding around in the cart he found himself reliving the terrible last moments leading up to the crash. The fear, the momentary flash of pain as the car was destroyed and the light went out for them. Not a scene to remember for long, though he knew the pictures would stay in his head for the rest of his life. At that moment he felt closer to Mac and his ex-wife and daughter than he’d ever felt to anyone else. He felt a kinship now that he had shared a family tragedy. He felt part of them, and at this moment the feeling was bittersweet.

Rencke drove back to the map room, where he put away the accident file and opened the first envelope, therefore the oldest, in the bin. The two photographs staring up at him were of Herbert Cullough McGarvey, and his wife Claire Elizabeth (née Leesam) McGarvey, taken when they were in their twenties at Los Alamos. The resemblance of Kirk to his father and Liz to her grandmother was so startling that for an instant Rencke could fully understand one aspect of Kirk’s love for his daughter. Every day he saw her, he had to be reminded of his mother, a woman he’d loved with all his heart and soul. And every time Kirk looked into a mirror, he had to see bits of his father staring back at him. It would be wonderful, Rencke decided, to live with such memories. He didn’t have them himself, so he could envy his friend’s.

Rencke opened another package of Twinkies. Nothing in those files had been tampered with recently, except for the Ryan investigation in the spring. At least this part of Mac’s record seemed clean. Although what it represented in terms of suffering was horrible, nothing new had been added.

Time to start from square one, Rencke told himself, replacing the envelopes in the bin. Mac’s past, from the day he was born, up until his last operation in Moscow. If there was something there, Rencke would find it.

Kondo was a happy man. He had gotten the information he needed to accomplish the first of their objectives and had planted the seeds that would likely help accomplish his second. And all of that from two meetings that had lasted less than one hour. There’d been only one glitch, but he’d even worked that one out on the way back to the storage center. All it would take was some special equipment.

“Ingenious,” Sandy Patterson said. She was gathered with Kondo, Kajiyama and the other six men, all of them highly trained Japanese commandos and former soldiers of fortune, on the floor of the warehouse.

“Can you get what we need without arousing any suspicion?” Kondo asked. They’d inspected their weapons and night vision oculars and were studying the topographic maps of the area around the Cropley safe house.

“No problem whatsoever,” she said. “But if I can make one suggestion, it’d be better to come in from the river.” She pulled out a highway map of Maryland. “We could rendezvous at Whites Ferry. There’s a marina there and it’ll be no problem to rent the proper boat. Nobody will think twice about it at this time of year.” She looked up. “The problem will be getting you out.”

“Helicopter.”

She nodded. “I can arrange that too.” She looked frankly at Kondo. “You’re certain about the security precautions at the safe house?”

Kondo nodded. “My source is reliable,” he said. “But the helicopter will have to be capable of carrying us, plus the two women.”

“I thought we were going to kill them,” Kajiyama said sharply.

“It’s simply a contingency. Our main target is McGarvey. If he’s not out there, we’ll take his ex-wife and daughter with us.”

“He’ll come after us. The CIA, the FBI and every law enforcement agency in the region will be fully mobilized.”

“That’s right,” Kondo said with a look of satisfaction on his round face. “While that’s going on McGarvey will be distracted from doing his real job.” He looked at his people. “We’ll kill him if we can. But our primary objective is to buy some time. Four or five days at the most.”

“Why?” Kajiyama asked.

“You don’t need to know that yet,” Kondo told him. He turned back to Sandy Patterson. “I’ll need a light plane as soon as possible. I want to fly over the house.”

“Pick an airport, and by the time you drive out to it, your airplane and pilot will be waiting for you.”

“I’ll let you know when,” Kondo said. “In the meantime everybody get some rest. Inspect your weapons and equipment and familiarize yourself with the maps. All of them.”

“What about afterwards?” Kajiyama asked.

“We’ll leave the same way we came.”

“I mean about the women.”

“Kill them, of course.”

ELEVEN

The MSDF Improved Harushio class attack submarine Natsushio slowly rose to periscope depth forty miles off the North Korean coast. She’d run all night three hundred feet beneath the surface at her top speed of twenty-four knots on a northeasterly course from her home port at Maizuru, and everyone aboard was keyed up. All of Japan’s military forces were at a heightened state of alert since the nuclear event at Kimch’aek, but the sealed orders that Captain Akira Tomita had opened once they’d cleared the sea buoy were in his estimation lunacy. He did not share his views with his crew, not even with his XO, except to tell them that this was not an exercise and that all tactical situations would be met with weapons hot. He was a compact man who was an expert in kendo and a half-dozen martial arts, which had taught him, above all else, the ability to remain calm in all circumstances.

They were to look for targets, surface or submerged, attempting to approach either the downed submarine or heading for the Japanese home islands, and stop them with whatever force the captain deemed necessary. Stopping the North Korean navy was one thing, but the Chinese had deployed at least eight ships which were on their way, and in these waters it was assumed that the Americans had patrol submarines on station. In addition, the Seventh Fleet had been deployed from Yokosuka. He did not want to tangle with them, yet his orders were clear in that MSDF command was making no exceptions.

The only leeway Tomita had was identifying the target’s intent. The Sea of Japan was a large area, most of it international waters, in which ships of any nation had a perfect right to sail. On top of that, the Hayshio had gone down only ten kilometers off the North Korean coast, well within their territorial waters, which gave them the perfect right to conduct exercises there. Orders were orders, but before he set about to kill a ship and her crew he was going to make certain its action fell under the real meaning of his orders.

“Sonar, what are you showing besides our ships?” Tomita had been advised of the five MSDF warships that were in the area, including the submarines Sachishio and Fuyushio, the skippers of which he knew.

“Nothing ahead of us, kan-cho,” Seaman Tomifumi Mizutami reported.

“We’re now on station,” his executive officer Lieutenant Nobuyaki Uesugi reported softly from the plotting table. He was a delicately built man whose only passion was training bonsai trees.

“Very well, commence your pattern,” Tomita said. “Sonar, we’re ready to deploy the ZOR-one.” Similar to the American BQR-15, it was a low-frequency passive search sonar deployed at the end of a very long cable. Extremely sensitive, it would pick up more than the hull-mounted sensors could. If anything was moving within twenty miles anywhere except directly aft, they would hear it.

Tomita glanced over at his XO, who looked excited. Now the real battle began.

Seaman Fischer had been tracking a very quiet subsurface target picked up by one of the sea floor sensors they’d dropped yesterday, when he suddenly sat forward. He flipped on the tape recorders and held the earphones tighter. He was hearing a low-pitched, grinding sound that for the first few moments he could not identify, but then a big smile creased his features.

“Conn, sonar. Possible target designated Sierra nine, bearing one-nine-five, indeterminate range.”

“What’ve you got, Mel?” the XO, Lt. Cmdr. Rod Paradise, asked from the conn. He and the captain were splitting the watches, twelve on and twelve off. It was 0500 GMT, and the captain was in his quarters.

“Somebody down south is deploying a towed array. Sounds like a ZOR-one to me.”

“Stand by,” Paradise said, and he came forward to the sonar compartment.

Fischer switched the signal to the speaker so they could all hear the grinding noise. Moments later an analysis spit out of the computer. “ZOR-one,” Fischer said. “Probably being deployed from one of their new Harushios, but we’re too far out to tell for sure. That sub is a hell of a lot quieter than its towed array cable reel system.”

“Okay, they’re looking for something, which means they’ll be running a pattern. See if you can establish the time intervals between aspect changes. I’d like to get down there without them knowing about it, which we can do if we make our runs when we’re end-on to the array.”

Fischer’s eyes widened a bit. “Tricky,” he muttered. “I’ll see what I can do, sir.”

“Are we far enough away right now to avoid detection?”

Fischer studied his display. “Definitely.”

“You’re calling the shots, Mel. When you think we’re getting too close, let us know and we’ll shut it down.”

“I see what you’re getting at, sir,” Fischer said straightening up. “But I’m going to be real conservative.”

“Good.” Paradise called the order to the deck officer to start south, dead slow, then headed aft to get the captain.

The MSDF Lockheed/Kawasaki P-3C sub-hunter/killer, tail number 3311, arrived on station at 1422 local, the skies partly cloudy, the wind gusting to thirty knots, the seas five hundred feet below them running to ten feet.

“On station now, kan-cho,” the navigation officer radioed the pilot.

“Okay,” Lieutenant Hitoshi Kuroda acknowledged. On the flight out from the naval air station at Komatsujima on Honshu’s west coast, they had passed a half-dozen MSDF warships. Their orders were to rendezvous with the submarine Natsushio and help hunt for Chinese submarines.

He eased back on the throttles, and when the aircraft began to slow down, added ten degrees of flaps so that they were mushing along in a circular pattern just shy of 150 knots.

“Comms, release the dipping buoy.”

“Hai, kan-cho,” the communications officer responded crisply. Everyone aboard was hyper. “Buoy is deployed.”

They were in the silent mode. The Japanese submarine had turned to port once again, presenting the ZOR-one’s sensors at a right angle to the Seawolf’s path. Captain Harding watched the sonar display over Fischer’s shoulder, the extremely thin line on the waterfall showing the slowly changing aspect.

Fischer held up a hand. “Wait,” he said, his head cocked as he strained to listen to something in his headphones. He made a grease pencil mark on a minuscule spike on the display, then looked up at the captain. “That’s a dipping buoy, Skipper.”

“An Orion?”

“Be my guess they’re out here looking for those Chinese submarines, and the Orion driver just told the submarine that he was here.”

“Do we have an ID on the sub?”

“We’re still too far, sir, but the next pass should do it. I almost had him the last time.”

“Conn sonar, I have a target designated Sierra three, at eight thousand meters, bearing two-eight-five, heading toward us.”

“This is the captain. Can you identify the target?”

“Hai, kan-cho. She’s Han-four, from Qingdao. The computer agrees.”

“Have they detected us?”

“No, sir.”

“Are there any other targets?”

“Iie, kan-cho.” No, the sonar operator assured him.

“Reel in the ZOR-one, we’ll start a TMA,” Captain Tomita said. He went to the plotting table where his deck officer Lieutenant Hiroshi Kubuzono had already begun the paper plot of the Target Motion Analysis from which shooting solutions could be developed. Sonar information would now be fed automatically into the BSY-1 combat system’s computers.

Kubuzono looked up. “His track will take him directly to the Hayshio, kan-cho,” he said. “But he’s at least twenty-four hours early. And where is the second Chinese submarine?”

“Neither of them are here yet. This is a third boat, one that no one expected.”

“Except for you, kan-cho,” the young lieutenant said with sudden pride.

Tomita walked back to the command consoles above the periscopes. “Sound battle stations, torpedo,” he told his XO Lieutenant Uesugi. “This is not a drill.”

“Hai, kan-cho.”

“Load tubes one and two, and stand by to flood on my orders.” Tomita pulled down the growler phone as the battle stations announcement was broadcast over the boat’s PA system. “Communications, this is the captain. Send a SLOT buoy up, zero delay to transmit, and inform thirty-three-eleven of the approximate position of our target. This is a live exercise.”

“Hai, kan-cho.”

The SLOT was a communications buoy that would radio the information to the circling Orion in a burst transmission, not easily detectable by anyone else. He was asking the Orion to help with the battle. Although the nuclear-powered Han class Chinese submarines were thirty years old, they’d been recently refitted with advanced electronic suites, and they carried a lethal sting. Tomita wanted to be a live victor, not a dead fool. He would take all the help he could get.

The pilot, Lieutenant Kuroda, increased power, retracted the flaps and hauled the big four-engine turboprop ASW airplane in a tight turn to the southwest, directly toward the position of the Chinese submarine that the Natsushio had radioed them.

Three minutes later an excited ELINT officer, Ensign Kuminori Godai, was on the aircraft intercom. “I’m recording a positive MAD contact, designated Mike one.” MAD was the Magnetic Anomaly Detector, which could pick up interferences in the Earth’s magnetic field caused by the ferrous mass of a submerged submarine as long as it was moving and wasn’t much deeper than one thousand feet. “She’s at three hundred feet and slowly rising.”

“Is there any indication that she’s detected Natsushio?”

“Iie, kan-cho.”

“Weapons, this is the pilot. Prep two Mark fifties, and stand by to launch on my order.”

“Hai, kan-cho.”

“Do you have any idea what’s going on, Hitoshi?” his co-pilot Takaji Murayama asked.

“Looks like we’re going to war with China,” Kuroda quipped nervously, half wondering if he wasn’t witnessing the beginning of just that. “But we’ll give Natsushio the first shot.”

“Skipper, that’s definitely a Han class Chicom submarine, bearing three-one-zero, nineteen thousand meters,” Seaman Fischer said. “Target designated Sierra ten.” The printer spit out a one-liner. “The Japanese sub is the Natsushio, home port Maizuru, Improved Harushio class,” he said.

Harding turned back to tell Paradise to start a track on the Chinese submarine, when Fischer practically jumped out of his skin.

“Holy shit! Skipper, the Natsushio just flooded two forward tubes.”

“What’s the Chinese submarine doing?”

“Same course and speed as before,” Fischer said. “But they must’ve heard the flooding.”

Harding went back to the conn, plotted the position, course and speed of the Chinese submarine and then extended its track. “The crazy bastard is going to shoot,” Harding said.

Paradise came over. “Sir?”

Harding looked up. “The Chinese are heading right for the downed MSDF submarine, and the Japanese sub driver is going to stop him.”

Paradise looked at the chart. “What’re we going to do about it?”

“Nothing, Rod,” Harding said frustrated. “Not a damn thing except watch.”

“Sonar, conn. This is the captain. Give me one ping to verify the bearing and range to target.”

“Hai, kan-cho,” Seaman Mizutami said. He was impressed.

The problem was that Tomita could see both sides of the issue with equal clarity. The North Koreans had every right to defend their home waters using any means at their disposal, including allies. On the other hand, the Sea of Japan was in reality so small that Japan had a legitimate reason to control what happened here. Especially anything that threatened the safety of the home islands. And a North Korea with nuclear weapons and the means to deliver them to Tokyo or anywhere in Japan was a genuine threat.

The single ping from the active sonar reverberated through the boat, and a split second later the final range and bearing to the target showed up on the BSY-1 combat system. An instant later the firing solution came up.

“Weapons presets completed,” the fire control technician reported.

“Fire one, fire two,” Tomita ordered.

“I have two torpedoes in the water,” Fischer called out. He eased the headphones off his ears and looked up.

“How long ’til impact?” Harding asked.

“Twelve seconds.”

Harding glanced at his watch, then reached up with his left hand to brace himself against the overhead. At twelve seconds one explosion, followed almost immediately by a second, hammered the Seawolf’s hull.

Fischer turned back to his sonar set, pulling the earphones back over his ears. After a few seconds he adjusted a control. “I’m getting breakup noises. The Han is on her way down.” He listened a half minute longer, then nodded. “She’s definitely dead.”

“What’s the Natsushio doing?” Harding asked.

“She’s turning to port, sir, and diving.”

“Keep a close watch on her, Mel,” Harding said, and he went back to the conn. “Hard over to starboard and get us out of here.” He went to the plotting table as the Seawolf banked to the right. “New course one-three-zero, all ahead one-third.”

The officer of the deck was relaying the orders, and Paradise came over. “We have to call this one home, Tom.”

“As soon as we’re in the clear,” Harding said. “I don’t want to get into a pissing contest with the Japanese until somebody tells me what the hell is going on.”

TWELVE

It was a few minutes after 9:00 A.M. when Tony Croft, his letter of resignation in his pocket, shambled down the corridor from the Executive Office Building to the Oval Office. The President’s appointments secretary Dale Nance had called and told him to come over on the double, and in Croft’s present state of mind he had to wonder if his secret had gotten out. He was a traitor, and he didn’t know how he could face the President at this moment. Or how he was going to face his wife and children and his friends and colleagues. He didn’t know how he could explain himself, because even now he didn’t know how it had happened, except that at the time he thought he was protecting the President and the nation.

At the very least he would be severely criticized for walking out at this most difficult of times, but he was part of the problem, and therefore he could not be part of the solution. At the worst, and that’s how he was thinking this morning, he was going to federal prison for a very long time. That possibility was terrifying, because he was sure he would be doing hard time at some institution like Leavenworth, and not one of the country club lockups that the media loved to poke fun at. He was sure that he wouldn’t be able to hack it, and that made his present state of depression even worse. Where had it all gone wrong for him?

Roland Murphy came down the corridor in a big hurry from the opposite direction, a tight scowl on his bulldog features. “What a goddamn mess,” he said.

“What’s happened?” Croft asked, his gut tightening.

“It’s the goddamned Japanese. One of their subs destroyed a Chinese submarine last night. Haven’t you heard?”

“No.”

The Oval Office was filled with people, telephones rang, the television was tuned to CNN, the sound low, and Croft noticed gratefully that they were doing a report from what looked like Havana, so at least for the moment this incident hadn’t hit the news. But he briefly wondered why they weren’t meeting downstairs in the crisis room. The President and Howard Secor were in deep discussion by the bowed windows, while Secretary of Defense Landry and General Podvin were speaking on telephones. Thomas Roswell came in right behind them. Like Murphy, he carried a bulging briefcase, which he opened. He spread several satellite photographs, some of them in infrared, on the President’s desk.

“These came in from the NRO early this morning,” he told Murphy.

The President looked up, clearly angry. “Not such a good morning, gentlemen. Roland, can you fill us in on the latest?”

“Perhaps we should go downstairs, Mr. President,” Croft said. He was seething with a mix of emotions, guilt and fear.

“No time, Tony. I’m going to call the Japanese ambassador over here, and I want to know what to say to the bastard.”

The President rarely spoke that way, and it got their attention.

“Tom’s brought over the NRO shots taken overnight. And we got a break with the weather this time,” Murphy said. “The battle took place three hundred feet beneath the ocean, but you can see that something definitely blew up.”

They gathered around the desk to look at the pictures. “There’s absolutely no doubt what happened?” President Lindsay asked.

“We got it direct from the Seawolf,” Landry assured him.

“What did we miss?” the President asked.

“Sir?”

“The two submarines China sent weren’t due to show up so soon. Which means we missed this submarine. What else have we missed?”

“There’s no way of telling for the moment,” Roswell had to admit, and it didn’t make the President happy.

“Roland?”

“In a nutshell, a Japanese submarine, the Natsushio out of the MSDF base at Maizuru, showed up last night, started a search pattern and discovered the Chinese submarine. For whatever reason, the Japanese submarine fired two torpedoes, both of which hit the target, and the Chinese submarine was destroyed.”

“Did they give any warnings?”

“There’s no way of knowing that,” Murphy said. “But Harding, the Seawolf’s skipper, said it had to have come as a surprise to the Chinese captain because he didn’t try to evade, nor did he try to fight back.”

“Then what happened?”

“The Natsushio bugged out, and Harding retired to a safe distance and radioed in his report. He’s standing by out there for now.”

“One confused captain, I would suspect,” Landry said.

“What did we tell him?” the President asked.

“To stay put and continue to monitor the situation,” Landry said. “Admiral Mann wants to pull him out of there. He can head north and join up with the Seventh Fleet.”

“I want him to follow the Japanese submarine,” the President said. “For now he’s the only one with the capability of telling us what’s going on.”

“If I may make a suggestion, Mr. President, why not have John put some pressure on Enchi,” Croft said. This situation was getting way out of hand, and he felt partly responsible.

“They’re giving him the runaround,” the President said.

“Does he have this latest information?”

“It’s on the way, but it’s not going to make any difference,” Landry said. “They’ve stonewalled him this far, they’re not going to suddenly open up because of this.”

“Maybe he should go to Beijing,” General Podvin said. “I was wrong about the Japanese not tangling with the Chinese navy, so the Seventh Fleet might be sailing into the middle of a mess a lot bigger than we think.”

“I agree,” Croft said. “There’s not going to be a military solution out there. The first thing we have to do is get them talking so this doesn’t escalate.”

“The problem of North Korea’s nuclear weapons and missiles still exist,” Murphy pointed out. “Telling Japan to back off won’t make any sense to them. They’re protecting their country.”

