The last day Priscilla Hadin was to see her husband alive was breathtaking: the air crisp and fresh, the sky a cloudless blue. Beyond the pier, the lake was a perfect mirror for the reds and golds of the trees bordering the shoreline.

She watched her husband cajole the stevedores as they scurried up and down the boat’s gangplank, carrying crates of all sizes and shapes. The pier thrummed with activity: throngs of natives, the babble of different languages, vendors hawking grilled meat and trinkets, the wail of boat whistles.

Something bumped Priscilla from behind and she turned. A goat was chewing at her fur boots; a gap-toothed woman tugged at the goat and kept walking. A far cry from Long Island, Priscilla thought.

“You there!” she heard her husband call. “Be careful, will you? Good man!”

Andrew Galbreth Hadin turned and flashed a grin at Priscilla. So like a little boy, she thought fondly. In many ways Andrew was a mystery to her. He had the courage of a lion and the dogged curiosity of a toddler who’s just realized he’s surrounded by a giant, fascinating world.

Known in the newspapers as “Dashing Andy” or “The Millionaire Buccaneer,” Hadin was renowned for his wild, globe-hopping explorations. If it hadn’t been mapped, braved, or — better yet — discovered, Hadin was game for it. During their marriage, Priscilla had seen him off on dozens of adventures: Arabia in search of Ubar, the Atlantis of the Sands; Turkey, for Noah’s Ark; Tibet in search of the Yeti. … Wherever he went, however long he was gone, he always came back to her.

Why, then, couldn’t she shake this gloom? It was silly. Andrew always came back. “Glorious day, eh?” he called to her, walking up.

“Yes, it is. These Russian folk are interesting.”

“Hard workers, too. Wish I’d had them in the Congo. Wouldn’t have been half as dicey.”

“You don’t suppose there are any of those Trotskyites around, do you?”

“No, dear, most of them are in Vienna. Some lake, eh? ‘The Jewel of Siberia,’ they call it.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“The oldest lake in the world; the deepest, too. Did you know there are over three hundred rivers emptying into it, but only one going out — the Angara?”

“No, I didn’t—”

“And over a third of its fish aren’t found anywhere else in the world. Legend has it there’s a tunnel at the bottom, a natural lava tube that leads all the way to the Pacific Ocean. Wouldn’t that be something to see? Perhaps I could find one of those diving bells—”

Priscilla put her finger to his lips. “Dear, perhaps you should finish this adventure first?”

Hadin grinned. “Yes, of course.”

“So tell me again, this place you’re going to … Tonga—”

“Tunguska, darling.”

“Tunguska. What’s so special about it? Something landed there?”

“More like slammed into, Pris. Nobody’s sure what happened. That’s what we hope to find out. Some say it was a space rock; others think perhaps an alien ship — from Mars, perhaps!”

“Oh, good lord, Andrew!”

“Anyway whatever it is flattened hundreds of square miles of forest. Thousands and thousands of trees bowled over like toothpicks. Folks in Belgium could feel the impact. And we’ll be the first to see it! The trick, of course, will be finding it. Moscow is being rather stingy with information—”

“Then how did you get permission?”

Hadin grinned and leaned closer. “They think I’m on an expedition for the Smithsonian. Not to worry, Pris. Nogoruk’s the finest guide around; he could track a snowflake across Alaska! We’ll follow the Selenga to the northeast, looking for clues as we go. It will be fantastic fun!”

The paddle wheel’s horn blew, echoing over the lake. Standing on the bridge, a squat man in a fur hat waved at Hadin. “That’s Nogoruk, Pris. We’re ready to go.”

Priscilla felt her eyes filling up with tears. “Must you?”

“I’m afraid so, darling. Chin up. Don’t I always come back to you?”

“Yes, but …” But what? she wondered. He did always come back. “When will you be back?”

“Hard to say. Four months, perhaps. We don’t want to get caught out when the snow flies. It’s fearsome, they say. First chance, I’ll send word.” Hadin kissed her. “My love to the children.”

He kissed her one last time, then started up the gangplank. At its head, he waved to her, then jumped onto the deck and began barking orders. Crewmen cast off the lines and slowly the boat began drifting away from the pier as the current took hold. The horn blew once more then the giant water-wheels started churning, froth and mist billowing around the stern.

A lone figure appeared on the afterdeck: tall and broad-shouldered, his cornstalk hair wild in the wind, beaming like a child on his first roller-coaster ride. Hadin raised his arms and waved at his wife.

She waved back.

Priscilla Hadin later died seventy-four years to the day her husband left, never discovering what had become of him. Nor could she know what pivotal role his ill-fated expedition would play in saving the lives of four strangers carrying a secret that would decide the fate of hundreds of thousands of people.

Set amid the peaks and wooded valleys 150 miles northeast of Beijing, the Imperial Summer Villa had for centuries been the summer home to emperors hoping to trade the heat of Beijing in favor of the cooler mountain air. Since the ’s it had been one of China’s most famous parks.

In the two months he’d been in China, Briggs Tanner had spent many hours in Chengde, first posing as a Westerner taking in the sights, and then as a deep-cover operative reconnoitering the ground on which he hoped to pull off the most dramatic defection since the Cold War.

Four months earlier, chief of staff for the People’s Liberation Army, General Han Soong, had secretly passed a note to an attaché during a reception at the U.S. embassy. The missive was short and direct: Soong wanted out. The stunning request was hurriedly passed on to the CIA, who in turn immediately arranged to send a controller to oversee the operation.

Tanner had spent his first five weeks in-country running a small network of support agents and laying the groundwork for Soong’s escape before turning his attention to the nuts-and-bolts of how he planned to spirit Soong from the country.

He chose Chengde for several reasons: its distance from Beijing and the city’s ubiquitous police force; its popularity with not only tourists but with Beijingers as well; and lastly, its setting.

Encompassing some 1400 acres and surrounded by an ancient stone wall measuring six miles in circumference, Chengde is a warren of grasslands, wooded hills, blooming gardens, dozens of miles of landscaped paths, and over a hundred buildings, from traditional Chinese pavilions and temples to rustic longhouses that had once served as barracks for imperial guards.

Armed with a camera and a map, Tanner walked every corner of Chengde until the layout was embedded in his brain. He knew where every path began and ended, where they intersected with others, where the shortcuts and dead ends lay. He could stand at any section of the wall and know precisely what lay on the other side. Above all, he knew the best meeting places and the vantage points from which he could survey them.

The November day Tanner was to put Soong into the “pipeline” dawned crisp and cool. Chengde’s trees blazed in a thousand shades of red and gold. Before first light fell over the park, Tanner was in position at an overlook near Gold Mountain Temple. The park was all but deserted, with only a few caretakers going about their business. Below him, a quarter mile distant, lay Ruyi and Jinghu lakes and beyond them, west of the Front Palace, Dehui Gate, the park’s main entrance. Fifty yards down the central path lay the fountain at which he and Soong were to meet.

Tanner checked his watch. Forty minutes to go. He felt a flutter in his belly and took a deep breath. Relax, Briggs, he commanded himself. Almost there.

He aimed his camera’s long lens on the gate and saw the day’s first tourists entering the park. He scanned the paths and courtyards until he had a rough count of several dozen people, an even mix of Chinese families and Western sightseers.

He got up and wandered the paths around the temple for twenty minutes, snapping the occasional photo and studying his map, all the while keeping one eye on the main gate. Five minutes before the meeting time, Briggs was scanning the Front Palace when something caught his eye.

A Chinese mother and father with a child were stopped beside the fountain feeding the ducks, when suddenly the toddler lost his balance and plunged into the water. The father rushed forward to help. As he stooped over to pick up the child, his coat swung open, revealing a shoulder holster.

Heart in his throat, Tanner tightened on the man and saw, trailing from his left ear, a nearly transparent wire that led down into his collar. What the hell is this. … He checked his watch: Time. He swiveled the lens to the main gate. As if on cue, General Han Soong stepped onto the path.

No, no, no. …

Briggs looked around. In a nearby garden bed, a caretaker knelt in the dirt with a trowel. The man looked up, caught Tanner’s eye, then glanced away. Briggs felt his heart lurch. They were here, the Guoanbu was here. A dozen questions whirled in his brain, but he quashed them. The “how” of it didn’t matter. He and Soong were standing in the middle of a trap.

Tanner’s mind raced. This couldn’t be happening—shouldn’t be happening, but it was.

At the main gate, Soong was strolling toward the fountain. From his vantage point, Tanner could see them now, Guoanbu agents moving in, exiting nearby pavilions and walking along the trails on either side of Soong. Oblivious, Soong kept walking.

From the corner of his eye, Briggs saw the caretaker raise his wrist to his mouth and speak into the hidden microphone there. Calling in backup, Tanner realized. Having assumed Soong’s controller would be close to the meeting site, they’d moved in too early, leaving Tanner outside their perimeter. He still had a chance. But what about Soong?

As he asked the question, he saw a pair of agents trot up behind Soong and grab his arms.

Tanner was torn. Leave, Briggs, get away! There was nothing to be done for Soong now.

Forcing an easy pace, he turned and began strolling back toward the temple; a hundred yards beyond it he could see the vine-draped wall. He mounted the temple’s wooden walkway.

“You there! Stop!”

Tanner glanced over his shoulder. The caretaker was charging toward him. Tanner broke into a sprint, turned the temple corner, then stopped and flattened himself against the wall. The pounding of feet drew nearer. The caretaker barged around the corner, saw Tanner, tried to backpedal. Tanner grabbed him by the collar, pulled him close, and lashed out with a short jab to the man’s kidney. The man gasped and arched backward. Tanner slammed his fist into his temple, knocking him unconscious.

He pulled back the man’s sleeve, revealing the microphone. “I see him!” Tanner shouted in his best Mandarin. “Bifeng Temple! Hurry!”

He sprinted to the wall, took a bounding leap onto the vines, and started climbing. At the top, he stopped, turned back. He focused his camera on the main gate. There, being led away by a dozen men, was Han Soong. Just before he disappeared from view, Soong glanced over his shoulder.

Looking for me, Tanner thought in anguish. God, I’m sorry Han.

He tore his eyes away, rolled himself over the wall, and started running.

Though the deep, twisting gorges and towering rock spires of the highlands provided the ideal hiding place for the test facility, they did little for traveling comfort — especially in a Russian-built Hind-D attack helicopter designed more for durability than luxury.

Such is the price of secrecy, Kyung Xiang thought, and gripped the armrests a bit tighter.

As the head of China’s Guoanbu, or Ministry of State Security, Xiang was charged with many secrets, but the facility they’d just left surpassed all of them — except for Rubicon itself, of course. That he’d been entrusted with such an operation was both exhilarating and daunting. If it succeeded — if he succeeded — China would become the world’s premier superpower. As it should be.

But that was only part of it, Xiang knew. This was also his chance at redemption.

In his thirty-first year of government service, Xiang had seen firsthand the brutality of Chinese politics, but until the Soong affair he’d never felt it personally. That he’d thwarted what could have been a disaster for the People’s Republic was never mentioned; in fact, the mere proximity of disaster had nearly sealed his fate. His superiors had painted him as the scapegoat with typical Mandarin efficiency. One day a promising Guoanbu chief, the next a mere agent. His rise to the top of the MSS had surprised many people, and truth be told had Rubicon not landed in his lap, he would be on his way out.

Everything hinged on Rubicon. Failure didn’t bear thinking about.

Xiang felt himself mashed against the door as the pilot rolled the Hind onto its side. An outcropping of rock swept past the windshield, so close Xiang could have reached out and touched it.

He glanced over his shoulder. The two civilians in the back were slumped in their seats, their faces pasty. Hopefully they would recover. He wanted his passengers clearheaded when they reached their destination; nothing should blunt the impact of what they were going to see.

The gorge widened and the pilot descended, following the river until it opened into a lake. The village — little more than a cluster of huts surrounded by millet fields and forest — lay on the far shore.

“Land upwind of the lake,” Xiang ordered the pilot.

They banked around the shoreline and set down on the outskirts of the village. As the rotors spooled down, Xiang got out and gestured for the passengers to do the same.

“What is this place?” asked the older man, the director of the facility.

“Just a village,” Xiang said. “One village amid thousands. It doesn’t have a name.”

“Where is everyone?” the younger man, the director’s assistant, asked.

“Good question. Come, I’ll show you.”

Xiang led them down the empty main road to the edge of the village. Ahead lay a berm of dirt almost twenty feet tall. Xiang started up the mound, the two men struggling to keep up. When they reached the top, Xiang pointed down the opposite slope.

At the base of the mound lay a pit, ten feet deep, ten feet wide, and some fifty yards long. Stacked to its rim were bodies — hundreds of them, all nude — ranging in age from six months to ninety years.

The older man sputtered, his eyes wide. “Oh….Oh, my—”

“Your what?” Xiang said. “Your Buddha? This is not the work of your fat little God. This is your work.”

“What do you mean?” said the assistant director. “What happened here?”

“Their water supply was contaminated by a type of radioactive isotope, I’m told. The test you performed at the facility last month not only failed, but some of the runoff found its way into the river, then into this lake. The villagers drank the water and fed it to their livestock. Now they’re all dead.”

“No, that can’t be—”

“Not only has your mistake put us behind schedule, but now we have to cover it up before we have swarms of Western media digging around,” Xiang said.

The older man found his voice. “Is that all you care about? Public relations? You heartless—”

“This goes beyond public relations! We’re talking about the future of China. The deaths of a few peasants is inconsequential. In fact, it’s so inconsequential that one more won’t make any difference.”

In one fluid motion, Xiang drew his side arm, pressed it to the director’s forehead, and fired. The back of the man’s head exploded. He crumpled to the ground. Xiang reholstered his pistol, then placed his foot on the corpse’s hip and rolled the body down the slope.

Mouth agape, the younger man watched the body land in a heap atop those of the villagers.

“You’ve just been promoted,” Xiang said. “See that you do better than your predecessor.”

Ten months to retirement, thought President John Haverland, staring out the window of the Oval Office. Ten months left in a career that had spanned forty years. After November he’d serve out his last days as a lame duck, a glorified house sitter. Even now, his official duties were becoming fewer and fewer, which, truth be told, didn’t bother him much. It gave him time to think.

In all, he decided, he’d done a fair job. He’d made his mistakes, but that was life. He’d learned from them, however, and worked hard to base his decisions in that wisdom. Most of them, at least.

His own vice president was such a case. He’d never liked Phillip Martin, not when they worked together in the Senate, and not when his campaign advisors had put his name at the top of the list for vice presidential running mates. He’d argued against it, but in the end the choice was simple: Martin’s inclusion on the ticket would secure the votes Haverland needed to win. Of course, if the only issue had been victory, he would have told his advisors to shove it.

Quite simply, John Haverland believed in the power of service and he believed he could make a difference to the welfare of his country. Four years ago, Americans didn’t trust such sentiments. They were tired and mistrustful. Even so, by the time the election entered the final stretch, Haverland had changed a lot of minds. It still wasn’t going to be enough, his staff told him. Without Martin, we lose.

They had the statistics to support their claim. He reluctantly assented, and two months later he was elected president. Martin had played his role well enough, but the irony of their partnership was never lost on Haverland. He, the faithful, buck-stops-here president; and Martin, the polished, self-serving, chameleonlike vice president.

And now the son-of-a-bitch is making a run for the presidency.

“Not if I can help it,” he muttered. He pressed his intercom button. “Joanne, please call Vice President Martin and tell him I need to see him.”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

Martin arrived ten minutes later. He flashed his plastic smile at Haverland and strode across the carpet. “John, how are you today?”

“Sit down, Phil.”

Martin’s smile never faltered, but Haverland saw a flash of uncertainty in his VP’s eyes. The perfect political animal, Haverland thought. God help us. …

“Phil, I’ll come to the point: Your secretary has accused you of sexual harassment.”

“What?” Martin cried. “Peggy Manahan? That’s ridiculous, John. I would never—”

“In fact, Phil, what she describes sounds more like sexual assault.”

Martin chuckled. “Oh, come on. …”

“She claims you had her pinned against the wall, that you were pulling up her skirt.”

“That’s not true.”

“What part?”

“All of it, John. For God’s sake—”

“It never happened?”

“No.” Martin spread his hands. “She’s confused, John. Perhaps she had ideas about us. …”

Oh good Christ, Haverland thought. “So it never happened and Peggy Manahan, a solid, faithful White House employee for eighteen years is either lying, or she’s caught in the throes of an obsessive fantasy about you. Is that what you’re telling me?”

Martin smoothed out his tie. “I’m not sure I like what you’re insinuating.”

“We’re well beyond insinuation, Phil. I believe her. I believe every word of it. But the truth is, this is my fault. I knew what and who you were when I brought you aboard. I buried it, called a lesser evil to do a larger good. But that’s crap. I put you where you are because I needed you to win. I put you in the running for the presidency.”

“That’s right! That’s exactly right!” Martin shot back. “And whether you believe it or not, I’ve earned it. Now it’s my turn. You’ve had your shot. Now I get mine!”

Haverland stared hard at Martin, gauging him, waiting.

Martin cleared his throat. “So where does this leave us? What are you going to do with this?”

“Nothing. I’ve spoken with Peggy. She’s retiring. It was her choice. She wants to get as far away from you as possible and forget it ever happened.”

“Good. Good for her. Best we all put this behind us.”

“Not quite, Phil.” Haverland reached into his drawer and pulled out a spiral-bound address book. He plopped it onto the desk. “This is forty year’s worth of names: CEOs, senators, ambassadors, PACs, jurists, lobbyists, newspaper editors, investment bankers. … Starting this afternoon, I’m calling in every marker I own. By this time next week, the tap on your campaign is going to start drying up.”

“You can’t do that!”

“Watch me.”

“Come on, John. Can’t we work this out—”

“No.”

“Without that money I haven’t got a chance in hell of winning!”

“Exactly. You don’t deserve the office. More to the point, America deserves better than you.”

Martin’s face turned purple. “You bastard! This is not fair! What gives you the right—”

Haverland stood up, turned his back on Martin, and walked to the window. “We’re done, Phil. Get out of my office. If there’s any justice, you’ll never see it again.”

Sunil Dhar enjoyed his work. Kashmiri by birth, Dhar was more sympathetic to his Indian customers, but beyond that he was an equal-opportunity agent. Such was the beauty of his vocation. As long as the customer paid, their nationality and cause were of no concern to him.

This would be his second meeting with the client, and he’d chosen the café for its many exits and open facade. If there were watchers, he would see them. Not that he expected problems. His client seemed genuine in his intention, if not in his presentation.

The client certainly looked Japanese, but Orientals all looked alike to him. Even so, Dhar had dealt with JRA terrorists before, and there was something wrong with this one. But what? The man wasn’t with any police or intelligence agency; his network of contacts had told him that much.

If he’s not JRA, who is he? There were two likely scenarios: a rival group looking to insulate themselves should the transaction fail; or a go-between trying to establish cover for a larger operation.

Wheels within wheels, Dhar thought. His line of work was much more satisfying — not to mention simple. Most of the time, that is. This job would require some delicacy. Sarin was the king of nerve agents, so toxic it could kill a theaterful of people. He idly wondered what they (whoever “they” were) wanted it for, but quickly pushed the question from his mind. Not his business.

His client appeared on the patio and walked to Dhar’s table. “Welcome,” Dhar said with a smile. “Sit down. Can I order you some tea, something stronger, perhaps?”

“No. Do you have an answer for me?”

Dhar nodded. “What you want will cost a lot of money, but it is obtainable.”

“How much?”

“Seven hundred thousand, U.S.”

“That’s outrageous!”

“A bargain, I promise you. The product we’re talking about is well guarded. We’re talking about Russia, you realize. There are bribes, special transport requirements. … ”

The client hesitated for a moment. “Yes, I can see that. But you can get it? You’re certain.”

“If I weren’t, I wouldn’t have brought you here. In my line of work, customer satisfaction is a matter of survival. So, what is your answer?”

“Go ahead. We will pay you.”

Dhar slid a piece of paper across the table. “My bank and account number. Once you have deposited half my fee, I will start. I will call you in sixty days with an update. Only one thing remains. Where do you wish to take delivery?”

The man’s answer was immediate. “Russia, the port of Nakhodka-Vostochny.”

Dhar nodded. “Very well. I’ll begin.”

The man stood up and walked away.

Curious choice, Nakhodka, Dhar thought. So much easier to take it out via truck or plane. Why choose a harbor?

Tonight was to be Jerome Morris’s first solo duty shift in Rock Creek Park, and before it was over he would find himself questioning his decision to trade his post at Shenandoah National Forest for the urban sprawl of the capital’s largest park.

A backwoods boy and third-generation cop from rural Georgia, Morris found the best of both worlds with the USPP: Not only did you get to catch bad guys, but you got to do it in some of the most beautiful places in the country.

Tonight, Morris was part of a two-officer team patrolling the West D-3 Station, which included the 1800 acres of Rock Creek, plus Meridian Hill, Fort Totten, and portions of the C&O Canal.

Morris’s radio cracked to life. “Station to Three-One.”

Morris keyed the handset. “Three-One.”

“Head on over to Pierce Mill, will ya? Got a report of a car in the parking lot.”

Probably kids making out, Morris thought. There were plenty of entrances and exits to the park and amorous teenagers rarely paid attention to signs. He’d give them a lecture and send them packing. “On my way.”

It took him ten minutes to get there; the Suburban handled the park’s occasionally rough roads well enough, but Morris was still unfamiliar with much of the terrain, so he took it slow. An accident on his first night wouldn’t do much to impress his supervisor.

He swung into the mill’s parking lot and his headlights immediately picked out a red Lumina sitting beside the waterwheel. Morris stopped, turned on his spotlight, and shined it on the car, expecting to see a pair of heads pop up from the backseat. Nothing happened.

Morris honked his horn. Still nothing.

“Three-One to Station, I’m ten-ninety-seven at the mill. I’m getting out to check.”

“Roger.”

Morris climbed out, clicked on his flashlight and undipped his holster strap. He didn’t like walking up on cars at night. No cop did. Too many things could go wrong — too easy to get ambushed.

Walking along the car’s rear panel, he shined his beam over the interior. Nothing in the backseat … There was a figure in the driver’s seat, though: a male, with his head resting on the headrest. He extended his flashlight away from himself to misdirect a gunshot should it come, then shined it on the driver’s face. “Sir, this is the Park Police.”

No response. Behind the glare of the flashlight, the man remained still.

Morris tapped on the glass. “Sir …”

Again there was no response. Now Morris felt the cold sheen of sweat on his face. Should he call backup? Maybe — Jesus, Jerome, just do it …

Very slowly, Morris reached out, lifted the handle, and opened the door. The stench of feces and urine washed over him.

Suddenly the man was moving, tipping toward him.

Morris backpedaled, fumbling for his gun. The flashlight clattered to the asphalt. The beam danced wildly over the car, then rolled to a stop, illuminating the man’s head. Still buckled in his seat, the man lay half out of the car, his arms touching the ground.

The top of his skull was missing.

The watch supervisor arrived four minutes later and found Morris squatting a few feet from the Lumina. “Jerome? You okay?”

“Yeah, Sergeant, I think so….”

“Just stay there, lemme take a look. You touch anything?”

“No … uhm, yeah, the door handle.”

The supervisor shined his flashlight over the man’s head and knew immediately it was a gunshot wound. The roof upholstery was covered with blood. A revolver lay on the floorboard below the man’s right knee.

“He’s been dead awhile, I guess,” Morris called.

“Why’s that?”

“No blood on the ground; any more recent and he would have bled when he tipped over. Plus, his ankles are fat.”

“Yeah, probably. Well, whoever he is, he picked one hell of a place to kill himself.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because we’re standing in the middle of a jurisdictional black hole, that’s why.”

While all national parks are overseen by the department of the Interior and its law enforcement body, the Park Police, a homicide on federal property tends to wreak havoc with standard procedure.

Within an hour of Morris’s initial call, the Lumina sat under the glare of five sets of headlights and was surrounded by the USPP Duty Commander, an investigator from the USPP’s Criminal Investigations Branch, a Special Agent of the FBI, a city Medical Examiner and, because Rock Creek’s roads and parking lots are regulated by metro traffic laws, a pair of patrol officers from the DCPD.

“The car’s got a government parking sticker,” the CIB investigator called to the FBI agent. “Commerce Department. Dead fed on fed property. Looking like yours, Steve.”

“Yeah.” The agent opened the glove compartment and extracted the registration. “Owner is a Larry Baker.” He handed it to one of the cops. “You wanna — What’s your name?”

“Johnson. My partner, Meade.”

“You guys wanna check the house?”

Meade, the rookie of the pair, took it. “Jesus, you don’t think he …”

“Hope not,” said the agent, “but it’s best we check.”

“Man drives away from home, parks his car, and blows his brains out … God.”

The agent understood Meade’s trepidation. Either Baker had come here so his family wouldn’t find him, or he’d come here because he’d done something at home he couldn’t bear seeing.

The address took the officers to Parklawn Drive, a neighborhood in Randolph Hills, three miles from Rock Creek. The Baker home was a two-story Chesapeake with a pair of maple trees bracketing the driveway. A bug zapper glowed purple on the front porch.

“No lights on inside.” said Meade. “Asleep, you think?”

“Yeah, probably,” replied Johnson.

They got out and walked to the door. Meade raised his finger to press the doorbell. Johnson stopped him. “Wait,” he whispered, then pressed his knuckle against the door and pushed. It swung open a few inches.

“Oh, shit,” Meade whispered.

Johnson pushed the door open until it bumped against the wall. Inside, the marble foyer was dark; beyond it lay a T-turn hallway.

Johnson keyed his radio. “Two-nine to dispatch.”

“Dispatch.”

“We’ve got an open door at our location. Request you attempt contact via landline.”

“Roger, standby.”

Thirty seconds passed. In the distance, a dog barked once, then went silent. The bug zapper sizzled. Inside the house they heard the distant ringing of a phone. After a dozen rings, it stopped.

Johnson’s radio crackled. “Dispatch, two-nine, no response landline.”

“Yep, we heard it. We’re going in.”

Johnson looked over at Meade, gave him a reassuring nod, then drew his gun and clicked on his flashlight. Meade did the same, then followed.

They turned right at the T and walked through the kitchen, dining room, and living room. All were empty. A side door led from the living room into the garage. Johnson peeked out, pulled back, and shook his head.

They retraced their steps out of the kitchen, past the foyer, and followed the hall to a set of stairs leading upward. At the top they found another hallway: two doors on the right, balustrade on the left. At the far end lay another door. Master bedroom, Johnson thought.

Moving by hand gestures, they checked the first two rooms. Bedrooms: ’N Sync and Britney Spears posters, toys scattered on the floor, colorful wallpaper and curtains … Kid’s rooms.

They moved on. At the last door they stopped. They glanced at one another. If there’s anything to find, Johnson thought, it’ll be here. He gulped hard, looked over at Meade, and gave him another nod.

Johnson turned the knob and pushed open the door. The room was black. The air smelled stale. There was another odor as well, but Johnson couldn’t quite place it. Like metal, he thought. Coppery. Even as his brain was identifying the odor, he tracked his flashlight across the floor to the bedpost, then upward.

What he saw made him freeze. “O sweet Jesus.”

Charlie Latham jolted awake at the phone’s first ring. Part habit, part instinctual consideration for his wife, he rarely let a phone ring more than twice. “Hello.”

“Charlie, it’s Harry.” Harry Owens, a longtime friend of Latham’s, had recently been promoted to assistant director of the FBI’s National Security Division, which made him Latham’s boss. “Did I wake you up?”

Latham smiled; the joke was old between them. “Nah. What’s up?”

“Multiple murder. I think you’re gonna want to see it. I’m there now.”

Latham was wary. As head of the NSD’s Counterespionage/Intelligence group, he had little business poaching on a homicide; his bailiwick was spies and terrorists. “What’s going on, Harry?”

“Better you see it for yourself.”

“Okay. Give me the address.”

It took Latham twenty minutes to reach Randolph Hills. The driveway to the Baker home was filled with three DCPD patrol cars and a van from the medical examiner’s office. Strung from tree to tree in the yard, yellow police tape fluttered in the breeze. Robe- and pajama-clad neighbors gawked from across the street.

A cop met Latham on the porch, handed him a pair of sterile booties, a gauze beanie for his head, and latex gloves, waited for him to don them and then led him inside and up the stairs. Owens was waiting; his face was pasty. “Hey, Charlie.”

“Harry. Bad?”

“Pretty bad. Mother and two children.”

Latham had known Owens for seventeen years and he could count on one hand the number of times he’d seen Owens so shaken. Still, that didn’t answer why he was here. “What is it?” Latham asked.

“Just take a look. I don’t want to put a spin on it. I need your eyes.”

He led Latham down the hall to the bedroom door, gestured for Latham to wait, then poked his head inside and waved out the Crime Scene people. “Go ahead, Charlie.”

Latham stepped through the door. And stopped.

The mother, an early forties redhead, sat in a hard-backed chair beside the bed. Her wrists were duct-taped to the chair’s arms, her ankles to the rear legs, so her thighs were stretched tight. Harder to rock the chair that way, Latham thought. She’d been shot once in the forehead. Behind her, the yellow bedspread was splattered in blood and brain matter.

The children, both blond-haired girls under ten years of age, were sitting against the wall with their arms taped behind their backs. Their feet, similarly taped together around the calves, were secured to the bed’s footing by nylon clothesline.

Both girls had been shot once in the crown of the skull. The shock wave from the bullets’ passages had left each child’s face rippled with bruises. The effect was known as “beehiving,” named after the ringed appearance of beehives in cartoons.

Latham felt the room spinning; he felt hot. He took a deep breath. “What the hell happened here, Harry? Where’s the—”

“He’s in Rock Creek Park, shot once under the chin.”

Latham felt a flash of anger. “Son-of-a-bitch …”

“Maybe. Look at their ankles, Charlie.”

Latham stepped over the children’s legs and squatted down beside one of them. He pulled back a pajama cuff. There, beside the knob of the ankle bone, a tiny red pinprick on the vein.

Oh, no … Latham grabbed the bed’s footboard to steady himself.

Owens held up a clear, plastic, evidence bag. Inside was a hypodermic syringe. “We found it on the stairway. There’s a little bit of blood on the tip.”

Latham opened his mouth to ask the question, but Owens beat him to it. “We’ll have to get the lab to confirm it, but the syringe looks empty. No residue, no liquid — nothing.”

Nothing but air, thought Latham. They’d seen this before.

“What’s next?” said President Martin, flipping to the next page of the brief. “The Angola thing?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Director of Central Intelligence Dick Mason. The Angola thing …

Martin spoke as if the plight of thousands of refugees carried no more import than a photo op with the Boy Scouts. Since the start of the war in Angola, thousands had been driven from their homes in the capital and Luanda and into squalid tent camps.

“If we don’t find a way to get the Red Cross in, disease is going to start hitting the camps.”

“I see.”

Do you? For the first time in his life, Mason found himself in the unenviable position of disliking his boss. It didn’t help that his boss also happened to be the president of the United States. Not that it mattered, of course. He wasn’t required to like the man — he just had to follow his orders.

Martin was what Mason called a “too much man.” Too handsome; too polished; too poised — too everything but genuine. Not that he was a simpleton; in fact, he was well-educated and quick on his feet. The problem was, Martin cared for little else than Martin. He was a dangerous narcissist.

His smartest move had been hiring his chief of staff, Howard Bousikaris, his right hand since the early days of the Haverland administration. The third-generation Greek was loyal and adept at playing Martin’s political hatchet man. Inside the Beltway, Bousikaris had been nicknamed “The Ninja”: It was only after you were dead that you realized he was after you.

“What does State have to say about this?” Martin asked.

Bousikaris said, “Not much at this point, sir. We don’t even know for sure who’s running the government. The central news agency in Luanda has changed hands four times in the last week.”

“Lord, what a mess. Okay, Dick, what’s next?”

Moving on again, Mason thought Martin was loath to make executive decisions. Fence riding, when skillfully done, was safer. From here, Angola would be dumped on Bousikaris, who would in turn dump it on either the National Security Council or the President’s Foreign Advisory Council. Meanwhile, the situation in Angola would deteriorate and the death count would mount until Martin had to move lest he lose face. You don’t have to like the man, Mason reminded himself.

“The elections in the Russian Federation. The issues are no different: the economy, agriculture, oblast autonomy — but it looks like the current president might have a real race on his hands.”

“You’re kidding,” said Martin. “From this Bulganin fellow?”

“He’s gaining ground fast.”

“What do we know about him?” asked Bousikaris.

“Not as much as we would like,” said Mason. Not nearly enough, in fact.

Vladimir Bulganin, a former factory foreman and local politician from Omsk, had founded the Russian Pride Party six years before and had been gnawing at the flanks of the major parties ever since.

On the surface, the RPP’s platform seemed based on moderate nationalism, infrastructure improvement, a more centralized government, and, paradoxically, an emphasis on the democratic power of the people. That Bulganin had been able to dodge this apparent inconsistency was largely due, Mason felt, to his chief advisor, Ivan Nochenko.

A former colonel in the KGB, Nochenko was an expert at propaganda and disinformation. Before the fall of the Soviet Union, the First Directorate had toppled governments, swayed world opinion, and covered up disasters that would have been front-page news in the West.

Since his retirement in 1993, Nochenko had worked as a freelance PR consultant in Russia’s always uncertain and often dangerous free market. Though no one on Madison Avenue would dare admit it, there was little appreciable difference between public relations and propaganda.

Lack of solid evidence notwithstanding, Mason suspected Nochenko was not only the driving force behind Bulganin’s success, but also the reason why no one seemed to know much about this dark horse of the Russian political scene.

Mason said, “We don’t think he’s got enough backing to take the election, but a solid showing will give him clout in Moscow.”

Martin nodded. “Leverage for the next go-around.”

“Yes, sir. Maybe even some policy influence. Problem is, nobody’s been able to nail down Bulganin’s agenda. So far he’s done little but echo the frustrations of the average Russian citizen.”

“Dick, it’s called politics. The man’s building a constituency.”

“In a country as volatile as Russia, sir, political ambiguity is dangerous.”

“For who?”

“The world. The fact that Bulganin has gained so much support without tipping his hand is worrisome. There can be only two explanations: Either he’s avoiding substance because he doesn’t have any, or he’s got an agenda he doesn’t want to lay out until he’s got the influence to make it stick.”

Martin leaned toward Bousikaris and mock-whispered, “Dick sees a conspiracy in every bush.”

Mason spread his hands. “It’s what I’m paid to do, Mr. President.”

As astute a politician as Martin was, he was naive when it came to the world scene. Though the concept of the “global village” was finally taking hold in the public consciousness, it was nothing new to the intelligence community. Nothing happens in a vacuum, Mason knew. With six billion people and hundreds of individual governments on the planet, there existed lines of interconnectedness that only God could fathom.

Some events — say, a farm county in Minnesota hit by flooding — take longer to exert influence. Others — such as a neophyte candidate in Russia gaining leverage in a national election — have an immediate and powerful effect on everything from world markets to foreign relations. The fact that Martin, arguably the most powerful man in the world, didn’t understand this frustrated Mason.

“My point is,” the DCI continued, “is that unless something changes in the next few weeks, Vladimir Bulganin is going to become a player in Russian politics. I’d feel better if we knew more about him.”

“Understood,” Martin said. “What do you propose?”

“I want to do some back-channel nudging of the net works — CNN, MSNBC, ABC…. We plant the seed and hopefully their Russian correspondents will start asking some tough questions of Bulganin. If we can get a snowball rolling, it may put some pressure on him.”

Martin looked to Bousikaris. “Thoughts, Howard?”

“As long as it can’t come back to bite us.”

Mason shook his head. “It’s a routine play. Once Bulganin starts talking more, we can start dissecting him, see where it takes us.”

“Okay, get on it. Anything else?”

“Toothpick,” said Mason. “Live-fire testing is scheduled for next month; I think it’s time we consider briefing members of the Armed Forces Committee, but we need to choose carefully.”

“Toothpick — the Star Wars thing?”

“Yes, sir.”

Martin turned to Bousikaris. “Let’s put some feelers out. Make sure whoever we brief is fully on board; I don’t want any wafflers when it comes to funding.”

“I’ll handle it.”

“Anything else, Dick?”

“No, sir.”

“That’ll be all, then.”

Once Mason was gone, Martin sighed. “Howard, that man is a naysayer.”

“As he said, Mr. President, that’s what he’s paid to do.”

“I suppose.”

“We could replace him.”

“Better we wait until this Redmond thing dies down.”

While the appointment of former-senator Tom Redmond to the directorship of the Defense Intelligence Agency had been politically necessary, Bousikaris had argued against making the change so soon after Martin took office. But Redmond had delivered California during the campaign, and that was the kind of favor you didn’t want hanging over your head.

“How’s the schedule today?” Martin asked.

“One addition: The ambassador to the People’s Republic of China. He wants a few minutes. In person, in fact.” Almost exclusively, the PRC communicated by formal letter. Bousikaris often joked that the dictionary entry for the word taciturn should simply contain a photo of a Chinese diplomat.

“Any idea what’s on his mind?” Martin asked.

“His secretary declined to answer.”

“Okay, give him ten minutes before lunch.”

Though he had considered them worthless back then, Roger Brown found himself glad he’d paid attention during those mind-numbing economics courses he’d taken at Notre Dame; they’d given him the ability to look attentive while being bored out of his mind. However gifted they may be at diplomacy, government functionaries rarely made good conversationalists.

Ah, well, Brown thought. Such is the price of success at the CIA.

Working under the title of advisor to the secretary for economic affairs, Brown was in fact the embassy’s new CIA station chief. Of course, the title was not designed to fool anyone (the Guoanbu was very good at keeping tabs on embassy personnel), but rather to give him diplomatic immunity should he get caught playing spy. Then again, he thought, the Chinese secret police wasn’t known for its strict adherence to diplomatic rules.

Tonight was his first official embassy dinner, a meet-and-greet affair for members of China’s Ministry of Agriculture. So far he’d had no trouble playing his part, discussing the impact of corn nematodes on world grain markets, but as the evening had worn on, the novelty had worn off.

His job was to listen for bits and pieces of information that he and his staff could hopefully fit into the great jigsaw puzzle called “intelligence gathering.” Few civilians realized how tedious spying could be. Earth-shattering revelations were rare; most often, insights came from the patient collection and collation of random bits of information. That was especially true in the PRC, the most politically and culturally oppressive nation on earth. It was a shame. Brown found the Chinese people fascinating, their history and traditions stirring.

He looked up to see one of the Chinese agricultural attachés headed his way. During dinner the man had spent thirty minutes detailing why America was so decadent. Not much of a recruiting prospect there, Brown thought. He grabbed a glass of champagne from a waiter, made his way to the tall French doors, and stepped through onto the empty balcony.

Despite it being April, the air was warm, with none of D.C.’s spring chill. Plumeria bushes hung from the eaves and partially draped the rail. A block away he could see the lights bordering Ritan Park.

He let his gaze wander along the street, pausing at each parked car until he found the one he was looking for. Through the windshield he could see a pair of silhouetted figures. Guoanbu watchers, Brown thought. Ninth Bureau boys. They were good at their job, largely because they weren’t overly concerned with citizen’s rights. Guoanbu and PSB (People’s Security Bureau) officials could arrest anyone, for anything, at any time; they could invade homes without warrant, and they could ship you off to a laogi, or government prison camp, without trial.

“Good evening,” Brown heard from behind him. He turned. It was the bombastic attaché from dinner. The man was in his early fifties, with sad eyes and a wide mouth.

“Am I disturbing you?” the man said.

“No, not at all. I was just enjoying the night.”

The man strode to the railing. “I don’t believe we were properly introduced. My name is Chang-Moh Bian.” The man made no move to shake hands, keeping them firmly on the railing.

Smart fella, Brown thought. Assuming they were being watched, Bian didn’t want to complicate matters with even a perfunctory show of familiarity. As it was, Bian would likely be questioned about this interaction. “Roger Brown. Nice to meet you.”

“I apologize for my earlier comments, Mr. Brown. Certain things are expected of us at these functions. I hope you understand.”

Interesting … “Of course.”

“Well, I just wanted to say hello. I must be going.”

“Good night.”

As Bian turned, Brown heard something clatter on the balcony’s flagstones. He looked down. Laying near his foot was a ballpoint pen. “Excuse me, I think you dropped something.”

Bian turned; he frowned. “No, I don’t think so. It belongs to you, I am sure.”

Bian opened the doors and stepped back inside.

Brown waited another ten minutes, thinking hard, wondering if he’d misread the incident. There was only one way to find out.

He let the champagne glass slip from his hand. It shattered. He stepped back, angrily brushing at the front of his pants, then leaned down, grabbed the pen, and tucked it into his sleeve, then stood up with the broken glass in his hand.

Excusing himself with the ambassador in the main room, he headed downstairs to his office. He laid the pen on his desk, then picked up the phone. “Carl, it’s Roger. Can you come down to my office?”

Carl Jones, the embassy’s security manager, was there in five minutes. He listened carefully to Brown’s story, then said, “He didn’t say anything else? No pitch, not even a hint?”

“Nope.”

“You’re sure the pen wasn’t already there?”

“I’m sure. Carl, I looked him in the eye. He knew what he was doing.”

Jones considered this, then grinned. “So, what, you’re afraid it’s some kind of exploding pen?”

“Jesus, Carl.”

“I say open it. Just hang on … let me get behind something solid.”

“Oh, for the love of—”

“Of course, your family will be well provided for if—”

Brown unscrewed the pen and tipped the contents onto his blotter.

Wrapped around the ink cartridge was a slip of onionskin paper.

The Chinese ambassador arrived promptly at 11:45 and was shown into the Oval Office.

Martin stood up and walked over. “Mr. Ambassador, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

“And you, President Martin.” The ambassador was a portly man with bushy eyebrows and a surprisingly high-pitched voice. “Congratulations on your victory.”

“Thank you. Please … sit. Can I offer you something to drink?”

“No, thank you.”

They settled around the coffee table, Martin in a wingback chair, the ambassador on the couch. Bousikaris took his place at Martin’s left shoulder.

“I understand this is your first spring in Washington,” Martin said.

“Yes. It’s lovely.”

There were a few seconds of silence as each man regarded the other.

“You’re surprised by my visit,” said the ambassador.

“Surprised, but pleased nonetheless.”

The ambassador nodded, as though weighing Martin’s words. “Well, to the point of my visit: It is a rather delicate matter. I hope you will accept what I am going to say in the spirit it is offered.”

What’s this? Bousikaris thought.

“Please go on,” said Martin.

“It has come to the attention of my government, President Martin, that during the last election you received some generous campaign contributions from a certain political committee. Some eighty million dollars, I believe.”

Martin’s smile never wavered. “All on public record.”

“Of course. It has also come to our attention that your supporters may not have been completely candid. It seems the consortium in question was in fact backed by a group of industrialists from my country.”

There was a long ten seconds of silence. Martin glanced up at Bousikaris, who kept his eyes on the ambassador. “That’s not possible,” said Bousikaris.

The ambassador reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a sheaf of papers, which he placed on the table. “Details of each contribution, the domestic accounts from which they were drawn, and routing information for each transaction, including authorization codes you can use to trace their origin. Though the source accounts are now closed, I think you’ll find all the funds originated from banks in the People’s Republic.”

Bousikaris picked up the document and began paging through it.

“Howard?” said Martin.

“The information is here, but we have no way of—”

The ambassador said, “Of course. I would not ask you to take my word for this. By all means, look into it. In the meantime—”

“What do you want?” Martin growled, his smile gone. “What’s your game?”

“No game, Mr. President. My government would be as embarrassed as you by this. We have no desire to see this information made public. The People’s Republic is eager to take steps to ensure this information never becomes—”

Martin bolted upright. “You sons-of-bitches. You’re … you’re trying to blackmail me. Me!”

Bousikaris said, “Mr. President—”

“You heard the bastard, Howard—”

“What I heard,” Bousikaris replied, “is the ambassador offering his country’s help. Am I reading the situation clearly, Mr. Ambassador?”

“Very clearly,” replied the ambassador.

Bousikaris knew they needed time. Of course it was blackmail, of course the Chinese wanted something, but to reject it capriciously would be disastrous. He doubted the PRC would think twice about revealing its complicity in sabotaging a U.S. election. Whatever their game, the stakes were high.

“However,” Bousikaris said, “just so there’s no misunderstanding … Can we assume your government is looking for some kind of … reciprocation?”

“Yes. Reciprocation. Friends helping friends — that’s what we have in mind.”

Arms crossed, Martin glared at the ambassador.

Bousikaris said, “Mr. President, I think we’ve misunderstood the ambassador’s intent.”

“Exactly so,” replied the ambassador.

Martin stared hard at Bousikaris and then, like the chameleon Bousikaris knew him to be, smiled. He carefully smoothed his tie. “My apologies, Mr. Ambassador. Sometimes my temper gets ahead of me. That’s why Howard is so valuable; he keeps me from making a fool of myself. So, tell me: What is it you need help with?”

“Terrorists, Mr. President.”

“Uncle Briggs, why don’t fish drown?”

Crouched down to rinse his hands in the surf, Briggs Tanner looked up and shielded his eyes from the setting sun. “What’s that? Why don’t what?”

With one tiny hand wrapped around her fishing pole, the girl pointed to the water. “They live underwater all the time, so there’s no air, right? How come they don’t get drownded?”

Uh-oh, Tanner thought. Lucy Cahil, five-year-old daughter of his best friend Ian Cahil, had finally asked the kind of question Tanner dreaded. As her adoptive uncle and godfather, Tanner loved Lucy as his own, but was never sure how to handle such queries. Serious answer, or funny one?

Lucy solved the problem for him. “And don’t say ’cuz they’ve got tiny scuba things. My dad already tried that.”

Tanner laughed. Translation: I’m young, not stupid. “Okay. Fish don’t drown because they have gills. Gills absorb oxygen from the water, and the fish breathe that”

“So, if there’s ox … oxi … air down there, how come we can’t do it?”

“We’re just not built that way, I guess.”

Lucy considered this for a moment. “Okay.” She returned her attention to her pole.

Tanner patted her on the shoulder and walked over to Cahil, who had been watching the exchange from his lounge chair. Behind him, up a set of long, winding stairs set into the wooded embankment, sat Tanner’s home, an old spruce and oak lighthouse he’d purchased from the Virginia Historical Commission. The narrow-mouthed, tall-cliffed cove the lighthouse guarded sat well back from the Rappahannock’s main channel. Tanner’s closest neighbor was a mile away.

“See, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Cahil asked.

“No.”

“I’m telling you, bud, you’d make a great father.”

“I seem to recall getting the same pitch from your wife last week.”

Cahil’s bearded face split into a grin. “Maggie loves lost causes.”

“There’s still plenty of time for kids.” Saying the words, Tanner suddenly realized it didn’t sound so bad. On the other hand, how would he balance a family with what he did for a living? How did Bear do it? Until he figured that out, playing uncle would have to suffice. Truth was, he liked it.

“Briggs, you’re forty.”

“I plan to live to be a hundred and twenty.”

Cahil laughed. “Oh, well, in that case … How, may I ask, do you plan to do that?”

“Clean living and an apple a day.”

“An apple a day keeps the grim reaper away?”

“That’s the theory I’m going on.”

Good ol’ Bear, Tanner thought. He and Cahil had been friends for nearly fifteen years, having first survived Navy Special Warfare training together, and then ISAG, or Intelligence Support Activity Group selection. In those early days, Cahil’s fiercely loyal and ever-reliable nature had won him the nickname “Mama Bear.”

After IS AG’s disbandment due to Pentagon politics, he and Cahil — who were only two of the sixty operators to survive ISAG training’s 90 percent attrition rate — were recruited by former spymaster Leland Dutcher to join a Reagan-era experiment called Holystone Group.

In the intelligence community, Holystone was called a “fix-it-shop”, a semiautonomous CIA-fronted organization that handled tasks that were deemed too delicate for direct government action. Since Holystone worked outside normal channels — or, “on the raw”—it was completely deniable. In short, if a Holystone employee got caught doing something he or she shouldn’t be doing, somewhere he or she shouldn’t be, they were on their own. As Dutcher was fond of saying, “It’s a brutal necessity. Brutal for us, necessary for the job.”

For all that, for all the ups and downs he’d seen since joining Holystone — including losing his wife, Elle, in a skiing accident — Tanner counted himself lucky to be working with people like Dutcher and Cahil. They were family.

“Speaking of wives and children and such,” said Bear. “Have you heard from Camille lately?”

“We talked last week. She’s in Haifa.”

“You’re kidding?”

“Nope. Mossad hired her as a security consultant.”

Up until six months ago Camille had been a Mossad katsa, or case officer. Her career — and nearly her life — had been cut short when she bucked her superiors to save Tanner’s life aboard a ship bound for Tel Aviv. Thanks to the intercession of then-President John Haverland, Camille had been allowed to retire with honor and impunity from Mossad service. That the Israelis had even allowed her back into the country was extraordinary: Mossad was not known for its magnanimity.

Though neither of them had said it aloud, Tanner knew he and Camille had reached the same conclusion about their relationship. Given their respective careers and given the fact that neither was ready to quit, the best they could hope for was an on-again off-again romance. It could be worse, Tanner realized. He could not have her in his life at all. Camille was a wonderful woman, and if the circumstances were different … Well.

“Whoa!” Cahil called. “Looks like our girl’s got a bite.”

Tanner looked over his shoulder. Lucy Cahil was sitting on her haunches, feet dug into the sand, her fingers white around the jerking pole. She was losing the battle. Whatever was on the other end was more than a match for her — and still she wasn’t calling for help. Stubborn like her father.

Cahil’s cell phone started ringing; he tossed it to Tanner, then jogged over to Lucy. Tanner flipped open the phone. “Hello?”

“Briggs, its Leland.”

“Evening, Leland.”

“Have you got some time?”

“Sure, when?”

“Right now.”

Tanner hesitated; there was an unaccustomed hardness in his boss’s voice. “What’s going on?”

“You remember Treble?” Dutcher asked.

Tanner remembered; for twelve years it had never been far from his mind. “I remember.”

“We just got word: He may be alive, Briggs.”

Though he would never admit it publicly, Special Agent Paul Randall revered his boss. Charlie Latham was a near legend, the Bureau’s top CE&I expert since the early eighties, but that kind of blatant veneration didn’t play well in J. Edgar’s house. Besides, Latham himself would never stand for it. “Do your job, do it discreetly, and let glory worry about itself” was one of his favorite aphorisms.

Having followed Latham’s career since he was a brick agent in Robbery, Randall knew his boss’s CV backward and forward. He’d been involved in most of the big ones — Kocher, Pollard, Walker, and just six months ago, the capture of former-KGB illegal and fugitive Yuri Vorsalov. But what impressed Randall most when he finally got his long-awaited transfer was that Latham was a regular guy — a “stand-up guy” in FBI parlance.

Quiet, unassuming, and quick to share credit, Latham was not the Hollywood image of a spy hunter: medium height, wiry, and bald save a monkish fringe of salt-and-pepper hair. Latham was an “everyman.” You could pass him on the street and never give him a second glance, which is exactly what so many of his targets had done.

This morning Latham was preoccupied. Randall knew he’d been called out the night before by Harry Owens, that it involved a homicide, but that was all — almost all, that is. “We’re gonna get a hot one, Paul,” Latham had said upon walking into his office. “Clear your plate.”

If the “hot one” was in fact this homicide, there had to be a connection to his boss’s past. But what? Randall wondered. What would draw them into the grisly murder-suicide of an entire family?

Latham was sipping his second cup of coffee when the phone rang. “Charlie Latham.”

“Charlie, it’s Harry. Come on down, will ya?”

“On my way.”

“Owens?” asked Randall. Latham nodded. “You planning to fill me in anytime soon?”

Latham looked at his partner; the eagerness was plain in his eyes. “Yeah. Later.”

Latham walked to the elevator and took it up one floor. As he stepped off, a pair of men stepped aboard. Latham recognized both of them: the DCPD police commissioner and the Park Police district commander. Each man gave him a solemn nod.

Sympathy or anger? Latham wondered. Or a little bit of both?

They’d just come from Owens’s office and knowing Harry, the turf fight over the Baker murders had likely been short and bloodless. Though each cop probably loathed having his territory invaded, each was probably breathing a sigh of relief as well. If they only knew, Charlie thought.

He stepped past them into Owens’s office. Owens, a jowly man with bloodhound eyes, was on the phone; he pointed Latham to a chair and kept talking. “Yes, sir, I just met with them. We’ll have their full cooperation. Yes, sir.”

Owens hung up. “The director,” he explained.

“Wow, Harry, two ‘yes sirs’ in one conversation.”

“You only caught the tail end; I was already into the double digits. Wanna trade jobs?”

“Sorry, I couldn’t admin my way out of a paper bag.”

“And I couldn’t spot a spy if he were in my bathtub. The Baker case is ours. DCPD and the Park Police signed off.”

“How much do they know?”

“Not much. Truth is, I don’t think they want to know.”

“Any word from the medical examiner?”

“Tomorrow, probably. Crime scene should have things wrapped up by tonight.”

“They won’t find much.”

“I know. Baker’s home computer is already at the lab.”

“I’m going over to Commerce, talk to Baker’s boss. I want to know what he was working on. Can you put in a call—”

“Already did. They’re expecting you.”

“Expecting me, but not happy about it?”

“They probably thought they’d have a little more time to get their ducks in a row.”

“I don’t want their ducks in a row.”

Either way it went, the murders were going to shine badly on Commerce. If Baker was simply a homicidal nut, the media would be asking why Commerce’s screening missed it; if he turned out to be dirty and it had gotten him and his family killed, Commerce would be swarmed by investigators.

“If they start talking to the press,” Latham said, “it could foul up our case.”

“Then you’ll have to put the fear of God into them.”

“Yep. After Commerce I thought I’d drive up to Dannemora and see Cho.”

Owens frowned. “He’s a tough son-of-a-bitch, Charlie. You think he’ll tell you anything?”

Latham shrugged. “I’ll plant the seed and see where it takes us.”

“National destiny must not be decided by the few!” Vladimir Bulganin shouted, his amplified voice echoing through the square. “The purpose of an election is to make manifest the will of the people! Your will! And I tell you this, my friends: The bond between a public servant and his people is….” Bulganin paused. “To break that bond—that trust! — is nothing short of betrayal!”

The crowd of ten thousand roared its approval, the cheers drowning out the sounds of the city around them. Spread throughout the crowd were dozens of Bulganin’s security men—“The Guardians” of the Russian Pride Party — all wearing navy peacoats and crimson armbands. On nearby streets, traffic had ground to a halt and drivers stood beside their cars. At the edge of the square, local reporters filmed the event, and beyond them a line of Moscow Militia officers stood at parade rest.

Very good, thought Ivan Nochenko. He hit it right this time. Timing was as important as content — perhaps more so.

If not a perfect pupil, Bulganin had a natural feel for collective emotion. Unfortunately, the man often let passion override craft. Perception was everything; perception always conquered truth. Most people’s decisions were guided by the heart, not by the mind. Win the heart and you can convince any public — especially an impassioned Russian public — to vote a chimp into office.

Nochenko knew his business. He’d spent twenty of his thirty years in the KGB weaving fiction into propaganda and truth into fiction. The art of propaganda was, after all, nothing more than the blue-collar cousin of public relations.

Nochenko had seen much in his time: Mine collapses in the Urals, nuclear submarine sinkings in the Chukchi, mini-Chemobyls in the wastes of Siberia, rocket explosions in Yavlosk … Thousands of lives and hundreds of near disasters about which the world had never learned.

Nochenko had loved his work and occasionally, in moments of private self-indulgence, he understood why: influence. Kings rule countries, but the king who relies on truth is a king soon dethroned. Information is the true power and those who control information are the true kings. Nochenko’s mentor, Sergei Simov, had said it best: “Truth is a lie, a tale told by men frightened by the vagaries of life. Get enough people to believe a lie and it becomes truth.”

Days gone by, Nochenko thought, watching Bulganin conclude his speech. The days before we started believing the tale told by NATO … Truth was, the Soviet died long before the wall came down; her death rattle began the day the Politburo started believing they were losing the great game.

He ached for those heady days, and for years after leaving the KGB he’d thought they were gone forever. Then he’d found Vladimir Bulganin. Bulganin would be his final triumph. Cover up the deaths of a hundred coal miners? Child’s play. Erase from history a nuclear submarine lost to the icy waters of the Atlantic? Masturbation. But take a raw, unknown peasant — a goddamned shoe factory foreman! — from Omsk to the grandest seat of power in all of Russia … That was a feat.

Bulganin was wrapping up: “And so my countrymen, we stand at a precipice. Your votes will decide whether the Motherland plummets over the edge, or she takes wing and soars. I know what I choose. I know what I’m prepared to do for the Motherland, but only you can decide on whom to bestow your faith. I promise you this, my friends: If that person is to be me, I will never tire of the burden, and I will never betray your faith!”

The crowd went wild, ten thousand voices cheering as one, caps flying into the air and scarves waving in the breeze. To Nochenko, the cacophony was a symphony, a perfect blending of frustration and hope. They’re turning, Nochenko thought. They’re almost there.

​To Bousikaris’s surprise, it hadn’t taken much to bring his boss around to his way of thinking. For all his flaws, President Phillip Martin had a well-honed sense of survival.

Despite the pleasant mask Martin had donned while listening to the ambassador’s “proposal,” Bousikaris had seen the signs: the pulsing jaw, the tapping finger on the chair’s armrest …

The explosion had come the instant the door closed: “Those sons-of-bitches! Who do they think they’re dealing with? Terrorists, my ass. They’re up to something, Howard! They’re trying to screw me! Well, they’re in for a surprise …”

Bousikaris let him rant for a few minutes, then said. “Phil, we don’t know anything.”

“They’re blackmailing—”

“They’re leveraging. There’s a difference.” Is there! Bousikaris thought. In this case, not really, but the sooner he could get Martin on track, the sooner they could start thinking of a way out. “They’re looking for help. They’re worried we’ll be less than enthusiastic about it.”

“Bullshit,” growled Martin.

“Look, it happens in Congress every day. You know that. This is the same thing, just on a larger scale.” Bousikaris stepped forward, placed his fists on the desk, and stared hard at Martin. “Phil.”

“What!”

“Listen to me: This is a game you know how to play. This is what you do best. Don’t let anger put you off your game.”

Martin stared back, then took a deep breath, and nodded. “Okay, right. What do we do?”

With a nod from their escort, Leland Dutcher and his deputy at Holystone, Walter Oaken, stepped off the elevator into Dick Mason’s outer office. As Dutcher had expected, Mason’s secretary, Ginny, was waiting. Ginny had been Dutcher’s assistant when he’d served as DDI years before.

“Leland!” She gave him a hug. “I heard you were coming. ”

“Ginny, I doubt there’s much you don’t hear. Here’s hoping you’re never kidnapped.”

“Oh, lord, who would want me? I’m a glorified typist.”

“Sure you are. You remember Walt.”

“Of course. Nice to see you again, Mr. Oaken.”

“You, too, Ginny.”

Tall and gangly and stoop-shouldered, Oaken was not only Holystone’s second-in-command, but also its “chief scrounger and cobbler,” as Dutcher was fond of saying. Whether it was information, equipment, or documentation, if somebody needed it, Oaken either had it or knew where to find it. A former division head at the State Department’s Bureau of Intelligence Research, Oaken had been Dutcher’s first recruitment for Holystone.

Dutcher nodded toward Mason’s door. “Who’s waiting for us in there?”

Ginny said, “Mr. Mason, Mr. Coates, and Ms. Albrecht.”

“Ah, the big three.”

George Coates and Sylvia Albrecht were Mason’s Deputy Directors of Operations, and Intelligence, respectively. When Mason first came aboard as DCI, he’d done some house-cleaning, which included the hiring and firing of two sets of DDs until he’d found a pair that could set aside the intra-departmental infighting that had become endemic at Langley. Coates and Albrecht were a rare breed, content to let hard work and merit, rather than political acumen, decide their careers. It helped that Mason set a good example; the DCI had little stomach for politics and worked tirelessly to keep it out of Langley. Gruff and grizzled but always fair, Mason was the epitome of a CIA cold warrior: A good man to have on your side, a terrible man to have against you.

Mason’s door swung open. “Dutch, Walt. Thought I heard your voices. Not trying to steal Ginny away, are you?”

“It’s crossed my mind.”

“Forget it. She’s a company woman to the bone.”

Ginny waved a dismissive hand. “Go, both of you. I’ve got work to do.”

Dutcher and Oaken took their seats in a pair of chairs around the coffee table. Sunlight streamed through the window, casting shadows on the burgundy carpet. After greetings were exchanged and coffee poured, Mason came to the point. “Leland, how much do you remember about Ledger?”

“The defection of Chinese PLA General Han Soong. I was DDI then. We put together the assessment and background, but after it went to Operations, I lost track of it. Rumor was it was handed to ISAG for execution. I later learned Briggs was involved, but that was before Holystone.”

ISAG, or Intelligence Support Activity Group, was a multiservice hybrid experiment that had gathered together SpecWar experts from the navy, army, air force, marines, and FBI, and put them through a course designed by the CIA. The goal was to create operators armed with superior military and intelligence training, a combination that had thus far been shunned by the military and the intelligence communities.

The training lasted two years and covered an astonishing range of skills: languages, agent handling, weapons, improvised demolitions, evasion and escape, communications, deep cover, surveillance and countersurveillance … If there was even a remote chance of it coming up in the field, it was taught.

“As I understand it, the defection fell through,” Dutcher continued. “Soong was arrested the day he was going into the pipeline. What I’d always wondered was why IS AG got the job.”

“Soong requested a controller with military background; Tanner fit the profile. As it turned out, it was a good call. The Guoanbu and PSB were waiting at the meeting site. You and Briggs never talked about Ledger?”

“No. I don’t think it’s his favorite topic.”

“Understandable,” said Mason. “He was Soong’s controller for three months. They got close.”

And Briggs has been playing the what-if game ever since, Dutcher thought.

Dutcher knew and loved Tanner like a son. The same reasons that made Tanner good at what he did were the same reasons that got him in trouble. He was tenacious — occasionally to a fault — and in this business, the ability to detach yourself was often a necessity of survival. Tanner’s “detachment instinct” was flawed — not dangerously so, but just enough to cause him heartache from time to time. Of course, Dutcher thought, there was no formula. In the end, pragmatism was perhaps the best measure. If it works, leave it alone.

And Tanner worked. He not only got the job done, but he could also sit alone in a room with himself afterward without going crazy. The best ones could. The ones who couldn’t, or the ones that didn’t let themselves, weren’t long for the business — or this world, for that matter.

Dutcher said, “Why the history lesson, Dick?”

“Three days ago our station chief in Beijing was contacted by someone in China’s Ministry of Agriculture — a mid-level bureaucrat named Bian. The pitch was subtle, ambiguous.”

“Or so Brown thought,” Coates added and slid the report across the table.

Dutcher picked it up and read it, then said, “Interesting trick with the pen. Very old school.”

“Probably picked it up from a LeCarre novel,” said Sylvia Albrecht. “Cliché or not, it works.”

“There’s nothing here about the message’s content.”

Coates slid over another folder. The message was short, written in small block letters:

The laogi … Dutcher suppressed a shiver.

Laogi was the Chinese word for the government prison system — or “reeducation centers”—but had come to describe any one of the hundreds of gulaglike camps spread throughout China. Once you went into a laogi, you either died there or you came out forever changed, a reconditioned zombie. Dutcher had once met a Brit who’d served two years in a laogi. By all accounts, the man had received decent treatment in comparison to his fellow Chinese inmates, but still he’d been a shell: unable to sleep more than an hour at a time, plagued with migraine headaches and permanently slurred speech, incapable of holding down a job or a relationship … They’d killed him, but left him alive.

Oaken said, “If Soong is really alive, will he be the same man we dealt with twelve years ago?”

Mason nodded. “That’s the rub.”

“I don’t like any of it,” Coates said. “The demand for Tanner, the stipulation that Bian is our only conduit … We have to consider this might be a ruse.”

“To what end?” Albrecht countered. “To get Tanner back? I doubt it. Sure, he almost stole the PLA’s best general, but all this for revenge? I don’t see it.”

“Then the other option: a plant. They’ve had twelve years to recondition Soong. We get him back, he starts planting disinformation …”

“They’d have to know we’d put him under the microscope first.”

“Twelve years, Sylvia,” Coates repeated. “Hell, put me in a laogi that long and they could convince me my mother’s a goddamned beach ball.”

Dutcher agreed. Conviction and honesty were two sides of the same coin. The first created the appearance of the second. Believe a lie strongly enough and it becomes your truth. Still, in the end it wouldn’t matter; they had no choice but to go back in for Soong. Until his defection attempt, he’d been China’s premier military strategist for three decades; he was a potential gold mine.

As if reading Dutcher’s mind, Mason said, “We speculate all we want, but the fact is, we can’t ignore this. If there’s any chance at all of getting Soong, we have to take it. Dutch?”

“I’ll talk to Briggs.” And I know what he’ll say, Dutcher thought. In Briggs’s mind, he’d failed Soong and his family. If there was even a remote chance to get them out, Tanner would take it.

Coates said, “Let’s say Tanner’s up for this … That doesn’t solve our biggest problem.”

“What’s that?” asked Sylvia Albrecht.

Dutcher answered. “We have to assume Soong gave the Guoanbu everything. Twelve years ago or twelve days ago, it doesn’t matter: The Guoanbu has a long memory. Tanner is still a face in China. He may not even make it past the border.”

With the groaning of gears, the massive steel doors shut behind Guoanbu Chief Kyung Xiang.

There were several seconds of complete darkness before the generators kicked on and the lights flickered to life. Stretching into the distance along the walls, fluorescent lights cast pale shadows across the stone floor. From wall to wall the corridor was two hundred yards wide, the vaulted ceilings extending 30 feet above their heads.

“Amazing,” murmured Xiang’s deputy, Eng.

“Indeed,” replied the base commander. “This tunnel extends two kilometers to the north. There are eight elevators, four on each side. Below us lay three sublevels, each three hundred meters wide. Crew quarters and support areas are on the lowermost level.”

“How many men?”

“Six hundred.”

Amazing indeed, thought Xiang. Ten years under construction, this base was the largest of its kind in the world. It was an unprecedented feat. Of course, compared to the Great Wall or the Three River Gorges Dam, the base’s construction had been a straightforward engineering problem. What made this special was the fact that the outside world knew nothing about it.

All their satellites, all their spies, and still they couldn’t see what was right in front of them.

Thousands of workers, all carefully screened and monitored, all transported in and out of the project area without ever knowing where they were … And only a fraction of them — most of them specially trained PLA soldiers — had known what they were building.

What a surprise we will give them.

Before long, the world’s intelligence agencies would be asking the same question: How did they do it? The answer was so simple it probably wouldn’t occur to them: Patience and focus. Conditioned by thousands of years of history, the Chinese people did not think in the short term. The Great Wall took thousands of years to build; the Three River Gorges Dam over a decade. Americans complain if a mega-mall or high-rise apartment building takes more than six months to build. To the Chinese people, six months was but a flicker. True greatness is measured in generations, sometimes centuries.

And what of personal greatness? Xiang thought. That too can come and go in a flicker. After the Soong debacle Xiang had had to scrabble to merely survive. The Guoanbu did not suffer failure gladly. After those initial years, amazed to find himself alive, Xiang had begun the long climb up the MSS ladder: enemies to be eliminated, competition to be discredited, victories to be invented. Xiang often wondered if the defection attempt had been a blessing in disguise. It had made him a harder man, and that’s what China needed: Hard men who could make hard choices.

Soong had cost him much. Of course, the good general was now paying the price: China’s greatest general, now a rat in a cage, knowing every day he would never see the outside world again. But there were other debts outstanding, weren’t there? The man who’d nearly stolen away Soong was alive and free. The insult was almost too much to bear. Thinking of it now, Xiang could feel that old familiar gnawing in his belly …

He stopped himself. Focus. The past was done. The future … Well, a large part of the future — both China’s and his own — depended on this base and the role it would play in the coming months.

“… we should be fully operational in four days,” the base commander was saying. “The final tests will be completed tomorrow.”

Xiang gazed down the length of the tunnel. “And the men?” he asked. “They are ready?”

“We conduct full drills three times a day. They’re ready.”

Eng’s cell phone, whose frequency had been linked to the base’s internal communication system, trilled. Eng answered, listened for a moment, then hung up. He walked over to Xiang and whispered, “Message from Qing. It’s done.”

“What about the family?”

“Them, too.”

“Complications?”

“None,” Eng replied. “It went flawlessly.”

Latham collected Randall and then called Commerce’s Office of Investigations to let them know he was on his way. Though it had no authority beyond itself, the COI was touchy about its turf; Latham didn’t expect a warm greeting.

They were met in the lobby by the COI’s director. “Morning, gentlemen,” he said with a humorless smile. “If you’ll follow me, the director is expecting you.”

He led them to the elevators and up five floors to a corner office decorated with potted palms and Ansel Adams prints. The director and another man were waiting for them; both were standing.

Nervous boys, Latham thought. It was understandable.

The director strode over, hand outstretched. “Agent Latham, Frank Jenkins. This is — excuse me, was—Larry Baker’s supervisor, Bud Knowlton.”

Latham introduced Randall and everyone sat down.

“We were devastated to hear about Larry,” Jenkins began. “He’s going to be missed.”

Straight from the Bureaucrat’s Book of Platitudes, Latham thought. He absently wondered if Jenkins even knew Baker. Doubtful, he decided.

“You’ll have our full cooperation,” Jenkins concluded.

“Thank you,” Latham said. “Before we get started, I want to make sure everyone understands the ground rules. We’re investigating the deaths of a federal employee, his wife, and their two young children. It doesn’t get any worse than that.”

“Yes, of course—”

“If we get any leaks — even a trickle — out of your office, or if your PR people talk to the press, we’re going to start handing out obstruction-of-justice charges.”

Jenkins stiffened in his chair. “Agent Latham, there’s no need to get—”

“I assume you’ve already called the Public Affairs director?”

“Well, of course. She needs to—”

“All she needs to know is this: No leaks, no talking to the press. She can use the standard ‘can’t jeopardize an ongoing investigation,’ but beyond that, not one word.”

“Obviously you don’t understand our position. If the press suspects we’re—”

“Dump it on us. Tell them you’re cooperating fully, but the FBI has requested that you make no statements until the investigation is concluded.”

Jenkins thought about that. “I suppose we could do that. Okay. How else can we help?”

“Tell us everything you know about Larry Baker and what he was working on.”

An hour later Latham and Randall walked out of commerce and got into their car.

“Well?” asked Randall.

“Either Baker had the most boring job in the world, or they’ve already circled the wagons.”

According to Jenkins and Knowlton, the most controversial issue Baker had had on his plate was hearing-aid technology that a U.S. company was trying to sell to Ireland, an item which, according to Commerce’s Office of the Inspector General could be considered an “Advanced Electronic Device.” Until it was cleared, Knowlton explained, the hearing aid would remain on the NCTL, or National Critical Technologies List.

“Our tax dollars at work,” Randall said.

“Yep,” said Latham. “My guess is they’re reviewing his files right now. Once they’re satisfied there are no grenades laying around, they’ll call us, apologize, then turn over the files.”

“And if they find something? Into the shredder?”

“I doubt it. Better to lose it than find it later if they have to; they have no way of knowing Baker was making copies.”

“We could subpoena them, the records — everything.”

“We’ll see. Let’s check with the lab, see if they got anything from Baker’s computer. After that, how do you feel about a trip to Dannemora?”

“As in the prison? What for?”

The fatherly part of Latham didn’t want to bring Randall into this, but if he and Owens were right about where this case was going, Paul deserved to know. “I’ll explain on the way.”

The lab had nothing for them, so they caught the shuttle to New York, then another north to Albany, where they rented a car and took 87 north toward Dannemora. Once Latham had the cruise control set, they both leaned back and enjoyed the scenery.

“So,” Paul said. “The story.”

“You remember the Callenato murders in New York about six years ago?”

“A city councilman and his family, right? There was almost another one, too, but a beat cop broke it up before it happened. Caught the guy, as I remember — some nutcase named …”

“Hong Cho.”

“Right.”

A naturalized citizen from Hong Kong, Cho had been hired by the Callenato crime family as a freelance enforcer. The councilman Cho had murdered had been under investigation by a joint FBI-NYPD Organized Crime Task Force for funneling work to Callenato-owned construction firms. The Callenatos, not only suspecting the councilman of cooperating with the police, but of helping himself to a larger percentage than they’d agreed upon, decided it was time to be rid of the man.

Late one August night, Cho broke into the councilman’s home, tied up his wife and three children, then shot each of them execution style. Initially it had been ruled a robbery/homicide, but the ME later determined several hours had elapsed between the time the family was tied up to the time they were killed.

“Both the cops and our people were baffled,” Latham continued. “What had Cho been doing for those two hours? The house hadn’t been tossed and there were no signs of torture. The mother and father’s wrists were rubbed raw, though, almost to the bone.”

“Like they were trying to get loose. Maybe Cho was putting the gun to the kid’s heads.”

“We had some profilers look at that. In most cases the parents — or whoever is being forced to watch it — don’t struggle much. They’re too busy pleading, trying to divert the attention away from their children. Struggling usually occurs when the parents are watching something being done to their kids.”

“But what? You said—”

“They figured it out when Cho tried to pull his next job, another local politician. A beat cop heard a scream from an apartment, broke in, and caught Cho in the act. The mother and father had been duct-taped to chairs, the kids on the floor in front of them.”

When the details of the crime finally reached the newspapers, Cho’s method of torture had shocked an otherwise unflappable city. Under the horrified eyes of the parents, Cho had inserted an air-filled syringe into a vein of one of the children and then proceeded to question the parents with his thumb on the plunger. For each untruthful answer he got, Cho would pump another air bubble into the child’s bloodstream, all the while describing to the parents what the accumulation of bubbles would eventually do to the child. Once he got the answers he wanted, Cho killed the family.

Randall stared openmouthed. “That’s brutal.”

“Cho was careful, too. He used a small-bore needle. The pinprick was almost invisible. The cops and agents involved were stunned — not just because of the cruelty of it, but because of the sophistication of the technique. Either he had a hell of an imagination, or he’d had some training.”

“That’s how you got involved?”

Latham nodded. “Harry was running the New York field office then; he called me, thought I might be able to help. With nowhere else to go, they started looking at terrorist groups and foreign organized crime.”

It had taken six months, but slowly Cho’s history began unraveling. The real Hong Cho had died of natural causes three years before in a Coral Gables, Florida, nursing home. Using sources from cases Latham had worked in the past, they soon suspected Cho was working for China’s Ministry of State Security, or Guoanbu. Latham assumed Cho had learned his skills from them.

“At first we thought maybe the Callenatos and the Guoanbu were in bed together, but it turned out Cho was simply moonlighting.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope. Of course, the PRC denied any knowledge of him. So Cho went away for the first murder and the attempted second. He got a hundred seventy years total.”

“And this murder last night—”

“Same signature as Cho’s work.”

“Except for the father. So you’re thinking the suicide was staged.”

“That’s my guess. If so, Baker was probably the target. The question is, What was so important the Guoanbu would slaughter an entire family?”

They signed in at the Clinton Correctional Facility’s front desk, turned over their guns, and followed an officer to a windowless interview room; it was painted light pink. The table and chairs were bolted the floor.

“So how’s he done here?” asked Randall. “Cons don’t care much for child killers.”

“I heard his first month was tough, but nobody messes with him now. The first two inmates that moved on him got hurt pretty badly. The last one ended up with a broken collarbone, a ruptured kidney, and a glass eye. Now nobody comes near him.”

“Wow.”

“Wait till you see him.”

As if on cue, the door opened. Two officers walked in. Waddling between them, shackled hand and foot, was a Chinese man in his mid-forties, slightly balding, with black, prison-issue glasses. Standing just a few inches over five feet, Hong Cho weighed no more than 120 pounds. His hands and wrists were small, almost delicate. He stared at the far wall, seemingly oblivious to their presence.

The guards sat him down, secured his ankles to the chair, his wrists to an eyelet bolted to the tabletop, then left.

“Hello, Hong,” said Latham.

Cho’s eyes flicked to him, then to Randall, then back to the wall.

Latham pulled out a chair and sat down across from Cho. “Hong, I’m not going to waste your time with small talk. There’s been a murder in Washington that looks a lot like your work. We’re onto the guy”—Cho’s eyes narrowed briefly, then went blank again—“but we’d like to keep it from getting bloody. If you know of any places—”

“No.”

“We’ve got him, Hong. He won’t get out of the country. You could make it easier for him.”

“You’re lying.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Why would you care about making it easier on anyone but yourself?”

“If we can pick him up without incident, there’s less chance of civilians getting hurt.”

Cho waved his hand dismissively: Collateral damage didn’t concern him.

“That’s okay,” Latham said. “I didn’t really expect you to help, but I had to give it a shot.”

“Long drive for nothing.”

“It happens.” Latham stood. “By the way, how’re they treating you?”

In response, Cho arched his head backward so his jumpsuit collar exposed his neck. Running diagonally across his larynx was a purple scar inlaid with black stitches. “Last week.”

Latham suppressed a shiver. “Shank?”

Cho nodded. “Too dull. He wasn’t fast enough.”

“What happened to him?”

Cho returned his gaze to the wall. “He went away.”

Outside in the hallway, Randall whistled between his teeth. “Hard-ass.”

“That he is.”

Latham asked their escort to take them to the warden’s office. Latham introduced himself and Randall. “Warden, we’re working a case and we think Cho might have something. Problem is—”

“Problem is, he’s a hard-ass.”

“Right. We saw his latest scar. What happened to the other guy?”

“Cho took the shiv away from him, used it to cut off his ear, then stuffed it in his mouth.”

“Very nice. Can we take a look at his visitor log? The last six months, maybe?”

“Sure.” The warden swiveled in his chair, dug through one of the filing cabinets, and handed Latham a file. “Not much there. Two visitors — the same since he got here.”