“I seem to remember that you said the Japanese wouldn’t get into it with the Chinese over this unless they knew something that we didn’t,” Croft said. He felt like he was the only one fighting a developing forest fire, and all he had were a bucket of sand and one shovel.

“That’s right, but we’re still no closer to finding out what that might be than we were two days ago.”

“Then what do you suggest?” Croft demanded.

“Tell the governments of Japan and China to back off, and tell Admiral Hamilton to enforce it.”

“We’re going to have to offer them something in return,” Secor said.

“We’ll find and destroy North Korea’s nuclear weapons and weapons program.”

“Is that Kirk McGarvey’s shoot-’em-up suggestion?” Secor asked sarcastically.

Murphy eyed him coolly. “It’s my suggestion, Harold. Anything short of that and we may be facing a full-scale war out there.”

“Very well,” President Lindsay said. “Bob, how soon before Hamilton has the fleet in position?”

“Another twelve hours,” Landry said.

“How about John?”

“I’ll get on the phone and tell him what’s going on,” Secor said. “If he doesn’t get anywhere in the morning in Tokyo, he can head over to Beijing.”

“Tony?”

Croft tightened up. “I wouldn’t recommend this course of action, Mr. President.”

“What do you think we should do?”

“Hold the Seventh in reserve, somewhere up north, until we can open a dialogue between Tokyo and Beijing.”

“What about the North Koreans?”

“It’ll be tough, but if the CIA can give us some accurate information this time and we can take out their nuclear weapons, and at least damage their missile launch sites and maintenance depots, it’d be our best bet.”

“I’ll call both ambassadors in, set them down face-to-face and let them hash it out,” the President said. He turned to General Podvin. “Get word to Hamilton that I want his fleet right in the middle of the Sea of Japan, with all possible speed. And bring him up to date on what we’ve decided here.”

“What defense posture can he take?”

“If someone shoots at him, he can shoot back.”

“What if the Japanese try another stunt like last night, or the Chinese decide to retaliate?”

“I’ll have to get back to him on that one,” the President said. “But assure him that he will not be left hanging. Better yet, tell him that I’ll not leave him hanging.”

“Yes, sir,” Podvin said.

“We all have work to do, let’s get to it.”

Croft walked out of the office, and resisting the urge to stick around for a final word with Murphy, went back to his office.

He told his secretary that he was going out to the CIA and to cancel all his appointments and hold all his calls until he got back. He unlocked his secured file cabinet and removed five files that he’d packed in a big manila envelope this morning and stuffed them into his briefcase.

Hesitating for just a moment, he glanced out the window toward the White House front lawn and the pedestrian traffic along Pennsylvania Avenue and Lafayette Square. The weather was magnificent. Tourist season was in full swing. The problem was that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d taken a vacation with Beth Ann and the kids. It was something he’d been meaning to do, but ever since Lindsay had pulled him from Yale, he’d been on a merry-go-round with no way off.

He took a leather case about the size of a small toiletries kit from the bottom drawer of the file cabinet, put it in his briefcase, then locked up and walked outside to get his car. He was senior staff so no one would check him.

Croft drove around the corner to the Hay Adams Hotel across from Lafayette Square and the White House. He maintained a room there for the times when he worked late and couldn’t face the thirty miles of traffic to his home in Edgewater on the South River near Annapolis. The media hadn’t gotten onto the arrangement because it was nothing unusual, and he was careful. He stood looking out the window toward the White House, sipping a brandy, his stomach tied up in knots, when the door opened and Judith Kline came in, a bright smile on her pretty oval face. This place was his crisis center, and Judith was his extracurricular crisis team.

“Anybody see you coming up?” he asked.

“You ask the same thing every time. Don’t be such a worrywart,” said the high-priced call girl. The service she worked for was very discreet, and over the past six months in fact, Croft had been only one of three regular johns for her.

“You’re right,” Croft said, his heart swelling as it did each time he laid eyes on her. She was twenty-four and stunningly gorgeous. She did not look like a prostitute. The way she dressed and comported herself, she could have been mistaken for a White House staffer. She had real class.

She dropped her big bag and the room key on the couch, languidly glided over to him as she slipped out of her high heels and came into his arms. Her slight body was dwarfed by his bulk, but she’d never seemed to mind the fact he was overweight.

Croft let out a pent-up sigh. “Just what the doctor ordered,” he said softly in her ear. “Did I wake you when I called?”

She laughed. “As a matter of fact I was half expecting it. You’ve been really uptight. After the other day I figured you’d be needing a little more TLC.” She looked up at him sweetly. “Am I right?”

He smiled. “I have all afternoon.”

She cocked her head. “Well, I don’t,” she said, and he started to object but she raised a finger to his lips. “We’ve gone over this before, Tony. We both have lives to maintain, and I don’t object when you have to go home.” She shrugged. “It’s better this way. You’d just get tired of me.”

A blind, unreasoning panic rose up. “Don’t you desert me too.”

She looked at him critically. “You really do have it bad, don’t you?”

“It’s the White House,” Croft mumbled, his thoughts drifting for just a moment.

“Trouble in Camelot?” she asked.

His breath caught in his throat. “I didn’t mean that,” he blurted. “That White House. I meant—”

Judith held a finger to his lips again. “Doesn’t matter, Tony,” she cooed. “We both know what you need. Come on.”

He dutifully went to the big king-sized bed where he helped her turn down the covers. Like an old married couple, he thought, watching her every move. She was dressed in a lightweight summer suit and silk blouse. She got undressed slowly, not turning away from him like Beth Ann always did, and when she was naked he drank in the sight of her translucent skin and perfect body. Her breasts were small, the nipples already erect. Beneath the slight curve of her tummy, the hair at her pubis had been completely removed, and seeing the bare mound of her vagina was the most exotic sight he’d ever imagined, and he could never get tired of it.

Her eyes never leaving his, her lips curved in a slight, lascivious smile, she propped up the pillows, got into the bed, spread her legs and moistening her forefinger in her mouth, slowly began to masturbate.

“Am I going to have to do this all by myself?” she asked huskily. She caressed the nipples of her breasts with her other hand, and half closed her eyes. “Tony?”

All other thoughts driven out of his mind, Croft got undressed, leaving his clothes where they fell and climbed into bed with her. Clumsily he kissed her breasts, sucking her nipples as he reached for her vagina with his left hand. But she pushed him away, gently forcing him on his back.

“First things first,” she said softly. She kissed his lips, then his nipples, the tips of her fingers tracing patterns along the stretch marks on his distended belly.

He used to be embarrassed when she played with him like that, ashamed of his gross body next to the sleekness of hers. But after the first few times when he couldn’t see the slightest hint of distaste in her eyes, he lay back and went with her.

She spread his legs, then pushing her hair back, took his flaccid penis in her mouth, and he almost came, his entire body twitching as if he’d received an electric shock.

Pulling away, she turned around and straddled his chest, presenting her bottom to him, took him in her mouth again and lowered her vagina to his mouth.

She was sweet-smelling and sweet-tasting, and Croft reveled in her body, her moisture, the tastes and sensations, and finally he could feel himself stiffening in her mouth, the distraction of ministering to her needs taking his mind off his own body long enough so that he wouldn’t prematurely ejaculate as he’d done all of his life. A little diversion, she called it.

A minute later he felt and tasted her climax the same moment as he came, and just like he did every time, he thanked God for a friend who’d told him about the service Judith worked for.

“There now, all better?” Judith said sweetly. She gave his penis a playful nip, then climbed off him and got out of bed.

“Don’t go,” Croft said.

She came around to his side of the bed, pulled the sheet over him and kissed him lightly on the lips. “I told you I couldn’t stay long. But if you’re going to be in town Friday I’ll see you.”

“I’ll call,” he said softly.

She gave him another kiss, then gathered her clothes, went into the bathroom and closed the door. It was funny because she always undressed in front of him, but she never let him watch her get dressed.

He let his thoughts drift, except for a light aftermath of guilt as usual, back to the impossible situation at the White House. He’d screwed up, and there was no way out of it for him. That had been made painfully clear to him last night. The forces of darkness were closing in, he thought melodramatically. He had tried to put out the fires, he had tried to divert their attention to the real problems at hand, but it had somehow gotten away from him.

If he’d only been told the entire story, if they’d only confided in him, he thought bitterly, perhaps he could have done a better job.

Judith came out of the bathroom, and he feigned sleep. Through half-closed eyes he watched her looking at him. Then she put on her jacket, checked her hair once again in the dresser mirror and without a backward glance got her purse and key and left.

It occurred to Croft that he would never see her again, and in a way he was almost relieved. She’d been one of the attractions on the one-way merry-go-round. A Beltway perk, every bit as dangerous and expensive as all the other perks that came with power. Be careful you don’t get burned down there, his friends at Yale had cautioned.

A half hour later Croft got out of bed, and in the bathroom, avoiding his own reflection in the mirror, closed the tub drain and started the water running.

Back in the room he sat down by the desk at the window, took a piece of hotel stationery from the drawer and wrote a brief note apologizing to his wife and children and to the President for letting them down.

What else to tell them, he wondered as he idly stared out the window at the beautiful summer day. About the things he’d learned in college or about the contradictions he’d found in the last six years working at the White House? About his principles or about the lack of principles of the sharks around him? About his vision for the future and his devotion to a few basic ideals or about the distortions and cynicisms he saw all around him?

He looked again at the letter, hesitated a moment longer, then signed it. Let the facts speak for themselves, he assured himself.

Unlocking his briefcase he took the thick manila envelope out, laid it on the desk, placed the note on top of it, then took the toiletries kit into the bathroom.

Beth Ann had pleaded with him not to take the White House job when President-elect Lindsay had offered it to him. They were settled in at Yale for the long haul. They had a beautiful old home, they took summer vacations, and besides teaching political history he had plans for at least six major books, two of them textbooks. He had a lot to say and the time in which to say it.

He shut off the water and took the .38 Smith & Wesson snub-nosed pistol from the kit, loaded it and climbed in the tub. He didn’t want to make a mess.

God forgive me, he thought, because he didn’t believe his colleagues would. He wrapped a towel around the gun, placed the barrel against his right temple and without hesitation pulled the trigger.

Croft had done a number on himself. Bruce Kondo stood in the doorway to the bathroom studying the lifeless remains of the foreign affairs adviser to the President of the United States, the room utterly silent. He’d waited a full ten minutes to make sure that no one had heard the gunshot and was coming to investigate. Lee had predicted Croft’s instability. Sane men did not take their own lives because of nothing more than a warning from their spymasters. But then, Kondo supposed, traitors were by definition unbalanced individuals.

Donning a pair of latex gloves, Kondo methodically searched the bathroom and bedroom, including Croft’s clothing, before turning his attention to the desk, where he retrieved the bug he’d placed yesterday.

The suicide note was straightforward and revealed nothing of any importance, which was a break. It could be left as is. But the thick manila envelope contained about what Kondo expected it would. He took only a minute to look through the files, which outlined the details of Croft’s work for Joseph Lee, the Far East Trade Association and the Japanese Ministry of International Trade and Industry, through his contacts inside not only the White House, but the FBI, CIA and State Department. Croft had been convinced that a war in the Far East would of necessity expand to include the United States. And it was a war that in his estimation the U.S. could not possibly win. He viewed himself as an American patriot.

As an intelligence resource he would be missed. But the countdown clock had begun, and with or without Croft, Morning Sun was a fait accompli. Nobody could stop it now, Kondo thought, letting himself out of the room, not even Kirk McGarvey.

“Okay, the President’s taking your advice; he’s moving the Seventh Fleet into the middle of it,” Murphy said.

McGarvey looked up from the NRO photographs and the analysis that Tommy Doyle’s shop had come up with. “I hope he’s doing some serious talking with Japan and China, because this is getting out of hand a lot sooner than we thought it would.”

“Secretary of State Carter is in Tokyo now, and he’ll be flying to Beijing later today. It’s nighttime over there right now, and he wants to wait until morning to have one more shot with Enchi.”

“That’ll take too much time. How about their ambassadors?”

Murphy nodded. “You don’t miss a trick, do you? Lindsay is meeting with them later today or tonight, as soon as it can be set up. They’re probably going to be reluctant to see him, let alone make any commitments.”

“At least they’ll be talking, and if Lindsay is straight with them, they’ll know what we know and what we intend doing about it. No bullshit. No misunderstandings.”

Murphy eyed him. “But?”

It was a few minutes past two-thirty and they were alone in the DCI’s office. “Our networks in Japan are coming up empty-handed. Some of them aren’t even responding which could mean they’ve been blown. It also means that this incident has the government’s backing.”

“It’d have to, otherwise the MSDF wouldn’t be out there in force. What are you getting at?”

“Tokyo was in it from the start. It’s almost as if they set out to provoke the North Koreans into demanding help from Beijing.”

“I’m with you so far, Mac. And I can’t say as I blame them. As soon as they found out about the nuclear weapons at Kimch’aek they went after them. We could have done the same thing in Cuba in the sixties.”

“But we didn’t because Kennedy was worried about touching off a nuclear war between us and the Soviet Union.”

“A war we couldn’t have won. Or at least it would have been a draw, and we would have all been back in the horse and buggy era.”

“But that’s not what the Japanese think,” McGarvey said. “They’re pushing the Chinese to the wall. Why?”

“I see what you’re getting at.”

Danielle came in from his connecting office without knocking. He looked as if he’d just gotten some bad news. “You’d better see this. Turn on CNN.”

“What happened?” Murphy asked, switching on the television.

“They found Tony Croft dead at the Hay Adams. He was shot in the head.”

As the television came on, Murphy’s phone rang.

McGarvey sat back. “Shit,” he said softly, and Danielle caught it.

“What nasty thought just occurred to you, Mac?”

“Croft briefed Joseph Lee on Saturday, and the next day Lee left the country.” He shook his head. “His death is no coincidence.”

“They’re calling it suicide.”

“It’s no coincidence, Larry, I’d bet my life on it.”

THIRTEEN

“Jack Hailey is a good man, and if Croft didn’t kill himself, he’ll find out,” FBI Director Dr. Gerald Pierone Jr. said. “He’s moving fast on this one. I have his assurances.”

“I have no doubt,” Fred Rudolph said carefully. “But he’s working under a handicap, because he doesn’t know all the facts. He might stumble across something that will make no sense to him, and we’ll miss an opportunity.”

“Facts that you have,” Pierone said. They were in his office.

Rudolph nodded glumly. “I’m going to need your okay to proceed.”

He had been at a meeting with the antiterrorism division until an hour ago and hadn’t heard about Croft until then. Hailey, who was the Bureau’s special agent in charge of the District of Columbia, had taken over the investigation from the Metropolitan Police as soon as the call had come in. He had immediately sent a team of forensics specialists and special agents to the Hay Adams. Croft’s body had been discovered by a maid apparently within a half hour of his death. The medical examiner’s snap judgement was that Croft had killed himself with a single .38 caliber bullet to the brain within an hour of having sex. The hotel staff remembered seeing a young, good-looking woman coming and going from Croft’s room on several occasions over the past six months, but she’d never been a registered guest of the hotel. She was obviously a prostitute, she had the look, but she’d never been blatant and the Hay Adams was a discreet establishment. The staff had also seen Croft in the company of a slightly built Asian man in the lobby bar and across the street from the hotel at the entrance to Lafayette Square at least twice in the last twenty-four hours. He was registered in the hotel under the name Thomas Wang, a South Korean businessman. He’d not checked out, but his room was empty of any personal belongings, nor had the bed been slept in or the bathroom used. Hailey’s people were checking now for fingerprints. Rudolph had got all that from Hailey’s operations officer twenty minutes ago.

“This is a high-profile case, and before I take it out of Jack’s hands and give it to you, I’m going to have to be convinced it’s the right move.” Pierone wasn’t happy.

“At this point it’s the only move. A lot of stuff has started to pile up since Friday. Most of it circumstantial, but everywhere I turn I come back to the same starting point.”

Pierone knew what Rudolph had been working on, and he was beginning to draw the same conclusions, it was obvious from his suddenly dour mood. “What starting point is that, Fred? Exactly where are you taking this?”

“The White House.”

“The comparison with the Vince Foster thing is already being made.”

“This time we have some better leads,” Rudolph said. “One of the Georgetown terrorists that Kirk McGarvey took out was a Japanese named Akira Nishimura. Two years ago he was fired from his job at the Pacific Rim Development Institute in Hong Kong. The President’s friend Joseph Lee owns the institute. In fact, Lee and his wife were staying at the White House that night. The next morning Lee was given a private briefing by Tony Croft, and the next day he went back to Taiwan in such a hurry that he didn’t wait for his private jet to pick him up; he flew commercial, something he never does.”

Pierone shook his head. “Okay, I don’t like this, but you have my attention. What else do you have?”

“Kirk McGarvey has come to the same conclusions as I have and the CIA is helping out on this one. Lee showed up at his home in Taiwan, met with some of his directors and then disappeared. They’ve issued a world-wide alert to all their stations to be on the look out for him.”

“That’s one,” Pierone said. He had a doctor’s mentality; the logical, scientific approach was the only way.

“Croft left a brief suicide note apologizing not only to his wife but to the President.”

“For his suicide?”

“Maybe. But he’d apparently been screwing a high-priced call girl for the past six months. Why pick right now of all times to kill himself?”

“That’s fitting the timing with the facts after they’ve happened. You can do that with anything. Monday morning quarterbacking.”

“He was spotted by the hotel staff twice in the last twenty-four hours meeting with a man by the name of Thomas Wang, a South Korean businessman, who has also disappeared.”

“Any connection with Lee?”

“That’s one of the leads I want to work on,” Rudolph said. “I could turn my files over to Jack, but I’d like to keep the need-to-know list as short as possible. At least for the time being.”

“You have three leads: Lee, a prostitute and a South Korean businessman. What else?”

“That’s it for now, but something’s going on here. The minute McGarvey is put up for DDO, somebody tries to take him out, and they don’t care how many other people they kill trying to do it. At least one of the shooters had a connection to Lee. Then Tony Croft gives Lee a briefing and a couple of days later he blows his brains out.”

“If you can connect Thomas Wang to Lee you might have something.”

“It’s a fictitious name,” Rudolph said dismissing the director’s suggestion. “The real point is if the two incidents are connected, whoever is behind this hasn’t given up. They’ll try again.”

“You’re suggesting that Croft was murdered?”

That was a stumbling block for Rudolph too, because the only conclusion that seemed to fit — a suicide rather than a murder — was even more frightening. He shook his head. “I think he killed himself.”

“Why?”

Rudolph, who’d been looking inward, focused on the director. “Because I think Tony Croft was feeding Lee information. He had almost total access to us and the CIA and every other agency in Washington. I think it finally got to him that he was committing treason, so he blew his brains out.”

“He would have left more than a note,” Pierone suggested.

“Maybe he did and someone got in and out before the maid discovered the body.”

“The prostitute?”

“Or Thomas Wang.”

Pierone smiled wryly and shook his head. “I met Joseph Lee and his wife, Miriam. Did you know that she was born and raised in San Francisco? Charming people, witty, gracious, pleasant. They’ve been friends with the Lindsays for at least five years. Close friends, which is why Sam Blair was appointed special prosecutor — he’s tough but nonpartisan — and why you were assigned to find out about his campaign contributions.

“We’re drawing blanks for the moment,” Rudolph admitted.

“I know. Point is that if Joseph Lee was behind the Georgetown bombing and somehow involved in Tony Croft’s suicide, this won’t simply land in the backyard of the White House. It’ll end up in the President’s lap, and where would that put us?”

“In the middle of a criminal investigation,” Rudolph said, acutely aware that he had probably uttered the biggest understatement of his life.

“Have you discussed any of this with Sam?”

“No.”

“Don’t, without talking to me first,” Pierone said. He called his secretary. “Get Jack Hailey up here as soon as possible, would you?”

On the way back to his own office, Rudolph tried to remember why he had ever left his job with the Supreme Court. For the life of him he couldn’t, and for the first time he knew that he would give serious consideration to leaving once this investigation was over.