Latham scanned the log. “Stephen Yates?”

“His lawyer. Comes about once every six months.”

“What about this one: Mary Tsang.”

“Cho’s pen pal. Sort of a nutcase if you ask me — a soul saver. She started writing him as soon as he got here, said she’d read about his trial, and didn’t think he could have done what they accused him of — you know the rest.”

Latham did. Ted Bundy got more marriage proposals than hate mail. There was always someone — usually a well-meaning but slightly off-kilter woman — who thought love could soften the hardest of hearts.

Randal asked, “What’s their mail like?”

“Routine stuff.”

“And the visits?”

“The same. You can tell he enjoys her visits, though. He even cracks a smile once in a while.”

Latham said, “Could we get the particulars on her and the lawyer?”

“Sure.”

Walking out the main gates, Latham read the information on Mary Tsang. “Hmmph.”

“What?”

“She lives in Washington. That’s a long trip to make once a month.”

“Unless she flies — which is speedy — it’s a twelve-hour trip each way. Boy, that’s love.”

“Maybe. I think we should find out a little more about the dedicated Ms. Tsang.”

Thirteen months after the Tiananmen Square Massacre in Beijing, General Han Soong, chief of staff of the People’s Liberation Army, slipped his fateful note to a U.S. defense attaché. The general’s defection request sent shock waves through the CIA.

Already sickened by his government’s ever-worsening treatment of its citizens, Tiananmen Square had pushed Soong over the edge. He had only one condition: His handler must be a military man; with a CIA case officer, he explained, he had no bond. A military man was a comrade in arms. Regardless of flag or anthem, a soldier could be trusted.

Realizing the golden opportunity they’d been handed, the CIA didn’t argue and began looking for a controller. They found their man in the then-newly formed Intelligence Support Activity Group.

Tanner, a twenty-eight-year-old navy lieutenant commander not only had the skills and experience, but also the temperament to handle the environment. Tanner accepted the job and the preparations began. The operation was code-named Ledger, Soong was Treble.

Two months later he was in China. Two months after that, on the day Tanner was to evacuate them, Soong and his family were arrested. Just minutes ahead of PSB and Guoanbu pursuers, Tanner went to ground. Eighteen days later he appeared in Taipei and was evacuated.

Later, Harve Brandt, one of the old-timers in ISAG and a former CIA handler, tried to give Tanner a short course on why the incident had so shaken him. “You liked the guy; you liked his family. That’s natural, but it’s a mistake. Better to see ’em for what they are: Product. Sometimes you deliver the product, sometimes you don’t.”

Tanner told Harve to stick his product up his ass.

So soon after China, it was still heavy in Tanner’s heart: He’d screwed up. He didn’t know how or where, but there was no other explanation. Eventually he managed to trade that conviction for the realization that no matter the cause — whether it was his fault or nobody’s fault — Soong, his wife, and his daughter were either dead or rotting inside a laogi.

Lion Soong … She’d been twenty then, which made her thirty-two now — if she was even still alive, that is. Laogis were especially hard on women, it was said. Maybe it would be better if she were—

No no no …

God, how he’d loved her. During the early days of the affair, that rational voice in the back of Tanner’s mind had tried to warn him off, but it was too late. They were already caught up in each other.

Later, it was the not knowing that haunted him most. Had the affair distracted him from the job? If he’d stuck to business, would Soong and his wife be running a deli in Tallahassee or a nursery in Seattle? Would he and Lian have—

The telephone broke Tanner’s reverie. He stared at it, then reached out and picked it up.

“Briggs, it’s Leland. I’m back.”

“And?”

“You may want to dust off your passport.”

Dutcher arrived an hour later. Tanner made coffee and they sat on the deck overlooking the cove; beyond it, a rain squall was closing over the bay.

Dutcher recounted to Tanner his meeting at Langley. “Whether he’s really still alive or not …”

“What do we know about the embassy’s contact?”

“Chang-Moh Bian. Not much. Mason’s going to ask his station chief to arrange a face-to-face. If Soong is still alive and Bian is in contact with him, he’ll have some details.”

My God, Tanner thought, could he really be alive? After all this time, was it possible?

“Here’s the interesting part,” Dutcher said. “Soong won’t accept anyone else. Just you.”

“Just like last time.”

“Yep. It’s got Mason nervous.”

Tanner understood. However remote, all this could be a setup designed to lure him back into China. Though Kyung Xiang had managed to rise to the top of the Guoanbu, his career — and life, possibly — had hung in the balance for several years after the Soong affair. Could Xiang have been waiting all this time for a chance to get his hands on Tanner?

Briggs didn’t think so. Xiang was a professional. It was unlikely he would hold a grudge this long — even more unlikely that he’d create this scenario to satisfy that grudge. Still, as the head of Guoanbu, Xiang had enormous power. If he wanted a little revenge, who would deny him?

The more likely scenario was that Soong himself was a plant. After this long they could have turned him into a marionette. The professional side of Tanner’s brain couldn’t discount the idea, but the emotional side — the side that still considered Soong a friend — refused to believe it

“The truth is,” Dutcher said, “whether this is genuine or fake isn’t the issue.”

“I know: Dick’s a little worried about my head.”

“He knows you’ve got the skills, but the environment … Hell, this is China. The Guoanbu, PSB, and PAP are forces unto themselves. Given what you went through last time….”

The odds are against me, Tanner thought. Too much emotional investment; too much “preexposure” to the target country; too many triggers that might derail him. In the eyes of the CIA, he was a bad gamble. Problem was, if they wanted Soong, they had no choice but to use him.

“Leland, there’s something else you should know. While I was there, Soong’s daughter and I … There was something between us.”

Dutcher stared at him. “Pardon me?”

“It was my first time on this kind of op; I was young … stupid. It shouldn’t have happened—”

“Damn right it shouldn’t—”

“—but it did.”

Dutcher exhaled. “Christ, Briggs.”

“I know.” Like her father, Lian had probably broken and told the MSS everything; if Tanner went back into China, she could be used as leverage against him.

Dutcher asked, “Did this thing with her affect the outcome?”

“I don’t think so,” replied Tanner. God, I hope not.

Dutcher studied his face, then nodded. “We’ve still got a problem. I have to tell Mason.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Briggs—”

“Leland, I can do this.” Tanner suddenly felt slimy. Leland was more than a boss; he was like a second father. Was he trading on their relationship for a chance to ease his own conscience? I can do this…. Was he certain? “I can do the job.”

Dutcher sighed and shook his head. “God almighty … I must be getting soft in my old age. Okay: What Dick doesn’t know can’t hurt him. But I’ll tell you this: If it goes wrong, they’re gonna hang us both from the nearest lamppost.”

Tanner smiled. “Then I’ll just make sure it doesn’t go wrong.”

Latham and Randall got back into town in the early evening and parted ways. When Charlie got home he found Bonnie standing at the kitchen counter. He kissed her, then looked down at the bowl she was stirring. “Is that that cold salsa soup stuff?”

“It’s called ‘gazpacho,’ Charlie. You like it”

“I do?”

“You said you did last time I made it”

Uh-oh. “Oh, yeah … gazpacho. I was thinking of that other stuff.”

Bonnie smiled. “Liar. Go shower. We’ll eat when you get done.”

An hour later, Latham decided he did in fact like gazpacho. How was it that Bonnie knew what he liked when he couldn’t even remember if he’d had it before? Ah, the joys of marriage … Bonnie was a wonderful wife and mother, and he made it a point to remind himself daily how lucky he was.

“Sammie called today,” Bonnie said. Their oldest daughter, Samantha, was a sophomore majoring in economics at William and Mary College. “She said to say hi.”

“Everything okay?”

“She’s just a little homesick, I think. Finals are next month; she’ll be home after that.”

“Good. I kinda miss the patter of … young adult feet around here.”

Bonnie gave him a sideways smile. “We could always—”

“Please tell me you’re kidding.”

“I’m kidding.”

The phone rang and Bonnie picked it up, listened, then handed it to Latham. “Hello?”

“Charlie, it’s Paul. The coroner’s done with the Bakers. She may have something for us.”

“I’ll meet you there.” He hung up and turned to Bonnie. “The Baker thing. Sorry.”

“It’s okay, go ahead. I’ve got paint swatches to look at.”

“Paint swatches?”

“We’re painting the kitchen, remember?” She shook her head and smiled. “Go, Charlie.”

The medical examiner, a gangly woman in her early fifties, was sitting in her office finishing the report. “Hello, Charlie. Been a while.”

“Not long enough, Margaret,” Latham replied. “No offense.”

“None taken.” She looked at Randall, and mock-whispered, “Charlie doesn’t much like morgues. I think he’s got a phobia about stainless steel.”

“Just one of his many quirks.”

“Come on, I’ll show what we found.”

She led them into the examining room. The air was thick with the tang of disinfectant. The tile floor reflected the grayish glare of the overhead fluorescent lights. Each of the room’s four stainless-steel tables were occupied: four sets of sheets — two adult-size, two child-size.

What used to be the Baker family, Charlie thought. He didn’t know how coroners did it. Two weeks in this place and he’d be drinking his lunch every day.

“First, the routine stuff,” said Margaret. “All were negative for narcotics or toxins. No signs of disease or degeneration in any of the major systems. Aside from bullet wounds in each of the victims and ligature marks on the extremities of the woman and the children, there were no gross injuries.”

“Did you check the syringe?”

“Yep. No toxins, no narcotics. It was brand-new — fresh out of its blister pack, in fact. There were minute traces of adhesive residue on it: the manufacturer uses it to keep the syringe seated in the pack while it’s going down the assembly line. If it had been handled any significant amount after opening, the residue would have been wiped off.”

“The needle?”

“Blood only. Type A positive; we matched it to the youngest child.”

Son of a bitch, Charlie thought. Part of him had been hoping against hope that he and Owens were wrong. Somewhere out there was at least one Second Bureau Guoanbu operative, perhaps more. But the question remained: Why kill Baker and his family?

“Did you recover the slugs?” Randall asked her.

“Yeah, but they’re in bad shape; you might get some metallurgy and rifling info, but it’s a toss-up. I sent them over to Quantico. My guess is nine millimeter. The mother’s wound is starfished, but there’re no powder burns or stippling.”

In cases of contact or near-contact gunshot wounds, the entry point is almost always bordered by radial tears, hence the “starfish” appearance. The lack of gunpowder burns or graphite “tattooing” on the skin could only mean one thing: The weapon had been equipped with a noise suppressor that had absorbed both the gas and the powder. That would explain why none of the neighbors had reported hearing anything unusual during the night.

“In the case of each child,” Margaret went on, “the bullets bisected the vertical axis of the skull, traveled down the neck, and lodged in the chest cavity.”

“Any idea about time of death?” asked Latham.

“Between nine and midnight.”

“What about the father?”

“He died after them, about an hour or so. Here’s where it gets interesting. Take a look.”

She drew down the sheet to reveal Larry Baker’s head. Except for the bruised swelling from the gunshot under his chin, his face was snow white. Margaret had partially reconstructed the exit wound on top of the skull, but still it looked like a jigsaw puzzle of blood, matted hair, and jagged bone.

Margaret pointed. “See the spot just above the entry wound … that indentation?”

“Looks like a sight stamp?” Latham said.

“Right. It’s from pressing the barrel hard against the skin. In suicides a stamp usually means the person wants to make sure they don’t miss, or they’re holding on tight so they don’t lose their nerve.”

“Okay …”

“Look to the right of the stamp. See the gouge in the skin? It’s the same pattern as the indentation.” She let it hang, looking from Randall to Latham.

“I don’t get it,” said Randall. “He moved the gun; he had second thoughts. So what?”

“No,” Latham said. “If you have second thoughts you lower the gun, then put it back. You don’t drag it around your skin. Think about it: You’re parked in your car, sitting in the driver’s seat. Someone’s next to you, in the passenger seat. Suddenly they pull out a gun, reach over”—Latham mimicked his words—“and put it under your chin. You react by jerking away, to the side.”

Now Randall caught on. “And if the gun’s pressed tightly enough, the site drags across the skin.”

Latham nodded. “Baker saw it coming. He tried to move, but wasn’t quick enough.”

It took some delicacy to make the inquiries without raising suspicion, but three days after the Chinese ambassador’s visit to the Oval Office, Chief of Staff Howard Bousikaris had confirmed the source of Martin’s eleventh-hour campaign contributions.

Though still unsure how China had done it, Bousikaris knew it didn’t matter. If made public, the evidence would be irrefutable. More importantly, no one would believe Martin was an unwitting dupe. The American public had no more stomach for corruption.

Having satisfied himself they’d been checkmated, he focused on the next step: How to turn defeat into a victory. First, however, they had to find out exactly what the Chinese wanted.

To get that answer, Bousikaris had left his home at midnight, drove his car to the Eastern Market metrorail stop, boarded the train, and taken it to the last stop, Addison Road. The ambassador’s instructions had been clear about the time and place of the meeting, if not the identity of his contact.

“Stand at the railing overlooking the parking lot on Adak,” the ambassador had said. “You will be approached by a person who will identify himself as Qing.”

The train squealed to a stop and Bousikaris stood up. There were only two other passengers in the car, a spiky-haired teenager and a businessman. Bousikaris resisted the impulse to pull up the collar of his trench coat. Relax. You’re just a man on a train, another late night commuter …

It was all very surrealistic, if not downright bizarre, Bousikaris thought. Here he was, chief of staff to the goddamned president of the United States, skulking around in the middle of the night like a character from an Ian Fleming novel. If not for the stakes, it might actually be amusing.

The doors opened. Bousikaris stepped out. The platform was deserted except for his two fellow riders, both of whom quickly disappeared down the steps to the street. The train’s doors whooshed shut and the train started out again, trailing scraps of trash in its wake.

Bousikaris looked down the platform, saw no one. He checked his watch: 12:55. He walked to the railing. Across the street he could see the streetlights encircling the parking lot. Except for a dozen cars, the lot was empty. A minute passed. Then two. Suddenly, a figure was standing beside him.

“You were not followed, Mr. Bousikaris.”

Bousikaris wasn’t sure if it was a question or a statement. “No, I wasn’t. You’re Qing?”

“I am.”

“I have to say, you’re … You’re not what I expected.”

Qing shrugged. “It’s unlikely we will meet again, but if it becomes necessary, I’ll leave a message in the Post’s classifieds. It will read, “Adrian, I love you. Come back. Always, Harmon.” Check the paper daily. If you see the ad, meet me here the following night at eleven p.m. Is that clear?”

“Yes.”

“I understand you’ve been told about our problem.” Qing handed across a 3.5-inch diskette. “On this are the details of what we want done, and how. Follow them precisely.”

Bousikaris hesitated. Very serious people. Qing was so businesslike it was unnerving. “At least give me an idea of what you’re asking.”

Qing considered this for a moment, then shrugged. It took two minutes of explanation.

“God, you can’t be serious,” Bousikaris rasped. “Do you have any idea what you’re asking?”

“Don’t ask stupid questions, Mr. Bousikaris. Of course we know. Follow the instructions.”

“That kind of operation you’re talking about is … complex. If even one part of it goes wrong, we could find ourselves in a goddamned shooting war.”

“Follow the instructions and nothing will go wrong.”

“So it’s official,” said Owens. “We can start worrying.”

“Yep,” replied Latham. “We’ve got at least two, maybe more, Guoanbu operatives out there. We’re gonna have to be careful with the media.”

“They’re treating it like a murder-suicide. Until you’re done that’s going to be our party line.”

“Good. Maybe these sons-of-bitches will let down their guard.”

“Maybe. You doing okay with this?”

“Yeah. It’s just … Christ, what they did to that family.”

“I know. You said two operatives. Why two?”

“Part deduction, part instinct. We know they gained entry at the kitchen door because one of the glass panes had been tapped out. I’m guessing they’d probably been watching the house, waiting for the lights to go out before moving.

“Once they were inside, they went to the master bedroom, woke Baker and his wife, then took him into another room and held him there. The second intruder rounded up the family and gathered them in the master bedroom, where they were tied up. Once done, Baker was taken in to see them.”

“Why?”

“To show him his family’s in jeopardy. To show him there’s nothing he can do about it. Here’s where it gets sketchy, but I think it fits: Baker is taken away again. They question him for a while, get nowhere, then start describing what they’re going to do to his family. He still balks. One of them takes him away again, this time in his car. They drive to Rock Creek Park.”

“Before his family is killed?”

“Right. It’s unlikely he would’ve been able to drive after seeing that. Once parked at Rock Creek, the intruder places a call to the Baker home.”

“We’ve checked—”

“One incoming call at eleven-forty. It was from a cell phone; lasted seven minutes. We tracked the phone; it was stolen from a woman’s car at a Bethesda shopping mall the day before the murder. We narrowed down the location to a cell that encompasses all of Rock Creek and about a mile beyond.”

“Why make the call?”

“So Baker can listen to his family being tortured.”

Owens’s face went pale. “Jesus.”

“At this point, Baker’s already been told what will happen to his family. His imagination is working overtime. He’s cut off from them, helpless, forced to listen as the other intruder works on them … It would be devastating. A couple minutes of that and even the toughest SOB would talk.”

“About what, though? What did he have they wanted? That’s the big question.”

“Exactly. So, hearing his wife and children screaming, Baker breaks. He tells the intruder everything he knows, or at least enough that the intruder is convinced they’ve wrung him out.

“Now, this is another guess, but at this point the intruder probably tells Baker it’s all over, that his family will be released. Baker relaxes, lets down his guard. The intruder reaches over, puts the gun under Baker’s chin, and pulls the trigger.”

Owens picked it up: “Then, as arranged, the second intruder kills the wife and kids, then leaves the house and picks up his partner.”

Latham nodded. The scenario contained a fair number of leaps, but it felt right.

“Where now?” Owens asked. As if on cue, his phone rang. He punched the speaker button. It was Randall: “Quantico’s working with Baker’s computer. They want us over there right away.”

“Something good?” Latham asked.

“Depends on how you define ‘good.’”

Vladimir Bulganin was in one of his moods, Nochenko realized.

Bulganin stood up from his desk, clasped his hands behind his back, and strode to the window. He parted the curtains and peered out. A shaft of sunlight fell on Bulganin’s face, and he lifted his chin and narrowed his eyes as though seeing something on the horizon.

Where are the cameras when you need them? Nochenko thought.

Bulganin looked like something out of a Cold War propaganda poster. All that was missing was a giant red sickle and hammer looming over his head. The stalwart Russian proletariat, a peasant thrust into service by the needs of the Motherland …

Nochenko couldn’t decide if these dramatic posturings of Bulganin’s were genuine or an affectation. It didn’t matter, really. Whatever the truth, Bulganin knew how to work a crowd — and that was why he was going to be the next president of the Federation.

“What’s wrong, Vladimir?” asked Nochenko. “You seem troubled.”

“You saw what happened last night. It was a debacle!”

The previous night’s speech in Gorky Park had drawn nearly twenty thousand people. The cheers and applause had been thunderous. With each passing day more voters swung their way. Soon their momentum would be unstoppable.

“I don’t understand,” Nochenko said. “The speech was a rousing success.”

“Yes, the speech was fine. I’m talking about the press conference. You were there, you saw!”

“What—”

“The questions! Those reporters … like dogs nipping at my heels. Always with details: gross domestic product, agricultural output, manufacturing infrastructure … Where’s their vision?”

“Vlad, that’s their job.”

“A country’s greatness is built on vision, not details,” Bulganin continued as though Nochenko hadn’t spoken. “When the Motherland called, I did not ask questions, I obeyed.”

Straight from Joseph Stalin’s handbook, Nochenko thought. Bulganin was not only an admirer of the old ways, but of the old leaders as well, especially Koba Stalin. It was an idiosyncrasy Nochenko preferred the public did not see; luckily, his pupil had thus far cooperated.

“Vladimir, we’ve discussed this,” Nochenko said. “As bothersome as it is, the media is powerful. It can shape the opinions of voters we can’t reach—”

“Ah! But don’t you see? The people who cast the votes decide nothing. The people who count the votes decide everything.”

Another damned Stalinism. “Perhaps long ago, but not anymore. The Federation is—”

“Russia, Ivan. They can dress up the name as they wish, but to true patriots it will always be Russia. The Motherland.”

“Yes, of course.”

Bulganin’s eyes narrowed. “You say the words, friend, but sometimes I wonder if you believe them. Do you, Ivan? Do you believe?”

Nochenko stared into Bulganin’s inscrutable eyes and again marveled at the man’s charisma; he could almost feel the power radiating from Bulganin like a wave. Another page from Koba’s playbook: An implacable gaze always enfeebles the blustering coward … There was only one response that would satisfy Bulganin when he got like this.

“You dare ask me that?” Nochenko snapped. “I served the Motherland! I toiled in her factories before you were born. Be very careful when you question my patriotism, Vladimir!”

There was a long silence as the two men stared at one another. Finally Bulganin’s face cracked into a beaming smile. He clapped Nochenko on the arms. “There! That’s what I like! Some fire from my compatriot! Well spoken, Ivan!”

Bulganin spun on his heel and strode back to his desk. “Back to work. We have much to do!”

Mason’s summons to the Oval Office had come directly from Bousikaris. When Mason arrived, the chairman of the joint chiefs, General Chuck Cathermeier, was already there. “You, too?”

“Yeah. Any clue?”

“None.”

The secretary’s phone buzzed. “General Cathermeier, Director Mason, you can go in.”

They found President Martin seated behind his desk, Bousikaris at his shoulder. Sitting in one of the chairs before Martin’s desk was Tom Redmond, the director of the Defense Intelligence Agency.

Interesting, thought Mason. Redmond was a recent political appointee, one of many Martin had brought aboard after his inauguration. As far as Mason was concerned, Redmond had about as much business running the DIA as a chimp had flying the space shuttle.

“Sit down, gentlemen,” Martin said. “We have a situation. Go ahead, Howard.”

“Director Redmond has uncovered some information regarding the sale of chemical weapons.”

“Uncovered how?” Mason asked.

“HUMINT,” answered Redmond, referring to human intelligence — eyeballs on the ground.

“Whose?”

“Ours.”

Crap, Mason thought. The DIA’s mandate did not include developing human assets. Redmond was either lying or he was spreading his wings. Either way, Mason was wary. It was no secret that Martin didn’t much care for him, and the DCI recognized a knee shot when he saw it.

“What kind of agent?”

Bousikaris answered: “A stringer. One of yours from long ago, in fact: a Kashmiri named Sunil Dhar. He was approached about seven months ago by a broker for the Japanese Red Army. They were looking for some sarin nerve gas and knew Dhar had contacts in the Russian black arms market.”

“By contacts, I assume you mean former military,” said Cathermeier.

“Correct; Dhar hasn’t given up a name, but it’s probably someone in the rocket forces.”

It took all of Mason’s discipline to hold his tongue. A DIA controller handling a former CIA agent, who’s brokering a deal for a terrorist group … None of it fit.

“We’re aware of Dhar,” Mason said. “We’ve never taken any of his product at face value; he likes playing both ends against the middle. Without corroboration, I’d be skeptical of his information.”

Martin smiled. “Dick, I know it stings a little that you missed this, but nobody’s blaming—”

“Mr. President, with all due respect—”

“This is a team effort, Dick. Don’t forget that.”

“Sir, I’m not concerned about saving face. Sunil Dhar is—”

Bousikaris said, “We feel Dhar’s information is solid. Now that we’re aware of the problem, we need solutions. To that end, Director Redmond came up with a plan. Tom, if you would.”

“According to Dhar, his contact will have the sarin at the delivery point within the next seventeen to twenty days,” said Redmond. “He’ll have a more exact time as it nears.”

“That’s where we’ll need your help, Dick,” Bousikaris said. “We want you to coordinate with the DIA and make sure this is the real deal.”

“Where’s the delivery point?” asked Cathermeier.

“Russia. The Bay of Vrangel, the port of Nakhodka-Vostochny. The cargo is to be transferred to a ship called the Nahrut. Once the cargo’s aboard, the ship will be heading for Rumoi, Japan.”

Martin said, “That ship cannot be allowed to leave port.”

Suddenly Mason realized where this was going. “Why not take it while it’s at sea? Board the ship, secure the cargo, detain Dhar and his crew.”

“Too risky,” said Bousikaris. “More to the point, the Russian’s have been playing fast and loose too long with their weapons of mass destruction. It’s time to send them a message.”

“By sinking a ship in the middle of the Bay of Vrangel? It’s an act of war, Howard.”

“The target ship will be of Liberian registry. The Russian government won’t—”

“They won’t Care if it’s a rubber dinghy. If we attack it in Russian waters, they’ll retaliate.”

President Martin broke in. “They can’t retaliate if they have no proof. The plan Tom has developed will get the job done without leaving any footprints.”

Tom Redmond couldn’t plan a sandwich, Mason wanted to say, but the spook inside him told him to shut up and listen. “Okay,” he said, “Let’s hear it.”

Redmond spoke for ten minutes, outlining the plan from start to finish.

Cathermeier asked, “Who do you plan to put on the ground?”

Redmond told him. “It would be a small team. Four to six men.”

“Insertion method?”

“Submarine.”

There were a few seconds of silence as Cathermeier considered the plan. Finally he said, “Good plan, wrong scenario.”

“That’s a political issue,” Bousikaris said. “Let us worry about that.”

“You’re talking about putting armed men onto the soil of another country,” said Cathermeier. “Doing that under any circumstances is dicey, but doing it with shaky intel is—”

“General, what we need to know from you is, can you put it together? Is it feasible?”

“I need to run it by my J-3—”

“No. We’re keeping the loop tight on the operation. What’s your answer, General?”

“It’s feasible, but I have to tell you, I have serious misgivings about this.”

Mason said, “As do I.”

“Goddamnit!” Martin roared. “What—”

Bousikaris stepped forward, placed a restraining hand on Martin’s shoulder, and said, “Gentlemen, you’re cautiousness is appreciated, but the time for debate is over. Your commander-in-chief has given an order. If you can’t carry it out, say so now.”

The gauntlet was down, Mason realized. Whatever was happening here, it was serious enough that Martin was willing to end careers to get it done. Cathermeier would obey because he was duty bound to do so. As for himself, if he refused to go along, he’d be out, and while that in itself didn’t bother Mason, he wanted to know what Martin was up to. To do that, he had to stay.

“Mr. President, I’ve voiced my objections. That said, you give the order, I’ll do my part.”

Martin nodded, then looked to Cathermeier. “General?”

Cathermeier shrugged. “I’ll start the ball rolling.”

Tanner found Oaken in his office. Lined with floor-to-ceiling bookcases, filing cabinets, a map wall, and three computer workstations, this was Oaken’s second home, a fact to which his wife, Beverly, would readily attest.

Oblivious to Tanner’s entrance, Oaken reclined in his chair doodling on a yellow legal pad.

“Let me guess,” Tanner said, leaning on the doorjamb, “You’re planning an expedition to K2.”

Oaken looked up. “Huh?”

“Everest?”

“Very funny.”

Of the thousands of interests that occupied Oaken’s mind, outdoor adventure was not one of them. The closest he’d come to the wilderness in the past six months was watching Wild Kingdom reruns. “That Marlon Perkins guy has the right idea,” he’d told Tanner. “Letting that Jim guy do all the work. He doesn’t even wear shoes, did you know that? Talk about unsanitary …” From there the discussion had deteriorated into his musings about tetanus boosters and parasitic infections.

For all Oaken’s quirks and for their dissimilarities, Tanner considered himself lucky to not only have Walt on his side, but to also count him as a friend.

“Algebra,” Oaken replied. “Polynomials, sequences … It helps me clear my head.”

“Algebra helps you clear your head.”

“It’s concrete. The answer’s either right or wrong. It’s … refreshing. So, what’s up?”

“I’m wondering if you’re up to a little research project.”

Oaken’s eyes twinkled. “Have you ever known me not to be? What’s the topic?”

“Double agents.”

Since hearing about Soong’s contact, Tanner had been looking at Ledger with fresh eyes. Of the dozens of things that might have caused its failure, he kept returning to the same theory: Someone in his network had been either a double or an informant.

He’d spent much of his time in Beijing running counter-surveillance — following Soong before and after meetings, watching dead drops, staking out meeting places, setting up wave-off locations — Anything and everything that might force the hands of Guoanbu watchers. Nothing ever came of it.

That led him to two conclusions: One, Soong had in fact been under surveillance and he’d missed it; or two, someone was feeding the opposition, making surveillance unnecessary. Tanner realized there’d been only one agent in his network who could have given the Guoanbu that kind of information. Known only by his code name, Genoa had been what’s called a “block cutout.”

Unlike a “chain cutout”—a go-between who knows only the agent who recruited him — a block cutout knows not only the names of all the agents, but their meeting spots and dead drops as well. Moreover, Genoa had been a colleague of Soong’s. In his excitement, had Soong told Genoa the time and place of his final meeting with Tanner?

It would explain much. How else was the Guoanbu able to roll up the entire network so efficiently? How else could they have covered the meeting place and escape routes so well?

Design meant planning, Briggs knew, and planning meant foreknowledge.

“What happened to Genoa?” Oaken asked after Tanner finished explaining his theory.

“He disappeared like the others. Problem is, that’s an easy ruse. Plus, by that time, my picture was plastered all over the city; I was on the run.”

“Is it possible you missed something in your countersurveillance?”

“It’s possible, I knew it was going to be a weak spot. Beijing was — still is — crawling with PSB and PAP officers. All it would have taken was one slipup on an agent’s part and the whole thing would have unraveled.”

Oaken nodded. “I think your theory is solid. Didn’t the CIA already check it out, though?”

“Not until a year after it happened. It might be worth another look.”

“True … What’s all this about, Briggs? Curiosity or something more?”

“If I’m right about Genoa, and he’s still alive, and he’s still active—”

“That’s a lot of ‘ifs.’”

“If all those things are true, maybe we can use him.”

Oaken smiled. “Assuming Mason is going to send you back in.”

“Right.” Send me or not, I’m going back. “What do you say? Want to give it try?”

Oaken chuckled. “Find one man amid a billion Chinese, who may or may not have been a double agent, who we only know by a code name? Damn right I want to give it try.”

Latham and Randall were met in the computer lab by one of the department’s experts, a young African American named James Washington. “You guys got here in a hurry,” he said.

“We’re hoping you’ve got something good for us,” Latham said.

“Yeah, I think so.”

James gestured to a pair of stools before a Formica counter on which sat Baker’s computer, a top-of-the-line Hewlett Packard tower attached to a twenty-one-inch Sony monitor.

“This case, it’s the Baker thing?” James asked. “The murdered guy from Commerce?”

“Right.”

“Well, either he’s a real computer geek, or he had some help. This system’s got some gnarly security programs attached.”

Latham chuckled. “By ‘gnarly,’ I assume you mean ‘superior’?”

“Right. Anyway, his system’s got all kinds of blocks on it — routines designed to keep the information from being backed up or routed to an exterior drive. Hell, if you even try to print the stuff without a password, the hard drive erases itself.”

“This isn’t stuff you can buy on the open market?” asked Randal.

“Like at Best Buy? No way. I’ll know more once I tear it apart, but none of it looks familiar to me. I think I found a way through it, but there’re no guarantees. If I’m wrong, the hard drive goes poof. Since it’s your case, I wanted you to make the call.”

“Gimme odds,” Latham said.

“Fifty-fifty.”

“Do it.”

The process was simple, James told them. The one contingency the security program could not guard against was regular system maintenance. Using a “slightly recoded” CD version of the computer’s native antivirus software — in this case, Norton — James initiated a scan of the hard drive. Recognizing this as a routine event, the security program didn’t interfere. However, instead of scanning files, proclaiming them clean, then passing them back to the drive, James’s version of Norton copied each scanned file and transferred it to the CD before returning it to the hard drive. Since the security program cared only whether files were sent to an output device, it did not intervene.

There was an electronic bong. James removed the CD and rebooted the system. “Now we see if we raised any alarms,” he said.

The desktop reappeared on the screen. James used the mouse to check the drive’s directory. He smiled. “We’re okay. Not even a hiccup.”

“Good job, James,” said Latham. “Let’s take a look at the CD.”

​Most of the data was useless — games, letters, recipes — but when they got to Baker’s money-management program, they struck pay dirt. “Holy cow,” said Randall. “Charlie, the balance in this checking account is almost three hundred grand. The account’s routing number looks odd, though.”

“Offshore probably,” Latham said. “Let’s see who he was paying.”

Randall clicked the mouse a few times to filter the account by payee. There were dozens of transactions, but one stood out. “WalPol Expeditions,” Randall murmured. “Here’s a check for eighty thousand … another for a hundred twenty.”

“How far back does it go?” asked Latham.

“Almost two years.”

Bingo, Charlie thought. Whoever or whatever WalPol was, the late Larry Baker had paid them almost 250,000 dollars in the last eighteen months.

Roger Brown had been expecting the order from Langley to arrange a face-to-face with Chang-Moh Bian. In the week it took them to make the decision, he’d made a decision of his own.

Brown believed in leading from the front, and he wasn’t about to ask one of his people to do something he wasn’t willing to do himself. Not to say he wasn’t apprehensive. Playing controller to an agent who is in turn playing intermediary for an already famous defector was a daunting task at best.

Bian’s “ballpoint message” had designated a marker drop that Brown could use to establish contact, which he did the following Sunday by strolling around the Forbidden City’s 250 acres while performing a string of identifiers: his coat held a certain way, a newspaper folded and left on a bench, tying his shoe near a fountain. He passed several uniformed and plainclothes PSB and PAP officers, but none paid him any attention.

After two hours of this pageantry, Brown returned to the bench beside the Golden Water Stream and sat down. Two minutes later he saw Bian enter the courtyard.

The man’s a wreck, Brown thought. Bian’s hands were visibly shaking. Trying to cover the movement with a camera, he stopped and looked behind him every few seconds. This is bad. Best case, Bian was simply scared; worst case, he was bait. The sooner Brown could distance himself from Bian the better. He was about to give the wave-off signal when Bian turned, walked directly to the bench, and sat down. “You came.”

Ah, shit. “You don’t look well.”

“I feel awful. My stomach—”

“Nerves.”

“I suppose.”

“You’ve got to relax. If you’re being watched, they’ve already got us. If you’re not being watched, then your jumpiness is going to get you caught. Me, too, for that matter.” Brown forced some humor into his voice: “I’ll tell ya, if I get thrown in prison, I’ll have hell to pay with my wife.”

“I’m sorry. I just … I’m …”

“I know. Just breathe. Enjoy the sun.”

After a few seconds, Bian’s posture eased. “Your people are interested in helping the general?”

“We are.”

“What about his conditions? He was adamant about the man he mentioned.”

“We’re working on it. First off, though, I have to ask you some questions.”

Brown spent fifteen minutes questioning Bian about himself: school, family, work, hobbies, and finally, his motivation for helping Soong. All the answers would later be dissected by the Intelligence Directorate, then compared to what they already knew about the man. If any inconsistencies appeared, the DO would have the option to either abort the operation, or order it forward with the knowledge that Bian may be damaged goods.

“Where is Soong right now?” Brown asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Pardon me?”

“He’s in a laogi somewhere to the north, but I don’t know its location.”

“Then how are you in contact with him?”

“I’m sorry, the general was very specific. I can only give those details to the man he asked for … this Tanner person.”

Alarms went off in Brown’s head. “That’s unacceptable.”

“I know.” Bian hesitated, started to speak, then stopped. “I …”

“What?”

“He’ll be angry I gave you this information.”

“Why? What information?”

“He desperately wants to get his family out of China with him.”

“We assumed that,” Brown said. “I don’t understand—”

“That’s why he wants Tanner to come here. Soong trusts him.”

“So?”

“So, I may know a simpler way. You may be able to get him out without setting foot in China.”

If not for the added conditions, tonight’s exercise would have been a simple one, something Master Chief Robert Jurens and his team of three SEALs had done dozens of times. In this case, the “added conditions” involved a guided missile frigate lobbing three-inch shells onto the beach they were trying to reconnoiter.

Known to fellow operators as “Sconi” because of his proud Wisconsin upbringing (one of the only black dairy farming families in the state, he was fond of telling people), Jurens was a rail-thin black man with a goatee and an easy smile. Jurens had been on the teams for fourteen years, having gone from a lowly seaman during BUD/s training to one of the youngest master chiefs in the navy. Since navy SpecWar ran on the merit system, he was frequently put in command of platoons, often over the heads of commissioned officers. No one complained. Jurens knew his business and he knew how to lead.

Tonight’s swim-in had been taxing, largely because the currents surrounding San Clemente Island were ferocious. In wartime they would have come here to map the shoals for obstacles, dangerous gradients, bed consistency — anything that might impede an amphibious force.

Through the murky water Jurens could hear the muffled whoosh-crump of the three-inch shells pounding the beach ahead of them. Very close, he thought. He could feel the impacts rumbling through the sand beneath him. Hope the fire-control boys are on their game tonight.

He reached out and gave the buddy-line a double tug, signaling the team to advance. His belly scraped the sand. As each wave crashed over his head and then receded he caught glimpses of sloped beach and—

Crump! A geyser of sand and flame erupted on the beach, then another.

Suddenly he saw a flicker of blue light in the corner of his eye. He rolled onto his back and poked his mask out of the water. High above, a flare arced into the sky, followed a moment later by a yellow. It was the “abort exercise” signal.

The other team members had also seen it, and one by one they waded ashore. Before anyone could ask questions, they heard the thump of helicopter rotors. A few seconds later a pair of strobe lights materialized out of the darkness. The helicopter — a Seahawk from the frigate, Jurens guessed — stopped in a hover over the beach, then landed in a storm of sand. The cabin door opened. The crewman inside pointed to Jurens and waved him over.

Jurens jogged over. “What’s up?” he shouted.

“Orders for you, Master Chief!”

“Now? We’re kinda in the middle of something, if you hadn’t noticed.”

“I’m just the messenger. They said now, so here we are.”

Jurens took the message and trotted away as the Seahawk lifted off behind him and disappeared into the night. He opened the message and started reading.

“Bad news, Skip?” asked Smitty.

“I guess that depends on how you feel about Alaska,” Sconi replied.

Three thousand miles to the east, a man to whom Sconi Bob Jurens would soon owe his life was also receiving a message. Commander Archie Kinsock, skipper of the USS Columbia, was standing in the sub’s Control Room when the radio-shack operator called on the intercom.

“Traffic for you, Skipper. Eyes only.”

“On my way.”

As Columbia was in port, only a skeleton crew remained aboard to perform housekeeping functions. Most of the crew was either on liberty or in one of Pearl’s BEQs, or Base Enlisted Quarters, whose rooms, though far from luxurious, certainly seemed so to submariners.

Kinsock walked forward, punched the cipher keypad on Radio’s door, and pushed through. “It’s on the printer, Skipper,” said the RM3.

“Thanks, Finn.” Kinsock tore off the sheet and read.

“Bad news, sir?”

“Huh?”

“You’re frowning.”

“First thing they taught us in CO school, Finn. Go grab yourself a cup of coffee, will ya?”

“Yes, sir.” Finn left.

Kinsock reached above his head, switched the intercom to the IMC, or the boat-wide public address, and keyed the handset. “XO to Radio.”

Jim McGregor, the boat’s executive officer, appeared a minute later. “What’s up, Skipper?”

“How many have we got ashore, Jim?”

“Eighty-two. Four on leave.”

“Get ’em all back here,” Kinsock said. “We’ve got a job.”

“We’ve had our first meeting with Soong’s contact,” Mason said, then recapped Brown’s report. “So far, Bian seems on the level. He’s frazzled, though, and that’s a worry. We don’t think he’s bait, but Brown said he stood out like a wooden leg at a beauty contest.”

“A white crow,” said Dutcher. “White Crow” was an old KGB term for an agent whose behavior tends to single him out in crowds.

Tanner asked, “Can Brown limit his contact with him?”

“Hopefully. If not, his risk goes up every time they meet.”

“Do we know anything about his motivation?” asked Oaken.

George Coates answered. “Ideology. Admiration, from the sound of it.”

Of the many reasons that spur agents to work for enemy services, personal motivation, or “feel goods,” is the rarest. Admiration — unless it stems from a deeply personal relationship — will carry an agent only so far. Once things get dicey, admiration is almost always overpowered by fear.

“He’s a Soong groupie, for lack of a better term. In the seventies and eighties Soong was a genuine hero. The people’s nickname for him was lie, which means both ‘grandfather’ and ‘hero,’ depending on the inflection. After Tiananmen, when Soong began speaking out, he made a lot of enemies in the government, but gained a real grassroots following.”

And that was his downfall, thought Tanner. Knowing this, and being torn between loyalty for his country and fear for his family, Soong contacted the CIA. In the end, Soong’s worst fears were realized.

“The good news is, we may have gotten a break. Soong is scheduled to leave the country.”

“What?” said Tanner. “Where?”

“Jakarta, as a member of the PRC’s delegation at the annual Asian Economic and Foreign Affairs Conference. If so, it’ll be the first time Soong has been seen in twelve years. Best guess is they plan to have him speak about human rights.”

“The poster child for a kinder, gentler PRC,” said Dutcher.

Coates said, “It’s unprecedented, really, for Beijing to let someone of his notoriety out of the country — especially after being so vocal against the government.”

“If they’ve still got his family, it’s no risk at all,” Tanner said. “As long as they’ve got that leverage, they know he’ll behave himself.”

“That’s the catch,” said Mason. “If we manage to get him in Jakarta, will he go? And if he does, what happens to his family?”

“Maybe nothing,” said Dutcher. “If we got him, Beijing would know they can’t stop him from talking to us. What they can do is keep him from speaking out against their government.”

“Blackmail,” said Coates.

“But it works both ways: As long as Soong stays silent, his family is unharmed; as long as his family is unharmed, he stays silent.”

Tanner said, “Either way, his family loses.”

Mason turned to him. “That might be the price, Briggs.”

“But will he pay it?” And should we even be asking him to consider it?

“We won’t know that unless we ask.”

They talked for a few more minutes before the meeting broke up. As everyone was filing out, Mason said, “Briggs, stay for few minutes, will you?”

They’d been in this position before. Mason realized Tanner, being the right — hell, maybe the only—person for a tough job, while at the same time being the exactly wrong person for the job.

Nine months ago it had been the Beirut affair. Tanner had gone there to hunt down a friend-turned-terrorist. That relationship had been both Tanner’s edge and his weakness. In the end, he’d managed to get the job done, saving thousands of lives in the process, but it had been a near thing.

Too near by far, Mason thought.

Tanner’s recounting of the events in Beirut had been thorough, but reports don’t let you look into a man’s mind, especially a man like Tanner. Like any operator worth a damn, Tanner never gave much away. Good operators listened more than they talked, absorbed more than they observed, intuited more than they analyzed.

It was ironic, Mason thought. In this age of high technology, where satellites could tell him what some third-world despot had for breakfast and computers could predict down to a few bullets an enemy’s war-making power, all he could do here was go with his instincts.

So, the question was, Despite his baggage, could Tanner get out of his own head, go in, grab Soong, and come back out? And, if necessary, could he leave Soong’s family behind?

“Pain in the butt, isn’t it?” Tanner said.

“What’s that?”

“Nine months ago you didn’t have much of a choice. I might have been the right guy for the job, but given the stakes, it would have been nice to have more options.”

Mason chuckled. “You been reading my diary? Listen, if I had to choose somebody to put on the can’t-be-done stuff, you’d be on every one of my short lists.”

“Thanks. Do I hear a ‘but’ in there?”

“But … the day they were passing out consciences, you got a double dose. You get involved, and that’s a liability in this business.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Do I hear a ‘but’ in there?”

Tanner smiled, shrugged. “But I’m still around.”

“Good point.” After a moment, Mason said, “I won’t be able to give you much support.”

“I know.”

“If you get caught—”

“If I get caught I better hope laogis aren’t as bad as they say.” Tanner turned to face him. “Go ahead and ask the question, Dick.”

“Okay. Can you do it?”

“I can do it,” Tanner said. “You send me in, I’ll bring him out.”

Mason stared at him for a long five seconds, studying his eyes; they never wavered.

The DCI nodded. “You leave in ten days.”

Xiang could hear nothing of the conversation through the oak doors of the Politburo room. It didn’t matter; he knew the topic: Rubicon.

He could easily imagine the discussion: This is simply Xiang‘s attempt to regain his lost glory … The scope of the plan is too vast … What if the Americans do not respond as he’s planned?

The nearer Rubicon’s launch date came, the more heated the debate became. None of the members would openly disagree with the premier’s decision to adopt the plan, but Xiang knew they were split on the subject. Thankfully, the premier had more vision than his colleagues. Like Xiang, he knew China’s greatness had to be seized, not debated and pondered. The time for that was over.

Ten long years, thought Xiang. And it was almost time.

The doors swung open and the members began filing out. Befitting his status, Xiang stood up and nodded respectfully as each member passed. Their responses ranged from curiosity to open disdain. Curious to see if I succeed and wondering what it will mean for them if I do; disdain because I have the premier’s ear.

Xiang straightened his tunic and strode through the doors. The room, cast in stripes of sunlight and shadow, was rilled with gray cigarette smoke. The premier sat at the far end of the conference table. “Sit,” he said, gesturing to the chair nearest him.

Xiang walked over, sat down.

“I’ll tell you this, Kyung, this plan of yours certainly makes for interesting Politburo discussion.”

“I can imagine, sir. Do they—”

“They’ll do as I say. They may claim to represent the people, but I represent China. They will grumble, because that is what they do, and I will indulge them.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Besides, the time for debate is over. Truth be told, it was over many years ago; those who don’t realize that soon will. I understand you visited one of the facilities. Are we ready?”

“Fully.”

“An amazing feat I wouldn’t have thought it possible.” The premier smiled and shook his head. “All of it happening right under their noses. Tell me about this business in America This murder, it was necessary?”

“The man had outlived his usefulness; also, he was leaning toward extortion.”

“How so?”

“He told Qing he’d withheld key components to the process. He wanted more money, or he would go to their federal police.”

“And his family?”

“Also necessary. Their newspapers are treating it as a murder-suicide. If they had suspicions beyond that, we would have heard about it Their media virtually runs the country. Don’t worry, sir. Qing is one of my best Their police will look, but they won’t find anything. Even if they do, it will not lead them to us — not in time, at least. And even then, it will not matter.”

“Why is that?”

“Because, sir, victors write the history.”

Latham’s research into Hong Cho’s pen pal, Mary Tsang, had so far turned up little.

Tsang was thirty-two, single, and worked as a legal secretary; as far as they could tell, she had few extracurricular interests except television. She drove a modest compact car, had a stellar credit history, no traffic tickets, and received few visitors.

In the spycraft jargon, Tsang was “gray.” Whether this trait was contrived or natural, Latham didn’t know, but he wanted to find out. Most important, she didn’t strike him as the type to initiate a relationship with a multiple murderer. If Tsang turned out to be something other than she seemed, he was guessing it would be a conduit for Cho. But to whom, and for what purpose?

While Randall and a team of agents started digging deeper into Tsang, Latham drove south to Blanton Crossing, a small railroad town about seventy-five miles south of D.C., where he hoped to find the headquarters of WalPol Expeditions, the recipient of nearly a quarter-million dollars from Larry Baker.

WalPol was a sole proprietorship created six years ago by a man named Mike Soderberg. According to the IRS, WalPol — which billed itself as an “exotic vacation provider”—filed its taxes on time and had never shown more than sixty thousand dollars of revenue.

Fifteen minutes after turning onto Route 54, Latham entered Blanton Crossing’s city limits. The address led him to a trailer park nestled between a set of railroad tracks and a sewage canal. Charlie stopped before a rundown mobile home painted the color of lemon sherbet. The driveway was empty.

He got out, walked up the steps, and knocked. Thirty seconds passed. No one appeared. He opened the screen and tried the knob. Locked.

“Can I help ya, mister?” a voice said.

Latham turned. Standing in the yard, his hands resting atop a rake handle, was a man in a John Deere baseball cap and a tank top that read, “If you can read this, you’re standing too close.”

“I’m looking for WalPol Expeditions.”

“That’s it, there.”

Latham detected a Georgian accent. Redneck fanner, he guessed. The man had heavily corded forearms and hands that looked tough as leather. “Are you—”

“Nope.”

“Have you seen—”

“Nope.”

“Who are you?” Latham asked. “The local rake salesman?”

The man chuckled. “Nope, just the handyman. Name’s Joe-Bob.”

“You have any idea where I can find the owner?”

“Been gone a few days. Don’t know where. You lookin’ to go expeditionin’ or somethin’?”

Latham nodded. “A buddy of mine recommended WalPol; said they do good canoe trips.”

“Huh.” Joe-Bob nodded to Latham’s car. “Maryland. Long way to come.”

“I’m retired. Got plenty of time on my hands.”

Joe-Bob lifted his cap and scratched his head. “Gimme your name. I’ll pass it on.”

“That’s okay. Maybe I’ll drive down next week.”

“Suit yourself.”

On the way out, Latham found the trailer park’s office. Inside, an old man stood at the counter watching a Gunsmoke rerun. “How’s Sheriff Dillon doing?” Latham asked.

“Marshall Dillon,” the old man grumbled. “Okay, I guess, but I’ll tell you what: If I were him, I would’ve put a bullet in Festus by now. Annoying son-of-a-bitch. What can I do for you?”

“I’m looking for Mike Soderberg.”

“Good luck. He keeps weird hours, that one. Haven’t seen him for a couple days, but then again, I don’t watch for him. You a friend of his?”

“Since we were kids.” Latham leaned a little closer and said conspiratorially, “Here’s the thing: His mom called me yesterday. She hasn’t heard from him for about a month and she’s worried. Problem is, Mike and his dad don’t get along—”

“Sounds like my kid. Never calls, never writes—”

“Yeah, and if Mike’s dad knew she was in touch with him, there’d be hell to pay, so she asked me to check up on him — quietly, if you know what I mean. If he’s okay and he finds out his mom was trying to nursemaid him … well, you know.”

“Gotcha. What d’ya want from me?”

“I got a buddy that’s a state trooper. If I had a license plate number I could ask him to keep a look out, see if Mike’s run into any trouble.” The lie was thin, and Latham held his breath.

The old man frowned. “Sorry, my records ain’t that good.”

“Thanks anyway. It was worth a shot.” Latham turned to leave.

“Twit!” the old man blurted.

“Pardon?”

“The plate number on his pickup — the first three digits: T-W-T. Reminds me of the word twit. Always worth a good chuckle.”

Latham smiled back. “Yeah, that’s a good one.”

Latham was an hour north of Blanton crossing when Qing received the phone call.

“You recognize my voice?” the caller asked.

“Yes. What is it?”

“There was somebody snooping around down here. He left about an hour ago.”

“Describe him.”

The caller did so, then added. “Got his plate number, if that helps.”

Qing copied down the number. “Is there somewhere you can go for the next few days?”

“Yeah. I got some friends down south I can stay with before I leave.”

“Go there,” Qing said. “I’ll take care of this.”

Beyond the navalese language, Jurens’s orders had been short and simple: You and three men. Don’t pack, don’t talk to anyone. Just get on the plane and go. No mention of gear, or of weapons, or even of what they were to do when they reached their destination.

He chose Schmidt, Gurtz, and Mendrick, who’d been dubbed “Dickie” by an inebriated team member who’d thought “Mendrick” had an anatomical ring to it. For similar reasons, Gurtz’s handle had been truncated to “Zee.” Schmidt was simply known as “Smitty.” They were good men, and if Sconi’s instincts about this mission proved right, he could think of no one else he’d rather have along.

He knew of Fort Greely, but having been a warm-water frog all his career, he’d never been there. Specializing in cold weather riverine and mountain operations, Greely was home to the Army’s Northern Warfare School.

The C-141 touched down amid flurries on Greely’s airstrip and taxied to a nearby Quonset hut. A Humvee was waiting at the bottom of the plane’s steps. A corporal called, “Master Chief Jurens?”

“Yes.”

“If you’d follow me, please.”

The corporal drove them to the northern edge of the base past obstacle courses, firing ranges, and jump towers, until they reached a lone Quonset hut near a lake. Scrub pine dotted the ice-rimmed shoreline. “This is it, gentlemen,” said the corporal.

They piled out, then watched the Humvee turn around and disappear down the road. Aside from the wind whistling through the trees and an occasional pop as the lake’s ice shifted, it was silent.

“Wonder how cold that water is,” Dickie said.

“I have a feeling we’re gonna find out,” replied Zee.

“Come on,” Jurens said.

They opened the door and walked inside.

“Welcome to Alaska, gentlemen,” said General Cathermeier.

The rear third of the hut was stacked with crates and boxes. Jurens recognized the stencil on some of them: rebreather rigs; Heckler & Koch MP-10SD assault rifles; 9mm ammunition; wet suits …

“Nice of them to pack for us,” Smitty muttered.

Cathermeier sat at a card table atop which sat a slide projector. Four chairs were arranged in a semicircle before the table. Hanging from the wall was a white screen.

“Have a seat,” said Cathermeier. “Master Chief, we’ve met, but why don’t you introduce me.”

Jurens did so, then said, “General, no disrespect intended, but what the hell is going on?”

Cathermeier’s presence not only suggested they were about to drop into what operators called a “rabbit hole,” but it also told Sconi their normal chain of command had been bypassed.

“You and your men are on temporarily assigned duty to my J-3 staff.”

Dickie said, deadpan, “Excuse me, General, but when is your staff expected? If it’s soon, we’re gonna have to rustle up some more cots—”

“Dickie …” Jurens muttered.

“It’s okay, Master Chief. For the next hour, we’re just five soldiers in a room.” Zee opened his mouth to speak, but Cathermeier beat him to it. “No, Mr. Gurtz, you may not call me Chuck.”

There was laughter all around.

“Let’s get to it.” Cathermeier shut off the lights and turned on the slide projector. A black-and-white satellite image of a commercial harbor appeared on the screen. “We’ll start from the top,” Cathermeier began. “Penetration …”

He spoke for twenty minutes, clicking through the slides as he covered every aspect of the area: terrain, weather, military, and civilian presence … Everything save the location or why they were going.

Smitty broke in: “General, what’s the job? Are we supposed to just render this mystery location safe for world democracy, or is there something specific you want us to do?”

Cathermeier laughed. “You’ll get the specifics once you’re en route, but in short, your mission is straightforward: Infiltrate a heavily guarded coastline via submarine lock-out, penetrate inland, lay up, reconnoiter the harbor, and finally, provide strike support as directed.”

Provide strike support as directed, Jurens thought.

Translation: Something was gonna get bombed, and it would be their job to make it happen.

Faced with steep odds against finding Genoa, Oaken had to make some assumptions.

The first was that Tanner’s theory held water, which seemed the case. The timing and efficiency with which the Guoanbu had rolled up the Ledger network was telling. They’d known details that surveillance alone couldn’t have provided.

What about Genoa himself? According to Tanner, the man had been a colleague of Soong’s, which meant he worked in either the military or intelligence communities — or both. Therefore he was not an agent, but rather a professional spook. That certainly narrowed the field of candidates, but even so, Oaken knew it would be like looking for a piece of lint in a snowstorm.

With no where else to start, he went back to the beginning.

Eight hours later he knew the details of the ledger from start to finish, top to bottom. He’d read every intelligence report and every analysis he could get his hands on. He was looking for a nick in the onion’s skin that would allow him to start peeling layers. It wasn’t there. Ledger should have worked, but it didn’t. No one knew why.

He stood up, stretched, then walked into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. He was dumping water into the pot when an angle bubbled up from his subconscious. “Wang Trahn,” he murmured.

In 1997, wan Trahn was a thirty-nine-year-old clerk in the archives of the Ministry of State Security. Unmarried, lonely, and enticed by the sexy images flooding his country from the West, Trahn began to imagine America as the paradise so many immigrants believe it to be. The Coca-Cola was refreshingly sexy; the hamburgers were made “your way” by smiling beach bunnies; the automobiles were plentiful and luxurious. If you wanted it, you could have it and/or be it. You could work on Wall Street, or be a cigar chomping police detective, or even an actor in Hollywood.

Having heard rumors of how hard it was to get to America, and how so many of his countrymen arrived only to find themselves enslaved by the same people who transported them, Trahn started looking for a better way. It didn’t take him long to realize his job was the key.

Every day he handled documents for which the Americans would pay handsomely. Not only would they get him out of China, but they would make him rich in the process.

Trahn spent the next year gathering thousands of documents, reducing them on the photocopier, then smuggling them out of the archive building. If it looked even remotely important, he took it. The crawl space in his basement soon overflowed with files, reports, and photos.

Once certain he’d collected enough, Trahn bought a back pack, stuffed it to the brim with his plunder, took a taxi to the U.S. embassy, then begged his way into the courtyard. He was met by the CIA’s deputy station chief, who looked at Trahn’s identification, then inside the backpack, and then promptly took him inside.

It was just past dawn when Tanner, Cahil, and Dutcher arrived at the office. They found Oaken asleep on his couch. “I’ll go make coffee,” Cahil said. “You see if you can rouse him.”

Ten minutes later they were sitting in the conference room. Red-eyed and hair askew, Oaken was sipping a cup and arranging notes. Despite his obvious exhaustion, the glint of excitement in his eyes was unmistakable.

He’s in his element, Briggs thought. Adventure, Oaken style. “How long have you been here?”

Oaken glanced at his watch. “Thirteen — no, fourteen hours.”

“Nothing spells fun like an all-night research session,” Cahil said. “That’s my motto.”

“You have a motto?” asked Tanner.

“Several. Depending on the situation.”

“So,” Dutcher said, “Briggs told me about your project. I assume you found something?”

“I did,” Oaken replied. “First, though, the story.” Oaken took them through the Wan Trahn saga, ending with his evacuation to the United States and subsequent debriefing with the CIA. “Trahn was what they call a ‘Hoover’: he sucked up every bit of information in sight then dumped it on us. When Langley finished counting, he’d delivered four thousand pages of documents.”

“Four thousand?’ said Cahil.

“Yep. Since he worked in the archives, though, none of it was current. It gave us a lot of general info on how the MSS and PSB run their in-country stuff, but since most of it was still coded, we didn’t get any nuts-and-bolts details. Plus, there was a lot of random stuff — bits that fit other puzzles, but not enough to build a picture — unless you know what some of the puzzle pieces look like, that is.”

“Which you do?” Dutcher asked.

“Yep. I accessed the database where Langley keeps Trahn’s dump, then ran a search using some of the dates and keywords from Ledger. They way I figured it, if Ledger hadn’t been burned by someone inside the network, you wouldn’t expect to see any of that info in the Guoanbu archives until after the network was rolled up. The only way they could have gotten the information was from the interrogation of agents, right?”

Tanner nodded. He had an idea where this was going, and he could feel his heart pumping a little harder. “Right.”

“Well, surprise: I turned up over four hundred references that match Ledger criteria.”

Cahil said; “So in plain English, the MSS was talking about Ledger before they rolled it up.”

“Long before. The first reference was just ten days after you got in-country, Briggs.”

My God, Tanner thought. Less than two weeks in, and they’d been onto him. He’d been certain he’d covered all the bases, but in truth the Guoanbu had been ahead of him every step of the way.

Dutcher said. “You know how lucky you are? By all rights, you shouldn’t have gotten out.”

Tanner managed a half-smile. “Glad I didn’t know that then. What about Genoa, Oaks?”

“That’s the kicker. You said everyone was arrested, right? No one got away?”

“No.”

“In all of the Guoanbu’s references to Ledger, the name Genoa doesn’t show up once. You met with him dozens of times, either in person or by brush pass, and he’s not mentioned once.”

“They didn’t have to; they already knew who he was.”

Oaken nodded. “You were right. Genoa was the double.”

“Too bad I didn’t figure it out twelve years ago.”

“There was no way you could have,” Dutcher said.

“I suppose. Okay, now that we know who we’re looking for, the question is, can you find him?”

“I’ll give it my best shot,” Oaken said.

Randall was waiting when Latham returned to the office. “How was it?”

“I can’t say much about Blanton Crossing proper,” Latham replied, “but the local trailer park is a site to behold.” He recounted his visit to WalPol’s headquarters.

“We got a hit on that plate you called in. It’s registered to a David Wallace Poison.”

Latham thought for a moment. “WalPol … His middle and last names. Have you got—”

Randall handed him a fax of Poison’s DMV registration. “Photo’s on page two.”

Latham read the info, then flipped to the photo “You gotta be kidding me …”

“What?”

“The bastard was standing right in front of me. Poison is Joe-Bob!”

“The handyman?”

“Yeah. He’s a cool customer.”

“Here’s surprise number two: Just for kicks I fed the names Soderberg and Poison into the alias database. We got a hit — somebody named Michael Warren Skeldon.”

“Skeldon…. Whatever he’s got going on, he’s layered himself pretty well,” Latham said.

“It gets better. He’s ex-military — army Rangers.”

“Straight leg?”

“No, airborne. He’s also got a rap sheet. One arrest for interstate arms, another for criminal facilitation of forgery. Both charges were dropped.”

“What was the forgery about?”

“Passports down in Asheville. The indictment stated he was in possession of bogus entry stamps. It was thrown out on a bad warrant. I’ve got a call in to the Asheville PD and the North Carolina BCA.”

What was going on? Latham wondered. What would a Commerce analyst be doing in cahoots with an army Ranger turned gunrunner and forger? Moreover, what did the Guoanbu want with either of them? The fact that Baker was dead and Skeldon was still alive suggested two possibilities: Either the Guoanbu didn’t know about Skeldon, or they knew about him and were still using him.

“What do you want to do?” Randall asked.

“I hate to say it, but my visit probably sent Skeldon running. Let’s see if we can get ahold of his service record. I want to see what he did for the Rangers.”

Unsurprised, Mason found that the DIA’s brief on Sunil Dhar and the sarin purchase seemed to hold water, but the story came from assets he couldn’t probe without jeopardizing both the transaction and the players involved — or so said Tom Redmond. Mason didn’t buy it; the whole affair was fishy.

The big question was, if the DIA didn’t develop this, who did?

His intercom buzzed: “Sir, General Cathermeier is here.”

“Send him in.” Mason met him at the door. “Chuck, thanks for coming. Coffee?”

“No, thanks. I think I know why I’m here, Dick.”

“I’d be surprised if you didn’t. What’re we going to do about this, Chuck?”

“I’ve already got the assets moving.”

“That’s not what I’m asking.”

“I know what you’re asking. I’m going to do what I’ve been ordered to do.”

“Chuck, when was the last time a president got this hands-on with an operation?”

“This isn’t the president’s plan. The DIA is—”

“Tom Redmond doesn’t know an M-16 from his asshole. This is Martin and Bousikaris.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I’d put good money on it,” said Mason. “Answer my first question.”

Cathermeier shrugged. “Vietnam. LBJ.”

“Right. And even then did Johnson decide unit composition and penetration plans?”

“No.”

“And now, out of the blue, Martin wants to sink a goddamned ship in the middle of Nakhodka-Vostochny Harbor, and that doesn’t worry you? And that nonsense about ‘sending a message’… The only people who’re going to get the message are the poor bastards who die on that ship — unless of course the Russian government is involved in the sale.”

“According to the DIA, Dhar’s Russian contact is freelance.”

“Exactly. So the only way Moscow’s going to get any message is if we tell them we sank the ship and why. What’s the likelihood of that?”

“Low.”

“Chuck, listen: I’m not asking you to do anything right now. Just think about what I’m saying. If this were your operation, how would you do it?”

“An at-sea boarding. SEAL team. Secure the cargo and the crew, turn the whole thing over to the Russians and stay on them through diplomatic channels.”

“Right. And if you had to sink her. How would you do it?”

“Open sea. Surface-to-surface missile — Harpoon, probably.”

“That’s what I’m getting at. This business of putting men on the ground is bad business.”

“Dammit, Dick, you’re still treating this like it’s some pet project of Martin’s. The intell came from the DIA, the plan came from the DIA, and unless you’ve got proof to the contrary, I’m not gonna assume otherwise.”

“Why put men on the ground? Who in their right mind would advise Martin to do it?”

“I have no idea.”

“But you agree it’s a bad idea.”

Cathermeier shrugged. “The plan is workable.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Dick, I’m a soldier. My job description is simple: I follow the orders of the commander-in-chief and defend my country. That’s what I’m doing. Love him or hate him, Martin is the president of the United States and—”

“I know that, Chuck.”

“—and if you’ve got an agenda with him or Bousikaris or Redmond, that’s fine: Just don’t try to enlist me. I haven’t got the stomach or the patience for it.”

Mason was silent for a few seconds. “Chuck, do you really think that’s what this is about?”

Cathermeier met his gaze, then shook his head. “No. Sorry. Either way, though, we’re back where we started: I’ve got my orders and I’m going to carry them out.” Cathermeier stood, walked to the door, then turned. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

“No. This thing stinks, and I’m telling you right now, we’re not getting the whole story.”

“You know where to find me.”

Langley’s interest in Bian’s latest news came as no surprise to Roger Brown.

If they could avoid sending someone into China — especially a “face” like Tanner — they had to take the chance. Brown was under no illusion, however: Even Jakarta wouldn’t be a Cakewalk. Soong would be surrounded by Guoanbu security guards day and night. Whatever Tanner planned, he’d have to be in and out before Soong’s watchers realized he was gone. If not, Tanner would find himself on a very small island with nowhere to hide.

Not my problem, Brown reminded himself. He had his hands full with Bian. Whenever they met, the man’s body language shouted, “Arrest me and this Anglo-Saxon fella sitting next to me.” The sooner they could sever contact, the sooner Brown could get a good night’s sleep.

For today’s meeting he’d chosen what was known as a “pointer pass,” a cross between a “brush pass”—where a controller’ and agent bump into one another for a hand-to-hand exchange — and a “drop flag,” a physical signal indicating a package was waiting at a drop.

Brown paused by the railing to photograph the lake. A few feet away, ducks quacked and pecked the water for insects. Across the lake he could see a line of people waiting to enter the Zhongguo Military Museum. He checked his watch: Time.

He took one more picture then walked on. A hundred yards down the path he spotted Bian walking toward him. Brown angled himself so Bian would pass on his right, then slung his camera over his left shoulder and shoved his hands in his pockets, leaving his right pinky finger outside the pocket. Just a glance, buddy … A casual glance and walk on …

To Brown’s surprise, Bian did just that.

Resisting the impulse to glance back at the CIA man, Bian kept walking. That went well, he thought, trying to swallow the lump in his throat. Friendly but perfunctory, just like Roger explained …

What did the signal mean? One finger outside the pocket was the pointer for the northeast — no, southeast — drop — the hollow railing along Xisanhuanzhong Lane. Yes, that was it. The hard part was over. Now he just had to wait a few minutes to let Roger get away, then retrieve the message.

Nothing’s ever as simple as you want it to be. Bousikaris had no idea who’d coined the aphorism, but the older he got the truer it seemed to become — which was why he wasn’t surprised when he picked up Sunday’s Post and saw the ad: Adrian, I love you. Come back. Always, Harmon.

Qing wanted another meeting. Bousikaris considered ignoring the summons, but decided against it. Qing didn’t strike him as someone to be antagonized, and until he and Martin could find a way out of this mess, it was better to not poke the dragon.

As before, the Addison Road metrorail stop was nearly deserted. Bousikaris stepped off the train, paused at a pay phone, and pretended to make a call until the last passengers had disappeared, then walked to the railing. He heard footsteps behind him. Qing walked up. “Who were you calling?”

“No one. I was waiting for the platform to clear.”

“Very well.”

“What do you want?” Bousikaris said.

“Tell me about the plans. Are there any problems?”

“The whole damned thing is a problem. You don’t just order the chairman of the JCS and the director of the CIA to put on this kind of operation and expect them to not ask questions.”

“What kind of questions?”

“Nuts and bolts stuff.” Bousikaris noted Feng’s confused expression: “Tactical details. It’s highly unusual for a president to dictate those. The background we put together is solid enough, but the rest of it … They’re both nervous.”

“They answer to the president, do they not?”

“Yes, but—”

“Then they’ll do as they’re ordered. Is the operation moving forward?”

Bousikaris nodded. “If anything goes wrong, though, there will be investigations. Mason is a cold warrior at heart. He sees conspiracy behind every bush.”

“That’s his job. Nothing will go wrong and Mason will find other things to worry about. There’s another matter that requires your attention. The FBI is investigating an … associate of ours. If it goes any further, it could endanger our arrangement.”

“How so?”

“That’s not your concern. We want the investigation stopped.”

“Christ, we don’t have that kind of power. You don’t just call the FBI and—”

“Then don’t use power,” Qing replied. “Reach out, plant the seed. Let others do the work.”

“What’s the case?”

Qing told him.

“That was you? You did that?”

“Of course not. We’re not stupid. Our connection to the man is accidental. According to our associate, the man had a gambling problem. He owed many thousands of dollars to … what’s the word?”

“Loan sharks? Are you saying he and his family were—”

“I’m not saying anything. I’m merely stating facts. Somehow he got the name of our associate and contacted him hoping to buy several kilos of cocaine, which he hoped to turn into a profit. The FBI must have come across our associate’s name in their investigation, and now they’re interested in him.”

“How does this person relate to our arrangement?”

“That’s not your worry. We want the investigation stopped. How you choose to do it is up to you, but you will do it.”

Though Qing didn’t bother saying “or else,” Bousikaris knew it was there. What would happen? he wondered. The country had had a bellyful of scandal. How would the public react if it realized China had funded the lion’s share of Martin’s campaign? They’d be lucky to escape prison.

They’d worked too hard and too long to get here. Whatever China’s game, that was their business. He and Martin would play their part, then move on. If they had to get their hands a little dirty for the greater good, so be it. A little dirt never hurt anyone. “I’ll handle it,” he told Qing.

Vladimir Bulganin stared out the car window. “Two weeks until the election, Ivan,” he said. “We have them. We’re so close.”

Nochenko felt the same, but wasn’t ready to celebrate yet. “The polls may be in our favor, but now is the time we must push even harder.”

“Yes, yes, whatever you decide.” Something outside the window caught Bulganin’s attention. “Driver, pull over!”

“Vlad, what are you doing? We’re expected at the Duma. We cannot keep them—”

“The Duma can wait,” Bulganin replied, then grinned. “After all, in a few weeks, they’ll have no choice but to wait on me — hand and foot!” Bulganin laughed uproariously and opened the car door. Nochenko followed.

They’d stopped on Kuybyshev Street. To their right stood St. Basil’s Cathedral — or, as Bulganin demanded it be called — the Cathedral of the Intercession; to their left lay Red Square.

As Bulganin stepped out, his security detail formed a ring around them. “Pyotr,” Bulganin called to his security chief, ‘“I feel like a stroll. I’ll sign a few autographs, but no more.”

“Yes, sir.”

Nochenko said, “Vladimir, we don’t have time—”

Bulganin clapped his shoulder, “Perhaps in public, Ivan, it might be best we avoid familiarities.”

He must be joking, Nochenko thought. “Pardon me?”

“Mr. Bulganin will do, I think. Of course, in private, we’re just two comrades having a chat. All right, Pyotr! Lead on.”

Bulganin was immediately recognized. Within minutes he and Nochenko were surrounded by well-wishers and autograph seekers. Pyotr and the other bodyguards cut a path through the crowd, occasionally letting an admirer through for Bulganin to greet and dismiss. Nochenko felt himself jostled from all sides; the cacophony of voices was almost deafening.

After a few minutes, Bulganin nodded to Pyotr and the bodyguards spread out, pushing the crowd away until Bulganin and Nochenko had a circle in which they could stroll.

“How well do you know your Red Square history, Ivan?” Bulganin asked.

“Fairly well, I suppose.”

“What about the very name—Krasnaya Ploshchadl In Old Slavonic, Krasnaya also means “beautiful.” Too bad the West didn’t pick up on that, eh? Instead of ‘Reds,’ perhaps they would have called us ‘the beautiful ones.’ Do you know where all that St. Basil’s nonsense began?”

“No.”

“St. Basil was nothing more than a delusional hobo. The truth is, the cathedral was built to commemorate Ivan the Terrible’s capture of Kazan. Oh, what I would give to have been there — to see the expressions on their dirty Tartar faces when Ivan fired the city.”

Ivan the Terrible had earned his moniker for good reason, Nochenko wanted to say. The man had been a butcher. How Bulganin could—

“And there!” Bulganin called, pointing to the GUM department store. “Moscow’s first concession to capitalism right across from Lenin’s Mausoleum. It’s an insult! No, that’s not the right word … betrayal is more like it.”

Bulganin stopped before the Mausoleum. On either side of its heavy wooden doors stood a pair of stoic sentries. “Six times in the last year,” Bulganin muttered.

“What’s that?” Nochenko asked. “Six times for what?”

“To repaint the tomb’s facade, Ivan. Just last week a pair of thugs pelted it with paint-filled balloons. Can you believe it? What’s happening to our country?”

Knowing Bulganin didn’t want an answer, Nochenko remained silent.

“And this,” Bulganin murmured, “this is where it happened. The worst crime of all.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The removal of Koba’s body. Until that backstabbing dog Khrushchev removed it, he was resting in his rightful place: next to Lenin, next to his friend and mentor, the founder of the Soviet.”

Nochenko suddenly realized that Bulganin was weeping.

“Wrested from eternal peace, shoved into a pine box, and buried under the mausoleum wall like some commoner. It makes my blood boil, Ivan, it truly does.”

Nochenko didn’t know what to say. In all the years he’d known Bulganin, this was the first moment of unguarded sentiment he’d seen from the man; that he was crying over the corpse of Russia’s greatest mass murderer chilled Nochenko. Was all Bulganin’s talk of the great Koba Stalin more than just historical musings? Was there something more to it?

“Did I ever tell you where I was born?” Bulganin asked.

“No, you didn’t.”

Bulganin turned to him. “They call it the Valley of the Blossoming Orchards.”

The nickname sounded vaguely familiar. “Gori,” Nochenko said. “Kartli, Georgia, correct?”

“That’s right. And why else is it remarkable? Do you know, Ivan?”

“No.”

“Gori, my friend, was also the birthplace of the great Koba.”

They walked in silence for a few minutes, Bulganin virtually marching, his hands clasped behind his back. “So, Ivan, you were saying …”

“Pardon me?”

“In the car — about the polls.”

“Oh, yes. The election is nearing. Now, more than ever, we must stay focused. The greater the pressure on the current administration, the greater the likelihood they will make a mistake. When that time comes, we must be ready to exploit it.”

“A chink in the armor, is that what you mean?”

“I suppose you could call it that.”

“Yes, yes. An Achilles’ Heel. We must expose the opponents’ true colors. Of course!”

If nothing else, Nochenko thought, Bulganin certainly knew how to string together cliches. “Yes, Vladimir, I see that, but we must be careful not to …”

Bulganin didn’t seem to hear the question. He continued pacing, muttering to himself.

​Still working under the assumption that Genoa had not only been a colleague of Soong’s, but also a career spook, Oaken returned to the Wan Trahn database, this time looking for a face.

Using both open and classified sources, he and Tanner constructed a “yearbook” of every officer that had served with Soong in the years prior to Ledger. It took Tanner an hour before he was able to narrow the field to half a dozen candidates. “It’s tough,” he said. “It’s been twelve years.”

“Don’t think too hard,” Oaken replied. “Go with your gut.”

Tanner leaned back, closed his eyes, and tried to recall his meetings with the man known as Genoa. He let the images flow. Don’t think, just look …

He leaned over the photos again, scanning faces—

“That’s him,” Briggs whispered, tapping a photo. “Jesus, that’s him.”

“You’re sure?”

Tanner nodded. “I’m sure.”

Oaken turned over the photo and read: “Commander Moh Yen Fong, People’s Liberation Army Navy. He was Soong’s personal aide.”

Tanner nodded. “Let’s find him.”

Latham had met the current director of the FBI several times, either at formal functions or in passing at the Hoover Building, but had never had reason to speak with him at length. Until now.

With a nod from the secretary, Charlie knocked once, then opened the door and walked through. Owens was already there. The director stood to shake hands. “Special Agent Latham. Thanks for coming. Please sit down. It’s Charlie, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Charlie, I’m going to get to the point. The Baker case is being put on hold for a while.”

“Pardon me? Why?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

“Sir, this is my case. If it’s being jerked out from under me, I deserve to know why.”

“The decision’s been made, Special Agent Latham.”

The hell with it, Charlie thought. “That’s unacceptable, sir.”

“Charlie …” Owens said.

Latham pushed on: “This is an active case; it’s moving forward. If the decision’s been made, fine, I’ll deal with it, but I’ll say it again: I deserve to know why.”

The director stared at him and then, to Latham’s surprise, he smiled. “You know what? You’re right. You have earned the right.”

Well, I’ll be damned …

“Surprised?” the director asked.

“Frankly, yes.”

The director chuckled. “I know my strengths, Charlie, and telling agents how to do their jobs ain’t one of them. Here’s the short answer to your question: The Justice Department has asked us to back off. Certain sections of the Commerce Department are under investigation for corruption, and Baker was one of the employees under the microscope.”

“What kind of corruption?”

“The JD believes that several U.S. computer manufacturers were bribing Commerce employees to approve overseas sales of restricted processor components.”

“These components are on the NCTL?”

“They are.”

“How much money are we talking about?”

“Perhaps millions. If so, that might explain Baker’s bank account.”

But not the slaughter of his family, Latham thought. “And the murders?”

“Hard to say. Maybe Baker broke. Stress, remorse, guilt …”

Latham didn’t buy it; he knew who was responsible. “We’ve still got a lot of holes,” he said.

“I know. And you’ll get your chance, but for now I’ve agreed to put our investigation on hold until Justice can wrap up theirs. I don’t like it either, Charlie, but that’s where we stand.”

Latham nodded. “Okay.”

The director stood and extended his hand. “Thanks, Charlie. Harry.”

Latham and Owens headed for the door.

“You know,” the director called, “it just occurred to me: Too bad there’s not a way to keep our plate warm while Justice does it’s thing.”

Latham smiled at him. “Yes, sir.”