Traffic was a bitch on Sakurada-Dori Avenue as it always was Monday through Friday. Peter Rivas, parked in a bright green Honda Prelude across the street from the Metropolitan Police Headquarters, raised his motorized Nikon and took three rapid-fire shots of the exit from the police garage as a Mercedes limousine emerged. He got at least one good picture of the lone passenger in the backseat, the image through the 200mm telephoto lens clear enough so that he was sure the passenger wasn’t Joseph Lee.

Tokyo was a huge city of eight and a half million people living and working in twenty-three wards, twenty-six small cities, seven towns and eight villages spread out over 227 square miles. As far as the young CIA officer was concerned, trying to find one person in the middle of all that was worse than looking for a needle in a haystack, it was a gross waste of time. But orders were orders. And Lee was a top priority.

Rivas laid the camera on the passenger seat and lit a cigarette. He’d been here two hours already, since eight-thirty this morning, and had six to go. The COS had spread his twenty-three available personnel at the airport and through the city, eight hours on, eight hours off. Places where Lee, if he showed up in Tokyo, might logically be spotted.

Another Mercedes limo came up the ramp and waited for a break in traffic. Rivas flipped his cigarette away, raised the camera and focused on the two men in the backseat. The man on the right, behind the driver, had a narrow, pinched face, short-cropped gray hair and a round nose. He was Joseph Lee, there was no doubt of it.

Rivas snapped a half-dozen photographs as the car pulled out into traffic and headed south. He started his car, waited for a taxi to pass, then shot out behind it. He snatched the microphone.

“Control, seven. Red-one is on the move, south from my QTH. I’m in pursuit.”

“Don’t crowd him.”

Crowd him, hell, Rivas thought, just keeping up with the bastard was going to be a trick all in itself. This was the big one and he didn’t want to blow it.

The limo and cab shot through the light at Sotobori-Dori Avenue as it was turning yellow, and Rivas had to floor it to get through. His apartment was nearby so he was reasonably familiar with this section of Tokyo. But in another mile Sakurada-Dori branched off, to the right toward Roppongi, Akasaka and Aoyama, and left toward Hamamatsucho Rail Station, Shiba Rikyu Garden and the port of Tokyo. Either way the limo turned there would be dozens of opportunities for Rivas to lose it.

“Control, seven, I’m going to need some help.”

“Has he come to the turn yet?”

“Another couple of blocks.”

“If he turns toward the port, follow him, otherwise back off. Nine is in Akasaka.”

The radio transmissions were encrypted and sent in one-millisecond compressed bursts, but Rivas was still nervous. The Japanese may not have invented modern technology, but they sure as hell were masters at it.

“Okay, he’s in a black Mercedes 600, license seven-one-seven, governmental.”

“Stand by.”

The limo moved over to the center lane and the taxi switched lanes with it. Before Rivas could follow suit a pair of white Toyota vans pulled up on either side of him, boxing him in.

“Seven, the limo belongs to Shimoyama, so watch yourself.” Shiego Shimoyama was chief of Tokyo police. He had a reputation for hating Americans.

Rivas tried to speed up, but a third white Toyota van, which had been in front of the limo, switched lanes directly in front of him and dropped back.

“Control, seven, I’ve got trouble here,” Rivas radioed, but there was no reply.

The limo suddenly shot across three lanes and made the left turn toward the port, but Rivas, still boxed in, was forced to turn right through the intersection, toward Rappongi.

“Control, seven, you copy?”

The radio was silent.

“Shit,” Rivas said, looking for a way out, but the three vans refused to get out of the way, and a fourth suddenly appeared in his rearview mirror.

“Control, seven,” he radioed.

When there was no answer, he dropped the microphone. Like taking candy from a baby, he thought. But then it was their city, where a Westerner stood out like a sore thumb. The real trouble would come when he had to write his report. This was hot, and he’d blown it.

A few blocks later the white vans turned off, which came as no surprise, and his radio started to work again.

“Seven, this is control, do you read?”

“Control, seven, I copy. I lost him.”

Joseph Lee gazed out the floor-to-ceiling windows toward the powerful H2C rocket on its launchpad five miles away, only a few puffy clouds marring an otherwise perfectly blue sky. Except for the incident this morning with the CIA officer in Tokyo, he was certain that the Americans had no idea he’d flown down here for the launch. Everything that he’d put in place for Morning Sun was developing as planned, in Taiwan, in Tokyo, in Washington and especially here at the space center. Nothing would go wrong.

“Joseph, I came as soon as I heard that you had arrived,” Tomichi Kunimatsu said.

Lee turned as the slightly built Tanegashima Space Center director came across the palatial great room, his hand outstretched.

They shook hands. “I’m happy to be here at least,” Lee said. “How is the countdown coming?”

“We’re at seventy-two hours, and I’m happy to say that so far there have been no major holds.” Kunimatsu, whose quarters these were behind the launch control complex, frowned. “I understand that you ran into some trouble in Tokyo?”

“Nothing serious,” Lee said. “How about the American Tiger team, are they behaving themselves?”

“No, but we’re taking care of them. Kimura wants to send them home now, and I agree.”

“Not until the launch. Otherwise there might be questions. That is, of course, if you can keep them out of mischief.”

“This close to launch, frankly they make me nervous, but I can see the wisdom in what you advise.” Kunimatsu looked out the windows. “Nine minutes after launch we will lose contact with the spaceship. And by the time Norad’s space command finds our wayward satellite, if they do, we will already have made the announcement.” He turned back to Lee. “Everyone will know the true meaning of Hagoromo.”

Kunimatsu was more of an engineer than a politician. But it wasn’t votes that raised a rocket, it was science, and he’d done an excellent job, though of course even he didn’t know the full story. Only a handful of men knew everything, and for the next seventy-two hours all of them would be incommunicado to the outside. Only afterward when the storm started to develop would they make their assurances to a stunned world.

“Is there any possibility of a leak from here?” Lee asked. Tanegashima security had always been very good, but this time it had to be perfect.

“The Americans are the weak link, of course, as we knew they would be. But we’re monitoring their every move.”

Lee gave the launch center director a pointed look. “Don’t underestimate them. If they get wind that something isn’t as it should be they could make trouble. Something we cannot afford at this late date.”

Kunimatsu chose his words with care. “They know that something out of the ordinary is going on. But so does everybody else because of the incident in the Sea of Japan. Our navy has been deployed and all of our military installations are at a high state of alert. But nobody has made the connection to us.”

“Yet.”

“Seventy-two hours, Joseph. Not so long a time to keep it together. We’ll hold up our end.”

“See that you do,” Lee said, turning again to the awe-inspiring sight out the windows. No one was going to guess until it was too late.

“I assume that you’re going to remain here until after the launch?” Kunimatsu said.

“Of course. But I’ve left Miriam at our Washington house to allay any suspicions that the FBI has. She’ll leave the morning of the launch.”

Kunimatsu’s normally bland expression changed to one of pensiveness. “I’ve learned only now something of the happenings in Washington, and frankly, Joseph, I’m a little confused.”

“Quid pro quo, do you understand?”

“No,” Kunimatsu said shaking his head.

“You will,” Lee said, smiling.

They followed the Potomac southeast from White’s Ferry at an altitude of five hundred feet, Sandy Patterson in the front seat. Bruce Kondo, in the backseat of the Beach Bonanza, took pictures using a Haselblad camera with a wide-angle lens of the rolling hills, park lands and the occasional farm or mansion. Although the Capital City Aviation pilot had done contract work for the Far East Trade Association in the past, Kondo’s cover story was that he was looking for riverside property to buy.

“There are some pretty spots down there,” Sandy Patterson said as the CIA safe house came into view.

“Yes, thank you, I can see that.”

“Would you like me to come in a little lower and circle, Mr. Thomas?” the pilot asked.

“That’s not necessary,” Kondo said, snapping pictures as fast as the motorized drive would work. There were no surprises in the layout from what he’d been told, or from what he’d been able to glean from the topographic maps. But seeing it from the air like this gave him a much clearer perspective of what they would be facing. Just on the one pass he’d picked out at least three spots where he and his men could come in.

As he suspected would be the case, however, he was unable to spot any activity on the ground. The foliage was so thick that an entire army could be hidden down there and still be invisible to the human eye. But the camera, with its special film, might pick something up.

“There’s property closer to the city, if you would like to look at it as well,” Sandy Patterson prompted. A couple of miles ahead was a busy interstate highway. “But that’s four ninety-five down there, I don’t think you want to be that close.”

“I think I’ve seen all I need to see for now. Perhaps next week we can try south of the city. It’ll give me time to do my homework.”

“It’s only six-thirty, there’s still plenty of light to take a pass that way now,” the pilot suggested.

“Next week,” Sandy Patterson said sharply.

Judith Kline was a young woman who until today had thought she knew exactly where she was going, and how she was going to get there. But sitting at the Atrium Bar a few minutes after 6:30 P.M., she understood that Tony Croft’s death, which she’d just heard about, had changed all of that for her, and she had a sick feeling at the pit of her stomach.

Tony was going to be her meal ticket, her way out from being an escort, and her way into a cushy job in the White House, or at least some government agency. Tony had been mentioning the Pentagon lately and the State Department, and she’d hung on his every word. She’d done exactly what he’d told her to do. She was not a stupid girl; although she’d finished only two and a half years of college, she was merely impatient. She’d seen how the other half lived, and coming from Des Moines, Iowa, to Washington was a real eye-opener for her. She wanted to be one of them, and she wanted it soon.

At Tony’s suggestion, she’d taken several crash courses on the computer, read a half-dozen newspapers each day including the Washington Post and New York Times, read all the news and business magazines, and she’d even begun reading Aviation Week & Space Technology in case the Pentagon job materialized first. It was all a matter of timing, Tony assured her. And he might have gotten her a position and she might have been able to hold it for a little while on her looks alone, but over the long haul she was going to have to be good at her job.

Tony had also made another suggestion, which she’d taken to heart. If you wanted to get ahead in this town you had to watch your back at all times. His philosophy was to do the best job you could and keep an insurance policy in case the bottom fell out. Keep notes, he told her. Tape recordings. A diary.

“Present company excluded,” he told her and they’d laughed about it.

That was why she’d been watching him lately. Over the past few weeks he had changed, he’d become moody and nervous and sometimes even frightened. Sometimes after they made love he would sleep for a half hour or so, and he talked in his sleep. It was mostly incomprehensible gibberish, but in the last few days he repeated the same thing over and over, “the White House.” No other references, just the three words. The same three words he’d said today.

Since July each time he’d called her and set up a time to meet at the Hay Adams, she showed up an hour early. On three occasions she’d seen him with an older woman, short, mousy, across the street in Lafayette Square. There’d been something vaguely familiar about the woman, but the distance had been too great, and Judith’s vanity would not allow her to wear her glasses in public. Then yesterday she’d seen him meeting with a Chinese guy in front of the hotel. A sharp dresser, and she’d taken several photographs of them from the lobby with a disposable camera. She didn’t know how the shots would turn out, but she figured that if need be someone who knew their stuff would be able to do it.

Now she was faced with the choice of ignoring the situation, maybe head back home until it all blew over. It was a safe bet that someone in the hotel had noticed her hanging around and given the FBI her description. Better to leave while she could, especially after what she’d seen today.

She motioned to the bartender for another glass of chardonnay, then lit a cigarette. She would fit back in Des Moines like a square peg in a round hole. All her life she had worked to get away from the Midwest, and here she was faced with the choice of going back.

Her drink came and she paid for it with cash, as she did everything. The bartender gave her a stern look, as if to say: Go ahead and have your drink, sweetheart, but don’t look for any action in my establishment. She’d seen the same thing before and she was getting tired of it.

She shook her head, more in frustration with the situation she’d gotten herself into than fear, although she was plenty frightened. Fact was she couldn’t simply walk away from her life this time the way she had left Des Moines.

She signaled to the bartender that she would be right back, and walked across the lobby and around the corner toward the restrooms. A bank of pay phones lined the wall of the corridor. She called a number she’d memorized and it was answered on the second ring.

“You have reached the Federal Bureau of Investigation. If this is an emergency please press one. If you know the extension of your party please enter it now. For all other calls please press two.”

Judith pressed one. A moment later a man came on.

“FBI hotline.”

“I need to talk to whoever is in charge of the Tony Croft investigation. I have some information for you.”

“Yes, ma’am. Can you give me your name please.”

“Transfer me now, or I’ll hang up,” Judith said. “I’m not screwing around.”

“One moment please.”

Judith lit a cigarette with shaking hands. What the hell was she doing? What the hell had she gotten herself into?”

“Hello, this is Fred Rudolph, who am I talking to?”

“Never mind that for now,” Judith said. “I think Tony Croft was murdered, and I think I know who did it.”

FOURTEEN

A heat bloom suddenly showed up where it didn’t belong on the Whiskey Clipper Four satellite console, and Louise Horn sat forward so fast she spilled some of her coffee. “Damn.”

She brought up another infrared sensor to confirm what she thought she was seeing and fed both inputs into her computer. A second later the machine answered, “Natsushio.”

Louise looked up at the big board as she pulled out a cigarette and lit it. The tactical display showed the entire Sea of Japan and all the warships converging on a point southeast of Kimch’aek that they designated P1. Each time a satellite passed overhead the information on the screen was updated, showing the new position for each ship, the tracks they had taken since the last pass and their projected courses.

A small red circle showed the position where the Natsushio had attacked and killed the Chinese submarine, with two tracks leading away from it — one for the Japanese submarine and the other for the Seawolf. The problem was that the Natsushio had changed course. She was not heading, as they had assumed she would, back to her base at Maizuru. She had turned southwest, directly toward the oncoming Chinese fleet, or even a little south of it, perhaps trying to make an end run and sneak up on them as they passed. If that was his plan, Louise thought, he was one gutsy submarine commander. Or crazy.

She dialed up one of the high-resolution cameras aboard Whiskey Clipper Four, enhanced the image and zeroed in on the exact position of the diesel exhaust heat bloom.

It was morning out there, and except for a few puffy clouds viewing was nearly perfect. At first she saw nothing. She dialed up the highest magnification and image enhancement, which actually degraded the picture somewhat, and she spotted a tiny white wake, at the head of which was obviously a masthead sticking out of the water. It was the Natsushio’s periscope and radio antennae. The Japanese were talking to someone.

The information was already being transferred to photo interp upstairs. She called the night duty officer.

“I see it, Louise,” Major Wight said. “But hold a moment, I’m on the line with Fort Meade.”

The National Security Agency, headquartered at Fort Meade, Maryland, monitored electronic emissions all over the world. Like the NRO they were focused on the situation in the Sea of Japan. If the Japanese submarine was communicating with her home port, the NSA would be listening in right now.

While she waited for Major Wight to come back, she brought up control of the main tactical display on one of her consoles and asked the computer to extend the submarine’s track for the next twenty-four hours, juxtaposed against the tracks of the Chinese fleet.

“Okay, NSA says the Natsushio sent out a directed burst transmission, duration two hundred and ten milliseconds, which means it was a long message.”

“Was it sent to Maizuru?”

“Apparently not, but they can’t say where, and they haven’t decrypted it yet, but they’re working on it.”

“Well, she’s not heading back to the barn, Bert. From what I’m looking at on the board, she’s heading directly for the eastern channel south of Tsu Island. The Chinese fleet is using the western channel.”

“The skipper got smart, he doesn’t want to get into another fight. Especially now with those odds.”

“So where’s he going?” Louise asked.

“Maybe he plans on sneaking up behind them.”

“Once they’ve passed each other, he’d never be able to catch up.” Louise’s first cigarette was still burning in the overflowing ashtray. She lit another. “Could be he’s heading for Tokyo the long way around. That way he’d not only avoid the Chinese fleet, he wouldn’t have to deal with Seventh.”

“What are you getting at?” Major Wight asked carefully.

“Tokyo Bay is pretty empty right now. Maybe we should take a closer look at what’s happened over there since our fleet cleared out.”

“Are your projected tracks in the computer?”

“I’m looking at them right now.”

“Okay, good job again, Louise,” Major Wight said. “I’ll get this next door, but I want you to stick with this one for the duration. Can you handle that?”

Louise had to laugh. “The overtime pay sucks, but I can manage.”

Major Wight disconnected. Louise put down her cigarette, took a drink of coffee, then lit another cigarette as she stared up at the big board. This was how wars started, she had the unhappy thought.

FBI Director Gerald Pierone was shown into the Oval Office at 7:00 P.M. by the President’s appointments secretary Dale Nance. President Lindsay and Harold Secor were going over some information contained in a file open on the President’s desk. Lindsay closed it.

“The Japanese and Chinese ambassadors are coming over in a half hour, so I can’t give you much time, Gerald,” the President said. “You have some new information about Tony?”

Pierone had agonized all afternoon over what the Bureau’s role was in the investigation and exactly what position he should take personally. But he didn’t have any choice in the matter, as he saw it. He was the nation’s top cop, and if a law had been broken, it was his job to investigate it.

“There’s an outside chance that Tony Croft was murdered. We received a call on our hotline from a woman who claims that she knows who murdered him. The partial description she gave us fits a man by the name of Thomas Wang, a South Korean businessman. He was registered at the Hay Adams but apparently he never used his room, and he’s disappeared.”

The President was shaken. He sat down. “Do you know who the woman is?”

“We don’t have her name, but she claimed to be Croft’s mistress. They’d been meeting once or twice a week at the Hay Adams over the past six months. The hotel staff thinks she was probably a prostitute.”

The President and Secor exchanged a glance. “Did you know anything about this, Harold?” Lindsay asked.

“Tony’s been under a lot of pressure lately, like we all have been, but this is the first I heard anything like that.”

“Terrible,” Lindsay said, moved. He shook his head. “Do you have the woman in custody?”

“We don’t even have her name yet,” Pierone said. “But she promised that she would call back with more information. She told us that she had to take care of something first, for her own protection.”

“Who would want to kill him, and why?” the President asked.

Pierone girded himself for what he was going to have to say next. He laid a leather-bound folder on the President’s desk. Neither the President or Secor reached for it. “I don’t know how to give this to you, Mr. President, except straight. It’s very likely that I’m going to be subpoenaed by Sam Blair to turn over what we’ve come up with in the Joseph Lee investigation.”

“What are you talking about?” Secor demanded. “What information?”

“It looks fairly certain that the bombing in Georgetown on Friday was aimed at Kirk McGarvey by someone who not only knew he was being proposed as the CIA’s new deputy directory of Operations, but who wanted for some reason to stop him. At any cost. One of the terrorists was identified as a former employee of an operation in Hong Kong owned by Lee.”

“A former employee?” Secor said.

Pierone nodded. “He was fired two years ago.”

“What does this have to do with Tony Croft?”

“Saturday morning Tony held a private briefing here in the White House for Mr. Lee—”

“How do you know that?” the President demanded.

“One of Croft’s staffers told us. We weren’t given the substance of that briefing, except that it was extensive and dealt with a current hot-button topic. Twenty-four hours later Lee returned to his home in Taiwan. He stayed there overnight, then disappeared. The CIA spotted him in Tokyo this morning, but lost him again. Nobody knows where he is now.”

Pierone was speaking like a prosecutor, he could hear himself, but he didn’t know any other way to lay this on the President’s doorstep.

“Mr. Lee is under investigation for a possible connection to illegal campaign funding, and there’ve been a lot of leaks from Sam Blair’s office and from the grand jury. If I’m forced to give him this information, the media will have it within twenty-four hours and there’ll be a lot of questions.” Pierone felt like hell. He admired this President for the good job he was doing. Lindsay had only two years left in his second term, and he didn’t need something like this to mar his record.

“I thought you should get a chance to see this first.”

“I appreciate it, Jerry,” the President said tightly. He looked angry, but he was holding it in check.

“You don’t have to turn any of this over to Blair,” Secor said.

“I’m not going to volunteer it,” Pierone said. “But I have a job to do, and I’ll do it. My hands may be tied.”

“Bullshit—” Secor exploded, but Lindsay held him off.

“Nobody will interfere with your job, Gerald,” the President said. “You have my word on that. And I want to thank you for coming over here like this. Can I ask a favor?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Keep me abreast of what you come up with.”

“Naturally,” Pierone said. “After all I am working for you.”

“Yes, you are,” the President said, and something about the way he said it troubled Pierone.

Harold Secor had not recovered from the stunning news Gerald Pierone had handed them by the time the Chinese and Japanese ambassadors arrived at 7:30 P.M. Neither had the President, but this was a meeting that simply could not be delayed and one that would have to be played straight from the hip if they expected to somehow calm the Sea of Japan situation before more lives were lost.

Both ambassadors were similar men in that they were career diplomats with more than sixty years of foreign service between them and each was a soft-spoken, brilliant, tough negotiator. Jun Zheng, the Chinese ambassador, worked under a handicap in that he did not have the negotiating freedom that his Japanese counterpart, Ryutaro Mitsui, enjoyed — it was a manifestation of the differences between totalitarian and democratic regimes — but he was every bit as capable despite it.

If there was any tension or hard feelings between them, Secor could not detect it. They were consummate diplomats.

“Good evening, Mr. President, Mr. Secor,” Zheng said, bowing slightly.

“Mr. President,” Mitsui said, his English even better than Zheng’s.

“Gentlemen, thank you for coming over on such short notice,” the President said. “But we’ve been monitoring an increasingly troubling situation in the Sea of Japan involving your two countries.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, unless you’re referring to the explosion at North Korea’s nuclear power station,” Zheng said blandly.

“I’m talking about the eight warships your country has sent into the region,” the President said. “Our satellites are monitoring their progress right now. Along with the several warships Japan has dispatched. Are you going to tell me that you know nothing about that?”

“There was an accident with one of our submarines,” Mitsui broke in smoothly. “We have mounted a recovery operation, nothing more.”

“Can you tell us why all of your military bases have been put on alert?” Secor asked.

“Merely a precaution,” the Japanese ambassador said. “I think the North Koreans made their position perfectly clear in the aftermath of their unfortunate accident at Kimch’aek. We would be reckless not to take certain steps to prepare for our defense should the unthinkable happen.”

“Is that why China has sent its navy?” Secor asked. “Has Pyongyang asked for your help?”

“So far as I’m aware, no such request has been made of my government,” Zheng replied. It was impossible for Secor to determine if he was lying. The ambassador’s expression was perfectly neutral, as was Mitsui’s. They could have been discussing the weather.

“Are you telling us that your navy is simply conducting an exercise?” Secor asked.

Zheng inclined his head slightly. “It’s not uncommon.”

“You can understand our concern, because very soon ships of both your navies will be in close proximity to each other,” the President said. “Accidents have been known to happen in such situations.”

“We are aware of such dangers,” Mitsui agreed. “Our commanders have been given very specific orders to operate with extreme caution.”

“I’m glad to hear that, because it will make it easy for you to take a message back to both of your governments.”

“Yes, Mr. President?” Mitsui said.

“We would like to see the situation stabilized by an immediate withdrawal of your forces to a safe distance. A one-hundred-mile separation between your ships and the coast of North Korea would be reasonable. I have ordered the Seventh Fleet into the area as observers. Like both your governments, the United States is deeply concerned by the incident at Kimch’aek. In the morning I shall call for a UN investigation to make sure this doesn’t go any further. Until we have all the facts, any military operation there would not only be foolish but would certainly be dangerous.”

“We have the right to defend our homeland,” Mitsui said.

“With the help of the United States through our Joint Forces agreement,” the President said. “We intend honoring our responsibilities to Japan with the same vigor we have in the past. Believe me, we understand perfectly well the threat that Kim Jong-Il represents, and we won’t allow him to take any action whatsoever against you. He understands the consequences.”

Mitsui nodded. “I appreciate your candor, Mr. President, and I will pass your message back to Tokyo immediately.”

“As I will to my government,” Zheng said cautiously.

Both ambassadors rose to go, but Secor passed a file folder to the President. “There is one further matter of concern,” Lindsay said.

The President opened the file folder, studied the photographs it contained, then passed two of them across the desk, one to each of the ambassadors. “These were taken from one of our satellites of what appears to be an underwater explosion.”

The ambassadors glanced at the pictures, then handed them back without comment, no visible change in their expressions.

“Of course we have no way of knowing all the facts; even the best of satellites cannot show us everything. But my military advisers tell me that there is a great probability that what we picked up was the result of an underwater battle between two submarines. Considering what’s going on out there, they think it’s more than possible that a Japanese submarine may have fired on and destroyed a Chinese submarine. If that’s the case the situation has already gotten out of hand.”

“I know nothing about this, Mr. President,” Zheng said.

Mitsui shook his head. “Nor have I heard anything,” he said. “If indeed there was an explosion, it must have been an accident. Such things do happen. As I told you, our commanders have been issued very specific orders to use deadly force only if Japan is directly threatened.”

“How do you explain the photographs?” Secor asked point blank.

“I cannot, Mr. Secor,” Mitsui said, straight-faced.

“Nor can I,” Zheng parroted. “But I will certainly pass this message on to my government as well.”

“I want to make this perfectly clear,” the President cautioned. “I have ordered the Seventh Fleet into the Sea of Japan for one reason only, that is to maintain the peace. At any cost.”

“An admirable mission, Mr. President,” Mitsui said without a trace of sarcasm.

“A view I certainly share,” Zheng said.

“Then I won’t keep you,” the President said. “Thank you for coming. Good evening.”

When they were gone Secor poured a cup of coffee. “You couldn’t have made it any plainer for them.”

“Now the ball’s in their court,” the President said. “Question is, what will they do with it?”

McGarvey’s secretary had gone home around 7:00 P.M., and by eight he was about ready to pull the pin himself. The day had somehow gotten away from him, one meeting piled on top of another, reams of files and documents and satellite shots updating the NIE and Watch Report, agent reports coming in from around the world turning up nothing new in their search for Joseph Lee and the disturbing suicide of Tony Croft at the Hay Adams all made him wonder why the hell he’d agreed to take this job. He was a field officer, not an administrator.

Through the day he felt as if he was spinning his wheels, or more accurately trying to run through thick molasses. He was getting nowhere. Coincidences were piling up all around them, but he couldn’t see any pattern, he was not making the connections he thought he should be making and he was frustrated.

Tommy Doyle called it bureaucratic bullshit, but until today McGarvey never knew how true it could be.

The telephone rang on McGarvey’s private number. It was Howard Ryan.

“I thought you might still be at your desk,” Ryan said. “The trouble is that it never ends.”

“I’m beginning to learn that.”

“I think I may have come up with something for you. It might be nothing more than a coincidence, but in this business I guess you can’t take anything for granted.”

“What have you got?”

“There’s an outfit here in town called the Far East Trade Association. They’re on Dupont Circle. They might have a connection with Joseph Lee, but I got that from only one source who admitted he was merely guessing, and I haven’t been able to confirm it yet. In fact I wasn’t even going to call you, except for what happened to Tony Croft.”

McGarvey jotted the name of the association on a notepad. “What about him?”

“Far East’s executive secretary is a woman named Sandy Patterson. She was friends with Tony. I don’t know how far back they went or how close their relationship was, but they definitely knew each other.”

“Are you sure about this?

“Sure enough that if I were sitting where you are I’d look into it. Could be nothing more than the mechanism Lee uses to funnel money into the White House, if that’s what’s been going on.”

“Does Sam Blair know about this?”

“Not yet,” Ryan said. “At least I don’t think he does, otherwise he would have called the woman before the grand jury.”

“Will it go public that you’re feeding me information?” McGarvey asked.

“Not on your life,” Ryan said. “Like I told you before, I’ve got my own reputation to consider. And whatever you think about me, I’m still doing some good things in this town.”

“All right, Howard, I’ll see what I can dig up. Thanks for your help. I won’t forget it.”

“Right,” Ryan said. “If I find out anything else I’ll give you a call.”

“Do that.” McGarvey was getting the ugly feeling that very soon he was going to be even more unpopular in Washington than he had ever been.

He caught Fred Rudolph at home, just getting ready to sit down to supper.

“Why is it that anytime the phone rings these days, I don’t want to pick it up, because I know the news is going to be bad?”

“I just talked to Howard Ryan about Tony Croft and Joseph Lee,” McGarvey said. He didn’t think Rudolph was going to enjoy his dinner tonight. “There might be another connection between them through an organization called the Far East Trade Association on Dupont Circle. Croft and Far East’s executive secretary, Sandy Patterson, were friends, and apparently Lee has some link to it.”

“Where did Ryan pick that up?”

“He didn’t say and I didn’t ask. If we lean on him he’ll back off. But I think we should at least take a look at Far East.”

“I’ll get a search warrant tonight. Do you want to tag along?”

“Not on the first pass. But if you find something let me know.”

“Will do.”

“For the time being I want Ryan’s name kept out of this, okay?”

Rudolph hesitated a moment. “I don’t know if that’s possible. We’re talking about a major criminal investigation here that could reach all the way to the President. Besides, from the way I read it you don’t owe Ryan a thing.”

“I gave him my word that I would protect him for as long as I could. It’s the only reason he’s cooperating with me.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Rudolph said, and it was clear he wasn’t happy.

Another of McGarvey’s phone lines began to blink. “Call me if you come up with anything.”

“It’s been a long week, and it’s going to get even longer,” Rudolph said.

“That it is,” McGarvey replied. He broke the connection and picked up on the second call. It was Rencke.

“How’re Mrs. M. and Liz?”

“They’re fine, they’re safe for now,” McGarvey said. “Are you calling from Archives?”

“I’m still here,” Rencke said. He sounded odd, as if he were out of breath.

“You okay, Otto?”

“I’ve gone through your record, Mac. The whole enchilada, you know. And, oh boy, you’ve been busy. A whole group of people out there have to be seriously pissed at you. Know what I mean?”

“I get that impression now and then,” McGarvey said. “Have you come up with something?”

“Maybe,” Rencke said vaguely. “Can you come down here tonight?”

“What is it?”

“I need to pick your brain. The records are here, but they’re not complete. Like something’s missing. Like impressions, maybe memories. Can you come?”

“I’ll be there in an hour,” McGarvey said, and Rencke hung up.

CINC Seventh Fleet Rear Adm. James Hamilton, who had assumed command of the primary carrier group, was on the bridge with the George Washington’s skipper, Captain David Merkler, when a signals man came in and handed the admiral a message flimsy.

“What is it?” Merkler asked.

Hamilton looked up. “The President wants to talk to me,” he said. “We’ll take it in my quarters.”

“Maybe now we can start to get some answers that make sense.” Merkler looked like a heavyweight boxer and in fact had boxed for the navy when he was at Annapolis. There wasn’t a man in the navy who had ever entertained the notion of crossing him. Even smiling he looked dangerous, exactly the opposite of Hamilton, who was short, slender and intellectual. Together they made a formidable team.

“Don’t count on it, Dave,” Hamilton said, as they left the bridge together.

In the distant haze off the port side of the mammoth nuclear-powered Nimitz class aircraft carrier, they could just make out Cape Tappi on the Honshu headland at the western end of Tsugaru Strait that opened to the Sea of Japan. In a matter of hours his battle group would be out of the confining waters of the strait and into waters where they would have some maneuvering room. It wouldn’t be too soon for Hamilton, whose primary love was the sea, not some confining office in Yokosuka or Washington.

The marine guard followed them, and at the admiral’s quarters, opened the door for them and saluted smartly.

It took a couple of minutes for the call from the White House to go through, time enough for Merkler to pour them some coffee. Hamilton put the call on the speakerphone.

“Good evening, Mr. President,” Hamilton said. It was ten-thirty in the morning there, which made it 8:30 P.M. in Washington. “I have Dave Merkler with me.”

“Good morning, Admiral,” President Lindsay said. “I’m glad to hear it because this is for both of you. How is everything going out there?”

“We’ll be in the Sea of Japan in a few hours, and so far nobody seems to be taking any notice of us.”

“I’m glad to hear that too. But the situation might not hold together much longer, and it’ll be up to you to make sure nothing gets out of hand.”

“I’m not sure I understand, Mr. President,” Hamilton said, exchanging a glance of puzzlement with Merkler. “Could you be a little more specific?”

“There’ve been some new developments between the Japanese and Chinese navies that you need to be aware of,” the President said. For the next fifteen minutes he went into detail about the destruction of the Chinese Han class submarine, the reactions of the Chinese and Japanese ambassadors, the continued buildup of naval resources off the North Korean coast and his warning to both governments to keep a one-hundred-mile zone of separation between their ships and North Korea.

“Good lord,” Hamilton said. “Mr. President, are you ordering me to place my carrier groups down there to enforce the separation zone?”

“That’s exactly what I want you to do, Jim,” Lindsay said. “With all possible speed.”

“What if someone takes exception to our presence?”

“I’m giving you the authority to defend yourself at all times. Someone shoots at you, shoot back.”

“No, Mr. President, that’s not what I mean,” Hamilton said. “What do you want us to do if they simply ignore us? These are international waters, but considering what happened at Kimch’aek and Pyongyang’s warnings, the Japanese would be fools not to maintain a strong presence down there. Add to that the probability that the Chinese have gotten themselves in the middle of it because Pyongyang has asked for their help, and they might just start shooting at each other in earnest. We could hardly blame them for something like that.”

The President had never served in the military. He hesitated a moment. “If you place your ships between them I don’t think they’ll be foolish enough to start anything.”

“Yes, Mr. President. But what do I do if someone makes a mistake?” Hamilton said. Getting a politician to make a straight statement was usually impossible, so the President’s next order came as a surprise.

“Stop them with whatever force you think is necessary, Jim.”

“I see,” Hamilton said quietly. “Can I assume that Tom Logan knows the score?” Air Force General Thomas Logan was in charge of all U.S. forces on Okinawa.

“He does,” the President said. “But I want you to be perfectly clear on our intent here, and that’s to prevent an all-out shooting war between Japan and North Korea and whoever Pyongyang has as its ally.”

“Yes, sir.” Hamilton figured that no matter how this turned out, relations between the U.S. and Japan would never be the same again.

“I won’t leave you to hang out to dry, Jim,” the President said. “I’ll have my orders sent to you in writing within the hour.” That came as another complete and somewhat welcome surprise to Hamilton.

“I appreciate that, sir. We’ll do the very best we can.”

“I know you will. Good luck.”

McGarvey parked in the visitor’s lot and took the elevator eight hundred feet down to the main records storage level. He’d called ahead so that the night security people were expecting him, and they let him inside without delay. He passed through a pair of heavy steel doors, his DDO pass keying the electronic locks. Rencke was waiting with a golf cart, his long fuzzy hair even wilder and more out of control than usual.

“Oh boy, Mac, thanks for comin’,” Otto gushed as McGarvey climbed into the cart beside him. They took off immediately from the central square down a long, broad avenue that led through the tall stacks for as far as they could see.

“Are you okay?” McGarvey said. Rencke looked like he hadn’t slept in a week. His clothing was dirty and rumpled, and the laces were loose on one of his sneakers and missing on the other. He didn’t smell so good either.

“No time for that now,” Rencke said. “There’s bad shit lying around all over the place down here.” He shook his head in wonder. “It’s like looking for a word in a dictionary; you get sidetracked to some really weird shit sometimes.” Tears suddenly came to his eyes and he glanced at McGarvey. “Your folks were good people, Mac. Top shelf, the best, really the best. It was that bastard Baranov and Trotter who did it to them, ’cause they were afraid of you.”

“You saw the records?”

Rencke’s lips compressed, and he nodded. “But you don’t want to see them. Not ever.”

“You’re probably right,” McGarvey said. But he’d already seen them. “What have you come up with? Anything we can use right now?”

“I don’t know. I’ve been through your record, and I’ve even come up with a list of names. People still alive, with the position and power to come after you if they wanted to. You’re going to have to consider them, but as far as I can tell that angle’s not going to wash. Some of them, like a couple of Tarankov’s people and a few Mafia guys from Moscow, hate your guts. But killing you wouldn’t do them any good, not if you consider the kinds of risks they would have to take and compare them with what they have to lose if they fail. And none of them is going to get in much trouble just because you’re the new DDO. No real gain for them if you were taken out.”

“Just revenge,” McGarvey said.

Rencke glanced at him again. “That might be the point after all. Revenge. It’s worse than hunger or lust.”

McGarvey figured they must have gone a half a mile or more into the underground installation when Rencke turned left down a narrower side avenue. They passed four intersections, and then he turned right and stopped fifty feet later. A tall ladder on wheels was drawn up to a eighteen-foot-high section of shelves. Several plastic bins had been brought down and set on the floor. File folders and envelopes were strewn around the base of the ladder. The light back here was barely good enough to read by.

“Midseventies,” Rencke said, hopping out of the golf cart. “Your first CIA duty station, Berlin. Remember?” He rummaged through the loose file folders, finally coming up with the one he wanted.

“That was a long time ago. I was just a kid.”

“A trained CIA field officer in the badlands, that’s what you were,” Rencke said. He was beat, his mood brittle, but a look of pride had come into his tired expression. “All your FI-TREPS gave you the highest marks. Dean Fields, the chief of Berlin station, made no bones how he felt about you. In his books you were the tops.” Rencke looked a little sly. “If you had one fault, according to him, you were too brash, too quick to pass judgment. ‘Just like a tent revival preacher,’ he wrote in one of your fitness reports.”

McGarvey chuckled. “He was right.”

Rencke handed him the thin file folder, which contained a brief, three-page incident/encounter sheet. Most of it was typewritten, but McGarvey recognized the handwritten notes as his own, although at first he couldn’t recall the incident.

“Does that bring back anything?” Rencke asked.

“Just a minute,” McGarvey said, and he quickly read through the report. It was early in the morning, New Year’s Day 1979, a hundred yards west of Checkpoint Charlie, near the Philharmonic Hall and National Gallery. McGarvey had been on his way back to his apartment off Potsdammerstrasse after a party, when he spotted a group of a half-dozen people trying to climb over the wall.

He parked in the shadows and trotted around back, thinking at first that he was seeing a group of East Germans trying to escape over the wall to the West. Instead, he walked into the middle of what one of them called a prank. They were Americans, graduate students and postdocs on Christmas break; all of them drunk, out looking for a little fun. An adventure.

It was starting to come back to McGarvey now; vague memories of how cold it was and how the kids looked guilty, foolish (and they knew it), stupid, ashamed and finally angry that someone their same age was putting a stop to their lark.

All of them were dressed in tattered blue jeans, sandals and wool socks, hair down around their shoulders, and McGarvey remembered being mad as hell at them. They were college students, probably rich, who were trying to look like hippies. They were fucked up in the head, he remembered telling them that. And one of them had responded that he should mind his own fucking business.

McGarvey had zeroed in on that kid, who was much older than the others and who seemed to be the leader, or at least their spokesman, and reamed him out. Told him that he had been seconds away from getting himself and his friends shot to death, and that if he hadn’t learned anything better than that in college, maybe he should go back to his mother’s lap so that he could have a few more years to grow up.

There’d been more words, and the kids were going to simply ignore him, when he flashed his gun and his CIA identification. It had been a stupid move on his part, he knew that now. But it had worked. The kids, pissed off, left. Now McGarvey vaguely remembered the look of embarrassment and hate on the one kid’s face, but nothing more.

He looked up. “I remember it, but that’s about all.”

“You made an enemy, Mac,” Rencke said.

“He was just a kid, and that was a long time ago. He’d have to be a complete idiot to still harbor a grudge.”

Rencke shrugged, conceding the point. “Did you get their names?”

“Evidently not, or I would have mentioned it in my report.”

“Do you remember any of them? I mean can you remember what they looked like?”

“Hippies. College kids with long hair. It was party time for them. Lot of that going on over there in those days. What’s your point, Otto?”

“I’ve worked out all the major shit in your background, all the obviously bad guys who might still hold a grudge, and now I’m working on the little shit. This one sorta stuck out.”

McGarvey shook his head. “I think we should stick with trying to find the Japanese connections.”

“I’m doing that, Mac,” Otto said, the vagueness back in his voice. “There’s just something about this.” He looked up. “If I came up with some photographs, do you think you could pick any of them out?”

“Maybe,” McGarvey said. “When have you slept last?”

“I don’t keep track,” Rencke said. “I’ll take you back to the elevators.”