“Loose ends … background stuff — that sort of thing.”

“Yes, sir.”

The director shrugged, gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “Oh well, just thinking out loud.”

Back in the Owens’s office, Charlie said, “What the hell was that?”

“That,” Owens replied, “was everything and nothing.”

Translation: Dig if you want to, but stay away from Commerce. “What do you think?”

“Your case, Charlie. It’s got to be your choice. I can run some interference, but not for long.”

“I know.”

“On the other hand, we shouldn’t count on Justice to wrap up any time soon. If we’re right about the Guoanbu—and I know we are — every day that passes, the colder the trail gets.”

“I keep thinking about those little girls — taped up, tortured, watching their mother shot dead … My own girls were that age once. I want to get the sons-of-bitches, Harry.”

“When was the last time you took a vacation?”

“Last year, I guess.”

“Might be nice to get away for a while.”

“It might at that,” Latham replied.

Three hours later, Latham was sitting on his patio grilling some chicken when Bonnie poked her head out the screen door. “You’ve got a visitor.”

“Oh?”

Paul Randall stepped through the door. “Nice apron, boss.”

Latham looked down at his “Kiss the Cook” apron. “Bonnie’s mother gave it to me. It’s sort of grown on me.”

“Where’s your chef’s hat?”

“At the cleaners. Can I get you a drink?”

“I’ll take a beer if you’ve got one.”

Latham dug into a cooler and handed across a plain, brown bottle. Eyes narrowed, Randall removed the top, sniffed, then took a sip. “Not bad.”

“It’s straight from the Latham Basement Brewery.”

“I like it. So, what’s going on with the Baker case? We’re off it?”

“For the time being.”

“And suddenly you’re on vacation.”

Latham shrugged, said nothing,

“Want some company?”

“No, Paul.”

“Too late,” Randall replied with a grin. “Harry’s already signed off on it.”

Latham stared at him. It. would be nice to have some backup … “Should I bother arguing?”

“I wouldn’t.”

Latham reached over and clinked Randall’s bottle with his own. “Welcome to the club. Now we just have to figure out where to start.”

“I think I’ve got that covered. I got an abstract of Skeldon’s service record.”

“And?”

“About half of it was blacked out, but I know what he did for the army: He was a Lurp.”

“A what?” Latham asked.

“LRRP — Long Range Reconnaissance Patrol. The name is different now, but Skeldon was a Lurp through and through. Sixteen years’ worth.”

“Which means?”

“He’s got some pretty scary talents. Lurps are trained to go deep into enemy territory, stay hidden for months at a time, gather intell, then get back out again.”

“I guess that makes sense,” Latham said. “I doubt Baker was paying him for his raking skills. The question is, Why did Baker and the Guoanbu need a former U.S. Army commando?”

It was almost eleven p.m. when Samantha Latham left Swem Library and began walking toward her dorm. She had an early morning study group and another hour of reading before she could go to bed. She stifled a yawn and kept walking.

Dew was forming on the grass and she could feel the dampness seeping through her canvas sneakers. In the distance she could see the lighted windows in Rogers Hall. What she wouldn’t give to have a room in Rogers; instead of having to trudge all the way back to Chandler, she’d already be in bed. Well, maybe next year …

She reached the path bordering Rogers, followed it to the end, then around the corner to Landrum Road. To her right, a couple hundred yards away, she could see the lights of Chandler.

Almost home.

She looked down the road, saw no cars coming, and started across.

Samantha would never remember which sensation registered in her brain first, the sound of the engine revving, or the glare of headlights washing over her, but in those last few seconds, as she saw the dark shape rushing toward her, she thought, He doesn’t see you. Run, Sammie, quick …

She was taking her first running step when the front bumper touched her.

Even before they set foot in the water, Smitty dubbed it Lake Shriveljewels in anticipation of the effect the water was going to have on their anatomy. If not for their dry suits, he’d be right, Jurens decided. Even so, he could feel the cold pressing in on him, a watery glove encasing his body.

The goal of tonight’s exercise was to simply get past the guards waiting for them and wreak some benign havoc. The coming nights would bring increasingly difficult exercises that more closely matched the mission’s goals.

Jurens checked his depth gauge: twelve feet. One of the drawbacks of their LAR VII rebreathers was that it fed them pure oxygen, which quickly turned toxic at pressures below twenty feet. The beauty of LAR was that it created no bubble stream for enemy eyes to spot.

Jurens depressed the chin button inside his mask, then called, “Everybody with me?”

He got three double clicks in return.

Jurens resisted the impulse to glance back. The water was pitch black, visibility less than four feet. Under such conditions it was all too easy to lose someone. Here it was forgivable, but in real life, when one man made up a quarter of your team, it could be disastrous.

He checked his compass against the map on his diveboard. “Rally on my chemlite.”

He plucked the tube off his harness, crushed it to release the phosphorus, then dropped it. One by one the rest of the team swam forward out of the murk. They formed a ring and clasped forearms for what was jokingly called the “dead check”: If you were there, you weren’t dead.

“Going up,” Jurens said. “Standby.”

He clipped his diveboard to his harness, peeled back the glove covering his index finger, then flicked his fins until he felt his finger break the surface. The relatively cold air felt like an electric charge on his skin. He gave another flick of his fins. The top of his mask came clear.

The ice-rimmed shoreline lay fifteen feet away; beyond that, fifty yards inland, lay their Quonset hut and the three storage sheds, all illuminated by pole-mounted spotlights. Jurens knew the sentries were there, but not where and how many.

A flicker of movement near the corner of the Quonset caught his eye: A darker shadow against the blackness. There’s one. Sconi hovered still for the next five minutes, until sure he’d spotted all of them. There were eight guards — five on roving patrol and three hunkered down in the shadows.

Jurens let himself sink, then finned down to the team.

“How’s it look, Boss?” Dickie asked.

Jurens explained what he’d seen. “Let’s go play a little hide-and-seek.”

Loosening the ice along the shoreline was the easy part, since all they needed was a gap through which they could squeeze. The hard part was moving each chunk aside then replacing it behind them without making any noise. As it was, the roving guards periodically strolled along the shore, shining their flashlights into the water as Jurens and his team waited, mere shadows beneath the ice.

Once onto the beach, Jurens led them inland, following the shore to the tree line, where they slipped into the under-brush.

Sconi pulled out his binoculars and scanned the beach. All guards were accounted for. He watched for a few more minutes until sure the rovers hadn’t altered their routes, then set out again.

Giving the huts a wide berth, they slipped east through the trees along the ridge then across a field to the main road, where they found an irrigation ditch overgrown with scrub brush.

Jurens felt a tap on his shoulder. Smitty pointed toward their three o’clock: A hundred yards away, a Humvee sat blocking the road. Smitty gestured: Two inside, two outside.

That’s a mistake, Jurens thought. Better to sit back in the trees and wait for us to stumble onto them. He keyed his headset. “Anybody feel like taking a ride?”

Twenty minutes later they pulled the humvee to a stop in front of the Fort’s administration building. A pair of soldiers armed with M-16s stood on either side of the entrance. Jurens climbed out, followed by Smitty, Zee, and Dickie. One of the guards stepped forward, his gun coming up slightly.

Jurens flashed his temporary ID. “Son, go get your duty officer.”

The soldier eyed the ID. His eyes went wide. “Uh, yes, sir. Hold on.”

He trotted inside. Sixty seconds later he returned with a sleepy-eyed major wearing pajama bottoms and slippers. “What the hell is going on here?”

“Just wanted to return your property, Major,” Jurens said, then walked to the rear of the Humvee and opened the hatch. Inside, bound and gagged, were the four soldiers.

“Christ,” the Major muttered. “Are they—”

“They’re fine, Major. A little embarrassed, probably a lot pissed off, but fine. Now, if you don’t mind, could you point us to the chow hall? We’ve got some thawing out to do.”

Guoanbu director Xiang was enjoying his first cup of tea of the day and scanning the overnight reports when he came across a flagged message. He punched the intercom button. “Eng, come in here.”

His aide, Eng, was there in seconds. “Yes, sir?”

“This is a routine contact report,” Xiang said. “Why is this flagged?”

“Check the name, sir.”

Xiang scanned the message. “Officer Myung Niu—”

“The contact’s name, sir.”

“Chang Moh-Bian. So?”

“Bian’s an official at the Ministry of Agriculture. He’s on a watch list.”

Well, that doesn’t narrow the field much, Xiang thought. At any given time, the Guoanbu’s watch list contained thousands of names. “Regarding what?”

“General Han Soong. We’ve long suspected Bian of being an underground supporter of his.”

That got Xiang’s attention. “And what is he suspected of now … Fiddling with a fence post?”

“The next day the PSB checked it. It looked like it had been hollowed out. Could be a dead-letter drop. Add to that Bian’s demeanor and history, and I thought it might be worth your attention.”

Xiang considered this. It was probably nothing, but still, anything to do with Soong warranted caution. “Assign a detail to watch him. Might as well give it to this … Officer Niu.”

Two hours after a jogger found Samantha lying in the street, the phone rang in the Latham home. Whether from mother’s instinct or simply coincidence, Bonnie answered instead of Charlie. Hovering on the edge of sleep, he heard her say, “Oh, God. Where? Okay … yes, we’re on our way.”

He sat up. “Bonnie, what?”

She turned to him; her face was pale. “Charlie, it’s Samantha … She’s hurt.”

One call to Owens was all it took to get a helicopter dispatched to the Germantown airstrip near Latham’s home. As they were boarding the helicopter and heading south, Owens placed another call that cleared them for landing at the Newport News/Williamsburg airport, where a James City county sheriff was waiting to take them to Williamsburg Community Hospital Trauma Center.

They were met by the ER’s attending physician. “Agent Latham, Mrs. Latham, she’s still unconscious, but aside from a concussion, we haven’t found any head trauma. The CAT scan looked good, and she’s showing all the reactions we would hope to see—”

“You said she was unconscious,” Bonnie said. “What does that mean?”

“Her pupils are equal and reactive, and she’s reacting to pain stimulus. Those are all good signs. Her legs, however, worry us. Both of her femurs were fractured — the left one pretty badly.”

“Oh, God,” Bonnie cried. Charlie put his arms around her.

“Define ‘bad,’” Charlie said.

“We’re concerned about her distal pulse — the one farthest from the point of injury, in this case, the ankle. It’s weak, which might suggest artery damage. She’ll be heading to surgery shortly. We’ll know more in a couple hours.”

“And if there’s artery damage?” Bonnie asked.

“Let’s just cross that bridge if we come to it.”

Irreparable artery damage, Latham thought. Amputation.

Bonnie asked, “Can we see her?”

“Sure, I’ll take you to her.”

Latham felt like he was in a fog. Somebody hurt my girl … my God, somebody hurt my child.

Oaken pushed through the ER doors and immediately saw Paul Randall.

“Hey, Walt.”

“How is she?”

“Still in surgery.” Randall explained Samantha’s injuries. “They’ve got a good vascular department here. If it’s fixable, they’ll do it.”

“Where are they?”

“Upstairs in the lounge. Come on.”

Oaken found a bleary-eyed Charlie Latham pacing the hallway near the elevators. He saw Oaken and walked over. They embraced. “Thanks for coming, Walt.”

“How’s Bonnie?”

“She’s okay.”

“What happened?”

“The cops are saying hit-and-run. They’re still canvassing, but so far there are no witnesses.”

“What can I do?” Oaken asked. “Tell me how I can help.”

“When she gets out of surgery, we’ll talk. I’m going to need a favor, Walt. A big one.”

Oaken and Latham had met nearly ten years before during an antiterrorism conference, Oaken from the State Department’s INR, Latham from the FBI, and had been friends ever since, having lunch and coffee as their schedules permitted. Oaken always assumed Latham knew Holystone’s role with the CIA went beyond mere consultation, but Charlie had never pressed the issue.

Until now, Oaken thought. He felt certain Latham had called him in search of more than moral support. It would have something to do with Samantha, but what?

She got out of surgery three hours later. Though severe, the damage to the artery had been repaired. She would be hospitalized for another week, in double leg casts for three months, and in physical rehabilitation for six months after that, but by this time next year she would be as good as new.

Oaken and Randall left Charlie and Bonnie to be with their daughter and wandered down to the cafeteria. An hour later, Latham joined them. His eyes were red rimmed, but he was smiling. “She’s okay, she’s gonna be okay.”

Randall clapped him on the shoulder and Oaken said, “Thank God.”

Latham poured himself a cup of coffee. “Walt, this wasn’t an accident.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Samantha’s awake; we talked. Now she’s remembering she’d seen the car that hit her around campus the last few days. It stuck with her because it had Maryland plates and the hood ornament was missing; an older model, light blue Cadillac. The more she thought about it, the more she remembered seeing it. She would come out of a class, and there it was; after lunch, there it was.”

“An old boyfriend maybe?”

“No. I’ve got nothing to back this up, but … you heard about the Baker murders?”

“Just what I read in the papers.”

Latham spent the next twenty minutes taking Oaken through the case: the murders, their suspicions about the Guoanbu, Baker’s secret bank account, the former LRRP Mike Skeldon, and finally his suspension from the case. “I know it’s a big leap, but I can’t help feeling like somebody wants me to drop this — or at least get sidetracked.”

A very big leap, Oaken thought. Though he knew better than to discount Charlie’s instincts, Oaken was skeptical. Latham’s little girl had nearly been killed; that was enough to cloud anyone’s thinking. “Supposing that’s true, why go after Samantha? You were already off the case.”

Randall answered: “Look at it this way: If somebody kills or kidnaps the child of a cop or FBI agent, the weight of the whole U.S. law enforcement system crashes down on them. On the other hand, if the child is hurt, say in a random accident, all you get is a distraught mother or father. The last thing that agent is thinking about is his or her caseload.”

Oaken spread his hands. “Charlie, I’m not unsympathetic, but this is a real stretch.”

“Humor me. A Commerce Department employee is murdered; he’s involved with a foreign intelligence agency; he’s paying an Army commando hundreds of thousands of dollars; and just as I’m starting to make headway, I’m jerked off the case.”

“You think the Justice investigation is bogus?”

“I think it’s too convenient. If I’m wrong, I’m wrong. No harm done. Walt, somebody ran down my little girl. I can’t afford to assume anything — not until I’m sure.”

Looking into Latham’s eyes, Oaken found himself thinking of his own daughters. If there was even a chance — even one in a million — that someone was trying to hurt them, how would he react?

Oaken nodded. “Tell me what you need.”

Lieutenant General Vasily Basnin stared at the peeling yellow paint on the ceiling and thought, An old library for a headquarters building … what’s the army coming to? Of course, he admitted, it could be worse. The city of Irkutsk was nearly 350 years old, and some parts of it looked older still.

From that perspective, this place was brand-new.

Founded as an ostrog, or fortress, in 1661 at the confluence of the Irkut and Angara rivers, Irkutsk was known locally as the “Jewel of Siberia,” a nickname, that had never quite caught on. If not for its proximity to gorgeous Lake Baikal, Basnin thought, Irkutsk would be all but worthless.

Born and raised in St. Petersburg, Basnin’s assignment as the Irkutsk Army Garrison’s commandant felt like a slap in the face. This was the most reviled command slot in the Far East District, and yet here he was, servant of the Motherland, protecting this backwater village from … what, exactly? Protesting fur traders? Surly lumberjacks?

Though the population of Sakha — which the locals called Yakutia — was predominantly Russian, the formerly indigenous population of Buryats, Dolgans, and Yukagirs, emboldened by glasnost, had begun to protest discrimination on the part of their Russian masters. With the rolls of the Sakhan government dominated by Russians, little had changed for Yakuts since the Federation’s birth — or since the birth of the Soviet, for that matter.

At least one thing has changed, Basnin thought. Unionization. All the downtrodden natives had banded together into unions. A goddamned coalition of horse breeders, lumberjacks, and fur traders! Of course, it might pay to coddle the hunters, Basnin thought. With Moscow cutting the army’s funding at every turn, he’d been forced to supplement his garrison’s rations with local game. And what of the fur traders and horse breeders? If the money continued to dwindle, would his men be wearing beaver coats and riding around on horses instead of in armored personnel carriers?

With any luck the upcoming elections in Moscow would bring some relief. If the polls were correct, that Bulganin fellow might soon be the Federation’s new president, which might be good for the army — if, that was, Bulganin kept his promise to resume the military restructuring Putin had abandoned the previous year.

Basnin checked his watch. Almost supper time. A quick bite, then back to his quarters for some television. At least tonight we would have some peace. Thus far, the unionists had been cooperative enough to register their protest plans with the city. Tonight they were taking a break, which in turn meant a break for his troops.

Basnin had just drifted off to sleep when the knock came at his door. He rolled over and looked at the clock: Almost midnight. He got up, threw on his robe, shuffled to the door, and opened it.

“Apologies for disturbing you, General,” a soldier said. “The duty officer sent me—”

“What is it?” Basnin growled. “What’s the problem?”

“The protesters, sir. They’re back.”

So much for the niceties of schedules. “Where? How many?”

“At the Railway Monument. Several hundred. It looks like they’re preparing to march.”

“They’re probably headed for city admin building. Wait in the truck. I’ll get dressed.”

Goddamned natives, Basnin thought. Just one night of peace …

They were nearing the corner of Karl Marx Street when Basnin saw it: Flickering flames on the street bordering the river. “What is that?” Basnin asked.

“Torches, sir. They’re carrying torches.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No, sir,” the soldier replied, then laughed. “Just like Frankenstein, eh, sir?”

“What?”

“The angry villagers in Frankenstein. You know—”

“Yes, Corporal, just like Frankenstein. Turn around. Circle up Gagarina; no sense trying to drive through the mob.”

Five minutes later they were driving along the river’s edge. Two hundred meters from the monument, Basnin ordered the driver to stop, then got out.

At least three hundred strong, the protesters milled around the base of the monument. At their center, the monument’s red granite obelisk rose into the night sky, reflecting the light from the torches. Amid the cacophony of voices, Basin could hear the occasional bark of a soldier’s voice as troops hurried to set up a perimeter “Where are the riot control troops?” he asked his driver.

“On the other side of the crowd, posted at the Okhiopkov Theater. The IFVs are—”

“IFVs?” An Infantry Fighting Vehicle was essentially a light reconnaissance tank. But Basnin knew in the eyes of civilians, a tank was a tank. Disorganized mobs tended to run from them; well-organized mobs tended to challenge them. “Who ordered IFVs deployed?” he demanded.

“All our trucks are down for maintenance, sir. The duty officer decided—”

Now Basnin saw them: Two BRT-70s parked on the museum lawn, their 14.5 mm cannons pointing toward the mob. “Get the unit commander on the radio,” he barked. “I want those BRTs pulled back immediately! And for God’s sake, get those turrets turned away from the crowd! If—”

From the trees around the library Basnin saw a flash of light, followed by what looked like a smoke trail streaking through the darkness. A half-second later one of the BRTs rocked sideways and burst into flames.

The crowd broke, half of the protesters running up Gagarina and Karl Marx Streets, the rest fleeing toward the trees along the Okhiopkov Theatre — toward the surviving BRT.

No, no, no … Basnin thought, praying the BRT commander was seasoned enough to show restraint. Please, God, don’t—

The rapid, overlapping boom of the 14.5 mm cannon cut through the night. The cannon’s shells — each larger than a man’s thumb and traveling at twice the speed of sound — raked through the crowd. Bodies began to drop. People stumbled about, some missing limbs, some torn open by shards of flying stone and concrete, still others falling under the crush of the stampede.

Behind him, Basnin could hear his driver yelling into the radio, “Cease fire, cease fire!”

The cannon stopped firing.

The square fell into silence. In the distance Basnin could hear screaming. A pall of smoke drifted over the square. In the distance came screaming. Basnin could see bodies writhing on the ground. A man in a fur hat struggled to his knees. Eyes wide, he reached across his body, feeling for an arm that was now just a bloody stump. A young girl’s voice called, “Mother … Mother …”

Basnin stared at the scene, stunned and momentarily confused. Oh God, what have we done …? He turned to the driver. “Call the hospital! Tell them to send ambulances! Quickly!”

If he hadn’t known better, Tanner might have mistaken the view for a scene straight from a Norwegian postcard. He now knew why this region of New Zealand was called the “Fjordlands.”

Carved by glaciers during the last ice age, the southwestern flank of New Zealand is crosscut with towering mountains, ice blue lakes, tumbling waterfalls, and alpine forests, all of which made the thirty-five-mile-long Milford Track one of the country’s biggest attractions.

After some haggling, they found a guide in Sandfly Point who was willing to drive them up the mountain to where they now stood, Giant’s Gate Falls overlooking Lake Ada. Together they stepped to the edge and looked down. Beneath them the mountain dropped away to the lake’s surface nearly four thousand feet below. “Wow,” Cahil murmured.

“Amen,” Tanner whispered.

According to Maori folklore, the Fjordlands were created millions of years ago by a giant who, after a particularly long day of world walking, had unwittingly dragged the tip of his spear across land, allowing the ocean to rush into the gouges.

Cahil said, “Almost makes me want to sing The Sound of Music.”

Tanner laughed. “The hills are alive with elusive Guoanbu spies?”

“It does have a nice ring to it.”

“Sing on. I promise not to tell Julie Andrews.”

“Oaks is sure about this? It doesn’t strike me as a likely hangout for a retired Chinese spook. Not that I’m complaining, mind you. Given Walt’s track record, it could be worse.”

The last two “vacations” Oaken had planned for them had involved a sinking ship in Alaska and a deserted island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. By comparison, this looked suspiciously pleasant.

“He swears this is it,” Tanner replied and pointed across the lake to the snowcapped peak of Mount Ada. “Fong’s ranch should be in the valley on the other side.”

“How do we get there?”

Tanner looked south toward McKay Falls until he spotted the winding trail that led down to the shore. “Down there,” Briggs said. “We can catch the ferry. After that, we’re off the map.”

The final phase of Oaken’s search for Moh Yen Fong, the Guoanbu agent known as Genoa, turned out to be the easiest. Armed with Fong’s true identity, Oaken had again turned to the Kyung database but, unsurprisingly, found little help there. It was unlikely the Guoanbu would either mention Moh Yen Fong by name or continue to use his code name after Ledger was finished.

Oaken turned to ECHELON. Cloaked in equal parts myth, suspicion, and secrecy, ECHELON is a National Security Agency project created to monitor millions of e-mails, faxes, telexes, and, unbeknownst to most, capture phone calls and radio transmissions.

If, for example, a DEA informant reports to his controllers that a Columbian judge has been targeted for assassination by a drug cartel, the NSA can program ECHELON to scan its captures for word convergences such as the judge’s name, “kill,” and “bomb,” then flag them for attention.

Though ECHELON rarely produces ready-to-wear or even earth-shattering intelligence, it does give the U.S. and British intelligence communities an unequalled view of the world’s ever-changing communications puzzle.

With a little horsepower from Dick Mason, Oaken’s request went straight to the NSA’s director of archives, who punched in Oaken’s search string.

It took ECHELON thirty-eight hours to search the twelve years’ worth of data it had accumulated since Ledger’s demise, but in the end Oaken owed his breakthrough not to a painstaking review of the output, but to the meticulous record keeping of the People’s Liberation Army’s Bureau of Personnel.

Guoanbu operative or not, Moh Yen Fong was first and foremost a military man; consequently, every detail of his life, from doctor’s visits to performance evaluations was meticulously recorded.

With the help of further searches to narrow the field, Oaken finally found a telex from the Bureau of Personnel to Fong’s last command posting. An NSA translator quickly recognized it as a separation of service report. “Basically it’s a DD-two-fourteen form — what our people get when they retire or are discharged,” the translator told him.

The report listed Fong’s home address, his phone number, next of kin, and most importantly Oaken would soon learn, his e-mail address.

Oaken returned to the ECHELON output, this time using only Fong’s e-mail address. He got over two-hundred matches, which he further filtered by frequently repeated words and phrases. Time and again, the same ones kept appearing: “Te Ami,” “Ada,” “great-grandfather,” and “sheep.”

Knowing “Te Anu” and “Ada” were both geographical names found only in New Zealand, Oaken hacked his way into Auckland’s Ministry of Immigration’s computer system and started hunting. It took less than two hours. “Believe it or not,” Oaken told Tanner, “New Zealand has had a sizable Chinese diaspora community since the mid-1880s. They farm, fish, herd sheep—”

“And this is where Fong ran off to?”

“Yep. He probably had a hell of a time convincing the Guoanbu to let him out of the country, but that’s where he went. His family has owned sheep land there for nearly a hundred years.”

“So, he traded in spying for sheep ranching,” Cahil said. “Talk about a career change.”

“There’s a downside, though,” Oaken said. “The Guoanbu has had a security detail assigned to Fong since he moved. At least eight men, living on the ranch full-time with him; they probably work as laborers.”

“Chinese cowboys,” Tanner said. “This should be interesting.”

It was midmorning by the time they reached the ferry landing.

They walked to the end of the deserted jetty, where they found a log-and-plank ferry bumping lazily against the moorings. A man in a red parka lay on a chaise lounge on the deck.

“Morning,” Tanner called.

“Morning, Wanna cross?”

“If you can squeeze us in.”

The man chuckled. “I think I can manage it.” He nodded at their backpacks. “You’re going the wrong way if you’re looking for Milford Track.”

Tanner smiled. “We’re on the economy tour.”

Thirty minutes later they were standing on the eastern shore of Lake Ada and staring up at the mountainside as the ferry chugged its way back across the lake. “Please tell me we don’t have to climb that thing,” Cahil murmured.

“Not unless the map is wrong. We follow the ridge for about five miles; once there we should find a pass that’ll take us through to the high meadows where Fong’s ranch is.”

“Do we have any casualty figures yet?” asked President Martin.

“Initial estimates say fifty-four,” replied Mason. “Including six children. That figure may change as more information comes in, but not by much.”

News of the “Irkutsk Massacre” had spread quickly, which Mason found particularly surprising given the remoteness of the location. During the Cold War news of this kind of incident may have never reached the West. Nowadays, CNN, Reuters, and API had it on the wire within hours.

“What do we know?” asked Bousikaris.

“Not much. There were over three hundred protesters. Some reports say there were Federation tanks present, others say just scout vehicles — like BRTs or BMPs. One of them exploded, cause unknown, and the mob bolted. The surviving vehicle’s commander opened fire.”

“God almighty,” Bousikaris said. “What kind of armament are we talking about?”

“Heavy machine gun. Reports say the shooting lasted less than ten seconds. Judging by the number of casualties, it was probably a 14.5 millimeter — essentially a sixty-caliber machine gun.”

“What’s happening now?” asked President Martin.

“Both the Red Cross and the UN are offering aid, but so far no reply from Moscow.”

“Typical Russian mentality,” Martin said.

“Maybe yes, maybe no. Right now they’re trying to figure out what happened. Irkutsk is seven hours from Moscow. Until they get the right people on the scene, they’re smart to keep quiet.”

“Especially if you’re trying to cover something up,” Bousikaris said.

Mason didn’t respond. Even he, a Cold Warrior to the core, knew that no government — communist, socialist, or otherwise — was either purely good or purely evil. He was surprised Martin and Bousikaris had jumped to that conclusion; reactionism was a dangerous quality for a president — especially one like Martin, whose ego rarely let him admit mistakes. As far as Mason was concerned, imprudence, conceit, and obstinacy had caused more wars than anything else.

“Only time will tell whether they’ll try to gloss it over,” Mason said. “The question is, how is this going to affect the presidential elections? If Bulganin’s smart, he’ll use Irkutsk.”

“How so?” asked Martin.

“Polarization. Within hours we’ll probably see him speaking out: ‘Are these the actions of a caring, responsive government? A government that guns down citizens who simply want fair treatment?’—that sort of thing. If he can get the voters whipped up, it’ll work to his advantage.”

“Vote their hearts, not their minds,” said Martin. “No room in the polling booth for both.”

“Exactly.”

“We need to start thinking about a response. The world is going to be watching which way we go. We’ll need all the facts, Dick. I assume you’ll keep Howard informed.”

Mason read between the lines: Let’s see which way the political wind is blowing before we commit ourselves. If Bulganin was able to turn this incident to his advantage, he might soon be the next president of the Russian Federation — in which case Martin would want to be on the winning side.

Damn the issues, full speed ahead, thought Mason.

Latham’s plea to Oaken was straightforward: Help me get my family to safety, then give me the backup I need to finish the Baker investigation.

Straightforward but fraught with danger, Leland Dutcher thought when Oaken approached him. Dutcher knew Latham well enough to take seriously his suspicions, but as had Oaken, he wondered whether Charlie’s thinking was governed more by the father in him, or by the FBI agent in him.

If he agreed to help, he would be pitting Holystone against both the FBI and the Department of Justice — and given the nature of Holystone’s work, that was the kind of exposure they couldn’t afford.

Latham accepted a cup of coffee from Dutcher and leaned back in one of the overstuffed chairs in Holystone’s conference room. “How is she?” said Dutcher.

“Better,” said Latham. “She’s gonna be okay.”

“I’m glad, Charlie. I understand they found the car.”

Latham nodded. “It belongs to an elderly woman in Chevy Chase; she hadn’t driven it in two months. She didn’t even know it was missing. They found it abandoned twenty miles outside Williamsburg, full of cigarette butts and empty beer bottles.”

“Window dressing?” Oaken said.

“That’s my guess. Somebody’s trying to make it look like a stalker or a joyride gone bad.”

“Smart,” said Dutcher.

“And damned frightening,” Oaken added. “It means whoever took it knew the car’s lack of use would buy them time; same thing with the butts and bottles. It would send the police in the wrong direction. Unless it was random, that is.”

“It wasn’t,” Latham said. “The Guoanbu is methodical. Whether they planned to go after Samantha from the start, I don’t know, but you can be sure they didn’t do this on a whim. It was insurance. Truth is, I doubt they were trying to kill her. Something like that … It would be bad, but after a few weeks I’d be back at work. This way … it was designed to tie me up.”

“When will it be safe to move her?”

Latham sat forward. “You’re going to help me?”

Dutcher nodded. “You have to understand, though: Our way of doing things may be a little more … gray than you’re used to.”

“I’m okay with that. The people we’re up against don’t give a damn about the law. If we have to play a little dirty to get them, so be it.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t go that far,” Dutcher said. “First things first: We need to get Bonnie and your girls someplace safe. Once that’s done, we start hunting.”

It took most of the afternoon for Tanner and Cahil to traverse Mount Ada’s southern spine and reach the pass. The trees along the path suddenly fell away to reveal a meadow of knee-high grass and wildflowers that curved out of sight around the mountain’s lower slopes.

“Seems almost a shame to walk on it,” Tanner said.

“I think somebody beat us to it.” Cahil pointed at a wide groove in the center of the meadow.

“Horses.”

“Yeah. This high up, it’s probably the preferred method of travel. The only question is, are they from Fong’s watchers or not.”

Tanner sat down on his haunches, pulled out the map, and made a few quick calculations. “The ranch is in the next valley — seven miles, give or take. If they’re patrolling this far out, it’s a sure sign they’re on the ball.”

The closer they could get to the ranch before having to go to ground, the easier time they’d have planning what Bear had come to call “The Great Kiwi Fong Snatch.”

“Any preference?” Tanner asked Cahil. “Lost hikers or daring botanists?”

“Lost hikers. I couldn’t tell a daisy from a sunflower.”

A light wind swirled down the valley, making the meadow’s chest-high grass sway like waves. They were less than two miles into the meadow when Tanner heard the distant clomp of hoofbeats over the swishing of the grass. “Company,” he whispered over his shoulder.

They both peered ahead, gazing over the top of the grass.

Closer now, the whinny of a horse. Thirty feet to their right, two horses materialized out of the grass. Sitting atop them were a pair of grim-faced Chinese men.

“Smile,” Tanner whispered. “Wave.”

Cahil broke into a grin and waved. “Hello, there.”

Neither man wore cowboy gear, Tanner saw, but they did look cowboy tough, with ruddy, weathered faces. Each was dressed in khaki BDUs. Hanging from each saddle was what looked like an oversized fanny pack. Tanner knew better: Fastpacks. Inside the pouches would be guns, probably H&K or Grenoir compact assault rifles.

“You are on private property,” one of the men said.

“Really?” Tanner said. “We thought this was the Medford Track.”

“You mean Milford — Milford Track.”

“Oh, right, sorry.”

“The track is that way, across the lake.”

“Are you sure?” Tanner pulled out his map. “I mean, it’s right here.” Pointing at the map, he started walking toward them. The second rider eased his horse left and dropped his hand to the fastpack. Very cool, Tanner thought. “See. We’re right here.”

The man didn’t look at the map. “It is across the lake. You are on private property.”

Tanner and Cahil exchanged glances. Briggs walked over to him and they leaned over the map.

“Ideas?” Cahil whispered.

“I doubt we can take them. They’d have their guns out before we got two steps.”

“I agree,” Cahil said. “We might get one, but not the other.”

“Plus, who knows what’ll happen if they don’t check in.” Tanner turned back to the riders. “You’re sure this isn’t the Minifred Track?”

“Milford Track. Yes, I am sure. You must leave now.”

Tanner shrugged. “Okay. Sorry for the trouble.”

He and Cahil shouldered their packs, turned around, and started walking.

An hour later they were crouched in the trees at the mouth of the pass, watching the riders retreat across the meadow until they disappeared from view. The wind had picked up and dark clouds roiled along the upper slopes as the sun dropped toward the horizon.

“Well, that answers a few questions,” Cahil said.

Tanner checked his watch. “We’ll lay low and wait a few hours.”

“And then?”

“And then we find out just how good Fong’s watcher’s are.”

With nightfall came the rain, a steady downpour that soaked their clothes and chilled them to the bone. Lightning flashed along the foothills, casting the valley in strobe light.

They followed the trail south, skirting the meadow until the reached the opposite ridge, where they started climbing. The forest closed in around them until they were picking their way from trunk to trunk, wet branches swiping their faces as they went.

Tanner stayed parallel to the meadow, moving southeast until they reached the ridge overlooking Fong’s valley. Below them he could see half a dozen yellow dots that he assumed were flashlights. Between claps of thunder he could hear the mewling of sheep.

“His men are probably trying to gather the sheep before the storm gets any worse,” Cahil said.

The weather could work in their favor, Tanner realized. In addition to masking their approach, Fong’s men would be cold and tired by the time they finished gathering the flock. Hopefully, the last thing on their minds would be patrolling.

As if reading his mind, Bear said, “Nasty job in this weather.”

“Not as nasty as it could be.”

“What’ve you got in mind?”

Tanner briefly outlined his plan, then said, “With the storm, it should be quite a sight.”

Cahil broke into a grin. “Ah, yes, The Great Kiwi Fong Sheep Stampede.”

It took Fong’s men another hour to corral the flock. As they headed to the barn to put up the horses, Tanner and Cahil crawling down the slope, moving from tree to tree until they reached the valley floor. They found a cluster of pines and settled down to watch.

To their right, two hundred yards away, lay Fong’s home, a multilevel log cabin with dormer windows and gambrel roofing; to their right, the corral and barn. The barn’s doors were open, revealing lantern light and shadowed figures moving about.

Finally the men walked out of the barn, shut the door, and started toward the cabin. One by one they mounted the porch and disappeared inside. Moments later lights glowed to life in three downstairs windows.

“What do you think?” Cahil whispered. “Six men, two to a room?”

“Makes sense.” If so, Fong’s bedroom was probably on the second floor. That could either help or hurt them; while it isolated Fong, it also meant that unless they could find an outside route to the second floor, they’d have to walk past the guard’s rooms.

“The big question is whether they post a watch at night,” Tanner said.

“How long has Fong been here?”

“Four years.”

“How many kidnap plots, you think?”

Tanner smiled. “We’re probably the first.” Cahil’s point was well-taken. After four years the guards had probably gotten comfortable. “Okay, we’ll sit tight for a few hours, then move.”

They spent the next three hours lying perfectly still under the boughs of the pines as the rain pattered the leaves around them. One by one the cabin’s windows went dark. Nothing moved except for the sheep milling about in the corral. They saw no roving patrols, no silhouettes in the windows, nothing to suggest a posted watch. With a mutual nod, they parted ways and got to work.

Forty minutes later they met back under the Pines. “Change of plans,” Cahil said. “I found a garage on the other side of the cabin; there are two Range Rovers inside. There’s a road — and I use that term loosely — leading to the southeast.”

“Fuel?”

“Both tanks are full. I trashed the distributor cap on one of them; it’s dead.”

“A Range Rover is better than a horse,” Tanner said. “The corral gate’s ready.”

“Shall we?”

“Let the exodus begin.”

While Cahil made his way to the corral, Tanner sprinted to the cabin wall and crawled forward until he reached the edge of the porch. He pulled out his red-bulbed penlight, aimed it toward the corral, and blinked twice.

A moment later he saw Cahil climb over the fence. Almost immediately the sheep began mewling. Cahil ran to the gate, swung it open, and then charged into the herd, waving his arms. Lightning crashed. Two of the sheep squealed and trotted out the gate, followed by three more. The remainder of the herd broke and scattered into the meadow. Cahil climbed back over the fence and sprinted over to Tanner.

Above their heads, light burst from the bedroom windows. They heard muffled shouting. The front door crashed open and one by one men ran out, shrugging on coats as they ran for the barn.

“I counted four,” Cahil whispered. “That should leave two inside.”

With Cahil in the lead, they crawled onto the porch, stood up, and charged for the open door. A shadow blocked his path. He barely had time to lower his shoulder before he and the man collided and tumbled inside. Tanner was one step behind, scanning left and right for movement.

From the corner of his eye he saw a shadow rushing toward him, saw the glint of moonlight on blue metal: Gun. He pulled the sap from his pocket and whirled. Ten feet to his right, a guard skidded to a stop, shotgun dangling by his side. He started to raise it. Tanner took two bounding steps, slammed his foot down on the shotgun’s barrel before it came level, trapping it against the floor, then lashed out with the sap, catching the man in the temple.

As the man dropped unconscious, Tanner snatched up the shotgun. Cahil was rising to his feet with a pistol in his hand. “Little guy tried to shoot — stairs, Briggs!”

Tanner looked up. On the second-floor landing, a figure spun and disappeared down the hall.

With Cahil on his heels, Tanner hurdled up the steps. He reached the landing, looked left, saw nothing, looked right. A long hallway stretched before him. There were two open doors on each side, and one at the end. It was closed.

Tanner gestured to Bear: I’m gonna crash it. Cover my back.

Cahil nodded.

Tanner took a breath and charged down the hall, forcing himself to concentrate on the closed door rushing toward him. If anyone was in either of the side rooms waiting for him to pass …

Bear’s got you, keep going …

He hit the door and it crashed inward. Already stumbling, he dropped to one knee and spun.

To his right, a figure was trying to climb through the open window. Tanner ran over and jammed his heel into the man’s Achilles’ tendon. The man squealed and fell back. Briggs grabbed his collar and turned him around. “Clear, Bear!”

Cahil came through the door. “Is that him?”

Tanner pulled out his penlight, and shined it in the man’s face. He was older, of course, but there was no mistake. Briggs said, “Good to see you again, Genoa.”

Nochenko knew Bulganin to be an early riser, so he wasn’t surprised to see his boss’s entourage already posted at the entrance to the RPP’s headquarters when he arrived. As he passed the receptionist, she gestured him over. “He’s been here all night.”

“What’s happening?” Nochenko asked.

“No idea. Everyone’s been racing around like the world’s on fire.”

“Okay, thanks.” Nochenko walked to Bulganin’s door and knocked. He got an “enter” and walked inside. Bulganin was staring out the window. Uncharacteristically, he had the drapes drawn back and the room was flooded with sunlight. “Vladimir?” Nochenko said.

Bulganin turned. “Ivan! Ivan, my friend, have you heard?”

“What? What’s happened?”

“See for yourself!” Arrayed across Bulganin’s desk were half a dozen newspapers. Nochenko scanned the headlines: IRKUTSK MASSACRE … PROTEST TURNS BLOODY … SLAUGHTER IN SIBERIA …

Nochenko grabbed a copy of hvestia and scanned the story. “Good God! This is awful.”

“What? This is wonderful!” Bulganin countered. “It couldn’t be more perfect. This … fracas in Irkutsk is perfect! It will be our watershed — just as you said!”

“Vladimir, people are dead!”

“Yes, of course, it’s a tragedy. But, Ivan, think what it means for us!”

It couldn’t be, Nochenko thought. From a corner of his subconscious, another thought: Coincidence is the mother of deception … It had been one of his mentor’s favorite maxims, embodying the essence of successful propaganda. And what is coincidence, Nochenko thought, but the favorable confluence of timing and events?

Could Bulganin have anything to do with this? No, of course not. How could he?

Vladimir was right: Tragedy though it was, the incident could turn the election for them. They must be very careful, though. All of Russia would be waiting to see how Bulganin reacted. One hint that he was anything but devastated and it could all backfire.

“You see, don’t you?” Bulganin said. “You see the momentous opportunity before us.”

“Yes, Vladimir, but golden opportunity or not, we can’t afford to come off as opportunists. Nearly sixty people are dead — sixty fellow Russians, including children—”

“Yes, yes,” Bulganin droned. “Citizens who simply wanted fair treatment, a better life for their children … and what do they get for their trouble? A rain of bullets.”

He’s already rehearsed the speech. “Vladimir, when did you hear of this?”

“Late last night.”

“From where?”

“Pyotr. He happened to be in Ulan Ude.”

Ulan Ude was less than fifty miles from Irkutsk. “What was he doing there?”

The phone buzzed and Bulganin picked up, listened, then said, “Put him through.” He hung up and turned to Nochenko.’ “The dogs come to beg for scraps, Ivan.”

“Pardon me?”

“They’re panicked, Ivan. Watch and learn.”

The phone rang and Bulganin picked it up. “Bulganin here … yes, good morning. Certainly, but be quick, if you would. I have a brunch engagement.” Bulganin listened for a few seconds then said, “Very well. I can make time for you … this afternoon at four. Please be prompt.” Bulganin hung up.

Nochenko asked, “What is it?”

“The president’s domestic affairs advisor is paying us a visit.”

Now Nochenko understood. Aware of Bulganin’s growing influence with voters, the president was hoping to blunt the RPP’s attack before it began. “Irkutsk,” he murmured.

“Yes, Irkutsk! We have them, Ivan!”

Within hours of Samantha Latham’s accident, every member of Charlie’s team had pledged their support. As Oaken arranged a safe house for Latham’s family, agents shuttled between Washington and Williamsburg to help any way they could.

Hesitant to involve them in an endeavor that could easily end their careers, Latham ordered everyone back to work. Janet Paschel and Tom Wuhlford, the two that had been with him the longest, refused, and along with Randall they began rotating guard shifts at the hospital.

Latham was spending his days in Williamsburg and his nights in Washington, brainstorming with Dutcher and Oaken. The cornerstone of their plan was Latham’s conviction that Baker had been killed by the Guoanbu. Everything flowed from that. Accordingly, their approach would be three pronged.

Oaken searched for a motive behind the murders. What was the connection between Baker and the Guoanbu! If he’d been working for them, what had he been supplying?

Next, Latham and Randall would pursue the Mary Tsang and Hong Cho angle. However obliquely, Cho’s methods in New York tied the Baker murders to the Guoanbu; similarly, unless she was in fact nothing more than a pen pal, Tsang was Cho’s link to the outside world.

And lastly, upon his return, Cahil would begin hunting for Mike Skeldon. To understand the whole picture, they had to know why Baker had hired him.

Somehow this disparate group of people were connected to a larger whole — something so important to the Chinese government that it had ordered the slaughter of an entire family.

Oaken felt certain Baker had had more on his place at Commerce than a simple hearing aid. To confirm this, he proposed a scheme that got an enthusiastic smile from Latham.

The next day Charlie returned to Commerce for another meeting with Baker’s supervisor and the department’s director. “So what brings you back, Agent Latham?” asked Jenkins.

“How common is it for your employees to take home classified work?”

“It’s against regulations,” Jenkins replied.

“Closely monitored, I assume?”

“Of course.”

“Then maybe you can tell me why Baker’s computer was full of Commerce material.”

“That can’t be,” Knowlton said. “There’s got to be a mistake.”

“At last count, Baker had material from twenty-three case files on his hard drive.”

“Do you have the case numbers?” asked Jenkins.

“They’re being transferred to a warrant as we speak. If I don’t start getting some cooperation, that warrant will be on the desk of the U.S. attorney within the hour. After that, I’m coming back with a couple dozen agents and start digging through your documents vault.”

“You can’t—”

“Depending on what we find, I may start looking into obstruction charges.”

“Agent Latham, this is unnecessary—”

Latham stood up and started toward the door. “I’m done being nice, Mr. Jenkins. You’ve just bought yourself and your department a world of heartache.”

Jenkins bolted out of his seat. “Wait! Wait, please!”

“What?”

“You have to understand: This is very difficult.”

Time to let them breathe. “Look, if Baker was up to no good, that’s on him. Unless you were aiding and abetting him, the worst you’ll face is some embarrassment. Be smart.”

Jenkins looked at him for a few seconds, then nodded. “I’ll have what you need in ten minutes.”

An hour later Latham was back at Holystone with four large boxes of manila folders.

“Wow,” Oaken said, helping him carry them into his office.

“Baker was a workhorse,” Latham agreed.

“No, that’s not what I meant. I figured it was a toss-up whether they’d fall for the bluff. I half expected him to pick up the phone to the Bureau. I was trying to figure out how we were going to post bail for you.”

“Very funny, Walt. Jenkins is a bureaucrat down to his socks. I just spoke his language.”

“Well, whatever you did, it worked.” Oaken reached into one of the boxes and pulled out a file. “Now, get outta here — I’ve got some reading to do. Time to see what the late Mr. Baker was up to.”

Fong bunked his eyes against the glare of Tanner’s flashlight. “Who are you?”

“You don’t remember me? Twelve years ago … Beijing?”

“No, I don’t. What do you want?”

“You’re sure? Ledger — General Han Soong was Treble; you were Genoa.”

Fong’s eyes widened. “You! They told me you were—”

“They were wrong,” Tanner said. “Not by much, but enough.”

Here’s the answer, Tanner thought. Twelve years of wondering what had gone wrong with Ledger, and here, huddled on the floor before him, was the answer: a frightened old man.

Briggs wanted to hate Fong, but instead he felt nothing. The why of it didn’t matter. Whatever the reason, whoever was to blame, he’d made a promise to Soong and his family, then failed them. He was alive and free and they were still in China, their lives draining away inside a laogi.

“How did you find me?” asked Fong.

“Three years and a lot of hard work,” Tanner lied. “You’re the last agent in the Ledger network. I’ve already visited the rest. Truth be told, I hadn’t expected to find you.”

“Last agent? What does that mean?”

“You’re going on a trip.”

“Where? What for—”

“Bear, give me the duct tape.”

They stood Fong up, had him bend forward slightly, then taped his wrists to his thighs.

“This is uncomfortable,” Fong whined.

“We’ll make you some hot cocoa later,” Tanner said, then pressed a piece of tape over his mouth. “Bear, tie up the two downstairs, stash one, and bring the other up here. We’ll make him a sleep-in for Fong.”

“Gotcha.”

Bear took two steps toward the door, then stopped. He tapped his ear and pointed downward: Noise. Briggs crept down the hall and peeked around the comer. On the first floor, a pair of guards were kneeling over the two he and Cahil had incapacitated. What they did next told Tanner much about their training: Instead of racing up the stairs to check on their charge, the two men backed slowly out the door and disappeared. Going to get reinforcements, Tanner thought.

He returned to the room, told Cahil what was happening, then knelt beside Fong. “Listen closely. You have two choices: You can cooperate and live to see this place again; or you can die here.”

Despite the threat, Tanner had no intention of killing Fong. Twelve years ago he’d been serving his country; now he was just an old man trying to live in peace and herd sheep.

Fong stared into Tanner’s eyes for a long five seconds, then nodded.

From the first floor Tanner heard the scuff of a shoe on wood, followed by murmured voices.

Hurrying now, Briggs climbed out the window onto the roof. The rain was falling heavily, and steam rose from the still-warm shingles. With a shove from inside, Fong came out the window, followed by Gahil.

Tanner crept to the edge of the roof. He handed Cahil the shotgun, then eased himself forward until he could peek over the eaves trough. He froze.

Directly below him a man crouched in the shadows along the wall.

Behind them, voices from Fong’s window.

Out of time, Briggs thought. He looked at Cahil and got a nod.

Tanner turned himself around so he was squatting backward over the edge, then dropped.

He landed in front of the crouching guard, who hesitated a half-second too long. Tanner clamped his hand over the guard’s mouth, drew back his leg, and slammed his knee squarely into the man’s solar plexus. The guard let out an explosive grunt and went slack. Tanner snatched up his rifle, a Norinco SKS-D.

Cahil and Fong, who Bear had lowered by his collar, were already on the ground and moving through the mist toward the garage. Tanner sprinted to a nearby bush and dropped to his belly. Nothing moved. To the west, he could see a hint of orange on the horizon. He waited until Bear and Fong were inside the garage, then followed.

From the cabin came the first shout of alarm. Voices called back in Chinese. Rusty though his Mandarin was, Tanner caught a few words: “Gone,” “Intruders,” and “Horses.”

In the garage, Bear was swinging open the doors. Fong lay in the backseat of the Range Rover. Tanner jumped into the driver’s seat, Cahil into the passenger seat. “I think we’ve worn out our welcome,” Bear said.

“You’re assuming we were welcome in the first place.”

Briggs turned the ignition, floored the gas pedal, and the Rover lurched forward.

From the left, two figures were running toward them, muzzles flashing. Bullets peppered the Rover’s rear quarter panel. Tanner spun the wheel hard, fishtailed, then accelerated, spewing a geyser of mud. The headlights swept over a gap in the trees. Tanner steered for it.

Bullets thunked into the Rover’s tailgate. The rear window shattered. Fong screamed.

“Whoa,” Cahil shouted. “Unfriendly!”

That answered one question for them: Whether Fong knew it or not, the guards were here not only for his protection, but for the Guoanbu’s as well: Rather than risk Fong’s capture, they were to ensure his silence.

Tanner called, “Bear, I think our passenger has something to say.”

Cahil reached back and peeled the tape from Fong’s mouth.

“—shooting at us! Don’t they know I’m in here?”

“They know,” Tanner said.

“Then why … oh … I see now.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing personal,” Cahil replied.

“I can never go back there again, you know.”

“Not necessarily,” Tanner replied. “Once we get out of this, I’ll explain.”

“If we get out of this, don’t you mean?”

“Think positively.”

The trees closed in around them until branches scraped the Rover’s sides. Mist swirled over the ground. Rain splattered the windshield. Tanner tightened his grip on the wheel. “Any company, Bear?”

Cahil leaned his head out the window. “Nope, I don’t see any — Whoa!”

Tanner saw headlights in the rearview mirror. They were a hundred yards back, but rapidly closing the distance. “I see them! I thought you disabled—”

“I did. Those aren’t truck headlights.”

Fong said, “They’re four-wheel ATVs.”

“What?” said Cahil. “From where?”

“There’s an old hay bin under the barn.”

“Oops,” Tanner said.

“The entrance is disguised,” Fong said. “You weren’t meant to find it.”

“I’ll say this much, your watchers are good.”

“Let us hope you’re better.”

Tanner floored the accelerator, opening the gap between them and the pursuers. As long as there were more straight-aways than curves, they might be able to lose the ATVs. He wasn’t confident, however. This high in the mountains, winding roads were more likely.

“Bear, how’s our—”

“Already on it,” Cahil called and began checking their weapons. “Seven rounds in the shotgun; Beretta’s got fourteen, SKS’s got a full magazine. What say I try to create a little gridlock?”

“Good idea. Hang on, there’s a corner coming up.”

Cahil climbed into the backseat, shoved Fong to the floor, and propped the SKS on the seat.

Tanner skidded around the corner, punched the accelerator for fifty yards, then braked hard and doused the headlights. Seconds later the lead ATV came around the corner. Cahil opened fire. The ATV swerved right, then left, then plunged into the trees along the road. Tanner floored the gas pedal and took off.

In seconds the Rover was back up to speed. Branches whipped past the windshield.

“Dawn’s coming,” Cahil said.

To the east the sun’s upper rim was rising over the mountains.

Tanner said, “We should only be about ten miles from the highway. If we can—”

“Briggs, watch it!” Cahil called.

Through the fog, the headlights picked out a tree lying across the road. Beyond it stood half a dozen horses and riders. Tanner slammed on the brakes. The Rover slewed broadside. He spun the wheel, straightened out, and the Rover shuddered to a stop.

“Your men?” Tanner asked Fong.

“Yes. They must have gone overland. There’s a game trail that parallels the road.”

“Now what?” Cahil muttered.

“Now,” Tanner said, jamming the shift lever into reverse, “we take the road less traveled.”

The Rover lurched backward, the transmission whining as they picked up speed. Behind them, the three remaining ATVs skidded around the corner. “Briggs … ”

“I see them.”

Tanner spun the wheel, slammed on the brakes.

“What do you think, Bear?” Tanner said, pointing through the windshield at a gap in the trees. Mostly overgrown with brush, the trail sloped away from the road and disappeared. “Wide enough?”

Fong shouted, “No, wait! It—”

“Pretty steep,” Cahil said. “But, given the alternative … ”

“My thoughts exactly,” Tanner replied.

He slammed the Rover into gear, aimed the hood for the gap, and floored the accelerator.

The Rover leapt over the ditch and slammed onto the trail, shearing off a pair of saplings as it passed. Tanner and Cahil were thrown against their seat belts. In the backseat, Fong tried to sit up, but lost his balance and fell back again.

“This is not a trail!” he yelled.

“What?” Cahil shouted.

“It’s not a trail! It used to be part of a launch.”

“A what?”

The Rover hit a rut, veered right, and clipped a tree trunk.

Fong yelled, “A boat launch!”

Even before Fong said the words, Tanner saw the trees thinning ahead and caught a glint of sun on water. The Joe River, he thought.

“Aw, shit,” Cahil moaned.

“How deep is it, Fong?”

“I have no idea!”

Cahil glanced over his shoulder. “Well, at least they’re not following us anymore.”

“That’s a plus,” Tanner replied. “Hold tight!”

He turned the wheel, trying to catch the bumper on a passing tree. It wouldn’t budge. He wrenched on it. Nothing. Cahil poked his head out the side window, then pulled back. “We’re stuck in the ruts.”

Suddenly the trees disappeared, giving way to a short beach.

“We’re gonna get wet!” Tanner shouted.

A wave curled over the hood and crashed against the windshield.

Tanner flicked on the wipers. They drummed and squeaked across the glass.

Aside from the beach they’d just left, most of the river’s shoreline was surrounded by sheer rock walls and scrub pine.

Cahil peeked out the window. “Water’s up to the wheel wells.”

Tanner pressed the accelerator. The wheels slipped, then took hold, grinding gravel.

“We’re moving!” Cahil called.

“Good!”

“No, Briggs, we’re moving!”

Tanner looked out and saw the opposite shore drifting laterally across the windshield. “Climb in back, Bear, give me some weight!”

Cahil scrambled over the seat. Fong let out a yelp.

Tanner pressed on the accelerator. For a moment there was nothing, then came the crunch of gravel as the wheels found purchase. The Rover lurched backward.

“You’ve got it!” Cahil yelled.

Come on, come on, come on … Inch by inch they began backing toward the shore. Tanner looked in the mirror. The beach was sliding out of view. Running out of room …

He felt the wheels slip, grab again, then he heard them whine as the Rover’s tail end floated free. He floored the accelerator. A rooster tail of water arced behind the Rover. He let up on the pedal. The Rover began wallowing in the current. Water lapped at the doors. Cahil climbed back into the front.

Tanner asked Fong, “Any idea where this heads?”

“Which way are we going now?”

“Roughly east.”

Fong thought for a moment “I’m not sure how far, but eventually we should end up parallel to Highway Ninety-four.”

“We’ll sink long before that,” Cahil said, rolling up his window.

Tanner did the same. The water was three inches below the window frame.

The gorge was narrowing now, the bottom becoming rockier. The water began to churn. Froth broke over the hood. Slowly at first, and then with growing speed, the Rover began spinning.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” Fong groaned.

Cahil patted him on the head. “It’s okay — it’s your car.”

“Can you swim?” Tanner asked him.

“Badly.”

With a groan, the Rover’s engine-heavy nose began tipping into the water. The front tires touched bottom, and the tail spun around until they were traveling backward.

“Time to abandon ship,” Tanner said.

They climbed into the backseat. Tanner cut away the tape from Fong’s wrists and Cahil helped him into the cargo area. Cahil was climbing through the rear window when he stopped suddenly.

“What is it, Bear?”

“Shhh …! Falls! There’re falls ahead!”

“Oh, God!” Fong murmured.

Tanner ducked down and looked out the half-submerged windshield. Fifty yards downstream, a cloud of spray billowed above the river. Through the mist he caught glimpses of car-size boulders lining the shore. “Go, Bear, get out!”

Tanner knew if they were inside the Rover when it went over, they wouldn’t survive: If the undertow didn’t trap them, the current would knock them around the interior like marbles in a tin can.

“Try for the boulders!” Tanner called. “I’m right behind you!”

The driver’s window shattered. Water gushed through and engulfed the front seats. The Rover’s tail continued to rise until Briggs was standing on the backseats.

With one arm wrapped around Fong, Cahil climbed out the back window and stood on the bumper. Tanner followed. Now he could hear the roar of the falls. Mist swirled around them.

Briggs glanced at Fong; his eyes were bulging. “You okay?”

“Yes!”

Tanner felt a twinge of admiration for the man. He was old, frail, and terrified, but was doing his best to hold himself together. “Ready, Bear?”

With Fong between them, they slipped into the water. They kicked off the Rover’s bumper and started swimming for the nearest boulder. Immediately Tanner felt the current grip him. White water and froth boiled around them.

Don’t look, just swim, he ordered himself.

Legs thrashing, they paddled toward the shore.

Twenty feet … not gonna make it. For every foot they gained laterally, they were losing three to the current. On impulse, Tanner glanced left just in time to see the Rover tumble over the falls.

As they drew closer to the shore, Briggs suddenly realized all the boulders were as slick as glass. Sitting at the water’s edge for thousands of years, they’d been polished smooth.

“We got a problem!” Cahil called.

“I see it. Keep swimming!”

Cahil grabbed at a boulder, but his fingers simply trailed over the surface.

Tanner felt something solid beneath his feet. Rock! He tried to stand up, slipped, then tried again. Cahil continued to slip downstream. Tanner tightened his grip on Fong’s collar. Fong’s head slipped beneath the surface. Cahil pulled him up.

“I’m going over, Briggs!”

“Hold on!”

Tanner tried to stand again, but the current was too strong. He felt himself being dragged under. He grabbed at the rocks. Not going to make it, he thought. He looked at Bear and saw the same realization in his eyes. Tanner reached toward him and they locked hands, sandwiching Fong between them.

“Take a deep breath!”

Tanner felt himself pushed up and out. For a moment he floated. The roar of the falls seemed to fade. And then the world tipped upside down.

Tanner’s vision became a blur of white water and boulders. Everything went black. He felt the icy water envelop him, squeezing his chest like a vice. He opened his eyes. He could feel the pound of the water above him.

Fong’s face materialized out of the murk. Tanner grabbed him, held on, then groped for Cahil. He felt a hand close over his own, and a moment later they struck bottom. Tanner heard a pop-crunch. Fong’s mouth opened in a silent scream.

With Fong pressed between them, Tanner and Cahil kicked for surface and broke into the air.

Five minutes later and fifty yards downstream, they crawled ashore and collapsed.

“Fong, are you alright?” Tanner called.

“My foot. Ahhhh. God, it hurts!”

He crawled over. Fong’s foot was wrenched almost completely backward. The toe of his shoe pointed into the sand. Briggs patted him on the chest. “You’re going to be okay.”

“It could be worse,” Cahil said with a smile.

Tanner grinned back; the joke was an old one between them “Could be dead.”

An hour later they had a makeshift camp set up and Fong was resting with Tanner’s cold, water-soaked anorak wrapped around his foot. He and Cahil had faired better. Aside from some scrapes and bruises, they were unscathed.

Cahil left to scout their location and returned forty minutes later. “Highway Ninety-four’s about two miles to the east; from there it’s about five miles to the Homer Tunnel.”

“Now what?” asked Fong.

“Now we make a deal,” Tanner replied.

“What kind of deal?”

Tanner couldn’t risk telling Fong the real reason they’d come lest they be forced to smuggle him out of the country and keep him incommunicado, in which case Fong could never come back here without facing a lengthy, and perhaps fatal, Guoanbu debriefing. If Tanner could get what he needed without destroying Fong’s life, all the better. Of course, that depended on how well he told his story.

During Ledger, Briggs began, he met and fell in love with a young Chinese woman, a poet named Siylin. Soon after the failure of Ledger, Tanner learned the government had labeled her poetry “ideologically impure.” She was sent to a reeducation camp. A few months ago, she’d been released.

“I want to get her out,” he concluded.

“This has nothing to do with Soong?”

Tanner shook his head. “I doubt he or his family survived a year in the laogi.”

“Then why are you here? I don’t understand.”

“I want the names of a few … untrustworthy Guoanbu informants I can use.”

“Why?”

“Getting in and finding Siylin is going to be the easy part Getting out could be tricky. If I run into trouble with the Guoanbu, I want to have some misdirection up my sleeve.”

Fong frowned. “I see. And if I refuse?”

“Then you’ll have to come with us.”

“Which means I can never come back here.”

Tanner nodded. “Our way, you get to stay.”

“Explain.”

“You’ll be found along the edge of the highway, having jumped from the moving car of your kidnappers. Scraped and battered, you crawled into the underbrush and hid before the kidnappers had a chance to turn around. Scared off by passing cars, the kidnappers fled.”

“Kidnappers, eh?” Fong mused.

“Two hours after we drop you off, the police will receive a tip giving them your location.”

“How do you know the names I give you won’t be false, or that I won’t contact the Guoanbu?”

“Two reasons. One, if you burn me, they’ll want to know where you got the information. They’ll doubt your kidnap story, and you’ll find yourself back in Beijing.”

“And the other reason?”

“If I don’t get out of China, my friend here will be paying you another visit.”

Fong glanced at Cahil, who smiled and gave him a short wave.

“I see,” said Fong.

Tanner said, “I’m hoping none of that will be necessary.”

“As do I. If I give you these names, can you promise me they won’t be hurt?”

“I can promise I won’t knowingly put them in harm’s way. That’s the best I can do.”

“Why not just take me until you’re done? Easier still, why not get the names, then kill me? I would’ve thought I’d given you reason enough.”

“Maybe I’m getting soft in my old age,” Tanner replied. “You did what you did in Beijing because it was your duty. Providing you hold up your end of the bargain, I don’t see any reason why you shouldn’t be allowed to live in peace.”

Fong considered this for a moment, then nodded. “You have a deal.”

Driving straight in from the airport. Tanner and Cahil reached the office in midmorning and were greeted by Dutcher, Oaken and, to their surprise, Charlie Latham. “Welcome home,” Dutcher said.

“New recruit?” Tanner said, smiling at Latham.

“Temporarily,” Dutcher replied. “I’ll fill you in later.”

“Good to see you again, Charlie.”

“You, too.”

Dutcher led the group into the conference room. Tanner and Cahil, whose body clocks were still on New Zealand time, gladly accepted coffee.

“I assume you found Genoa?” asked Oaken.

“Your directions took us to his front door,” Cahil said. “I have a new respect for sheep.”

Dutcher said, “Tell us.”

Tanner recounted their trip, starting with their crossing of Lake Ada and ending with their tumble over the falls. “Alternating piggybacking duties, we hiked overland to the Homer Tunnel, then stashed Fong in the underbrush and flagged down a tour bus to Dunedin. We called the police, boarded a charter to Auckland, then here.”

“It’s a gamble you’re taking with Fong,” said Dutcher.

“He’s got more to lose than we do. Plus, he knows it could have been worse.”

“Give the names to Walt; we’ll start gathering some background on them. As it stands, you’ve got a date in Jakarta in two days. That brings us to the reason Charlie’s here. Do you think you can get along without Ian?”

“I don’t know … he does read to me at night.”

“He’s a difficult child,” Bear said.

Dutcher smiled. “I’ll take that as a yes.” He brought them up to speed on the Baker case, from the murders to Samantha’s accident just days before. “We’re going to lend a hand.”

“How’s she doing, Charlie?” asked Tanner.

“We’re moving her, Bonnie and Caroline to the safehouse tomorrow. Tom and Janet are there now. Once we get that done, I’ll sleep a little better.”

“You’ve got some pretty good folks on your team.”

“Don’t I know it. Here, too.”

Dutcher said, “We’re approaching it from three directions. Walt’s digging into Baker’s cases.”

“Anything there?” Cahil asked.

“Nothing yet,” Oaken said. “He was with the BXA — the Bureau of Export Administration — so he had a pretty full plate: Everything from computer chips to precision lathing equipment for artillery barrels. It’s gonna take a while.”

Dutcher continued: “Charlie and his people are going to try to shake the tree with Hong Cho and Mary Tsang.”

“What are you looking for, Charlie?”

“The Guoanbu is partial to using bridge agents — in-country sleepers assigned to help their controllers — I doubt they’ve written off Hong Cho entirely. If this Tsang woman is a bridge, it would explain her visits.”

“The home office staying in touch.”

“Exactly. Unless they’ve bolted, Baker’s contacts are probably still in the area. If we push Tsang, maybe she’ll lead us to them.”

Cahil said, “Leland, you said three approaches. I’m the third, I assume?”

“Yes. Baker paid Mike Skeldon a lot of money. We need to know what he was doing for them. Latham’s got some leads on him. You’ll be following those.”

Latham added, “From what little we were able to gather, he’s got connections in Asheville.”

“Makes sense,” said Cahil. “There’s a big underground mercenary community in North Carolina. They’re pretty tight-knit.”

“Is that a problem?” asked Dutcher.

“No, but there’re a lot of wannabes down there, too. I’ll just have to find the right group.”

Dutcher nodded. “Anybody have any questions?”

Tanner said, “Just one: Charlie, if you’re right about the Justice probe being bogus, where did the order really come from? Who jerked the rug out from under you, and why?”

“Both good questions, and I don’t have any answers. One thing’s for sure, though: Whoever it is, they’ve got the power to make the Justice Department dance. And that’s pretty damned scary.”

Tanner’s home was a multistory, raised cabin attached to a two hundred-year-old lighthouse he’d rescued from condemnation with the help of the Virginia Historical Commission. Overlooking the cove below, the lighthouse had never been much of a navigation aid, but it had delighted the original builder, an eccentric mill owner who, according to legend, loved lighthouses, but hated the ocean.

Briggs parked in the detached garage, walked along the wraparound deck to the back door, and stepped inside. Sitting on the kitchen table was a strawberry-kiwi pie and a note:

Tanner laughed. The “watchamacallit” in question was one of those machines designed to suck the air out of a storage bag then hermetically seal it, forever imprisoning whatever food item happened to be inside. In the case of his mother, that meant everything she could get her hands on. According to his father, she’d sealed everything from rump roast to creamed corn. He claimed he was afraid to sit in the same place for more than a few minutes at a time.

Briggs had no idea how long the pie had been here, but it looked oven fresh.

He took a potpie out of the freezer, stuck it into the oven, then took the stairs to a loft that held his bedroom and the bathroom. Once showered, he went into the bedroom and walked to the closet. It took a few minutes to find what he was looking for: an old shoe box of mementos.

The thumb-size chunk of jade was there; carved into its surface where three Chinese characters.

The day before Tanner was to take Soong and his family out of China, they’d had their last meeting. “There’s something I want you to have,” Soong had said, and handed him the stone. “Like everything Chinese, it is a metaphor. Do you see it?”

Tanner shook his head. “My character recognition still needs work.”

“We’ll have plenty of time for that once we’re out. The characters represent the sun, the earth, and friendship. It means, Wherever you are under the sun, you are my friend, and I am yours.”

Tanner sat down on the edge of the bed and stared at the carving.

Who was Han Soong? The man who’d tearfully given him this gift, or the willing participant in a disinformation campaign? As much as Briggs wished otherwise, he wasn’t sure, but whatever it took he was going to find out.

What a change a day and three thousand miles can make, Sconi Bob Jurens thought.

Twenty-four hours ago he and his team had been emerging from Lake Shriveljewels, cold, wet, and tired. Now they were warm and rested aboard a ship in the middle of the Pacific, soaking in the sun.

Beyond the railing, Jurens could hear the swoosh-hiss of the water skimming along the hull, and the faint whirring of O’Kane’s gas-turbine engines. He shaded his eyes and looked over the water. Somewhere out there was their ride, submerged and waiting for O’Kane’s signal.

Almost time to get down to business. They were ready, but still there remained the nagging question of their destination. Much like the real estate business, the success or failure of an operation often depended upon three things: location, location, location. Until he knew that, they were in limbo.

“Any guesses, boss?” asked Smitty.

“Nan. Guessing will drive you crazy. I just realized: You know who this ship is named after?”

“Nope.”

“Dick O’Kane. He was a sub driver in World War Two. You’ve heard of the Tang, I’ll bet.”

“Sounds familiar.”

“Tang was O’Kane’s last command. Five patrols, thirty-one ships sank. That’s over a quarter-million tons worth of steel sent to the bottom.”

“You said last command.”

“On her last patrol Tang sank thirteen ships before she got mixed up in a surface brawl. One of her own torpedoes malfunctioned, circled back, and blew off her stern. O’Kane and those lucky enough to get off were picked up by the Japanese and held prisoner until the end of the war.”

Smitty groaned. “So here we are, aboard a ship named after a sub driver, headed for another sub that’s going to take us God-knows-where. If I were a superstitious man, I’d be nervous.”

Whether they will admit it or not, most operators did in fact tend to be superstitious to some degree. For anyone who’d seen the capriciousness of combat, it was hard not to believe in dumb luck.

A crewman poked his head out of the deck hatch. “Master Chief, we’ve just made contact with your ride. We’re fifteen miles out.”

“Thanks. Smitty, go round up Zee and Dickie. Time to start earning our pay.”

Five miles from the sub, O’Kane’s captain ordered the ship to Security Alert to keep gawkers out of the passageways and off the decks as Jurens and his team went about their business. Aside from themselves, the only people on the fantail were the ship’s XO and her chief boatswain’s mate, who would operate the hand winch that would lower the team’s gear over the side.

“Breech, four o’clock!” the XO called, pointing.

A quarter mile off the starboard quarter, a submarine’s fairwater broke the surface, followed by the foredeck and tail fin, all trailing white water and froth.

“Your chariot, gentlemen,” said the boatswain’s mate.

Ten minutes later they were sitting in their IBS raft, unhooking the last piece of gear from the winch. Once done, Smitty planted a boot against the hull and pushed off. Standing on the starboard bridge wing, O’Kane’s skipper gave them a half salute. Jurens returned it. Zee fired up the motor, revved the throttle, and aimed them toward the sub.

Five minutes later they were alongside. The forward escape trunk, just a few feet behind the fairwater, was already open. A sailor wearing a baseball cap poked his head out and said, “Howdy.”

“You our working party?” Jurens asked.

“Me and five guys below. We’ll stow your gear; you can sort it out later.”

Once on deck, they deflated the IBS, set up an assembly line, and began handing gear down the hatch. When everything was aboard, they climbed into the trunk. Jurens entered last, closed the hatch behind him, spun the wheel tight, and descended the ladder.

A short man with red hair and startling blue eyes was waiting for them. “Archie Kinsock, skipper of Columbia.”

“Good to meet you, Captain,” said Jurens, then introduced his team.

Kinsock gave each man a handshake. “We’ll get you and your men situated, Master Chief, then I think you and I have some orders to open.”

Jurens knocked on Kinsock’s stateroom, got an “Enter” in reply, and walked in. The space was roughly ten feet square, carpeted, with two chairs bracketing a desk that doubled as a fold-down bunk.

“Have a seat,” Kinsock said. “Get settled?”

“Yep. Feel bad about taking over the Goat Locker, though.”

“Don’t worry about it. A little hot bunking won’t hurt them.”

Though the name’s origin had been long ago forgotten, the Goat Locker was where the boat’s chief petty officers lived while at sea. With their intrusion, the displaced chiefs would have to share racks, one sleeping while the other was on duty.

“This isn’t your first time aboard an LA, I assume,” Kinsock asked.

“Nope. Good boats — quiet.”

“They are that. I understand you didn’t want the clamshell. Mind telling me why?”

Clamshell is the nickname for the chamber affixed to a submarine’s deck to transport a team’s Swimmer Deliver Vehicle, or SDV. Using a clamshell allows a team to begin its penetration far from an enemy’s shore, thereby reducing its chance of being detected.

“Personal preference,” Jurens answered. “Locking out is a pain in the ass. Plus, I’m kinda old school: I like to swim in. Is that a problem?”

“Nope. I’ll get you so close you can wade in, if you want. Besides, I’ve never liked having those damned things stuck to my boat. They remind me of ticks.”

Jurens laughed. He liked Kinsock; they would get along fine.

Kinsock walked to his wall safe, dialed the combination, opened the door, and pulled out a red-bordered manila folder. He handed it to Jurens. Already aware of the “whats” of the mission, Jurens scanned to the section outlining the navigation plan. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he murmured.

“What?” Kinsock asked.

Jurens handed the folder across. “Russia. We’re going to Russia.”

Though Cahil didn’t expect to find Skeldon loitering around WalPol’s headquarters, it seemed the logical place to start. Ninety minutes after leaving Washington, he pulled into the trailer’s driveway.

He got out, hefted out a case of beer onto his shoulder, then walked to the door and knocked. Thirty seconds passed. He knocked again. Still no answer.

He looked around; the road was deserted. He set down the beer, opened the screen, and tapped the door. It was a hollow-core model. Using both hands he turned the knob counterclockwise, braced his shoulder against the door, and started pressing, letting his legs do the work. After ten seconds he heard a muffled pop. The door swung inward. He grabbed the beer and walked inside.

“Hey, Ernie! Hey, you sumbitch, where are ya?”.

Nothing moved.

“I got some suds! Get yer ass out here!”

Silence.

The trailer’s bed-sheet curtains were drawn closed. The interior was empty except for a cot, four battleship gray filing cabinets against one wall, and a homemade sawhorse-and-plank desk.

He made a quick search of the remaining rooms. All were empty.

“Time to check Mike’s housekeeping,” Cahil muttered, and set to work.

An hour later he was done. Skeldon had covered himself well. Aside from a roll of toilet paper in the bathroom and a pillowcase on the bedroom floor, the man had left nothing behind.

His job had just gotten harder. Though Skeldon had ties to North Carolina, it was a big state. Trolling around asking random questions would be not only time consuming, but could be dangerous if he came across the wrong people.

He was opening the door to leave when something caught his eye. He walked to the table and knelt. Tucked beneath one of the sawhorse’s legs was a matchbook cover. Cahil pulled it out and read.

Cahil smiled. “Bingo.”

The drive took most of the night. The sun was rising above the shadowed foothills when he spotted a billboard for a Denny’s and pulled into the parking lot. Inside, he found a booth and sat down. The waitress, a fiftyish bottle blond wearing bright pink lipstick, walked up. “Morning. What can I getchya?”

“Coffee, two scrambled eggs, whole wheat toast, and orange juice.”

“Comin’ up.”

Cahil liked Asheville. He and Maggie had stayed in a nearby bed-and-breakfast years before. Nestled between the Great Smokey and Blue Ridge Mountain ranges, it was a quiet city of two hundred thousand, and like many Southern cities, it was steeped in the architecture of antebellum South, with wide, tree-lined boulevards and colonnaded plantation houses perfect for lazy summer evenings.

The waitress returned with the food, flashed a nicotine-yellow smile at him, and left.

As he ate, Cahil thought about Skeldon. The former Ranger had been discharged for medical reasons in 1993 after sixteen years of service. Latham’s transcript hadn’t listed the cause of Skeldon’s medical condition, an omission Cahil found curious. After sixteen years — most of them spent in an elite unit — it was unlikely Skeldon had volunteered to opt out. That left forced retirement, which begged the same question: What had happened to drive Skeldon out of the army four years shy of retirement?

Cahil had two more cups of coffee, paid the bill, then walked outside to a phone. He found the listing for Bud’s Gun Shop and Firing Range and dialed.

“Bud’s,” the voice drawled.

“Howdy,” Cahil said. “Wondering about your hours.”

“Open from six p.m. to midnight, Monday through Saturday.”

“You got a combat course?”

“Yep. Forty targets, plus two buildings for CQB.”

CQB was short for Close Quarters Combat. “Thanks.” Cahil hung up.

Six o’clock.He had some time to kill.

He checked into a motel and napped for three hours, then made a list of local gun shops in the area and started driving. Because of zoning laws, most of the shops were located outside city limits.

The first four shops didn’t have what he needed. The fifth, run from a shed beside the owner’s ranch-style home, was tucked between an apple orchard and a horse pasture west of the city. As Cahil got out of the car, a pair of Labrador retrievers trotted over, sniffed his legs, then wandered away.

“Afternoon.” A potbellied man in denim overalls walked toward him. “Help ya?”

“You Hersh?”

“Jim Hersh. Who’re you?”

“John Malvin. I’m looking for something a little unusual. Heard you might be able to help.”

Hersh pulled a rag from his pocket and wiped his hands. “Come on in.”

The shed had a concrete floor and unpainted Sheetrock walls. Floor-to-ceiling shelves loaded with guns and boxes of ammunition lined the walls. The shed’s only window was crisscrossed with steel rebar. A pair of box fans hung from the corners, churning the dusty air.

Hersh opened a mini-fridge. “Grape soda?”

“Sure.”

Hersh tossed him one. “What kind of unusual?”

“Heckler & Koch USC forty-five.”

Hersh took a gulp of his soda. “Trojan.” The gun had gained the nickname from the University of Southern California’s football team. “Government just put a moratorium on ’em. That’s one step away from being banned.”