“Listen, Otto, maybe you should come back to Washington with me. You can stay at my place or out at the safe house. We’ll have some dinner, a couple of beers and you can get a few hours sleep.”

Rencke gave him a long, penetrating look. “You gave me a job to do, Mac, and I’m doin’ it, you know.” He shifted his weight to his left foot and raised his right a couple of inches off the floor, as if he were an ostrich. “They came after Liz, and Mrs. M. We can’t let that happen again, so you gotta let me keep looking here. Okay?”

McGarvey had to shake his head again. “It’s your call.”

“Oh, boy. Great.” Rencke said, without much enthusiasm and he gave McGarvey a hug. “We’ll get the bastards, Mac. It’s not chartreuse anymore, but we’ll get the bastards.”

FIFTEEN

Fred Rudolph met the District of Columbia SAC Jack Hailey in the parking lot of the new International Trade Association building off Dupont Circle a few minutes after ten.

“Thanks for coming out tonight, Jack. May be nothing, but I figured you wanted to be kept in the loop.”

“I appreciate it,” Hailey said. “Had to be some kind of world record, getting a search warrant that fast.”

“Judge Miller is one of the good guys who still thinks we’re doing an okay job,” Rudolph said. The fact that he and the federal judge were next-door neighbors and belonged to the same country club hadn’t hurt either. Over the past few years they had developed a mutual trust and respect on and off the golf course that sometimes paid off, like tonight.

A half-dozen FBI agents in blue windbreakers had secured the front and rear entrances to the twelve-story building, and while a nervous night watchman made two calls, one to the building’s manager and the other to the office manager of the Far East Trade Association, Dan Parks and twenty special agents had gone up to the top floor to open the offices and begin their preliminary search.

He came back down on the elevator and trotted over to where Rudolph and Hailey were waiting at the desk in the lobby. He was a short, heavyset man with dark curly hair who had been a computer programmer by trade until he had signed on with the Bureau’s Special Investigations Division. He could sniff out a hidden computer cache a mile away.

“Okay, we’re in,” he said. “Do you want us to get started now, or should we wait until Far East sends someone over?”

“Anybody up there?”

“No. The place was locked up for the night.”

“Find anything interesting?” Rudolph asked.

“Computers on both floors, but it looks as if they’re all tied to the same mainframe on eleven. Some locked file cabinets in the mail room and a couple of the offices and a big wall safe in one of the front offices. We can peel the safe.”

“Stick to the computers for now. I want to see what kind of a reaction we get from their people when they show up and we ask for the combination. We’ll be up when they get here.”

Parks smiled humorlessly. “If there’s a connection to Croft or Lee, we’ll find it.” He turned and took the elevator back up.

“I’ll wait down here, if you want to go up,” Hailey said.

“Won’t be necessary,” Rudolph replied, spotting two men at the front doors. “Looks like the opposition is about to storm the gates.”

He and Hailey went over and let them in. The older of the men was dressed in a tuxedo, the other in a pair of blue jeans and a short-sleeved Izod. Neither of them looked happy.

Rudolph showed them his FBI identification. “I assume that you gentlemen work for the Far East Trade Association?”

“That’s right,” the man in the tuxedo said indignantly. “I’m Calvin Wirtz, the association’s legal counsel. What’s going on here?”

“Who are you, sir?” Rudolph asked the other man.

“He’s Christopher Antus, the association’s office manager,” the attorney spoke for him.

“Will your executive director, Sandy Patterson, be showing up tonight?”

“She’s unavailable.”

“Where is she?” Rudolph asked.

“Out of the city, but I couldn’t tell you where,” Wirtz said.

“Now that I’ve answered your questions, tell me what you’re doing here.”

Rudolph handed him the search warrant. “The association’s records will be subpoenaed in the morning, for now we’re conducting a search of the offices.”

Antus looked guiltily toward the elevators. “No,” he said, starting forward, but Wirtz put out a hand to stop him.

“They’re within their rights, Chris,” the attorney said. He glared at Rudolph. “But all they can do tonight is look. We’ll just see about the subpoena in the morning.”

“There’s a safe in one of the offices. Would either of you gentlemen know the combination?” Rudolph asked.

“No,” Antus said, and Rudolph was sure he was lying.

“That’s okay, we’ll get it open,” Hailey said. It was obvious he’d taken an instant dislike to both men.

“You’ll be liable for damages,” Wirtz warned. “But if you’ll tell me what you’re looking for, we might be able to speed this up tonight. I’m sure we can work something out with Sam Blair, something to everybody’s satisfaction.”

Rudolph smiled inwardly, though he let nothing show in his expression. Blair’s name wasn’t mentioned on the search warrant.

“We’ll just have to look around upstairs. You’re certainly welcome to observe.”

“Damn right we will,” the attorney said.

Antus stepped back. “These guys are probably going to be here all night,” he told Wirtz. “I think I’ll go home and leave it to you.”

“I think not,” Rudolph said sternly. “Jack, do you want to read Mr. Antus his rights?”

“What’s this?” Wirtz exploded.

“A criminal investigation, counselor,” Hailey said. “You don’t think we’d stay up all night for anything else, do you?”

They’d spread the topographic maps and aerial photographs of the Cropley safe house on a conference table on the main floor of the warehouse. Kondo, Kajiyama and their six commandos were gathered around the table shortly before midnight. It was to be their final briefing before the operation.

“I count at least eight warm bodies hidden in the trees,” Kondo said. He marked their exact locations on the map. “But there are probably more men on the grounds as well as in the house.”

“They’re taking security seriously,” Kajiyama said dryly.

Kondo nodded in agreement. “But that’s their biggest weakness.” He drew sight lines from each man the special film had registered hidden in the woods — all of the lines converged on the driveway in front and toward a foot path at the rear of the property. “They’re watching for an attack from the ground. Not the air.”

Kajiyama stabbed a delicate finger at the driveway. “The road is probably targeted. Video cameras perhaps. Tire shredders, maybe explosives.”

“That makes sense,” Kondo said. “The same for the path.” He drew red arrows on two narrow openings on the east side of the property and one on the west, the woods between the clearings and the house.

“If there’s any wind above eight or ten knots, making such a precise landing would be risky,” one of the commandos pointed out. “If we miss and come in on top of them, our element of surprise will be gone.”

“The weather forecast is for calm to light winds from the southeast,” Kondo said. “If the forecast is wrong, we’ll delay the drop.”

The others around the table nodded. Kondo had handpicked them all. Their courage was unquestionable, but like most professionals in the business, they were cautious, not foolhardy. They were willing to take risks, but not unnecessary chances.

“For the moment we can assume that they have double the men I was able to photograph,” Kondo continued. “Three-quarters of their force outside, the remainder in the house. After the drop, the most critical phase will be taking down the outside guards in absolute silence, and quickly. They’ll have radios, of course, but we can count on a ten-second threshold of delay. After that point, if someone doesn’t answer their radio someone will be sent to investigate. That means we hit them all at once. One click on your comms unit means you’re in position to take out one guard. Two clicks and you can take out two. When everyone is in position, you’ll receive a tone in your headsets which means strike. One click and you’ve taken out your man, two and you’ve taken out the second. A tone and you’re in trouble.”

Kondo looked around the table at their faces to make certain each of them understood the orders.

“If anything goes wrong, you’ll receive the warble tone and we’ll rendezvous here.” Kondo circled the helicopter’s evacuation point a few meters from the highway. He looked up again, a stern expression in his eyes. “You will not carry out the wounded, nor will you leave anyone alive.”

It was a hard world, Kondo thought. They would carry no identification, nor would their dental records, fingerprints or descriptions be accessible by anyone from the West. The mission was of primary importance, the commandos expendable. They understood this, and there were no objections now.

“We will take the house in the second phase,” he continued. “Since no electrical or telephone lines show up on the photographs we can assume they are buried. We can also assume that once the people in the house realize they are under attack, they will call for help. I’m giving us a five-minute operational window. We’ll divide our team in two units, one for the front, the other for the back. Blow the doors, kill the guards inside and kill McGarvey, if he’s there. If not we take his wife and daughter and rendezvous here.” He circled the helicopter’s primary pickup point on the parking area directly in front of the house.

“Mr. Kondo,” Sandy Patterson called from the corridor to the offices upstairs.

He turned around. She looked as if she had seen a ghost.

“Could you come upstairs?” she asked.

Kondo nodded tightly and turned back to Kajiyama. “Finish the briefing,” he said, and he went upstairs to where the woman had gone back into the office.

She stood at the desk, her cell phone lying by her open purse. She was visibly trembling, and her complexion was very pale.

“What has happened?” Kondo asked.

She looked up, as if seeing him for the first time. “My sister called. The FBI has raided my office.”

“When?” Kondo demanded.

“Right now — they’re still there. Tina’s travel agency is on the ground floor, and she was working late, so she saw them coming in and she checked on it. There’s a federal warrant for my arrest.”

“Okay, take it easy. Is there anything in your offices that could lead them here?”

Sandy Patterson was shaking her head. “No, nothing. They’re probably after our financial records. And if they can break the encryption codes in our computers, they’ll find out about Mr. Lee.” Her eyes were wide. “But that’s not all. They know about you.”

“You said there were no records tying you to me,” Kondo said, wanting to lash out at the stupid woman, break her neck, but he held his temper in check.

“Judith called right after my sister.”

“The whore?”

Sandy Patterson nodded. “She said she was going to tell the FBI that Tony Croft was murdered. She said she took your picture in front of the Hay Adams. She wanted to know if she was doing the right thing, and she didn’t know who else to talk to.”

“What did you tell her?”

“She said that she was calling from a pay phone in the Grand Hyatt, so I told her to stay there and not to call anyone, and I’d send someone over to take care of everything.” Sandy Patterson shook her head again, as if she couldn’t believe that this was happening. “I didn’t know what else to say.”

“Does she know about this place?” Kondo asked.

“No.”

“Does anyone else know about it or about your connection here?”

“No. I rented the building through a triple blind. There’s no way that anyone could trace it back to me. Not in a million years. It’d be impossible.”

“Then nothing has changed,” Kondo said. “This operation will continue as planned.”

“What about Judith?”

Kondo looked at the woman with a mixture of anger and disgust. She had served them well to this point, but Lee would understand perfectly well when Kondo told him that she was dead. “There’s nothing she can tell the FBI that would hurt us. Tony Croft killed himself and by now the FBI knows it. Besides, she could not know my real name unless Croft told her.”

“What about me, then?”

“Your work here is finished, so you’ll have to come with us.” Kondo smiled. “I’m quite certain that Mr. Lee will give you everything that you deserve.”

Sandy Patterson looked like she was on the verge of collapse. But it was obvious that she understood she had no other options.

“Naturally you’ll have to stay here until we’re finished, and then you’ll be getting out of the country with us,” Kondo said. “We’ll talk later, after I finish the briefing, and figure out what role you can play for Mr. Lee.”

Otto Rencke untied a bundle of file folders that he had secured with one of his shoelaces and spread the documents on the map table. After McGarvey left he had entered the photographs of the students at the Berlin Wall into a computer recognition program that from time to time spit out a possible match.

Within the first ten minutes he’d come up with a name so surprising that it took even his breath away, and he’d returned for the Berlin station’s annual summaries for 1978, ‘79 and ’80, searching for further possible references to the incident Mac had been involved with, or with repercussions because of it. If Mac was right and the kids were graduate students and postdocs, their egos would have demanded that they do something in retaliation. Vietnam was the major issue, and the CIA was the enemy. But nothing of any consequence was showing up except for the one name.

The computer was giving a 58 percent probability that the photograph and name were a match and asked for more photographs or further data. But there was nothing else in the Berlin files. Apparently it had been an isolated incident.

Rencke stared at the photograph and the name for several minutes, his thoughts lost in a maze of floating, flowing, blending colors. Years ago he’d been trying to devise a series of tensor calculus transformations involving complex bubble memory systems. He’d hit on the question of how to explain color to a blind person. With mathematics, so sweetly elegant that even a person who could not even begin to understand the notion of color could “see.” If it worked one way, he figured there was no reason it shouldn’t work in the opposite direction. Since then, whenever he had to deal with something complex, he thought in colors. Lavender this time.

He slid over to his computer, brought up an outside line and within seconds was in the mainframe computer system for the United States Senate.

It was 0530 GMT and Captain Harding couldn’t sleep. He was hunched over one of the plotting tables in the control room studying their track. They were five miles behind the Japanese submarine Natsushio, which was continuing southwest, its projected course taking it through the eastern channel of the Korean Strait south of Tsu Island. The last message they’d received from CINCPAC confirmed that the Chinese fleet of six surface ships and two submarines were headed into the Sea of Japan through the western channel. It didn’t seem likely that the Natsushio was trying to make an end run on the fleet. It could not match their speed, so it would never be able to catch up. CINCPAC thought that it was possible the MSDF sub was heading to Tokyo, but that didn’t make any sense to Harding either.

“You’re supposed to be getting some sleep, Captain,” Rod Paradise said at his shoulder.

Harding looked up. “I’m trying to figure out what this guy’s up to. He kills a Chinese submarine, then bugs out like he’s getting ready to attack the entire fleet. But he’s not going to do that.”

“You don’t think he’s going to Tokyo?”

Harding shook his head. “With the Seventh gone, Yokosuka is theirs. Nothing left in Tokyo Bay to challenge them, so why bring in another submarine when all the action is on this side?”

Paradise studied the chart. “Nothing else makes any sense.” He looked up. “Of course he could be heading up the Korean coast. Maybe stand off Chungsan. Pyongyang is only thirty miles inland. If something did start up, they’d be in a good position to strike back.”

“That’s a cheery thought,” Harding said. “But it’ll be another twenty-four hours before he has to start his turn. North to Pyongyang or south toward who knows?” Harding picked up his coffee cup. “How’s it looking behind us?”

“So far so good,” Paradise said. “We’ve been stopping to clear our baffles every six hours.”

“Make it every two hours, Rod,” Harding said. “It’ll slow us down, but we won’t lose the Natsushio, and I want to make damned sure that no one is sneaking up on us.”

Rudolph watched as the contents of the safe were laid out on a conference table. It was better than he expected. In addition to reams of documents, they’d found more than one hundred thousand dollars in small bills, in bundles of a thousand dollars each. Some of the bundles were actually marked with names, almost all of them U.S. senators and representatives, others marked simply The White House. Antus had become increasingly nervous, but the Far East Trade Association’s attorney Calvin Wirtz maintained his composure. Rudolph figured he would have an answer for everything they were finding, but whether or not it would hold up in a court of law was another matter. From what they’d already seen — and this was just the preliminary search — he had a feeling that Sam Blair was going to be one happy camper. This would almost certainly end up another media field day when it came out, because already Dan Parks and his people were coming up with connections not only to Joseph Lee, but to Tony Croft as well. It was a bonanza.

Parks looked up from the counting and shot him a grin. It didn’t do much for Antus, who looked as if he was ready to bolt at any moment. But Hailey stood next to him waiting for exactly such a move.

Rudolph’s cell phone chirped, and he stepped out into the corridor to answer it. “Rudolph.”

“Sir, this is George Keane, night duty officer. I’m holding an urgent call for you. It’s a young woman who says she talked to you earlier about the Croft investigation.”

“Do you have a trace on it?”

“She’s calling from a pay phone in front of the convention center on H Street.”

“All right, patch me over and then roll whoever’s available. I want her picked up.”

“Yes, sir.”

The call was switched. “This is Fred Rudolph.”

“I called you before,” an obviously distraught woman said. “I’m ready to talk to you now. I need your help. I think.”

Jack Hailey came out of the conference room, and Rudolph held up a hand for him to stay.

“We’d very much like to help you. Can you tell me your name?”

Rudolph could hear traffic noises from the other end. He put a hand over the pickup. “Handle the situation here, Jack. Something’s come up. I’ve got to go.”

“Not yet,” the woman said. “They killed Tony Croft and I think maybe Sandy knows something about it.”

That got Rudolph’s attention. “Sandy who?” he asked, cautiously, as he sprinted down the corridor to the elevators. “Can you tell me at least that much?”

The woman hesitated. “Sandy Patterson. She was the one who got me together with Tony.”

Rudolph could scarcely believe his luck, and he had to work hard to keep his voice calm. The elevator came and he took it.

“Have you talked to her tonight?”

“A little while ago. She told me to stay put and she’d come get me. But I don’t know.”

“Are you still there, where you called her from?”

“No. I’m across the street.”

“Where was she when you called her?”

“I don’t know. I used her cell phone number. She could be anywhere. Home, maybe. Or at work. I don’t know.”

“There isn’t much I can do for you unless I know who you are? Can you tell me that?”

The woman hesitated again.

The elevator reached the ground floor and Rudolph raced across the lobby.

“My name is Judith Kline.”

“Okay, Judith, if you’re somewhere in the city I can reach you in a few minutes.”

“I took pictures. I got one of the guy Tony met with. He was coming out of the hotel right after Tony died, and he was carrying something. Looked like a big manila envelope.”

“Was it the Chinese gentleman you told me about?” Rudolph got his car started, shot out of the parking lot and headed down Massachusetts Avenue, traffic still heavy despite the fact it was after midnight.

“Yeah, same guy,” Judith Kline said. “I don’t want to turn out like everybody else in this town. I can’t handle that.”

“What do you mean?” Rudolph asked. He needed to keep her on the line and calm until his people got to her.

“Tony kept talking about the White House. But he was weird about it. Didn’t make any sense.”

“What didn’t make any sense, Judith?” Rudolph asked. He could hear sirens in the distance, and for a moment he couldn’t tell if he was hearing them through his open car window or over the phone. He decided he was hearing the sirens on the phone. “Did he talk about his job? About the President?”

Judith Kline heard the sirens too, and she was distracted. She said something that Rudolph couldn’t quite make out.

“Judith?” Rudolph said.

“He kept saying it wasn’t that White House.”

“I don’t understand.” The sirens were a lot closer now, and Rudolph, who was only a few blocks from the convention center, was hearing them through his open window too. If there hadn’t been any on-duty agents to send, Keane might have asked Metro police to pick her up.

“You traced my call!” she cried. “You sent the fucking cops.”

“Judith!” Rudolph shouted. “Listen to me. I want to help you.”

The sirens were much louder now, and the closer to the convention center he got, the heavier traffic became.

“Judith!” Rudolph shouted again, but she was gone.

They were going to lose her, and it was his fault because he had not explained the situation to Keane. Stupid.

He was about to toss his cell phone down when he heard a woman scream, the squeal of tires and a second later a horrific thump and the crash of breaking glass, then more sirens.

Louise Horn was operating on cigarettes, coffee and adrenaline when Major Wight called her a few minutes after 2:30 A.M. He sounded excited.

“Anything new on Natsushio?”

“Nothing in the past four hours,” she said.

“I have a new course line for you. That burst transmission from the sub has finally been decrypted and translated. Submarine Flotilla Headquarters Yokosuka has ordered her to make best possible speed for Tanegashima Island.”

“The space center?” Louise asked, surprised.

“They have a launch coming up in a couple of days, and I’m told it’s SOP to station a couple of MSDF ships just off-shore for rescue operations.”

“But a submarine?” Louise asked in wonder. “That submarine?”

“We’re going to need confirmation ASAP, so I want as many people as you can spare on it. If the Natsushio shows up anywhere along that track it’ll be to communicate with Yokosuka. I want to know about it.”

“What’s going on, Bert?”

“Wish the hell I knew. But it’s starting to get interesting out there.”

“That it is.”

McGarvey met Fred Rudolph at a roadside café just off the George Washington Parkway near CIA Headquarters at 7:30 A.M. When Rudolph called he’d been mysterious, except that the meeting couldn’t wait and he preferred that it be held on neutral ground. The place was busy and therefore anonymous.

“This is getting completely out of hand, and I’m going to have to make some tough decisions today,” Rudolph said. It was obvious he hadn’t slept last night. His suit was rumpled, and his eyes were red. He looked done in.

“How’d the raid on Far East’s offices go?” McGarvey asked. “Did you find something?”

Rudolph laughed, and glanced at the four men in the booth across from them. “Joseph Lee was funneling money not only to the White House, but to nine senators and twice that many representatives. We found cash, payment records and lobby points. We’re still working on that, but on the surface it looks as if Lee was representing the Japanese. Specifically the Ministry for International Trade and Industry.” MITI was as close to a Japanese central intelligence agency or intelligence clearinghouse as any governmental bureau in Tokyo. Their stated goal was the domination by Japanese business, and therefore political interests, in the eastern hemisphere.

The fact wasn’t surprising to McGarvey, only the extent of it. “Have you turned that over to Sam Blair yet?”

Rudolph shook his head. “That’s one of the decisions I have to make. Because once I do, it’ll leak to the media and all hell will break loose. After everything else that’s happened, Congress will almost certainly start impeachment hearings.” He rubbed his eyes. “Christ, what a mess.”

“Did you pick up Sandy Patterson?”

“We have a warrant for her arrest, but she’s disappeared, and that’s not the half of it. Apparently she was the one who introduced Tony Croft to the call girl. Her name is — or was — Judith Kline. She’s dead. Run over by a taxi in front of the convention center last night.” Rudolph looked beseechingly at McGarvey. “I had her on the phone, and she panicked. An accident.”

“She’s the one who told you that Croft was murdered?”

Rudolph nodded. “The ME says he killed himself, no doubt about it. But the woman took some photographs of a man she saw meeting with Croft. Right after Tony killed himself, she said she saw this guy coming out of the Hay Adams in a big hurry, carrying what looked like a manila envelope. And it’s a break, if you want to call it that. We got the film from her purse and developed it. He was registered at the Hay Adams under the name Thomas Wang. His real name is Bruce Kondo, and he works for Lee.”

McGarvey sat back. All the pieces were starting to come together. Trouble was he had no idea what it all meant or where it was leading.

Rudolph read something of that from his face. “What the hell is going on?”

“Lee is buying influence for the Japanese, and Tony Croft was giving them information,” McGarvey said. “That part’s easy. Question is, why’d they come after me, and why’d Croft pick this time to kill himself? Did the woman say anything else?”

“Nothing that makes any sense, except that Tony Croft was worried enough about what he was doing that he kept mentioning to her something about the White House. But she said he told her that he wasn’t talking about that White House, whatever the hell that means.”

“The cabby who hit her comes up clean?”

“Yeah. It was an accident. She was there in front of him, and he couldn’t do a thing about it.”

“Anything else on the film?”

“Nothing that means anything, unless she was planning on blackmailing Croft.”

“What about Far East’s records?”

“We’re just starting to sift through it all. Dan Parks and his people are still hauling stuff out of there. But it’s going to take weeks before we’re through it all. In the meantime what am I supposed to do?”

“Your job, Fred. You’re a cop investigating a crime.”

Rudolph nodded. “Dr. Pierone said the President wants to be kept informed.”

“I’ll bet he does,” McGarvey said, but his mind was elsewhere, spinning out connections between what was happening here in Washington to what was going on in the Sea of Japan. Something, some link between the two, was tickling the edges of his consciousness. Anomalies. The one fact that didn’t seem to belong. But he wasn’t quite seeing it yet.

“How is your daughter doing?” Rudolph asked, breaking McGarvey out of his thoughts.

“She’s on the mend, thanks,” McGarvey said. “Have you found out who put the safe house on the Web?”

“That’s like looking for a needle in a haystack. But Croft had a lot of friends in the Bureau, so if you want to carry a dark thought in that direction, it could be one of them. We’re still checking.”

McGarvey dropped back into his thoughts.

“Whatever it is, it’s going to happen soon, isn’t it,” Rudolph said.

McGarvey looked up, another piece of the puzzle suddenly falling into place. “That’s it.”

“What is?”

“They have a time table,” McGarvey said. “All we have to do is find it.”

SIXTEEN

Kondo checked the plain gray government vans to make sure that nothing was missing. They’d brought them inside with Sandy Patterson’s blue Toyota van and loaded them last night. Then everyone had spent the night resting. After this operation there would be others, of course, but nothing would ever have the same urgency and flavor as this, because Japan would no longer have to hang her head in shame for something that had happened more than a half-century ago. India with her large navy and nuclear arsenal, China with her vast population and even ridiculous North Korea with her nuclear weapons, the triggers of which were held by a rabid madman, would no longer threaten the home islands. Japan would, at long last, take her rightful place in the eastern hemisphere, and no power on earth could resist her. It was a heady feeling. Melodramatic, but it had symmetry. The U.S. would be the dominant superpower in the West, and Nippon the new superpower in the East. Nothing on earth could stop them now.

This morning the team was in a subdued mood as they checked and rechecked their weapons, night-vision oculars, radios and other equipment.

Kajiyama came back from the front of the warehouse. He was dressed, as the others were, in street clothes. They wouldn’t change into their all-black uniforms until nightfall and time for deployment. “It’s ten o’clock. Time to head out.”

“Is everybody ready?”

“Hai,” Kajiyama said. His mood was bright, full of nervous energy. He glanced up toward the offices on the second floor. “What about the woman?”

Kondo followed his gaze. “Has she made all the final arrangements?”

“So far as I know, she has.”

“I’ll check with her.”

Kajiyama looked at him. “And then what, Kondo-san?”

“Get the men aboard the vans and pick up the boat at Riverview. We’ll rendezvous up river at Barton at five.”

“Is she coming with us, or with you?”

“Neither,” Kondo said.

“Kill her now,” Kajiyama said simply, and he went to gather the men as Kondo went upstairs.

Sandy Patterson was watching CNN on a small television in the manager’s office, where she’d slept last night. She looked up guiltily.

“Has there been anything about you or the Far East Trade Association?” Kondo asked.

“No,” she said, shaking her head. She looked like she was on the verge of cracking up. There were splotches of color on her forehead and high cheeks, and her lower lip quivered.

“Did you call this morning to make certain the boat is ready for us?” he asked calmly, gentling her like a trainer might do with a skittish horse.

“Yes, you have the slip number.”

“The helicopter pilot has his instructions?”

She nodded.

“The Bonanza pilot is ready for another sight-seeing tour?”

“He’s waiting for you at Woodmore.”

“Did you tell him that you would be coming along for the ride, the same as last time?”

Her eyes narrowed in surprise. “No. You told me that it’d be best if I stayed here until … afterward.”

“Very good,” Kondo said.

Rudolph’s speculation that whatever was going to happen would happen soon bothered McGarvey. Back at his office he started work on the daily intelligence report that Murphy would use to brief the President later in the day, but he couldn’t keep his mind on the paperwork. He told his secretary that he would be gone for a couple of hours and drove out to the safe house, calling ahead so that Isaacson’s people would be expecting him.

Nothing had changed out here. The weather remained beautiful, and the house and grounds looked like a summer camp or health spa. Idyllic, calm, peaceful. But he couldn’t shake the dark cloud that seemed to hang over him. It was a sixth sense of impending disaster that an Agency psychologist had once explained was nothing more than a highly developed and finely tuned subconscious awareness of everything and everybody around him.

He parked his Nissan Pathfinder in front, and like before an armed guard appeared from around the corner of the house.

“I won’t be long, so don’t bother putting it in the garage,” McGarvey told him.

The guard waved, then said something into a lapel mike and went back around the corner.

Paul Isaacson and Todd Van Buren were in the dining room operations center having a cup of coffee when McGarvey came in.

“How’s it going this morning?” he asked.

“Quiet,” Isaacson said. “How about you? Anything new?”

McGarvey cocked his head to listen to the sounds of the house. Music was playing somewhere, and he thought he could hear someone talking in the kitchen. Normal sounds. Nothing out of the ordinary, but he was spooked. Someone was walking over his grave.

“Nothing that makes any sense,” he said distantly.

“But you’ve got the feeling.”

McGarvey laid a copy of the photograph Rudolph had given him on the table. “His name is Bruce Kondo, and he’s here in Washington.”

Isaacson studied the picture and handed it to Van Buren. “Do we have anything on him?”

“He works for Joseph Lee, we’ve got that much. And it looks like Lee is working for MITI. But if he’s the same guy we have in our files, he was involved in the Yokosuka riots a couple of years ago, working for the same group that I came up against.”

“It’s a revenge thing?”

McGarvey shrugged. “Unknown. There were no photographs in our files, and the Bureau doesn’t have much on him either.”

“But they could have sent him after you,” Isaacson pressed.

“It’s possible,” McGarvey conceded. “But if it’s the same guy, he was involved in Tony Croft’s death. So we’re looking for some kind of connection.”

“Is this guy any good?” Van Buren asked.

“Another unknown.” McGarvey shook himself out of his funk “I just came out to see how Katy and Liz were doing, and to tell you to keep on your toes, because I think if something’s going to happen, it’ll go down pretty soon. Maybe in the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours.”

Isaacson had been studying him. “You’re worried.”

They went back together long enough that McGarvey wasn’t offended by the observation. “The Georgetown bomb was overkill. And if Kondo somehow drove Croft to suicide, he has finesse.”

“Quite a combination.”

“That it is,” McGarvey said. “Are they upstairs?”

“Yes, sir,” Van Buren said. “They went up to get ready for lunch. Will you be staying?”

“I have to get back,” McGarvey said. “I’ll see how they’re doing then get out of your hair.”

Isaacson got up and went out into the stairhall with him. “They’re as safe here as they would be anywhere else.”

It wasn’t very comforting, but McGarvey nodded. “I know,” he said. He went upstairs, knocked once and went in.

Kathleen, her hands on her hips, stood in the middle of the sitting room watching Elizabeth, who’d opened the window and was trying to pry open the latch that held the security shutter in place. The shutters on all the windows had been closed last night.

“Are you trying to escape?” McGarvey asked.

“They’re treating us like prisoners,” Elizabeth snapped crossly, a table knife on the latch. She grinned sheepishly. “Hi, Daddy.” She put the knife down, came over and gave her father a hug.

“If Paul wants the place buttoned up, leave it be, will you?”

Elizabeth nodded.

McGarvey gave Kathleen a hug. Dressed in a cream-colored skirt, matching blouse and flats, she looked as if she’d stepped out of the pages of Vogue.

“You look tired,” she said.

“I’m not an administrator, and if it wasn’t for some good people out there I’d go crazy,” McGarvey said, trying to keep it light, but it was obvious Katy saw through him.

She gave him a questioning look. “Are you okay?”

McGarvey hadn’t been quite sure what he was going to say to them, but he decided that no matter how bad the truth was, it was better than a lie. He’d been telling them lies for too long a time.

“I don’t think the situation will last much longer,” he said to both of them. A look of concern crossed Kathleen’s face, but Liz lit up.

“Good,” she said viciously. “I want to get it over with.”

“What is it, Kirk?” Katy asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe nothing, but I’ve got a feeling that whatever they’ve planned is going to happen within the next day or two, so I want both of you to keep your heads down and listen to what Paul tells you.” McGarvey motioned to the window. “That means no screwing around with the security measures.”

Kathleen studied his face. “Are you going to be all right, Kirk?”

“If I don’t have to worry about you two.”

“I’ll behave,” Elizabeth promised.

On the way back to Langley, McGarvey’s cell phone chirped. It was Rencke and he sounded completely strung out.

“Oh, boy, Mac, you gotta get down here right now!”

“Have you found something?”

“The whole enchilada. Or at least the first course, and it’s a pisser!”

“I’m on my way.”

“Mac?” Rencke said, his tone suddenly guarded.

“Yeah?”

“Watch yourself. Really watch yourself this time.”

On the second pass, McGarvey’s gray Nissan SUV was gone, and at first Kondo thought that it had been put in the garage. But then he spotted it on the river road heading south toward Interstate 495.

“I’ve seen enough,” he told the Capital City Aviation pilot. “We can head back to Woodmore now.”

“Did you want to try the other side of the city, sir?”

“Next week,” Kondo said pleasantly.

McGarvey had come out to check on his wife and daughter this morning, which might mean he would be back this evening. It would be perfect, because they could make a clean kill and get out of the country without having to do a kidnapping, which was always more risky than an assassination. But they were running out of time and options, and McGarvey had to be stopped. Once they had the women, they would lure McGarvey to an isolated spot and kill them all. Not elegant, but it would work.

Catching a last glimpse of the safe house as the pilot banked to the southeast, he was bothered that the security team down there had shuttered all the windows in the house. That fact, along with McGarvey’s visit this morning, meant they were expecting trouble. Had there been a leak from Sandy Patterson’s office, he wondered? If so, it was too late now to find out. And too late to change their plans.

The operation would happen tonight, and Kondo found that he was truly looking forward to the challenge. He’d read McGarvey’s file and was struck by the obvious exaggerations in it. No man, he decided, could be that good.

Weekday traffic was a bitch on I-95, so it was after 2:00 P.M. by the time McGarvey reached the CIA’s Central Archives on the military reservation. The small parking lot in front of the two-story concrete block administration building was full, and security procedures were tougher than they were at night. But he was the DDO and was admitted to the elevators without delay, reaching the main floor of the storage vault eight hundred feet underground a few minutes later.

Rencke was not waiting for him this time, so after he signed in, a nervous air force staff sergeant drove him back to the map room.

“Sir, my supervisor, Captain Parker, asked if you could have a word with Mr. Rencke.”

“Has he made a mess of the files?”

“Yes, sir, but that’s not the problem. He’s pretty well locked down our mainframe. We have work to do here, but he’s somehow restricted our access to the system.”

“I’ll talk to him,” McGarvey promised. “But he’s just about done with his project. And it’s top priority right now.”

“Yes, sir,” the sergeant said.

Rencke, his sneakers off, lay flat on his back on top of the files, computer printouts and photographs strewn on the-long map table. His arms were crossed on his chest, and his eyes were open, staring up at the fluorescent lights and acoustical tile ceiling. For a split second McGarvey thought he was dead, but then Rencke turned his head.

“Mac,” he croaked, his voice harsh, as if he had a bad cold.

“Are you okay?”

Rencke shook his head. “No.” He sat up, crossed his legs and ran his fingers through his totally out-of-control hair. He shook his head again. “And neither are you … going to be okay, you know. It’s lavender. Oh, boy, really deep shit lavender, you know?”

McGarvey made his decision. “Come on, I’m getting you out of here. You look like shit, and you need a shower, something decent to eat and some sleep.”

“Now that I’ve finally hit pay dirt you want to fire me?”

McGarvey took him by the arm and helped him down off the table. “You can tell me on the way back to my apartment. Now what the hell did you do with your shoes?”

“No, Mac, it’s not done,” Rencke cried desperately, clutching at McGarvey. “This is big shit, the biggest, you know. None of us is safe now. Pandora’s box. Open it and all the shit is going to come out. Except hope. That’s it, hope.”

McGarvey had never seen him so agitated, so strung out, even frightened. “In English, Otto, I’m not following you.”

“Well, follow this,” he started viciously. “You’re not going to be safe in your ivory tower at Langley, nor are Mrs. M. and Liz no matter where you stash them. I don’t even think I could run and hide this time even if I wanted to.”

“What are you talking about?”

Rencke pushed McGarvey aside and rummaged through the files on the table, coming up with a photograph of a young man, possibly in his midtwenties wearing a tattered Oxford sweatshirt. His hair was down around his shoulders, and he wore a full beard.

“Recognize him?” Rencke asked.

The eyes were familiar, but McGarvey couldn’t place him. He shook his head.

“He was the kid you pulled off the wall in Berlin. The one who was so pissed off.”

“Who is he?”

“Wait,” Rencke said. He found a thick bundle of files, brought them around to where McGarvey stood and slapped them down on the table. “Santiago, Chile. Remember that operation? All here in living black and white.” His lips twisted into a snarl. “Correction, Kemosabe, almost all here.”

McGarvey didn’t have to look through the records. Santiago had been his last official assignment for the CIA. He’d been sent to the Chilean capital to assassinate a general who’d been responsible for the deaths of hundreds, if not thousands of people. It was the last of the Carter days in which the Agency had its guts torn out by an idealistic President who saw evil lurking everywhere.

The assassination had been called off. It wasn’t in the national interests. But it had been too late to reach McGarvey because by then he’d already gone to ground in Santiago, and three days later he had taken the general out. When he returned home, the Agency fired him and Kathleen had kicked him out.

Bad times, he thought, reliving those years in his mind. He’d run to Switzerland, where he’d hidden until the Company came to him for the first of several freelance assignments, but by then he’d lost everything that was dear to him.

“You remember it?” Rencke pressed.

“Yes I do.”

“The Senate Subcommittee on Central Intelligence had oversight duties in those days. The administration could fart in the wind all it wanted to, but the subcommittee held the real power. It was the committee who axed the hit, and it was the committee that—” Rencke picked up a document. “And I’m quoting now: ‘It will be the committee’s responsibility to advise the director of Central Intelligence on all matters before it.’” Rencke looked up. “‘In a timely manner.’”

“I’d already gone deep by then.”

“Wrong answer, recruit,” Rencke said. “The decision to call you off was made two days before you made your final call to the Santiago COS.” Rencke’s eyes were bright. “Somebody dragged their feet until they knew for certain that you would be unreachable.”

“Darby Yarnell,” McGarvey said.

“He was one of the senators on the committee. The one you thought screwed you. But he wasn’t given the assignment to notify Langley. It was someone else. A junior senator. And I’ll give you three guesses who it was, but the first two don’t count.”

McGarvey glanced at the picture of the young man with the Oxford sweatshirt. “Him?”

“Bingo,” Rencke hooted. “One and the same. Rhodes scholar in those days. Came home, went into politics in a big way. Oklahoma state representative, U.S. representative, then U.S. senator.”

McGarvey supposed he’d somehow known in the back of his mind since after Georgetown. It was one of the reasons for his increasing unease. “You have to believe in something,” his father had told him. “Or else you’ll have nothing, you’ll never get anywhere and you’ll never be anything.”

He shook his head. “No guessing, Otto.”

Rencke pulled out another file folder, slapped it on top of the Santiago file and opened it to an eight-by-ten glossy photograph.

“Shit,” McGarvey said softly, still wanting to deny what he finally knew the truth to be. “Revenge? All those years since Germany, and he went that far just to get back at me?”

“Okay, so maybe he was manipulated into it,” Rencke said, though it was clear he didn’t buy that theory. “But records wouldn’t show anything like that. And most of the guys on the subcommittee are either dead or doddering old idiots somewhere.” He glanced at the photograph. “Our guy was the junior member on the committee. One, of the youngest senators ever to be elected.”

“No.”

“You’d better believe it, Mac, or else come up with another plausible explanation, because your life depends on what you do next. So do the lives of Mrs. M. and Liz.”

“Is that why you’ve locked down the mainframe here?” McGarvey asked. “You didn’t want anyone to know?”

Rencke nodded diffidently. “The President of the United States, James Lindsay, has sold us out to the Japanese — for political expediency to keep the peace out there, or for whatever reason — with help from Joseph Lee, who funneled money into the White House through the Far East Trade Association, and with the help of Tony Croft, his adviser on foreign affairs, who passed information back to Lee and therefore the Japanese. At the very least he’s a traitor—”

“A fool,” McGarvey broke in. “Not a traitor.”

Rencke inclined his head. “A fool, then. And a murderer.”

“The White House went along with my appointment,” McGarvey said, trying to find fault with Rencke’s insane conclusions.

“He was damned if he supported you and damned if he didn’t,” Rencke said. “Think it out, Mac. Murphy put you up for the job. If the White House hadn’t gone along with it, questions would have been asked. And someone might have discovered what I did. But if he did get behind your nomination, he had to know that you might go looking.” Rencke shrugged. “So they tried to kill you.”

“Not Lindsay.”

“Maybe not him. But Croft knew the score, and he passed the concern over to Joseph Lee. It was probably one of the reasons Croft killed himself. He knew that once this all came out he’d be the one left holding the bag. And I’m sure that Lee’s people made that perfectly clear.”

“Have you been in the FBI’s system?”

“From the start, so I know all about Judith Kline and Bruce Kondo and Sandy Patterson. The only thing I haven’t nailed down yet is who it is over there leaking shit onto their public access Website. But I’ve got the list narrowed down to a half-dozen guys, all of them Tony Croft’s pals.”