“That’s why I’d like to get one before it’s too late.”

“Still don’t change nothing. I can’t sell ’em.”

Cahil looked around at the gun displays. “Nice collection. How long’ve you been in business?”

“Fourteen years.”

“Ex-military?”

“Marines. You?”

“Army Rangers.”

“Airborne?”

Cahil shook his head. “Straight leg.”

“Me, too.”

“Why fly when you can march.”

“Damn right.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes. Outside the dogs barked a few times, then went silent. Hersh was mulling it over, Cahil guessed. As far as the police were concerned, selling a moratorium weapon was the same as selling a banned weapon. He could lose his license and go to jail.

“Why the Trojan?” asked Hersh.

“I’d rather have a tommy-gun, but so far I’m not having much luck. Till then, I’d settle for the USC. I got a buddy who can attach a box magazine on it.”

“No shit. How many rounds?”

“Hundred.”

“Whatchya gonna use it for?”

“Quail hunting.”

Hersh was in the middle of taking a sip; he choked, then started laughing. “A .45 round ain’t gonna leave much bird to eat. No, really, what for?”

“I like to run combat courses.”

Hersh finished his soda, tossed it into a nearby garbage pail. “I’ve got a Trojan, but it ain’t registered. That a problem?”

“Not for me. What about the serial number?”

“Somebody spilled some acid on it. Can’t read it for shit. Three grand.”

They haggled for a few minutes and Cahil got him down to $2800 with ten boxes of ammunition and a Browning 9mm pistol thrown in. As they walked to Cahil’s car, Hersh said, “There’s a good course south of here.”

“Bud’s?” Hersh nodded. “I’m headed there tonight.” Cahil stuck out his hand. “Thanks.”

Hersh shook it. “Pleasure. Just so we understand each other, I don’t sell many of those. If it comes back on me, I’m gonna be unhappy.”

“I hear ya,” Bear said.

Cahil waited until the sun went down, then followed Highway 240/74 out of the city to Minehole Gap, where he turned north, following the signs for Bud’s. After another seven miles the road took him into a clearing where he found a ten-foot-high fence made of rusted corrugated steel. Above the razor wire, he could see the glare of stadium lights. He heard the staccato popping of semiautomatic gunfire.

Parked along the fence was an assortment of pickup trucks and muscle cars, most sporting a mix of Confederate flags, pro-NRA bumper stickers, and naked lady mud flaps.

Rebel heaven, Cahil thought.

The men inside would likely be stereotypical “good ’ol Southern boys”: patriotic, bigoted, and full of “aw-shucks” charm masking mean streaks ten-miles wide. Cahil suddenly realized how far from civilization he was. If he got into trouble out here, he would be on his own.

He got out, locked the H&K in the trunk, and walked through the gate. He found himself standing beneath a lean-to porch attached to an open-ended WWI-style barracks; inside were several dozen men sitting at tables, drinking and laughing. To his right, spread out over a quarter mile, lay the grass shooting lanes. Three or four men, each armed with some version of a banned assault weapon, were shooting at man silhouette targets.

“Evening,” a man called from the counter.

“Evening,” Cahil said and walked over.

The man was in his early sixties, wearing a yellow “Prowl Herbicide” baseball cap. Tacked to the collar of his flannel shirt was an American flag pin with a gold “II” superimposed on it.

That told Cahil much. The pin was the symbol of the militia group known as America Secundus, or Second America. Believing the government was tainted by corruption, cultural decay, and racial impurity, America Secundus was dedicated to the foundation of a new United States built on the ashes — metaphorical or literal, no one knew — of the old.

Was Skeldon a member? Cahil wondered. And if so, did his affiliation have anything to do with his business with Baker and the Guoanbu? “Are you Bud?” he asked.

“I am. You’re John Malvin.”

Uh-oh. “That’s a helluva guess.”

“Hersh called, said you might be stopping by.”

“Nice of him. Listen, if I’m not welcome, I understand.”

“Nobody said that. We’re kinda family out here, that’s all. Hersh said you seemed okay, asked me to make you welcome.”

Cahil was guessing Bud’s was not only the headquarters for Secundus’s North Carolina chapter, but also the Southern version of a mafia social club. “Then I guess you know about our transaction.”

“Yep. Nice rig.”

“Mind if I give it a whirl?”

“Go ahead,” Bud replied, then grinned. “Just don’t shoot no quail.”

Looking better. “Deal.”

Cahil gathered the Trojan and chose a shooting lane. He shot a few dozen rounds, getting a feel for the gun, then set to work sighting it in, starting first at twenty-five yards, then moving back to the fifty and one hundred marks.

He heard voices behind him. He turned. Twenty or so of Bud’s patrons were standing on the porch watching him. As he’d hoped, the Trojan had attracted some attention.

“Not bad for standing still,” one of the men called.

“You volunteering to stand-in?” Cahil replied.

There was general laughter.

“What I mean is, try it on the run.” The man was nearly six and a half feet, with a long beard and heavily tattooed forearms. Cahil mentally named him “Beard.”

“If I’m gonna tire myself out like that, I’d like it to be worth my time,” he said.

Beard sauntered over. The rest of the pack followed at a distance, forming a semicircle around the lane. All of them were wearing either belt or shoulder holsters.

“Hundred bucks says you can’t put two in the head of each target at a full sprint,” said Beard.

Obviously, Hersh’s courtesy call hadn’t quite given him a full pass. Beard was either the de facto leader here, or the enforcer. To back down now could be disastrous.

“I’ve got a better idea,” Cahil replied. “Turn off the lights, and for two hundred I’ll put three in each head.”

“Bullshit.”

Cahil shrugged. “If you don’t have the cash …”

His eyes locked on Cahil’s, Beard called, “Bud, turn ’em off.”

A few moments later Cahil heard a double thunk, and the range went dark except for what little light filtered out from the barracks windows.

“Wanna flashlight?” somebody called. There was laughter.

Cahil turned to face the lane. Working by feel, he changed the Trojan’s magazine, then stood still, letting his eyes adjust. After a few seconds, the outline of the twenty-five-yard silhouette came into focus. He brought the Trojan to his shoulder in the ready-low position.

Nice and easy … get the sight picture, then squeeze.

He started running.

Thirty seconds later he was done. As he returned to the head of the lane, Bud flipped the lights back on. There was a few seconds of silence, then a lone, “I’ll be damned,” followed by murmuring.

Each of the target’s foreheads was punctured by a near-perfect triad of shots.

“Not bad,” said Beard.

Time to back him down a little bit, Cahil thought. He took a step forward, pushing the man’s space. “Better than ‘not bad,’ I’d say.”

Beard’s eyes narrowed, then he grinned. “Come inside. I’ll get your money, buy you a beer.”

They drank beer and talked for an hour before Beard asked, “What brings you down here?”

“Looking for an old army buddy. I heard he’d been spending some time here.”

“What’s his name?”

“Mike Skeldon.”

As Cahil had expected, Beard quizzed him for several minutes about the army. Finally Cahil said, “You know Mike?”

“Maybe, maybe not.”

“Hey, forget it. If he don’t wanna be found, no problem. I know how it goes.”

Beard took a gulp of beer. “Why wouldn’t he wanna be found?”

“Forget it.”

“No. Why wouldn’t he wanna be found?”

Cahil shrugged. “Couple months before the army booted him, we were bullshitting — talking about work on the outside. Mike figured his experience oughta be worth something to somebody.”

“Damn right it should. Why’d they discharge him?”

Cahil put his mug on the counter, slid it away, and stood to leave. “I’m done getting quizzed. If you don’t know why Mike got out, it ain’t my business to be telling you.”

Beard put a hand on his shoulder. “Okay, relax. Nobody’s seen Mike for a few weeks. There’s a woman, though — she might know. She’s a stripper at Rhino’s downtown.”

“Is she working tonight?”

“Every night. She’s got a habit to feed. Name’s Candy something … Candy Kane, that’s it.”

Cahil nodded. “Thanks, maybe I’ll look her up.”

The plane’s approach to Soekarno-Hatta International Airport gave Tanner a breathtaking view of the Pulau Seribu, or the Thousand Islands, an archipelago that stretches from Jakarta into the Java Sea. From this altitude the islands were mere emerald dots against the blue ocean.

Protected by Indonesia’s Ministry of Conservation, the 250 islands of the Pulau Seribu are mostly uninhabited except for a handful of resorts, ecological preserves, and tourist attractions such as old pirate fortresses and diving caves. Those islands that are privately owned serve as luxury retreats for Indonesia’s rich and famous.

The plane banked again, revealing Jakarta proper and the Kota, or the Old Batavia quarter. All cobblestone, canals, and Dutch architecture, the Kota was a throwback to Java’s imperialist period when the English, Portuguese, and Dutch all fought for control of the Orient’s trade routes.

To most, the name Jakarta conjures up images of colonial empires, Oriental warlords, and pirates, not an urban sprawl with nearly twelve million inhabitants rivaling that of New York City’s.

Tanner had three days. Whatever plan he settled on, he wanted to be ready as soon as the delegation arrived. That’s when Soong’s security detail would be at its most vulnerable: Unfamiliar territory, arrangements to be finalized or adjusted, local authorities to deal with … Surprise was going to be his greatest, and perhaps only, advantage.

The twenty-mile taxi ride into the city took nearly an hour as the driver negotiated traffic on the congested expressway. Every few minutes he would turn and offer a sheepish smile. “So sorry. Traffic bad this time of day.”

“Is there a time when it’s not bad?”

“Truly, no. Many people on Java. Almost one hundred twenty million.” His “million” came out “mellon.” “Which hotel, sir?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” Tanner lied. In fact, Oaken had rented him a bungalow in the foothills below Bongor outside Jakarta. “You can just drop me in the Kota.”

“You will have trouble finding lodgings. Big conference soon.”

“I have friends I can stay with in Kebayoran if I need to.” Kebayoran, also known as Bloc M, was home to Jakarta’s mostly British expatriate community. It was another lie, of course, borne of old habit. However unlikely the possibility, he didn’t want to leave a trail for anyone to follow.

The driver stopped outside the Fatahillah Cafe. Tanner climbed out, waited for the taxi to disappear down the street, then walked four blocks to a Hertz office where he rented an old VW bus for a week and asked the agent to leave it parked at the Tanah Abang Railway Station.

Next he caught a taxi to the harbor and made another rental, this one an old Honda Express moped. He stuffed his duffle into the rear basket then took off down Martadinata, following the coastline east out of the city. He drove for fifteen minutes until Jakarta proper was behind him. To his left lay the Java Sea; to his right, the island’s mist-shrouded jungles.

After another ten minutes he turned off the highway onto a narrow gravel road. A few more turns took him to a bungalow with a red, tiled roof and hibiscus bushes shading the porch. As advertised, he found a key under the mat.

The interior was all white stucco and wicker. He dropped his duffle onto the couch and wandered into the kitchen. On the table was a note: “Mate: Bungalow’s yours as long as you need it. Fridge is stocked. Enjoy.”

Tanner smiled: Just another friendly contact in the Walter Oaken Secret Friends Network. Judging from the salutation, the owner was probably a Brit or Aussie expat.

He opened the fridge, found a beer, then headed for the shower.

Free of the sweat and grime of the flight, he climbed aboard the Honda and headed back into Jakarta, where he pulled off Martadinata and drove until he found the Batavia Café. He locked the Honda to a bicycle rack and started walking.

His destination was the Sunda Kalepa, the city’s old docks. A full-service harbor serving Java’s outer islands, the Sunda Kalepa is also home to the Jakarta’s fleet of Makassar schooners — or pinisi—with their brightly painted hulls and rainbow sails.

Briggs paid his entrance fee at the Bahari Museum and walked onto the docks.

The air was thick with the smell of tar. Old men in row-boats glided along the pier, waiting to be hailed by tourists, and children darted about, pointing at the pinisi and waving to the crewmen, many of whom displayed ancient Javanese tribal tattoos on their faces.

The Kalepa’s piers were a maze of slips and turnarounds, so it took him several minutes to find the right path, then followed it away from the tourist area. At the end, he found a man coiling rope in the stern of a red-and-yellow skiff.

“What’s the farthest you’ve been out?” Tanner asked.

The man squinted at him. “Eh?”

Tanner repeated the question.

The man frowned for a moment. “Oh … yes. Let’s see … I have tennis elbow; not very far.”

Good answer. “You’re Arroya?”

“I am. Do I dare ask your name?”

“Briggs.” If Mason’s people were wrong about this man, he had a lot more to worry about than using his real name.

Arroya stood up and hopped onto the dock, a surprising feat, Tanner thought, given his physique. Barely five feet tall and pushing two hundred pounds, Arroya looked like a Javanese version of the Buddha, right down to the wispy moustache and cherubic smile.

Arroya extended his hand. “Welcome to Java. Care for a tour of the Kalepa?”

He rowed them into the harbor, then tossed a cinderblock anchor over the side. He handed Tanner a fishing pole, tied a sinker to the line, and plopped it into the water. “For cover,” he explained.

“Do we need cover?”

“Better safe than sorry.”

“Fair enough. How long have you been—”

“Working with your government?”

“Yes.”

“Seven years. For the last decade the Chinese have grown stronger and stronger here. Many people — people who still consider themselves Javanese and not Indonesian — do not like it. Since my government seems only too happy to sell our country to the PRC, I long ago decided I must do what I can, so I made myself known in the British expat community here.”

“You work for them as well?”

“So long as I’m not asked to do anything against my people, I am happy to help where I can.”

“Which brings us to why I’m here.”

Arroya smiled. “Indeed it does.”

“I’ll do my best to use you as little as possible, but I may need a few favors.”

“Do not worry about that. I am very good at what I do. No one looks twice at me. Besides,” Arroya said, patting his ample belly. “I’ve cultivated a rather harmless image.”

Tanner laughed. “That you have.”

“So, how can I help?”

Tanner had to make a decision: Tell Arroya everything, the partial truth, or a lie — or a mixture of all three? If he followed strict tradecraft it would be the latter, which would make it harder for anyone — Arroya included — to discern Tanner’s purpose here. On the other hand, Arroya’s knowledge of the islands would be invaluable. Tanner went with his gut.

“It’s pretty simple,” he said. “I’m here to help one of the Chinese delegation defect.”

Arroya chortled. “Oh, yes, very simple.”

“Perhaps ‘straightforward’ is a better word.”

“Semantics won’t help you here, my friend. What you’re planning will be very difficult.”

“ ‘Very difficult’ doesn’t worry me.”

Arroya smiled. “Something tells me ‘impossible’ would worry you only a little more.”

“What can you tell me about the delegation?”

“Security is very heavy. Rumor is that there is already an advance team here. The delegation will be staying at the Hotel Melia. I have a friend who is a busboy there. He’s seen no less than two dozen Chinese security men in the hotel.”

“Is everyone from the delegation staying there?” Briggs asked.

“Officially, yes, but there is another rumor. Earlier this week, the advance team rented a fishing boat; they’ve been out to Pulau Sekong several times.”

“That’s one of the Thousand Islands?”

“Yes. Privately owned. You have seen James Bond—The Man with the Golden Gun? You remember the villain’s private island — the crescent beach, the jungle, the rock spires?”

“Yes.”

“Rumor is, Pulau Sekong is where they filmed that.”

“No kidding.”

“No kidding. It is owned by Somon Trulau. Very rich importer, friendly with Beijing. I suspect he’s offered them use of the island. The man you have come for … is he someone worth guarding?”

“Yes.”

“Then Pulau Sekong would be a good place for him.”

It made sense, Tanner decided. Letting Soong out of the country was a risk; separating him from the delegation and assigning him a private detail was one way to lessen that risk. Whether Soong was truly their prisoner or not, the less he was exposed, the better.

“First things first,” Tanner said. “We need to confirm the man I’ve come for will be staying on Pulau Sekong, and how they plan to get back and forth.”

“I can do that,” said Arroya. “What else?”

“Find a boat. I want to see this island.”

Arroya nodded. “I know just the man.”

Armed with Beard’s description of Candy Kane’s car — A white Trans Am with two candy-cane decals on the windshield — Cahil drove downtown and found Rhino’s strip club. He walked inside, found a stool at the bar, and ordered a beer.

Candy, an early twenties platinum blond with impossibly large breasts, was in the process of removing her red-and-white striped cowboy boots. She strutted about the stage, robotically grinding her hips to a rock-a-billy version of “Baby Got Back.” Her eyes were vacuous black holes. Meth or crack, Cahil thought.

The crowd cheered and waved bills at her, and she moved down the line.

“She’s popular, huh?” Cahil said to the bartender.

“She’d be popular with a pumpkin on her head.”

Cahil laughed. “How late is she here? I got a buddy from Durham who wants to see her act.”

“She’ll be here to close. After that, it depends on who’s got the cash.”

“That right?”

“Yep. You interested?”

“Nan, but maybe my friend. I’ll be back.”

Outside, he followed the alley behind Rhino’s until he came to a small parking lot he assumed was for employees. Candy’s car was parked in the far slot. He memorized the license plate, returned to his truck, and dialed his cell phone.

Oaken picked up on the second ring. “Hey, Bear, where are you?”

“Asheville, outside a bar called Rhino’s.”

“How nice for you. What’s up?”

“I need a QMR.” In police jargon, QMR stands for Query Motor Vehicle Registration. Cahil recited the plate number. “She’s Sheldon’s girlfriend, I think.”

“Give me five minutes, I’ll call you back.”

Three minutes later Cahil’s phone chirped. “Hello?”

“The plate belongs to a ninety-six Trans Am, owner is a Amanda Johnson,” Oaken said.

“Also know as Candy Kane, exotic dancer at large.”

“Very catchy. Please tell me the candy cane thing isn’t part of her act.”

“I didn’t stay long enough to find out. You got an address?”

The address took him to a trailer park in a town named Stony Knob, north of Asheville. The park was deserted except for five trailers, most of which looked abandoned. Darkened streetlights lined the dirt road. He found Candy/Amanda’s trailer and got out.

Penlight in hand, he walked to the front door and repeated the procedure he’d used at Blanton Crossing. Once the door popped open, he stepped inside and shut it behind him. The smell of cigarettes and rotting food filled his nostrils.

“Anybody home?” he called. “Hey. Mike, Amanda, you guys around?”

No answer.

He clicked on his penlight.

The trailer was a disaster: Clothes strewn about, empty pizza boxes and food cartons, garbage cans brimming with trash. The kitchen sink overflowed with dirty dishes, above which hovered a cloud of flies. Two recliners patched with duct tape and a rickety card table were the only furniture. On the bedroom floor he found a grimy mattress; beside it lay a half-empty twenty-four-pack of condoms.

“Christ Almighty,” Cahil muttered, and got to work.

His search left him wishing for a decontamination shower. Worse still, he’d turned up nothing he could connect to Skeldon. There were dozens of men’s names and phone numbers scrawled on slips of paper and matchbook covers, but he assumed they were part of Candy’s rolo-trick.

On impulse, he picked up the cordless phone and punched the Talk button. Instead of a steady dial tone, he got a punctuated one: She had voice mail. Doubting that Candy would have enough brain cells to remember her PIN, he rifled through the drawers, scanning notepads and scraps of paper until he found a Post-it note with “Phone: 9934” written on it. He punched in the code.

Candy had three messages. The first sounded like a former client trying to arrange a date; the second was her mother. The third, which had been left just an hour earlier, sounded promising:

“Mike, this is Lamar. Hey, I left you a couple messages last week, don’t know if you got ’em … Wondering maybe, y’know, if you got my money yet. Gimme a call. You know the number.”

“I don’t,” Cahil muttered. He punched star sixty-nine, retrieved Lamar’s number, and jotted it down. He flipped open his cell phone and dialed the number. After five rings a voice said, “Yeah, what?”

“This Lamar?” Cahil said.

“Yeah, who’s this?”

“My name’s John. I’m a friend of Mike’s; he asked me to give you a call.”

Lamar coughed. “Yeah? Where’s Mike? I mean, is there something—”

“Nothing’s wrong. Mike’s out of town. You guys have some business to clear up, he said. He asked me to float you some cash until he gets back.”

“Oh, man, that would be great.”

“Where are you?”

Lamar gave him directions to his house in southeast Asheville.

“Twenty minutes,” Cahil said.

The house was indistinguishable from its neighbors: A whitewashed box home with a postage-stamp yard fronted by a chain-link fence. Cahil parked beside the mailbox labeled, “L. Sampson,” then pushed through the gate and walked to the porch.

Before he could knock, the door jerked open. He reached behind him, palm on the butt of the Browning. A man in a tattered gray robe stood in the doorway. He was in his early forties with receding brown hair and wide, red-rimmed eyes. His hand trembled on the doorjamb.

Alcoholic, Bear thought. Mike Skeldon certainly knew how to pick his friends.

“You Jim?” Sampson asked.

“John.”

“Yeah, right. Umm … come on in.”

The living room was carpeted in a pumpkin-orange shag that hurt Cahil’s eyes. A black-and-white TV flickered in front of a lime green couch. Sampson plopped down. “So …”

Up until this point, Cahil had been winging it, following the trail where it took him. Now he had to choose carefully. How much did Sampson know about Skeldon’s work, and what was the best way to go at him? Judging from Lamar’s demeanor, he was a timid drunk with an opportunistic streak a mile wide. “We got a problem, Lamar.”

“What?” Sampson squeaked. “What problem?”

“Mike thinks you’re holding back on him.”

Sampson stood up. “That’s crap! I did everything he asked! I gave him everything.”

Cahil growled, “Sit down.”

Lamar sat back down. “Hey, what about the other guy?”

“What other guy?”

“The other guy I hooked Mike up with! If anybody’s holding out, maybe it’s him.”

“Give me his name.”

“Stan Kycek!”

“Who is he, what’s he do?”

“I used to work with him; he’s a demolition guy — used to work mines.”

What’s this? Cahil wondered. “Lamar, what do you do for a living?”

“I work in a grocery store. I’m a bagger.”

“Before that.”

“I worked for the USGS.”

USGS … ? It took a moment for Cahil to place the acronym: United States Geological Survey. “You’re a geologist?”

“Was.”

“And Kycek?”

“Him, too. Dammit, I gave Mike everything! Oh, man …”

“You’re sure you didn’t keep a little something for insurance?”

Sampson looked at him, puzzled, and Cahil thought, Wrong path.

“He said that?” Sampson said.

“He wants to be sure. The people he’s working for aren’t exactly the forgiving sort.”

“Hey, I did my part.”

“Lamar, what do you say I tie you up, toss your place, and see what I find? If you’ve got something, you’d best tell me now. If you make me look for it, I’m not gonna be happy.”

Sampson stared at his trembling hands. “Jesus, Jesus …”

Cahil felt sorry for the man, but there was no other way to do this. “Time’s up, Lamar.”

“Okay, okay, listen, I wasn’t gonna do nothing with it. I just wanted to make sure Mike paid me, that’s all.” Sampson got up and walked into the next room, where a light clicked on.

Cahil rested his hand on the Browning. “What’re you doing, Lamar?”

“Just a second … hold on.”

He returned carrying a shoe box. Cahil could see papers sticking out from under the lid. Sampson handed over the box. “I made copies of everything. But like I said, I wasn’t gonna use it. Talk to Mike, huh? Make him understand?”

“Sure,” Cahil said.

“Uh, you think maybe you could … you know. I need some groceries and stuff.”

Cahil pulled a pair of hundred dollar bills from his wallet. “I’ll talk to Mike about the rest.”

Sampson smiled nervously. “Yeah?”

“We’ll see.” Cahil turned to leave, then stopped and nodded toward the box. “What is all this?”

“The survey data. You know … all the stuff we collected.”

“You and Mike and this Kycek.”

“Kycek wasn’t there. I got no idea what Mike’s doing with him.”

“Survey of what? From where?”

Lamar barked out a laugh. “The asshole of the world, man: Siberia.”

Cahil got Kycek’s address from Sampson, then warned him to stay off the phone, and drove to Kycek’s apartment on Olny Road. Deciding he’d worn out his “friend of Mike’s” routine, Cahil walked to the front door and pounded on the door. “Open up!”

Thirty seconds later the door opened, revealing a man in his mid-forties with a beard, a potbelly, and sunken eyes. Soft, Cahil thought. Like Sampson, Kycek was another man beaten by life.

Cahil flashed a counterfeit FBI badge at him. “Stan Kycek?”

“Uh, yeah?”

“FBI, Mr. Kycek, we need to talk.”

Wide-eyed, Kycek let him in. “What’s … what’s going on?”

“Do you know a man named Mike Skeldon?”

“Uh, no, I don’t think so.”

“That’s lie number one, Mr. Kycek. One more and you’re going to jail.”

Kycek hesitated. “I know him through a friend.”

“Lamar Sampson.”

“Yeah. I’ve never actually met Skeldon.”

“The man hired you, and you’re telling me you’ve never met him?”

“He didn’t hire—”

“Careful,” Cahil warned.

“What I meant is, he hasn’t paid me yet. What’s going on? I don’t want no trouble. Lamar said Skeldon needed a good blaster, and I’m … between work right now, so I figured, why not?”

“I’ll tell you why not.”

Speaking off the cuff, Cahil rattled off a bogus laundry list of Skeldon’s crimes: illegal possession and transport of explosives; the manufacture of methamphetamine with intent to distribute; and finally, suspicion of conspiracy to commit murder. “Murder!” Kycek cried. “Christ almighty!”

“You hired on with the wrong guy, Stan.”

“I told you, I haven’t taken a dime from him. I’ve never even seen the guy.”

“Then what’s the plan? Where’re you supposed to meet? What’s he want you to do?”

“I have no idea. I’m supposed to sit by my phone. He said he’d call between Tuesday and Thursday next week with the details.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it, I swear. He told me to be ready to travel, but nothing else. Listen, I don’t want no trouble. Whatever he’s got going on, I’m out.”

Cahil stared hard at him. “Problem is, you’re already involved. I think we can help each other, though. Would you be willing to work with us?”

“Doing what?”

“Pack a bag,” Bear ordered. “I’ll explain on the way.”

After I figure out what all this means, he thought.

With his family tucked away in a safe house, Latham decided it was time to shake things up.

Armed with a little creative documentation from Oaken, he took the noon shuttle to New York, then drove north to Dannemora, where he was escorted to the interview room. Minutes later Hong Cho was escorted in.

As before, the diminutive Cho wore an orange jumpsuit and was manacled hand and foot. He shuffled forward, sat down, and stared impassively at Latham as the guard cuffed his hands to the table.

Once the guard was gone, Latham said, “Hong, have you ever wondered how we caught you?”

“You didn’t catch me.”

“I’ll rephrase: Didn’t you ever find it curious that a beat cop just happened to be walking by the apartment of the people you were trying to murder? Lucky timing, wasn’t it?”

Cho said nothing.

“Or how quickly backup was on the scene? Didn’t that ever make you think?”

Cho’s eyes narrowed for a moment, then went blank again. “No.”

“Sure it did,” Latham said. “Since I know you’re too proud to ask, I’ll tell you. We caught you because we knew who we were looking for. We’d had you under surveillance for weeks.”

“You’re lying.”

“We knew who you were, and how to look for you. We had profiles of where you were likely to hide, how you’d react to given situations, how you were trained — everything.”

“That’s impossible.”

Latham opened his briefcase, pulled out a piece of paper, and slid it across to Cho. “Do you recognize the letterhead?” Charlie asked. “It’s from the Guoanbu—your former colleagues. They burned you. All your moonlighting for mobsters … You were an embarrassment.”

As if handling a snake, Cho studied the letter. Latham could see his jaw bunching. Cho lashed out, shoving the paper off the table. “This is a trick!” he shouted.

“It’s called politics, Hong. Your government found out about your side profession and they knew we’d eventually catch you, so they decided to cut their losses. Instead of facing the humiliation of having an active Guoanbu agent on trial for murder, they sacrificed you.”

“They wouldn’t do that.”

“Why not? Are you really that naive? You were a liability, plain and simple; they did what was necessary. Unfortunately for you, that means you get to spend the rest of your life here.”

With a growl, Cho tried to lunge to his feet, but the manacles jerked him back. “Get out!”

Latham collected the letter from the floor and walked to the door. “These are the people you’re protecting, Hong. You’re here because of them. Think about it.”

“Get out!”

Back in his car, Latham dialed his cell phone. When Randall picked up, he said, “It’s done.”

“Did he buy it?”

“If he didn’t, he’s a hell of an actor. How’s our girl?”

“She just got home from work. I’ll let you know the minute she moves — if she moves, that is. Janet and Tommy are standing by if we need them.”

“Keep your fingers crossed. If Hong’s as pissed as I think he is, we won’t have long to wait.”

He spent the next ninety minutes parked in the prison parking lot listening to an oldies station before his cell phone trilled. “Latham.”

“Agent Latham, it’s Warden Fenstrom. Cho just asked to make a telephone call.”

“Good. Put up a stink, tell him it’s past telephone hours, then finally give in.”

“Gotcha. I’ll call you back.” He called back fifteen minutes later: “You guessed it. His call went to the same woman. Mary—”

“Tsang.”

“Right. We’re not allowed to tape or listen in, but I had a guard keep an eye on Cho. The guard says he didn’t look too happy. What the hell did you say to him?”

“I told him he’d just run out of friends,” Latham replied. “Thanks, Warden, I appreciate it.”

“My pleasure.”

Latham hung up and called Randall. “He went for it. Keep your eyes peeled.”

“Will do. You’re coming back?”

“I’ll be on the next flight.”

Latham was sitting in the passenger lounge at Kennedy waiting for his boarding call when Randall called. “About an hour ago she went for a jog,” he reported. “She went about a mile, then stopped at a Seven-Eleven and used the payphone.”

“And?”

“I had Oaken get the dump from the phone. She called the Post, Charlie. The classifieds.”

The Post? Latham thought. Then it hit him: “She’s making contact,” he said. “Have Walt start working on that ad. I want to see it.”

As Latham was landing in D.C., Oaken was placing his own call to the Post. He took out an innocuous ad — a lawn mower for sale — then jotted down the order number the clerk gave him, then hung up and nodded to Janet Paschel, who then placed her own call.

Posing as Tsang, she told the clerk she might have made a mistake in her ad and asked that it be read back to her. The clerk asked for her order number. Praying that only a few ads, if any, had been placed between Tsang’s call and Oaken’s, she recited a number a few digits lower than Oaken’s.

“Sorry, but I’m not sure about the last couple digits,” Janet said. “Sometimes I can’t read my own writing.”

“That’s okay,” the clerk said. “Let’s see … here it is: ‘Adrian, please accept my condolences on your loss. Thinking of you, Harmon.’ Is that what you wanted?”

“It’s perfect. How did you spell Harmon?” The clerk spelled it out. “Yeah, that’s right. Thanks very much; I appreciate your help.”

Paschel hung up and handed Oaken the note: “Mean anything to you?”

“Nope. Maybe it will to Charlie.”

It took Arroya mere hours to probe his contacts and confirm that not only would Soong and his bodyguards be staying on Pulau Sekong, but that Trulau had loaned his yacht to the delegation for the week. “That didn’t take long,” Tanner said.

“I have many friends,” Arroya replied and patted his belly. “Not to mention all the restaurateurs I keep in business.”

Tanner laughed. “Now, let’s see about Pulau Sekong.” The man Arroya felt could help was a distant cousin named Segung. Segung, he said, was something of an adventurer — part smuggler, part charter captain, and part Robin Hoodesque pirate. “Can I trust him?” Briggs asked.

“Can you pay him?” Arroya countered.

“Yes.”

“Then yes, you can trust him. But,” he added, “you might want to put some fear into him. If he thinks he can take advantage of you, he will do so.”

They found Segung at his slip in the Kalepa, polishing the handrails of his sixty-six-foot cabin cruiser. The Tija was sleek and white, with a sharp bow and a swept-back pyramidal superstructure covered in charcoal tinted glass.

The Indonesian smuggling trade must be lucrative, Tanner decided.

“Segung!” Arroya called.

Segung looked up. He was Arroya’s complete opposite: tall and sinewy, with a full head of wavy black hair. “Ah, cousin, how are you! Come aboard!”

They stepped onto the afterdeck and Arroya introduced Tanner. “A good friend of mine, Segung. He’d like to hire you.”

Segung grinned, displaying a gold tooth. “At your service. As luck would have it, I’m free.”

“Glad to hear it. With a boat like this, I’m surprised you weren’t hired by the Chinese.”

“Ah, well, Trulau has his own yacht, you see, and he is the delegation’s unofficial host during their stay. I considered sabotage, but decided against it.”

Though he said it with a smile, Tanner got the impression he wasn’t kidding. “Why’s that?”

“Trulau is an unforgiving sort. If he found out I damaged that barge of his, my business might suffer. And business, my friend, is everything.”

“If Trulau’s yacht weren’t available, yours would be the next logical choice?”

“Oh, yes. Next to his there is no finer vessel in Java than the Tija. So, how can I be of service?”

“How much for the day?”

Segung frowned. “Oh, is that all you want? One day? Perhaps you might be more comfortable with a more modest vessel.”

“If I like what I see, I may want to hire you for the week.”

“You have cash?”

“Yes.”

“American?”

“If you prefer.”

“Five hundred for the afternoon.”

Tanner reached into his pocket, peeled off five one-hundred-dollar bills, and handed them across. “Since you’re Arroya’s cousin, I’ll overlook the fact you’re charging me double the going rate. If we continue to do business, I trust you’ll rethink your fees.”

Segung locked eyes with him, then grinned. “Of course. Anything for a friend.”

Once they cleared the harbor’s breakwater and were away from shore, the ocean became glassy and calm. The sky was an unblemished blue save for a few cotton ball clouds. After an hour’s sailing, Segung called from the flying bridge, “Pulau Sekong dead off the starboard bow.”

From his spot on the foredeck, Tanner raised his binoculars. Five miles distant he could see Solon Trulau’s island, two great spires of jagged rock joined together by a saddle of rain forest. Nestled between the spires was a cove surrounded by the churned white line of a coral reef. Arroya was right: If this wasn’t the island from the Bond movie, it was a close match. The only thing missing was Herve Villachez trotting down the beach carrying a martini on a silver platter.

Arroya said, “Trulau’s estate is halfway up the slope, near the spire.”

Briggs scanned up the mountainside until he spotted the white, plantation-style mansion. “That must have been quite a task to build,” he said.

“He has the money. There’s a helicopter pad at the top of the access road.”

That could complicate things, Tanner thought. Timing and stealth were going to be vital. If he failed to grab Soong without being detected, their escape would be short-lived. Movie portrayals notwithstanding, trying to outrun a helicopter at sea was a losing proposition.

“Segung,” Tanner called, “how close can we get without attracting attention?”

“A mile, no closer. Throw out a couple fishing lines. We’ll troll for mahi.”

They spent the next hour circling the shore as Tanner studied the terrain, picking out promising entry and exit points and working through scenarios until he had settled on a rough plan. Much would depend on what he saw when the delegation arrived, but he felt better now having a direction.

He ordered Segung to head for home.

Reeling in his line, Arroya asked, “What do you think? It can be done?”

It was feasible, Tanner knew, but as with most operations, the gap between feasibility and success was wide indeed. Everything can work flawlessly on paper, only to go to hell once you were on the ground. Then again, he thought, there was something to be said for positive thinking.

“It can be done,” Tanner answered.

The first step was to get Segung hired. Trulau’s yacht had to become unavailable.

As the afternoon began to wind down, Tanner sat on the dock beside Arroya’s rowboat, dangling his feet in the water and brainstorming. By dusk he’d settled on a plan. He jotted down a list of what he heeded and gave it to Arroya, who looked it over. “I can have it within the hour.”

“Thanks. After you’re done, pick up Segung and go out to dinner. Make sure you’re noticed.”

“Why?”

“Alibi. Stay out until midnight, then meet me back here.”

Trulau’s yacht was anchored a half mile south of the Sekunda Kalepa in the middle of the Ancol Marina. Tanner studied it through his binoculars until night had fully fallen and the marina’s traffic tapered off. Light clouds had closed over Jakarta, partially obscuring the moon and dulling the reflection of the city’s lights on the water.

He packed his materials into the watertight rucksack Arroya had purchased, donned the swim fins and mask, slipped into the water, and started stroking toward the marina.

When he was a hundred yards off the yacht’s port side, he stopped. Under the glow of the amber deck lights he counted two guards, one stationed on the fantail, the second roving between the forecastle and afterdeck. He watched for another ten minutes until certain the rover wasn’t varying his route or timing, then took a breath, ducked under, and stroked toward the bow.

The white keel slowly emerged from the gloom before him. He groped until his fingers found the anchor chain, then surfaced beneath the bow. He went still and listened.

A few seconds passed before he heard the click of footsteps on the deck above. The footsteps grew louder, then stopped. Feet shuffling. He smelled cigarette smoke. After a minute, the guard turned and walked off.

Moving fast now, he shed his mask and fins, hooked them to the anchor chain, then shimmied up the chain, chinned himself level with the deck, and crawled under the railing. The deck was empty. From the ruck he withdrew a towel, dried himself off and mopped up any telltale puddles from the deck.

He sprinted across the forecastle to the cabin, opened the sliding-glass door, and slipped inside.

He was in the main salon: Furnished with walnut captain’s chairs, leather couches, and thick shag carpet, the space oozed luxury. Everything was dark and quiet except for the hiss of the air-conditioning. Briggs felt goose bumps on his skin.

Outside, a guard strolled past the cabin windows and disappeared onto the foredeck.

Tanner crossed the cabin and trotted down the aft companionway steps.

Ahead lay five doors, two on each side of the passageway and one at the end. Engine spaces, Tanner guessed. As he neared the door he could hear the hum of machinery. He eased it open. The hum was louder now. A set of metal stairs led downward. At the bottom he found a long catwalk bordered by a pair of diesel engines. Tucked into the corner beside the starboard engine he found what he’d come for: the main generator.

He knelt down, unzipped the rucksack, and withdrew a wax ball about the size of an apricot. Filled with a mixture of common household cleaners, the ball was not only the fruition of Arroya’s shopping list, but also a crude “binary bomb” designed to detonate when the fuel in the generator’s tank eroded the wax and reached the core.

While the explosion would not be enough to sink the yacht, it would certainly destroy the generator and perhaps the starboard engine as well. With no mechanical bomb components to be found in the wake of the explosion, the yacht’s demise would hopefully be written off as an act of God.

Tanner dropped the ball into the tank, then retraced his steps into the main salon, where he waited until the guard had passed by and disappeared from view. Briggs opened the door, sprinted to the bow, lowered himself over the side and back into the water.

Arroya was sitting in his rowboat under the glow of a lantern when Tanner swam up. Startled, Arroya clicked on a flashlight and shined it in Tanner’s face. “Oh, good lord, it’s you.”

“Give me a hand.”

Arroya took his fins and mask then helped him aboard. “Everything went well?”

“So far. Now we find out how good my chemistry is. Where’s Segung?”

“Out dancing. He met a woman. I doubt he’ll be going home tonight.” Arroya opened a cooler at his feet. “I thought you might be hungry, so I brought you leftovers: Capi cai udang.”

“Pardon me?” Tanner said, accepting the carton.

“It’s a mix of fried rice, vegetables, and shrimp. Very good. Cold beer, too.”

Tanner took a gulp of beer and sighed. “Thanks.”

They talked and ate until Tanner got drowsy. He settled back and drifted off to sleep.

Some time later they were jolted awake by what sounded like distant thunder echoing across the water. Tanner sat up and grabbed the binoculars and focused them on Trulau’s yacht Smoke was pouring through a jagged tear in the starboard side.

“Good lord,” Arroya murmured. “Do you see the guards?”

“No, I — wait. There they are. They’re okay.”

Arroya chuckled. “Goodness, Briggs, you put a hole in Trulau’s boat.”

Tanner shrugged. “Too much pepper in the recipe.”

“Indeed. Now what?”

“Now we wait and pray Segung gets a job offer tomorrow.”

“Bottom line, Dick: how’s Irkutsk going to affect the election?” asked President Martin.

Flip a coin, the DCI thought. When it came to elections in Russia, projection polls could be dead-on one day and out the window the next, which had as much to do with the multitude of pollsters in Moscow’s circuslike political scene as it did with the vagaries of public opinion.

“It’s still ten days away, Mr. President,” Mason replied. “A lot can happen. Initially, however, this can only help Bulganin. He was speaking out before the Kremlin even acknowledged the incident. In fact, given Bulganin’s tone, I wouldn’t be surprised if he tries to ride this all the way to election day.”

“How?”

“Speeches, news conferences, public rallies, special editions of the RPP newsletter.”

“Anything from the Kremlin?”

“They’re being drowned out. From a PR perspective, they’re in the unenviable position of having to not only deal with the problem, but also refute Bulganin’s accusations. The public is swarming to his version of events — true or not.”

“I agree,” said Bousikaris. “Regardless of why, Federation soldiers gunned down over fifty unarmed citizens. There’s no making that disappear, and the current president is going to have a tough time taking the high ground away from Bulganin.”

“Have we learned anything more about this guy? He can’t be that big a mystery.”

“Bulganin is an icon, Mr. President — a representation of what Russian voters think is missing from their government,” Mason said. “That’s Nochenko’s touch; he knows what moves the people.”

“Are you trying to tell us there’s nothing to Bulganin?” Bousikaris asked. “I don’t buy that.”

“There’s something to him — probably quite a lot, in fact. The rub is, what exactly?”

It was the same question many people had asked about Hitler in the 1930s, and compared to Bulganin, Hitler was downright chatty. By the time the Wehrmacht invaded Poland, Hitler had told so many lies his neighbors didn’t know which way was up. If anything, Bulganin’s PR skills were more in line with those of Stalin: Say nothing, and when pressed for details, say less.

“In fact, it’s Bulganin’s caginess that’s making a lot of the Federation’s neighbors nervous,” Mason continued. “Every time he gains ground in the polls, the EC markets twitch.”

Martin’s intercom buzzed. Bousikaris picked it up, listened, then hung up. “Call for you, Dick.”

Mason walked to the coffee table and picked up the phone. “Mason. Yes, Sylvia … ” Mason listened for several minutes, asked a few questions, then hung up.

“What is it?” asked Martin.

“There’s been an accident in Russia. The cause is still unclear, but it sounds like the reactor in Chita vented some gas into the atmosphere.”

“Where’s Chita?”

“About nine hundred miles east of Irkutsk and three hundred miles north of the Chinese border.”

“Any word on a cause or severity?”

“No. Same with casualty figures, but we should be ready for the worst. It was a MOX reactor.”

Martin said, “Explain.”

“MOX is short for mixed-oxide,” Mason replied. “A lot of European and Asian countries are using it to dispose of old radioactive cores — called pits — from disassembled nuclear weapons. The process takes the cores, turns them into a powder, then mixes that with standard feedstock uranium.

“The stock burns efficiently, but the problem is, plutonium is just about the deadliest toxin on earth. A single grain inhaled into the lungs can cause cancer; worse still, the half-life of the stuff is twenty-four thousand years. If it gets into the high atmosphere … Well, you can imagine.”

“God almighty,” Martin said.

“First thing’s first, we need to confirm all this, then we need to find out what Moscow’s doing. We’ll want to put Energy on alert, have them prep some NEST teams,” Mason said, referring to Nuclear Emergency Search Team. “Even if Moscow doesn’t ask for help, we need to be ready to offer it — hell, force it on them, if necessary. This is not a time for piecemeal measures. It wouldn’t take much of that stuff to kill a whole lot of people.”

“Be specific, Dick.”

“That’s a question best answered by Energy. It’s going to depend on the size of the leak, the type of gas vented, weather conditions … We have very few facts right now.”

“Then get some,” Martin said. “Quick.”

The Chinese Embassy’s request for an audience reached Bousikaris’s desk just hours after Mason’s news. As the PRC had already called for a meeting of the UN Security Council, Bousikaris was unsurprised by the request, but was nonetheless wary as the ambassador was escorted into the Oval Office. Their first and only meeting with the ambassador had proven—was proving—costly.

Ever the politician, Martin walked from behind his desk to greet the ambassador. “Mr. Ambassador, a pleasure to see you again. The circumstances are unfortunate, of course, but such is life.”

“Indeed it is, Mr. President. I thought it important we talk before the Security Council meeting.”

“Certainly. Please sit down. We’re still gathering facts about the accident, so we don’t have much more information than a few hours ago.”

“Nor do we. Which brings me to the reason for my visit. As you may know, there is a significant Chinese diaspora in southern Russia, much of which is located in and around Chita. With the Federation’s blessing, our people emigrate to the Siberian republics to live and work with the native Russians there.

“Early reports indicate there are Chinese citizens employed at the reactor site in question. We think it’s safe to say they will be among the casualties.”

“We’re sorry to hear that, Mr. Ambassador,” Martin said. “We’ll keep them in our prayers.”

“Very kind. If only prayers were enough. You see, this is the fourth accident in eighteen months in which Chinese lives have been lost.”

“Mr. Ambassador we don’t yet know if any lives were lost — Chinese or otherwise.”

“Given the type of reactor, I think it likely.”

“Perhaps. You mentioned three other accidents …”

“Two mine cave-ins and an ammunition depot explosion. In all, nearly twelve hundred Chinese citizens have lost their lives on Russian soil in the last two years.”

Martin glanced at Bousikaris, who said, “We know of those incidents, but we weren’t aware any of your citizens were involved.”

“The ever-efficient Russian propaganda machine at work. You see, our citizens have become a valuable part of their workforce, accepting many jobs native Russians don’t want.”

Where’s this going? Bousikaris thought. The ambassador was clearly leading up to something, and he doubted it was a lesson in international labor issues. “Are you saying the Russian government has conspired to cover up the deaths of over a thousand Chinese citizens?” he asked.

“I am.”

“That’s a harsh accusation. I hope your government exercises discretion before making any formal charges.”

“Whether we level formal charges or not will depend entirely on the Security Council meeting. Of course, we will be demanding the Federation take steps to ensure the safety of our citizens. In Moscow’s eyes they may be immigrants, but to us they are family — regardless of where they live.”

“What kind of steps do you have in mind?” asked Martin.

“We’ll leave that to them. Too many Chinese have died because of Russian negligence, and it is high time Moscow address the issue.”

Now it’s negligence, Bousikaris thought. In a court of law, charges of death by negligence and conspiracy add up to murder. The ambassador had just taken a very dangerous leap. Bousikaris could see the trap looming before them.

“I’m sure the Federation will do everything it can to help,” President Martin said. “But, I have to ask: If, for whatever reason, their response doesn’t satisfy your concerns, what will you do?”

“We’re hopeful the Federation will be properly responsive.”

“With respect, sir, that doesn’t answer my question.”

“Mr. President, I can tell you this: The People’s Republic is committed to ensuring the welfare of its citizens. To this end, we will do whatever is necessary.”

“Are there any measures you will not consider?”

“Given the seriousness of the situation, we will consider every option.”

In failing to rule out military action, the ambassador had just put the option on the table.

“Again,” the ambassador said, “We hope this will be settled in a reasonable manner. We have no reason to think otherwise.”

Ask the question, Phil …

“I assume your counterparts in Great Britain and France have paid similar visits to those country’s respective leaders?”

“No.”

“Then why have you come to us?”

“I’ve been instructed by my premier to make clear his hope that China can count on your help should this situation escalate any further.”

There it is, Bousikaris thought. They’re coming back for a second drink at the well. Diplomatic niceties aside, this was another ultimatum.

Martin said, “Define what you mean by ‘help.’”

Ignoring protocol, the ambassador stood up, ending the meeting. “We’ll let tomorrow take care of tomorrow, Mr. President. If we need to talk again, I’ll contact Mr. Bousikaris for an appointment.”

​Three days out of Pearl Harbor, Columbia was nearing the Kent Seamount, four hundred miles northeast of Midway Island. Captain Archie Kinsock was standing beside one of the blue-lit plotting tables when Jurens walked into the control room. Kinsock waved him over.

“We lost?” Sconi said with a smile.

“Not so far.”

Jurens had gotten to know Kinsock over the last few days. Though often gruff, Kinsock knew his job and didn’t take himself too seriously, which showed in not only how smoothly the boat ran, but in the demeanor of the crew.

“Where are we, Captain?” Jurens asked.

“Make it Archie when we’re alone?”

Jurens nodded. “Call me Sconi.”

“Interesting name.”

“Born and raised in Wisconsin. We’re nearly famous — not a whole lotta black dairy farmers in Wisconsin.”

Kinsock laughed. “I can imagine. To answer your question, we’re near Midway. From here we’ll keep heading northeast until we reach the Intersection.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s the nickname for the point where the Emperor and Chinook troughs meet south of the Aleutians.” Kinsock flipped through several layers of charts until he found one showing the ocean floor. He pointed to a groove nestled inside what looked to Jurens like the spiny back of a giant lizard. “From there we head north to the Aleutian Trench.”

“The big deep.”

“Four miles and twenty thousand feet worth. Of course, we’d be long dead before we saw the bottom of that. Red paste in a can.”

“Thanks for the imagery.”

“Don’t worry about it — you’d never feel a thing.”

“Is this why you wanted to see me, Archie? A navigation lesson?”

“No. It’s our orders. I’m not trying to talk you into anything, but I’ve got a few concerns.”

“Such as?”

“Such as why I’m being told exactly where to launch my missiles.”

“What do you mean ‘exactly’?”

“Down to a GPS lock — a few meters either way.”

This was unusual, Jurens admitted. While submarine commanders were usually given a LZ, or launch zone, the precise launch point was traditionally left up to the captain. Given how close Columbia would be to the Russian coast, a tight LZ made sense, but to micromanage the launch point like that … He understood Kinsock’s worry.

“Any explanation offered?” Jurens asked.

“None.”

“What do you want to do? It’s your boat.”

Kinsock sighed. “Play it by ear. Hell, tight LZ or not, it won’t matter. From periscope to missile launch, we can be in and out in two minutes. Ain’t nobody gonna sneak up on us in that short a time.”

Tanner was pulling the VW into the airport’s parking lot when he heard the whine of a jet engine overhead. He looked up in time to see the broad belly of the 747 cross the terminal buildings and disappear toward the runway. When it passed, he caught a glimpse of Chinese tail markings.

As he got out and started across the loading lane, a convoy of three limousines and two charter buses surrounded by motorcyclists from the Jakarta Police Satgasus traffic squad roared around the corner and stopped beside the curb.

Tanner walked into the terminal and took the escalator up to the second level, where he found a seat in the lounge overlooking the runways. Four commercial aircraft were taxiing about, either waiting for a gate or waiting for clearance to lift off.

After five minutes the Chinese 747 rolled into view following the hand signals of a ground director, who steered it toward a trio of gate slots. Tanner walked down the concourse to a café near the gate area, ordered a beer, and sat back to watch.

There was no mistaking which gate belonged to the Chinese delegation. A dozen POLRI — or Indonesian National Police — in dress-white uniforms stood at attention along the lounge’s perimeter, while nearer the gate a cluster of city politicians milled about.

First off the jetway was an elderly Chinese man who Tanner assumed was the delegation ambassador. He shook hands with the politicians, smiled through the introductions and photographs, then allowed himself to be led away by a phalanx of POLRI and Chinese security men.

The rest of the delegation began disembarking. Tanner scanned faces, looking for Soong’s until the last passenger was off the jetway and the delegation began moving down the concourse. Briggs felt a jolt of panic in his chest. Soong wasn’t aboard.

Tanner ran through the possibilities: bad information from the CIA’s Beijing contact; a last minute cancellation from the Guoanbu; Soong was coming via another route … or a trap.

No, the chances of that were—

He heard voices from the jetway. He turned.

Two beefy-looking Chinese men in charcoal suits stepped off the jetway, paused a moment to survey the lounge, then turned and nodded to someone behind them.

The man that came out next was short and stooped, with silver hair and a heavily creased face. The eyes, though, were exactly as Briggs remembered: sad and wise, but somehow good-humored, like those of a grandfather who’d seen the worst of life and yet made peace with it.

Tanner felt like a stone was sitting on his chest. Han …

He’d imagined this moment a hundred times, and suddenly here it was. He felt the sting of tears and suddenly realized how tightly he’d been holding on to the hope of seeing Soong alive again.

He forced himself to wait five minutes, then took the escalator down to the concourse. He wandered into a gift shop and started browsing while keeping one eye fixed on the windows. At the curb, the last of the delegation was boarding the buses.

When the lead vehicle started moving, Tanner started walking. By the time he hit the doors, the rear guard of Satgasus motorcycles was pulling away.

An hour later he pulled into the Grand Hyatt’s parking lot. Across Kebon Street he could see the last of the limousines pulling to a stop beneath the Melia’s canopied turnaround. Engines roaring, the Satgasus riders raced ahead to seal off both entrances. Traffic on the Kebon slowed to a crawl. Horns started honking.

The VW’s side door opened and Arroya got in. “Everything okay?”

Tanner nodded. “He’s in the third limousine.”

“I have good news and bad news. First, the good: Segung’s yacht has been chartered by the Chinese. They’ve ordered him to be at Ancol Marina at six o’clock for inspection. The bad: Trulau has demanded a kickback from Segung’s charter fee. Segung is demanding that you pay—”

“That’s fine.”

“It will be three thousand U.S., Briggs—”

“Tell him he gets half now, half when it’s over.”

“Very well. I rented our boat; it’s at the Kalepa.”

“Good. What else?”

“My bellhop friend says there will be a welcoming ceremony for the delegates from four until six, then cocktails and dinner until nine. If your friend is going to the island, it will likely be after that.”

Tanner nodded. “Tell Segung to be ready between midnight and two.”

Arroya ran the boat at full power until he was three miles from Pulau Sekong, then doused the navigation lights and turned off the engine. On the forecastle, Tanner listened to the waves lap at the hull. The sky was bright and clear, with stars sprinkled across the blackness.

“Anything?” Arroya whispered.

“No. If anyone’s interested in us, we’ll know soon enough.” However unlikely, it was possible Trulau and/or the Chinese would have boats patrolling the coastline. “Take down the canopy; if they’ve got a navigation radar worth a damn, they’ll spot it.”

Arroya rolled back the bridge’s cover and tied it off. “How long do we wait?”

“Another half-hour should do it.”

The time passed without incident. Briggs waved to the flying bridge. Arroya fired up the engines and throttled up. “The north side of the island?” he called.

“Yes. With any luck, there’ll be less chance of being spotted there. I’m going to check the gear. Call me when we’re a mile out.”

Twenty minutes later he heard a double stomp on the cabin ceiling and stepped onto the deck.

Arroya said, “Two miles.”

“Okay, shut of the engines and let her drift.”

Arroya did so, then joined him on the afterdeck. Tanner sat down on the gunwale and donned his fins as Arroya slipped the rucksack’s straps over his shoulders. “What’s in here?”

“Blankets and dry clothes.” If in fact Soong had spent the last twelve years in a laogi, his immune system was probably shot. “By the time we reach the raft, he’s going to be cold and wet. Spending the night like that could kill him.”

“Yes, I see. You care very much for him, yes?”

Tanner nodded. “I do.”

“He’s lucky to have a friend like you.”

We’ll see, Tanner thought.

Arroya walked into the cabin and returned with the patched-over zodiac raft they’d purchased earlier in the day. The accompanying trolling motor had been absurdly expensive, but its noiseless engine would be invaluable. The downside was the battery: At its full output, it would last only five hours. They’d need every bit of that to get away before Soong’s watchers discovered his absence.

“Long way to swim towing a raft,” Arroya said. “I can get us closer, you know.”

“This is close enough.” Tanner spit into his mask, then dipped it into the water. “Besides, I want you far away from here by the time the Tija arrives.”

“Briggs, I can help—”

“Thank you, but no.”

Once this was over, Tanner knew, Arroya would still have to live here; the less involvement he had, the better. Tanner had come to like Arroya, and the last thing the Javan needed was the Chinese and Indonesian security agencies interested in him.

Arroya said, “You know, with my belly, I am probably a better swimmer than you.”

Tanner smiled. “I believe it.”

He checked his watch: Nine-twenty. The Tija would just be leaving Ancol Marina.

He turned around on the gunwale and lowered himself into the water. Arroya slid the raft overboard and handed him the painter line.

“I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow morning,” Arroya said. “Be safe.”

“You, too. Don’t forget to bring breakfast.”

Once the boat had disappeared into the darkness and he could no longer hear the engines, Tanner checked his wrist compass, then started toward the island in an easy, energy-saving sidestroke. The sea was calm, with only a slight chop, but he could feel the surge of the current beneath him.

Thirty minutes later the spires of Pulau Sekong emerged out of the darkness. Around the base of the cliffs Briggs could see foam breaking against the rocks. To his left, hidden by the curve of the headland, would be Trulau’s private cove.

He picked up his stroke and before long he was treading water at the foot of the cliffs. The roar of the surf was thunderous; great plumes of spray crashed off the rocks. He turned parallel to the cliff and swam until he spotted a pocket of beach, then spent ten minutes negotiating the tide until he was able to drag himself ashore. He flipped the raft onto its back and pushed it into the shadows under the cliff.

Suddenly, from above, a beam of light swept over. He froze. The beam glided along the waterline and over the rocks, then blinked out. Briggs craned his head until he could see the top of the cliff and the silhouetted figure standing there. After a few minutes, the guard walked on.

Tanner began picking his way over the rocks, wriggling through nooks and crannies until finally the cove came into view.

Tija was already at anchor, and drifting gently around her chain. Her exterior lights were lit, and under their glow Tanner could see four figures: one each on the forecastle and afterdeck, and another two walking along the port and star-board railing. Inside the cabin, a single yellow light glowed.

Tanner checked his watch. Come on, come on …

After a few minutes a lone figure stepped out of the cabin, strolled to the railing, and lit a cigarette. The figure smoked for a few minutes, then stooped to tie his shoe and returned inside. Atta boy … Segung’s signal told Tanner everything he needed to know: The guards were posted and Soong was asleep in his cabin.

Tanner began donning his fins. Time to see an old friend again.

Mary Tsang’s ad ran in the Post’s Saturday edition.

Paul Randall and Janet Paschel spent the morning sharing surveillance duty on her apartment. At noon, Tsang stepped out her door wearing sweatpants, sweatshirt, and running shoes, then got into her car and drove off. Paschel called Latham. “She’s moving, Charlie. I’m passing Florida and Q. I don’t know if it means anything, but it looks like she’s dressed for a workout.”

“Maybe something,” Latham replied. In the ten days they’d been watching Tsang, the most exercise she’d performed was carrying grocery bags from her car. However subtle, this was a change in behavior. Better safe than sorry, Latham thought. “Where’s Paul?” he asked.

“Went to grab some lunch.”

“Call him and see if he can rustle up some sweatpants, then have him meet you.”

As it happened, Randall was only five minutes from his own apartment when Paschel called. He changed clothes and began heading toward Paschel’s location. “Passing the Spectrum Gallery on M Street,” she reported. “Looks like she’s trying to find a parking spot.”

“Good luck,” Randall replied. “I know that area. Finding a spot there on a Saturday morning is going to be a trick.”

Latham asked. “Doesn’t a jogging trail start around there — the one that goes to the zoo?”

“We’re passing Thirty-first,” Paschel announced.

“Yeah, you’re right. It starts on Prospect.”

“You may have called it,” Paschel said, “She’s turning toward Prospect … slowing down now … yep, she’s looking for a spot.”

“I’ll be there in five minutes,” Latham said. “Paul?”

“Less than that.”

Whatever aversion Tsang had to exercise, it wasn’t apparent as she parked her car and started jogging northeast toward Rock Creek Park and the National Zoo.

Following Paschel’s directions, Randall took a few shortcuts and found a parking spot on P Street, then got out and started stretching. A few minutes later Tsang jogged past him.

“I’ve got her,” Randall called over the cell phone. “Damn, she’s moving fast.”

“Stay with her,” Latham said. “Dinner’s on me if you do.”

“I’ll hold you to it.”

Tsang headed down Q Street to where it crossed the jogging path bordering Rock Creek, then turned north, following the trail into the park’s half-mile-wide forest of spruce and pine. She never once looked over her shoulder, Randall noted. In fact she seemed to be in a hurry, so focused was she on the path ahead.

A mile into the park she turned east onto a narrow path. The wooden sign at the intersection read “Steep trail — For experienced hikers and joggers only.”

“Just great,” Randall muttered, and pushed on.

Tsang began to slow as the grade increased. Randall adjusted his pace accordingly. The trees crowded the trail until branches brushed his arms and the canopy blotted out the sun. He took a bend in the trail and found himself on a straightaway. Fifty yards ahead, Tsang was rounding the next corner. Randall sprinted ahead and made the turn: another straightaway, this one downhill …

What’s this? He stopped and backpedaled out of sight.

Tsang, barely ten yards ahead of him, was emerging from the trees along the path.

Randall waited five seconds, then peeked around the corner. She was gone. He started out again, studying the underbrush as he passed it. He saw nothing.

Twenty minutes later he emerged from the park and turned onto Q Street. A hundred yards ahead of him, Tsang had slowed to a walk. He pulled out his cell phone, dialed Paschel, and gave her his location. “I see her,” Paschel said. “She’s passing me now.”

“Thank God,” he panted. “Damn, I’m outa shape.”

“At least you earned your dinner. Hold on, I’ll get Charlie conferenced in.”

Latham came on the line. “You alive, Paul?”

“Barely. She’s a dynamo. We may have something, though.” He explained what had happened on the trail. “I didn’t see anything, but it’s worth a check.”

“Okay. Janet, follow her home, make sure she’s got nothing else on her itinerary. Paul, I’m headed your way. Let’s see if we can figure out what she was up to.”

Had they not been looking for something, they would have never found it.

The pill bottle was tucked inside the knothole of a fallen tree about twenty feet off the trail. The white top had been smeared with mud, and a leaf was stuck to the plastic.

“Take a good look, Paul,” Latham said. “Memorize it. When we put it back, I want everything just as it was.” If Tsang had left any telltales — physical peculiarities designed to betray tampering — Latham wanted to make sure they recreated them perfectly.

Randall examined the knot from several angles. “The leaf’s stem is pointing at twelve o’clock … hold it …” Randall leaned closer. “There’s a toothpick, Charlie. It’s covered in mud; almost looks like a twig. It’s wedged under the bottle.”

Very smart, Latham thought. Move the bottle and the toothpick falls. “I thought you said she was only back here for ten seconds?”

“She was.”

“Then she’s been practicing. Anything else?”

“Nope.”

Latham eased the bottle out and peered into the hole. It was empty. Next he pried off the leaf and set it aside. He examined the bottle for more telltales. There were none. He unscrewed the cap. Inside the bottle was a folded piece of white paper. Counting folds as he went, Latham opened it. Inside he found six characters in what he assumed was Mandarin Chinese.

“Damn, Charlie, you were right about her,” Randall murmured.

“Looks that way.”

The unremarkable Mary Tsang had just serviced a dead-letter drop.

“What do you want to do?”

“Copy down the characters as best you can. We’ll see if Oaken can make sense of them.”

When Randall was finished, Latham refolded the note and returned it the bottle, then slid it back into the knot and replaced the toothpick and leaf. Stepping carefully, they backed onto the trail, brushing leaves over their footprints as they went.

“Now what?” Randall asked.

“We’re gonna have to stake it out.”

Randall chuckled. “I’ve got a sleeping bag.”

“Don’t laugh, it might come to that. I’m guessing whoever’s coming won’t wait long.”

“No problem. Take that to Walt. I’ll get things set here.”

“It’s Mandarin,” Oaken said. “How accurate was Paul in his copying?”

“Looked good to me. Why?”

“Chinese dialects are tricky — both in the written and the verbal. You take two characters, both seemingly identical, but curl a brush stroke a certain way and you’ve got a different meaning. Chinese is a metaphorical language, so there are very few single word characters. Hell, I studied Mandarin for a year in college and I still had a hard time telling the difference between the characters for ‘water running downhill’ and ‘eternal bliss.’”

“No wonder our governments are at odds,” Latham said. “That kind of subtlety doesn’t make for easy communication. They’re abstract, we’re more concrete.”

“Exactly,” Oaken said. “Okay, let’s see what we can do with this.”

He placed the note on a scanner, transferred it to his computer, then fed the file into a language database. After a few minutes, the computer chimed. Oaken looked at the screen, then tapped a few keys. “Done.” He took the sheet out of the printer’s tray and peered at it. “Now, remember, this is probably pretty close, but it’s not exact.” He handed Latham the translation and he read aloud:

“‘Opposition interested family; making connections; caution.’ That answers a couple questions.”

“Such as?”

“First, Hong Cho knows — at least in general terms — who killed the Bakers.”

“And second?”

“He didn’t buy the story we fed him.”

“But he sent a message anyway.”

“Which means he doesn’t know we’re onto Tsang. If he did, he wouldn’t have let her service the drop.”

“But he did,” Oaken said, “They’re still out there somewhere.”

Latham nodded. And up to God-knows-what, he thought. What was keeping them here?

Tanner slipped into the water and started out in a breaststroke, submerged except for the upper rim of his mask. He kept his eyes fixed on the Tija’s decks, watching the guards come and go. When he was fifty yards off the port beam, one of the guards stopped, leaned on the railing, and looked out.

Come on, keep walking …

After ten seconds, the guard turned and walked aft.

Tanner turned and circled the boat until he was on the bow, then started swimming in. He got as close as he dared on the surface, then took a breath, ducked under, and started kicking.

Slowly the white curve of Tija’s bow appeared out of the gloom. He stretched out his hands. Easy now, Briggs … Distances under water were exaggerated; similarly, sounds were amplified. Anything more than the lightest touch on the hull might draw unwanted attention. He felt the cold fiberglass under his fingertips, then kicked to the surface, snatched a quick breath, and dove again.

He arched his back and angled deeper, following the sweep of the keel. He pulled a chemlite off his belt and crushed it to life. He held the green glow against the keel and kept swimming aft.

Segung’s directions had been specific: twenty-five feet behind the forefoot, just off the centerline. He almost missed it, so well was the hatch set into the keel.

Segung had called it his “dump door.” On dicey smuggling runs, he explained, forbidden cargo was placed atop this hatch. If a customs official happened to get nosy, Segung would dump the cargo, then wait for nightfall and dive over the side to collect it.

Briggs tapped his knuckle against the hull. There were a few seconds of silence, then a responding tap. A crack of light appeared around the seam, then the hatch swung open. Tanner finned through until his fingers touched a metal grating. His head broke into the air.

Segung was kneeling on the catwalk above. “Welcome aboard,” he whispered. “Any trouble?”

“None. Give me a hand.”

Segung helped him onto the catwalk, then reached down, grabbed a knotted rope, and pulled the hatch shut. “Clever, yes?”

Tanner took off the rucksack and set it aside. “Very. Ever had to use it?”

“Once or twice.”

“How many guards aboard?”

“Four, all on deck. There is a shift change coming from the island at four.”

Tanner checked his watch; time was going to be tight. “How about Soong?” he said.

“He’s in the master cabin — forward companion way, last door on the port side.”

“There’s no one else aboard?”

“No,” replied Segung.

“Okay, wait here. I’ll be back in five minutes.”

“One moment. What about our arrangement? The other half of the money?”

“I told you: The other half when it’s done.”

“I would say we are done now. In a matter of minutes, you and your friend will be gone.”

“In a matter of minutes, my friend and I will be in the water, in the middle of the Java Sea with only a few hours before the Chinese seal off the island.”

“That’s your problem. I will take my money now, thank you.”

Tanner put an edge in his voice: “You’ll get your money. I gave my word, and I’ll keep it.”

Segung raised his hands, smiling sheepishly. “Of course, whatever you say. Go find your friend.”

Tanner climbed to the top of the ladder, slipped through the door, and eased it shut.

The passageway was dark. What little moonlight that filtered through the skylights was absorbed by the earth-toned carpeting and wood paneling.

Walking on flat feet, he moved into the salon: cream carpet, sectional sofas, and wide, convex windows lining both bulkheads. He dropped to his belly and crawled across the carpet to the companionway steps. Once at the bottom, he stopped and listened. Outside, the click of footsteps came and went. Voices murmured.

Last door, port side … As he neared the door, he could hear snoring. He could feel his heart pounding. A rivulet of sweat ran down his cheek; he wiped at it with his shoulder. He eased the door open and slipped through.

Fully-clothed, Han Soong lay in the fetal position on the bed’s coverlet, the unused pillows pushed into the corner. He was tiny, all bones and sinew, his skin a pasty white.

Why wasn’t he sleeping under the covers or with pillows? Tanner wondered. Then it struck him: There were no such amenities in the laogi. In that moment, Briggs knew in his gut that it was all true. Soong had been in prison for the last twelve years.

He knelt beside the bed and gently placed his hand over Soong’s mouth.

Soong’s eyes sprang open, but he didn’t move. He blinked his eyes a few times, and then they settled on Tanner’s face. “Han, it’s me. It’s Briggs. Nod if you recognize me.”

Soong nodded vigorously.

“I’m going to take my hand away. Don’t make a sound.”

Another nod. Tanner took his hand away.

“Briggs …” Soong whispered. “Heavens, Briggs, it’s you, it’s really you. What are you doing here? What is happening—”

“We’ll catch up later. Right now, I need you to come with me. Don’t ask any questions. Okay?”

“Yes, of course.”

As Soong put on his shoes he said, “I’m a little older man you remember me, eh?”

“We both are. You’re alive — that’s what counts.”

Soong patted Tanner’s face. “You’ve grown up. What are you now, thirty-eight?”

“Forty.”

“I see a few silver hairs here and there.”

Tanner smiled. “Don’t remind me. Okay, time to go.”

With Soong behind him, Tanner slipped out the door, up the steps, and into the salon. Once certain the way was clear, they crab-walked to the engine-room hatch. Tanner descended the ladder first, then helped Soong to the bottom.

Segung was waiting. “I was getting worried.”

“Everything’s fine,” Tanner said. “Segung, this is Han Soong.”

Soong gave him a bow, then shook his hand. “Thank you for your help.”

Tanner led Soong to the hatch, then sat down and began donning his fins.

“Briggs, what is going on?” asked Soong.

“I’m getting you out of here.”

“What?”

“I know I’m about a dozen years late, but better late than—”

“I can’t go with you.”

“What?”

“I can’t go, Briggs. They still have Lian; if I don’t go back, they’ll kill her.”

Another question answered. Thank God. “What happened to her? Where—”

“She’s alive. That’s all I know.”

“What about Miou?”

“Miou got pneumonia and died the first year. They refused to treat her.”

“I’m sorry, Han:”

“I can’t leave my child. She’s the only family I have left. I won’t abandon her.”

“We can still get her. Once you’re out, we’ll have leverage. They’ll release her.”

“No they won’t.”

“Then I’ll go back for her. Han, you have to come with me.”

“No, Briggs, I—”

“Enough!” Segung barked. “Both of you shut up.”

Tanner turned.

Segung was pointing a thirty-eight revolver at them. “General, you’re staying. Briggs, you’re leaving — but not the way you came in.”

Tanner stood up and stepped in front of Soong. “Why are you doing this?”

“For the reward, you idiot. I’ve just broken up a plot to kidnap the general.”

“Segung, they won’t buy it. Listen to me: They’ll arrest you, seize your boat, then—”

“I doubt that.”

“You’re making a mistake.”

“There’s a lesson in this for you: Never haggle with a man who holds your life in his hands.”

Tanner knew his plan had just gone to hell. Regardless of whether the Chinese believed Segung’s story, they’d whisk Soong back to Beijing and he would disappear into the laogi. There was only one way out of this. Briggs steeled himself for it.

“Segung, stick to our deal. There’s a bonus in it for you — ten thousand U.S.”

“And what am I supposed to do? Let you go and wait here for the money? I don’t think so.”

“I have the money here.”

“You’re lying. Where?”

Tanner reached down, picked up the rucksack, and extended it to Segung. “Here.”

“No,” Segung said. “Put it down and open it yourself. Slowly.”

As he knelt, Tanner took a casual lean forward. He opened the zipper, reached inside, and pulled out a money belt He showed it to Segung. “Ten thousand. It’s all yours.”

Segung barely heard him; his eyes were locked on the belt.

Tanner hefted the belt in his hands. “It’s a lot of money. What do you say? Do we have a deal?”

“Give it to me.”

“We have a deal?”

Segung nodded absently; his gun never wavered. “Of course, yes. Give it to me.”

Easing his foot forward, Tanner pushed the belt toward Segung’s right shoulder, the same side on which he held the gun. Instinctively Segung grabbed at it with his left hand. His torso followed the movement, pivoting left and drawing the gun along — across Tanner’s body and slightly off target

Even as Segung’s fingers touched the belt, Tanner was moving. Sidestepping left to clear the gun, he clamped his hand around Segung’s wrist — thumb pressed into the radial nerve — then lunged forward, jerking Segung off balance and jamming the revolver into the open rucksack. With a muffled cough, the revolver discharged into the blankets.

Before Segung could pull the trigger again, Tanner slapped his open palm hard across Segung’s windpipe. Stunned and off balance, Segung fell backward, his head striking the catwalk railing with a dull crunch. He slumped to the, deck.

Tanner knelt down and checked for a pulse; there was none. His skull was fractured.

“My lord, Briggs,” Soong murmured. “What did you just do?”

“I just got very lucky, that’s what. Wait here.”

Tanner picked up the revolver, scaled the ladder, and opened the hatch. He listened for thirty seconds, heard nothing, then climbed back down. Soong was sitting on the cat-walk, staring at Segung.

“Are you okay?” Briggs asked.

“It’s been a while, that’s all. Funny, no? All those years in the army, I never got used to it.”

“Me neither. It’s better that way.”

“It seemed easy enough for you just then.”

“That doesn’t mean I enjoyed it. Han, come with me please.”

“I told you, I can’t. Please understand.”

Tanner hesitated. “Then I’ll come back for both of you. Do you know anything about the prison? Anything that might help me find it?”

“No, I’m sorry. It would be very dangerous for you, Briggs. If they catch you—”

“I’ll figure something out. Just keep your bags packed.”

Soong smiled. “I will. What are you going to do about Segung?”

“He’ll have to disappear. When the guards can’t find him, they’ll wake you. You didn’t see or hear anything, understood? You never woke up.”

“Yes.”

“Let’s get you back to your cabin.” He helped Soong to his feet.

“Briggs, how long before you come?”

“As soon as I can.”

Soong placed a hand on his shoulder. “Make it very soon.”

“Why?”

“I want you to take a message back. You can reach the CIA, I assume?”

“Yes.”

“Give them this: Ming-Yau Ang and Night Wall.”

“That’s it? Nothing else?”

“They’ll figure it out,” Soong replied. “When they do, they’ll understand.”

Though joking when he made the offer, Randall did in fact end up spending the night sleeping in the bushes of Rock Creek Park watching Tsang’s dead drop. Given its location and the limitations of their three-person team, there’d been no other option. Aside from some rambunctious teenagers strolling the trails and drinking beer, Randall’s night passed without incident.

At dawn, Latham and Janet called on the radio. “Morning, Paul, are you there?”

“I’m here. Cold, tired, and hungry, but here.”

“Come on out,” Latham said. “I’m at Q and Twenty-seventh. Janet’s playing jogger on the main trail. I’ve got breakfast for you.”

Randall was there in ten minutes. He climbed in the car — groaning as he felt the warmth hit him — and accepted a cup of coffee and Egg McMuffin. “Ah, Charlie, you’re a good man.”

“Sorry you had to play Rambo all night. Thanks, Paul.”

“No problem. How’s Bonnie and the kids?”

“Fine. I saw them last night. Samantha’s already complaining about the casts being itchy.”

“That’s a good sign. Say, did you know there are mosquitoes out in April? You’d think it’d be too cold for them, but nope, they’re out in swarms.”

“I can tell.”

“What?”

“Your face.”

Randall pulled down the visor and looked in the mirror; his face was pimply. “Great.”

“Finish your breakfast, then go home. We’ll call you if there’s any action.”

Janet spent the morning traversing the trails of the park, stopping occasionally to check her watch and write in a notebook, an affection they hoped would disguise her as a runner on a training schedule.

At noon, she called in: “Charlie, there’s a tour bus pulling into the Adams Mill lot The whole group is heading in the general direction of the drop. They’re all Chinese.”

“What?”

“There’s not a Caucasian in the bunch.”

What would a Chinese tour group be doing in Rock Creek Park? Latham wondered. It didn’t make sense. Then he caught himself: Maybe it did.

Last year a female Olympic runner from Beijing came to Washington on a goodwill trip. While running in the park late one night, she was raped and murdered, her body dumped just off the trail. Her killer was never apprehended, and the woman became an icon in China.

“Janet, you remember that murder — the Chinese, marathoner?”

There was few second’s pause. “Damn, you think—”

“I wouldn’t rule it out. Where are they now?”

“About a half mile from the drop; the guide is stopping to talk.”

Probably retracing the woman’s route. “Okay, stay back. If our target’s in the group, he’ll be watching. Also watch for late joiners. Any chance you could get a head count?”

“I’ll try.”

“I’m driving over to the lot and check the bus.”

Latham started up Q, turned north on Connecticut near Dupont Circle, then east again on Columbia. Six more blocks and three more turns took him to Adams Mill Road. He parked away from the bus and sat watching for loiterers. There were none.

“Charlie, they’re starting up the path east of the drop. I’m gonna circle to the other end of the trail and jog past the group.”

“Okay. Head count?”

“I’ve got fifty-two.”

Latham got out of the car and strolled past the bus to a bank of phones near the bathrooms. He made a fake call, then walked back to his car and got in. He flipped open his notebook and jotted down the bus’s particulars: company name, plate number, and side number.

Fifteen minutes passed, and then, “Charlie, you there?”

“I’m here.”

“The group’s coming off the trail. I tell you, that girl must have been special; there’s not a dry eye in the bunch. As far as I can tell, the count’s the same.”

“Good. Meet me at the drop.”

The area around the drop was trampled by overlapping footprints, and Latham assumed this was where the woman’s body had been found. Very smart, he thought.

He knelt on the fallen log and leaned down. The knot was empty. The bottle was gone.