“Why?” McGarvey said.

“It has something to do with the Japanese, that’s a pretty safe assumption,” Rencke said. “And it takes no leap of faith to figure out the nuclear explosion at Kimch’aek means something. A lot of other people think so too, because Lindsay has sent the Seventh Fleet into the fray.”

McGarvey looked at him with a mixture of pride and pity. Rencke was too smart for normal society. He saw things differently than everyone else. Left on his own he would eventually self-destruct, and that would be a terrible waste of a very good man.

“You don’t do anything by halves,” McGarvey said.

Rencke grinned. “I never thought you wanted me to.”

“Let’s find your shoes, then clean up this mess. You’re coming back to Langley with me. For the time being you’re going to bunk out there.”

Rencke clutched McGarvey’s sleeve. “Something else is going on, Mac. Something very big. Deeper than lavender.” He shook his head. “I just can’t see it yet.” He was frustrated.

“We’ll work it out together, my friend. You and me. One step at a time.”

Otto’s grin spread into a smile, and he hopped from one foot to the other. “Oh, boy.”

“What the hell are you doing out here?” Todd Van Buren said.

Elizabeth, who had been going stir crazy, had slipped out to the front veranda to have a cigarette while no one was looking. She didn’t bother turning. “Smoking, what does it look like?”

“Well, you’re coming back inside.”

“When I’m finished.”

“Now,” Van Buren insisted.

Elizabeth turned languidly to him, and took a deep drag on her cigarette. Her pistol was stuffed in the waistband of her jeans, and she felt in control except for the look of exasperation and worry on Van Buren’s face. She realized all at once that he was frightened, and he was using anger to hide it. She softened.

“Sorry,” she said. She tossed her cigarette away. “It’s just that I’m going crazy being cooped up. It’s not what I was trained for.”

Van Buren softened too. “I know,” he said. “It’s getting to all of us. But you just got out of the hospital, and you’ve got to take it easy.” He grinned. “Besides, I don’t want to cross your dad.”

She smiled back. “Not a good idea.” He really did have a nice smile, she thought. And she loved his butt. She let her eyes take a last sweep of the lawn that led to the woods lining the driveway, then went back inside with him.

The forty-five-foot Bertram fly-bridge trawler, Just-N-Time, with its large afterdeck, pulled up at the public dock at precisely 5:00 P.M. Kondo, who’d parked the government sedan out of the way behind the marina, stepped aboard and went below as the commando up on the bridge pulled away. Only two other men were on deck handling the lines, the others were out of sight in the crowded main cabin.

Kajiyama was seated at the table in the main saloon, a chart of the Potomac River spared out in front of him. “Any last-minute changes, Kondo-san?”

“McGarvey was out there, but he left,” Kondo said.

“He might come back tonight.”

“That’s what I thought,” Kondo said. Barton was only four miles downriver from Cropley. “Let’s head upriver, to about White’s Ferry, and then take our time coming back. We’ll hit them sometime after ten.”

“Did you see anything else interesting up there?” Kajiyama asked.

“They’ve secured the storm shutters on the windows.”

“Then they’re expecting trouble.”

“So it would seem,” Kondo said, and he searched Kajiyama’s eyes for any sign of apprehension, but he found nothing other than anticipation. It was the same with all of them. Good men, he thought.

“Did you kill the woman?”

Kondo shook his head. “No. We might need her. We’ll see.”

McGarvey walked into his office a few minutes before five-thirty. They’d left Rencke’s car at Archives after retrieving his knapsack with a change of clothes and a few personal items. For the time being he would be staying here, where he could continue working and still remain out of harm’s way.

Ms. Swanfeld looked up from a letter she was typing, then did a double take when she saw who McGarvey had brought with him.

“I’d like you to meet a friend of mine, Otto Rencke,” McGarvey said. “Otto, this is my secretary, Ms. Swanfeld.”

“Oh, boy,” Rencke said wiping his hands on his trousers. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Mr. Rencke,” she said. “Your reputation has preceded you.”

“Otto’s going to be bunking here for the next couple of days. If you’re up for some overtime, we need to get him cleaned up and fed, then set up with an office on this floor and a place to get some sleep.”

“Very well,” Ms. Swanfeld said. “In the meantime Mr. Murphy wanted to see you the moment you came back. But Mr. Adkins would like to have a word with you first.”

“Okay, tell Dick to come right over. And as soon as you get Otto settled in, I have some work for you. Might be an all-nighter.”

She smiled faintly. “If you’re going back out, you’ll be needing a shave and a fresh shirt,” she said. “I’ve laid your things out for you.” She phoned Adkins’s office then got up and motioned for Rencke to come with her. “Actually I’ve been expecting you for some time now, Mr. Rencke,” she said. “In fact I think we may even be able to find you some Twinkies in the executive dining room, though how anyone could subsist on such things is beyond me.”

“Oh, boy,” Otto said, grinning on the way out the door.

Elizabeth stood at the open window, the security shutters partially ajar, looking out toward the woods across the long lawn. She was jumpy, and she didn’t know why. It was more than boredom or claustrophobia, but she was unreasonably bitchy and she knew it.

“Todd will go through the roof if he sees you like that,” Kathleen said.

Liz held back a sharp retort. “I’ll close it when it gets dark,” she said instead. “Right now the fresh air feels good.”

Kathleen came over and placed the back of her hand on her daughter’s cheek. “You’re a little warm. Do you feel sick?”

“I’m fine, Mother.”

Kathleen looked critically at her. “No, you’re not. I’ve seen that same expression on your father’s face just before something was about to happen.”

“I don’t know what it is,” Elizabeth said, glancing out the window.

“Your period?”

Elizabeth shook her head. “I’m so nervous I’m shaking.”

“Maybe we should say something to Paul.”

Again Elizabeth shook her head. She turned back to her mother. “What Daddy said this afternoon just got me thinking, that’s all. It’s my overactive imagination.”

“Maybe,” Kathleen said after a beat. “But I think we’ll mention it to Paul at dinner tonight. After all, you are your father’s daughter.”

SEVENTEEN

McGarvey had finished shaving and was putting on a fresh shirt in the bathroom when Dick Adkins walked into his office with a thick bundle of files and a sour expression on his square face.

“You missed the intelligence board meeting this afternoon and Murphy wanted to know where you were,” Adkins said, laying the files on his desk.

McGarvey was sorry Adkins had to take the heat for him, but it couldn’t have been helped. “What’d you tell him?” he asked, knotting his tie in front of the mirror. The worry lines around his eyes and mouth were pronounced, and he felt like shit mentally.

“I told him that you were running down a couple of leads and you sent me instead. Where were you?”

“Running down a couple of leads,” McGarvey said, sitting at his desk. The first two thick files contained the National Intelligence Estimate and Watch Report. Adkins had done the lion’s share of the work, and he felt bad about treating the man this way.

“Look, you’re the DDO, but if you want me to act as your chief of staff, you’re going to have to let me know what the hell is going on.”

McGarvey motioned for Adkins to have a seat. “You’re right, Dick, and I’m sorry it has to be this way. But this time I’m going to have to keep you out of the loop.”

Adkins started to object, but McGarvey held him off.

“I told you right from the start that there’d be no lies, no bullshit, no hiding anything between us, and I meant it. Neither of us can do our jobs very well any other way. I’m not running a Howard Ryan shop here. But this time you’re better off not knowing, because the axe is going to come down on every exposed neck in the building.”

“Okay,” Adkins said. “You’re up to speed here, and except for the routine crap, which anyone can handle for you, there’s nothing more I can accomplish. You’ll have my resignation on your desk within the hour.”

“I won’t accept it.”

Adkins shook his head in irritation. “Not much you can do if I simply walk out the door.”

McGarvey’s private line rang. It was Murphy, and he sounded mad.

“You’re back.”

“About twenty minutes ago,” McGarvey said.

“Has Dick briefed you?”

“He’s here now.”

“I want to see you as soon as you’re finished. The President has pushed back his briefing to nine-thirty tonight, and he’s going to want some specific answers which I don’t have, at least not beyond the NIE and Watch Report.”

“I’ll be right over,” McGarvey said heavily. He was going to have to maneuver the DCI tonight, and in order to do that he was going to have to lie to his boss.

Adkins had risen to go, and when McGarvey hung up he motioned for the chief of staff to sit back down.

“I don’t have all the answers, Dick.”

“I’m not asking to be protected, Mac. Nobody here is. We’ve got jobs to do, and as you like to say, we can’t do them by shitting the troops.”

It was a fault he’d fought all of his life, McGarvey thought morosely. Not stepping up to his commitments under the guise of keeping his people out of harm’s way. He despised that trait in other people, probably because he recognized the failing in himself. He wasn’t a team player, he’d told himself. Which in itself was a load of crap. He’d never worked completely alone, despite what he kept telling himself. And he couldn’t work alone now. The fact was he needed Adkins here running the DO, just as much as he needed Rencke’s skills, and just as much as he needed his daughter’s love and his ex-wife’s respect and understanding.

“Otto’s been digging through the files and he’s come up with connections between the bombing in Georgetown, an outfit called the Far East Trade Association, Joseph Lee, the Japanese Ministry of International Trade and Industry, the zaibatsu that brought down all those airliners a couple of years ago and Tony Croft.”

“The White House,” Adkins said softly, as if he were afraid of being overheard.

McGarvey nodded, but kept his silence. He wanted to see if Adkins would head toward the same conclusions Otto had.

“None of this might have come to light if you hadn’t taken the DDO.”

“That’s right.”

“But there’s more, isn’t there,” Adkins said. “Something to do with the incident in North Korea and the situation in the Sea of Japan.”

“I think so.”

Something else suddenly occurred to Adkins and his eyes widened slightly. “Tony Croft was feeding information to Lee.” Now he looked frightened and angry. “What else, Mac? Are you saying it goes further?”

McGarvey took a moment to answer. Once this mountain was crossed there was no easy way back. “This office is clean and the tape recorder is off, so whatever is said here stays here until I tell you otherwise.”

Adkins took his own time to reply, working out for himself the ramifications. “I won’t lie.”

“I’ll never ask you to do that,” McGarvey said. “But any report generated in the DO on this subject will not be released without my signature so long as I’m DDO.”

Adkins thought that out, then nodded.

“Very well,” McGarvey said, and he told Adkins what Rencke had discovered at Fort A.P. Hill.

Adkins was stunned. “Do you have any proof other than what Otto dug out?”

“No.”

“But you’re going to try to get it?”

“Tonight,” McGarvey said. “But that’s just half the problem, because I still don’t know what the connection is between all this and the explosion at Kimch’aek and the standoff between the Japanese and Chinese.”

“What’s the point, Mac? If Lindsay’s been bought and paid for by the Japanese — something I think is far-fetched — where’s this going? Certainly not a war between Japan and North Korea, or China. That’d be suicide. And you can’t honestly believe that the President is a traitor.”

“No, I don’t. At the worst I think he’s been influenced into giving Japan more leeway than he should. Something a notch above most-favored trading status. Maybe to buy them some time.”

“For what?”

McGarvey spread his hands. “I don’t know,” he said. “But I’m sure as hell going to try to find out, because I think whatever they’ve been waiting for is about to happen.”

Frank Ripley walked into the busy launch control center at 8:00 A.M. and felt the chill of angry indifference that had grown steadily over the past week. Nobody said hello or even looked at him as he went up to the console the Tiger team had been assigned for the launch. The shutters on the sloping glass wall facing the pad were open, sun streaming into the five-tiered room that was practically the twin of launch control at the Cape. In the distance the H2C rocket was sheathed in its prelaunch gantry, and even at three miles he could see a great deal of activity out there.

Before the mood had drastically changed he and the others had been besieged by the staff for words of wisdom and advice. Most of his team had been in space, and when they’d first gotten here they’d been treated like heroes. Ripley wasn’t overly sensitive. He was an engineer used to dealing in hard facts. He could get lost in the technical problems of the moment. But he was a highly experienced astronaut whose knowledge could be useful to them if they wouldn’t shut him out.

He sat down, powered up his console and put on his headset. The launch clock between the two main status boards was stopped at forty-eight hours. It was a critical point in the prelaunch sequence at which all systems were run through a second-to-final diagnostic test. Once they were assured that everything here in launch control, out on the rocket and at the six monitoring stations around the Earth was nominal, no glitches, no problems with equipment, weather or personnel, the clock would start again.

From this moment on, Ripley was expected to monitor launch preparations but not offer any advice unless asked, or unless he spotted a possibly important anomaly. He had a job to do, despite the chilly mood, and he set about to do it.

McGarvey had to remind himself why he was withholding vital information from the DCI. Sitting across the desk from Murphy, he was struck by the enormity of the situation he’d been pushed into. Wars had started with a lot less provocation than the Japanese had provided the North Koreans. At this point it came down to his ego, his understanding of an explosive situation that would almost certainly be at odds with Murphy’s perceptions and his own willingness to do what he thought was the right thing.

Everything he knew led to the White House, he had to keep telling himself; Lee, Croft, the decision to send the Seventh Fleet into the Sea of Japan. And he was setting himself up to make an action that was nothing short of a challenge to the Constitution. The thought frightened him more than anything he’d ever faced in his life. He’d felt like this when he’d been led to believe that his parents had been spies for the Russians. But this was even worse.

“How are you doing, Mac?” Murphy asked, his face a mask. He was holding his anger in check.

“I may not be the man for this job, General. But as long as I have it I’ll do my best.”

“I’ve heard no complaints except from Archives.”

“I pulled Otto out of there this afternoon. In fact he’s going to stay here in the building until we’re finished with his operation.”

“Did he turn up anything?” Murphy asked patiently, as if he were trying to drag the answers from a reluctant student.

“He found out that Joseph Lee was pumping a lot of money into the President’s election fund, along with the funds of a half-dozen senators and a bunch of congressmen. That’s for starts. And he found out that Tony Croft was passing information back to Lee.”

This part was news to Murphy, and his eyebrows rose. “What kind of information?”

McGarvey had to be careful now. “White House policy on the Japanese. Lee was probably working for or with MITI. But we’re still looking into that part.”

Murphy’s jaw tightened. “Are you telling me that Lee was buying information? Croft was a spy for the Japanese government?”

McGarvey nodded. “It’s probably why he committed suicide. He couldn’t see a way out because of what’s happening over there now. Sooner or later someone would have started to ask the wrong questions.”

“Like you,” Murphy said.

“Yeah, like me.”

“You were in Croft’s way, so he had Lee arrange for your assassination, and they didn’t care how many people they killed doing it.”

“That’s a possibility we can’t ignore, General,” McGarvey said. “And since I’m still in the middle of it, I’d like to come with you tonight.”

Murphy took a moment to answer. “Croft is dead, so there’s no reason now for them to come after you.”

“Unless Lee is somehow involved in what’s going on between Japan and North Korea. He might think that I’m coming after him. Which I am. I’d like to step the pressure up a notch.”

“What are we getting from our Japanese networks?”

“Nothing. They’re all closed down, either arrested or gone to ground, so we just don’t have those answers yet. But the Japanese are making a concerted effort to keep a lid on what they’re up to.”

“War?” Murphy asked. “Are they actually going to try to invade North Korea?”

“They’d be justified,” McGarvey said. “But I just don’t know yet.”

Murphy eyed him skeptically. “What’s Otto working on now?”

“He’s still trying to nail down a link between Lee and the Koreans.”

“Why do you want to see the President tonight?” Murphy asked directly.

“Somebody has to tell him about Croft,” McGarvey answered without flinching. Murphy wanted to ask the next question: Is Lindsay himself under suspicion? McGarvey could see it in his eyes. But he did not.

“The briefing has been pushed back again. This time to ten o’clock. It’ll give you time for a final update to the NIE and Watch Report. There’ve been some new developments in the Sea of Japan that he has to deal with now because the Seventh Fleet is going to be in position soon, and nobody knows what’s going to happen when they get there.”

“I’ll be ready by nine-thirty,” McGarvey said

“I don’t like surprises, Mac,” Murphy said. “If you and Otto come up with something I want to know about it first.”

“You’re the boss.”

It was still a full hour before nightfall as the Bertram trawler turned back downriver below White’s Ferry. The lone man on deck was still in civilian clothes, and he kept up a running commentary on the intercom. River traffic was beginning to thin out. By nightfall there would be very few boats out and about. Even so they would have to be careful not to be observed when they launched.

Kondo and the others below had already changed into their black night-fighter jumpsuits, and he supervised the final preparations. Weapons, radios, night-vision oculars and black paraglider chutes. One man would remain aboard the trawler to drag them into the air on a long cable and then would ground the boat on the riverbank just below the safe house, where he would take up a defensive rear position near the driveway to warn if they had unexpected company. At the correct time he would meet up with them at the helicopter’s landing zone.

Kondo looked out a window. The countryside was really quite pretty here, he thought.

When Elizabeth McGarvey came downstairs, her mother was in the corridor by the front door in deep discussion with Paul Isaacson and one of the outside guards, whose name she couldn’t recall. She was famished, and now a little annoyed that she wasn’t being included in whatever they were talking about.

“Am I interrupting anything?” she asked peevishly, reaching the bottom of the stairs. They looked up.

“I was just about to come get you for dinner,” Kathleen said. “Are you feeling any better now?”

“I’m fine,” she snapped. “What’s going on?”

“Your mother says that you’re getting jumpy,” Isaacson said. “But there’s no reason for it. You know the setup here; everything is covered. There’s no way for anybody to get to you short of mounting an all-out invasion.”

Liz glanced at the other man. His name was Stuart, she thought. He was an instructor at the Farm. “Maybe that’s what they’ll do.”

“We’re ready for them,” Stuart said with a confidence she didn’t share.

Todd Van Buren appeared at the kitchen door. “Soup’s on,” he announced.

“I had one of my people run the path, and we had him on he monitors before he got ten yards,” Isaacson said. “If someone tries to get in we’ll know about it. And if need be we’ll call in reinforcements. The Maryland Highway Patrol knows what’s going on out here, and they’ve agreed to come running if we need them.”

“What about the river?” Liz asked.

“That’s more than a mile away. Anyway, they’d still have to cross our perimeter motion detectors to get to the house. So no matter what, we’ll find out they’re coming long before they get within firing range.”

Kathleen laid a hand on her daughter’s arm. “You see, Elizabeth, we’re safe here until your father straightens out this ness,” she said. “How about something to eat? You must be starved.”

Elizabeth looked at her watch. It was already 9:30 P.M. and dark outside. “Sure,” she said, not really very hungry suddenly.

‘You didn’t tell him,” Dick Adkins accused.

“He wouldn’t have let me get within a hundred yards of the White House if I had,” McGarvey admitted. “But if Lindsay s involved in whatever the Japanese are up to, he’ll have to think that I know something about it when I show up for the briefing.” McGarvey pointed to the leather-bound folder. “I put in the stuff about the incidents in Germany and Santiago. If nothing else that’ll send him a message he can’t ignore.”

Rencke had finally fallen asleep, practically on his feet, and hey’d left him and come back to McGarvey’s office where Ms. Swanfeld had put the finishing touches on the briefing.

“Murphy will cut you off at the knees when he finds out what you’re trying to do,” Adkins warned. “What if you lay his on Lindsay’s lap and he doesn’t flinch?”

“I don’t think Lindsay’s a traitor, nor do I think he ordered he Georgetown bombing. He probably doesn’t even know what he’s doing for Japan. He was manipulated from the start, ust like a lot of presidents before him.”

“If that’s the case, ordering the Seventh Fleet into the fray has to be exactly what the Japanese want. But why?” Adkins shook his head. “North Korea probably asked the Chinese for help, so no surprise there. Nor was it very surprising that the Japanese knocked off one of their submarines. They started the fight, so why back us into a corner where the only thing we can do is send our navy right back into the middle of it?”

“In the first place it’s emptied Tokyo Bay. We don’t have much of anything there now.”

“That’s a thought,” Adkins said, a sour look on his face.

“And secondly it’s got our attention squarely focused on the Sea of Japan.” McGarvey shrugged. “Maybe that’s where they want us looking so that they can pull off something else.” The thought was there again niggling at the back of McGarvey’s mind. Something he should know, some connection he should be making. One of those ideas that surprised you because of its simplicity. But he wasn’t seeing it.