“Clever sons-of-bitches,” Janet Paschel said.

“Yep.”

But ingenuity could be a double-edged sword, Latham knew. While the tour group had given their target anonymity, it had also lumped him into a unique and hopefully identifiable group.

“What now?” Janet asked.

“We dive into the haystack and look for something shiny,” Latham replied.

The days following the Irkutsk Massacre became a whirlwind as Bulganin virtually uprooted his office and took to the countryside, leading an army of print and television reporters.

The campaign had reached critical mass, Nochenko realized. No longer did they have to contact the media to announce press conferences or rallies. Bulganin’s calendar became increasingly jammed with interviewers clambering for his time. The grassroots network of RPP supporters was now a finely tuned machine. Bulganin and the RPP had become an ongoing news story,

And when exactly had they turned the comer? Nochenko wondered. The day after Irkutsk.

Try as he might, he was unable to dismiss the idea that Bulganin had been involved. The odds against the incident being anything but a tragic accident were enormous. More importantly, it would take a special kind of ruthlessness to arrange such a slaughter. Bulganin was eccentric, not homicidal.

Then why couldn’t he put it out of his mind?

Nochenko was a logician at heart The world turned according to physical laws; people behaved as they did because of the electrochemical impulses swirling in their brains; two plus two always equaled four. And suspicious hunches … they were for men of weak intellect

And yet, Nochenko’s suspicions persisted.

Two days after the incident at Chita, he began his own discreet investigation of Irkutsk. So far, he’d turned up nothing unusual — save one item.

Bulganin’s chief bodyguard and leader of “The Guardians,” Pyotr Stomanov, had gone missing two days before the Irkutsk incident then reappeared the day afterward. No one at RPP headquarters knew where he’d gone and Bulganin himself demurred when Nochenko put the question to him.

“Pyotr was running an errand for me. A personal matter.”

“I would have been happy to handle it for you, Vlad.”

Bulganin had waved his hand. “You? No, Ivan, this was gopher work. You’re too important for that; I need you here. Especially now.”

Typical of Bulganin, the conversation had ended with an abrupt subject change.

Unsatisfied with Bulganin’s explanation, Nochenko turned his attention to Pyotr himself and called an acquaintance in the SVR’s archives directorate.

Bulganin’s chief bodyguard was a former Spetsnaz special forces soldier, discharged from the army six years before after being accused of killing a civilian during a nightclub fight. Nochenko’s contact could find no details on what had become of the charges, nor could he get access to Stomanov’s service record, neither of which were surprising. Spetsnaz activities had always been cloaked in shadow.

It was no wonder Bulganin had excused Stomanov and his men from Nochenko’s background checks. What about the rest of the Guardians? Nochenko wondered. Like Stomanov, were they also ex-military? Why would Bulganin load his entourage with thugs?

Unless …

Unless the man’s fascination with “Koba” Stalin ran deeper than he had imagined. From what little he’d read of Stalin, Nochenko knew the man had been something of a thug in his youth, and that he’d shrewdly distanced himself from such activities as he gained power, instead delegating such chores to cronies he kept around for that very purpose.

Nochenko’s desk phone rang. “Yes?”

“The Chief wants you.”

“Very well. I’m on my way.”

He found Bulganin standing at his desk, hands clasped behind his back. “Ivan, come in, sit.”

Nochenko took one of the wingback chairs before the desk.

“Ivan, guess who I just got off the phone with.”

“Vladimir, please … ”

“All right, all right.” Grinning, Bulganin banged his fist on the desk. “Fedorin! The man himself! Can you believe it?”

“What? When?”

“Minutes ago. He would like to come over to ‘pay his respects’. His words exactly.”

“My God,” Nochenko murmured. This was significant.

Sergei Fedorin was the head of the SVR, the successor to the KGB. Though much had changed in Russia over the last decade, one thing had not: By whatever name, the Committee for State Security was alive and well. Though now leaner and more circumspect in its methods, the SVR still wielded tremendous power.

Fedorin’s visit could mean only one thing: Like the rest of Russia, the SVR had decided Bulganin’s momentum was irresistible, and Fedorin wanted a head start on backing the winner. By day’s end the media would have the story, and one by one other government organs — along with their own constituency and power base — would begin tacitly falling into place behind the SVR.

“We’ve done it, Ivan!” Bulganin roared. “We’ve won!”

He’s right, Nochenko thought, still numb. God almighty … just like that. Of course, the formalities of the election would still take place, the votes would still be counted, but the outcome was virtually locked. In a few day’s time, Vladimir Bulganin would be president of the Russian Federation.

Nochenko realized he had a decision to make. If he moved now, he might still be able to thwart Bulganin’s victory. It would be dangerous, but it could be done. But that begged a question, didn’t it? Were his suspicions enough to justify such action? What proof did he have of anything? True, Vladimir was something of an oddball, but perhaps that was his strength. Bulganin wasn’t a cookie-cutter politician. Albeit a tad arcane at times, he had vision.

For Nochenko it came down to one question: Had all his work over the last six years been in vain? Had he taken a damned peasant from a shoe factory to the brink of the Russian presidency only to throw it away over a … spooky feeling in his belly?

No, Nochenko decided, No.

Bulganin clapped him on the shoulders. “Ivan, don’t you see? Do you know what this means?”

Nochenko looked up at him, then smiled. “Yes, Vlad, I know. We’re almost there.”

The special session of the Security Council ended with the Chinese delegation storming out an hour after it started. Two hours after that, Martin’s own ambassador arrived with the transcripts.

Following a brief statement describing the reactor accident in Chita, then moving on to similar incidents in the past, China’s normally circumspect ambassador proceeded to lambast the Russian representative, accusing the Federation of negligence, illegal labor practices, and racially biased safety standards toward Chinese citizens living in Siberia.

“Not very smart of the Chinese to come out swinging like that,” Martin said as he read. “The Russians don’t like being backed into a corner.”

Maybe that’s what they want, Bousikaris thought. The natural assumption was that China wanted a solution. True or not, nothing the PRC did was unconsidered. Every word spoken in that meeting had been decided in advance. “They’re grandstanding,” he said. “Jockeying for advantage.”

Martin turned to his ambassador. “What’s your take, Stephen?”

“I’ve been at the UN for eight years, and I’ve never seen a Security Council meeting go this badly this quickly. I don’t think China is looking for a solution just yet. I wouldn’t be surprised if we see a news conference at their embassy later today.”

“I agree,” Bousikaris said. “If so, I’m betting we’re going to see a whole different tone.”

“Explain,” said Martin.

“Very solemn, very disappointed: ‘We were hopeful the Federation would be appropriately responsive to our concerns, but it appears we were mistaken’—something along those lines.”

The ambassador said, “Right or wrong, much of the world still sees Russia as the big hungry bear. It won’t take much to paint China as the underdog.”

“And everybody loves the underdog,” Martin said.

“Especially when the victims are peasants just trying to scratch out a living in a foreign land. China’s got the high road. By this time tomorrow, the Federation’s position will be lost in the shuffle.”

Martin considered this. “So where’s all this headed? Howard?”

Where this is headed, thought Bousikaris, is to another visit from the PRC ambassador.

“Once China gets the leverage it’s looking for, we’ll see their real agenda, sir.”

One hundred twenty miles from Russia’s coast, Columbia had its first close encounter.

“Conn, Sonar.”

Kinsock keyed the intercom above his head. “Conn, aye.”

“Contact, Skipper. Designate Sierra-four. Bearing zero-zero-five, close aboard — make it eight thousand yards. He was laying in the grass, Skipper.”

Four miles off our beam, Kinsock thought. “What’s he doing?”

“Bearing rate indicates a turn to the south; he’s headed our way, but in no big hurry.”

No chance he knows we’re here: Still, better safe than sorry. “Diving officer, make your speed one-third for eight knots. Sonar, how soon can you get me an ID?”

“Twenty minutes, Skipper. Less if you can get me closer.”

“Stay on it. Let’s see what he does.”

Sierra-four kept coming, turning in an arc that brought it three miles off Columbia’s starboard quarter. “We got an ID, Skipper. Need to refine it a bit, but it looks like an Akula.”

Damn. An Akula was a Russian hunter-killer, fast and dangerous. More importantly, Akulas were prestigious billets in the Federation navy and reserved for its best skippers. “Conn, aye.”

A few minutes passed. “He’s turning again … coming north, but still heading generally west.”

Jim MacGregor, Columbia’s exec, whispered, “He’s hunting, Archie.”

“Yep. Zigzagging to open up his passive sonar.”

Kinsock felt the first tinge of wariness. He’d tangled with Akulas three times, the last incident lasting nearly fourteen hours before they’d been able to slip away. On this trip they couldn’t afford such an encounter. Though currently ahead of schedule, the closer they got to the Russian coast, the greater their chances of running into more bad guys. Out here, a stray Akula was something of a fluke; inside the mouth of Vrangel Bay … Well, it didn’t bear thinking about.

“Sonar, Conn, how many turns has he done in the last half hour?”

“Four, Skipper.”

MacGregor said, “About one every seven minutes. Pretty slow turn rate.”

“Maybe we can use that.”

Together they leaned over the chart table, jotting numbers and making calculations. Finally satisfied, Kinsock keyed the intercom. “Sonar, Conn, let me know the instant he starts his next zig.”

“Aye, sir.”

Two minutes later: “Bearing shift on Sierra-four. He’s coming around.”

“Conn, aye. Diving officer, all ahead two-thirds for twelve knots.”

Kinsock felt the deck surge beneath his feet as Columbia’s engines sent more power to the screws. MacGregor clicked his stopwatch. “How long, Archie?”

“Make it forty seconds.”

Kinsock was doing what’s known as a “scoot-and-die” and its success depended on three things: the angle of the Akula’s turning radius, her speed, and how well Kinsock had done his math. The theory was sound, if not exact: As the Akula turned to open its port sonar array, there would be a period during which it would have an “aural blind spot” on Columbia’s general bearing.

MacGregor counted off the seconds. “Thirty seconds … thirty-five … forty … Archie?”

Kinsock shook his head, waiting.

“Forty-two … three … ”

Kinsock turned to the diving officer. “All stop.”

“All stop, aye.”

Columbia’s deck shivered. She began slowing, drifting forward on her own momentum. There came a soft squeal from the pressure hull. They were scraping against the thermal layer; the temperature change was expanding the hull.

The diving officer whispered, “Might be losing our layer.”

“Two degrees down plane, all ahead one-third for two knots.”

“Two degrees down, one-third for two, aye, sir.”

Ten seconds passed. Fifteen.

“Conn, Sonar, Sierra-four still opening, shaft rate decreasing … He’s slowing, Skipper.”

All the better to hear us with, Kinsock thought.

MacGregor said, “You think he heard—”

“We’ll know soon enough. Sonar, time to Akula’s next turn?”

“At his new speed, nine minutes.”

If the Akula had heard their hull squeal, its next turn would come sooner than its last. If the Akula’s skipper was feeling frisky, he might go active on his sonar and try to get a bounce off something solid — in this case, Columbia’s hull.

The air in the control room grew thick with tension. Everyone’s movements slowed, became more deliberate. Except for commands from Kinsock and the occasional soft chirp from consoles, everything was silent. Eyes not glued to consoles stared at the overhead.

“Conn, Sonar, two minutes to turn. No change on Sierra-four.”

“Conn, aye. Jim, crunch the numbers again; we’ll try another scoot when he turns.”

“Right … Make it thirty-two seconds. His slowing down gave him a tighter turn radius.”

“Okay.”

Without realizing it, the Akula’s skipper had partially countered Kinsock’s tactic. Unless the Akula changed course or slowed even more, Columbia would now gain only a few hundred yards on each scoot. It could take several hours to leave the Russian far enough behind to breathe easy again.

“Conn, Sonar. Sierra-four’s time to turn in ten seconds. Nine … eight—”

MacGregor held up crossed fingers. Kinsock smiled.

“Mark! Listening … no change on shaft rate … no change on bearing rate or doppler …”

Come on, buddy …

“Wait! Here he comes, Skipper. Bearing rate indicates port turn — he’s coming south again.”

Kinsock ordered, “Diving Officer, all ahead two-thirds for twelve.”

MacGregor clicked the stopwatch.

“Sonar, Conn, how’s his speed?”

“No change. Up Doppler … bearing rate steady …”

All good signs. Suspicious though he might be, the Akula’s skipper wasn’t sure of anything. So far, Columbia was still just a ghost on his screen.

The next four hours passed with agonizing slowness: Columbia scooting forward a few hundred yards at a time, the Akula remaining doggedly astern, but slowly losing ground as it tried to gain contact.

“Conn, Sonar, Sierra-four is fading. Haven’t had a bearing shift in twenty minutes. I make his range at twenty thousand plus.”

Standing at the chart table, Kinsock replied, “Conn, aye. Good work.”

“Stubborn SOB,” MacGregor said.

“Yep, they usually are.” Kinsock chuckled. “Like trying to scoop sand with a net.”

“What’s that?”

“That’s how my first skipper described trying to hold contact on an LA boat.”

“Thank God and pass the silence,” MacGregor said.

“We’re gonna need it.”

“That bad, you think?”

“ ’Fraid so. That game we just played was a preview. The closer we get to Nakhadka the more traffic we’re gonna see. Add to that the hydrophone array outside the harbor—”

“Which may or may not be operational.”

“Never rely on maybe, Jim — it’ll get you killed. We assume it’s operational. If we’re wrong, fine, we’re wrong and alive.”

Dozens of things could go wrong between here and the coast. Dozens of chances to be picked up by a passing frigate or another attack sub. And once inside Russia’s territorial waters, the rules changed from cat-and-mouse, to shoot first and ask questions later.

One hundred eighty miles to Columbia’s south, another submarine, this one a specially modified, Russian-built Kilo class, was heading north at a leisurely four knots, her captain unaware of Columbia’s close call with the Akula. Had he been, he would have fretted the situation as much as Kinsock himself. Everything depended upon the American sub reaching her destination.

The captain walked to the chart table, where the navigator was working. “On track and slightly ahead of schedule, Captain.”

“How far ahead?”

“Two hours.”

Have to adjust for that, the captain thought. Timing will be critical.

The navigator said, “Of course, we could improve that if we increased speed.”

“This will do for now.” Four knots was the Kilo’s best, quiet speed. “Inform me when we’re a hundred miles from the intercept point.”

“Yes, sir.”

The captain was under no illusion: His was a good boat, but it was no match for the American — not on an even playing field, at least. Of course, by the time they reached the intercept point, the field would be heavily canted in his favor.

Dutcher was waiting when Tanner stepped off the jetway. “Welcome home.”

“Good to be home,” Briggs replied, meaning it. “I almost had him, Leland.”

“I know. We’ll talk in the car.”

“Where’s Bear?”

“Got back from Asheville last night. I told him to get some sleep and meet us in a couple hours. You and I have an appointment at Langley.”

Once in the car, Tanner asked, “How much does Dick know?”

“Not much. I told him the op fell apart. How’d Soong look?”

Had the question come from any other man, Tanner may have read between the lines: Have you figured out whether he’s on the level? But this wasn’t any other man. Dutcher’s question meant what it meant. “Old, tired. He was … frail. It broke my heart.”

“I’m sorry, Briggs. I’ve got to ask: Is he on the level?”

“I think he is.” He told Dutcher about Soong’s sleeping habits.

“ ‘Sleep betrays all affectation,’” Dutcher said.

“What’s that?”

“A quote from Jonas Barnaby — a British spymaster from World War One. He said sleep is the one thing even the best-trained men can’t entirely control.”

Tanner wondered how that theory would play with Mason. The CIA was already skeptical of Soong, and what had happened in Jakarta wasn’t likely to improve that — unless, of course, Soong’s message meant something to them.

They arrived at Langley and were escorted to Mason’s conference room. Mason, DDI Sylvia Albrecht, and DDO George Coates were waiting. The exchange of pleasantries was brief.

“Let’s hear it,” Mason said.

“One of my contacts got greedy.” Tanner told them the story, starting with his arrival in Jakarta and ending with Arroya picking him up the morning after the incident aboard the Tija. “Segung decided to switch sides; he thought playing the hero for the Chinese would be worth more.”

“You killed him?” Albrecht asked. Her tone was neutral: just a question.

“Yes. Extra money or not, he was going to kill me, maybe even shop Soong to the Chinese.”

“What did you do with the body?”

“I took it out the hatch, weighted it, and dropped it.”

Hearing the words come out of his mouth, Tanner felt a pang of guilt. The fact that he’d had no choice in the matter was cold comfort.

He’d dragged Segung’s body back to the rocks, where he’d placed it in the raft, towed it past the continental shelf, and dumped it. He spent the rest of the night on a nearby island waiting for dawn. When Arroya arrived to pick him up, he asked the inevitable question.

“What happened, Briggs? Where’s your friend?”

Tanner told him the whole story. “I’m sorry, Arroya.”

Arroya frowned. “I should be the one apologizing. I should have seen this coming. Segung has always been greedy — even as a child. That he would betray a friend of mine is something I would have never imagined.” With tearful eyes, Arroya clapped Tanner on the shoulder. “You had no choice, Briggs. I’m glad you’re safe.”

After reaching Jakarta’s marina, Arroya had driven him to the airport, where they parted ways. Tanner had given him the rest of the money. “For the Save Java Fund.” he explained.

As Tanner finished the story, Coates said, “Segung’s disappearance had to worry the Chinese.”

“There was no helping it,” Tanner replied. “I stripped the body and left the clothes in his stateroom along with a half-empty bottle of gin. It’s a leap, but they might’ve assumed he went for a swim and drowned. With nothing else to go on, and with Soong safe in his bed, it might fly.”

Mason nodded. “It might at that. What about Soong’s reason for not leaving — do you buy it?”

“His wife is dead; all he has left is his daughter. Plus, there’s something else.” He repeated the story about Soong’s sleeping habits.

“Interesting,” Coates said. “It tends to support the laogi angle, but it’s not proof.”

“I don’t like it,” Albrecht said. “If Soong had come along, we could’ve leveraged her free.”

Dutcher said, “Soong knows his captors better than we do. Unless this was all theater for our benefit, we have to give some weight to what he says.”

“You’re begging the question, Leland. If Soong has been locked up for the last twelve years, it would take an extraordinary act of willpower to say no to freedom.”

“Han Soong is an extraordinary man,” Tanner replied.

“You’re biased.”

“You’re right, I am. I know him. I know his character. Look at it from his perspective: He’s the prize, not his daughter. Would you entrust the life of your child to strangers you’ve never met?”

“Good point,” said Mason. “Okay, we’ve got some thinking to do. Anything else, Briggs?”

“One thing: Before I left, Soong gave me a message to bring back.”

“What is it?”

“Ming-Yau Ang and Night Wall.”

“That’s it?”

Tanner nodded.

“It doesn’t mean anything to me. George, Sylvia?”

Both deputies shook their heads. Coates muttered, “Christ, the man’s baiting us.”

“I agree,” said Albrecht. “He’s got us hooked, and he’s playing—”

Mason held up a hand, silencing them. “Briggs, what—”

“That’s all he gave me. His last words to me were, ‘They will figure it out. When they do, they’ll understand.’”

“Then I guess we better figure it out,” Mason said. “But I’ll tell you this: if he’s playing a game, the good General Soong is on his own.”

When they walked into the office an hour later, Latham was in the kitchenette watching Cahil make a batch of his famous dill-tuna salad on rye. Bear saw Tanner, grinned broadly, and gave him a bear hug. “Glad to see you’re in one piece.”

“You, too. How was Dixieland?”

“Interesting.”

“Charlie, how’s Samantha?”

“Getting addicted to soap operas.”

Dutcher asked, “Ian, where’s Walt?”

“In his office. He had that far-off look on his face.”

“Caught in the throes of the paper chase,” Tanner said.

They gathered around the conference table. Cahil passed out sandwiches and iced tea, then sat down. Oaken arrived a few minutes later carrying a stack of manila folders in one arm, a shoe box in the other. He greeted Tanner, then began sorting paper. “Sorry, there’s something I’ve gotta check.”

Dutcher started the meeting by having Latham bring them up to speed. For Tanner’s benefit, Charlie started with his visit to Hong Cho and Tsang’s placing of the ad in the Post. He ended with the incident at the Rock Creek drop. “We’re working on the passenger list. The one thing we still don’t know — the million-dollar question — is, What’s so important that the Chinese would risk all this?”

Dutcher said, “Once we answer that, the rest will follow.”

Out of nowhere, a question popped into Tanner’s head: And what’s so important that Han Soong had to make contact now, after all these years? And why is he in such a hurry?

Aside from the China connection, there was nothing to suggest a link between Soong’s defection and the Baker murders. So why was his subconscious shouting at him?

Latham continued: “Who knows, maybe we’ll get lucky with the bus.”

Dutcher turned to Cahil. “Bear?”

Cahil recounted his hunt for Skeldon, starting with Blanton Crossing and ending with his discovery of Lamar Sampson and Stan Kycek. “I’ve got Kycek stashed at a motel,” he said. “Once I told him who he was mixed up with, he turned about seven different shades of queasy and thanked me for rescuing him.”

“What about Sampson?”

“He doesn’t think much beyond his next bottle. Plus, he’s terrified of Skeldon.”

“What about the shoe box Sampson gave you — the stuff from Siberia.”

Cahil nodded toward Oaken. “It’s being fed into the hopper as we speak.”

“Walt, anything interesting?”

Oaken gave a vague wave, muttered something, then went back to jotting notes.

Latham said to Cahil, “Both Sampson and Kycek were with the Geological Survey?”

“Yep. Lamar was a rock picker; Kycek a demolition guy. Kycek claims he and Skeldon never met face to face; everything was done by phone.”

“Skeldon’s no dummy,” Tanner said. “Kycek can’t ID him and he can’t lead anybody to him.”

“Okay, let’s try to put the puzzle together,” Dutcher said. “Last year Skeleton and Sampson are in Siberia, digging around for … God knows what—”

“Presumably funded by Baker, who in turn is funded by the Chinese,” Latham added.

“And now Skeldon is traveling again — destination unknown, but probably still under contract by Baker—”

“Who Skeldon may or may not know is dead …” Tanner added.

“Right again. Now he’s getting ready to meet up with a demolition expert. The safe money is that Skeldon is heading back to, or already in, Siberia.”

“Which brings us back to why.”

From the end of the table, Oaken cleared his throat and said, “I think I can answer that.”

Everyone turned to face him. There was ten seconds of silence as Oaken gathered his thoughts. “I spent most of last night reading every scrap of paper in Sampson’s box. Most of it was far above my head—”

Cahil broke in. “I find that hard to believe.”

“Believe it. Lamar’s specialty wasn’t just ordinary rocks. Time and again I came across some pretty specific terminology: kerogen, cylcofeeders, diluent, coking desulpherization … Anyway, a couple hours ago it hit me: I’d seen a lot of those words before. Care to guess where?”

There were no takers.

“In Baker’s case files,” Oaken said. “I went back and found at least two-dozen terms shared by both Sampson’s field notes and one of Baker’s cases.”

Dutcher leaned forward. “Which case?”

“Something called TASSOL. It dealt with a device called a ‘recycling feed pump.’ Guessing there was a link between TASSOL and Sampson’s survey, I gave myself a crash course in geology. I’m still not positive what this pump does, but I can tell you what they were doing in Siberia.”

“What?” said Cahil.

“Mapping shale oil deposits. Big ones.”

“How big?” said Dutcher.

“Half of Siberia, give or take.”

Tanner said, “If that’s true, it means—”

“It means that, by proxy, China has been secretly hunting for oil in the middle of Russia.”

Could this be why Soong was in such a hurry to get out? Tanner wondered. One glance at Dutcher told him they were thinking alike. Lack of solid connections aside, the timing was hard to ignore.

Dutcher said, “If you’re right, Walt, we’re in new territory. I assume you’ve got a theory?”

“A rough one.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“I’ll have to give you a short course in shale oil basics—”

“Oh boy,” Cahil muttered.

Oaken gave him a sideways grin and kept going. “First of all, shale oil isn’t shale at all, but something called organic marlstone — a mixture of clay, calcium carbonate, and kerogen — plants that have decayed into petroleum over a few million years. In essence, shale oil is a kind of crude oil.”

“Which means it needs a lot of refinement,” Latham said.

“Right, but first comes extraction. The most common method is called retort mining: A block of shale is bisected with shafts, then holes are drilled into the block and stuffed with explosives.”

Tanner asked, “How big are these blocks?”

“The average size is one square mile and two thousand feet deep. After the charges are in place, the block is ‘rubbled,’ breaking the shale into smaller chunks. Think of it like a skyscraper that’s blown to bits, but held upright by massive scaffolding; in the case of retort mining, that scaffolding happens to be the earth surrounding the block.”

“How small do they make the … chunks?” asked Cahil.

Oaken paused for a moment. “Gravel sized.”

“That’s a lot of blasting.”

“Yep. After the block is rubbled, it’s ignited. The burn is controlled by either injecting or evacuating air into the block. Once the shale reaches about a thousand degrees, the kerogen separates out and trickles to the bottom shaft, where it’s pumped into tanks for transport to a refinery.”

“How much of this stuff is lying around, and why hasn’t someone collected it?” asked Cahil.

“Rough estimates put worldwide deposits at about nearly three trillion barrels.”

“Three trillion?”

Oaken nodded. “To answer your second question, no one’s been able to come up with a recovery method that gets around shale oil’s two biggest problems: cost and pollution. It’s a balancing act. You can go low cost — strip mining, for instance — but the leftover pollution and hazardous waste is staggering. Some countries have even played with injecting radioactive isotopes during the heating process to increase the output, but the isotopes tend to leak into groundwater systems.

“Now, if you go the environmentally friendly route, it becomes a losing proposition.”

“How so?” asked Dutcher.

“A couple years ago Atlantic-Richfield did a study. They estimated it would take twelve years of output to simply break even; until then, it was all money down the drain.”

“So, let’s suppose someone found an inexpensive, environmentally friendly way of recovering shale oil. What kind of money are we talking about?”

Oaken thought for a moment. “Hundreds of billions a year — pure profit. And that’s not even including offshoot ventures like transportation agreements, sub licensing, intellectual property royalties … The list goes on. Plus, whoever has the process would gain enormous political power. Virtually overnight, they’d be on par with the Saudis or the UAE. We’re talking real power here.”

“Enough power to warrant the slaughter of an innocent family?” Cahil asked.

“Worse has been done for less.”

“That it has,” Dutcher said. “I think it’s time we learn more about TASSOL.”

When the meeting broke up, Dutcher led Tanner to his office. “Briggs, I’m not sure I like where this is going. If this Baker business has anything to do with Soong, it brings up a whole new set of questions.”

“Such as, if he’s been locked up all this time, where’s he been getting his information?”

“Right. The carrot-and-stick game he’s playing with the CIA doesn’t help matters.”

“As I told Dick, Soong would have to be a fool to assume the CIA is going to care about Lian. By doing it his way, he increases the chances of us rescuing both of them.”

Dutcher sighed. “Wheels within wheels. You know what the worst part is?”

“What’s that?”

“I keep getting the feeling we’re still not seeing the whole picture.”

Tanner nodded. Like there’s an ocean beneath us, just waiting to open up.

Mason walked into the Oval Office to find General Cathermeier sitting before the president’s desk. Bousikaris, the ever-watchful sentinel, stood beside Martin’s chair. “Dick, thanks for coming. I feel it’s important you hear about this along with General Cathermeier. Please, sit down.”

What now? Mason thought. Both Martin’s and Bousikaris’s expressions were grim.

“The Security Council went badly,” Bousikaris announced.

“How bad?” Mason asked.

“The Chinese stormed out. The Russians are claiming the reactor leak was minor and that there were no deaths — Russian or Chinese. More importantly, they’re denying the accusation that this is just another in a long line of accidents. They say it’s all fiction.”

“You mean they’re downplaying them, or they’re claiming they never happened?” said Mason.

“The latter,” Martin said.

“When’s the meeting going to reconvene?”

“It isn’t. The Chinese are getting ready to release a statement. Unless the Russians fully admit their culpability, agree to reparations, and allow inspectors into all facilities employing Chinese citizens, Beijing will not return to the table.”

“That’s extreme. They’re not giving the Russians anywhere to go.”

Bousikaris said, “According to the Chinese, this isn’t the first time they’ve voiced their concerns to Moscow. They’ve been batting this issue back and forth for years.”

“What kind of proof do the Chinese have?”

“We don’t know,” Martin said. “They’re claiming Moscow has been covering up the accidents.”

“I’d be interested to know where the Chinese are getting their intell.”

Cathermeier asked, “Why would the Russians be covering up accidents?”

“Over the last five years, a lot of Chinese citizens have moved into Siberia; they retain their original citizenship, but live and work in Russia, often taking jobs that Russians either don’t want, or won’t accept.”

“Cheap labor.”

“Exactly. The problem is — at least according to the Chinese — the Russians see them as second-class citizens. To the Russians they’re just warm bodies.”

“The solution is simple,” Mason said. “We bring in the Red Cross, attach a small, neutral peacekeeping force, put them both under the aegis of the UN, then send them in to sort it out.”

“The Chinese won’t accept that,” said Bousikaris.

“Why?”

Martin cleared his throat. “We had a visit from China’s ambassador this morning. This afternoon they’ll be holding simultaneous news conferences here and in Beijing. At the same time, China’s ambassador in Moscow will be delivering a message to the Russian foreign minister.”

Mason felt a flutter of fear in his chest. “Do we have any idea what this message will say?”

“Judging from the ambassador’s tone, they’re probably going to give Moscow an ultimatum.”

“This is a mistake, Mr. President. They’re moving too fast, too aggressively.”

“That may be, Dick, but we don’t set Chinese policy.”

No, but you are the leader of the most powerful nation in the free world, Mason thought.

Right or wrong, America had fallen into the role of global policeman. The moment the Chinese ambassador left his office, Martin should have lit a fire under every state department official between here and Beijing and Moscow.

“Mr. President, we need to intervene — put a diplomatic buffer between Moscow and Beijing.”

“I agree,” said Cathermeier. “If we can slow things down a bit—”

Martin raised his hand, silencing them. “Gentlemen, you don’t understand: This is happening. Of course we need to intervene; of course we need to buy some time for a diplomatic solution, but that’s tomorrow. Today—in a matter of hours — China’s ambassador will be sitting in front of the Russian foreign minister. We have to assume Moscow will react badly to the ultimatum. So, the question is, what’s our response?”

We’re running in goddamned circles, Mason thought.

“General, what kind of assets do we have in range of Russia’s eastern coast?” asked Martin.

“Pardon me, sir?”

“Naval assets. What do we have and how long would it take?”

“You’re talking about battle groups, Mr. President?”

“Yes.”

Mason thought, No, no, no …

“As far as ready assets, the John Stennis group is coming off an exercise in the Pacific.”

Bousikaris asked, “Its composition?”

“One aircraft carrier, seven surface ships in escort, a handful of support ships, and two LA-class attack submarines. Mr. President, I have to advise against this. Parking that kind of firepower off the Russian coast is going to be seen as provocative. At best, it’s premature.”

“If diplomatic measures fall short and this thing escalates, I don’t want to be caught playing catch-up. If it becomes necessary, that group might provide a stabilizing influence until we can cool things off.”

Mason could no longer contain himself. “Or, more likely, it will piss off both the Russians and the Chinese and we’ll find ourselves in a hell of a mess.”

“Dick, you’re here as a courtesy — to serve as my chief intelligence officer, not to set policy.”

“For God’s sake, Mr. President, these are superpowers we’re talking about, not some banana republic we can frighten into submission. If we’re not careful—”

“Watch your tone, Dick!”

“This is a mistake, I want it on the record—”

Cathermeier was at his side, whispering, “Dick, ease up …”

Bousikaris barked, “That’s enough!”

“I want it on record that I’m formally advising against this course of action.”

Martin bolted from his seat. “That’s it! Not another word, or I’ll have you removed!” Bousikaris placed a restraining hand on Martin’s shoulder. “Dick, you serve at my discretion! If you can’t do your job, say so! I’ll see that a change is made.”

Mason’s mouth was halfway to “Go ahead” before he caught himself. This was a fight he couldn’t win. Martin wasn’t bluffing; he would gladly fire him then install a bootlicker like Tom Redmond. Don’t hand it to him, Mason thought. There was something very wrong going on, and the only way he could get to the bottom of it was to keep his job.

He forced a cowed expression onto his face. “Mr. President, I apologize. I’m out of line.”

Martin glared at him. Bousikaris whispered something in his ear and he nodded vaguely and sat down. “Forget it, Dick,” he said with a chuckle. “Truth is, I need a devil’s advocate from time to time.”

Nice try, Mason thought, but no sale. Martin had almost gotten what he wanted. Hell, he’d almost given Martin what he wanted. Perhaps the man wasn’t such a dummy after all.

“Thank you, Mr. President.”

“Well,” Martin said, “back to business: General, how long before Stennis can be en route?”

By late afternoon, Latham had a list of the bus’s fifty-two passengers, which he faxed directly to Tom Whulford at FBI headquarters. As the day wore into evening, a trickle of passenger information began rolling off the Holystone fax machine.

Despite Latham’s prayers to the contrary, it was soon evident that every passenger was in fact a Chinese citizen. However unlikely, he’d been hoping he’d find one that was either a U.S. citizen or a recent immigrant. If so, that person would have likely been Tsang’s contact: A wolf among the sheep. Alas, it wasn’t to be.

“Now what?” Randall asked, yawning.

“Where are we with pictures?”

“Tommy’s working on it. If they’d been part of the same tour, we’d be done by now.”

Despite sharing the same bus, most of the passengers were individual travelers, so instead of one entry point to check, there were dozens ranging between Atlanta to New York City. Tommy was slogging his way through Immigration’s red tape, trying to nail down passport photos.

“Besides, what good are pictures going to do us?” Randall asked.

“I don’t know, I like to have faces — it makes them more real.”

“I hope so. Otherwise we’re going to be visiting a lot of hotels.”

Approaching nine-thirty, photos began spooling off the fax machine. They set up a system: Randall would pick up the photo, give it a quick look, then pass it to Latham, who would do the same, then clip it to the appropriate passenger’s file.

The hours passed and the faces became a blur. The conference table grew ever more crowded with manila folders and photos. At eleven, the last one came off the fax.

“Nope,” Randall muttered. “Of course, I don’t think I’d recognize Jimmy Hoffa right now.”

Latham looked at the photo, shook his head, then clipped it to the matching file. He plopped down into a chair. His head was buzzing. Too much coffee, too much thinking.

Randall sat down on the carpet, then lay back. “What d’ya think? Get some sleep and come back fresh in a few hours?”

“Sounds good.”

Latham leaned his head back and closed his eyes. After ten minutes, his brain was still clicking over. Something there … something I’m overlooking … He got out of his chair and started pacing.

From the floor, Randall murmured, “What’s up … ”

“Nothing.” Latham circled the table, thinking, thinking … Then, suddenly, it was there. “Paul!”

“Huh … what?”

Latham began flipping through the files, glancing at pictures. As Randall watched, Latham circled the table, checking a file, moving on, checking a file, moving on … On the twenty-sixth one, he stopped. He picked up the passport photo and studied it.

“Something, Charlie?”

Latham turned the photo around. “This.” He picked up the phone and called Wuhlford. “I need something: an old case of mine …” Latham gave him the details and hung up.

Forty minutes later, Tommy called back. “Got it, Charlie.”

“There should be two composite photos.”

“Yep, I see them.”

“Fax them to me.”

Latham stood by the machine as they arrived. He glanced at the first one, laid it aside, then grabbed the next and laid it beside the passport photo. After a few seconds, he nodded. “Hot damn.”

“What?” said Randall.

Latham slid the photo and the composite across the table to him. The composite depicted a Chinese woman in her mid-sixties with a round face and silver hair; the photo was an almost exact duplicate except for the age.

Randall read the file: “Siok Hui Zi. They’re the same person. What’s going on?”

“About six years ago,” Latham began, “some executives at Raytheon suspected they had a spy ring in their fire control division. An employee had come forward, stating she’d been approached by a coworker who asked how she felt about the company … the way it treated the employees — basically stirring the pot. Finally she was asked if she wanted to make a little extra money.

“Raytheon called us and we started digging into it. The employee who’d been approached strung along her coworker. Slowly the pieces came together. There were three others in the ring, but we were having trouble pinning down the group’s controller.

“Finally we got enough on the ringleader and confronted him. He broke down and gave us everything — including a composite picture of the controllers and their names. By the time we went to grab them, they’d disappeared.”

Randall said, “You said controllers — plural.”

“Right.”

“You’re telling me this old woman was one of them? Sweet-faced Grandma Siok Hui Zi?”

“Her name was different then, but yes.”

“And her partner?”

Latham picked up the other composite. “Sweet-faced Grandpa Mihn Zi.”

“Charlie, they’ve gotta be nearly seventy years old … If you’re right, that means these two … “ Randall stopped, shook his head as though to clear it.

“It means that Grandma and Grandpa Zi are the ones who broke into the Baker home, then tortured and slaughtered a husband, wife, and two children.”

Like Randall, Latham found it hard to imagine a pair of wizened, cherubic-faced Chinese septuagenarians doing something so savage. Could he be wrong? Perhaps the Zis were just gophers, cogs in a larger network. “What hotel did she list on their entry visa?” Latham asked.

“They won’t be there, Charlie. They—”

“It’s a place to start. It’s all we’ve got.”

“What about Tsang?”

“What about her? I doubt she could lead us to them even if she wanted to.”

“She listed her hotel as the Marriott in Bethesda — Pooks Hill. Checked in four days ago.”

“Okay, that’s where we start. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

Latham’s cell phone trilled. “Latham.”

“Charlie … is that you?”

“Who is this?”

“Charlie, it’s Mrs. Felton … from down the street.”

His neighbor: spinster, six cats … “Yes, Mrs. Felton, is there something wrong?”

“I’m not sure. That’s why I’m calling. Bonnie called me earlier today—”

“Bonnie? When?”

“This morning. She was worried about her ficus and asked if I would water it. I was just over there. Charlie, there’s water all over the basement floor.”

Ah, shit. “Does it look like there’s something running?”

Mrs. Felton paused. “Uh, well, I … yes, I heard water running. I was afraid to look.”

“Okay, I’m on my way. Thanks, Mrs. Felton.” He hung up.

“Problem?” asked Randall.

“I think my water heater finally gave up the ghost.”

“The hotel’s halfway to your place. I’ll run home, feed my cat, then meet you.”

Latham made good time, taking 270 past Bethesda then up to Burdette. Forty minutes after Mrs. Felton’s call, he pulled into his driveway.

Aside from the amber light on the porch, the house was dark. Bonnie’s flower baskets swung in the breeze. He punched the garage door opener. The door began rolling upward.

Gotta be some kind of unwritten law, he thought. Minor home disasters only happen on holidays or late at night … He checked his watch. Almost midnight, for God’s sake.

The garage door reached the top and stopped with a clunk. Gotta replace that track spring.

He pulled into the garage until the hanging tennis ball bounced against the windshield, then shut off the engine. Almost midnight …

The overhead light clicked off, casting the garage in darkness except for what moonlight filtered through the open door.

Latham stopped. “Midnight?” he muttered. “It’s almost midnight.” Mrs. Felton was eighty years old; she was lucky to make it past nine o’clock.

Even as the alarm went off in his head, he glanced at his review mirror and saw a shadowed figure enter the garage. Moving fast, hunched over, it came around the side—

Gun!

He rolled right, reached into his jacket for his holster. He heard three muffled thuds and thought, noise suppressor. His side window shattered. Glass peppered his face. He drew his gun, pointed it toward the window and pulled the trigger three times. Nearly blinded by the muzzle blast, he scrambled to the passenger door.

Thud.

The window above his head shattered. He extended his gun, pulled the trigger twice more, then yanked the door latch and tumbled onto the garage floor.

He took a deep breath. His heart pounded in his ears.

He heard feet shuffling on the other side of the car. He pressed his head to the concrete and peeked under the chassis. A pair of feet streaked past the front tire and disappeared from view. Latham pushed himself to his knees and laid his gun across the hood.

There was nothing.

The door to the laundry room banged shut.

They’re in the house, he thought. The sons-of-bitches are in my house … Gotta assume they’re both here… that’s how they work … Mrs. Felton — God, let her be alive …

He leaned into the car and turned the ignition key. The engine roared to life. He scrambled back out and waited.

The laundry-room door flew open. Silhouetted in it was a small-framed figure with hunched shoulders. Grandma Zi. Her gun game up, pointing at the car’s windshield. Latham adjusted his aim and opened fire. Lightning fast, she turned, snapped off a shot, and ducked back inside as Latham’s bullets shattered the doorjamb.

Latham reached into the car and shut off the engine.

Silence. The engine ticked as it cooled.

He stood up, pressed himself against the wall, then reached out and pressed the garage-door button. As it clattered shut, he ducked down, gun pointed at the laundry-room door.

Five seconds passed. Nothing happened.

They’re too smart for that, he thought. And fast. God almighty, she was fast.

It was decision time. Did he go in after them, or do the smart thing and go for help?

No, he thought. They’d invaded his home; they’d been looking for Bonnie and the kids.

“The hell with it,” he muttered.

Latham prayed he had the advantage. Though the Zis had probably familiarized themselves with the layout of his house, he knew its feel, its nooks and crannies; he could walk it in his sleep. On the other hand, there were two of them and they’d obviously put some thought into the ambush.

He crouched down, pressed his palm against the door, and pushed it open. The doorway was empty. He peeked between the door hinges: Clear. He crept inside and eased the door shut behind him.

He stood still, waiting for his eyes to adjust. The air in the laundry room felt strangely cool on his skin, and it took him a moment to realize why: Bonnie usually had a load of laundry going in the dryer when he got home at night.

He removed his shoes and tested his socks on the linoleum: Too slick. He removed his socks.

He visualized the lower level of the house: The laundry room led into the breakfast nook and kitchen; to the right would be the small family room; to the left, a short hall leading to the foyer.

Gun extended, Latham paced into the nook, looked left, then right, saw nothing, and kept going. He peeked around the corner into the family room. It was empty. He skirted the breakfast table and he leaned over the center island. Again, nothing.

He heard a squeak and immediately recognized the sound. Floorboard in the foyer hall.

He spun.

A shadow dashed around the corner into the foyer. Then, more creaking: footsteps going up the stairs. Latham sprinted down the hall, moving fast, then stopped short. No, Charlie!

Even as he was ducking back, he heard a crack from the landing above like two heavy books being slammed together. He felt a sting of heat on his left forearm, but kept back-pedaling.

Stupid, stupid …

They’d baited him, and it had almost worked. His forearm was slick with blood. He wriggled his fingers; no bones or ligaments hit. He backed into the kitchen, found a dish towel, then wrapped it around the wound. Wincing, he pressed his arm against chest.

They were upstairs. If they wanted to get out, they had to come past him.

Back in the hall, he turned sideways and leaned his head out for a peek at the landing. It was clear. Okay, Charlie, second floor: bathroom at the top of the steps; hallway goes left and right. Master bedroom to the right; spare bedrooms to the left …

He backed into the foyer, his gun trained on the landing. The tiles felt cold under his feet. He sidestepped toward the stairs, hand groping until his fingers touched the banister. He started up the stairs. At the third step, he stopped. He tested the tread with his toes until he found the cracked floorboard.

Eyes fixed on the landing above, he put his weight on the tread. It creaked.

Suddenly, a figure was there, rushing from the bathroom door. Latham shifted his aim and pulled the trigger. The figure’s gun winked back. Bullets ripped into the wall. Charlie dropped to one knee, fired two more shots. The figure kept coming. Center mass, Charlie … He fired twice more.

The figure let out an explosive grunt, then doubled over and tumbled down the steps, landing in a heap on the tiles. Latham reached out with his foot, kicked the gun away, then rolled the body onto its back. Grandpa Zi. The old man had three wounds, two in his side, one in the sternum.

“Christ,” Latham muttered. Three shots and he’d kept coming.

He stepped over the body and started up the stairs. One more to go. Where was she?

He imagined her hiding in the darkness, listening to the gunfire, waiting for him.

Check the spare bedrooms first, then move down the hall, clearing rooms as you go—

He felt a chill breeze on his back. He looked over his shoulder.

Standing in the center of the foyer, her gun leveled with his chest, was Grandma Zi.

The front door was open and Latham instantly realized what she’d done: From the laundry room she’d gone out the front door and waited for him to pass. With the moonlight at her back, her face was in shadow. She looked so tiny, almost comically so, with the too-large gun in her hand.

He was done. He might get off one shot, but not quickly enough. Even so, he wasn’t going to make it easy for her. He tensed, readying himself.

“Freeze … FBI!”

Grandma Zi spun toward the kitchen hall. She raised her gun. There was a double boom. Her head snapped back. She pirouetted to the right, then fell crumpled in the open doorway.

“Charlie!” Randall shouted. “Charlie!”

“I’m here!” Latham’s legs started trembling. With one hand on the banister, he sat down on the steps. He laid his gun beside his feet. “It’s okay, come on through!”

Randall came around the corner, sidestepped to Grandma Zi, kicked the gun away, and checked her pulse. “She’s alive, but not by much,” Randall said. “Jesus, Charlie, are you okay?”

“I’m okay, it not bad. God, I’m shaking.”

Randall let out an adrenaline chuckle. “Your car looks like hell, Charlie.”

Latham let out his own laugh. “Nothing a little duct tape won’t cure — Mrs. Felton!”

“What?”

“My neighbor!” Latham pointed at Grandma Zi. “Take her — Germantown Memorial … it’s three miles down two-seventy. We need her alive, and I need to find their car before the police get here. You’ve gotta buy me a little time.”

They quickly searched both bodies and found a set of car keys on Grandpa Zi.

“Go, Paul!”

Randall scooped up Grandma Zi and ran out the door. As he got in his car and squealed down the street, Latham sprinted across to Mrs. Felton’s house. The front door was locked. He ran to the back door, turned the knob. It was open. “Mrs. Felton!” God, let her be alive … “Mrs. Felton!”

Above his head he heard thumping. At the top of the stairs, he suddenly found himself surrounded by a cluster of mewling cats. He picked his way through them and rushed into the bedroom.

Mrs. Felton lay gagged and bound to her bed. Seeing him, her eyes rolled wildly. Latham removed the gag. “Oh, Charlie, I’m sorry, they made me—”

“Forget it, Mrs. Felton. Are you okay?”

“Yes, yes. My cats! Where are my cats?”

Latham smiled. “Your cats are fine.”

There was no way to avoid it. The police had to be involved. One person was dead in his house, another was at the hospital with a bullet in her skull. Even if he were so inclined, Latham couldn’t cover that up. Still, he wasn’t about to let the case unravel. He flipped open his cell phone, called Dutcher, and recounted the incident.

“Paul’s taken her to the hospital,” he finished. “I’ve got to call the cops, and then my boss. I’ve got their keys; I’m guessing their car is nearby. Can you send Cahil or Tanner?”

“Charlie, it might be time to cut our losses—”

“If we get their car, we can track down where they’re living. This could be the break we need, Leland. If we hand it to the police, we lose it all.”

“You’re sure the police aren’t already on their way?”

“Aside from Mrs. Felton, my closest neighbor is a quarter mile away. Besides, the sheriff’s station is, two miles from here. If they’d gotten a call, they’d already be here.”

“Okay, I’m sending Cahil — but I want him out of there before you start making calls.”

“No problem. Tell him to hurry. I’ve got a dead man lying in my foyer.”

“Conn, Sonar: Bottom’s coming up. Looks like we’ve got the shelf, Skipper.”

“How far, Sonar?” asked Kinsock.

“We still have three hundred feet under the keel.”

“Conn, aye.” Kinsock returned to the chart. Clustered around him were Jim MacGregor and Sconi Bob Jurens. “Gentlemen,” he whispered, “now it starts getting dicey. Sconi, if you guys want your tour money back, ask now.”

Jurens laughed. “How often does a man get a chance to invade Russia?”

“We’re about to find out. Once we cross into their waters, it’s the same thing as standing on their soil. So we’re agreed: I’ll put you two miles off the beach, you swim the rest.”

“Suits us fine. How long?”

“Best case: four hours. That’s without much traffic overhead. We’re gonna take it slow and quiet. If they catch us close in-shore, we’ll have no room to maneuver.”

“How’s the water temp?”

Kinsock glanced over his shoulder at the display. “Fifty-two degrees.”

“Ouch,” said MacGregor.

Kinsock replied, “Hell, that’s warm for these parts.”

“Maybe so,” Jurens said, “but cold for my parts. Why don’t you check into finding a tropical current for us, Archie. I’m gonna go roust my guys. Gimme a call when we’re two hours out.”

Jurens and his men hauled their gear from the coat locker to the Officer’s Wardroom, where they began final equipment checks.

Jurens watched each man as he worked. We’re okay, he thought. Everybody’s head was where it needed to be: Focused on the job, running through mental checklists, working through contingencies.

It was a fine line, Sconi knew, this premission “what if” game: What if the insertion goes wrong? What if somebody gets hurt? What if we lose part of the equipment load? The list is endless, and it inevitably includes the more unnerving questions about capture and death, which is when rehearsal goes from being constructive to destructive.

There was something about the human brain — caveman wiring, perhaps — that drew it to doom-and-gloom. The defense against “caveman wiring” was to exercise that long-held voodoo to which most operators secretly subscribe: Talk about coming back to the real world and that’s what’ll happen. So far it had worked for Jurens.

Smitty caught Jurens’s smile. “What’s up, Skipper?”

“Thinking about a big vanilla milk shake and a cheeseburger.”

“And about a pound of French fries.”

Dickie chimed in: “The hell with that. I’m thinking, crash the Playboy mansion, fill a Jacuzzi with grape Jell-O, and—”

“Whoa. Grape? That’s sick. Now, raspberry I could see, but grape?”

“Grape is good for you, Skipper Good for your urinary tract, or digestion, or something.”

“I think they mean the real thing, Dickie — not Jell-O.”

“Hey, don’t mess with the fantasy.”

From the other table, Zee broke in: “My kids.”

Jurens looked at him. “What, Zee?”

“That’s what I’m looking forward to: Seeing my kids again.”

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence. Jurens clapped him on the shoulder. “Amen.”

Three hours later the bulkhead phone trilled and Jurens picked it up, said, “On my way,” then hung up. “We’re there,” he announced. “Haul the gear to the escape trunk; I’ll meet you.”

Jurens followed the passageway aft, then climbed the ladder and walked into the Control Room. Kinsock was standing before the backlighted Plexiglas status board. The room was quiet except for a few muffled voices. “How’re we doing?” Jurens asked.

“As good as can be expected for being parked on Ivan’s doorstep. Might have a problem. The current’s running pretty fast — almost six knots and parallel to shore. Add to that our speed …”

“That’s almost a riptide,” Jurens said.

“Welcome to springtime in the Sea of Japan. Once you’re out of the trunk, the slipstream from the fairwater is going to beat you like a rented mule.”

Jurens considered this. Six knots didn’t sound like much, but underwater, burdened with equipment, trying to keep the team together … “Ideas?”

“I could stop us dead, but you’d still have the current to deal with when you release.”

“Which escape trunk?”

“Your pick,” said Kinsock. “Go out the forward trunk and you get bounced off the sail if you lose your grip; aft trunk means you have to dodge the vertical stabilizer.”

“What about noise? At that speed, isn’t the hatch going to cavitate when we open it?” Jurens asked, referring to the turbulence created by the current striking the hatch face. Such noise, however slight, might be detected by nearby sonar.

“We put dunce caps on them before we submerged. The current will slip right past ’em.”

“How about this: Steer her into the current — say at about four knots — and we’ll go out the aft trunk. You turn abeam of the current, then we release and get dragged clear.”

“Sconi, even if we fast-fill the trunk, the first two guys out will have a two-minute wait That’s a long time in the slipstream.”

Jurens grinned. “That’s why they pay us the big money.”

“Well, I’ll say this much: You’ve got a pair of brass ones. Just don’t go banging up my boat, hear me? You scratch the paint, I’ll have your ass.”

“Aye, Captain.”

Kinsock extended his hand. “Good luck. We’ll be back for you in three days.”

“Glad to hear it My Russian isn’t good enough for an extended stay.”

They stood together at the foot of the trunk ladder, checking one another’s wet suits, making small adjustments, glancing at the overhead occasionally as each man went through his own premission ritual: Smitty plucking at the neoprene hood beside his left ear; Zee whistling silently and drumming his thighs; Dickie compulsively flexing his fingers inside his gloves.

They’re ready, Jurens thought In the zone. Good men.

Jim MacGregor leaned against the bulkhead, one hand resting on the sound-powered phone. “What’s it gonna be when you get back, gentlemen? Coffee or hot chocolate?”

In unison, the team said, “Chicken soup.”

MacGregor laughed, and Jurens said, “Habit.”

The sound-powered phone trilled. MacGregor snatched it up, listened for half a minute, then hung up. “We’re there. Conditions outside: Depth to the surface is thirty feet; you have a quarter moon, medium cloud cover, and light surface fog; water temperature is steady at fifty-one degrees—”

“Lost a degree,” Smitty muttered.

“—current is running fore to aft at six knots for a total of ten knots; no surface, subsurface, or visual contacts; the beach appears clear; sea state is five.”

Up from four, Sconi thought. Gonna be rough out there.

“Wind is gusting to twenty-five miles per hour, waves four to six feet, medium chop. That’s it. Any questions?” MacGregor asked.

There were none.

“Master Chief, you’re first.”

Jurens climbed the ladder into the trunk and sidestepped to allow room for Smitty. A pair of hands poked through the hatch with a large rucksack. Jurens took it. The hatch closed with a thud.

“I hate this part,” Smitty murmured.

“Yep,” Jurens replied.

“Going from one coffin to an even smaller coffin.”

“But then we’re out in the big blue.”

“Thank God.”

They ducked under the bubble hood, a curved shell enveloping the upper third of the tank. During an emergency egress, this air pocket would be used by sailors to don their Steinke mask; in the SEALs’s case, it allowed them to conserve the oxygen scrubbers on their rebreathers until they exited.

Inside the hood, Jurens could hear the muffled gurgle of the ocean outside Columbia’s hull. He looked across at Smitty, who gave him a thumbs-up. Jurens reached down and pushed the Diver Ready button. Two seconds passed. The lights blinked out. They were in total darkness. A red battle lantern glowed to life.

From the bulkhead speaker, MacGregor’s voice: “Divers stand by. I am flooding the tank.”

With a whoosh, the chamber began filling. Frothy water began climbing their legs.

“Divers, the tank is flooding.”

Jurens keyed the squawk box. “Confirm tank flooding.”

He felt the icy chill through his wet suit and could taste the metallic tang of compressed air around him. His ears began squealing. He worked his jaw until he got a pop. The pain receded. The water reached his thighs, then his crotch. He felt his testicles shrink into his belly.

With a sucking plop, the water enveloped the bubble hood.

The “Flood Complete” light flashed to green.

Jurens placed the regulator in his mouth and drew in a lungful of air; it was cold and coppery. He climbed the ladder to the outer hatch. Now came the hard part. With his feet braced against the ladder and his shoulders against the hatch, he turned the wheel and pushed it open.

Bubbles rushed past him and disappeared into the darkness. With a clunk, the hatch popped into the locked position. He poked his head through.

Half-expecting to get the slipstream in the face, he was surprised to feel nothing: The dunce cap was doing its job. He was surrounded by blackness; errant bits of phosphorescent plankton zipped past his mask, and for a dizzying moment he felt like he were hurtling through a star-filled void.

He clipped his D-ring to the cleat then climbed out and laid himself flat on the hull. The current tugged at the edges of his body. He could feel the throbbing of Columbia’s engines.

Smitty appeared, clipped his D-ring to the cleat, then down the length of Jurens’s body until he, too, was lying flat on the deck. Jurens felt a double squeeze on his calf: Secure. He reached forward and closed the hatch.

The slipstream hit them full force. Sconi could feel it rippling around him, tugging at his limbs, trying to dislodge him. Ahead, in the blackness he could make out the shadow of Columbia’s fairwater.

They waited, clinging to the hull until finally the hatch opened again. A hand appeared out of the opening; Jurens took the proffered D-ring and locked it into place.

The process was repeated until Zee and Dickie were clinging to the hull behind Jurens and Smitty. Jurens felt another squeeze on his calf—all secure—then reached into the hatch, dragged out their two equipment bags, and locked them down before closing the hatch.

Jurens glanced at his watch. Come on, Archie, turn this thing …

Suddenly he felt a shiver run through the hull. The fair-water began tilting to port, banking like the stabilizer of some great aircraft Jurens started counting. Four one-thousand, five one-thousand …

Behind him, as planned, each man was sequentially releasing his grip on the boat and grasping the next man’s ankles. Jurens strained under the weight Seven one-thousand … eight … Now!

He let go.

The cover-up — a term that Latham reluctantly decided applied to what he and Holystone were doing — went relatively smoothly.

In the aftermath of the running gun battle with the Zis, he’d sat on his stairway, staring at the body of Grandpa Zi. In death, the man hadn’t looked the least bit dangerous.

Cahil had arrived twenty minutes later, taken the Zis’ keys and left. He called fifteen minutes later. “Found it, Charlie. About a quarter mile away. I’ve got the registration; the name looks bogus, but the address looks genuine. This thing has been sanitized. The plates looked altered and all the VIN tags are missing. I’m going through it once more, then head over to the address.”

“Thanks, Bear.”

“No problem. You okay?”

“A little shaky.”

“You’ve got a right to be. Talk to you later.”

Latham called Dutcher and filled him in. “Cahil’s going to check the address.”

“Okay,” Dutcher said. “Two things: Which cell phone are you using?”

“One of yours.”

“Good. Once you and Paul have your stories straight, use your home phone to call the police. What’re you going to tell them?”

“I was out late, came home, and was attacked by unknown assailants. I killed one of them and my partner killed the other. I’ll have to tell Harry a little more than that, but he’ll back me.”

Within the hour, the house was buzzing with activity as crime-scene specialists, a homicide detective from the Montgomery County sheriff’s office, and the medical examiner went about their work. Owens sat with Latham as the inspector interviewed him. “So you and your partner were doing … what?” asked the inspector. “Having a beer, right?”

“Right.”

“At Finnegan’s in Chevy Chase?”

“Right.”

“You get a call from your neighbor about a leak and hurry home. Your partner follows to see if he can help, you pull into the garage and … ”

For the third time, Latham took him through the confrontation.

“You have no idea who these people are?”

“No.”

As the lie came off his lips, Latham felt a twinge of guilt, but he suppressed it: This was his case; these people had invaded his house, tried to kill him — and would have killed his family had they been here. This case belonged to him.

The inspector asked a few more questions, then left to supervise the CS team.

Once alone, Owens asked, “Is this them, Charlie?”

Latham nodded. “I’m pretty sure. We were calling them Grandpa and Grandpa Zi. Harry, they were hunting for me — maybe Bonnie and the kids, too.”

“You must have struck a nerve. Is your story going to hold up?”

“Bonnie and Paul are clear and Finnegan’s is always busy. My worry is the press. If the Guoanbu gets wind of this, they’ll shut down whatever they’ve got cooking.”

“I’ll talk to the sheriff and the ME. I’ll tell them we think it might have something to do with a former case of yours and we need time to dig into it. They’ll probably identify them only as ‘unidentified intruders.’”

“Good.”

“Let’s say you’re right and these two killed the Bakers … have you figured out why?”

“How much do you want to know?”

“Just tell me if you’re getting close. I can keep running interference, but not for much longer.”

“We’re getting close, Harry. Real close.”

It was nearly dawn when everyone finished their work and left. The ME was the last to go, wheeling the sheet-covered body of Grandpa Zi out the front door. Randall arrived a few minutes later.

As Latham got into the car, he asked Randall, “How is she?”

“Alive, but just barely. Her brain’s mush, Charlie.”

Latham could hear the anguish in Paul’s voice. This was only the second time he’d fired his weapon outside the range; the last time had been the previous year during a raid of a terrorist safe house. The difference was, this had been a woman — an old woman, at that.

He squeezed Randall’s shoulder. “She would have killed me, Paul. Bonnie and the kids, too, if they’d been here — just like the Bakers.”

“Yeah, I guess. But, God, she’s just—”

“Listen: Old lady or not, she was a killer, plain and simple.”

Randall swallowed hard and nodded. “Yeah, you’re right. Okay, where to?”

“Holystone.”

Dutcher and the others were waiting in the conference room. The first tinges of sunlight were filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Oaken sat before a computer perched at the edge of the table. Everyone stood clustered behind him.

Dutcher looked up as Latham walked in. “How’d it go?”

“I think we’re okay. They’ll want to talk to me again, but Harry’s going to cover me.” He nodded at the computer. “From the Zis’ house?”

Cahil nodded. “Walt’s trying to break their security program.”

A thought flashed into Latham’s head. “Walt, stop.”

“What?”

“Tell me about the program.” Oaken did so. “Sounds like the same setup Baker’s computer had,” Charlie said.

“You broke it?”

“One of our tech people did. Lemme make some calls.”

Latham called Whulford at home, who got dressed, drove to the Hoover Building, and looked up James Washington’s phone number. It was five-fifteen when Latham made the call.

A groggy voice answered. “Yeah, hello.”

“James, this is Charlie Latham. I don’t know if you remember me—”

“Yes, sir, of course. What can I do for you?”

“Sorry about the time, but I need your expertise. The hitch is, you can’t tell anybody about it.”

“Is this about your daughter? Something to do with that?”

“Yes.”

“Then we never talked. What’s up?”

“I’ve run into another version of the security program you broke for me. Can you help?”

“No problem.”

“Here, I’ll give you to the guy you’ll be talking through it.”

Thirty minutes later, it was done. The contents of the Zis’ hard drive was transferred to Oaken’s hard drive. Oaken pulled up the new directory on the screen. “Not much here …” he said, scanning the file names. “Hold on … what’s this?”

“What?” Dutcher asked.

“This folder’s got about twenty gigabytes of ASF files in it.”

“Which means?”

“ASF is a video format.” Oaken clicked open the folder. “This could be something. Dates, times, locations … Looks like they go back six or seven years. When were the Bakers killed?”

Latham told him.

“Jesus, that’s the label on this file.”

Dutcher leaned closer. “Let’s see it.”

The on-screen counter told them the video was forty minutes long, but after only five minutes, they’d seen enough. “Shut it off, Walt,” Dutcher whispered. “My God.”

“Why would they tape it?” Cahil murmured. “What possible use could it be?”

“We’ll never know,” Latham said. “He’s dead, and if she survives, she’ll likely be a vegetable.”

Dutcher said, “What else, Walt?”

“There’s a couple dozen files. None look more than a few minutes long. You guys go grab some breakfast; I’ll sort through them.”

Twenty minutes later Oaken called them back into his office. “I started from most recent and worked my way backward. They taped a lot of meetings with Baker. They always used the same setup: Grandma Zi did the face-to-face stuff, Grandpa Zi taping. But take a look at this one … ” Oaken double-clicked on a file. The screen filled with snow, then turned into a shot of a parking ramp at night.

“That looks like a metrorail platform,” Latham said.

“My guess, too,” Oaken replied. “Shot from ground level, out a car window. Take a look at the person meeting Grandma Zi.”

The camera zoomed in on the platform until they could make out two figures standing at the railing. The dull yellow light from the streetlamps illuminated their faces. After a few moments, the camera zoomed in.

“There’s no sound?” Cahil asked.

“No. They probably deleted it. More deniability that way.”

“Okay, that’s Grandma Zi. I can’t make out the other person.”

“Wait … here it comes … ”

The other face, this one belonging to a man in his early sixties, swam into focus.

“Name that face, anyone?” Oaken asked.

“I can,” said Dutcher. “Howard Bousikaris, chief of staff to President Phillip Martin.”

Before anyone could react, Oaken’s phone rang. He answered it, then handed it to Dutcher, who listened, then hung up and turned to Tanner. “Mason. He wants to see us. Walt, you’d better come, too. How long will it take to transfer all the Zis’ files to a laptop?”

“Twenty minutes.”

“Do it.”

Tanner asked, “What’s going on, Leland?”

“They just deciphered Soong’s message.”

CIA Headquarters was quiet, only a few early risers in the hallways. Sitting with Mason at the conference table were George Coates and Sylvia Albrecht. As Tanner took a seat, he realized all three were staring at him. Whatever it is, he thought, it’s bad.

“Something tells me I’m off your Christmas card list,” he said.

Mason smiled, but there was none of it in his eyes. “We need you to go through your conversation with Soong again, from start to finish.”

Tanner did so, retelling it exactly as he had the previous times.

“No way you misunderstood?” Mason said. “Added anything, left anything out?”

“No.”

“Soong’s exact words were, ‘Ming-Yau Ang and Night Wall.’ You have to be sure.”

“If I weren’t sure, I would have said so. What’s going on?”

Mason hesitated, then nodded at Sylvia Albrecht, who began.

“Nineteen years ago, Ming-Yau Ang was an operations analyst in China’s Ministry of Defense,” Albrecht began. “He was accused of spying for the Soviets, then summarily tried and executed. They never found out how long he’d been working for Russia, or what he’d passed. They swept it under the rug and it eventually faded.

“The truth is,” Albrecht continued. “Ang was working for both the Russians and us.”

“A double,” Dutcher said.

“Yes. And with doubles you can never be sure of who’s working who. We took his product, but we were always skeptical. We were feeding Ang material to pass to the Russians as Chinese product.”

“And for safety’s sake you had to assume the Russians were returning the favor,” Tanner said.

“Or the Chinese,” Oaken added.

“Right on both counts. Since all the product Ang dealt with was long-term strategic stuff, there was no way we couldn’t be sure he was tampering with the product before it reached its destination.”

Tanner understood the quandary. If Ang’s job had dealt with tactical plans — an upcoming PLA divisional exercise, for example — the CIA could have fed him a “tweaked” plan and waited to see if the Russians reacted appropriately.

Albrecht said, “Ang was a good asset, but because we couldn’t entirely trust any of his product, he was never stellar. I doubt there were any tears shed when he went down.”

Mason took over the story. “Here’s where it gets interesting. ‘Night Wall’ is the name of a PLA operation Ang worked on, but it was tightly compartmentalized, so he could only give us bits and pieces. The overall plan was restricted to ministerial level. What he did give us seemed genuine enough, but as Sylvia said, there was no way we could take it on face value.”

“What did he claim Night Wall was?” Dutcher asked.

“Night Wall — the literal translation is ‘Wall of Night’—was a war game for the theoretical invasion of eastern Siberia.”

Uh-oh, Tanner thought. “What kind of invasion?”

“No idea. You have to understand: Back in the eighties, these kinds of plans were common. We did it, the Russians did it — everybody. It was just part of playing the game.”

“Letting the other guy know you could do it if you had to,” Oaken said.

“Exactly. You drew up a plan, war-gamed it, then shelved it. Ang’s handlers probably thought Night Wall as just another notional scenario — important, but not earth shattering.”

“But not anymore,” Dutcher said.

“Not anymore,” Mason agreed. “I’ll give you one guess who Ang claims authored Night Wall.”

Tanner didn’t have to guess. “General Han Soong.”

“The one and only. Two things: Soong designed it, and he probably knows Ang fed it to us. So, unless we’re wrong — and I pray to God we are — Soong’s message is pretty clear: Night Wall is real and the Chinese have taken it off the shelf.”

“The question is, Why? Why now?”

“I think we might be able to answer that,” Dutcher said. “Dick, you may want to excuse George and Sylvia for this.”

Coates said, “Now, hold on—”

Mason raised a hand, silencing him. “Why, Leland?”

“What I have to say … It might be better for them if they don’t hear it. If you choose to tell them afterward, that’s your business.”

“That bad?”

“That bad,” Dutcher replied.

The DCI turned to his deputies. “George, Sylvia, give us a few minutes. Stay close.”

Once they were gone, Dutcher said to Oaken, “Walt, give Dick the condensed version.”

Oaken spent the next twenty minutes taking Mason through the convoluted path they’d been following: the Baker murders and Latham’s suspicion of the Guoanbu’s involvement; Cahil’s hunt for Skeldon and subsequent discovery of Sampson and Kycek; Oaken finding a link between Skeldon’s Siberia survey and the process called TASSOL that Baker had been working on; and finally, Latham’s identification of the Zis as the Guoanbu agents who’d murdered Baker. “Then, of course,” Oaken concluded, “there’s what we found in the Zis’ home.”

“What?”

Oaken opened his laptop, powered it up, then slid it across to Mason. “Hit Enter to start it; Spacebar to pause.”

Mason tapped the keyboard and leaned back to watch. When the laptop beeped, indicating the video was finished, Mason glanced up at Dutcher.

“The woman’s name is Siok Hui Zi, one of the agents linked to Baker. The man with her … well, you know who he is.”

Mason nodded. “Yeah, I know him. That slimy son-of-a-bitch …”

“The questions we have to answer are, what is Bousikaris doing for the Zis, and what is their leverage on him?” Dutcher said.

“Or on Martin,” Mason added. “If somebody was squeezing Martin, Bousikaris wouldn’t hesitate to jump into the fray. I may have a guess about what Bousikaris was doing for them.”

“Jerking the rug out from under Latham’s investigation,” Oaken predicted.

“Besides that.”

“What?” Dutcher said.

Mason waved his hand. “Later. How’s Charlie?”

“He’s fine; his family’s fine,” Dutcher replied. “We’re still waiting for word on Grandma Zi, but it doesn’t look good.”

“Too bad Randall’s such a good shot.”

“Charlie would argue that.”

“I guess he would. Walt, how solid is the connection between Baker and Skeldon?”

“The payoffs are fully documented and traceable. If this went into court—”

“It won’t.”

“Hypothetically, then. If it went to court, it would play out like this: Sampson and Kycek were hired by Skeldon, who was hired by Baker, who was in turn spying for the Chinese government. For whatever reason, the Guoanbu decides Baker needs to be eliminated, and the Zis are given the job. They kill Baker and his family, hoping it’ll be written off to random violence.”

“When was Bousikaris’s first meeting with them?”

“Three weeks ago.”

Dutcher said, “That mean something to you, Dick?”

“Maybe. Keep going. What do we know about this shale oil process.”

“TASSOL. I’m still working on it, but we can logically assume it’s revolutionary. If not, why would the Chinese go to all this trouble?”

“Makes sense. Okay, following your logic, whoever owns and controls this process can count on trillions of dollars in oil revenue and political clout that would rival that of the Mideast.”

Tanner said, “Wars have started for less. A lot less.”

“That they have,” Mason replied. “So, the Chinese know Siberia’s shale oil reserves are untapped — trillions of barrels of oil locked in the ground beneath the tundra with no way to get it out.”

“Until now,” Oaken said.

“Until now. What we don’t know is when and how the Chinese are going to move.”

“Judging by Soong’s urgency,” Tanner said, “I’d sooner rather than later. As for the how, only he knows the answer to that.”

“Which means he probably knows how to stop it.” Mason sighed, then looked at Tanner. “You still think you can get him out?”

“Yes.”

“How soon can you pack your bags?”

Walking up the cobblestone path up to his parents’ house, Tanner realized this had become something of a ritual for him. Invariably, whether returning from a mission or preparing to go on one, he found himself drawn home — to that part of his life that had nothing to do with “spies and bad guys.” If the worst ever came to pass, he didn’t want his last contact with them to be a phone call or a “sorry we missed each other” voice mail.

Before retiring from his post at the Naval Academy in Annapolis, his father, Henry Tanner, had taught history for Olive Branch Outreach, moving his family to a new country — a new adventure — as the whim struck them: Kenya in the spring; Switzerland in the fall; Australia the next summer; Beirut when it was still known as the “Paris of the Mideast,” before being ravaged by decades of civil war.

Where such upheaval would have left some children confused and standoffish, under Henry and Irene’s loving guidance Tanner had thrived. By the time they had returned to Maine for Briggs’s entry into high school, he was a well-rounded and even-keeled teenager.

The front door swung open and Irene Tanner, wearing an apron and a single oven mitt, rushed out. After a long embrace, she studied him at arm’s length. “You’re not getting enough sleep.”

“I know,” Tanner said, then smiled. “I’ve taken up drinking; I think that’ll help.”

“Oh, stop it. Your hair looks lighter.”

“I’ve been getting some sun.”

“And the stubble? Are you growing a beard?”

“I’m thinking about it.”

“I won’t even recognize you,” Irene said, clicking her tongue.

Let’s hope it has the same effect with the Guoanbu and the PSB, Tanner thought. The beard was starting to itch and the blond highlights made him look like a California surf bum.

Irene said, “Did you eat the pie I left you?”

“Yeah, thanks; it was delicious. I had to use a blowtorch to get the wrapper off, though.”

“Oh, shush. I get the same guff from your father.”

Behind her, wearing his ever-present cardigan and half-moon reading glasses, Henry Tanner stepped onto the porch. He smiled. “Coming or going this time?”

“A little bit of both.”

“How soon?” Irene asked.

While his parents knew his job entailed often dicey, and always secretive, work, neither of them pressed him for details. Nor did they smother him in worry, which had to be tough, especially for his mother. He did his best to downplay things, but he suspected they weren’t fooled. Parent’s intuition.

Briggs said, “Day after tomorrow.”

“For how long?” Irene asked, picking at her apron.

He felt an ache in his chest. “Two weeks at most. When I get back, we’ll have a clambake.”

Irene smiled. “We’d like that. Well, come on in. We’re having tater-tot casserole.”

After dinner, Tanner and his father sat in the sunroom drinking coffee while Irene dallied about, making an edible care package for Briggs. Every few minutes, she would come in to ostensibly look for something, touching Briggs’s shoulder or head as she passed.

When he and his father were alone, Henry asked, “Where’re you off to?”

“Asia.”

“Big place,” Henry said. “Take care of yourself.”

“I always do,” Tanner said. Then, in the back of his head: You were careful last time and it almost wasn’t enough. Startled, he suddenly realized that a large part of him was dreading going back. He was afraid, plain and simple.

The Soong defection had been his first deep-cover job with ISAG, and it had nearly set the tone for the rest of his career. Not only had he left behind a man he’d come to call a friend, his wife, and a woman with whom he’d fallen in love, but he’d almost gotten himself killed in the process.

Stop it, Tanner commanded himself. Get it out of your head. That was then; this is now. The question was, What was he going to do with this chance?

With that realization, he felt his mind click over into that familiar mode he’d come to call “narrowing.” Thoughts of routine daily life would soon start to fade: Mowing the lawn, fixing that loose shingle, paying bills — all of it would be irrelevant once he landed in China.

When it was over and he was back home, the lawn would still need mowing and the shingle would still be loose — and his parents would still be waiting with an open door and hot food.

He stayed for another hour then said his good-byes, accepted a shrink-wrapped apple pie from Irene, and drove to Holystone. As he’d expected, everyone was there: Dutcher, Oaken, Cahil, and Charlie Latham; unexpectedly, however, Mason was seated at the conference table. As he walked in, all eyes turned to him. He stood awkwardly for a moment, then set the pie in the middle of the table.

“Don’t tell me I’m the only one who remembered this was a potluck.”

Chuckles broke out around the table.

“Have a seat,” Dutcher said. “Dick’s got something we need to know about.”

“You all know about Howard Bousikaris and his involvement with the Zis,” Mason said. “What we don’t know is how it started or what’s driving it. I believe — as does Leland — that Bousikaris is simply playing middleman for Martin. We’re further convinced there’s a strong possibility Martin is being manipulated by the Chinese government.”

“Into doing what?” Oaken asked

“As we speak, a battle group is en route to Russia’s eastern coast, and a SEAL team is on the ground southwest of Nakhodka-Vostochny to provide targeting support for an attack sub. The goal of the mission is to sink a ship named the Nahrut when it pulls into port.” Mason briefly explained the events that led first to the SEALs’s mission, and then the commitment of the Stennis group. “We’re still in the dark about their precise role in China’s scheme, but you can be sure it’s a disaster in the making.”

There was silence in the room.

Mason continued: “I’m giving each of you a chance to bow out. If, on the other hand, you choose to stay, there’ll be no turning back. What has to be done, can’t be done in half measures. If it goes wrong and we fail, there’s a good chance we’ll all end up in prison. Briggs, in a way, you’re lucky: You’ll be out of the country.”

Tanner smiled. “Saved by a well-timed vacation.”

Cahil spoke up. “All these long faces and grim talk is depressing me. Let’s get on with it.”

Oaken nodded. “I agree.”

“Charlie, how about you? You didn’t sign on for this.”

“As far as I’m concerned, this is all part of the Baker case. Count me in.”

Mason nodded. “Then we’re all agreed?”

He got four nods in return.

“Now that everybody’s on board,” Tanner said, “what do you have in mind?”

“It’s pretty simple, really,” Mason replied. “We’re going to stage a coup.”

And there it is, Briggs thought. They’d all just crossed the point of no return. In the eyes of the law, they were now coconspirators. Traitors. Tanner idly wondered if the death penalty was still used in cases of treason. In for a penny, in for a life sentence, he decided.

In the real world, few things are as black and white as the law aspires to be. Right and wrong are more often separated by degrees, rather than poles. If the ends were important enough and the means palatable enough, occasionally you had to take the shadier path. As far as Briggs was concerned, good guys still wore white hats, but sometimes when the fight was over, those hats needed a little dry cleaning.

If Mason’s suspicions about Martin and Bousikaris were correct, there was no time for investigations, or probes, or a media-spun scandal. They had to move now, and move quickly.

“Define ‘coup,’” Oaken said to Mason.

“Relax. I’m not talking about grassy knolls and book depositories.”

“Glad to hear it. Then how’re we going to do it?”

Dutcher answered. “We’re going to convince Martin it’s in his best interests to step down.”

“Given his ego, that’s gonna be a neat trick,” Cahil said. “From day one he’s been talking about the ‘Martin Legacy’; he’s obsessed with it. And if he’s sold his soul — sold out the country, for God’s sake — there’s nothing he won’t stoop to. He won’t go quietly.”

“Dick and I will worry about that.”

“In the meantime, what are we doing?”

“That depends,” Mason said. “How are your acting skills?”

Cahil groaned. “I had a feeling this was coming.”

“As of now, you’re Stan Kycek,” Mason said. “Wherever Skeldon is and whatever he’s doing, he’s playing a role in China’s game. You’re going to have to find out what that is.”

“According to Kycek, Skeldon will be calling in the next couple days,” Cahil said. “I’ll lay odds he’s heading into Siberia, or he’s already there.”

“Agreed,” Dutcher said. “Siberia is the prize.”

“Which brings us back to the two big questions,” Oaken said. “We’re assuming Martin was coerced into committing the battle group and the SEAL team. If so, how are we going to find out how it all fits together?”

“If Leland and I do our parts, we may have that answer very soon.”

“Assuming Bousikaris and Martin even know themselves.”

“Right.”

Oaken scratched his head. “We’re talking about a full-fledged invasion. The Federation may be a shadow of its former self, but it’s no pushover. It’s still the big Russian Bear. The Chinese can’t expect to simply march into Siberia, plant their flag, and start building refineries.”

Tanner recognized the expression on Oaken’s face. It was his “something don’t fit and I want to know why” expression. He was digging in his intellectual heels.

“China knows all that, I’m sure,” Dutcher said. “Whatever Night Wall is, they’re confident it will give them the edge. The answer to how we defend against it lies with Soong.”

And Soong is locked away inside a prison somewhere in the middle of five million square miles of Chinese territory, Tanner thought. And he’s old, and frail, and even if I manage to reach him, will he have the strength to make it out alive?

Mason turned to Tanner. “Seems like we’ve been down this road before, doesn’t it, Briggs?”

“It does indeed.”

“Like it or not, this comes down to you. Unless we put a stop to this thing, I fear we’re gonna find ourselves in the middle of a shooting war.”

Thousands of miles away, a man Tanner had never met was about to seal his fate.

In the weeks following their meeting at Yuyuan Lake, Chang-Moh Bian had heard nothing from Roger Brown. As instructed, Bian had done his best to forget the affair and go about his life. “You’ve done your part,” Roger had said. “Unless something changes, we won’t be needing you anymore.”

The words had been music to Bian’s ears. All the sneaking around, worrying about whether he was being watched, holding his breath whenever he saw a PSB officer … It was finally over.

And then, the signal came.

As was his routine, Bian was riding the bus to work when he saw it. As he got off at Xizhimen Station to change lines, he froze, staring at the back of a nearby bench. Jammed into the wood were two thumbtacks, one red, one blue.

Heart in his throat, Bian called in sick, hurried home, and dug through the notes he’d jotted for himself. They wanted another meeting.

Three days later, he got up early, forced himself to eat a light breakfast, then set out.

He boarded the bus at Chaoyangbei Street near his apartment and took it into Old Beijing. Over the next two hours he changed buses three times, getting off at one stop, walking to another several blocks away, then boarding again.

Certain he’d followed the procedures correctly, he disembarked at Dongsi Beidajie, hailed a pedi-taxi — the modern name for a rickshaw — and asked to be driven to a coffee shop near Longfu Hospital, where he got out and walked inside.

He chose a table near the window and ordered a cup of tea. The cafe was busy, full of Westerners and Chinese alike, which was precisely the point, he assumed. What had Roger called it? “Cover for status.” If either of them were questioned, they had a legitimate reason for being at the cafe.

He sat for ten minutes, glancing at his watch, his heart pounding.

Outside, Brown appeared on the sidewalk. He stooped to tie his shoe.

I’ll stop to tie my shoe. When I do, get up and start walking toward the door.

Bian stood up, dropped a few yuan on the counter, and headed for the door.

Not too fast, not too slow …

Bian forced himself to slow down, sidestepping other diners in the aisle.

Brown was crossing the sidewalk now, coming toward the door.

When you reach the door, be on the left side; drape your coat in front of your body and let your right hand dangle by your side, palm open and toward me. I’ll place the packet in your hand.

Brown reached the door. He pulled it open. The greeting bell tinkled. Bian bumped into a young pregnant woman, excused himself, kept going.

Don’t avoid eye contact; just a cordial smile and move on.

He and Brown met at the door and exchanged smiles. Bian felt something rectangular pressed into his palm. He closed his hand around it, then turned sideways and stepped onto the sidewalk.

There, Bian thought. Done. Now just switch your coat to the other arm—

The toe of his shoe struck a crack in the concrete. He stumbled. The pavement rushed toward him. He reached out to brace himself. The packet — a micro cassette tape case, he now saw — slipped from his hand and clattered across the sidewalk.

Someone stopped beside him and leaned down to help.

“No, thank you, I’m fine, really …”

Bian scurried after the case. He scooped it up and stuffed it into his pocket.

Behind him, he heard, “Sir?”

It’s them, it’s the police …

Bian spun.

An elderly woman stood on the sidewalk, holding his coat She smiled a toothless grin and handed it to him. He grabbed it, muttered a thank-you, then turned and hurried away.

Sitting on a bench across the street, Myung Niu of the People’s Security Bureau, saw it all.

After reporting his accidental encounter with Bian at Yuyuan Lake, Niu had been given permission to oversee the surveillance of Bian. Niu had no idea where, if anywhere, it would lead, but in the competitive world of the PSB, you didn’t pass up a chance to distinguish yourself. If Bian’s activities were determined to be proper and innocent, Niu had lost nothing. If, however, Bian was engaged in something illegal — something the State considered a capital offense — Niu’s name would be mentioned in high circles.

And now this.

Watching the cassette slide across the pavement, Niu instantly realized what he’d just seen. Moreover, he recognized the man Bian had just “bumped into” as the same one from Yuyuan.

It took all his self-control to not arrest Bian on the spot

They knew who he was, where he lived, where he worked. He wasn’t going anywhere. The other man, however, was another story. He was obviously a waiguoren, but beyond that, he was a mystery.

Not for long.

Niu stood up and walked down the block to a phone booth. He connected with the exchange operator and recited a number. Waiting for the call to go through, he scanned the cafe’s interior until he spotted the American sitting in a booth near the back.

Good, Niu thought. Sit there and enjoy your meal. In ten minutes I’ll have a dozen men here. Then we’ll find out who and what you are.

Five hundred miles northeast of Beijing, inside a camp known only by its numeric designator of “Laogi 179,” General Han Soong stared at the wall of his cell and felt a wave of despair wash over him.

Four thousand five hundred and six days. Twelve years staring at the same walls, eating the same food, listening to the light buzzing above his head … A dozen summers and winters, gone. His wife, gone.

His first winter in prison, they’d awoken him in the middle of the night, dragged him outside into the wind and snow, and shoved him aboard a helicopter.

When they arrived at their destination he was led into a white-tiled room with fluorescent lights and a dozen stainless-steel tables. It was a morgue, he’d realized. All the tables were empty, save one, which was covered by a white sheet. They led him forward and pulled off the sheet.

It was his wife. She was pasty white, her once shining hair dull and brittle.

“She died four days ago. You may pay your respects. You have two minutes.”

Soong stood stiffly by the table, blinking back the tears. He said a private prayer for her, then turned and walked out.

My Lord, Soong thought, should I have gone with Briggs? Freedom had been within his grasp. But what of Lian? She was all he had left. Without her at his side, freedom would have been hollow.

What if she too were dead? What if she’d died and they’d never told him?

Stop it. Lian is alive; she’s alive and we are going to be together again.

Briggs will come back for both of us.

It was six p.m. local time when Tanner’s plane touched down at Beijing’s Capital Airport.

Once off the jetway, he found himself on a narrow concourse bordered by iron barricades. Painted on the floor were two stripes, one red and one green, each leading to Customs gates.

Overhead, a speaker crackled to life. A singsong voice recited something first in Chinese, then French, German, and finally English: “Welcome to Beijing. Travelers with declarations, to the red area; travelers without declarations, to the green area. Have all documents ready for inspection.”

Tanner chose the red line, waited his turn, then set his duffle bag on the counter.

“Bu dui!” the customs agent barked. “Bu dui!” No, not good!

“Shanme?” Tanner replied, deliberately mutating “what” into the word for “moldy noodles.”

“Not time for bag,” the agent said in English. “Put on floor until ask. Papers please.”

Along with his passport, Tanner handed over the plethora of forms he’d filled out on the plane: entry registration, health card, luggage declaration, temporary visitor (business) entry visa, letter of invitation, photographic equipment permit request, and an emergency contact sheet.

The agent scanned the documents. “What is your name?”

“Ben Colson.”

“Your letter of invitation is three months old.”

“This is the earliest I could be here.”

“Who is this? Who gave invitation?”

“He’s a deputy minister in Sichuan Province,” Tanner replied.

In truth, the man didn’t exist, but the gamble was a safe one given the number of ministers, deputy ministers, and associate deputy ministers in China. More importantly, the letter was printed on the correct stationery and covered with half a dozen “chops,” or bureaucratic routing stamps.

“He oversees a cultural exchange program,” Tanner said. “When he heard about my book—”

The agent waved his hand, bored. “Book? What book?”

“It’s called Glorious Zhongguo.”

“You are declaring a camera. Where is it?”

Tanner produced the camera, a top-of-the-line digital Nikon.

“Photographing of restricted areas is forbidden: Police stations, government buildings, military bases — all forbidden. You must have camera when leave. If not, you will be fined.”

“I understand.”

“Now bag.”

Tanner set his duffle on the counter. The agent unzipped it, rummaged inside for a moment, then withdrew a copy of U.S. News and World Report. “What is this? Why did you bring this?”

“I wanted something to read.”

The agent flipped through it, frowning and shaking his head. “This is not allowed.”

“Why?”

“Political. It is political.”

Tanner had half-expected this, but it still surprised him. The fact that he could probably buy the very same magazine in one of the airport’s shops told him the magazine itself wasn’t the issue, but rather that he, an arrogant waiguoren, or “far country person,” had dared bring it into the country.

The agent rifled through the rest of his bag, studying his razor, tapping his comb against the counter, unfolding his map and holding it up to the light, unrolling his socks … The process continued until Tanner felt the first flutter of fear in his belly. It doesn’t mean anything. You‘re American and you‘ve rubbed him the wrong way, nothing more.

The agent finished with his bag, then stuffed the contents back inside and shoved it across the counter. He stamped each of Tanner’s documents and handed them back. “Welcome to China.”

He hadn’t walked fifty feet when two charcoal-suited Chinese men stepped in front of him and flashed their IDs. They were plainclothes PSB inspectors.

“Good evening,” the taller one said in English. “Your passport and entry documents, please.”

Tanner handed them over. “Have I done something wrong, Officer?”

The inspector gave the paperwork a cursory glance, then handed them to his partner. “You will please come with us, Mr. Colson.”

“Am I under arrest? Have I done something wrong? Perhaps I made a mistake on my—”

The inspector stepped forward and cupped Tanner’s elbow. “Please come with us.”

They led him through a locked door and down two flights of stairs to a small, windowless room with a table and three chairs. Sitting in the corner was the suitcase he’d checked aboard the plane.

Bad sign, Briggs thought. They’d seized his bag before they had approached him, which meant this wasn’t a random stop. Though not yet ready to push the panic button, he felt himself tensing.

He scanned the room for cameras or peepholes; there were none. It was just him and these two inspectors. If the time came, he’d have to disable both of them quickly.

He rehearsed it in his mind: Search them for anything pertaining to him, take the documents and luggage, hail a cab, get into the city, find the cache drop and pray Mason’s embassy people have already stocked it, then go to ground … With any luck, an hour after leaving the airport he would be lost in Beijing’s ten million-plus population.

He prayed it didn’t come to that. His job was going to be hard enough by itself; doing so while being hunted as a fugitive would make it nearly impossible.

“Please sit,” the lead inspector said.

Tanner did so. The inspectors remained standing, the tall one at the table, his partner beside the door. Smart boy, Briggs thought. Have to reach him before he can get out the door …

“Where are you staying, Mr. Colson?”

“The Bamboo Garden Hotel on Jiugulou Street.”

“You list your occupation as photographer. Is that correct?”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“Tell us about your book.”

“It’s not my book, actually. I was hired by the house—”

“The what?”

“The publisher — Random House in New York.”

“Please continue.”

“It’s a portrait on China called Glorious Zhongguo.”

“You used the traditional name for our country — why?”

“It’s what you call your country; it seemed appropriate.”

“Quite so. The word China is a Western invention. Did you know that?”

“No.”

“You are an employee of this publisher?”

“No, I’m freelance — I work for myself.”

“You are an entrepreneur?”

“I guess you could say that.”

“We have entrepreneurs now, you know.”

“I’ve heard that.” He’s fishing, Tanner thought. Was this waiguoren an advocate for the spread of the disease known as capitalism, or did he recognize the sanctity of Chinese culture and tradition?

“What’s your opinion of China’s entrepreneurial system?” the inspector pressed.

“I don’t really have one. I just take pictures. I let the politicians worry about that other stuff.”

The inspector stared at him for a moment. “Spoken like a true artist, Mr. Colson.” He reached down, picked up Tanner’s duffle, and placed it on the table. “May I?”

“Help yourself.”

The inspector unzipped the duffle and pulled out the Nikon. “Very nice. How much memory?”

“Eight megs,” Tanner replied.

“You can take many photographs with this?”

“A couple hundred on the normal setting.”

“Technology is wonderful, isn’t it?”

Another lure. “It can be; it also has its downside. There’s a lot to be said for the simple, uncomplicated life.”

The inspector returned the camera to Tanner’s duffle and returned it to the floor. He then reached into his lapel pocket and withdrew a sheet of paper, which he placed on the table before Tanner. “This is a statement that you will not, under any circumstances, take photographs of police stations, government buildings, military facilities, or any other similarly restricted areas. If you do so, you may be subject to arrest and imprisonment. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Then please sign.” Tanner did so. “Furthermore, you will be prepared at all times to present upon request, your camera, film, and permit to any local official. Do you understand this also?”

“Yes.”

“Then please initial here.”

Tanner did so.

“Thank you,” the man said, then gestured to his partner, who stepped forward and handed Tanner his documents and passport. “You are free to go. Enjoy your stay in Beijing.”

Tanner gathered his luggage, climbed the stairs to the main concourse, and stepped outside.

The sidewalk teemed with milling passengers. Taxis honked back and forth. Many in the crowd — Beijing natives, Tanner guessed — were wearing white surgical masks. Except for rare days when the wind was blowing right, Beijing lived under an near-constant smog warning. Tanner looked to the southwest, toward the city proper, and saw a grayish brown cloud hanging over the skyscrapers. Already he could feel his throat stinging.

He made his way to the curb and spotted a free taxi across of the lane.

“Wanshang hao!” the driver called through the side window. Good day. “Taxi, sir?”

“Yes.”

Tanner climbed in the back. “Where go?” the driver asked.

“Tingsonglou Hotel.”

“Mei wenti!” No problem. “Huang tou tai gao le.”

It took Tanner a moment to piece together the words. Huang tou tai gao le … The literal translation was “Blond hair too tall.” Evidently, the driver considered him something of a freak.

With a blare of his horn and a shout out the window, the driver swerved into traffic. Within minutes they were away from the airport and heading toward the city.

In the back, Tanner stared out the window. He looked down at his hands. They were shaking.

Welcome to China, Briggs.

As Tanner was heading toward Beijing proper, Cahil was suffering through a white-knuckle landing aboard a Soviet-build Anatov-27 whose floor had more patches than an Appalachian quilt.

He gripped the armrests tighter and glanced at his seatmate, an elderly Mongolian man wearing purple pants, a yellow tunic and a splotchy fur hat. He reminded Bear of a Mongolian Willy Wonka.

“Boombity, boombity, boom,” Willy yelled over the roar.

It was a fair impression of the sound the wheels were making on the rutted landing strip.

“Yeah,” Cahil replied. “Boombity.”

Abruptly the engines died away, leaving behind only the sound of the thumping tires. Cahil realized the pilot had shut off the engines to conserve fuel, a priceless commodity in Mongolia.

As the plane coasted to a stop, Cahil felt a tap on his shoulder.

“No more boombity,” Willy said with a toothless grin. “Stop now.”

“Never volunteer yourself, Bear,” Cahil muttered.

The answer to the game Cahil had come to call “Where in the World is Mike Skeldon?” had been answered two days earlier by a static-filled, ten-second phone call.

With Dick Mason and the CIA’s resources at his disposal, Cahil had moved Kycek to a safe house in rural Virginia, where a team from Langley’s Science and Technology Directorate set up a phone-router for Kycek’s home number in Asheville. From Monday morning forward, all Kycek’s incoming calls were automatically routed to a switchboard in the safe house’s basement.

Promptly at noon on Tuesday, a call came in. As instructed, Kycek let it ring three times, then picked it up. As he did so, the CIA technician flipped on the recorders and the speakers.

“Hello?” Kycek said.

“Ready to travel?” the voice asked.

“I’m ready.”

“Tomorrow morning, Ronald Reagan. Go to the TWA desk; there’ll be a ticket waiting for you.”

“Okay,” Kycek said. “Uh, should I bring anything?”

“Yeah: warm clothes.”

The line went dead.

Kycek hung up. Cahil turned to the technician, who said, “Not enough for a solid trace, but it was overseas, that’s for sure.”

“Warm clothes,” Kycek said. “Wonder what that means? Russia, you think?”

Cahil shrugged and clapped him on the shoulder. “Not your worry anymore,” he replied, then thought, Yeah, definitely Russia. But where and why?

Russia via lovely Mongolia Cahil thought as they slowed beside the gray terminal building. Painted on its front in bright red and black was a fur-hatted Mongol on a galloping horse. Cahil assumed it was the Mongolian state seal. Just to be sure, he tapped Willy and pointed.

“Suhe Baator,” Willy explained. “Suhe the Hero.”

“The liberator of Mongolia,” Cahil replied.

“Yes, yes! Great liberator. Kharasho!”

Kharasho was the Russian word for “good.” Though the Russians had been gone for over a decade, their legacy lived on. Many Mongolians still spoke a mixture of Mongol and Russian along with a smattering of Dorbet, Buryat, and a dozen other dialects.

The plane shuddered to a stop. As if on cue, the passengers leapt up. The door was flung open by the lone flight attendant.

When Bear reached the door, instead of stairs he found a telescoping aluminum ladder leaning against the Anatov’s fuselage. He climbed down, then let himself drop the last few feet to the ground, stirring up a cloud of fine, gray dust.

Despite himself, he smiled. “One small step for man …”

Within minutes the passengers, aircrew and maintenance people had disappeared into the terminal building and Cahil found himself alone with the dust and the plane. A gust of wind blew across his face and he shivered. From horizon to horizon, the sky was a pristine, unblemished blue. The travel book he’d read on the flight called Mongolia “The Land of the Million Mile Sky.” He now saw why.

These were the steppes of the Mongol hordes. Seven hundred years ago, Genghis Kahn and his tribe of bantam-size horsemen rode out of these grasslands and conquered half the known world. It must have been an awesome sight, Cahil thought: the bleak green hills, the blue sky, and in between, tens of thousands of Mongols, spearheads jutting skyward like the branches of a moving forest.

Maggie would love this, he decided. She was a born and raised Montanan, a child of Big Sky Country. Of course, Montana had nothing on Mongolia. This was nothing but sky — millions of square miles of it. Thinking of her and the girls, he felt suddenly lonely.

They’re fine, he told himself. They’re fine, and you’ll be back to them soon.

The airport sat atop one of the foothills in the Hentiyn Nuruu mountain range; below lay Ulaanbaatar proper. Aside from a few multistory buildings and coal-belching smokestacks, most of the city’s structures were squat affairs similar.

The air was filled with the tangy scent of what he guessed to be mutton, the cornerstone of Mongolian cuisine: Mutton, mutton fat, and mutton juice combined with gnarled potatoes, bland radishes, and soggy cabbage.

He followed the road down out of the foothills, across a bridge spanning a muddy river, and reached a road his map called Engels Avenue. Somewhere in the distance he heard strains of music, and it took him a moment to recognize it: “Hey Macarena …” Ulaanbaatar, it seemed, was several years behind the newest tunes. Bear imagined a group of squat legged, dusky cheeked Mongol teenagers dancing the Macarena and found himself laughing.

He veered left down Engels and soon reached the Ulaanbaatar railway station.

He checked his watch: 11:30. Skeldon’s written instructions, which had been attached to the ticket at Dulles, had been curt: Go to the train station and wait. You’ll be met sometime after noon.

Bear mounted the deserted platform, explored a bit, checked the train schedule (the next arrival was due in in three days from Ulan-Ude, Russia), then found a bench and sat down.

At three o’clock, a green, Russian Yaz truck — the Soviet version of the U.S. Army’s deuce-and-a-half — screeched to a stop beside the platform. The driver’s door opened and a man climbed out.

The mysterious Mike Sheldon, Cahil thought.

He matched Latham’s description to a tee: a few inches over six feet, rangy but muscular, blond buzz cut, and a hawk nose. As Skeldon walked toward the platform, Cahil could see his eyes scanning the ground around him. The LRRP on patrol. Retired or not, Skeldon was still a soldier-scout at heart

Skeldon mounted the platform steps and walked to Cahil’s bench. “You’ve lost weight”

And you’ve lost your Southern twang. The persona of Joe-Bob the Handyman was gone.

“Thanks. You trying to pick me up?”

“You’ve lost weight,” Skeldon repeated impassively.

“How do you know?”

“I know.”

“I went to Jenny Craig, so what?” Cahil growled. “Look, I’ve been flying on a death trap for the last six hours. Can we save the quiz for later?”

“No. Where’d you go to college?”

“Purdue. Dropped out in my senior year, joined the navy, and went into EOD — Explosive Ordinance Disposal.”

“Separation date?”

“My DD-two-fourteen says May ninth of eighty-nine, but they got it wrong. It was the tenth.”

Skeldon asked him a few more questions, then nodded. “Grab your bag and follow me.”

Skeldon drove away from the railway station and turned onto Peace Avenue. The road teemed with goats, horses, automobiles, and pedestrians, all of whom seemed to be obeying their own personal traffic laws. “No traffic police, I assume?” Cahil said.

“Nope,” replied Skeldon.

“How many people in the city?”

“Half a million. About forty percent of them live on steppes just outside the city in gherrs.”

“What’s a gherr?”

“It’s what we call a ‘yurt’—you know, those teepee-like things.”

“All year around — summer or winter?”

“Summer’s about a month long here; blink and you miss it. Mongols are tough.”

“Genghis Khan.”

“Yep. Tough.”

An hour later they were twenty miles outside the city and traveling northeast on a rutted dirt tract. On either side of the road the steppes and rolling hills spread to the horizon.

“Can you tell me anything about where we’re going, what we’re doing?” Cahil asked.

Skeldon glanced at him, hesitated a moment, then replied, “We’re headed to Naushki, on the Russian border. Once we’re across, we’ll link up with our team outside Kazachinskoye.”

“Never heard of it.”

“You and six billion other people.”

“You said ‘team.’ I thought it was just you and me.”

For the first time since they met, Skeldon laughed. “You kidding me? For where we’re headed, we’re gonna need all the help we can get.”

Neither Dutcher nor Mason were under any illusion: the course they’d chosen could not only land them in prison, but could, if ever made public, shake the country to its foundations. Love him or hate him, Phillip Martin was the democratically elected president of the United States. Neither of them were comfortable in the knowledge that what they were planning was nothing less than a coup d’état.

“We can dress it up and dance it around all we like,” Mason confided in Dutcher, “but the plain truth is, we’re talking about overthrowing our own head of state.”

“I can live with it,” Dutcher replied. “Can you?”

“Ask me later.”

Exactly at noon, General Cathermeier pushed through the door of the hospital room. Standing beside Grandma Zi’s bed were Dutcher, Mason, and Latham.

“Thanks for coming, Chuck,” said Mason.

“What the hell’s going on?” He walked cautiously toward the bed, his eyes on the old woman lying there. At the head of her bed, an EKG monitor beeped every few seconds, accompanied by the rhythmic hiss of the ventilator. “Dick, why am I in a hospital, and who is this woman?”

“Bear with me, Chuck.”

“You call me out of the blue, give me this mystery summons … Christ almighty, all this cloak-and-dagger crap …” Cathermeier looked at Dutcher. “Leland?”

“You’ve got to trust us, Chuck.”

Cathermeier frowned, the sighed. “What happened to her?”

Latham answered. “General, we haven’t met. I’m Charlie Latham. I’m an agent with the FBI. This woman was shot by my partner a few nights ago. She was trying to kill me.”

“This old woman? Why?”

“That’s a question best answered by our guest of honor,” Mason said, glancing at his watch. “Leland, call the doctor, let’s get this ventilator unhooked.”

Bousikaris arrived five minutes later. As did Cathermeier, the chief of staff hesitated at the door, a mixture of anger and confusion on his face, then shut it behind him. “What is this? Dick, why—”

“Come in, Howard,” Mason said. “We have something to discuss.”

“Why am I here? This is a hospital. If we have something to discuss, call my secretary—”

“This is a topic best kept between us.”

“Is that so? And what might that be?”

“Your betrayal of your country, Howard.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“And your association with agents of the government of the People’s Republic of China.”

“Nonsense! What agents?”

“This woman, for one.”

“I’ve never seen her before in my life. Dick, I don’t know what game you’re playing, but you’ve lost your mind — all of you. I’m going to make sure the president hears about this.”

Bousikaris turned and headed for the door. Latham got in front of him and held up a photo.

“Do you recognize this man?”

Bousikaris glanced at the picture, hesitated for a moment. Dutcher saw a flicker of surprise in his eyes. Now he’ll decide, Dutcher thought. Bluff it out, or work an angle and hope to save himself.

“Never seen him before,” Bousikaris said. “Now remove your hand—”

“I think you do,” Latham pressed. “He’s in the morgue downstairs. I killed him. And my partner shot this woman. They invaded my house, Mr. Bousikaris. They came to kill me and my family — just like they killed Larry Baker, his wife, and their two daughters.”

“Who? Baker … you mean the Commerce—”

“That’s right,” Mason said. “Not only did you and Martin climb into bed with foreign agents, but murderers, as well.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about”

“She and her husband taped everything — including your meetings and the murder of the Baker family. When she recovers, she’s going to point the finger at you.”

“Recovers? Look at her; she’s a vegetable.”

“Is she? She’s not going to be much to look at, and she probably won’t be able to feed, dress, or wash herself, but she’ll be able to answer questions.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“That’s your choice. I’m more concerned with what the attorney general and the American public are going to believe. You’ve conspired with a pair of mass murderers to betray your country, Howard. The moment those accusations become public, your life is over.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Goddamned right I would,” Mason replied. “In fact, if I had my druthers, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation. Use your brain. Once the newspapers sink their teeth into this, you’re going to be the most reviled man in America.”

Bousikaris was shaking his head. “No.”

“They’ll play a few seconds from the Baker tape, then mention your name, and it’ll all be over. Two hundred sixty million Americans will want your head on a stick.”

“You don’t understand—”

“What’s to understand? Your loyalty to Martin? Martin works for the people of this country; so do you. You sold them out and now it’s time to pay.”

Bousikaris shuffled to the chair and slumped into it. His overcoat slipped from his arm and piled around his feet. “What do you want?”

“All of it. We want to know exactly what you and Martin have been up to.”

Two hours later, back at the Holystone office, they had it.

Bousikaris, his face blank, his voice monotone, answered their questions without hesitation.

He took them back to the beginning: Martin’s assault of his secretary; President Haverland’s vow to see Martin’s campaign die before it got off the ground; the last-minute influx of capital from the PAC; and finally, the visit from the PRC’s ambassador.

“It was all very subtle,” Bousikaris explained. “We knew that each one of the ambassador’s ‘requests’ was actually another demand, and we knew what would happen if we didn’t go along.”

“They would expose the true source of the donations?” Mason said. “They weren’t afraid of the repercussions that would bring them?”

“They must have done their homework; they knew Phil would play along. He’s so fixated on his damned legacy … You know, the irony is, he could’ve been a great president. Not anymore.”

Dutcher said, “They never gave any hint of what was behind their requests?”

“No. The sarin purchase … the ship in Nakhodka … It all had a ring of truth to it — which was probably the point, of course.”

“To make it easier for you to say yes with a clear conscience.”

“Yes.”

“What’s Redmond’s role in this?” asked Mason.

“Nothing. Redmond would wear his pants backward if Phil told him to.”

“And the battle group? The business about the reactor accident in Chita?”

“The Chinese want the group there as a calming influence — at least that was their explanation. The reactor accident is real. As for the Chinese casualties — if there are any … It would be impossible to pin down, really. There’s no census of the Chinese diaspora in Siberia.”

“What about the Security Council meeting?”

“It probably went exactly as they wanted it to go; they didn’t want to settle anything.”

Mason looked at Dutcher and said, “That’ll be their reason — the heartless Russian Bear.”

Once sure Bousikaris had given them everything, Latham led him to an empty office with a couch. The chief of staff looked like a shell of himself, shuffling along, his shoulders slumped.

“I almost feel sorry for the guy,” Latham said when he came back. “He’s been running around for years trying to save Martin from himself, and it just came crashing down on him.”

“We might want to keep an eye on him,” Dutcher said. “In his state of mind … Who knows.”

Latham nodded. “I’ll watch him.”

Mason turned to General Cathermeier. “Chuck, you asked me why all the cloak-and-dagger crap. Now you know why.”

“I almost wish I didn’t. In essence, what you’re saying is our president is a goddamned puppet for the Chinese government.”

“That’s only the half of it,” said Mason. He spent the next ten minutes explaining the connection between Baker, Skeldon, and Han Soong. “Cahil should have already met Skeldon in Mongolia, and Tanner’s already on the ground in Beijing.”

“Your theory has a lot of gaps in it.”

Before either of them could respond, Walter Oaken, who’d disappeared into his office when they arrived with Bousikaris, returned. “Maybe not anymore,” he said. “I have a theory.”

“Have a seat,” Dutcher said. “What’ve you got?”

“Actually, it’s not so much a theory as it is guesswork.”

“Go ahead,” said Mason.

“Okay.” Oaken cleared his throat. “I put myself in China’s shoes. The first thought I had was, why try to tackle Russia all by themselves? They may win, they may not. Given how much China has invested in this, those are crappy odds. The Russian Bear may be a little anemic, but a bear is still a bear. Knowing that, the Chinese had to ask the next logical question: How do we even the odds?

“Surprise is one way, but given the number of troops and equipment they’d need to pull off the invasion … Well, you just don’t move that many bodies and tanks without somebody noticing. Tactical nuclear weapons is another way, but what’s the point of capturing territory that’s been turned into a radioactive cesspool?

“If you remove those two equalizers, that leaves one: Overwhelming numerical superiority. To get that, China would have to have been dumping more money into war making.”

“Which we know they haven’t done,” Mason said.

“Right. So their only other choice is to find an ally with enough military might to tip the scales in their favor. But who? Who, among the powerhouse nations, would have anything to do with an invasion of Russia?”

“No one,” Dutcher answered.

“Not knowingly, at least. Don’t you see? We’re China’s ally.” Oaken started ticking items off on his fingers: “The shale oil process was leaked to China by an employee of the U.S. Commerce Department; we have a team of U.S. Navy SEALs on Russian soil, and a U.S. Navy submarine in Russian waters, both getting ready to launch an attack on the biggest commercial port on Russia’s eastern coast; as we speak, a U.S. Navy battle group is steaming toward that same coast; and finally, a former U.S. Army Special Forces soldier is headed into Russia to do God knows what.”

“We’re being sandbagged,” Dutcher said.

“Exactly. By the time China makes its move into Siberia, they’ll have us looking like we’re involved up to our necks. In Moscow’s eyes, it’ll be us and China against them. And you know what happens when you corner a bear.”

Mason nodded. “It fights back.”

​For Ivan Nochenko, election day in the Russian Federation had passed like a surrealistic dream.

To Bulganin’s credit, despite being virtually assured of victory, he’d played the perfect challenger for the media, circumspect in his confidence and fervent in his esteem for the democratic process. Even so, Nochenko had seen the gleam in his pupil’s eye, as though Bulganin were enjoying a joke to which no one but himself was privy.

By ten p.m. local time, both the print and electronic media had begun to officially call the election in Bulganin’s favor. By eleven, a crowd of five thousand Bulganin and RPP supporters were milling and dancing about Red Square chanting, “Russian Pride … Russian Pride!” Vodka bottles appeared and were passed from hand to hand, between stranger and friend alike. Under the watchful eyes of militia riot-control troops, barrel bonfires were lit and soon flickering shadows swirled over the façade of Lenin’s Mausoleum and the arcading of St. Basil’s Cathedral.

In his office two miles away, Bulganin stood, arms clasped behind his back as he watched the television coverage. He barked out a laugh. “There’s nothing more heartening than a happy Russian! Look, Ivan, do you see?”

Nochenko nodded. “Yes, I see.”

Bulganin’s secretary rushed into the room. “Sir! Channel Four … it’s the president.”

Bulganin clicked the remote and the channel changed to show the incumbent Federation President standing at the podium on the floor of the Duma. “… you have spoken, my fellow Russians. It is with both respect and sadness that I hereby congratulate my opponent, Vladimir—”

“Ha!” Bulganin snapped. “About time!”

My God, Nochenko thought. It’s done. He felt momentarily dizzy.

From the other room, a cheer arose from Bulganin’s staff, followed by applause.

Bulganin clicked off the television. He stared at the blank screen for a few moments, then took a deep breath and turned to face Nochenko. “Ivan,” he said solemnly.

Nochenko nodded. “Yes.”

“We’ve done it.”

“Yes … Mr. President.”

Bulganin’s face split into a broad grin and he strode forward and clasped Nochenko by the shoulders. “We’ve done it, Ivan! Now we can get started. We have much work ahead of us — great work! Starting tomorrow, we put the Motherland back onto the road to greatness! God help those who stand in our way!”

One of the few remaining garden courtyard-style hotels in Beijing, the Bamboo Garden Hotel, is surrounded on all sides by hutongs, or narrow alleys, thick rows of juniper hedges, and tall spruce trees. The red-lacquered front door is guarded by a pair of stone lions and the narrow street outside is covered in a layer of dust blown in from the Gobi Desert by what the Chinese call the “yellow wind.”

After checking into his room, Tanner pulled out his cell phone — a Motorola satellite phone that had been specially modified by the CIA’s Science & Technology wizards — and dialed. The number was local, an Internet line maintained by a Langley front company. After a single ring, the line clicked open. Briggs punched in a five-digit code, then disconnected.

Embedded in each of the five tones was a frequency spike designed to interrupt the carrier signal at a particular modulation. The first and last tones were called “shackles,” the electronic equivalent of the “Start” and “Stop” inserts in old-style telegrams. Once decoded at Langley, the four remaining tones would match up to a list of phrases and words maintained by the Op Center’s duty officer.

The message he’d sent was one of a dozen he’d memorized before leaving:

He checked his watch. He had three hours before his meeting with the embassy’s contact. He set his watch alarm, stretched out on the bed, and drifted off to sleep.

He rose at four, took a shower, and changed clothes, then left the Bamboo Garden and walked six blocks to the Drum Tower at the intersection of Gulou and Dianmenwai streets.

Built by Kublai Khan in the 1200s, the tower had once served as Beijing’s version of Big Ben, sounding each passing hour with the beating of giant drums. Tourists, mostly Westerners, walked around the red-painted base, gaping up at the layered pagoda roof and the balcony encircling the top. As Tanner had hoped, few people were braving the long, sixty-nine-step climb to the parapets.

He took a few pictures for good measure, then stepped inside, mounted the narrow steps, and stared upward. Once at the top, he circled the lone drum on display, took a few minutes to read the placard, then walked to the balcony railing and looked out.

He could see all of Old Beijing, Beihei Park, and, a mile or so to the south, the Forbidden City, with its sprawl of courtyards, watchtowers, and bridges. He walked along the railing until he could see the Bell Tower a block to the north.

He watched the people milling about the tower’s base, concentrating on Chinese faces until he spotted the one he was looking for. Chang-Moh Bian sat on a bench east of the tower on Baochao Hutong. Using Bian as his center point, Tanner scanned the surrounding streets for signs of surveillance.

It was a nearly impossible task. The Guoanbu’s Ninth Bureau, officially known as the Antidefection and Countersurveillance Bureau, was good at its job; they knew Beijing’s layout, its customs, the ebb and flow of its citizens. If there was a Ninth Bureau team here, the only way Tanner might see it was if someone made a mistake and gave themselves away, which was unlikely.

Also, the very nature of Chinese customs gave any surveillance team an advantage. In China, staring at a foreigner or even following them about is not considered rude. Chinese are curious by nature and feel no need to either hide it or apologize for it. In fact, such overt interest is considered complimentary.

Briggs would have to rely on his instincts to tell him whether he was being stared at because of curiosity, or because he was a target; whether the person or persons following him were simple gawkers, or professional watchers.

When only five minutes remained before the official wave-off time, Tanner descended the tower steps and walked east on Gulou Dondajie, then turned north onto Baochao.

Bian was still sitting on his bench. He glanced nervously at his watch, then looked over his shoulder. Brown was right. Everything about Bian’s demeanor cried, “Arrest me!”

Taking pictures as he went, Tanner strolled around the Bell Tower until he stood beside Bian’s bench. He turned to Bian and asked in English, “Pardon, is this the Bell Tower or the Zhonglou?”

Bian hesitated, then said. “They are the same, though the Drum Tower has been here longer.”

Tanner opened his map and stepped closer as though asking for directions. “Get up and walk north to Doufuchai Hutong,” he said with a smile. “Once there, turn left and follow it to Xidajie. I will meet you in Guanghua Temple in thirty minutes. Do you understand?”

“Yes. What—”

“We’ll talk when we meet. Walk slowly, be casual. Go on.”

Bian stood up and started toward Doufuchai. Tanner waited sixty seconds, then followed.

He trailed Bian at a distance, stopping frequently to look in shop windows or take a picture, all the while keeping Bian in his peripheral vision. It took Bian less than ten minutes to reach Guanghua Temple. Tanner waited until he was inside and out of sight, then started “quartering his tail,” retracing their route, weaving his way north and south along the streets parallel to Doufuchai Hutong as he watched for surveillance. Twenty-five minutes after his initial departure, he was back at the Bell Tower.

As far as he could see, no one was showing any interest in either Bian or himself.

He walked two blocks down Gulou Dondajie and turned onto Houhai Beiyan, which took him to the rear entrance of Guanghua Temple. He found Bian in one of the gardens, standing at the railing beside a pond. Bright orange carp swam lazily in the water.

“Hello,” Tanner said.

Bian’s hands trembled on the railing. “Hello.”

Briggs reached over and placed his hand on Bian’s forearm. “You’ve got to relax.”

“Funny, that’s what Roger said the last time we met.”

“It’s good advice. We’re almost done. I just need a little bit of information.”

“Roger also said that.”

“I promise you, once you and are I finished, your part is over. You have my word.”

With this, Bian seemed to relax. He took a deep breath and released his grip on the railing. “What kind of information do you need?”

“You told Roger you don’t know where Soong is. Explain that.”

“Someone has been passing messages between myself and General Soong.”

“Who?”

“A guard at the camp where he is being held. He is a distant relative of the general’s.”

Good news, bad news, Tanner thought. Good news because he now had a contact on the inside, someone with access to Soong; bad news because that contact was linked to Soong. Either the Guoanbu had made a mistake in the screening process for the camp’s guards, or they had not, and the guard was working for them — either wittingly or unwittingly.

“What’s his name?”

“Kara Hsiao.”

“Does he know someone is coming for Soong?”

“I assume so,” said Bian.

More bad news. “And he’s willing to help?”

“Yes.”

“How can I reach him?”

“He’s in the city. The guards are on two-week rotations; he goes back in a few days.”

Tanner nodded. “Give me his address, but don’t tell him I’m coming.”

Tanner’s worries about the skill and advantage of the Guoanbu’s Ninth Bureau watchers were well founded. Three hours after he and Bian parted company at Guanghua Temple, the team’s report was lying in front of MSS director Xiang. “It appears our young officer Niu has good instincts,” he said, staring at a photo of Bian and Tanner at the Bell Tower.

“What do you want to do?” Eng asked. “By itself, Bian’s contact with Brown is enough to arrest him. He’s obviously conspiring to—”

“Obviously. What we don’t know is what they’re up to. That’s what we must find out.”

“I agree.”

“What’s their interest in Bian? He’s a nobody, a functionary. His job gives him access to nothing of interest; he’s got nothing to offer. What do we know about the man he met? It looks like he was carrying a camera. That means tourist, or journalist. Where is he staying, what’s his name?”

“We don’t know,” Eng replied.

“Why not?”

“The team lost him after they parted at the temple.”

“Lost him, or he got away from them?”

“He took no obvious actions to lose them, but—”

“But he’s gone,” Xiang finished, then was silent for a few moments. “We know he’s a Westerner, we know he has a camera, and we can safely assume he arrived within the last week. Contact Customs and Immigration and have them pull all the entry visas that match that criteria. We’ll check passport photos until we find one matching Bian’s new friend.”

Jurens couldn’t shake the sense of déjà vu that had been tickling his subconscious since they had come ashore. He’d visited the Bay of Vrangel before — at least hypothetically, that is.

Of the hundreds of exercises Jurens had participated in over the years, one was strikingly similar to their current mission: The Soviet Union has crumbled and into the power vacuum has fallen a rogue’s gallery of leaders and factions vying for control of the country. One of these factions seizes the port of Nakhodka-Vostochny and shuts it down. In response, and at the request of Russian moderates, the United States sends a navy battle group to force open the port. At its head is a SEAL team tasked with mapping and destroying the bay’s obstacles in preparation for an amphibious assault.

The exercise itself, which lasted three long, cold weeks, had been conducted in the Aleutian Islands; the bay had been much smaller and the port imaginary, but the terrain and climate were similar enough to give Jurens a few flashback memories.

This was no exercise, he reminded himself. They were on Russian soil, watching a harbor and waiting for a ship called Nahrut so they could sink it. This was as real as it got.

The commercial port of Nakhodka-Vostochny was the largest in the Russian Far East. Nestled within the Bay of Vrangel, it boasted thirty-six berths, over 130 acres of terminals, bunkers, warehouses, a terminus connection to the Trans-Siberian Railway, and a mechanized army of loading equipment, including heavy-lift extension cranes, straddle carriers, and top loaders.

The spot Jurens had chosen was a thick cluster of scrub pine surrounded by boulders at the tip of Cape Kaminski on the bay’s north side.

Icy wind whipped at Jurens’s face, bringing tears to his eyes and worming its way beneath his camo hood. He suppressed a shiver, then parted the branches of the blind and raised his Night Owl binoculars. The bay’s surface was choppy, the swells running three to four feet, and despite the sun, a patchy fog clung to the surface. In the distance, he could hear the wail of ship’s whistles and the clanging of buoys.

He scanned toward the mouth of the bay. Somewhere out there, Columbia was waiting for the launch time. When that time came, the Harpoons would cut between the two capes, skimming low on the surface at over four hundred knots, their gray-and-white camouflage rendering them nearly invisible in the fog.

“Target, Skipper,” Dickie called.

“Where?”

“Twelve degrees off the cape. I only got a glimpse of her bow, but it looks like ours.”

He swiveled his binoculars around until he spotted a rust-streaked cargo carrier materializing out of the fog. She was two miles away and turning wide to clear the shoals along the headland.

“See a name?” Smitty whispered.

“No, not yet …” Jurens scanned back along the bow. “There, I’ve got it: N-A-H-R-U-T. That’s her. She’s early — almost twelve hours.”

Forty minutes later, having picked up her harbor pilot at the mouth of the bay, Nahrut dropped anchor just south of center channel a quarter mile from the port. Another hour passed as Nahrut’s crew went through the motions of securing the ship and then, as twilight began to settle over the bay, a cargo net was rolled down her side and her launch was swung out on its davits.

“Going on liberty,” Smitty said. “I wonder what happens on a Saturday night in Nakhodka.”

“Don’t know,” Dickie replied, “but you can bet it involves alcohol — lots of alcohol.”

Jurens scanned the ship’s railing, watching the crewmen climb over the side one by one. A face caught Sconi’s eye. He backtracked. “This is interesting … ”

“What’s up?” said Smitty.

“You see the guy standing at the cargo net, second from the right — the dark-skinned one.”

“Yeah, I see him.”

“You don’t recognize him?” asked Jurens.

“Nope.”

“Unless my memory is off, that’s Sunil Dhar, our sarin buyer.”

“His unlucky day,” said Smitty.

“Maybe not,” Jurens replied.

In truth, Jurens wasn’t supposed to know Sunil Dhar’s name or what he looked like. Whether conscious of it or not, Cathermeier’s inclusion of Dhar in his brief was a consolation of sorts; when it came to putting men in harm’s way, he was a firm believer in full disclosure.

Sconi had a decision to make. Though their orders said nothing about Dhar, he was a target of opportunity. The Kashmeran had been a player in the world’s underground arms market for twenty years; his wealth of knowledge would be invaluable to U.S. intelligence.

“What’re you thinking, Skipper?” asked Zee. “We paddle over there and snatch him?”

“It would be a shame to waste the chance,” Smitty added.

Jurens was inclined to agree, but grabbing Dhar would complicate their job, not to mention their infiltration. As if reading his mind, Dickie said, “We’ve done it before, we can do it again.”

Call it fate, Jurens decided. Nahrut’s early arrival and the lack of an open berth had just offered them a chance to destroy her without any collateral damage to the port. Sitting at anchor with her crew ashore, Nahrut would slip beneath the waves and their job would be done.

He unfolded his map and spread it on the ground. “Smitty, is your Russian still pretty good?”

“Sehr gut.”

“That’s German, Smitty.”

“Just a joke. It’s passable.”

“Okay, we’ll assume Dhar is going ashore. How long for you and Zee to slip down there?”

“Gotta figure forty minutes transit time, plus another ten to scout security.”

Jurens checked his watch. “Two hours there and back?”

“No problem.”

“Get your gear together. I’m calling Columbia and moving up the launch. I want you back here no later than midnight.”

Two miles east of the bay and 160 feet below the surface, Columbia was hovering silently in the water, as she had been for the past six hours. In the Control Room, Kinsock was going over the daily reports when the intercom buzzed. “Conn, Sonar.”

Kinsock reached up and levered the switch. “Conn, aye. Captain here.”

“Skipper, Chief Boland. Got a minute?”

“On my way.”

Kinsock walked out of the Control Room and pushed through the curtain into Sonar. Columbia’s Sonar Chief was standing at one of the consoles. “What’ve you got, Chief?”

“Something a little odd,” Boland replied, pointing to the “waterfall” scope; slicing through the cascade of green snow was a thin vertical line: a frequency spike. “It’s real faint. Frequency reads like a Kilo-class submarine. The bay’s acting like a sound funnel, so its hard to guess the range.”

“Plenty of Kilos out there on patrol, Chief; we bypassed two of ’em on the way up the coast.”

“What’s weird is that every ten seconds or so, the spike sort of … jiggles out of its frequency.”

Kinsock thought for a moment. “The Russians have sold a lot of their Kilos to the Chinese and North Koreans. I wouldn’t be surprised if they made some modifications to the power plant. Would that account for it?”

“Maybe …”

“But maybe not,” Kinsock finished. “You worried about this, Chief?”

“Not yet, but …” Boland shrugged.

Kinsock clapped him on the shoulder. “Keep an eye on it, see if you can pin it down.”

“Aye, Skipper.”

The intercom squelched again: “Captain, XO here. Radio’s got traffic for you.”

“Right. Meet me there.”

MacGregor was waiting when Kinsock walked into the Radio Room. “It’s Sickle,” the XO explained. “Secure SAT-COM. They’ve authenticated; it’s Jurens.”

Kinsock keyed the handset. “Sickle, this is Blade, over.”

“Blade, this is Sickle: Oscar-Golf-Sierra is delta, I say again, delta. Adjustment to follow: zero-one-zero-zero, break, two-one-zero-zero.”

Kinsock mentally translated Jurens’s message: On-ground situation has changed. Request you adjust your schedule: new launch time one a.m. local, new pickup time, nine p.m. local the next night.

He keyed the handset “Roger, Sickle, standby.”

MacGregor said, “Wonder what’s changed?”

“The target’s probably early. It’s his call; he’s on the ground. How far to our launch point?”

“Two thousand yards. No problem.”

“Get the firing team together,” Kinsock said, then keyed the handset: “Sickle, Blade, over.”

“Go ahead.”

“Affirmative on your request, will adjust accordingly.”

“Roger. Sickle out.”

As Smitty and Zee picked up the cape toward the port complex, Jurens and Dickie kept them apprised of Dhar’s movements. To their advantage, the Kashmiri stayed aboard Nahrut until well after dark, taking the last launch ashore. “Alpha this is Bravo, over,” Jurens said. “Say location.”

“Ridge above the north side terminal. One of the warehouses looks like it’s been converted into a rec center; that’s where most of the crew seems to be headed.”

“Freddy’s coming ashore; he’s about five minutes away from the pier.”

“Roger. We’re gonna look around. If security’s light, we might do it now. Otherwise, we’ll wait until he leaves.”

“Roger, keep me posted.”

“Alpha out.”

Smitty and Zee made their way through the trees until they were behind and above the recreation center. Below them, an embankment sloped down to a concrete tarmac; fifty yards beyond that was the rear of the building. They could hear voices laughing and shouting in Russian.

“I don’t see a fence,” Smitty whispered.

“Me neither. The front looks pretty well lit-up, though,” Zee replied, then pointed to the roof. Mounted at ten-foot intervals along the front edge were spotlights.

Smitty’s earpiece came to life: “Alpha, Freddy has landed; headed your way.”

“Roger,” replied Smitty. He swung his Night Owls toward the pier road. After a few seconds, Dhar appeared in the yellow glow of a streetlight walking toward the rec center. “There he is.”

“What’s the plan?” asked Zee.

“Improvisation. Sit tight, Zee. If I need help I’ll scratch my head.”

Smitty crawled down the embankment to where the trees gave way to loose rock, then started crab-walking down. His feet started sliding. He dropped onto his butt and rode to the bottom.

“Hey, you,” a voice called in Russian. What’re you doing?”

Shit!

A man wearing a white chef’s hat and holding a bag of garbage was standing in the rec center’s open back door. “What were you doing up there?”

Smitty rose to his feet, stumbled, then pretended to zip up his pants. “What’s it to you!” he slurred. “Can’t a man take a crap anymore?”

“We’ve got toilets, idiot!”

“No kidding. You wanna come over here and wipe my ass, too?” Smitty started unbuttoning his pants and pulling them down. “Come on, then, come over here!”

The chef shook his head, then tossed the garbage bag toward the Dumpster. “Asshole!”

He shut the door.

Smitty let out a breath, and keyed his mouthpiece. “Zee, where’s Freddie?”

“Two minutes away.”

Continuing his wobbly gait, Smitty made his way to the back of building, then flattened himself against the wall and slid forward until he reached the corner. The shouts and laughter were louder now, interrupted every few seconds by rock music as the front doors opened to admit or expel a patron.

Smitty peeked around the corner. Sunil Dhar was walking across the parking lot. Smitty pulled his hood around his face, took a breath, then stepped into view, careful to stay at the edge of the light.

When Dhar was ten feet away, Smitty whistled softly. “Dhar … here.”

Dhar stopped. “Who is that?”

“A friend. Get out of the light, for God’s sake.”

“What do you want?”

“I’ve got a message from Valerei.”

“I don’t know any Valerei.”

“You’re not here on business with a certain colonel?”

“Who are you?”

“A friend, I told you. Do you want the message, or not? Get out of the light, man! You want everyone to know our business?”

Curious now, Dhar walked forward but stopped just out of arm’s reach. “What message?”

“The MVD knows about the transaction; they’re going to be waiting at the warehouse.”

“How did this happen?”

“I don’t know. That’s a question for the colonel. I can take you to him.”

Dhar looked around, nervous again.

He’s not going for it, Smitty thought. He was going to have to do it the hard way. Smitty looked around. Aside from a pair of stevedores nearing the front doors, the lot was empty. He kept one eye on them and another on Dhar, who was starting to shuffle his feet nervously.

“Look,” Smitty said. “I’ve got his phone number.”

The two stevedores reached the door, pulled it open.

“Here, talk to him yourself.”

Smitty reached into his pocket, then extended his hand. Instinctively, Dhar looked at it. Smitty curled it into a fist and lashed out, striking Dhar on the point of the chin. The Kashmiri slumped forward. Smitty caught him, hefted him over his shoulder, then turned around and started trotting.

“Bravo, this is Alpha,” he radioed.

“Go ahead,” Jurens replied.

“Got Freddie, en route.”

With only twenty minutes left before Columbia’s launch, they slipped back into camp. Smitty dumped Dhar’s still unconscious body onto the ground, then plopped down and accepted a canteen from Jurens. “Problems?” Sconi asked.

“Nah, he just took a little convincing. The crew still ashore?”

“Yep. Come on, help me with the LTD. Dickie, Zee, pick a spot and keep your eyes peeled.”

Jurens and Smitty removed the Laser Target Designator from its waterproof case and started assembling it.

Powered by a nickel-cadmium battery and mounted on tripod legs, an LTD is nothing more than a night-vision scope joined with a frequency-adjustable laser, a concept similar to that of a laser sighted rifle: Wherever the laser dot goes, the bullet follows. In the case of an LTD, the laser can be seen only by a missile seeker programmed to search for it.

The team’s job was simple: Keep the Nahrut “painted” with the electromagnetic bull’s-eye so Columbia’s Harpoons would be able to distinguish her from the other ships at anchor.

Smitty flicked on the battery. “Power’s up.”

Jurens put his eye to the scope. Slowly the blackness resolved into a green glow. To his left, the lights of the port reflected off the dark surface of the bay. “Steer me.”

“Twenty degrees left; make it bearing … two-one-zero true.”

Jurens swung the scope around, watching the compass pointer rotate past one-eighty, then two hundred … “Okay, I’ve got her.” He adjusted the focus knob and Nahrut’s port bow came into view. He tracked backward along her forecastle to the midships hatch.

“Okay, Smitty, gimme the dot.”

A red dot appeared in the reticle.

Jurens thumbed the knob, edging the dot downward until it covered the crease where the main deck and exterior bulk-head met. He pulled away from the eyepiece. “I’m set.” He grabbed the SATCOM handset: “Blade, this is Sickle. The band is ready to play. I say again …”

“…The band is ready to play. Over.”

Aboard Columbia, Kinsock keyed the handset. “Sickle, Blade, roger. Guests en route. Out.”

Kinsock turned to MacGregor, “Start the firing plan, Jim. Diving Officer, take us to periscope depth, all hands prepare for missile launch.”

Cathermeier and Mason left Holystone and drove to the Pentagon.

Finally convinced of not only Mason’s suspicions about Martin, but also that the premise of Columbia’s mission was bogus, Cathermeier wasn’t about to let it continue. Whatever else China had up its sleeve was yet to be seen, but by calling off the attack on Nahrut, Cathermeier might at least be able to impede their plans.

What he couldn’t know was that it was already too late.

The Pentagon’s nerve center, the National Military Command Center, is divided into three main areas: the Emergency Conference Room, or ECR, “The Tank,” or the Joint Chiefs secure conference room, and the Current Actions Center, or CAC, a large room filled with communications consoles and computer terminals. Mounted on one wall are three projection screens, one displaying the readiness conditions of various U.S. military theaters, the other two showing maps and satellite feeds.

Cathermeier and Mason walked in and walked directly to the CAC watch officer, an Army major. “What can I do for you, General?”

“Send an ELF to Blade,” Cathermeier replied, referring to Extremely Low Frequency message, a slow but effective method of communicating with submerged submarines. “Have her surface for traffic.”

With Sunil Dhar bound, gagged, and still unconscious in the corner of the their lay-up, Jurens and his men lay on their bellies at the edge of the blind, Night Owls raised and focused on the mouth of the bay. In the greenish glow Jurens could just make out the light of Ryurik, the village at the tip of the cape and beyond the black line of the horizon.

“Sickle, this is Blade, over.”

Jurens grabbed the handset. “Go ahead Blade.”

“En route. Time to target, seventy seconds. Heads down, over.”

Sconi smiled. Thanks for your concern, Archie. “Roger. Sickle out.”

He powered up the LTD and peered through the eyepiece. The glowing red dot was holding steady on the Nahrut’s midships hatch. As a target point, it couldn’t be better. After their terminal pop-up, the Harpoons would bore into Nahrut at an angle and explode at her waterline, breaking her in two.

Forty seconds passed.

Zee called out, “Target, Skipper!”

“Where away?”

“Bearing one-seven-five. Boy, they’re really moving!”

Jurens swiveled his Night Owls around.

Flying at over four hundred knots and skimming a bare six feet over the water’s surface, the lead Harpoon appeared out of the fog, barely visible against the night sky. As Jurens watched, the second Harpoon came into view, two seconds behind the first and staggered to the left a few feet.

Two miles from Nahrut and passing the tip of the cape, the Harpoons executed their first and only waypoint, turning ten degrees to the northwest and lining up on Nahrut’s bearing, their seeker’s homing in on the LTD’s signal.

One mile and twelve seconds from impact, the lead Harpoon popped up to a height of fifty feet, followed a second later by its mate. Jurens watched, waiting for them to tip over toward Nahrut, but they continued flying high and level.

Malfunction? he thought. Come on, nose over …

And then they were past Nahrut and streaking toward the port.

He snatched up the handset. “Blade this is Sickle, drop-kick! I say again, drop-kick!”

It was too late. Two hundred yards from the wharf, the missiles split, the lead Harpoon turning west toward the port’s tank farm, the trailing Harpoon east toward a line of ships sitting at berth.

“Jesus Christ …” Smitty muttered.

In a double bloom of fire, the Harpoons struck home and detonated.

Eight miles away, Columbia heard Jurens’s call for missile destruct, but Archie Kinsock had his own problems. Fifty seconds after launching the Harpoons, he was descending and turning east toward deeper water when the squawk box crackled: “Conn, Sonar, contact! Probably submerged vessel, close aboard! Bearing zero-four-four. He’s right on top of us, Skipper.”

“All stop!” Jurens ordered.

“All stop, aye.”

“Conn, Sonar, torpedo in the water, torpedo in the water! Same bearing!”

Kinsock turned to the diving officer. “All ahead flank, full down on the down planes, come right to course one-nine-zero!”

The DO repeated the order. The helmsman and planesman hunched over their controls.

“Launch noisemaker!” Kinsock ordered.

“Noisemaker away.”

“Fire control, open doors on stern tube and fire snapshot.”

“Snapshot, aye!”

“Sonar, Conn, talk to me.” Kinsock called.

“Torpedo’s gone active, sir! It’s got us!”

“Conn, aye.”

“Noisemaker away, Skipper.”

“Launch another.”

Coming to full speed, Columbia pitched over into a spiraling turn. The deck shuddered as compressed air jettisoned the torpedo from the stern tube. “Torpedo away.”

“Cut the wires.”

“Conn, Sonar, it didn’t go for the noisemaker, Skipper. It’s coming in!”

“Time?”

“Ten seconds.”

“Launch another noisemaker!”

“Noisemaker away.”

“Conn, Sonar: Five seconds … four …”

Time seemed to slow for Kinsock. Heart pounding in his throat, he looked around the Control Room, taking in the faces of his crew. If it’s gonna happen, he thought dully, let it be quick.

He snatched the IMC handset: “All hands brace for shock!”

Aside from having to wait six hours — two on the Mongolian side, four on the Russian side — at the border, the crossing went smoothly. There’d been bribes to be paid, forms to be filled out, and officials to wheedle, but watching Skeldon work, Cahil realized the former Ranger had done his homework.

The trip from Ulaanbaatar had taken the rest of the day and part of the night as they traversed the dirt tracts that passed as highways on the Mongolian steppe. They pushed on at a steady forty mph, weaving their way ever northward through the cities of Mandal, Baruunharaa, Darhan, past marshes, peat bogs, and rolling hills. And grasslands — in every direction, as far as Cahil could see.

Now, two hours north of the border, Skeldon pulled off the road outside Kazachinskoye and stopped at an abandoned farmhouse. By Cahil’s map, they were eighty miles northwest of Lake Baikal at the southern edge of the Great Siberian Basin, a plateau of taiga forest and crisscrossing rivers.

Skeldon stopped the Yaz beside a ramshackle barn and shut off the engine.

“What’re we doing?” Cahil asked. He felt the tickle of fear on the back of his neck.

“We’re waiting,” Skeldon replied, a half smile on his lips.

Suddenly, out the truck’s window, the brush along the barn began to move, slowly taking the shape of six men in camouflage gear. Cahil saw six pair of eyes staring back at him.

“Our team, I assume,” he whispered.

“Yep. Spooky, ain’t they?”

Skeldon restarted the engine and steered the Yaz into the barns, shut off the engine again, but left the headlights on, then got out. “Might as well get out and stretch,” Skeldon said. “From here on, it’s straight driving.”

Cahil climbed down. Piles of moldy straw lay stacked along the walls. Dust motes drifted in the Yaz’s headlight beams.

Skeldon was talking to one of the men, the leader of the group, Bear guessed. Only slightly surprised, he saw the man was Chinese. He heard Skeldon say the word, “colonel” but could hear nothing more of their conversation.

The other five men, also Chinese, were shrugging off their gear and stacking it in piles. Each of them carried an M-16 assault rifle, and as Cahil stepped closer, he realized the rest of their equipment was also American-issue: From web-belts, to boots, to grenades, every piece was standard U.S. issue.

Just like me and Skeldon, Cahil thought. Is that why they were here? Were they nothing more than window dressing?

Once done piling their gear, the commandos stripped off their camouflage clothing, beneath which they wore rough, twill shirts, sweaters, coats, and corduroy pants. Seeing the transformation, Cahil realized that at a distance each of the men could pass for any number of Russia’s native peoples: Buryats, Evenks, cross-border Mongols.

The commandos moved efficiently and with a minimum of talk as they lifted open a hatch set in the barn’s floor, revealing a root cellar. They set up a line and began hauling up wooden crates.

Helping Skeldon transfer fuel from the jerry cans to the Yaz’s tank, Cahil watched from the corner of his eye as they began stacking the crates in the truck’s bed. Each bore a U.S. Army stencil. The contents ranged from MREs, to 5.56 mm ammunition, to portable tactical radios.

The commandos closed the cellar door and piled the last three crates into the back of the Yaz. Cahil glanced up and read one of the stencils:

C-4 plastic explosives, he thought. Five crates … sixty pounds’ worth; enough to turn the Sears Tower into a pile of bricks. He nudged Skeldon and nodded at the crates.

“Mind your business,” Skeldon muttered.

“This is my goddamned business,” Cahil whispered back. “I wanna know—”

“Not now — later.”

With the Commandos in back and Cahil and Skeldon upfront, they pulled out of the barn, back onto the main road, and started north again. The moon was full and bright, the sky sprinkled with stars.

They were well into the Russian steppes now, but unlike the flatlands of Mongolia, the terrain was all trees — millions of square miles of larch, spruce, and conifers stretching in every direction. Stark crescents of snow dotted the hillsides bordering the road, and the Yaz’s headlights flashed over ice-filled ruts in the road.

He now understood why the Russians viewed Siberia with equal parts love and fear. It was beautiful, but its vastness was overwhelming. It was no wonder why many of the old Soviet gulags didn’t bother with fences — the land itself was the prison.

After a few minutes, Skeldon turned to him. “You need to learn to keep your mouth shut, Kycek. These aren’t the kind of people you want to piss off.”

“No kidding. Look, this whole thing is making me nervous. Nobody said anything about a goddamned commando mission. When are you gonna tell me what’s going on?”

“You’ll know tonight. You can see it for yourself.”

Cahil dozed fitfully until Skeldon woke him just after dawn. “Coffee?”

“Thanks.” Cahil sat up and looked around. Aside from the sunlight, the land looked the same as it had hours before: a sea of trees. “How far have we gone?”

“About a hundred twenty miles.”

“Aren’t there any checkpoints, military posts?”

Skeldon laughed. “Out here? Twenty years ago, maybe, but not today. How would they pay for it? You gotta remember, man, Siberia is almost fourteen million square miles. From Moscow to Vladivostok it’s six thousand miles. That’s twice the width of the U.S. Starting to get the picture?”

“Yeah: It’s big.”

“Bigger than big. It can swallow you whole. In some places, if you wander ten miles from civilization, you might as well be on the moon.”

“Sounds like you’ve spent some time here,” Cahil said.

“Some.”

Time to push a little bit, Bear thought. If nothing else, he wanted to know Skeldon’s story. What had brought him to the middle of Siberia, playing guide for a team of Chinese commandos?

“You’re ex-military, huh?” Cahil said.

“What makes you say that?”

“The way you carry yourself. You can take the man outa the military, but you can’t take the military out of the man.”

Skeldon gave a half-smile. “I guess. Yeah, I was army.”

“Grunt?”

“What is this, you writing a book?”

“Just trying to pass the time. We got a long drive ahead of us. What’re you worried about? You think I’m gonna sell your story to the National Enquirer?”

Skeldon laughed. “That’d be something to see.” He looked sideways at Cahil, then shrugged. “I was a Ranger — a Lurp before they got absorbed.”

“Then the boonies don’t scare you much. Hell, this place must feel downright comfortable.”

“Better than being in the city, that’s for sure.”

“How long were you in?”

“Sixteen years.”

“Why’d you get out? You were only four shy of retirement.”

“They didn’t gimme a choice,” Skeldon said, bitterness creeping into his voice. “They booted me with a medical discharge.”

“What happened?”

“We were on a live-fire exercise in Panama City. I caught a sliver of shrapnel in the head. They took it out, said I was fine, but about a month after I left the hospital I started getting these migraines. Hurt so bad I couldn’t walk, couldn’t see. The docs poked and prodded me for a couple months, tried all these different drugs on me, but nothing helped. About six months after the accident, my wife tells me she’s taking the kids and leaving.”

“Why?”

“She said I’d changed,” Skeldon said. “I still remember how she put it: ‘You ain’t been right in the head since you got hurt.’ I was mean to her, I yelled at the kids, I forget how to do things — simple stuff, like how to get to the grocery store.”

“Was it true?” Cahil asked.

“I guess so. She loved me, so I figured, why would she lie? Friends were telling me the same thing, too, but I didn’t see it. By then, the headaches were coming almost every day.”

“The doctors couldn’t give you anything?”

“Most of what they gave me left me so doped up I couldn’t spell my name. I tried acupuncture, meditation, yoga — all that crap, but nothing worked. The only thing that makes it bearable are these.”

Skeldon reached into his jacket pocket and handed a bottle to Cahil.

It was Percodan, a prescription painkiller. “This is heavy stuff,” Bear said. “Addictive.”

“No shit. It’s better than feeling like there’s an ice pick jammed into your brain.”

“How many of these do you take a day?”

“Depends on the day. On average, about a dozen. The pain’s still there, but those take off the edge. The downside is, they give me pruritus.”

“What’s that?”

In response, Skeldon rolled up the sleeve of his field jacket. His forearm was covered in scabbed-over scratches. “Makes me itchy. I scratch in my sleep. I go to bed at night, and when I wake up my sheets are bloody.”

“Jesus. Looks painful.”

“I hardly feel it,” Skeldon said, then grinned. “I ain’t much to look at on the beach, though.”

Cahil couldn’t help himself; he broke out in laughter, and after a few seconds Skeldon joined in. After a few moments, Cahil said, “I can’t believe the army didn’t help you.”

“The army washed their hands of me. I get a disability check every month, but that only covers about a week’s worth of pills. The way the army sees it, what happened to me is just part of the risk: Sorry son, you got unlucky. Here’s a few hundred bucks.”

Now it all made sense, Cahil thought. Everything Skeldon had ever cared about was gone: the army, his wife and children … And all he had to show for it was pain. With nothing else in his life, he’d turned back to the only thing he knew: being a Lurp. Who paid him, and why, was irrelevant.

Cahil felt sorry for him; in other circumstances he might have reached out to help. But in his withdrawal from life, Skeldon had gotten himself involved in something very big and very dangerous.

Bear wondered how much Skeldon knew about his paymasters and their plan. And if he knew, did he care one way or another?

They drove for twelve hours, northeast through Irkutsk and deeper into the Great Siberian Basin along the river Minya. With one eye on the map and one eye on the landmarks, Cahil ticked off villages as they went: Podgar, Yermaki, Korotkova, Sharabora, Andronovka. The land never changed and the trees never thinned, an unbroken blanket of green beneath the sky.

By late afternoon, they’d reached Yakutia’s Chono River Basin.

Skeldon left the main road for a winding, dirt tract that took them deeper into the forest.

This area of the Chono Basin was dominated by a vast reservoir system that extended over a hundred miles from Lake Vilyuy in the north and down to Lake Ichoda in the south, where it split into hundreds of smaller rivers that fed the southern half of the basin.

As the sun was dipping toward the horizon, Skeldon pulled off into a small clearing and shut off the engine. He banged his fist on the cab’s wall then got out. Cahil followed. One by one the commandos jumped down and began unloading crates from the Yaz.

“This is it,” Skeldon said to Cahil. “Home sweet home.”

“For how long? When are you going to let me in on the big secret?”

“Now’s as good a time as any.”

Skeldon walked to where the commandos were working, spoke with the colonel for a few seconds, then gestured for Cahil to follow. After a quick compass check, Skeldon found a trail leading into the forest, and set off.

The grade increased until they were pulling themselves along from tree to tree. After a mile, the slope eased and the trees thinned, revealing an escarpment. “Watch your step,” Skeldon said. “It’s a hell of a drop.”

He led Cahil down a trail along the cliff face. Bear glanced over the edge, but could see nothing of what lay below, so thick were the trees. In the distance, he could hear the rush of water. After another hundred yards, the path came to a thumb of rock jutting from the cliff.

“Take a look,” Skeldon said.

Cahil walked to the edge and peered over. A few hundred yards below, a river wound its way through a jagged-walled canyon. “What am I looking for?”

“Look upriver. You’ll have to lean out a bit. Here, I gotchya.” Skeldon grabbed the back of Cahil’s belt. “Go ahead.”

Cahil hesitated.

“Relax, Stan, I didn’t drag your ass across Siberia just so I could drop you off a cliff.”

Cahil planted his feet and slowly leaned outward.

Straddling the mouth of the canyon like a great stone castle was a hydroelectric dam. A mile wide at the top and sloping to a wedge at the bottom, the dam seemed to sprout from the canyon walls. Along its walkway were eight generator towers, each joined to the next by a network of power lines.

“The Chono Dam,” Skeldon said. “Second largest in the world. Five hundred feet tall, just over a mile wide, and a hundred feet thick. Eight hydroelectric generators for a total of fifteen thousand megawatts. The reservoir is twelve miles wide, forty long, and averages about four hundred feet deep. It’s like a man-made ocean.”

“Pull me in.” Back on solid ground, Cahil said, “You seem to know a lot about it.”

“I sure as hell hope so.”

Afraid he already knew the answer, Cahil dreaded asking the next question. “Mike, what are we doing here?”

“It’s simple: We’re gonna blow it up.”

Kam Hsiao’s apartment was located in Beijing’s Dabeiyao District in a neighborhood of faceless gray brick apartment buildings and bustling hutong markets.

Tanner left the Bamboo Garden late in the afternoon and walked to the Forbidden City, where he strolled the court-yards and museums until the sun began to set, then boarded a bus at the entrance to Tiananmen Square, took it into Dabeiyao, and got off at the Majuan Terminal.

He spent the next0 hour circling the streets near Hsiao’s building, looking for signs of surveillance but seeing nothing, which he took with a grain of salt.

This was the part of the job Briggs hated most: the constant, gnawing uncertainty. Living with it for any extended period meant you either developed a “if it happens, it happens” attitude, or you turned into a walking ball of neuroses. So far, he hadn’t fallen into the latter trap, but he could feel the fear lurking at the edges of his mind, waiting for a chance to take over.

Once the street was clear, he crossed over and walked into the apartment’s lobby. He trotted up two flights, then down the dimly lit hall to Hsiao’s door. He hesitated, suddenly remembering a joke a CIA veteran used to tell at ISAG: How do you know when you’re under surveillance by the KGB? Answer: When a dozen of them rush through the door and dogpile you.

Tanner knocked.

The door opened, revealing a slim, clean-cut man in his early twenties. He had large ears and, Tanner thought, sad but honest eyes.

“Yes, can I help you?” he said in English.

“Bian sent me. I believe you and I share a mutual friend.”

Hsiao cocked his head, confused, then his eyes widened. “Oh! Please, sorry, come in.”

Tanner stepped inside. Hsiao shut the door. The apartment had three rooms: a small kitchen, a living room, and a doorway leading to what Tanner assumed was a bedroom. The walls were a stark white, as were the floors, all of which were linoleum.

Hsiao gestured to one of two chairs. “Please sit. Would you like some tea?”

“That would be nice, thanks.”

Hsiao came back a few minutes later with a tray holding two ceramic mugs. “It’s young hyson,” Hsiao said. “Organic, no pesticides. Very good.”

“Hyson — green tea?”

“Yes.”

Tanner smiled and raised his mug in thanks. “My favorite. Your English is very good.”

“The army offers a course; it’s very popular. I’ve been studying for three years.”

“You’re in the PLA?”

“Yes, a corporal. I have to tell you, I’m very afraid, Mr. …”

“You can call me Ben.”

“Ben. I’m very afraid.”

“That’s okay. So am I.”

“You don’t look afraid,” Hsiao said.

“I have a good poker face. Plus, I make it a point to have a good cry once a day; it seems to help.”

Hsiao nodded sympathetically. “I see.” Then he saw Tanner’s smile. “You’re joking.”

“Yes.”

With that, the tension eased. Hsiao let out a chuckle. “That’s very funny. I suppose we should talk about … what we need to do.”

Tanner nodded. “First, I want to make sure you’re ready for this. It’s a big risk.”

“I know.”

“Are you sure? Do you know what will happen if you’re caught?”

“I know exactly what I can expect. I see it almost every day. I’ve made up my mind. General Soong is a good man and he doesn’t deserve what’s happened to him. Tell me how I can help.”

Tanner decided he would trust Hsiao, not only because he had no other choice, but because his gut was telling him he could. He extended his hand to Hsiao, who took it firmly.

“Okay,” Briggs said. “Welcome aboard.”

“A board? What board?”

“It’s just an expression. We’re a team now, you and I.”

“Ah! Good! How do we start?”

“I want you to tell me everything you know about the camp.”

For the next ninety minutes, Tanner questioned him about every aspect of the camp: physical layout, terrain and climate, security measures, daily routines, emergency procedures … Hsiao answered all the questions quickly and precisely. The only thing he didn’t know was what Tanner needed most of all: the camp’s location.

“There are two guard rotations that switch off every two weeks,” Hsiao explained. “We’re flown to the camp in a helicopter with blacked-out windows.”

“How long is the trip?”

“We’re not allowed to wear watches. If I had to guess, I would say the flight lasts between three and four hours.”

“What kind of helicopter?”

“Mi-Eight — I think you call it a Hip.”

“Hip” was the old-style NATO nickname for the MI-8, a Russian built helicopter with accommodations for thirty passengers and a cruising speed of about 150 mph. If Hsiao’s estimate was correct, that meant the camp was somewhere within a six hundred-mile radius of Beijing.

“What about your gear? What do you take with you?”

“Nothing. Everything is supplied once we reach the camp. In fact, we’re searched before we board the helicopters. You were thinking of a homing beacon of some kind?”

“Yes.”

“Impossible. The helicopters are thoroughly inspected.”

“Where do you take off from?”

“A small air base to near the Miyun Reservoir.”

“After you take off, do you hear a lot of jet noise — other airplanes?”

Hsiao thought for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, yes. How did you know?”

“Just a guess,” Tanner replied. They were routing the Hip into Capital Airport’s airspace to lose them in the commercial traffic. “Anyone trying to track you by radar would lose you.”

“Ah, I see. Very smart.”

Tanner’s options were dwindling. He couldn’t track Hsiao … he couldn’t track the helo — at least not by traditional means. He’d have to give it some thought.

“How tight is security at the air base?” he asked.

“Average, I would say. You want to get in?”

“I might.”

“I sometimes stand guard duty there when I’m off rotation. I can show you just where to go.”

Tanner stayed for another hour, first discussing communications procedures in case they needed to talk again, then deciding on a way to establish communication when — if — Tanner reached the camp.

Once back at the Bamboo Garden, he opened his Motorola, dialed a number, and waited through two minutes of squelches as the call was bounced from satellite to satellite, then to NSA headquarters in Ford Meade, Maryland, and finally to Holystone.

“Holystone, Shiverick,” Oaken said.

“Oaks, it’s me.”

“Hey, traveler. Are you on the Motorola?”

“Yes.”

“Hold on.” Tanner heard a beep as Oaken switched to a secure line. “Everything okay?”

“Yep. I need a favor,” He explained his conundrum with Hsiao’s transport helo. “We can’t do it electronically, so why not chemically?”

“You’re thinking some kind of paint job?”

“If we can get Dick to give us a bird’s eye, it might work. I’d also need a recipe.”

“I’ll make some calls. Give me a few hours and I’ll get back to you.”

The Motorola’s vibration ringer woke Tanner just before dawn. “Yes.”

“Okay, we’re set,” Oaken said. “Dick’s going to do some shuffling and get your coverage.”

“And the recipe?”

“That, too. Got your shopping list ready?”

Tanner turned on the bedside light, grabbed a pad and pen to copy down all the items. “You’re sure about the ratios? I don’t want to end up a human torch.”

“They’re straight from the official cookbook. When do you plan on going in?”

“Tonight or early tomorrow morning. They’re scheduled to take off at dawn.”

“We’ll be watching,” Oaken replied.

Three miles away at the Guoanbu’s headquarters, Xiang was arriving for the day. As he’d expected, he found Eng in a conference room surrounded by stacks of manila file folders.