Kondo, Kajiyama and five commandos were in the water, strung out for 150 yards behind the Bertram. It was finally dark, but very few stars were visible because of the glow from Washington’s lights. The commando on the fly bridge could not see the men because of their black outfits and blackened faces. But one by one they sent one click on their walkie-talkies, which meant they were lined up and properly connected to the tow cable. When he counted the seventh click, he scanned the river both ways to make sure there was no traffic, then shoved the throttle levers forward to their stops. At first the boat struggled against the dead weight in the water, but then as the seven men became airborne on their paraglider chutes, the Bertram surged ahead. Looking back he could make out only vague forms rising into the night sky. They could have been anything, perhaps a flock of birds, harmless.

McGarvey rode with Murphy in the DCI’s limousine, the bodyguard riding in front with the driver. Thursday night traffic was moderate, a lot lighter than it was during the day. A few clouds had come in, but there was almost no wind, and a thick haze of humidity had settled over the city.

“Was there anything new in the AMs from Tokyo station?” Murphy asked.

“No. The entire country has closed down. Nobody’s talking,” McGarvey replied.

Murphy tapped his briefcase in which he carried the briefing folder. “I didn’t get a chance to go through the new material. Anything I should know about?”

“It’s mostly deep background. Tony Croft had apparently been seeing the call girl for about six months. Started about the same time Joseph Lee came to Sam Blair’s attention. The poor bastard.”

Murphy gave him a wry look. “Who’s a poor bastard, Croft or Blair?”

McGarvey had to smile. “Both of them.”

Murphy didn’t pursue the thought, leaving McGarvey to his self-doubts and his increasingly uneasy feeling that something very bad was going to happen.

Elizabeth slipped down the back stairs and went outside to the rear patio. The pool lights were out, and with the windows shuttered and the lights in her room off, the grounds were pitch black.

The flare from her cigarette lighter destroyed her night vision for a minute or so, and until her eyes adjusted she instinctively stepped back under the roof overhang. It was like being temporarily blind, and she didn’t like it.

She cupped her cigarette, conscious that out here in the darkness, she stood out like a beacon. She shivered. “Impatience is eventually going to get you in trouble.” She could practically hear her father telling her something like that. But she simply couldn’t stay inside doing nothing. At least out here she was another pair of eyes watching for an attack.

Kondo’s night-vision oculars adjusted for the sudden light bloom at the rear of the house, but it had taken him by surprise, and he was momentarily disoriented. It took several precious seconds for him to straighten out his flight path and angle once again toward a small open landing area that would put ten meters of woods between him and the four guards he’d spotted on the way in.

They were at their most vulnerable now, coming in silently 150 feet above the woods behind the house. If one of the guards on the ground was equipped with night-vision equipment and happened to look up, the operation would be over before it began. But so far their luck seemed to be holding.

Just before he dropped below the tree line, he glanced back toward the pool area. A lone figure stood beneath the overhang, something glowing in its left hand. The figure raised a hand to its face, and the glow intensified in Kondo’s oculars. The stupid fool was smoking a cigarette, Kondo realized in amazement, then he was down and gathering his chute as the two commandos with him touched down soundlessly.

Kondo directed them with hand signals. They moved swiftly to the edge of the woods, and immediately he spotted one guard leaning against a tree less than ten meters to his left. He clicked his comms unit once.

Within five seconds his two commandos, plus Kajiyama and his force of three men in the woods in front of the house, reported in with a total of another eleven clicks. In all they’d spotted twelve guards.

Now they would wait patiently until Kondo sent the tone signal which meant attack. But first he would allow time for the situation to stabilize in case they’d been spotted coming in. And he wanted to get a little closer to see who was smoking at the back door.

McGarvey entered the Oval Office with Murphy at precisely 10:00 P.M. The President and his national security adviser, Harold Secor, were seated across from each other in easy chairs, and McGarvey saw the brief look of irritation in Lindsay’s eyes replaced almost instantly with the President’s famous boyish grin. The President looked tired, McGarvey thought, as well he should considering everything that was happening.

“Good evening, Mr. President,” Murphy said. “Mr. McGarvey will conduct the briefing tonight, because at the moment he has more of the answers than the rest of us.”

“Very well,” Lindsay said. “Let’s get started.”

Mindful that there were armed guards out ahead and on either side of him, Kondo crawled slowly beneath some scrub brush. His two men were waiting in the darkness behind him for the signal to attack, as were the others. They would wait, he knew, without moving until hell froze over if need be. Their training and discipline were nothing less than magnificent.

He moved his head slowly to the left in time to see his targeted man speak into a lapel mike. Seconds later the guard stepped around the tree and urinated.

Kondo waited until the guard was finished and had moved back into position before he turned his attention to the lone figure still standing at the back door.

He could tell that it was a woman from her slight figure, but he was completely surprised when she turned and looked in his general direction, giving him a full view of her face. She was Elizabeth McGarvey. The foolish woman had come outside. They knew something might happen, otherwise they wouldn’t have taken the precautions they had: the guards, the shutters, the blackout. Yet they’d let McGarvey’s daughter step outside and light a cigarette.

“Amazing,” Kondo murmured.

McGarvey did not dwell on the military situation in the Sea of Japan or on the Japanese mainland, because the President was getting that information directly from his military advisers.

The leather-bound briefing folder was on the coffee table in front of Lindsay, but he hadn’t opened it yet.

“I don’t have very good news for you, Mr. President,” McGarvey said.

“I wasn’t expecting any,” Lindsay shot back. “But I don’t want to hear a lot of speculation. Won’t do me any good. What I need are hard facts.”

“Yes, sir,” McGarvey replied. “Fact: Tony Croft committed suicide because he thought he had no other option. He was selling White House policy information to Joseph Lee for a considerable amount of cash that wound up in your campaign fund, and he knew that he was about to be found out.”

The President went pale with anger, and Secor started to object, but he held his national security adviser off. “I’ve known and trusted both of those men for a long time. Tony was a close friend, and Joseph Lee still is. So you’d goddamned well better have some hard proof, Mr. McGarvey, or I’ll personally rip your fucking heart out.”

Secor and Murphy were both taken aback by the outburst, but McGarvey’s eyes never left the President’s.

“The money was funneled from Joseph Lee through the Far East Trade Association here in Washington. The FBI raided their offices last night and found money, documents and encrypted computer records showing payouts to your campaign manager though Croft, as well as to the campaign funds of a number of senators and congressmen.”

Lindsay didn’t blink, nor did he respond.

“In addition to the briefing Croft and his staff conducted for Lee here in the White House last week, the FBI also found documents and computer records in Far East’s files with Tony Croft’s name on them. We don’t know exactly how he passed them the information, except that the call girl he’d been having an affair with for the past six months had been supplied to him by Far East’s executive director, who the FBI have reason to believe once was Joseph Lee’s mistress in Hong Kong.”

“Is all of that included in the briefing?” Lindsay asked, glancing at the folder.

“Yes, sir.” McGarvey nodded. “Fact: Joseph Lee, who went to some trouble to go into hiding in Tokyo, works with or for the Japanese Ministry for International Trade and Industry. Whatever information he got from Croft went directly to them. It means the Japanese government has known about your policy toward it and region for at least the past six months.”

McGarvey could see connections and sudden understandings pop off behind Lindsay’s eyes.

“Those are the facts, Mr. President. The speculation is that Croft didn’t want me to become DDO because he thought, for some reason, that I would discover his nasty secret. So he asked Lee’s people to have me assassinated.”

“Pure fantasy,” Secor exploded.

“Since the Japanese knew your policies, they knew that you would send the Seventh Fleet into the region. It’s something they expected, and we have to assume it’s something they wanted.”

“Why?” the President demanded.

“That’s one answer I don’t even have a speculation for,” McGarvey admitted.

Kondo checked the safety catch on his long-barreled suppressed .22mm semiautomatic assault pistol to make certain it was ready to fire. He took aim on the guard by the tree, then reached up to his lapel mike with his free hand, hesitated a moment and sent the tone signal to start the attack.

Elizabeth was about ready to go back inside when she spotted one of Isaacson’s people beside a tree forty yards away. He was looking directly at her. She stepped out from beneath the overhang, waved and started around the pool. She wanted to have a few words with him, to see what he thought about all of this. She got ten feet when the guard seemed to take a couple of dance steps to the right and then crumpled to the ground.

For a split second she was confused, but suddenly she realized that he might have been shot. The attack they prepared for had just started.

“Ah, shit,” she said.

She pulled out her gun, thumbed the safety catch off and keeping low, darted to the left.

DGSE officer Albert Level thought he heard a movement behind him in the woods near the driveway. He stepped out of the deeper shadows beneath a tree, all of his senses heightened.

The setup here was okay as far as it went. But he wished they’d been equipped with night-vision equipment. Without it they were at a definite disadvantage.

He picked out his partner, Louis Maurois, about thirty meters away. Suddenly Louis fell forward, and before Level could react something very hot stung his neck, causing him an instantaneous wave of dizziness and nausea.

“Merde,” he swore falling back as a second bullet plowed into his shoulder.

He clawed for his M16 assault rifle slung over his shoulder as he dropped to the ground, arterial blood spurting from the neck wound. He keyed his lapel mike. “Control, we’re under attack,” he whispered urgently, remembering to speak in English. “Maurois is down, and I’m hit. We need help out here.”

“I’m calling for it now,” Isaacson came back immediately. “How many are there? And where the hell did they come from?”

“Je ne sais pas,” Level responded. “I don’t know.”

A figure dressed all in black appeared on his left, and before Level could bring his gun around to bear, a thunderclap exploded inside his head.

An angry Todd Van Buren was on his way downstairs, looking for Elizabeth, when he heard the distinctive pops of several M16 rifles on full automatic outside. It was as if a quart of adrenaline were suddenly pumped into his bloodstream. He bolted, drawing his.10 mm Colt as he ran.

“Liz?” he shouted. He raced into the kitchen past a horrified Kathleen McGarvey, Pat Dyer right behind him.

“Todd, stay away from the door,” Dyer shouted.

Van Buren ignored him. He tore open the kitchen door and barged outside.

Dyer switched off the kitchen lights behind him, and in the sudden darkness Van Buren couldn’t see a thing.

A short burst from an M16 came from the woods in front of the house at the same moment Van Buren spotted Liz crouched low on the far side of the pool. He took two steps forward when he was hit in the chest, and suddenly he was lying on his side, the patio tile cool on his cheek.

Van Buren was down behind her, and Elizabeth reacted in fury, firing five shots in rapid succession into the woods, hoping that any CIA officers left were well concealed.

Someone grunted like a pig, and there was another flurry of M16 fire from the front.

She raced around the end of the pool, firing two more shots over her shoulder into the woods. Whoever was still standing back there wasn’t returning her fire, but she refused to consider why, her concentration instead completely on Van Buren, who was struggling to sit up while firing into the woods.

There were twelve officers outside, and only Isaacson and Dyer inside now with Kathleen. Two others had gone back into town this evening because of personal problems, and Isaacson hadn’t considered it necessary to call for their replacements. It might have been a big mistake, Elizabeth had the fleeting thought as she hauled Van Buren to his feet.

“We have to get inside! Now!”

“What the hell were you doing out here again?” he demanded. He was in a great deal of pain, and the entire front of his shirt was drenched with blood. Elizabeth was frightened for him. He needed help.

Reaching the overhang Elizabeth fired two more shots into the woods, and the Walther’s ejector slide stopped in the open position. The gun was out of ammunition.

Jeff Stromquist didn’t dare use his radio. He lay on the ground behind a fallen tree about fifteen feet from where he’d been standing when the attack began. Two ghostly black figures seemed to float through the woods in front of him. They were looking for him, methodically searching the area where he’d been standing.

The attack had taken less than twenty seconds, though to Stromquist it seemed like it had lasted hours. He was almost out of ammunition himself, and in the past several seconds he’d not heard any other shots.

He had no idea how they’d gotten inside the perimeter, or how many of them there were. But they were here, and they were damned good. Too good. But McGarvey had warned them.

The only option now was that the women were secure in the basement vault until help came. With any luck he’d also be able to hold out.

He raised up a couple of inches so that he could get a better look over the log, and he came face-to-face with one of the black-clad figures towering over him less than five feet away. On instinct alone, Stromquist raised his M16 and fired the last six rounds in his magazine, cutting the terrorist down.

The second man came running.

“Fuck,” Stromquist shouted. He leaped up and swung the assault rifle like a club, three .22 caliber bullets plowing into his brain before he got halfway through the swing.

Elizabeth reached the back door and kicked it open. Van Buren was helping as much as he could, but he was having trouble making his legs work, and he was an impossible burden for her. She could feel the stitches in the wound under her left arm pulling open and the sticky wetness of blood running down her side.

Kathleen, her face white, her eyes wide, her mouth open, was suddenly there, and she grabbed Van Buren by the lapels and hauled him inside the kitchen with surprising strength.

Dyer shoved the three of them bodily aside and raised his pistol at the same moment a small hole appeared in his forehead and he fell backward, his eyes registering complete surprise.

“Pat,” Elizabeth shouted in desperation. She and Van Buren stumbled over Dyer’s body.

As they went down, Van Buren managed to pull free, swivel left and fire three shots outside before Kathleen finally slammed the door and rammed the deadbolt home.

Kajiyama and two of his commandos, one of them wounded but still able to fight, appeared out of the darkness in the woods opposite the rear of the house where Kondo and his remaining commando waited.

“We’re clear in the front,” Kajiyama said, out of breath. “But we have to abort the mission. I monitored two calls to the State Patrol. Help is on the way.”

“Where is your other man?” Kondo demanded. It was suddenly difficult to keep on track. Lee did not reward failure, especially not something like this so soon after Georgetown.

“He’s down, Kondo-san. We have to go.”

Kondo keyed his mike. “Skybird, lead one. What is your best ETA to the primary pickup zone?”

“Five minutes,” the pilot replied at once.

“Come now,” Kondo said. They no longer had the element of surprise, but they still had five minutes to accomplish the mission. He cocked his head and listened for a moment. He could hear no sirens yet. They had time.

“Kondo-san?” Kajiyama prompted.

“You and your two men will take the front door while we take the back.” He glanced at his watch. “Ninety seconds.”

Kajiyama hesitated only a moment, then nodded. “Hai,” he said.

“We’ve got incoming,” Isaacson shouted desperately from the front hall.

Elizabeth scooped up Pat Dyer’s pistol and with her mother’s help managed to drag Van Buren out of the kitchen, away from the attacking forces at the rear of the house.

“Get back,” Isaacson ordered them. “Go down to the vault. Help’s on its way.” The basement stairs were on the other side of the kitchen.

“They’re coming that way too,” Elizabeth replied, trying to keep her cool.

Isaacson took in their condition in a single glance, then nodded toward the stairs. “I’ll hold them off as long as I can. But the State Patrol is on its way.”

“We won’t leave you—” Elizabeth tried to argue.

“For Christ’s sake, Liz, follow an order for once in your life,” Isaacson said almost gently. “You’ve got to get your mother and Todd upstairs while you still have a chance to save them.” He snatched an M16 from where it was leaning against the wall and tossed it to her. It left him with only his pistol. “Go,” he said. “Now.”

Elizabeth was torn. For once she didn’t know what her father would do.

“Paul’s right,” Van Buren said weakly.

“Goddammit,” Elizabeth said. She took a last look at Isaacson, then she and her mother, Van Buren between them, started up the stairs.

Kondo saw the flash and heard the bang from the front of the house a moment before his grenade took out the kitchen door. He and his commando raced across the patio, keeping low. The problem was McGarvey’s daughter. She’d not only fought back when the attack started, but she’d risked her life to save the downed guard who’d come for her. Taking her alive was going to be more difficult than he’d first suspected. Maybe impossible. But if they had to kill her and her mother, he thought, then so be it. They would take the bodies and use them to lure McGarvey.

He and his commando darted into the house, jumped over the body and swung their weapons left to right searching for targets. But nothing moved.

“Clear,” he shouted to the front hall.

“Clear,” Kajiyama answered.

Kondo reached the stairhall. He had just a split second to spot the downed American inside the shattered front door, Kajiyama and one of the commandos flanking the bottom of the stairs, when the second commando who’d started up was suddenly cut down by automatic weapons fire from the head of the stairs.

Van Buren lay on his side a few feet back from the head of the stairs as Elizabeth fell back after firing the short burst.

“One down,” she whispered grimly.

“Give me the rifle,” Van Buren said urgently. “I can hold them off from here while you and your mother get out the back way. You can jump from the balcony. If they’re all inside now they might not spot you leaving. You can hide up in the woods.”

“No way in hell, Todd,” Elizabeth said.

Kathleen had darted down the hall to their sitting room. She returned with the spare magazine for Elizabeth’s Walther PPK. “Nobody’s leaving you,” she told him firmly. She gave Elizabeth the magazine. “Give Todd the rifle, give me Dyer’s gun and reload yours. Between the three of us we should be able to discourage them until the State Patrol decides to show up.”

“You don’t know how to shoot a gun.”

Kathleen smiled grimly. “Never underestimate your mother, dear. Now, do as I say.”

“If you surrender now, you do not have to die, Miss McGarvey,” someone called from downstairs.

Elizabeth gave Van Buren the rifle and handed Dyer’s pistol to her mother. “Go to hell,” she shouted down in a steady voice, as she hastily reloaded her gun.

“All your people are dead and no one is coming to help you.”

Elizabeth edged closer to the head of the stairs. “Why not come up here, and we’ll discuss it, Mr. Kondo,” she said.

Kondo could scarcely believe what he’d just heard. She knew his name. But that was impossible. A dozen thoughts raced through his head at the speed of light, building into a nearly uncontrollable rage. “Fucking Americans,” he muttered tightly.

Kajiyama and the two commandos were looking at him. In the distance now they could hear the incoming helicopter, and over that they could hear sirens. A long ways off. But there were a lot of them. Too many.

“Kill them,” Kondo ordered. “Now.”

One of the commandos pulled out a coiled-wire grenade, yanked the pin and tossed it up the stairs.

Kondo saw the man’s stupid mistake the instant the grenade left his hand. The fool had not waited long enough after pulling the pin.

He heard it thump on the carpeted hall upstairs, and a second later it clattered back down the stairs. Someone, the young woman who he thought was so brave, had the presence of mind to kick it back.

“Down,” he shouted, and they all managed to fall back against the wall and bury their heads in their arms, as the grenade went off with a tremendous roar. Plaster and glass and splinters and chunks of flaming wood rained down all around them.

It seemed to take forever before Kondo could recover, and when he got up someone sprayed the stairwell with two controlled bursts from an M16.

They had failed again. The thought was so bitter that Kondo wanted to lash out in rage at anything or anybody.

Kajiyama and the one man had pulled back. The second commando was dead. At the doorway they hesitated, but Kondo waved them out, then raced after them, firing the last of his ammunition over his shoulder toward the head of the stairs.

McGarvey’s cell phone chirped in his pocket. Lindsay shot him an angry look. It was the last straw.

“Sorry, Mr. President,” he said. “It’s my emergency number.” McGarvey answered it on the second chirp. “Yes.”

“Everybody’s dead out here except for me, Elizabeth and Todd,” Kathleen said in a rush, her voice cracking.

McGarvey’s heart leapt into his throat. “Katy, are you all right?”

“We beat the bastards. They left in a helicopter. And the State Patrol is finally here. But everyone else is dead.”

“What about Paul?”

“He’s dead! Can’t you understand?” Kathleen shouted hysterically.

McGarvey was on his feet. He put a hand over the mouthpiece. “They attacked Cropley,” he told Murphy. “I need a chopper down there now.” He took his hand away. “Are you sure they’re gone, Katy? Don’t move unless you’re absolutely sure.”

“They’re gone, Kirk,” she shouted. “But it’s not over. They got away. Some of them got away. But they’ll come back. And keep coming!” She cried out in anguish, the sound of her voice cutting into McGarvey like a razor sharp knife. “Kirk, my God, I need you. Now! I need you!”