“Any luck?” Xiang asked.

“Two hundred fifty-seven Westerners arrived in the city during the period you indicated,” Eng answered. “Of those, there’s no way to know which of them are here on business or pleasure without checking each file.”

“What about camera permits?”

“Same thing. There are no separate records.”

“What about Bian? Any activity since his meeting with our mystery man?”

“Nothing. We’ve got a team watching him day and night, but so far he’s behaving.”

“What about his embassy contact — this Brown fellow?”

“He hasn’t left the embassy since.”

“Then it all comes down to Bian’s mystery man.”

“Which works in our favor,” Eng answered. “He’s an illegal and he’s on our ground. If we catch him — when we catch him — we can dangle him like a hooked fish.”

Who was he? Xiang wondered. Better question: Why was he here? True enough, Bian was a known supporter of Soong, but that didn’t make him unusual. Even after twelve years, the general’s supporters were still pressuring the government to commute his sentence. Were Bian’s activities connected to Soong, or was it something else?

It didn’t matter, he decided. He couldn’t take the risk. “I think it’s time we got proactive.”

“How so?”

“Arrest Bian. Let’s see how much he’ll endure before giving us his new waiguoren friend.”

With the sunrise, Jurens and his team got their first clear view of the port.

Whether by design or by accident, the Harpoons had impacted critical areas of the complex.

At the port’s easternmost berth, the first Harpoon had struck a crude oil carrier, triggering a chain of explosions that had rippled from ship to ship down the wharf.

The second Harpoon had traveled inland several hundred yards, then plunged into the tank farm, igniting three tanks and puncturing six more, releasing a flood of flaming oil and diesel fuel that had spread through the port like a molten river, touching off flash fires wherever it touched.

Along the waterfront, dozens of ships still burned, adding their smoke to the pall that hung over the bay. Most of the heavy-lift cranes had toppled onto their sides like giant Tinkertoys, crushing beneath them warehouses, straddle carriers, and sheds

Through his Owls, Jurens could see figures shuffling along the waterfront. There seemed to be no organized fire fighting or rescue effort under way. Probably not enough left alive for that, he thought. Part of him wanted to take his team and go down to help, but he knew it was impossible.

“Is that snow?” Smitty muttered, looking up.

Jurens looked up. Bits of white fluff drifted before his face. He held out his hand, caught a flake, and tasted it. He spit. “Ash.”

Smitty leaned closer to Jurens. “What the hell’s going on, Skipper?”

“I don’t know, but I’ll tell ya what: Harpoons are smart birds; what they did last night … it’s a one in a million chance. They just don’t go haywire like that.”

“Agreed.”

“That leaves one option: Somebody else with an LTD took control and guided them in.” As smart as Harpoons are, they don’t discriminate between targeting signals. First come, first served.

“The best place for that would be closer to the mouth of the bay,” Smitty said. “If I had to guess, I’d say … there.” He pointed to the opposite cape.

They were in trouble, Sconi realized. They’d been set up. Someone not only knew they were here, but also why. They — whoever they were — had lain in wait for Columbia to launch her missiles, then taken control of them and guided them onto their own targets.

Answers would have to wait. Right now, they had to leave before the hills were crawling with Federation Army relief units.

“Zee, how’re we doing? Any word from our ride?”

“Still nothing, Skipper. SATCOM’s working fine; we’re getting a clean bounce off the satellite, but she just ain’t answering. Want me to keep trying?”

“No, leave it for now,” Jurens said, then turned back to Smitty, “We gotta start thinking worst-case. If Columbia is gone—”

“Gone how?”

“I don’t know, and it doesn’t matter. If she’s gone, we’re gonna have to find our own way out.”

“Long swim.”

“Too long. First things first: I want to have a talk with Dhar.”

“You think he knows something?”

“There’s one way to find out.”

Jurens picked up his MP-5, walked over to where Dhar was lying, and knelt beside him.

Dhar stared at him. “What?”

“I’m going to be straight with you: We’re in trouble. Somebody’s set us up — all of us, including you. In a couple hours, troops are going to be hunting for us.”

“Why? I don’t understand.”

“We’re being framed for this disaster.”

“By who?”

“You tell me.”

“I don’t know.”

“Who hired you?” Jurens said.

“The JRA.”

“You’re sure about that? Think hard.”

“I’m sure.”

“Okay,” Jurens said with a shrug. He flicked off the MP-5’s safety. “Sorry about this, but you’re extra baggage.” He pressed the muzzle to Dhar’s forehead.

“Wait, wait! I can help you! Maybe … I may know something.”

“Then share it.”

“The man who approached me claimed to be JRA, but I’ve done business with JRA before, and something wasn’t right about this one, so I did some digging. It took me a couple months, but I discovered the man was working for the Chinese — the Guoanbu.”

“But you still went through with the deal.”

“They paid me, why wouldn’t I? Besides, you don’t understand. If I’d backed out, they would have killed me just for good measure. As it is, I’m probably a dead man anyway.”

You play, you pay, Jurens thought. Dhar’s life had finally caught up with him. “Is that all?”

“That’s it, I swear. What’re you going to do with me?”

“Since you’ve been honest with me, I’ll be honest with you. We’re going to take you with us, and providing we get out of this alive, you’ll be turned over to the CIA, who’ll milk you for every bit of info you’ve got. After that … I guess that depends how — useful you are to them.”

Dhar considered this for a moment, then nodded. “I could do worse.”

Maybe you deserve worse, Jurens thought. “Zee, get Mace on the line. I think somebody’s going to want to hear this.”

At eight a.m. Beijing time the Chinese government drew its line in the sand.

Reading identical statements, both China’s foreign minister and its ambassador to the United States decried the Russian Federation’s lack of concern for the safety and welfare of Chinese citizens living within its borders, and set a deadline of forty-eight hours.

“If this deadline should pass without President Bulganin fully admitting the Federation’s role in the deaths of nearly two thousand Chinese citizens, as well as agreeing to allow Chinese government inspectors full access to facilities employing Chinese citizens, the People’s Republic of China is prepared to take whatever steps necessary to ensure the welfare of its people.”

From the audience a CNN reporter shouted, “Mr. Ambassador, has your government ruled out any options? Is military force a possibility?”

“We have not ruled out any options. That President Bulganin has so far refused to acknowledge his country’s role in these deaths is no surprise; Russia has a long history of covering up disasters.”

“What type of military force would your government consider and when might it take place?”

“Those are not issues I will discuss.”

“Is an evacuation of Chinese citizens living in Russia a possibility?”

“Again, we are not ruling out any options. We are committed to—”

Mason muted the TV, then turned to Dutcher. “Well, what do you think?”

“That’s how it will start: a mass evacuation,” Dutcher predicted. “They’ll call it a humanitarian mission, but it’ll be their way of getting their foot in the door.”

Mason nodded. “From what little we know about Bulganin, I don’t see him backing down. Less than a month into his presidency, it would be political suicide.”

“Agreed. He’s going to give the Chinese exactly what they want, and the poor bastard doesn’t even know it. What worries me is, how is he going to react once they make their move?”

“That’s anyone’s guess.” Mason sighed. “Dangerous goddamn game they’re playing.”

Mason’s intercom buzzed: “Mr. Director, General Cathermeier on line two.”

“Thanks, Ginny.” Mason punched the speaker button. “Chuck, I’ve got Leland here with me.”

“You two better get over here. We’ve got problems.”

Dutcher and Mason found Cathermeier in the secure conference room standing before a map of Russia’s eastern coast. He turned as they entered. “We’ve lost Columbia.”

“What?” Mason said. “When?”

“About an hour after she launched her missiles. The message came over VLF. What little we got was garbled. They were under attack, they said.”

“By whom?” Dutcher asked.

“No idea, but now they’re off the air. We’ve sent a surface-for-traffic message over ELF, but we’re not even getting a signal confirmation.”

“Which suggests her transponder is damaged or—”

“Columbia’s gone. Destroyed.”

Dutcher said, “Have we heard from Jurens and his team?”

“No, but I wouldn’t expect to yet. If they know about Columbia, their doing E&E,” Cathermeier replied, referring to evasion and escape: clear the area and find another lay up. “If they don’t know about Columbia, they’re probably in transit to the pickup point.”

“Let’s hope they know,” Mason said. “Best not to have them exposed.”

Dutcher asked Cathermeier, “Who knows about all this?”

“Us three and the CAC duty officer. I can’t keep it from Martin and Bousikaris for long.”

“How far is the battle group from Columbia’s last known position?”

“Three days. I could break away one of the subs to hunt for her, but that’ll only leave one covering the whole group. If the Russians come out to meet us in any force, we could have a problem. You know, I can’t help but wonder if this is part of China’s plan.”

“We had the same thought: Columbia mysteriously sinks after launching a missile attack against a Russian port. More proof we’re in bed with China.”

“Either that or another chance to pull us into the fight,” Mason said.

The intercom came to life: “General, we’ve got secure traffic. Eyes only for you.”

“On my way.”

The duty officer, an army major, walked over. “Sickle on SATCOM, General.”

Cathermeier picked up the handset and keyed the button. “Sickle this is Mace, say status, over.”

“Mace, this is Sickle. We are intact and operational. Standby to copy sitrep in three parts.”

Cathermeier glanced at the duty officer, who nodded. “Recorders on.”

“Ready to copy, Sickle.”

“Sitrep: reference my grid one-four-six-nine-two. Target is foul; birds astray; see grid for result. Break, Blade unavailable, cause unknown; request instructions. Break, Kashmiri intercepted; ID confirmed as papa romeo charlie. Copy all, Mace?”

“Roger, copy all. Standby.” Cathermeier turned to the duty officer. “Major, match Sickle’s coordinates and check to see if we have any satellites overhead.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mason said, “Okay, so they know about Columbia. What’s the rest about?”

“Something went wrong with the launch. The Harpoons malfunctioned.”

Dutcher said, “How could that happen?”

The watch officer interrupted, “General, the NRO has a real-time feed from a Keyhole over the Sea of Okhotsk. The angle’s going to be a bit oblique, but it should work.”

“Put it on the big screen.”

The screen turned to snow, then resolved into an overhead picture of Russia’s eastern coast. “Overlay Sickle’s grid,” Cathermeier ordered.

The screen refocused. The Bay of Vrangel appeared, bracketed by Cape Kamensky and Cape Petrovosk. The water of the bay was an indigo blue, the land mostly green with splotches of brown. In the crook of the bay was the white concrete expanse of the port.

“What the hell …?” Cathermeier muttered. “Major, what do you make of that?”

“Looks like smoke, General. Lots of it. I can see ten — no, twelve smoke columns, and flames at the western end of the pier. Damn, there’s nothing left standing.”

“Transmit those coordinates to the NRO,” Cathermeier ordered. “I want a damage analysis as soon as possible.” He turned to Dutcher and Mason. “That’s what Jurens meant. Somebody got ahold of those Harpoons and diverted them — probably right into the tank farm, judging from the damage.”

Mason said, “That business about the Kashmiri. He’s talking about Sunil Dhar.”

“That’s my guess,” Cathermeier said, then recited: “Kashmeran is papa romeo charlie …”

“People’s Republic of China,” Dutcher said. “It was a setup from the start.”

“It’s starting,” Mason said. “We’ve got to move on Martin before it’s too late.”

Eight thousand miles away, Columbia was alive, but barely so, lying on her port side at the edge of the continental shelf.

The torpedo should have killed them, Kinsock knew. What he would only later realize was that Jurens’s decision to push forward the missile launch had given Columbia a fighting chance at survival.

Wary of her target’s sensors and determined to launch a killing shot at point-blank range, the attacker had for hours been closing on Columbia’s position, creeping along at three knots, riding the currents and hiding in thermal layers. Columbia’s premature rise to periscope depth caught the attacker four thousand yards out of position, giving Kinsock those vital seconds he needed for evasive maneuvers.

After launching its torpedo, their attacker had disappeared as quickly as it had appeared, slipping into the depths as Kinsock struggled to get his wounded boat pointed in-shore and away from the continental shelf and the crushing depths beyond.

As they spiraled downward, the sonar techs kept their headphones on, ignoring the chaos around them and trying to identify the rapidly fading signature of their attacker. In the final seconds before they struck bottom, Columbia’s sonar chief managed to record an ever so faint shaft whine to their southeast. However fleeting the contact, it was enough to identify the boat as the same mysterious Kilo they’d detected soon after arriving on station.

Kinsock stood in the wardroom and read the damage report as his department heads waited for him to finish. Throughout the control center, crewmen were running diagnostic tests and talking quietly amongst themselves. Occasionally the deck would tremble as Columbia settled into the silt.

“What’s the plant status, Chief?” asked Kinsock.

Columbia’s engineering officer flipped open his notebook. “Reactor’s on line, all boards are green. Same with generators and all auxiliary equipment.”

“Hull breeches?”

“Six minors but the pressure hull seems mostly intact. There’s nothing we can’t handle unless we go any deeper. Then things are gonna start to pop. I’ve got watches set on each of the sites and rovers looking for trouble spots. The worst is the screw: At least two of the blades are gone. The aft trim tank is holed, and we’re getting pinhole leaks near the thrust block.”

“So, bottom line, main propulsion is out.”

“We got the power, but no screw to put it to.”

“Outboards?” Kinsock asked, referring to Columbia’s two retractable thrusters used for pier-side maneuvering.

“Both are okay as far as we can tell. Skipper, you’re not thinking about—”

“Just brainstorming, Chief.”

“ ’Cuz those thrusters are louder than hell. If we start ’em up, we’re just asking for company. Besides, the best speed they can give us is four knots.”

“I know that, Chief.”

“Yeah, I guess you do. Sorry, Skipper.”

“Forget it. Jim, how’s command and control?”

“Not bad, all things considered. We’re still running diagnostics, but so far the only major damage is to communications. Both our VLF and ELF are out. Weapons and sensors read okay, but neither of them are much use while we’re on the bottom.”

Kinsock nodded. “Okay, first we need to let somebody know we’re here. Next, fix our leaks so once we get moving we can get a little depth under us.” The engineer started to open his mouth, but Kinsock pushed on. “Chief, if we have to take on a little water to do it, fine. Right now, we’re sitting ducks. If we can get some sea around us, we might be able to hide until the cavalry comes. Hell, even if all we can do is get off this shelf and float at zero-bubble, our chances are a lot better.”

Kinsock looked from man to man. “Questions?” There were none. “Jim, get a SLOT buoy ready for launch. Time to let the folks at home know we ain’t dead.”

Two hours after sunrise, an MI-6 “Hook” cargo helicopter from Vladivostok set down amid a mini-hurricane of embers and disgorged its two dozen passengers, a mix of emergency medical personnel, firefighters, and soldiers. They immediately spread out and went to work, some searching for survivors while the rest began setting up a base of operations from which the relief effort would be coordinated.

All but a few of the warehouses and storage bunkers were still burning, and every few seconds there came the groan of wrenching steel as another structure collapsed into rubble. Puddles of burning oil dotted the concrete, making the worker’s every step treacherous as they picked their way through the wreckage, calling out for survivors and tagging corpses for later recovery.

At the port’s easternmost end, Private Vasily Tarknoy of the Federation Army was walking along the waterfront, gaping at the skeletal remains of the ships that had not yet sunk. The oil tanker that had taken the brunt of the Harpoon impact rested on the bottom with only the tip of its mast jutting from the water. Every few seconds a geyser of bubbles would erupt from the hulk and spew a cloud of oily mist into the air. Through the ash on the water’s surface, he could discern the outline of the ship. It reminded him of the pictures he’d seen of the Arizona Memorial at Pearl Harbor.

He was passing a jumble of wreckage that appeared to have been a storage shed when something caught his eye. There was a glint of glass amid the debris. He leapt across a small stream of burning oil and knelt. The metal was still hot. He pulled on his gloves and pushed aside the wreckage until he was able to reach the object.

The object looked vaguely like one of those large scopes used by bird-watchers. There seemed to be writing on the scope. He wiped away the soot until the letters were readable.

Tarknoy’s grasp of English was poor, but good enough. He stood up and fumbled for his radio. “Major, this is Tarknoy. I think I’ve found something you should see.”

Xiang marveled at Bian’s fortitude.

Given the man’s panic when they’d arrested him, Xiang felt sure he would have confessed quickly.

They were in their fifth hour of interrogation — the last two of which had been physical — and still Bian had revealed nothing about either Brown or the man he’d met at Guanghua Temple.

Xiang leaned against the wall, smoking a cigarette and watching impassively as the interrogator reapplied the electrode to the sole of Bian’s foot. In his writhing, Bian had proven surprisingly strong, having already dislodged the electrodes three times.

Then again, Xiang reminded himself, intense and extended pain tends to transform people, and he wondered idly if the pain might be steeling Bian’s will. There was no mistaking the transformation Bian’s feet had undergone: Both soles were blackened and split and dripping clear, lymphatic fluid.

They will probably have to be amputated, Xiang thought idly

He caught a whiff of burnt flesh and took another puff on his cigarette to block it out.

The interrogator tightened the straps around Bian’s calves, then turned to Xiang. “We’re ready. I don’t think there’s much feeling left in his feet, though.”

“Up the voltage.”

After another twenty minutes, Bian’s screams died away and he began mumbling incoherently.

Better, Xiang thought. Speech was always the first hurdle. If you could get the subject talking — even nonsense — you were making progress. If this failed, Xiang knew that Bian had a daughter in Nanjing; if he were unconcerned about his own life, perhaps he would feel differently about hers.

“… won’t catch him …” Bian murmured suddenly.

Xiang stepped forward. “What, Bian? Did you say something? Catch who?”

Bian’s eyes fluttered open. “You won’t catch him.”

“Who? Your friend from Guanghua Temple? The American?” It was a stab in the dark, but Bian rewarded him with a slight shift in his eyes. “We photographed you two together. We know what he looks like, we know when he came into the country, and we know he’s an American. We’re already closing in on him. Why put yourself through this?”

Bian shook his head.

“Hit him again,” Xiang ordered.

As the electrodes began sizzling, there was a knock at the door. Xiang opened it. Eng was standing there with a manila file. “What is it?” Xiang asked.

“His medical file. Check page three; you’ll find it useful.”

Xiang closed the door and scanned the file, pausing on the third page. According to his doctor, Bian suffered from hypertension and arteriosclerosis, which in turn had caused him ongoing problems with thrombosis and angina, both potentially lethal heart problems. The fact that the interrogation hadn’t prompted an attack said much about Bian’s resilience.

But everyone has their limits, Xiang thought. He picked up the wall phone, explained what he needed, then hung up.

The male nurse arrived fifteen minutes later and wheeled a cart to Bian’s side. Xiang pulled up a stool and sat down. “Bian! Bian, wake up …” Xiang slapped his face. “Wake up!”

Bian’s eyes popped open. “What? I told you … won’t catch him …”

“Yes, I know. Are you listening to me, Bian, can you hear me?”

“Yes, I hear you.”

“I understand you have a heart condition. You’re taking several medications for it.”

Bian’s head lolled to one side. “So?”

“So, I have all your medications right here.”

“Don’t need them.”

“You will.”

Xiang nodded to the nurse, who inserted a syringe into a vial, extracted some of the liquid, then jabbed the tip into Bian’s arm. “Ah! What is that?”

“Epinephrine,” Xiang answered. “You probably know it as adrenaline.”

“No! Don’t do that …”

Xiang nodded at the nurse, who pushed down on the plunger.

Bian began bucking against his restraints. “No, no, no!”

Xiang grabbed Bian’s head. “Can you feel it? Your blood pressure is rising, your heartbeat is climbing, your blood vessels are constricting … Can you feel it yet?”

Beads of sweat appeared on Bian’s forehead. His pupils contracted to pinpricks. A muscle in his cheek twitched. He opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out was a gasp. “Ahh …!”

Xiang leaned closer. “Now you can feel the pressure — like a block of stone on your chest.”

“Oh, God …”

“Tell me what I want to know.”

“No!”

“Tell me what I want to know and I’ll help you.”

“No!”

“Tell me what I want to know and I won’t have to pay a visit to your daughter in Nanjing.”

Bian’s head snapped around. “Leave … her … alone … ahhh!” He threw his head back, gasping for breath.

Xiang nodded to the nurse. “Give him some more.”

“Don’t!” Bian cried.

As the nurse gave the injection, there was another knock at the door. Xiang opened it.

It was Eng: “I think we have him.” He handed Xiang a file. “He’s traveling under the name Ben Colson; he listed his occupation as a photographer. I’m still trying to track it down, but he presented a letter of invitation at Customs.”

“Probably a fake,” Xiang replied. China has more ministers than a dog has hairs. He flipped open the file and looked at the passport photo. “That’s him. Good work. Where is he staying?”

“The Tingsonglou.”

“Gather a team. We leave in ten minutes.”

Eng nodded and left, Xiang shut the door.

Bian was convulsing. His back was arched, his head rolling from side to side. Xiang walked over and grabbed Bian’s head to still it. “We’ve got him, Bian,” he whispered. “You went through this for nothing. All this pain — for nothing. Remember that.”

Bian rasped, “My daughter … ”

“What’s that?”

“Leave her alone.”

Despite his frailty, the man had held up well. “Very well,” he said. “She’ll be unharmed.”

Xiang started toward the door.

“Sir?” the interrogator called. “What should we do with him?”

Xiang saw the electrodes still attached to Bian’s feet. “Give him the full treatment.”

“But, with his heart … it will kill him.”

Xiang shrugged. “The price of fatherhood.”

As Xiang and his team were racing toward the Bamboo Garden, Tanner was climbing a hillside north of the Miyun Reservoir. Behind him, the moonlight reflected off the water’s surface.

He was on the last leg of a journey that had begun six hours before at Ritan Park, where he’d flagged down a taxi and asked to be driven to Taishiyun, a village northeast of the reservoir. Once there, he strolled the town’s hutongs until dusk, when he hired another taxi to the reservoir.

“You want wait?” the driver asked as he dropped Tanner off.

“No, thanks. I have friends picking me up in about an hour.”

“You wait in the dark?”

“I want to photograph the sunset. I’ll be okay, thanks.”

The driver shrugged and pedaled away.

As darkness fell, Tanner hunkered down in the underbrush and waited until the last few visitors left the beach and drove away. At nine p.m., a local PSB car rolled by, shined its lights along the trees, then kept going.

Once it disappeared around the corner, Tanner started moving.

He reached the top of the slope and paused to catch his breath.

Fifty feet ahead lay the barbed-wire fence of the air base’s perimeter. As Hsiao had described it, the air base was only large enough to accommodate helicopters, with three landing pads and a cluster of hangars and maintenance buildings. Hashing blue-green lights outlined each pad.

Following Hsiao’s directions, he followed the fence until he came to a rusted steel sign hanging from one of the posts. In Mandarin, it read WARNING: GOVERNMENT FACILITY. STAY OUT.

The bottom three rings securing the fence to the post were missing. He pushed the mesh inward and ducked through.

Forty minutes later, having dodged three truck-mounted patrols, Tanner lay on his belly in the shadows along a storage shed. Across the road stood a hangar; the placard above the door read “Shiyi”—the number eleven in Mandarin.

Stacked against the outer wall were a line of wooden crates, several of them reaching to within a few feet of the roof’s overhang. Astonished as he was at the lapse in security, Tanner was only too glad to take advantage of it.

So far Hsiao’s information was proving out. Tanner was glad: It felt good to have an ally. Though he wasn’t ready to put his life in the young soldier’s hands, Hsiao’s stock had just gone up.

He lay still for another fifteen minutes. Two patrol trucks came and went, but the road was devoid of foot traffic.

He got up and sprinted across the road. He mounted the first crate, chinned himself to the next one, then crawled onto the roof and shimmied forward until he reached the skylight. It was unlocked.

He lifted it open, peeked inside, then slipped through feet first.

The climb down through the girders took less than a minute.

In the center of the hangar stood Hsiao’s MI-8 Hip helicopter. At nearly twenty feet tall and sixty feet in length, it rose over him like an olive green monster. Its rotors drooped a few feet over his head.

He crouched down, opened his rucksack, and withdrew a liter-size bottle filled with a brown liquid straight from the CIA’s “Cookbook o’ Skullduggery,” as Oaken called it.

The recipe had called for ingredients ranging from ground, match heads to acetone, to mineral spirits. Having no clue about the theory behind the process, Briggs could only rely on Oaken’s directions as he spent most of the afternoon measuring and mixing the various parts until they became what he now had in the bottle.

According to Langley’s Science and Tech gurus, the compound would remain stable until heat — such as from a helicopter’s turboshaft exhaust stack — was applied to it, at which time it would begin deteriorating molecule by molecule. Just as sunlight through a prism is divided into its various wavelengths, so too would the compound systematically break down into a unique chemical signature.

As Tanner crouched on the hangar floor, two hundred miles above him a Keyhole “Prism Forte” satellite was aligning its ISA, or Infrared Spectrometer Array, to look for the chemical signature of his compound. When the Hip lifted off, the ISA would lock onto the trail, then pass it to the Keyhole’s main camera, which would track it to the camp.

With the bottle and a paintbrush tucked under one arm, Tanner climbed onto the Hip’s weapons rack. He popped the bottle’s top, nearly gagged at the smell, then squirted some onto the exhaust stack and began spreading it on.

Fifteen minutes later he’d covered the stack with four coats of the compound, each of which went on the color of molasses but dried clear — and mercifully odorless — within minutes.

He climbed down, repacked his rucksack, and headed for the ladder.

At the Bamboo Garden, Xiang’s team was tearing apart Tanner’s hotel room. The mattress, bedcovers, and wall hangings lay strewn on the floor.

“Nothing, sir,” one of the searchers reported.

“Bag up all his personal belongings and take them back to headquarters,” Xiang ordered. “I want everything checked again.”

“What now?” Eng asked. “He could be anywhere.”

“Circulate his photo to all the PSB and PAP stations in the city. He’ll turn up. In the meantime, tell the perimeter team to pull back. He may still come to us.”

Xiang flipped open Colson’s file and studied the passport photo. Something about the man’s face looked familiar. I know you,don’t I? Xiang thought.

Separated from Dutcher and the others by thousands of miles, and with no way of telling them about Skeldon’s plans for the dam, Cahil was wracking his brain for options.

The scope of China’s plan was mind-boggling. Knowing Moscow’s reaction to an invasion of Siberia would be to immediately dispatch reinforcements to Yakutia, Sakha, and Irkutsk, China had decided to create a geographical roadblock of stunning proportions.

Trapped behind the Chono Dam lay a system of waterways and lakes roughly a fifth the size of the Great Lakes. Once released, the flood would roar down the narrow Chono River gorge and into the Central Siberian Plateau, gaining momentum and speed as its force was multiplied by not only the flatness of the land itself, but by the major rivers that crisscrossed it: the Nyuya, the Lena, the Vitim, the Ineyke — all would merge into a juggernaut of water rushing south toward a four hundred-mile stretch of the Trans-Siberia Railway — Moscow’s primary means of getting reinforcements into Siberia.

The flood would slowly dissipate as Siberia’s web of minor rivers and tributaries absorbed the deluge, but that would take weeks, during which the Federation would be faced with not only one of the greatest disasters in Russian history, but also an entrenched enemy force.

Whether Skeldon knew that the dam was just a cog in a larger plan, Cahil didn’t know, but certainly he didn’t understand their presence here was integral to the drama to come.

Cahil wasn’t sure how it would happen, but as the effects of the disaster were fully realized, word would reach Moscow: Bodies were found near the dam — two Caucasian and six Chinese — all wearing U.S. Army uniforms and carrying U.S.-issue equipment. The heavy-handedness of the revelation would be lost in the ensuing outrage. The United States would be accused of not only being in cahoots with China, but also of unleashing the disaster that had crippled Moscow’s ability to repel the invaders.

The morning after Skeldon showed him the dam, they awoke before dawn, had a quick breakfast of MRE chipped beef on toast and hiked into the forest, heading roughly northeast.

After an hour, Skeldon stopped before a wooded slope, glanced around, then started pacing off distances. Cahil realized he was following a mental map.

Skeldon stopped, walked to a section of the slope, then got down on his knees and parted a clump of bushes. He rummaged around for a moment, then wriggled backward, dragging a rock the size of a manhole cover. He pushed it aside and turned to Cahil. “Come on.”

“Come on where?”

“You’ll see. Just follow me and stay close.”

Skeldon dropped to his belly and crawled into the bushes. Cahil followed.

A few feet into the undergrowth Cahil came to an opening in the rock. As Skeldon’s feet disappeared inside, Cahil clicked on his flashlight and wriggled after him. The tunnel continued for ten feet, then widened into a cave tall enough for them to stand in.

“What is this place?” Cahil asked.

“A side tunnel. This used to be part of a silver mine. It’s been abandoned for about sixty years.”

“How’d you find it?”

Skeldon grinned, his face appearing skeletal in the flashlight beam. “Like you said, I’ve spent a fair amount of time over here. Come on, we’ve got about a mile to go.”

Before Cahil could ask any questions, Skeldon started down the tunnel, his flashlight bouncing off the rock walls.

The floor was flat and well worn. Occasionally Cahil’s beam would pick out the stub of a candle or a pick hammer nestled in a crag in the wall. After twenty minutes, the tunnel began a series of turns, snaking east and then west as the floor began to slope downward. The air grew cooler.

“You’re not claustrophobic, are you?” Skeldon called over his shoulder.

“Nah,” Cahil replied. But the day is young. He could feel the press of thousands of tons of rock above him. He suppressed a shiver and kept walking.

Finally the tunnel opened into a cavern about the size of a basketball court. Stalactites glistening with water drooped from the ceiling, reaching in some places nearly to the floor. Skeldon led him to the far wall and shined his flashlight along its base. Bored into the rock at forty-five-degree angles were six evenly spaced holes, each about the diameter of a telephone pole.

“You made these?” Cahil asked.

Skeldon nodded. “Yep. It was a pain in the ass to get the depth right.”

“What—”

“Shhh! Listen.” Skeldon pressed his ear to the wall. He gestured for Cahil to do the same. At first Cahil heard nothing. Then, faintly, he could make out the distant rush of water.

“That’s the river,” Cahil said.

“Yep. Only about twelve feet of rock between us and the dam’s footings.”

“When did you drill the holes?”

“Last year.”

Last year, Bear thought. My God …

The Chinese had planned their operation down to the finest detail. Cahil now had the answer to one of his lingering questions: How they were planning to destroy the dam. These six bore holes, each packed with a portion of the C4 the commandos had loaded aboard the Yaz, would work as shaped charges. Detonated simultaneously, the charges would fracture the dam’s base, sending a shock wave of cracks upward and outward. From there, the weight of the reservoir’s water would do the rest.

The strain was beginning to show on Bulganin, Nochenko thought.

It was understandable, of course: Less than ten days in office and the new president was facing a spate of crises: an angry and aggressive China; a major far-eastern port razed to the ground; and a U.S. battle group steaming ominously toward the Siberian coast.

Bulganin’s eyes were red-rimmed and his hair jutted from his head at wild angles. Behind Bulganin, the ever-present Pyotr stared fixedly at the far wall.

Like the mausoleum guards, Nochenko thought. Bloody thug.

Bulganin pointed at the wall clock. “Where are they? I summoned them over an hour ago!”

It had only been twenty minutes, Nochenko knew, but he thought better than to argue the point. “Don’t worry, Vlad, they’re—”

The intercom on Bulganin’s desk buzzed; he punched it. “Yes!”

“Marshal Beskrovny and—”

“Send them in.”

The four men that made up Bulganin’s National Security Council strode into the office and stopped in a semicircle before his desk: Premier Andrei Svetlyn, Foreign Minister Dmitry Kagorin, Defense Minister Marshal Victor Beskrovny, and Director of the SVR, Sergei Fedorin.

All but Beskrovny were recent appointees. Until ten days ago Kagorin and Svetlyn had both been serving as deputies for the men Bulganin summarily dismissed upon taking office. Whether they kept their new posts depended, Nochenko knew, on how well they served as conduits for Bulganin’s decrees. In discussing their promotion with Nochenko, Bulganin had fallen short of admitting he was looking for “yes men,” calling them instead “loyal servants.”

A forty-year veteran of the Russian army, Marshal Beskrovny had served as either Defense Minister or Chief of the General Staff for both Mikhail Gorbachev and Boris Yeltsin, and was a popular figure among the people. Beskrovny was, in Bulganin’s words, a “true herb of the Motherland.”

Sergei Fedorin was the wild card. In the final days before the election the SVR director had helped Bulganin’s cause by publicly recognizing his lead in the polls. As was expected, Bulganin had reciprocated by letting Fedorin stay on. For now.

“Beware the spies,” Bulganin had told Nochenko, quoting yet another Stalinism. “Their eyes are sharp, their hearts black, their knives always ready.”

Bulganin glowered at his cabinet, letting them squirm for a few moments. “Let’s hear it. Kagorin, what do we know about this Chinese absurdity?”

“Beijing is declining all our attempts to communicate,” the foreign minister answered. “As it stands, their deadline will expire in twenty hours.”

“Any sign of what they plan to do then?” asked Nochenko.

Marshal Beskrovny answered. “Aside from a slight increase in their command structure’s alert status, nothing has changed. Across the board, there’s no movement of military units.”

“Fedorin? You agree?”

“I do,” the SVR director replied. “If they’re planning a military response, it won’t come quickly. They don’t have the units in place to do anything significant.”

“More Chinese inscrutability,” Bulganin said. “All bark, no bite. Very well, let the deadline pass. I won’t be dictated to by those little bastards! If they think they can bully me into taking the blame for those mishaps, they are mistaken. What of the U.S. carrier group, Marshal?”

“If it maintains its current course it will be off our coast in three days. According to their Pentagon, the group is on routine maneuvers—”

“That’s a lie.”

“If so, their purpose is plain: They’re hoping the show of power will calm Beijing’s fire a bit.”

“Very kind of them, but we don’t need help handling the Chinese. I want to be kept informed, Marshal, do you understand? Every hour, I want to know what the group is up to.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now: Nakhodka-Vostochny — what happened? What’s the extent of the damage?”

“Severe,” Beskrovny replied. “First reports describe the port as ‘flattened.’”

“Flattened? Flattened! What does that mean? What could do such a thing?”

“Mr. President,” Nochenko answered, “relief crews have just arrived on scene, so it will be a while before we start getting firsthand accounts from survivors. But, as I understand it, the port does handle a lot of petroleum products.”

Bulganin glanced at Marshal Beskrovny. “Is this true?”

“Yes, sir. A petroleum-related accident might explain the damage, but Ivan’s right: We won’t know anything until the crews have a chance to—”

Bulganin’s intercom buzzed. “Yes?”

“Mr. President, I have an urgent call for Marshal Beskrovny.”

“Transfer it in.”

When the phone trilled, Beskrovny picked it up, listened for a full minute, then said, “How certain are you, General? Who confirmed it? I see … yes, of course. We need to be sure. If there’s a mistake—” Beskrovny went silent again, then said, “Very well, I’ll be back to you shortly.”

“What?” Bulganin asked.

“That was the Far East District Commander in Vladivostok. One the relief workers found a … device that looked out of place, so he reported it.”

“What kind of device?” Ivan Nochenko asked.

Beskrovny hesitated. “It’s been identified as what’s called an LTD — a laser target designator. They’re used to guide missiles onto targets.”

“What!” Bulganin roared. “How—”

Nochenko cut him off: “What else, Marshal?”

“The device is standard U.S. military issue.”

“American?” Bulganin murmured, the muscles in his jaw bunching. “The Americans did this?”

“We don’t know that, Mr. President,” Beskrovny replied.

“Then explain the presence of the device.”

“I can’t. Not yet.”

“Do we posses any of these … LTDs?”

“No, sir.”

“Any reason why one should be in the port?” Bulganin pressed.

“No, sir.”

“Would a missile attack explain the devastation?”

“It might. It would depend on—”

“This LTD — it’s operated by ground troops?”

“Yes, sir, but—”

Bulganin held up a hand, silencing Beskrovny. “That’s enough! I’ve heard enough!” He began pacing. “Those bastards … those rotten, backstabbing bastards—”

“Mr. President,” Nochenko said.

“—attack us without provocation … Cowards!”

“Mr. President!”

Bulganin stopped. “What?”

“I agree, it looks bad, but we need to proceed cautiously—”

“Ivan, didn’t you hear? There are enemy soldiers on Russian soil! American soldiers!”

“Let the relief crews do their job. Let Marshal Beskrovny and Director Fedorin investigate the matter. If the Americans are responsible, they will pay, but we must be sure.”

Bulganin stared at him. “Can’t you see the obvious — any of you? They did this. They are responsible. They think I’m weak; they thought this was the perfect time to—” Bulganin stopped talking, closed his eyes for a few moments, then opened them, suddenly calm again. “Fine. Very well. Conduct your investigation. You have twenty-four hours to report back to me.”

Both Fedorin and Beskrovny nodded. “Yes, Mr. President.”

“In the meantime, I want two things from you Marshal Beskrovny: One, hunt down those soldiers. They must not be allowed to escape. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“Second: I don’t want that battle group approaching our coast. Mark my words: None of this is a coincidence. You don’t see it, but I do. I don’t want them anywhere near our soil. If they try it, make them pay for every inch!”

It was four a.m. when Tanner stepped off the bus two blocks from his hotel. He was exhausted and ready for a couple hours of sleep. When he awoke, hopefully Oaken would have the camp’s location.

He walked southeast through a maze of dark hutongs, lined with boarded-up vendor’s stalls and quiet courtyards. Aside from the occasional grunt of a pig or the squawk of a chicken, all was quiet.

Two hundred yards from the Bamboo Garden, he was turning onto Jiugulou when he caught a sudden whiff of cigarette smoke. A mental warning flag popped up. It was nothing concrete, but rather an intuitive punch in the stomach. Having learned the hard way, he’d come to trust the feeling.

He stopped, slowly stepped into a doorway alcove, and crouched in the shadows.

Two minutes passed. Abruptly, down the street in another alcove, the orange tip of a cigarette glowed to life. Just a local having a smoke, Briggs thought, but remained still nonetheless.

After another minute the cigarette glowed again. In those few seconds he caught the glint of olive-drab uniform pants with a red, vertical stripe: People’s Armed Police. Tanner’s heart filled his throat. What were the chances of a lone PAP officer stopping for a break in a darkened doorway just a hundred yards from his hotel?

They’d found him. A dozen questions swirled in his brain. Had Hsiao or Bian burned him? Had they been taken? Or was it something else, a mistake he’d made?

He continued to scan the street and slowly, one by one, he picked out another six men — two PAP officers and four PSB plainclothes — hidden along the street in front of the Bamboo Garden.

Six on this street, probably twice that many inside …

The ambush had to be a Guoanbu operation; only they could coordinate both the PSB and PAP like this. It would only be a matter of time before they began circulating his photo to the city’s local PSB stations — if they hadn’t already started. From there his alias and picture would trickle down to street level until every bus and cabdriver had it.

Get out, Briggs.

Moving slowly, he slipped back around the corner. Heart pounding, eyes darting into the darkness around him, he started walking west, forcing himself to keep an easy pace. Suddenly, a voice came out of the darkness of a hutong entrance: “Stop, sir!”

He stopped in his tracks. Don’t run. Wait.

“Sir, may I see your papers, please?”

He doesn’t know it’s me, Briggs thought. Still a chance.

Hands shaking, Tanner turned toward the voice. It was a uniformed PSB officer. Head tucked into his chest, Briggs patted his coat pockets. “Yes, Officer, I have them right here.” He took a step toward the man. “Yes, here they are …”

As the officer extended his hand for the papers, Tanner sent a straight punch into his solar plexus, then reversed his hand and slammed the butt of his palm into the man’s chin. The officer let out a gasp, then crumpled. Briggs caught him in a hug, then dragged him into the alley, and laid him down.

The thought of killing him flashed briefly through Tanner’s mind, but he dismissed it. It was unnecessary; alive or dead, the officer would be found within a few hours. The incident would be linked to him. Besides, Tanner thought, before this was over there was going to be plenty of mayhem to go around; there was no sense adding to it before he had no other choice.

He dragged the officer deeper into the hutong, stuffed him behind a cluster of garbage cans, then smoothed his clothes, stepped back onto the street, and kept walking until he reached Xitau, where he found another doorway and ducked inside.

He pulled out the Motorola, dialed Hsiao’s number. “Hello?” Hsiao answered groggily.

“It’s me,” Tanner said. “You recognize my voice?”

“Uh … yes. What—”

“How is everything?”

“What?”

“I said, ‘how is everything?’“

“Oh … everything is awful.”

He’s okay, Briggs thought. A standard “fine” response would have meant “trouble; go away.”

“And you?” Hsiao asked.

“The same. That makes two of us,” Tanner replied. This too was code: Don’t know about Bian; check, but use caution. “I’ll be in touch. Take care of yourself.”

“You, too,” Hsiao replied.

As the first hints of dawn were appearing on the horizon, Tanner stepped onto Deshengmen Avenue, flagged down a pedi-taxi — which was the last tier of transportation providers he felt would get his photo — and asked to be taken to the Ditan Gymnasium.

Once there, he walked west to Qingnianhu Park and followed the footpath around the lake to the visitor’s pavilion, a large, open-air amphitheater containing rest rooms, city map displays, and rental lockers. He found the correct locker, inserted his key, and opened the door.

Inside was a expedition-size, waterproof backpack. Thank God …

As promised, Brown and his people had deposited his cache.

Before leaving Washington, Tanner had given Mason a wish list of emergency items. Given not only the Guoanbu’s ultra-secret attitude toward the camp, but also the fact that Beijing had slowly but surely closing urban laogis in favor of more remote locations, he felt certain that sooner or later he’d find himself in the wilds of the Chinese countryside.

He took the backpack into a bathroom stall and took a quick inventory of the pack’s contents. Everything was there.

He stripped off his clothes and pulled on a pair of gray, cotton canvas pants, a matching anorak-type tunic, and a baseball cap, which he pulled low over his eyes, as was the current fashion in Beijing. He hefted the backpack over his shoulder and walked out.

Twenty minutes later he was aboard a rusty, single-speed bicycle he’d found leaning against a tree on Huangsi Boulevard, heading north toward the edge of the city. Head down, baseball cap over his eyes, he pedaled for an hour as the sun rose and throngs of fellow cyclers and taxis began filling the streets around him.

At nine he pulled into Shahe, a suburb twelve miles north of Beijing, leaned the bike against the first bench he saw, and walked on. He found the train station two blocks away and slipped into the bathroom, where he changed back into his regular clothes. A Westerner walking around dressed as a native was bound to arouse suspicion.

At the ticket window he bought tickets for three trains, each leaving within the next twenty minutes: One to Chaoyang, another to Shanghai, and a third to Tianshui. Hopefully, if he didn’t draw attention to himself, there would be no witnesses to confirm which train he’d boarded.

Half mental coin-toss and half hunch that Soong’s camp lay somewhere to the north, Tanner chose the train bound for Chaoyang. As the speaker gave the last boarding call, he got up from his bench and boarded the last car.

Most of the seats were empty. A dozen or so people in peasant dress sat staring out the window or chatting quietly with their seatmates. No one gave him a second look. He found an empty row near the back and sat down.

He took a deep breath and leaned his head back. Almost out …

The loudspeaker above his head blared to life, made a clipped announcement in Mandarin, and then the train started moving. With each clack of the wheels over the joints, he felt himself relax a bit more.

He pulled out his phone, paused a moment to mentally organize his message, then dialed the number and waited. When he got the tone squelch, he punched in the code and hung up.

He glanced out the window, watching the countryside slip past with increasing speed.

Come on, keep moving …

Every mile he could put between himself and the city, the better chance he had of staying alive.

Back in Beijing, the PSB officer he’d disabled was found by a street sweeper. Twenty minutes after the call arrived, Xiang was on the scene. The officer was sitting against the hutong wall being attended by an emergency medical technician.

“What happened?” Xiang asked Eng.

“We don’t know yet; he’s just coming around. This close to Colson’s hotel, though—”

“Yes, it’s him,” Xiang said tiredly. There hadn’t been a mugging of a PSB officer in thirty years; this was not random. “Another hundred meters and he would have walked right into us!”

Xiang walked over to the officer and dismissed the EMT. Xiang questioned the dazed man for ten minutes, frequently having to repeat questions. “You’re certain you didn’t get a look at his face?”

“No, sir, I’m sorry. I asked for his papers and then … I don’t—”

“Did he seem nervous? In a hurry?”

“No, sir. He was just … walking.”

Very cool, this one, Xiang thought.

“It happened so fast … I was reaching for his papers and then … I woke up here.”

“Very well. Go to the hospital, have yourself checked.”

Xiang walked a few feet away, Eng trailing behind. “Where do we stand with the photo?”

“We’re distributing them now. The airport and all the train and bus stations are covered.”

“Widen it,” Xiang ordered. “I want every taxi driver to know his face. Someone has seen him. He’s only a few hours ahead of us; if we move quickly, we’ll have him before the day is out.”

DDO George Coates happened to be in the center when Tanner’s message arrived. The duty officer called from the communications desk: “Mr. Coates, traffic on Pelican.” Pelican was the computer-generated code word for Tanner and the Beijing operation.

Coates walked over and scanned the message. “Goddammit, call Dick Mason. If Dutcher’s up there, have him come along.”

They walked in five minutes later. “Pelican,” Coates said, handing over the message. It read,

“He’s safe at least,” Dutcher said. The “Bravo Yankee” sign off was what’s called a “no duress” signal. It was Tanner’s way of letting them know he was in fact free, and not being coerced into transmitting. “That’s the most important part.”

Dutcher meant it, but beyond that he felt events were quickly slipping away from them: China’s deadline was less than a day away and as they’d predicted, Bulganin wasn’t backing down; Jurens and his team, though safe for now, were stranded on Russian soil with no way to get out; and finally, he, Mason, and Cathermeier were still days away from being ready to confront Martin. If their plan was to succeed, one more coconspirator had to enlist.

The only good news — if it could be called that — had come from Columbia the day before: Kinsock and his crew were alive, but their position was perilous. Though wary of leaving the battle group with only one sub for cover, Cathermeier had ordered Cheyenne, another LA-class attack boat, dispatched toward the coordinates given by Columbia’s SLOT buoy.

Cathermeier was not hopeful. Unless Kinsock could get Columbia moving under her own power and into deeper water where Cheyenne could protect her, little could to be done for the boat until a rescue mission could be coordinated — itself a dicey proposition given her proximity to the mainland.

And now Briggs, Dutcher thought. On the run, alone and hunted by the Guoanbu, the PAP, and the PSB, he’d be lucky to get out alive, let along reach Soong.

“Yeah, he’s safe,” Mason agreed, “but for how long? How long can he last?”

Xiang’s feeling that he knew his quarry had evolved into a certainty.

By noon, Colson’s picture had been distributed to every taxi and bus driver, to every train station, and to every PSB officer, from foot patrols to branch commanders. He’d disappeared. The coolness of the man, his ability to simply fade into Beijing’s background, reminded Xiang of another cat-and-mouse game he’d played with another agent twelve years ago.

Marshal Han Soong’s mysterious benefactor.

He picked up the phone and called for Eng. His assistant arrived a minute later. “Yes, sir?”

“Pull the case file from Soong’s defection.”

The file was exhaustive except when it came to Soong’s intermediary. They had one photo, a black-and-white half profile of a Westerner. Xiang laid it beside Colson’s passport photo and stared at them until both images were etched in his mind.

He closed his eyes and let the photos merge, using his imagination to rotate them, change the angles and lighting … He spent ten minutes like this, waiting for his subconscious to do the work.

Add a decade to the age, lighten the hair, give the face a beard …

Xiang’s reverie was broken by a knock on his door. “Come!”

It was Eng. “Sir, are you—”

Xiang silenced him with a raised finger.

It’s you, isn’t it? You came back for him, you stupid son-of-a-bitch. You came back …

“That’s him!”

“Who?”

“His name is Briggs Tanner — Soong’s long-lost friend.”

“How do you know his name?” Eng asked. “Soong never gave us—”

“My God, the arrogance! I’ll say this: He’s patient. Twelve years and he still came back.”

“How do we know that’s why he’s here? It could be anything—”

“No. Soong’s the reason.” Xiang’s phone rang and he snatched it up. “Yes?” He listened for a minute, then said, “I’m on my way.” He hung up. “We have a lead.”

“Where?”

“The Shahe train station. A ticket agent remembers seeing Tanner earlier this morning.”

Forty minutes later they arrived at the station.

The PSB officer who reported the sighting was waiting in the office. Sitting on a stool in the corner was an old woman in a ticket-agent apron. She glanced at Xiang, then cast her eyes downward.

“Tell me,” Xiang said to the PSB officer.

“She sold him three tickets: Chaoyang, Shanghai, and Tianshui. We’re questioning passengers who might have been here at the time, but so far we haven’t determined which train he boarded.”

“Smart move, buying three tickets,” Eng said.

“We’ll cover them all,” Xiang said. “Where are the trains now?”

“The Chaoyang and Tianshiu have already arrived. The Shanghai one is still en route.”

“Eng, have it stopped and searched.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then contact the PSB commandant in Chaoyang and Tianshiu and have them cover the stations. I want everyone questioned, from the ticket agents to the janitors. If Tanner was on one of those trains, someone had to have seen him. If need be, we’ll put people on every connection.”

Does he know where the camp is? Xiang wondered. No, he couldn’t. No chance.

Then where was he going? If anything, time and experience would have made Tanner wilier, more resourceful. He was moving with purpose, but what was it? Had the ambush at the hotel scared him off? Xiang doubted it. So, if he wasn’t running, what was he doing?

It didn’t matter, he decided. Before the day was out they would have him. Of course, he’d said the same thing twelve years ago. Tanner hadn’t been supposed to escape then, either. “Eng, assemble a search team. Call General Shiun at Fifteenth Army and tell him I want a company of his Dragons—”

“Paratroopers?”

“That’s right. And a pair of helicopters — Hinds. If Tanner manages to slip us again, we’ll hunt him down the old-fashioned way.”

The loudspeaker above Tanner’s head blared to life again, made another curt announcement in Mandarin, then went silent. He was unable to decipher most of it, but caught the word “Chaoyang.”

He opened his map and did a quick calculation. Good. His ruse at the Shahe Station had bought him almost 220 miles. He was refolding his map when the vibration ringer on the Motorola went off. He pulled it off his belt and read the LED screen: Pager message. He punched up the message:

Briggs smiled. Bless you, Walt. He dialed the routing number, punched in the codes for “Message Received” and “In Transit,” then hung up, reopened his map and plotted the coordinates.

No, that can’t be right … He plotted them again, and came up with the same answer. Good God … His journey had just started.

The camp was far to the north, deep in the forests and mountains of the Heilongjiang Province.

He had another three hundred miles to go.

With a great sigh of steam, the locomotive slowed beside the red-and-green-bannered platform and jolted to a stop. The car’s occupants got up and started filing toward the door. Tanner followed.

Chaoyang lay at the heart of Liaodong Province, a farming region mostly bordered by the forests of the Changbei Massif to the east and the rolling foothills of the Chingan range to the west.

Briggs kept his face in his map as he passed the conductor’s assistant and stepped down onto the platform. He blinked against the bright sun and pulled up his collar. The temperature hovered around fifty degrees. A brisk spring day.

He found the ticket office and repeated his Shahe ruse, buying tickets for Shenyang to the east, Datong to the west, and Fuxin to the northeast, which would be his next destination.

If he could make it that far, his choices of routes and connections into Heilongjiang Province increased, thereby making it harder for Xiang to track him.

Thirty minutes passed before the loudspeaker announced boarding for Changchun. He waited for the third call, then boarded and walked to the rearmost of the train’s eight cars. Only six other people occupied seats. Several of them clutched chickens or potbellied pigs in their laps.

As he passed, an old woman gave him a gap-toothed grin. “Zoo shang hao.” Good morning.

Briggs nodded and smiled back, surprised to feel a flood of gratitude wash over him. However small, the human contact felt good. To her, it didn’t matter that he was waiguoren.

“Ai, ail” the woman called to him. She reached into her pocket, pulled out an egg, and handed it to him. “Hao chi, hao chi!” Good eats.

Tanner took the egg and patted her hand. During hard times this one egg might have been an entire meal for her. He said, “Xiexie buxie, ma pengyou.” Providing he’d gotten the inflection right, he’d said, “Thank you, old mother.” If he’d botched it, he’d just called her a horse.

The woman smiled back. “Bu kegi, huang tou!” You’re welcome, blond hair.

They shared a laugh, then Tanner wandered to the back of the car and found an empty seat and waited, coiled like a spring, until the train began moving.

An hour later and fifty miles out of Chaoyang, they were entering a wooded valley north of Jiudaoling when the train suddenly lurched, followed by the shriek of metal on metal. The train began slowing. The other passengers started murmuring and looking around.

Briggs opened his window and stuck his head out.

Ahead lay a road junction; sitting across the tracks was a black Peugeot. One man sat behind the wheel, while two more, each wearing charcoal gray suits, stood at it’s side.

PSB. Someone at either Shahe or Chaoyang had identified him.

The screeching continued until the train ground to a halt fifty yards from the Peugeot.

Two of the PSB officers walked to the locomotive, had a brief shouted conversation with the engineer, then boarded the first car. Moments later, Tanner heard some shouting from the cars ahead and caught a few snippets: “Stay seated … have papers ready …”

The locomotive’s whistle blew and the train started chugging forward again. Whether it was due to a mistake on the part of the officers, or to an engineer dedicated to his schedule, Tanner had just gotten a break. He knew he couldn’t elude them on the train, but if he could get off without them noticing …

He looked up the aisle. The old woman was leaning out, looking back at him.

She frowned, worry lines around her eyes. “Ni?” You?

He nodded and said, “Shi.” then added a phrase he hoped translated into “egg thief.”

The old woman laughed uproariously, then glanced through the adjoining car’s vestibule. She pushed her palm at him several times and said, “Zou, zou.” Go, go. With the chicken clutched to her chest, she stood up and began waddling up the aisle.

She’s going to run interference for me, Briggs thought. “Bui shi!” he called. No, don’t.

She turned and shooed him. “Zou!”

She disappeared through the doors.

The only way he could help her now was to not be found. Hopefully, none of the other passengers would report her complicity. They were looking at him, eyes wide, but he saw no anger, merely worry.

He opened the rear door and stepped onto the platform.

On either side, the ground raced past, a blur of green underbrush. Cold wind whipped around him. About a hundred yards from the tracks was a line of thick fir trees.

With one hand on the railing, Tanner descended the steps then leaned out. The ground was mercifully flat, but that was no guarantee. Movie portrayals aside, jumping from a moving train — a moving anything, for that matter — was no easy stunt. At this speed, he would hit the ground at nearly quadruple his weight.

From the train came more shouts and the sound of a chicken squawking. He peeked through the door. The PSB officers were in the next car forward.

Time to go.

He leaned out, took a deep breath, and jumped.

The ground rushed toward him. He tucked himself into a ball, rounding his shoulders and covering his head with his hands. He began tumbling. He let himself go limp. On the second revolution, his tailbone slammed into the ground. With a grunt, all the air rushed from his lungs.

After a few seconds he stopped rolling and lay perfectly still, willing himself to meld into the ground. Don’t move, don’t move …

“Aiyahhh!” came a shout. Tanner lifted his head. Framed in one of the train’s windows was one of the PSB men. “Aiyahhh!” he shouted again.

Dumbfounded, Tanner watched as the man pulled open the window and began crawling through, legs first. On his belly, he extended one leg, then the other until he was dangling from the pane. The man dropped. He hit the ground and began tumbling, limbs flailing like those of a rag doll.

Tanner didn’t wait to see his landing. He snatched up his backpack and started running.

Behind him, a shout in English: “Stop! Stop there!”

Seconds later Tanner heard the double crack of gunfire and felt something tug at his sleeve.

Son-of-a-bitch. He put his head down and kept running.

In seconds he reached the tree line. Darkness enveloped him. The air cooled. He spotted a game trail and followed it. Behind him came the crunch of footfalls and more calls of “Stop!”

He glanced over his shoulder. He caught a glimpse of the PSB man twisting and ducking through the trees as he straggled to catch up. The trail led deeper into the forest. Soon the ground began to slope downward.

He started down the embankment, lost his footing on the pine needles, and started skidding. His hip slammed into a tree trunk. He gasped, rolled away, scrambled to his knees and kept going.

The path widened suddenly. The trail forked, north and south, both following the edge of a swamp. Half-dead sycamore trees lined the bank, their exposed roots jutting from the mud.

At a sprint, Tanner reached the edge of the bank, dropped hard onto his butt, and slid feet-first into the water. He resurfaced, snatched a breath, then ducked under and scrabbled back to the bank. As he’d hoped, the water had undercut the mud, leaving behind nooks among the tree roots. He wriggled himself into the darkened interior and went still.

He heard the pound of footsteps on the trail above. They paused at the fork for several seconds, then resumed, heading north.

Atta boy, keep running—

The footsteps stopped.

Following my prints, Tanner thought. He closed his eyes, straining to listen.

There was ten seconds of silence, then the footsteps came again, moving slowly toward the bank. Above his head, a twig snapped.

Ever so slowly, Tanner shrugged off his backpack and wedged it between the roots. He took a breath, ducked under, then peeked out.

And found himself staring at the toe of a shoe.

With one hand shading his eyes, the PSB man scanned the water. In his left hand was a revolver.

The PSB man looked down. They locked eyes.

“Aiyahhh!”

The man raised his gun hand, bringing it level with Tanner’s head. Briggs launched himself from the water, locked his hands around the man’s ankles and pulled. The man dropped to his butt. Tanner flipped him onto his belly, then dropped his weight, levering him into the water. The gun slipped from the man’s hand and plunged into the murk.

Sputtering, the man thrashed to the surface. Tanner ducked under, hands groping. His fingers touched metal. He grabbed the gun, missed, tried again. His palm closed over the gun’s checkered grip. He pushed off the bottom and broke the surface, gun leveled in what he hoped was the right direction.

The man was standing five feet away, shaking his head clear of water. He glared at Tanner. Briggs gestured toward the bank. The man didn’t move. He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a slender object. With a click, the switchblade popped open.

“Don’t,” Tanner warned. “Bu shi.” No.

Knife held before him, the man started toward him.

“Bu shi!” Tanner said again. “Stop.”

The man muttered something in Chinese, then in English: “Surrender!” and kept coming.

“Goddammit, don’t!” Briggs shouted.

The man lunged forward. Tanner pulled the trigger — and got a dull click.

Empty cylinder.

The man was falling toward him, knife arcing downward.

Tanner ducked left but lost his balance and slipped under the surface. The man plodded through the water, stabbing and slashing at Tanner’s legs. Briggs felt a sting in his left calf, rolled away, then stuck his arm out of the water and pulled the trigger.

Click.

Again.

The gun boomed.

A quarter-size hole appeared in the man’s chest. He stumbled backward, blinked his eyes a few times, then fell backward into the water, dead.

He searched the body, but found only a few yuan notes and a PSB ID card; he pocketed both. Then he steered the corpse under the shelf and wedged it into the root system.

Dragging his pack behind him, he crawled up onto the bank, stripped off his clothes, and sat down to examine the cut on his calf. It was deep, about three inches long, and in need of stitches. He unzipped the pack, pulled out the med-kit and set to work closing the wound with tape sutures.

The ground around him was a muddy mess of overlapping footprints and scuff marks that no amount of camouflage would cover. When Xiang’s team got here, they’d read the signs clearly.

Maybe there was a way to use that.

He needed to put as much distance between himself and this spot as quickly as possible. The question was, how far and how long could he ran? When Xiang and his searchers got here, they would ask the same question; their answer would decide how far out they cast their initial net.

Briggs ripped the dressing off his wound, retrieved a small squeeze bottle of saline solution from the med-kit, and emptied it. Teeth gritted against the pain, he squeezed the cut until the blood began flowing again, then held the mouth of the bottle beneath it. When he had about three ounces, he screwed the top on, then redressed the cut.

He stood up and put his weight on the leg: a little pain, but not bad.

From the pack he pulled out a set of camouflage BDUs — pants, shirt, field jacket — and got dressed. He slipped on a dry pair of wool socks, followed by a one-piece Gore-Tex thermal underwear suit, then pulled on his boots, then covered his face and hands with black grease paint.

Next, using strips of black duct tape, he secured the bottle upside down to his right calf. He stomped his foot. Blood onto the ground. Good enough.

He checked his map, took a few compass readings, then cinched the pack onto his shoulders and starting jogging.

Darkness was falling when Xiang’s helicopter landed in the field beside the tree line.

He and Eng were met by a soldier in camouflage dress with a lieutenant’s insignia on one collar and a black dragon pin on the other. As Xiang approached, the lieutenant snapped to attention and saluted.

“Sir! Lieutenant Shen, Company B, Flying Dragons. General Shiun sends his regards.”

“How many man do you have?”

“Sixty. Half are here, the other half are on their way.”

“Show me what you have.”

Shen led them into the trees and down the trail to the swamp. “We found the body stuffed under a shelf in the bank,” Shen explained. “He was shot once. His gun and ID card are missing. According to the PSB commander in Chaoyang, the man’s name was Peng. He’d been on the job only a year.”

“How is that relevant?” Xiang asked.

“I just … I thought you’d like to know, sir. He was one of ours.”

“Let his family mourn him.” Xiang shined his flashlight around. “There was a struggle here.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Was he killed here or in the water?”

“In the water, I believe. There’s blood on the ground, but not enough.”

“Then it’s Tanner’s blood. He’s hurt.”

Shen nodded. “Yes, sir. Come this way;”

They walked down the trail. Shen pointed to the ground. “He came this way. Take a look at the right print … See it? Compare the heel depth to the left one.”

Xiang squatted down. “It’s deeper.”

“He’s favoring his right leg — limping badly. See the blood splotches beside the heel?”

“Yes.”

“He’s seeping blood from a wound on his right leg. Whatever it is, it’s bad. I sent a tracker to scout his trail; the blood keeps going.”

Good, Xiang thought. At least the late Officer Peng marked him for us. “How far could a man in that condition get?”

“What kind of man?”

“Your caliber, perhaps better.”

Shen cocked his head. “He’s been running for four hours, tired and in pain, losing blood … Plus, he’d probably stay in trees, which would slow him down … I’d say twelve miles at most. If you can get me some dogs and handlers, I’ll have him for you by dawn.”

“Get started,” Xiang ordered. “You’ll have dogs within the hour.”

A few hours after he and Skeldon returned from the silver mine, Cahil was set to work.

With a few murmured orders from their colonel, the commandos began laying crates at his feet: C4, detonators, detcord, and six pieces of heavy, steel pipe, each closed at one end, about a foot long, and a few inches smaller in diameter than the bore holes in the mine.

They want me to build shaped charges, Cahil thought.

A shaped charge is designed to focus explosive force in a specific direction. On a small scale, antiterrorist units use them to knock down doors; on a larger scale, military demolition teams and miners use them to punch holes through obstacles and solid rock.

The idea here would be to slide the charges into the bore holes until they were resting against the bedrock. Upon detonation, the force of each charge would have nowhere to go but through the rock and into the dam’s footings, setting off a shock wave that would ripple and crack the rest of the dam. With each charge packing ten pounds of C4, it would have enough force to create a car-size crater.

Cahil stared at the crates for several moments, his mind whirling. He was in an impossible position. He couldn’t build these charges — or at least he couldn’t build them to work — but if he chose either of those options, he had little doubt they’d kill him on the spot They’d come here to not only destroy the Chono, but to die here as well. For all he knew, they were perfectly capable of building the charges themselves, and his participation was simply more window dressing.

So where did that leave him? Counting Skeldon as an enemy, the odds against him were seven to one. But should he count Skeldon as an enemy? He was assuming so, but was he certain?

The colonel walked over, gave him a grim stare, and gestured to the crates: Get started.

Skeldon walked over and sat down. “How goes it?”

“Getting there,” Cahil replied.

“What is that you’re using — steel wool?”

Cahil nodded. “For the best effect, the inside of the pipe needs to be completely smooth.”

“Why?”

“You never handled shaped charges in the Lurps?”

Skeldon smiled. “Hey, man, we were all booby traps and small IM stuff,” he replied, referring to improvised munitions. “We left the bunker busting to the engineers.”

“The theory’s pretty simple: The bowl — in this case, this pipe — acts as a lens to focus the explosion. If the pipe isn’t smooth, some of the force might get redirected.”

“Gotcha. Want some help?”

“Sure. Start with the next pipe.”

After working in silence for a few minutes, Cahil decided to dive in. It was time to find out where Skeldon stood. “Mike, what do you know about these guys?”

“Not much. They’re special forces types, that’s obvious.”

“They’re called Flying Dragons; they’re paratroopers — the cream of Chinese special forces.”

“How the hell do you know that?”

“Mike, you know they’re going to kill us once we’re done, don’t you?”

Skeldon’s head snapped. “Keep your goddamned voice down,” he whispered. “That’s crap — you’re full of crap.”

“You think so? How do you imagine it happening? We blow up the dam, have a little lunch with our new friends, then drive south and share a tearful good-bye at the border?”

Skeldon frowned, clearly uncomfortable. “Yeah, something like that.”

“Nothing like that. Once we set these charges, we’re dead men.”

“Who the hell are you? Where’s all this shit coming from?”

“I can tell who I’m not: I’m not Stan Kycek—”

“What the hell—”

“My name is Ian Cahil, and I work for our government.”

Skeldon tensed, preparing to stand. Cahil clamped a hand onto his thigh. “Sit down.”

“Go to hell.”

“Mike, I have no intention of dying here. I’ve got a wife and two kids back home, and I want to see them again. Now sit down, or I’ll kill you before you reach your feet.”

Skeldon stayed seated, but stared Cahil in the eyes. Measuring me, he thought.

“I mean it,” Bear pressed. “Better I kill you now; it evens my odds.”

After a few moments, Skeldon picked up his pipe and began working. “Okay, start talking. Where’s the real Kycek?”

“In a CIA safe house, thanking his lucky stars we got to him before he left.”

“How’d you find him?”

“It’s a long story.”

“I wanna hear it.”

“You know about Baker?”

“What about him?”

“He’s dead — he and his family.”

“What?”

Cahil spent the next twenty minutes taking Skeldon through the Baker case, from Latham’s entry into it, through his trip to Asheville and his discovery of Lamar Sampson and Stan Kycek.

He ended by explaining the scope of the Chinese plan: the SEALs at Nakhodka-Vostochny; the battle group; China’s ultimatum to Russia; and finally, the reason they were sitting in the middle of Siberia making improvised shaped charges. The one item he left out — Martin’s complicity in the affair — was something Skeldon could not know about.

“I don’t believe it,” Skeldon said.

“Why would I lie?”

Skeldon sighed and shook his head, frustrated. “I don’t know. Are you lying?”

“No. It’s time for you to decide, Mike: Whose side are you on? If we don’t stop this here, there’s gonna be a war. I need your help. I can’t do it alone.”

Skeldon stared at him. “We’re in some deep shit, aren’t we?”

“Yep.”

Skeldon chuckled humorlessly. “I guess there’s some loyalty left in me after all. Okay, Ian Cahil, what do you want to do?”

The Towncar carrying Mason, Dutcher, and Cathermeier pulled up to the side entrance of the Naval Observatory at the corner of Massachusetts and 34th and stopped. Also known as the Admiral House, the white-brick Victorian was the official residence of the vice president of the United States.

Flanked by two Secret Service agents, the chief of the detail stepped forward and opened the door. “Evening, Gentlemen. If you’ll follow me, please.”

Always discreet, Dutcher thought. If the agents were at all curious why their boss was receiving a late night visit from the director of central intelligence, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, and a long-retired CIA veteran, they gave no indication of it. If the matter didn’t involve the safety of their charge, it didn’t involve them.

They were led through the French doors into the foyer, then down a long hallway. The agent stopped before a door, knocked once, then opened it. He gestured for them to enter, then closed the door behind them.

With its green-baize wall coverings and heavy, brocade drapes, Vice President David Lahey’s study reminded Dutcher of a reading room in an old gentlemen’s club. Oil paintings depicting various naval battles decorated the walls. A fire burned in a flagstone hearth.

At forty-two, Lahey was one of the youngest vice presidents in contemporary history, and since joining the Martin ticket, had struggled to shrug off the shadow of the “Quayle Syndrome.” Lahey was bright, down-to-earth, and like Martin’s former boss, President John Haverland, dedicated to the value of service — all of which had thus far been obscured by the debate over Lahey’s age.

The rumor among Washington insiders was that Martin and Lahey’s relationship was strained, and Dutcher suspected it was because Lahey was realizing what many people already knew: Consummate politician though he was, Phillip Martin was about as genuine as a nine-dollar bill.

Lahey came from around his desk and greeted them, shaking hands first with Cathermeier, then Mason, then finally Dutcher. “Leland, I don’t think we’ve met. Welcome.”

“Thank you, Mr. Vice President.”

They arranged themselves in a semicircle of wingback chairs beside the fireplace. Lahey poured each of them a cup of coffee, then said, “Leland, did Chuck ever tell you how we met?”

“He told me you were friends, but nothing else.”

“We were both serving at the National War College over at Fort McNair. Chuck was a colonel, I a lowly second lieutenant. One day we were war-gaming a problem involving the Balkans—”

“Macedonia,” Cathermeier corrected him.

“That’s right — Macedonia. Idiot that I am, I decided I understood the scenario better than Chuck, and before I knew it we were in a shouting match. Here’s this roomful of army and navy officers watching some fresh-mouthed lieutenant flushing his career down the drain.”

“What happened?” asked Dutcher.

“I’ll tell you what happened,” Cathermeier answered. “David turned out to be right. We played out both our solutions — his worked, mine didn’t.”

“Dumb luck,” Lahey said. “Afterward, Chuck walks up to me — with the whole room still watching, mind you — apologizes, then hands me his fountain pen, and says, ‘My sword, sir.’”

Dutcher and Mason burst out laughing.

“I still have that pen,” Lahey said. “I carry it everywhere.”

Cathermeier said, “I’m still hoping to win it back some day.”

“Not likely,” Lahey shot back

After a few moments of laughter, Lahey poured himself another cup of coffee. “I have to admit, gentlemen, you’ve piqued my interest. When Chuck asked for this meeting, I wasn’t quite sure what to think. Who’s going to put me out of my suspense?”

As planned, Cathermeier took the lead. Given his relationship with the vice president, he had the best chance of getting Lahey to listen. “David, we’ve got a problem with Martin.”

“Then you’ve joined a sizable club. Many people do.”

“It goes beyond personality, I’m afraid.”

“Go on.”

It took thirty minutes for Cathermeier to lay out their evidence. Occasionally, Dutcher or Mason would interrupt to clarify a point, but Lahey himself never spoke, simply listening, his face unreadable, until Cathermeier was done

Lahey stood up, walked to the fireplace, and stared into the flames.

Dutcher held his breath. This was the watershed. All Lahey had to do was pick up the phone and they were finished. Dutcher studied Lahey’s face, looking for a sign.

“Leland, Dick, you were wise to let Chuck do the talking. If anyone else had brought this to me … I’m not going to ask if you’re sure about this. I can see by your faces that you are. When does China’s deadline expire?”

Mason said, “Four hours.”

“Do we have any idea what will come after that — or how soon?”

“No, sir.”

“I want to talk to Bousikaris myself.”

Cathermeier nodded. “We thought you might. He’s in the car.”

Lahey remained seated as Bousikaris entered. “Come on in, Howard.” Dutcher, Mason, and Cathermeier stood behind Lahey’s chair, hands clasped. “Have a seat.”

Bousikaris’s eyes were bloodshot and droopy. As he sat down, his shoulders slumped forward.

“Is it true, Howard?”

Bousikaris nodded. “Yes, sir, I’m afraid it is.”

“Look at me, Howard.” Bousikaris stared at his lap. “Howard: Look at me.” Bousikaris did so. “If you’re under duress, being pressured somehow into—”

“No.”

“If you are, say so now. This is serious business we’re talking about. Is everything they’ve told me the truth? Martin, the election, China — everything?”

“Yes.”

Lahey sighed. “Jesus, Howard, how in God’s name did you let this happen? You’re smarter than that. Do you know what you’ve done? Do you have any idea?”

Bousikaris nodded; his cheek twitched. “I’m sorry.”

“Unfortunately, sorry isn’t enough. You and that … narcissistic son-of-a-bitch have brought us — and maybe the whole world — to the brink of war. Get out of here, Howard.”

Once Bousikaris was gone, Lahey said, “Gentlemen, I wish there were time for me to absorb this, but I suspect time is the one thing we don’t have. What are we going to do, and what’s my part?”

Mason answered. “It’s pretty straightforward, Mr. Vice President. You’re going to have to take over the country and stop a war.”

Though Tanner had no way of knowing it, his ruse at the swamp had done its job.

As he was approaching the eastern outskirts of Fuxin, Xiang and his searchers were following his trail twenty-five miles to the south, certain their injured quarry could not be far ahead.

But the price for Briggs had been high.

Aside from hourly five-minute breaks to drink from his canteen, eat a handful of trail mix and a few bites of jerky, he’d been running for six hours through the forests and valleys that bordered the rail line between Jiudaoling and Fuxin.

Always keeping the tracks in sight, he stayed just outside the tree line, using the moonlight to pick his way along. After an hour, his face and hands were scratched bloody and his shins bruised from multiple falls. His BDUs became splotched and stained with tree sap, pine needles, and leaves.

Three hours into his run, the pack’s straps began chafing his shoulders and before long he could feel blisters forming. With nothing to be done about it, he kept running. He focused his mind on his breathing, using its rhythm to blot out everything but the trail ahead and the forest’s night sounds.

Halfway through every hour he would stop, backtrack a few hundred yards and sit still in the undergrowth, listening and watching for signs of pursuit. Twice he saw the twinkling of aircraft strobes to the south and caught the faint thumping of helicopter rotors. He heard the distant howling of dogs, but couldn’t be sure whether they were tracking hounds, or local pets. To be safe, he assumed the former.

Dogs could be both a blessing and a curse, he knew. While dogs were nearly impossible to elude without a substantial head start, search parties that used them tended to rely too heavily on their cues. Without a good mix of both ground-scent and air-scent dogs, searchers could easily get mired in following dead ends and tangents.

Through the night and into the early morning hours, Tanner kept running, counting his strides to keep pace, listening to his breathing, watching for obstacles and avoiding open ground — all the while covering a mile every ten minutes — all the while pulling farther and farther ahead of his pursuers.

With dawn still a couple hours away, he emerged from the forest on a ridge overlooking the small town of Xinqiu north of Fuxin.

He got out his binoculars, found the train tracks leading in from the south, and followed them until he spotted an old clapboard terminal building on the northern edge of the town. A single light shone through one of the station’s windows: the conductor’s office, he assumed. Sitting on the tracks closest to the platform was a caboose; ahead of it, a string of ten cars — four passenger, five freight, and a tender — and a locomotive with smoke wafting from its stack. The number on its side read 17.

Gearing up for departure? Tanner wondered. The kernel of a plan formed in his mind, and he played with it for a few minutes before deciding it was worth a try.

On the secondary track behind the station was a line of fifty or sixty empty freight cars. Tanner studied each one, estimating its length, then made a quick calculation. Fifty cars, each roughly thirty feet long … The string was over a quarter mile long. Even better.

Thirty minutes later he was lying on his belly in the bushes across from the station.

Nothing was moving and aside from tinny strains of beiqu, or Chinese opera, music filtering through the office window, all was quiet. In the distance, a train whistle wailed and then faded.

After a few more minutes of watching, he got up, ran across the tracks, and knelt beside the platform where he could see through the lighted window. Inside, an elderly man sat dozing in a chair, his feet propped on the desk.

Tanner spotted the schedule board: Train 17 was at the top of the list: Yingkou.

Yingkou was a port city on the Bo Hai Gulf about one hundred miles to the south. He checked his watch: ninety minutes until departure. He would be cutting it close, but the risk was worth it.

He collected half a dozen small stones, then crept to the rear of the caboose, mounted the steps to the platform, and slipped inside. Hunched over, he walked down the aisle to the vestibule, opened the door, and stepped through. He clicked on his penlight and shined it over his head. He popped open the maintenance hatch, pushed his pack through, then chinned himself up and out onto the roof.

Crouching at the edge of the car, he tossed his pack across the gap onto the platform roof as gently as he could. He dropped onto his belly and went still. One minute passed … two … The beiqu from the office continued uninterrupted.

Briggs took a deep breath, then leapt across, using his hands to distribute the impact.

He crept across the roof until he was centered over the office, then lay on his belly and shimmied to the edge. From his pocket he withdrew the PSB man’s ID card, took aim, and flicked it onto the platform.

He crossed to the opposite side of the roof where the empty freight cars began, then repeated the earlier process, first tossing his backpack onto the car’s roof, then leaping across to join it.

Almost there.

He pulled the stones from his pocket, chose the biggest one, took aim, and threw. It struck the platform with a thud, bounced twice, then smacked into the station wall. From the office there was a shout of surprise and the clatter of chair wheels on the wooden floor. The beiqu music stopped.

The office door opened, casting a yellow patch of light on the platform. The conductor stepped out and looked around. He walked to the edge of the platform, stopped with his foot almost touching the ID card, and scanned the tracks.

Come on, Tanner urged. Look down …

The man looked around for a few seconds, then turned back. Then stopped. He looked down and bent over, picked up the card, then walked back inside.

Good man, Tanner thought.

He stood up, donned his pack, and started jogging down the car’s roofs. When he reached the last one, he climbed down the side ladder to the track bed, and started running north.

Twenty-six miles to the south, Xiang was following a service road along the rail line. Lieutenant Shen drove while Eng sat in the backseat. Behind were a pair of army trucks loaded with the rest of the paratroopers.

To the east, Xiang could hear the braying of the tracking dogs.

Enough of this, he thought. “Stop.”

“Sir?” said Shen.

“Stop driving!” Shen slammed on the brakes. “What is it, sir?”

“How far have we come from the swamp?”

Shen unfolded his map. “Almost sixteen miles.”

“A long way for an injured man, wouldn’t you say?”

Shen shrugged.

“Who’s your second-in-command? Who’ve you got with the dog handlers?”

“Sergeant Hjiu.”

Xiang picked up the portable radio. “Xiang to Hjiu, do you read me?”

“Yes, sir, go ahead.”

“Stop everyone where they are. We’re coming to join you.”

Shen pulled the vehicle as close to the tree line as possible, then they got out and walked the rest of the way. Hjiu was in a clearing of trees. “Where’s the track?” Xiang asked.

“This way.”

Hjiu led them down a trail to where the lead handler was giving his dog some water. “He’s heading in roughly the same direction,” Hjiu reported. “Roughly northeast. The scent is still strong.”

Xiang turned to the handler. “Is there still blood?”

“Here and there, but not as much anymore.”

“What about the tracks themselves?”

“Pardon, sir?”

“Any sign that he’s favoring either leg?”

“No, sir. The strides are long and even. The dogs have a strong scent, though—”

“Dammit!” Xiang roared. “It was a ruse! He was never injured.”

Lieutenant Shen said, “But the blood—”

“Who knows … it doesn’t matter. We’re wasting our time! He’s had almost eight hours. He could be anywhere. Shen, order your men back aboard the trucks!”

They were on the outskirts of Fuxin when the lead truck flashed its headlights. Shen pulled over; the truck’s driver jogged up. “A call on the base radio, Director Xiang. Peng’s ID card was found.”

“Where?”

“At the Xinqiu train station, just north of Fuxin — less than an hour ago. The conductor found it and called the PSB branch in Fuxin.”

“That’s impossible!” Shen said. “There’s no way he could cover that distance on foot.”

“Why not?” Xiang replied. “Could you? Could one of your men?”

“Yes, sir, but we’re—”

“And so is he — if not better.”

“It’s almost fifty miles!”

“And he’s had almost twelve hours.”

“Yes, but—”

“But nothing. You’re thinking with your pride, Shen. Tanner made us think what he wanted us to think — he tricked us into wasting our time.”

“Perhaps, now he’s spent. Running that far probably cost him every ounce of energy he had.”

“On that, we agree,” Xiang replied. And tired men make mistakes. “How far to Xinqiu?”

“Ten miles.”

“Let’s go.”

Twenty minutes later they were standing on the Xinqiu platform with the conductor. The sun was fully up. A thin fog hovered over the ground. Down on the tracks, Shen and the handlers were working the area around the station. The dogs yipped excitedly and ran in circles.

“Where did you find it?” Xiang asked, studying the card.

“Over there,” the conductor said. “Near the caboose.”

“Caboose? What caboose?”

“For the Seventeen. It left about forty minutes ago.”

“Hjiu! What’ve you found?”

“Strong scent, sir. It looks like he laid in those bushes over there, then walked to the platform and then back around to the tracks. But from there—”

“The trail disappears,” Xiang finished.

“Yes, sir.”

“Where’s that train headed?” Xiang asked the conductor.

“Yingkou. It should arrive in about … an hour.”

Eng said, “Stop the train?”

“No,” Xiang answered. “Let him think he’s safe. Call for the helicopter, then get Yingkou’s PSB commander on the line. We’ll grab him when he steps off the train.”

Five miles to the north, Tanner was still running, but nearing the point of collapse. Ahead, the trees thinned out and gave way to a bowl-shaped meadow carpeted in orange poppies and bisected by a gurgling stream.

He picked out a particularly thick fir tree, then stuffed his pack beneath it and crawled under. Next, he took his knife, and, crawling around the trunk, partially sawed through a dozen boughs until they drooped to the ground.

One more thing to do before sleep, Briggs thought

He pulled out the Motorola and dialed a number from memory. It was time to use the names Fong had given him. After three rings, the man named Yat Kwei answered. “Ni hao!”

“Ni hui yingwen ma?” Tanner replied. Do you speak English?

“Yes, I speak English. Who is this?”

“You don’t know me. A man gave me your name, suggested I contact you.”

“What man?”

“Zhimien; I met him in Taipei. He said you would be able to help me.”

Kwei hesitated. “I know Zhimien. Are you in Beijing?”

“No,” Tanner replied. “I had to leave the city unexpectedly. I had some … problems.”

There was a pause on the other line; Tanner hoped Kwei was making connections. “You’re American?” he asked.

“Does that matter? Zhimien, told me you don’t care—”

“No, no, of course it doesn’t matter. It’s just that the police are looking for an American here. I was wondering perhaps—”

“Look, dammit!” Tanner snapped, forcing a little panic in his voice. “What does it matter? I have money. If you can help me, I’ll pay you.”

“Relax, friend. I’ll help you. Tell me what you need.”

“Passage aboard a ship — any ship, I don’t care — as long as it’s leaving Yingkou today. And documents, I need documents to get aboard. Can you do it?”

“Of course,” Kwei said smoothly. “No problem. Are you in Yingkou now?”

“No.”

“When will you be there?”

“The schedule said eight-fifty. I think … I think we left on time, so it should be about then.”

“Good. I’ll need time to contact the right people. Can you call me later, say in a couple hours?”

“Yes.”

Tanner said good-bye and hung up.

Now let’s just hope Kwei is as untrustworthy as Fong described.

Two hours after curling up in his bunk and dropping instantly asleep, Tanner was awoken by the Motorola’s vibration alarm tickling his belly. He reached down, shut it off, then lay still for a few minutes, listening to the sounds of the forest and taking stock of his body.

He was in pain. From his head to his feet, he felt every scrape, bruise, and ounce of impact his feet and knees had taken during his long run. Starting at his toes, he slowly worked his way up his body, contracting and relaxing the muscles and tendons and ligaments, testing them for injury. Aside from the pain — which he hoped would work itself out as he began moving — he seemed intact.

He rolled onto his belly, parted the branches, and peeked out. All clear. Pushing his pack ahead of him, he crawled out and rearranged the branches to a natural position.

He spent fifteen minutes stretching and warming his muscles until finally the pain began to subside and he could move without wincing. He had a quick breakfast of trail mix, jerky, a pair of Excedrin, and washed them down with a liter of water.

He checked his watch: Time for another performance.

He pulled out the Motorola and dialed Yat Kwei, who answered immediately. “Ni hao!”

“It’s me,” Tanner said. “You recognize my voice?”

“Yes, of course. Where are you?”

“In a minute. Did you get the papers?”

“I’m working on it. They should be ready by this afternoon. The ship I have in mind departs at six tonight.”

“Good. I’m going to need the time. I had to leave the train near Gaokan.”

“Never heard of it.”

“It’s about fifteen miles north of Yingkou,” Tanner replied.

“What happened?”

“Nothing. Train stations make me nervous. I’ll go the rest of the way on foot. I’ll call you at three about the documents. Will you be coming yourself?”

“No,” Kwei said. “One of my associates. Don’t worry, he knows nothing about you.”

“That’s fine,” Tanner said tiredly, letting his voice crack. “I just want to get out of here.”

Tanner said good-bye and hung up. He strapped on his pack then started trotting north.

The Number Seventeen train sat beside the platform, hissing and steaming as the engine cooled. Mixed in with the still-disembarking passengers were a dozen plainclothes PSB officers.

He’s not there, Xiang thought. There wasn’t a Caucasian face anywhere to be seen. Xiang felt himself flush. Another damned trick! But what? There were two options: He’d jumped off the train somewhere between here and Xinqiu, or he’d never been aboard the train at all.

There was a larger concern also, Xiang realized. Though still hundreds of miles from the camp, Tanner seemed to be moving in that general direction. Did he know its location, and if so, how? Irrelevant, Xiang thought. Assume he knows and act accordingly.

Eng had already argued that they should simply move Soong, but Xiang refused to consider it. He’d be damned if he was going to let Tanner make him jump through hoops. Let him reach the camp, if he can. If he does, I’ll fill the forest with hunters and tracking dogs. He won’t last an hour.

Ten minutes later the train was empty. The PSB Officers boarded it, searched it from end to end, and found nothing. Behind Xiang, Eng walked up carrying a cell phone. “Sir?”

“What?”

“Headquarters got a call about an hour ago from a man named Yat Kwei.”

“So?”

“Kwei is a small-time racketeer; he deals in forged documents … immigration papers and the like.”

“How nice for him. Get to the point.”

“Kwei’s been a stringer agent for us for the last twenty years. He got a call a few hours ago from a man claiming to be American. The man was looking for documents and passage aboard a ship.”

This caught Xiang’s attention; he faced Eng, saw the smile on his assistant’s face. “And?”

“The man claimed he was in trouble and that he needed to get out of the country. He told Kwei he was aboard a train bound for Yingkou—”

“You’re joking.”

“No, sir.” Eng handed him the cell phone. “I’ve got Kwei’s number.”

The conversation lasted five minutes. Grinning, Xiang hung up and tossed the phone to Eng. “He jumped off near Gaokan. He’s smart, but not smart enough. Never trust anyone, and if you have to trust someone, make sure it’s not a goddamned criminal! We’ve got him!”

“Gaokan is only fifteen miles away,” Eng replied. “With the helicopter—”

“No. He’ll be calling Kwei this afternoon to arrange a meeting. We’ll be there.”

Having not heard the howling of dogs since leaving Xinqiu, Tanner was starting to relax.

They’d bought his ruse, but for how long? Xiang was no dummy. Upon realizing he’d been duped, he and his team would return to Xinqiu, unravel his disappearing act, and start after him again.

How many tricks did he dare play? Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me. Tanner didn’t care much about shame, of course, but for his plan to work, he had to keep Xiang guessing. Every misdirection and delay he could cause brought him a step closer to the camp.

From the start, Briggs had known his biggest handicap was his very goal. That Xiang had found him at all suggested he had inside information, which implicated either Bian or Hsiao — or both. While certain neither man had knowingly betrayed him, he was sure one of them had led Xiang to him. Bian was the most likely candidate. The old man’s heart was in the right place, but Roger Brown had been right: Bian was an accident waiting to happen. If in fact Bian had been arrested, Briggs had to assume he’d given them everything — including why he was here.

He hoped Bian hadn’t tried to hold out; he prayed they hadn’t killed him. But what was worse for Bian? he wondered, Death or the laogi? It was a question he might want to consider himself — though he doubted he’d be given a choice. If he were caught, Xiang would probably execute him on the spot and bury him in a shallow grave.

He kept his pace slow and easy — averaging four miles per hour — but before long this too became a challenge as the terrain grew hillier and the meadows and plains gave way to jagged ridges, deep valleys, and ever-thickening forests of spruce, walnut, and pine. The air was growing colder as well, and in some spots he could see crescents of snow clinging to the hillsides.

At noon he stopped to eat and catch his breath. A quarter mile away was a lake, and beside it, climbing away from the shore, train tracks. Any train attempting it would slow considerably during the climb.

He pulled out his map and traced the tracks north away from Xinqiu, mentally ticking off towns as he went: Wuhuanchi … Ping’an … Zhangwu — that sounded familiar. Zhangwu … Though not completely sure, he seemed to recall seeing Zhangwu on the Xinqiu station’s schedule board.

It was another big risk, but worth it, he decided. Even if time were not a factor, he couldn’t run all the way to the camp; his body would shut down long before he got there.

Why walk when you can ride, Briggs?

Ninety minutes later he heard a train whistle in the distance. Beyond the curve of the lake, puffs of black smoke rose above the treetops.

Heart in his throat, Tanner watched the curve. If the train was all passenger cars, he was in trouble. One freight car was all he needed. If it happened to be hauling feather pillows, all the better … Despite himself, excited by the prospect of giving his feet a break, Tanner let out a laugh.

Led by its angled cow catcher, the gleaming black and red locomotive rounded the bend and started up the grade. Its whistle blew again, echoing off the valley walls. Tanner counted cars as they came into view: One … two … three, all passenger cars. Five more appeared … seven.

There! At the tail end were two top-loader freight cars and a caboose.

The train continued to slow, steel wheels grinding against the tracks as the engine struggled to negotiate the slope. As it drew even with him. Tanner pressed himself deeper into the grass.

Have to be fast … get along side quickly, into the blind spot, and go for the caboose.

The chugging of the engine was thunderous, wheels clanking.

At the right moment, he leapt up and sprinted up the slope. His feet slipped on the gravel. He fell to one knee, got up, kept running. He thrust out his arm and clamped it onto the step rail, then heaved himself onto the steps. He reached between the cars, grabbed the access ladder, then climbed up and into the top loader.

“Let’s have it,” President Martin snapped. “General, what the hell happened up there?”

“What happened, Mr. President, is what happens anytime you aim a battle group at another nation’s shores,” General Cathermeier replied. “They send out their ships and planes and it turns into a game of chicken. They were trying to warn us off — make sure we know they’re not pushovers.”

“By crashing into one of our planes? That’s absurd.”

The night before, a flight of four Russian Mig-31 Fulcrum fighters had come out and tried to buzz the battle group. That close to the Russian mainland, the group’s commander had been expecting the visit and ordered the group’s BARCAP — or Barrier Combat Air Patrol, in this case a pair of F-14 Tomcats — to intercept the intruders.

“At this point, it looks like an accidental bump,” Cathermeier said. “One of their pilots took it a little too far and misjudged his approach.”

“Not according to the Federation’s foreign minister,” Martin growled. “They’re claiming it was our fault! What the hell are they doing out there?”

He’s crumbling, Mason thought, seeing Martin with new eyes. Either the job was more than he’d bargained for, or he was starting to realize the deal he’d struck with the Chinese had been a terrible mistake. Mason suspected it was a combination of both. Martin had neither the temperament nor the character for the job.

Though Martin didn’t know it, Mason, Cathermeier, and Dutcher had decided this meeting was his last chance to fix the situation before they moved on him. Not that it would matter in the end, Mason knew. Whether it was now or weeks from now, Martin had to go.

As planned, Bousikaris was absent from the meeting, having ostensibly gone to the dentist with a cracked molar. Martin alone would seal his fate.

Mason said, “Mr. President, we have the option to pull the group back, slow it down.”

“No.”

“It would give the Russians room to breathe.”

“I said, no, dammit! Dick, I’m getting tired of repeating myself around you. I’m the commander in chief. I’ll decide when and if it’s time to move the battle group. Now, General, tell me about this business with the Chinese airliners. When did this happen?”

“During the night. As best we can tell, there were four aircraft in the group, all Russian-built Antonov An-12s — we call them Cubs. They’re troop and cargo transports designed—”

Martin rolled his hand. “Go on, go on.”

“About thirty minutes after the deadline expired, they lifted off from Hailar in northern China.”

“They didn’t waste any time, did they?”

“No, sir. According to the Chinese Foreign Ministry, the lead aircraft contacted Chita air control prior to crossing the border and identified the group as unarmed transports on an evacuation mission.”

“Evacuation? Of what?”

“Of the Chinese living in the Chita area, Mr. President. The Russians are claiming the opposite — that the planes never made contact and ignored repeated attempts to contact them.”

“Who’s lying? Dick?”

“No way to tell,” Mason replied, but thought, the Chinese, of course. “Any transcripts or recordings from either won’t be accepted by the other.”

“Go on, General.”

“Getting no response to their hails, Chita scrambled a pair of Mig-23 Floggers to intercept the flight About sixteen miles north of the border—”

“In Russian airspace,” Martin clarified.

“Correct. The Floggers joined on the Chinese Cubs. They tried to establish radio contact; failing that, one of them pulled alongside the lead Cub and tried to establish visual contact. Here’s where it gets fuzzy,” Cathermeier continued. “The Chinese claim the Floggers fired on them from behind, without any attempt to establish contact; the Russians claim the opposite, of course.

“Either way, there was an explosion on or near the one of the Cubs. It tipped over, went into a flat spin, and crashed.”

“From what altitude?”

“Twenty-five thousand feet. The Russians are looking for the site.”

“They won’t find much,” Mason said.

“No shit,” Martin replied. “Well, I’ve been on the phone all morning with State. The Chinese are screaming bloody murder, and their ambassador is on his way over here as we speak. What I want to know from you two is, where’s this going?”

It was a genuine question, Mason realized. Looking into Martin’s eyes, he saw uncertainty and fear. Whether the man understood his own role in the unfolding disaster, Mason wasn’t sure, but so far Martin was showing no signs of changing course.

Neither Mason nor Cathermeier answered Martin’s question.

“I want an answer, gentlemen. Where is all this going?”

Last chance, Mason thought. “Mr. President, it’s my opinion that the Chinese are not going to back down. Whether we’re seeing their true motives or not, I don’t know, but the fact that they moved so quickly after the deadline is telling.

“Their position will be clear: Russian negligence has killed thousands of Chinese citizens; every step of the way, the Federation has refused to work with them to remedy the situation; and now, they have attacked an unarmed, clearly identified group of transports sent on a goodwill mission to rescue Chinese citizens.”

“Which might all be true,” Martin said.

“Perhaps,” Mason countered, “but I don’t see it that way. As I said, it’s my opinion this is just part of a larger plan for the Chinese. They’re not going to back down until they get what they want, and they’ll do whatever it takes to get there.”

“To what end? What larger plan?”

Mason shrugged. “Bottom line, Mr. President: I have two recommendations. Remain neutral in this — both militarily and diplomatically. And two, do whatever it takes to get both sides to step back and take a breath before it’s too late.”

Martin looked to Cathermeier. “General?”

“I agree. If we don’t take steps to cool the situation, it’s going to escalate.”

Martin sighed heavily, then nodded. “That’s all gentlemen. Stay close to your phones.”

​The tirade had so far lasted twenty minutes and showed no signs of slowing.

From his chair, Ivan Nochenko watched Bulganin pace the room, one hand clasped behind his back, the other gesticulating wildly as he snouted.

Nochenko had seen him in such moods before, but this one had a different feel to it. Bulganin’s speech, his demeanor, the very inflection of his words had a disconnected quality to them, as though he were summoning them by rote from some corner of his brain.

Earlier this morning Bulganin had ordered Pyotr to double his personal guards and to search the staff’s belongings upon entry and exit of the building. Only at Nochenko’s intercession had Bulganin excluded he and the rest of the members of the National Security Council.

Pyotr now stood behind Bulganin’s desk, watching the room with a hawk’s eyes.

“Let us review,” Bulganin said. “Not only are the Americans threatening our coast with their ships, but they’ve put soldiers on our soil, destroyed a port, and now, just hours ago, they downed one of our aircraft in international air-space.”

Defense Minister Beskrovny spoke up. “We’re looking into that, Mr. President, but initially it appears to have been an accident.”

“Believe that if you like, Marshal,” Bulganin shot back. “What about the Chinese? It’s not enough they accuse us of murdering their citizens, but now they invade our airspace on a so-called rescue mission. What kind of aircraft were they, Marshal?”

“Antonov transports. Unarmed and empty, it appears.”

“So it appears,” Bulganin repeated. “I wouldn’t be surprised if they destroyed their own aircraft just to give themselves a reason.”

“A reason for what?” asked SVR director Sergei Fedorin.

“That’s what I want you to tell me! Do you have any answers?”

“Not yet, Mr. President.”

And understandably so, Nochenko thought. These incidents had occurred one on top of the next. There had scarcely been time to digest the information, let alone draw conclusions.

Even so, Nochenko was worried. Farfetched though it seemed, Bulganin’s statement about the Chinese planes couldn’t be discounted. All these events were related somehow; there was a pattern to them, but Nochenko had yet to piece it together. Coincidence is the mother of deception.

Moreover, the events seemed to be keeping pace with one another — disastrous stepping-stones leading toward some unknown goal. Whatever that was, a theme was emerging: provocation and escalation. But who is the provocateur? China or the U.S.? Or both?

Nochenko broke in: “Mr. President, I have a suggestion.”

“Go on.”

“There’s a trend of escalation going on. Whether intentional or unintentional, we can’t be certain, but we must choose our next steps carefully. The best course is to not feed the fire. Let Minister Kagorin contact the Chinese ambassador and—”

“And what?” Bulganin snapped. “Grovel? Show them we’re frightened? I don’t think so. Frankly, I’m surprised at you. We’ve been attacked] Am I the only one who sees that?”

Bulganin looked from man to man. “Am I alone in this, gentlemen? Do any of you care about the security of your country? If not, say so now, and I’ll find someone to replace you. Anyone?”

No one spoke.

“Good,” Bulganin said, then clasped his hands behind his back and stood tall. “Here are my orders: Minister Kagorin, you will contact the Chinese ambassador; we will give them one more chance to moderate their position. Director Fedorin, these events are connected. I want to know how and why. Marshal Beskrovny, until further notice, I want interceptors patrolling our border with China day and night. I want the American battle group stopped before it comes within one hundred miles of our shore. Finally, I want every Military District from here to Vladivostok brought to full alert — including the Rocket Forces.”

Beskrovny stepped forward, his face drawn. “Mr. President—”

“That’s an order,” Bulganin said.

“If we bring our nuclear forces to alert, the Chinese will reciprocate.”

“Let them. Perhaps it will scare some sense into them.”

Nochenko interrupted: “Vlad—”

Bulganin glared at him.

“Mr. President … Please reconsider.”

“I’ve made my decision. Marshal Beskrovny, are your orders clear?”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“You will carry them out?”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

Bulganin rapped his desk with a fist. “Good. You’re all dismissed.”

With Skeldon now on his side, Cahil’s chances of stopping the dam’s destruction had improved, but he still faced tough odds. They were not only outnumbered, but without weapons.

With no way to fight, Cahil had turned his mind to sabotage, but as the first day passed and moved into the second, the Chinese colonel began inspecting his work on the charges. The man knew his business, Cahil immediately realized. There was no way to make the charges both defective enough to fail, and convincing enough to pass muster.

“We’re going to have to take them on,” Cahil whispered as he and Skeldon worked.

“With what, sticks?”

“Either that or your charming personality.”

Skeldon grinned at him. “Smart-ass.”

“Do we know what they’re waiting for? A signal, or are they on a timetable?”

“I’m betting a signal,” Skeldon said. “I’ve been watching their radioman; he’s been making contact every four hours since yesterday.”

“Then we might be coming down to the wire,” Cahil said. “How’s your head?”

“Hurts, but no more than usual.” Skeldon paused, frowning. “Here’s a thought: What if we take some of my pills and slip them into their—”

“I considered that,” Cahil said, “They’re too sharp. I haven’t seen them let down their guards once. Besides, they eat in shifts. We’d only get a couple of them before they caught on.”

“Then what’re we going to do?”

Cahil thought for a few moments. “Is there any way we can get back into the mine? Can you tell them I need to see the boreholes again?”

“What did you have in mind?”

Cahil explained briefly, and Skeldon said, “There’s one way to find out.”

The Colonel gave them permission, but ordered one of the commandos to escort them.

Once through the entry hole and into the main tunnel, they began walking, Cahil in the lead, followed by Skeldon, then the commando, who carried his M-16 at ready-low with the safety off. Cahil studied the walls and ceiling, hoping he’d recognize what he was looking for when he saw it. About halfway to the cavern, he spotted it: A bowl-shaped shelf jutting downward from the ceiling.

“Hold up,” Bear called as he drew even with the shelf. Skeldon stopped, as did the commando, who backed up a few feet, M-16 pointed in their general direction. “I’ve got a rock in my boot.”

He went through the motions of fixing his boot, then stood up. As he did so, he reached up and grabbed the shelf. “Boy, that’s handy, ain’t it?”

Skeldon nodded. “Sure is.”

They spent ten minutes in the cavern as Cahil pretended to study the boreholes, then retraced their steps to the outside. Once back in camp, he and Skeldon returned to work on the charges.

“Think you’ll be able to spot it?” Cahil asked him.

“Yep. Why that spot?”

“You saw how it was angled down?” Skeldon nodded. “It will work just like a shaped charge. If we time it right, whoever’s behind us will take the brunt of the explosion.”

“I like it. So what do we need?”

“A few ounces of C4.”

“What about a detonator?”

Cahil smiled. “I thought you might be able to use your winning personality to steal one.”

Though Cathermeier’s words had been oblique, the message for Jurens and his team had been clear: Columbia is gone, either missing or dead; don’t count on extraction anytime soon. It wasn’t exactly what Sconi had wanted to hear, but he was unsurprised. However bad their own situation, it was obviously worse elsewhere.

Time to get wet and go home, he thought. The idea of continuing this game of hide-and-seek with the Russian troops didn’t appeal to him. Confident as he was in his team, he also knew a good commander didn’t pit himself against a force many times his size unless he had no choice.

Shortly after midnight, Smitty and Zee slipped back into their camouflaged bolt-hole above the road junction. Parked fifty yards below their perch was a Federation Army truck and a squad of eight soldiers. Laying on his belly, Jurens surveyed the road block through his Night Owls.

“They’re new,” Smitty whispered. “How long’ve they been here?”

“About an hour. So far they don’t look inclined to send out patrols, but the night is young.”

“And if they do?”

“We let them slip past us.”

“And if they don’t?”

Jurens gave him a glance. They both knew the answer to the question: Kill the squad as quietly as possible and move on. Jurens hoped it wouldn’t come to that. “What’d you find?” he asked.

“Not our ride home, but maybe the next best thing.”

“Where and what?”

“About three miles south of here there’s a small cove with a pier. We counted eight boats moored alongside.”

“What kind?”

“Mostly small trawlers and a few skiffs. Good enough to get us into international waters.”

“See any Indians?”

“They’re thick, Skipper. All the road junctions are covered. We had to bypass three foot patrols on the way back. When we make our move, we better not be in a hurry.”

Jurens nodded. “Nice work. Get some sleep. You’ve got the four to six watch.”

Smitty crawled away.

How many out there looking for us? Jurens wondered. At least a company, and more coming into the port every hour, it seemed. No matter how good his team was, it was only a matter of time before some patrol stumbled onto them.

Columbia had been resting on the bottom for two days, and like Jurens, Archie Kinsock was itching to move. Two days of sitting, listening to the hull settle deeper into the silt, feeling the deck tremble with every strong current … And waiting — waiting for the eerie whistle of an active sonar scouring the seabed for them.

So far the crew had handled the stress well, but sooner or later the boredom and uncertainty would take its toll. Aside from the SLOT buoys — which provided only one-way communication — their link to the outside world was gone. If they hadn’t already, some of the crew would start to worry they’d been abandoned. They knew better, of course, but unlike knowledge, which is born of logic, despair and fear work on those dark places in your brain where logic doesn’t live.

In their case, there was only one cure against despair: action.

Get off the bottom, get moving, and take our chances, Kinsock thought.

MacGregor walked over to the status board where Kinsock stood. “He’s back,” the XO said.

“Is he all right?”

“Cold but fine.”

“Thank God.”

Two hours earlier Kinsock had sent the boat’s diver, Gunners Mate John Howley, out the escape trunk to determine whether the hatches to the maneuvering thrusters were clear. Sitting as they were in the silt, one or both of them might be buried.

“Remind me to put him up for an accommodation,” Kin-sock said. “How’d it look?”

“The port-side hatch is clear; starboard is partially blocked, but by only a couple inches of silt Howley said it’s fine, almost powdery.”

“That’s the best news I’ve heard in a while. Get down to engineering and tell the chief we’re in business. Next high tide, we fire up the thrusters and drive outa here.”

Ten minutes after three, Xiang’s cell phone trilled. It was Kwei: “He just called.”

“Where is he?” Xiang asked.

“In the city somewhere, but he refused to say. He’ll be at the Liaobin ferry terminal at five.”

“We’ll find it,” Xiang said. “Is he expecting you?”

“No, I told him one of my people would be coming, a man named Lin. That way, you can—”

“Good thinking. If you hear from him again, call me immediately.”

“Of course.”

Xiang hung up and turned to Eng. “Liaobin, two hours.”

The ferry was halfway across Yinkou harbor when Xiang’s phone rang again. “Yes?”

It was Shen. “We have a problem. One of the trackers was walking his dog north of the station and he got a hit on Tanner’s scent.”

“What! How sure are they?”

“Very. The dogs went crazy. I think I know how he did it,” Shen said, then explained Tanner’s ruse. “We followed the trail for about a mile. He’s still headed northeast.”

Xiang paused, thinking. He’s been toying with us since he jumped off the damned train! He’s wasted our time, split our forces. … “Lieutenant, split your men into two trucks. I want one team to follow the rail line north, the other to stay on Tanner’s scent. Somewhere, the two are going to meet.”

“How do you know that?”

“He’s got over two hundred miles to go. He’s not going to run all of it. Get moving!”

Two hundred miles northeast of Xiang, Tanner was nervous. Whether from cynicism or a sixth sense, he couldn’t quash the feeling that things were going too smoothly. His luck had held out too long.

Upon jumping into the freight car, he’d found it loaded not with feather pillows, but stacks of rotted railroad ties. Though the ride had been far from comfortable, he’d fallen quickly asleep inside the makeshift cave he’d created in the car’s bottom corner, and dozed intermittently, watching the sky and listening to the train’s wheels thump over the joints.

Once past the incline by the lake, the train had steadily picked up speed as it began a winding course north and east through the towns of Zhangwu, Baojiatun, Jinjiazhen. Shortly after his call to Kwei, he passed out of Liaoning Province and into Jilin.

According to his map, the camp was 250 miles away.

Xiang’s hind landed in a small clearing south of the lake. A truck drove him the half mile to the rail line where Shen was waiting. Despite the late afternoon sunshine, Xiang could feel a chill in the air. He pulled his coat tighter around him.

“The trail ends here,” Shen reported. “He must have laid in the grass here — probably guessing the train would have to slow on the incline — and jumped aboard as it passed.”

“Could he have walked the rails? Can the dogs track scent on steel?”

The dog handler nodded. “Yes, sir. Not as well, but they can. There’s been no rain, no wind to speak of. … If he’d done that, the dogs would have caught it.”

“Then he’s aboard another train,” Xiang said. He turned to Eng. “Call the Fuxin station. I want a complete map and schedule of every route north of Xinqiu.” Then to Shen: “Lieutenant, you, twelve of your best men, and the dog teams come with me. Eng will arrange transport for the rest.”

“Where’re we going?”

“We’re flying straight up this line and stopping every train we come across.”

Sixteen miles north of Changchun, Tanner’s luck ran out.

Sunset was less than thirty minutes away when he heard the distant beating of helicopter rotors. He closed his eyes and strained to listen, hoping against hope the sound would fade into the distance. It didn’t. Coming closer, he thought. From the south. He climbed to the top of the car and peeked out.

Three hundred yards behind, sunlight glinting off its cockpit, a Hind helicopter raced toward the caboose. Briggs ducked as it swept overhead. The Hind drew alongside the locomotive, then banked hard, circling and descending over me tracks. The whistle blared. The train lurched forward, slowing.

Tanner didn’t have time to think. He ran forward, leaping from tie to tie until he reached the front of the car, then slipped over the side and down the access ladder into the caboose buffer.

He leaned out, looked ahead. Wind whipped his face. A half mile ahead of the locomotive, the Hind had come to rest across the tracks, its rotors still spinning. The train was slowing rapidly and great billows of steam drifted back along the cars.

Tanner jumped. He landed hard on his shoulder and hip, then found his feet and tried to stand. White-hot pain shot through his feet, into his legs, and up his back. He collapsed. Instinctively, he knew what was wrong. Stupid! Lying still for hours inside the top-loader, his muscles had stiffened.

He dropped to his belly and looked around. Bordering the tracks was a field of waist-high millet. This early in the season, it was still green and tender, and would betray his passage as clearly as a neon arrow. But there was nowhere else to go.

Down the tracks, the Hind’s side door opened and soldier’s began leaping out, followed by a pair of dog handlers. The dogs tugged on their leashes and barked. The cockpit door opened and out stepped Xiang; he talked with one of the soldiers, who turned and began barking orders.

Time to go, Briggs.

Jaw clenched against the pain, he crawled up the embankment and onto the tracks so the caboose would temporarily shield him from the soldiers. He forced himself upright and started running.

“Half your men take the right side, the other the left,” Xiang ordered Shen. “One dog handler per team. I want a sentry posted on each car. If he jumped off, the dogs will find his scent; if he’s still aboard, we’ll search it car by car.”

In the end, it was the dogs themselves that bought him the time he needed.

Shaken and disoriented from the helicopter ride, the dogs spent ten minutes running around in circles before the handlers were able to bring them under control. By the time they started moving down the tracks, Tanner was a mile away, his body limbering with every stride.

Every few seconds he would glance over his shoulder, and when he saw the first soldier appear alongside the train, he dropped onto his belly and crawled for the edge of the millet field, where he turned himself around and backed feet-first into the grass, closing the stalks behind. After ten yards of this, he raised himself into a crouch and started picking his way east.

Behind him, the sun was dropping toward the horizon.

Half a mile into the millet field, he heard the dogs start to howl, followed by excited shouts. He felt a ball of fear explode in his chest. He stood up and started sprinting with everything he had.

“He’s sticking to the rail line,” Shen told Xiang over the radio. “His scent is strong; the dogs have him. He can’t be far ahead.”

“Run him down!” Xiang said.

Fifteen minutes later: “He’s veered into the millet field. He’s heading east”

“Keep going,” Xiang ordered. “We’re going airborne.”

To his west, Tanner heard the roar of the hind’s engines spooling up, followed moments later by the thump of rotors heading in his direction. Outa time, outa time. …

He crashed through the edge of the field and found himself standing at a junction of two dirt roads. He stood rooted, panting hard, heart in his throat. Twilight had fully fallen now, with only a few tinges of orange sunlight showing to the west Behind him, the barking had changed into a series of long, overlapping wails. Then voices, shouting in Mandarin: This way … hurry!

Tanner looked left, right. Decide, Briggs! Do something!

Beyond the road stood a line of fir and through them he caught a glimpse of water. He felt a flood of relief. The ex-SEAL in him took oven Water is safety; head for the water. He sprinted across the road and through the trees and found himself at the edge of a muddy, fast flowing river. Head down, he dove in.

Sixty seconds behind him, Shen and the dog team emerged from the millet field. The dogs led them straight to the riverbank. Shen grabbed his radio.

“He’s in there,” Shen reported when Xiang arrived. “He couldn’t have been more than a few minutes ahead of us. I’ve got my men spreading out along this bank, but we need to cover the other side. The current’s running fast, so we need to hurry.

“Split your men; the helicopter will ferry them across.”

Shen nodded, then passed the order to Sergeant Hjiu, who ran off.

“Where does this river lead?” Xiang asked.

Shen pulled out his map. “Southeast for ten miles. This could be a problem. … It splits into three tributaries just north of this lake. If he makes it that far, we’ll have triple the shore to cover.”

Xiang studied the map. On the lake’s shoreline were four towns, each with a population of twenty thousand or more. Shen was right: they had to find Tanner before he reached the tributaries, and certainly before he reached the lake. If he made it that far he could disappear into one of the cities.

“Eng, how long before the rest of Shen’s company arrives from Xinqiu?”

“Within the hour.”

“Good. Until then, we’ll use the Hind and patrol the river.”

“Yes, sir.” Eng ran off.

Xiang walked to the bank. He knelt and dipped his fingers into the water. It was cold. That was good. The more miserable Tanner became, the sooner he would try to get out.

Thirty feet upriver, huddling beneath a tangle of tree limbs beside the bank, Tanner could hear only snippets of Xiang’s words over the rush of the current, so strong it pushed his body nearly horizontal. Already, the icy water was numbing his fingertips and ears. He closed his eyes and tried to steady his breathing. The cold felt like a vice around his chest.

Until the moment he’d plunged into the river and realized the strength of the current and the temperature of the water, Tanner had intended to float downstream for a distance, then climb out on the opposite bank and keep going. Instead, he’d turned and started paddling hard upstream, gaining mere feet for every dozen strokes until finally he spotted the branches and latched onto them.

Now he wondered if he’d made a terrible mistake. If Xiang chose this spot as the hub for their search, he’d have to either try to crawl out and slip away or let go and take his chances downstream.

Either way, he couldn’t remain in the icy water for long.

Five minutes after the hind ferried Shen’s men to the opposite bank, it returned and landed at the road junction. Over the beat of the rotors, Tanner heard a barked order, but caught only bits of it: “Two … here … watch.”

He slowly turned his head until he could see Xiang and another man jogging toward the helo. Two soldiers remained behind at the river’s edge.

The Hind lifted off and flew upriver a few hundred yards, then turned and started downriver at a near hover. The belly spotlight clicked on and began tracking across the water’s surface.

Eyes squinted against the downwash, Tanner waited until the beam was nearly upon him then took a gulp of air and ducked under. The light swept over the tangle of branches, started to move on, then stopped. The water went translucent. Leaves and silt swirled around his face.

Come on … there’s nothing here …

The water went dark. Tanner resurfaced. The beam was moving downriver.

From his left, a flashlight beam played over the branches as one of the soldiers walked along the bank. He called to his partner, “Check upstream.”

A laugh in reply. “Xi wang ni war de hao!” Have a good time!

The soldier slipped from Tanner’s peripheral vision. He waited until the crunch of footfalls faded then dug his fingers into the mud and gently pulled himself onto the bank. Ten feet to his right, the remaining soldier stood smoking, his AK held at ready-low.

Shivering now, Tanner clenched his jaw against it and began inching his way along the bank. From the corner of his eye, he could see the patrolling soldier’s flashlight playing along the water’s edge. Suddenly the beam lifted, turned.

Coming back this way.

It took all his self-discipline to not get up and run. He kept crawling, gaining six inches at a time until he’d reached the soldier’s blind spot. Slowly, eyes fixed on the man, Tanner rose into a crouch. He coiled himself, sure the soldier was going to turn.

He didn’t.

Tanner sidestepped left, paused, took another step, paused. The patrolling soldier was fifty yards away, his flashlight beam skimming ever closer. Gotta go, gotta go … Tanner turned, scuttled into the trees along the road, and dropped onto his belly. Heart pounding, he waited for a shout.

None came.

At the bank, the two soldiers joined up.

On trembling legs, Tanner crept across the road, then started running north.

Against every rule he knew but beyond caring, he ran straight down the center of the road for an hour, listening as the braying of the dogs and the thumping of the Hind’s rotors slowly faded into the distance.

All the terror and frustration and exhaustion of the past two days rose into his throat. He wanted to scream. He swallowed it and kept running, and slowly the emotion subsided. With it went all his energy. As if someone had pulled a plug, he suddenly felt numb.

His boot struck a rock. He tripped and sprawled into the dirt.

Stay here, a voice in the back of his head told him. Sleep. You’ve gone far enough.

He rolled himself onto his back and stared up at the stars.

You’ve done all you can. It’s time to let go.

Then, a different voice: If you quit, they’ll find you and kill you.

“No,” Tanner murmured. “Get up, Briggs. Get off the road.”

He rolled his head to the left and saw a steep embankment of stunted pines bordering the road.

Get up, Tanner commanded. Climb the ridge into the next valley. More places to hide there. Find a place, then sleep. He rolled onto his belly, forced himself to his knees, then planted a boot in the dirt, then pushed himself upright. He staggered a few steps, then caught himself. His vision sparkled.

Now run. Don’t think, just run.

He pointed himself at the embankment and started up.

Ten miles to the southeast, Xiang and Shen stood on the lake’s shoreline, watching the Hind hovering over the water, its spotlight slicing through the darkness.

“There’s no way he could have slipped through,” Shen said. “The dogs have been up and down both sides of river; there’s no scent.”

“Then where is he?” Xiang demanded.

“There’s one possibility: he swam with the current and beat us here.”

“Ten miles, in this water?” Xiang said. “I don’t think so.”

“Then what?” Shen snapped. “Perhaps he’s a ghost; perhaps he sprouted wings and flew away.”

“Watch your tone, Lieutenant.”

Shen sighed. “I’m sorry, sir. It’s frustrating. We have no trail, no scent … We were three minutes behind him and now he’s gone!”

“He won’t get out of the country; in fact, I doubt he’ll even try — not yet at least,” Xiang replied. “We have a critical advantage; I think it’s time we use it.”

“What advantage?”

“We know where he’s going.”

Though later he would be able to recall only fuzzy images of the hours following his escape from the river, upon reaching the crest of the ridge, Tanner hadn’t stopped as he’d promised himself, but kept going, putting one foot before the other until finally his body gave out.

Running on force of will alone, he stumbled down into the next valley, up the next ridge, then down again before collapsing. He crawled off the trail, covered himself with loose branches, then slipped into unconsciousness.

When he awoke he felt a flash of panic. It was daylight. The sun filtered through the trees, casting stripes on the ground. He blinked against the glare and looked around. Oh God …

Less than three feet from his face were a pair of boots. Silhouetted by the sun was a man-shaped figure. As Briggs watched, the boots shuffled forward, and slowly the tip of a walking staff slipped through the branches and jabbed him on the forehead.

Tanner grabbed the staff, jerked hard, felt it come free, then swung, striking the leg in front of him. As the man fell, Tanner rolled out and scrambled to his feet.

Sitting on the ground before him was a gaunt Chinese man in his early fifties. He rubbed his leg and stared up at Tanner in terror. “Aiyah … aiyah!” He began crawling backward.

“Deng … Hen baoqian …” Briggs called. Wait, I’m sorry.

He bent over and laid the stick on the ground. As he straightened, he felt a wave of pain burst behind his eyes. His vision blurred and he felt bile rising into his throat. Before he could catch himself, he lost his balance and toppled backward onto his butt.

“Ni you shemma bing?” the man said.

Tanner tried to focus on the words. What’s wrong … you …

Tanner felt his forehead; his skin was hot and clammy. His calf felt like it was on fire. He pulled up his pant leg and ripped off the bandage. The knife wound was swollen red and seeping pus.

“Ahh!” the man gasped, then pointed at Tanner’s leg. Looking at Tanner for permission, he gestured to himself, then at the wound. Briggs nodded. The man crawled over.

The man touched the wound with his fingertips, then sniffed them and wrinkled his nose. He felt Tanner’s forehead. “Fa shao.” Fever. “Shèn-chu she tou lai.”

Tanner shook his head, not understanding. The man stuck out his own tongue, then pointed at him. Briggs reciprocated and the man studied it. “Ahh …”

“I’m sick,” Tanner said in English.

The man nodded. “You sick.” He grabbed his walking staff and Tanner’s backpack, then helped Tanner to his feet. “Lai, lai.” Come, come.

Tanner knew better than to argue; it was all he could do to stay upright. He started walking.

The man led him down the valley floor, then turned onto a path. Judging from the angle of sunlight, Tanner assumed it was shortly after dawn. He’d slept for almost ten hours. Where was Xiang?

The path opened into a sloping meadow bordered by a narrow dirt tract to the west. Nestled in the center of the meadow were a cabin and barn made of thatch-and-mud bricks and flagstone shingles. A pen with two chickens and a goat sat beside the bam.

The man called out. The door opened and out stepped a young boy and girl, both between eight and ten years old, and a woman, also in her mid-fifties. They stopped and stared at Tanner.

“Bang zhu!” the man called. “Bang zhu!”

As one, the children and the woman ran forward, relieved the man of the staff and Tanner’s backpack then led the way into the cabin, which was divided into a small kitchen, a front room, and a communal bedroom. The only light came from two large windows in the kitchen.

The man led Tanner to a cot against the front-room wall and gestured for him to lie down. His vision swam and sparkled, and he felt another wave of nausea grip his belly.

The man began barking orders and Briggs found himself at the center of activity. A pair of hands stripped off his field jacket while another removed his boots and socks and while a third rolled up his pant leg. In seconds he was covered in a heavy woolen blanket.

As had the man, the woman examined the knife wound, felt his forehead, and looked at his tongue, making “ahh” and “eeeh” noises as she went. After a brief murmured conference with the man, she nodded and rushed off into the kitchen.

The man shooed away the children, who’d been kneeling beside the cot, staring at Tanner and giggling. As they scampered away, the old man shrugged an apology at him.

“It’s okay,” Tanner said. “Huang tou tai gao le.” Blond hair too tall.

The man cocked his head, then smiled. “Huang tou tai gao le,” he agreed.

Tanner slept fitfully for some time, and was awakened by a stinging sensation on his calf. He opened his eyes and looked down. Kneeling at his feet, the man was applying a compress to the wound.

“Pool-tyce,” the man said.

Pool-tyce …? Poultice, Tanner realized. “You speak English?”

“Little English.”

“Where did you learn?”

“Eh? Oh …” The old man called out and the young girl scampered into the room carrying a trade paperback. She held it up: Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone.

“Good old Harry,” Tanner said.

The girl nodded vigorously. “Good old Harry!” she repeated, then ran off.

Tanner laughed; the effort took his breath away. “Your daughter?” he asked.

“Daughter, yes.”

“What’s your name?”

The man thought for a moment. “Tun-San. You?”

“My name is … My name is Briggs.”

“Briggs. Where from?”

“America.”

Tun-San’s eyes widened. “America … no joking?”

“No.” Tanner suddenly felt guilty; he was putting these people at risk. If Xiang discovered they’d helped him … “Tun-San, it would be best if no one knew I’d been here.”

It was too much for the man’s vocabulary. He shook his head. “Not understand.”

Using a combination of English and Chinese words and hand gestures, Tanner got his point across. Tun-San looked him in the eye. “You … ah … criminal?”

“No,” Tanner replied. “I’m trying to help a friend. He’s in trouble.”

Tun-San considered this, then nodded solemnly. “I tell no one.”

Tun-San lifted the poultice away, looked at it, then set it aside. He pulled another from the bucket between his knees, wrung it out, and reapplied it to the wound.

“Bad come out,” he told Tanner.

After two hours of treatment with the poultice, Tun-San woke Tanner from his light sleep.

“Look leg,” he said.

The swelling and redness were almost completely gone. Tun-San gently pressed the cut, but instead of pus, all that came out was a dribble of bright, red blood. Briggs reached down and touched the flesh; it was cool. “How did you do that?” he asked. “What was—”

“Herbs,” Tun-San said, then rattled off a list of ingredients. Tanner recognized a few of them — Chu-hua, ginseng, forsythia, willow — but most were unfamiliar to him.

“Ah, here, drink.”

Tun-San’s wife, Wu, appeared beside the cot carrying a quart-size bowl of steaming, greenish brown broth. Tun-San propped Tanner up with a pair of straw pillows and she placed the bowl in his hands. They both watched him expectantly.

He sniffed the broth, then drew his head back. It smelled like unwashed socks, dirt, and hot gin.

Seeing Tanner’s expression, Tun-San chuckled and said something to his wife, who gave him a withering stare. Making Jun of her cooking, Tanner guessed, then smiled.

Clicking her tongue, she urged him to drink.

He lifted the bowl to his lips and sipped. The broth tasted exactly as he imagined unwashed socks, dirt, and hot gin would taste. It burned all the way down to his belly, then seemed to surge into his head. He blinked his eyes and groaned.

Tun-San hurried into the kitchen and returned with a cool, wet towel, which he draped across Tanner’s forehead. After a few seconds his vision cleared. He felt Wu’s eyes on him.

“All,” she ordered. “Drink all.”

Tun-San sat beside the cot as his wife fed Tanner bowl after bowl of what he’d mentally dubbed “sweat sock soup.” Halfway through the second bowl, his taste buds went mercifully numb.

After the first hour, he signaled that he needed to relieve himself. With Tun-San’s help he hobbled onto the porch and urinated into a steel pail until it was full

Tun-San nodded approvingly and patted him on the back. “Bad out,” he said.

The process went on for another six hours until Briggs had consumed nearly two gallons of the broth and made a dozen trips to the pail. To his amazement, with each urination he felt progressively better. His headache and fever began to fade and he felt the strength returning to his limbs.

Occasionally, after he’d finished outside, Wu would retrieve the pail, pour some of the urine into a clear jar and examine it in the light, clicking her tongue and squinting.

By mid afternoon, she ordered him out of bed and to the kitchen table. Tanner stood up, testing his legs. Aside from a slight ache in his calf and some residual body weakness, he felt remarkably good.

Wu placed a plate of boiled vegetables and fried rice before him. He suddenly realized how hungry he was and began eating, not stopping until he’d consumed two platefuls and downed three glasses of goat’s milk. Through it all, Wu stood, arms akimbo, and nodded. When he was done, she cleared away the dishes and set a clay mug before him.

“Cha lu,” Tun-San explained.

“Green tea?” Tanner said.

“Yes, green tea with … ah …” He made a buzzing sound.

“Honey?”

“Yes! Honey!”

It was delicious. He finished three mugs before he could drink no more.

Wu pointed to the door and said, “Use pail, then bring.”

When he returned, she repeated her inspection process, squinting at the specimen for several seconds before turning to him. “Better,” she proclaimed, then asked. “Feel better?”

“Much better,” Tanner said. “Thank you, Wu.”

Mere thanks wasn’t enough, he knew. Not only had these people probably saved his life, but they’d given him a mental boost he hadn’t even realized he needed. It felt good to be surrounded by friendly faces for a change. White skin, blond hair and all, they’d seen someone in need and had helped. “Thank you both,” he repeated.

For the first time since Tanner had arrived, Wu smiled. “Happy to do.”

Later, he and Tun-San sat on the porch together. “Where your friend?” he asked.

“I’ll show you,” Tanner said. “Where’s my pack?” Tun-San went inside and returned with it. Tanner pulled out the map, took a moment to orient himself, then pointed. “He’s right here.”

Tun-San peered at the map. “How far?”

“About a hundred seventy kilometers.”

“Eh?”

“A hundred seventy gong li.”

Tun-San traced his finger along the map, muttering to himself and measuring distances with his thumb. “Five hours,” he said.

“Pardon me?”

“Be there zhong tou—five — hours.”

“I don’t understand.”

Tun-San stood up and grinned. “Come.”

Tanner followed him to the barn. Tun-San unlatched the doors and swung them open.

Sitting inside was a rust-streaked, powder blue 1952 Chevrolet pickup truck. Aside from the cab, which was pitted with rust holes, the rest of the truck seemed to be constructed solely of bamboo and what looked like several miles of bailing wire. In the place of rear tires were a pair of wagon wheels. The doors had been removed; in their places, a pair of horizontal bamboo rods.

To Tanner, the truck looked like something out of a Gilligan’s Island episode.

Beaming with pride, Tun-San opened the hood.

Instead of a traditional engine, a motorcycle engine was suspended from the mounting brackets by yet more bailing wire. A rubber belt like those found on industrial timber saws connected the engine to the drive axle. Jutting from the top of the contraption was a rope cord connected to a T-handle — the starter, Tanner realized.

Tun-San pointed at the engine. “Triumph, nineteen sixty-five.”

“Triumph motorcycle engine?”

“Yes.”

“It’s amazing, Tun-San. You built this?”

He nodded. “Four years.”

“It runs? It goes?”

“Oh, yes. I show. I can take you to your friend.”

Tanner shook his head. “No. Thank you, but no. If you’re seen with me, you’ll get into trouble.”

Tun-San waved his hand like an old Jewish mother. “No trouble. I drive, you hide.”

Tanner was torn. If by accepting the offer he brought harm to Tun-San and his family, Briggs would never be able to live with himself; on the other hand, he doubted he had the strength to reach the camp on foot — not quickly, at least. Tanner extended his hand. “Thank you, my friend.”

Tun-San took it. “You welcome, my friend.”

After saying good-bye to the children, Tanner accepted a small jug of sweat sock soup and a set of stern dosage instructions from Wu. On impulse, he gave her a hug, evoking a giggle from her.

“I’m happy to have met you,” Tanner said. “Thank you for everything.”

“Yi-lu ping-an,” she replied. Have a good trip.

With three crates of eggs and two five-gallon gas cans resting on a bed of straw in the back and Tun-San at the wheel, Tanner pushed the surprisingly buoyant truck out of the barn. He got into the passenger seat and, at Tun-San’s urging, pressed his foot on the brake pedal.

Tun-San got out, lifted the hood, then reached inside and heaved on the pull cord. With a throaty roar and a puff of smoke, the engine fired to life. Tanner felt the rear wheels churning on the ground. Apparently, Tun-San’s chariot had only two gears: forward and stop.

Tun-San slammed the hood and leapt into the driver’s seat. He gripped the wheel with both hands then nodded to Tanner, who took his foot off the brake. The truck lurched forward.

“See?” Tun-San said. “Runs good.”

“How many ships in the SAG?” Mason asked.

An hour before, the commander of the Stennis group, Commodore Scott, reported a Surface Action Group of Russian warships steaming north toward the group’s picket ships, while Cheyenne, patrolling ahead of the group, was engaged in a game of cat and mouse with a Russian Akula.

“We’re still trying to identify the individual elements,” Cathermeier replied, “but according to the most recent flyover, it looks like a good chunk of the Russian Pacific Fleet — might be as many as eighteen warships, from Krivak-class frigates to Kirov cruisers.”

“How much distance between them and us?”

“Less than ninety miles.”

“Too close. If somebody pushes the panic button, they could be mixing it up in minutes.”

“The Sea of Japan just ain’t big enough for all that firepower,” Cathermeier agreed.

“What about the rest of the Federation?” Dutcher asked. “How widespread is this alert?”

“Across the board. We’ve got reports of increased radio traffic in every district from Moscow to Vladivostok — all branches, from ground forces to rocket forces.”

“Tactical or nuclear?”

“Both. Leaves and furloughs are being cancelled; interceptors are sitting hot on runways at Chita, Ulan-Ude, Irkutsk, and Vladivostok; they’re also putting up BARCAPs along the border,” Cathermeier said, referring to Barrier Combat Air Patrol; once a navy-specific term, it had become a generic description of any airborne line of defense.

“What about the Chinese?” Mason asked

“Mirror image,” said Cathermeier. “We haven’t seen much ground movement, but every air base in the Beijing and Shenyang military regions is on full alert — same with the First, Fifth, and Twenty-Third Army Groups nearest the Mongolian salient.”

“Where exactly?”

Cathermeier turned to the watch officer. “Put up a topographical map of Heilongjiang.” The major tapped his keyboard and a map appeared on the screen. Using a laser pointer, Cathermeier traced the Chinese-Mongolian border as it swept upward, forming a bulge into Siberia. “The First, Fifth, and Twenty-third all have their bases in this area south of the Hinggan Mountains.”

“That makes sense,” Mason muttered.

“What do you mean?”

“The shale oil deposits Skeldon mapped start north of Hinggans, just inside the border.”

“Well, if that’s going to be their penetration point, then they’ve got a tough job ahead of them,” Cathermeier replied. “Just getting there by ground would take four days, which would give the Russians time to shift. If that’s their plan, it’s flawed.”

Mason considered this. “How would you do it?”

Cathermeier chuckled. “I wouldn’t.”

“If you had to.”

“I’d have to give it some thought, but I’ll tell you this: I’d make damned sure I had surprise on my side. The Russian’s know how to defend their soil.”

“The Chinese have to know that,” Dutcher said.

“You’d think so.”

They talked for a few minutes more, then Mason led them into the Tank and shut the door.

“Any word from Tanner or Cahil?”

“Nothing from Ian and nothing from Briggs since his last message,” Dutcher replied. “If he hasn’t been captured, he’s probably still en route to the camp.”

“I hate to say it, but I don’t think we should count on either of them. We have to move now. Martin’s not going to back down; he’s watching a war unfold before his eyes and he’s still more worried about covering his ass.”

“When do you want to do it?”

“Tonight. I’ll call Lahey.”

​It was past midnight when the knock came at Ivan Nochenko’s door. He got up, threw on his robe, and peered through the peephole. Standing in the hall were Sergei Fedorin and Marshal Beskrovny. Both wore street clothes. Nochenko unlocked the door and opened it.

“May we come in?” Beskrovny said.

“Yes, of course.”

They stepped inside and Nochenko gestured toward the kitchen table. Fedorin and Beskrovny sat down. Something’s wrong, Nochenko thought. “What is it? Has something happened?”

“That’s why we’re here,” Fedorin said. “We’re hoping to stop something before it starts.”

“I don’t understand,” Nochenko said. That wasn’t entirely true; part of his brain knew why they’d come. “What are you talking about?”

Beskrovny said, “Ivan, you know President Bulganin better than anyone, yes?”

“I suppose so.”

“How does he seem to you?”

“He’s under a lot of stress, if that’s what you mean.”

“We’re all under stress,” Fedorin replied. “We’re more concerned with him.”

“He’s going through an adjustment period. This early in office, it’s to be expected — especially given the circumstances — the Chinese, the American battle group …”

“You’re not concerned?”

“Of course I’m concerned. Stop mincing words! Say what you came to say.”

Fedorin and Beskrovny exchanged glances. Beskrovny cleared his throat. “We feel the president is leading the country down a very dangerous path. We feel he’s … unbalanced.”

There it is, Nochenko thought. He felt a flash of anger, but before he could open his mouth to speak, the emotion was gone, replaced by a strange clarity. All the doubts and fears about Bulganin he’d been suppressing came back in a flood.

Unbalanced? Nochenko thought. Vladimir Bulganin was far beyond unbalanced. He’d known that for a long time. Not only known it, he thought, but ignored it. Maybe even helped it along.

And for what? Nochenko thought. For the challenge of it. Like some half-baked god, he’d been trying to create a king from a lump of clay, but instead he’d created a golem, a monster born of desire and vanity and delusion.

“Are you all right?” Beskrovny asked. “You don’t look well.”

Nochenko took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He had to step carefully here. If Fedorin and Beskrovny were heading in the direction he suspected, his role as Bulganin’s chief advisor would be not only pivotal, but perilous.

“I’m fine,” Nochenko replied. “Let’s suppose you’re right. What do you propose?”

“That depends on what happens in the coming days,” said Fedorin. “If he continues on the same course, our options become limited. Neither Victor nor myself can refuse his orders — not without being dismissed.”

“Which he would do without hesitation.”

Beskrovny nodded. “And then appoint more … pliable men in our places. That’s the rub, you see. Whatever is behind this business with China and all the rest of it, we haven’t seen the worst of it. Events are not going to slow down and wait for Bulganin to get his house in order.”

“In other words, while he’s sacking you, the missiles are flying.”

“That’s a very real possibility.”

And if the missiles do start flying, Nochenko thought, the country is going to need men like Fedorin and Beskrovny. He wondered if that was part of their message to him: Your golem is out of control. We know what we‘re willing to do to save Russia. What about you?

“Tomorrow I’ll speak with him,” Nochenko said. “Perhaps he’ll rethink his stance.”

“Perhaps,” Marshal Beskrovny replied.

“And if he doesn’t?” Fedorin asked.

Your golem, Ivan.

“Then we’ll meet again and … discuss alternatives.”

Not long after they had left, Tanner discovered that Tun-San was familiar with their route.

As it turned out, three times a year he would travel to Harbin armed with a shopping list from other nearby farmers. At over three million people, Harbin was a strange and wondrous place, and Tun-San had become something of a hero for his tri-yearly quests to what many of them still called Pinkiang, the city’s name when Heilongjiang Province was still known as Manchuria.

Tun-San followed the meandering dirt roads with confidence, never once consulting Tanner’s map. Before long, Briggs learned his secret.

“Rock shape like bird,” Tun-San would call out, pointing. Or, “Two trees leaning.”

As the pickup chugged along, eating up the distance at a slow but steady twenty-five mph, Tun-San called out landmark after landmark, explaining to Tanner why it was special and how he used it to navigate. Some of them he used only during summer months, others only during the rainy season when his normal route was flooded.

Aside from a handful of peasants, Tanner saw very few people on the roads, oftentimes going for an hour without seeing a soul. At those times, Tun-San would invariably spot the pedestrian first and call out, “Duck,” and Tanner would crouch on the floor until he got the all clear.

Outside Yushu, twenty-five miles from the southern border of Heilongjiang Province, they started an impromptu game of “Name That object” as Tun-San pointed at a low-flying hawk. “Niaor!” he called.

“Niaor,” Tanner repeated, then said, “bird.”

The game continued until they reversed roles and Tun-San pointed and called out, “Cow!”

“No,” Tanner replied. “Cucumber.”

Eyes narrowed, Tun-San glanced sideways at him. “Cucumber?”

Tanner smiled. “No, cow.”

“Yes. Cow,” Tun-San replied, then started laughing.

True to Tun-San’s estimate, five hours after they left, they arrived on the southern outskirts of Anjia, a tiny village of less than two hundred people. Tun-San pulled over and shut off the engine. Outside, dusk was falling and Tanner could see black-bellied clouds piling up on the horizon. A gust of wind cut through the cab, sending a tingle up his neck. “Rain’s coming.”

“Very much rain,” Tun-San agreed. “Map, please?”

Tanner unfolded it and set it on the seat between them. He clicked on his flashlight.

Tun-San traced his finger along the map. “Anjia … here. We … here. Your friend?”

Tanner pointed to a spot in a valley to the northeast. “Here. I can walk the rest—”

“No.”

“It might be better if—”

“Quiet, cucumber man,” Tun-San ordered, then barked out a laugh.

Four miles north of Anjia, Tun-San turned east off the main road onto a narrow track barely wider than the truck. Night had fallen, and with it the wind had risen. Briggs could smell ozone in the air, a sure sign rain wasn’t far off.

Suddenly a pair of headlights glowed to life in front of them. “Duck!” Tun-San called.

Tanner hit the floorboards. Hands held before him against the glare, Tun-San jammed on the brakes. The truck shuddered to a stop with the back wheels still churning.

“Can you tell who it is?” Tanner whispered.

“Army truck.”

Army truck. This close to the camp, it had to be a roadblock. If they had dogs, it was all over.

An amplified voice called, “Ting!” Stop! followed by another order Tanner didn’t catch.

“They say come ahead,” Tun-San muttered.

“Do it,” Briggs said. “After a few feet, steer toward the edge of the road until your front wheel is in the grass, then shut off the engine and tell them you’ve stalled. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” Tun-San glanced down at him and covertly extended his hand; Briggs took it. “Luck to you, Huang tou tai gao le,” Tun-San said.

“And you, my friend. Thanks for everything.”

As Tun-San started moving forward, foot pressed on the brake to keep his speed down, Tanner turned around so he was facing the door opening. Tun-San began easing to the right. Tanner watched the strip of dirt disappear and change to grass. Tun-San cut the wheel and shut of the engine.

Tanner slithered out the door, doing his best to stay behind the tire. He felt the glare of the truck’s headlights on his face. He let himself slide down the embankment and into the taller grass at the bottom.

“My truck has stalled,” Tun-San called in Mandarin. “Sorry.”

“Stay there. Make no sudden movements,” the amplified voice ordered.

In the glare of the headlights Tanner saw a pair of shadows moving toward Tun-San’s truck. Working by feel, he opened his pack and pulled out the revolver. He opened the cylinder: four rounds. It wouldn’t be enough against soldiers armed with AK-47s, he knew, but he’d already made up his mind: At the first sign they were going to take Tun-San, he would intervene.

Shoot the first two, grab one of their AKs, then pray you get the drop on the others …

The soldiers walked up, one on each side of the truck, and began questioning Tun-San. He played the lost farmer well, showing the perfect mix of fear and respect. After searching the truck, they accepted a crate of eggs, then helped him get the truck turned around and started again.

With a wave out the door, Tun-San chugged back down the road and disappeared.

Tanner lay perfectly still for ninety minutes, listening to the soldiers talking and laughing.

There were four of them. Though he was only able to catch snippets of their conversation, the primary topic of discussion seemed to involve him—“the American agent”—and what they would do to him if they caught him. Though Briggs knew it was nothing more than soldierly bravado, it set his heart pounding nonetheless. He was well and truly alone.

Every half hour he heard the squelch of a radio and a brief exchange: “Post four, all clear …”

Tanner listened closely, committing the words to memory.

A light rain began to fall, pattering the grass around him. In the distance he heard the rumble of thunder. Up the road, the soldiers hurried for the truck’s bed; three got in the back while one remained outside. He sat on the front bumper and smoked, rain poncho hiked over his head.

Tanner began creeping forward.

The cover of rain sped his progress, but it still took him forty minutes to cover the one hundred yards to the truck. As he drew even with it, he heard the squelch of the radio: “Post four …”

The soldier on the bumper raised his radio. “Post four, all clear.”

“Very well.”

Moving inches at a time, Tanner began dragging himself up the slope until his outstretched fingers felt dirt The soldier was five feet away now, with his arms resting on his knees and the AK leaning against the bumper.

Nice and easy, Briggs. Don’t rush it …

If the soldier sounded the alarm, he’d have a firefight on his hands.

Tanner stood up, stepped forward, and knelt beside the soldier. “Ni hao,” he whispered.

The soldier snapped his head around. Tanner stuck the barrel of the revolver in his face. The man’s eyes bulged. “No sound. One noise and you’re dead. Dong?” Understand?

The soldier nodded. “Dong.”

Tanner gestured for him to lower himself to the ground, which he did. Tanner pointed at his hood: off. With trembling hands, the soldier complied. “Hand me your rifle,” Tanner whispered.

As the soldier turned to reach for it, Briggs reversed the revolver in his hand and smacked the butt behind the soldier’s ear. Tanner caught him as he fell, then laid him flat and took his radio.

From the truck: “Okay out there?”

“Hao, hao,” Tanner replied. Yeah, yeah. Disgruntled solder in the rain.

Briggs picked up the AK and crouched down to wait. Nothing moved. After five minutes he heard snoring coming from the truck.

The radio squelched: “Post four, report.”

He paused to rehearse his lines, then keyed the radio: “Post four, all clear.”

“Very well.”

Tanner quickly disarmed the remaining three soldiers — Flying Dragon paratroopers, he saw — then had them climb out and march to the front of the truck. Seeing their comrade laying in the dirt, the team leader, a sergeant, knelt beside him. He glared up at Tanner.

Briggs shook his head. “He’s alive. Ni xing shem ma?”

“My name is Hjiu,” he replied in English. “I know who you are.”

“Good for you,” Tanner said. “Open my pack, Sergeant. Inside you’ll find some duct tape.”

Carrying their still-unconscious comrade between them, Tanner marched them into a field beside the road, where he had them lie down on their sides next to one another. He ordered Hjiu to bind the other’s hands, feet, and mouths and then, satisfied with the job, did the same to Hjiu. Finally he taped them together, back to back, wrists to feet, until they were all immobilized.

Once done, he knelt down beside Sergeant Hjiu. “Sorry about the rain.”

Hjiu mouthed something behind the tape; Tanner peeled it away. “Yes?”

“You will kill us now?”

“What for?”

“They told us you would.”

Briggs shrugged. “They lied.”

Back at the truck, Tanner gathered the AKs together, removed the magazines, then tossed the rifles into the back. He climbed into the cab, started the engine, then did a Y-turn on the road and headed north.

Ten miles to go.

Tanner decided that if there were any silver lining to the nightmare he’d gone through over the past three days, it was that his perspective had undergone a metamorphosis. He now realized that conscious effort aside, he hadn’t been able to completely silence the cold voice of pessimism in his head, and that part of him had expected to get caught long before now.

In retrospect, all of it seemed surreal: his hurried flight from Beijing; his battle with the PSB man at the swamp; his torturous overnight run to Xinqiu; his leap from the train north of Changchun and subsequent race to the river; and finally his collapse near Tun-San’s farm.

And yet, the voice was still nagging him: Yes, he’d beaten not only the odds but also his pursuers; and yes, he was just miles from his destination. But what had he actually accomplished? He’d managed to reach the most heavily guarded prison camp in all of China. Now what?

After leaving the soldiers under the tree, he drove northwest through the rain to the outskirts of Beiyinhe, where he turned east and followed the road as it wound along a series of ravines — marking several on his map as he went — until he was west of the camp.

Without fail, every half hour the radio crackled to life and each time he gave his “all clear” report and got a “very well” in reply. Though he knew sooner or later the next guard rotation would arrive to discover their comrades, and his ploy would be over, he was determined to squeeze from it every hour and every mile he could.

At last the road led him down into a wooded valley. Bordered by a cliff on one side and a fast-flowing river on the other, the shoulders narrowed until the trees were scraping the doors.

He drove until he found a still part of the river wide enough and deep enough for his needs, then turned the wheel and eased the truck forward until the tires teetered at the edge of the road. He shut off the engine, shifted into neutral, and set the parking brake. Once he’d cleared the cab of his belongings, he reached in and released the brake.

Slowly at first, then with increasing speed, the truck rolled down the embankment and into the water. He watched as it sunk hood-first beneath the surface and disappeared from sight.

Another mystery for Xiang to solve. If Tanner were lucky, once they failed to find the truck in the immediate area, they would expand the search, wasting more time and resources. Better yet, Xiang might begin to question whether he had remained in the area at all.

For what felt like the hundredth time, he hefted the pack over his shoulder and started jogging.

Four miles from the camp he came to a switchback in the road. From habit he stopped short, dropped onto his belly, and peeked around the bend. A hundred yards away an army truck straddled the road. Like the first one, this roadblock was also manned by four soldiers. Here, however, all four stood outside, ponchos drawn over their heads and rifles held at the ready.

He backed around the bend, wriggled across the road, and down the embankment to the river’s edge, where he carefully cut free half a dozen branches. With them spread across his body, he slipped into the water, gasping as the coldness enveloped him, and pushed himself off the bank.

Within seconds the current caught him and began drawing him downstream.

Three miles beyond the roadblock the river forked. On impulse, he crawled out and onto the island between them. He was only a mile from the camp, and his subconscious was talking to him.

This was too easy. Knowing the camp was his ultimate destination, surely Xiang would have taken better measures than roadblocks. Did the Guoanbu director imagine he would bump into one of them and surrender? There had to be more: Roving patrols, hidden observation posts — something.

He checked his watch: one a.m. Dawn was five hours away. If Hsiao had managed to make the necessary changes, his duty shift began at six a.m. Tanner needed to be in position before that.

The rain continued to fall, churning the river’s surface and dripping off the leaves. The air had grown noticeably cooler, and he could see faint tendrils of vapor escaping his mouth with each breath.

He looked downriver, scanning the banks and trees. They were out there. But where?

After scouting nearby to make sure he wasn’t sitting on top of an OP — observation post — he opened his pack and pulled out the woolen blanket he’d taken from the truck’s cab. It was old, threadbare in some spots, and standard-issue olive drab — it was perfect. He spent ten minutes dirtying it with mud, dirt, and ground leaves, then took his knife and went to work.

He cut away a rough oval big enough to cover his mouth and nose; it would not only break up his features, but the wool would also filter the moisture from his breath, reducing any telltale exhalation. He then slit the edges of the blanket at random intervals to also break up its form.

What he’d just made was a homemade ghillie cape like the kind used by snipers. Worn as a coat or a cape, a well-designed ghillie is all but indistinguishable from its surroundings. Particularly at night, the human is drawn to shine, movement, and shape. Though not perfect, if he used the ghillie correctly it would render him just another piece of the landscape.

Once satisfied with his work, he draped the blanket over his shoulders, tucked its edges under his pack straps, and slipped back into the water.

In the end, patience saved him.

He spent the next four hours picking his way along the forest floor and the river’s banks, at times covering only a few feet at a time before stopping to watch and listen.

Less than a half mile from his starting point, he came across the first OP. Manned by two paratroopers laying perfectly still inside a clump of ferns, it was so well concealed that Briggs had crawled to within thirty feet of it before spotting a faint glint of moonlight on blued metal. Gun barrel.

Inch by inch, he eased himself back down the slope until he was out of sight, then turned and started crawling again, circling wide around the OP before returning to his course along the river.

Three more times he encountered similar posts and three more times he repeated the painstaking process of bypassing each until finally, at five-thirty, he saw a glimmer of yellow light through the trees to his right. After another fifty yards of crawling, he came to the edge of a tree line.

And suddenly, twenty feet in front of him, it was there.

As Hsiao had described it, Laogi 179 was nestled at the narrowest end of a wooded valley about a quarter mile across. The camp itself was a rectangle with twelve-foot high razor fencing and guard towers at each corner. The main gate lay on the south side and provided access to the only road leading to and from the camp.

The inner compound was made up of four long, wooden barracks, three for guards and support staff, and a fourth, which he guessed contained the prisoner’s cells. Set apart from the barracks at the opposite end of the camp were four barnlike storage buildings and a wooden water tower. Beside these was a concrete landing pad big enough for two helicopters and a small hangar.

A Hind-D sat on the pad with its rotors tethered to the securing rings.

Xiang was here. What did that say? Either he knew how valuable Soong was, or he was taking this hunt personally — or both. Did he simply want to be there when Tanner was caught, or was he here to make sure nothing went wrong?

Another curiosity Tanner had been wrestling with was why Xiang hadn’t simply moved Soong. Perhaps Xiang’s pride and vanity were calling the shots. The Guoanbu director wasn’t going to let anyone dictate his decisions, let alone the man who’d beaten him before. Moving Soong would have been tantamount to admitting defeat.

Good for him, Briggs thought. While Xiang was fighting his personal battle, Briggs was going to slip in, steal Soong, then slip out again.

Now all he had to do was come up with a plan to make it happen.

In the half hour before Hsiao’s shift started, Tanner lay in the undergrowth watching the camp come alive as the first trickle of dawn light seeped through the forest.

He studied the guards, how and where they moved, their routes and checkpoints. They were very good, he immediately realized — thorough and observant. If he stayed around long enough he would eventually find a weakness in their security, but that would take time he didn’t have.

The trick would be not only getting in, but reaching Soong and then escaping without raising the alarm. If even one shot were fired, he’d be finished. Well-trained as they were, the guards would undoubtedly respond smoothly and quickly to any emergency.

At five minutes to six, a group of twelve or so guards emerged from one of the barracks and walked into the compound. One by one Tanner scanned faces through the binoculars until he spotted Hsiao. Several of the guards broke off and headed for a line of outhouses beside the storage buildings.

Latrines, Briggs thought with a smile. Latrines and a water tower. No plumbing.

The seed of an idea planted itself in his brain.

At the beginning of each guard shift, Hsiao had explained back in Beijing, a “fence check” was performed by each shift’s two junior members, which in this case meant Hsiao.

As advertised, Hsiao and another guard walked out the main gate, then separated and began slowly walking along the fence, inspecting it for gaps, weak points, and signs of tampering. As he drew even with Tanner’s position, Briggs whispered, “Ni hao.” Good morning.

Hsiao stopped in his tracks, but kept his cool and didn’t turn around. He knelt beside the fence as though checking it “Ni hao,” he whispered back.

“How are you?”

“Awful.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“And you?”

“The same. What did you find out about Bian?”

“He was arrested; aside from that, I was unable to find out anything.”

No, no, no … “I’m sorry.”

“So am I. Now, more than ever, we must free the general. We owe that to Bian, at least.”

“No second thoughts?”

“No, but I’ve decided I want to come with you.”

Tanner smiled to himself. “I thought you might. I’m glad to have you. Is Xiang here?”

“Yes, last night, with about two dozen paratroopers.”

“I assume that’s his Hind on the pad; what about in the hangar?”

“The camp’s Hoplite is kept in there.”

Tanner knew the Hoplite; it was boxy and slow, but durable. “Did Xiang bring dogs?”

“No, no dogs. Two things you should know: there’s a rumor that Soong’s daughter is here.”

She’s here … my God. Lian is here. “He brought her here? Why?”

“I don’t know.”

The only advantage her presence might give Xiang was blackmail. Soong wouldn’t leave without her and Xiang knew it. By dangling her in front of Soong, perhaps Xiang was sending a message: I’ve got my hands on her throat, leave and she dies.

The son-of-a-bitch … Tanner shook it off. Don’t let it throw you off. Get out of your head and focus on the job. “What else?” he asked.

“They found a group of soldiers from one of the roadblocks. I assume that was you?”

“Yes. Are they looking for the truck?”

Hsiao nodded. “I was in the control center when word arrived about the roadblock. Xiang and the paratrooper lieutenant — Shen, I think — were arguing over what it meant. Xiang thinks you’re still in the area; Shen thinks you’re running. They haven’t decided what to do yet.”

Confusion and uncertainty — good. Maybe he could get some more use out of that.

“You better keep walking,” Briggs said. “Stop on the way back.”

Twenty minutes later Hsiao again stopped beside tanner, this time pretending to fix something with his boot. “How are you going to do this, Briggs? I might be able to cut the fence—”

“No. I might have an idea. Tell me everything you know about your sewage system.”

“Huh? Our sewage system?”

“That’s right.”

Hsiao gave him the information. Tanner asked a few questions, then mentally dissected the plan for weaknesses, of which there were plenty, but he dismissed them and decided that, given a bit of luck and good timing, the plan could work.

It was all about odds, he knew. As with anything, there were no absolutes. What were the odds a guard would follow the exact same route every time? Even with the odds heavily in your favor, the guard, being human, might change his mind at the last minute, or get different orders, or find his way blocked … The variables were endless.

All Tanner could do was hope the odds fell in his favor and trust that when they didn’t, his skill and experience would be enough to make up the difference.

“Why all these questions?” Hsiao asked. “What are you planning?”

Tanner told him.

Hsiao’s face went pale. “You … you are not serious, are you?”

Serious, but not looking forward to it, Briggs thought. “I am. Can you get the things I need?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Be ready. If all goes well, we’ll be on our way tonight.”

“How? I don’t understand what you’re planning.”

Tanner smiled. “I’m still working on it. Ask me again in a few hours.”

As directed, Howard Bousikaris arranged theirs to be Martin’s last meeting of the day.

It was nine p.m. when Dutcher, Mason, and Cathermeier were ushered into the Oval Office. The room was dim except for a pair of brass floor lamps casting soft light into the corners, and a green visored banker’s light on Martin’s desk. As always, Bousikaris stood beside Martin’s elbow.

As they were shown in, the president looked up. “Good, gentlemen, come in. I’m hoping we can make this short; I’ve got a late supper scheduled with Senators Petit and Diaz.”

Dutcher glanced at Bousikaris, who shook his head: meeting cancelled.

“Let’s sit by the fire, shall we?”

Once they were all seated, President Martin gave Dutcher an appraising stare. “The mysterious Leland Dutcher. I understand you helped my predecessor on a few occasions.”

“Yes, sir. I was honored to serve,” Dutcher replied, and meant it.

John Haverland had been, and still was, albeit now out of the public eye, a man of integrity. Though Haverland had been too discreet to say as much, Dutcher always suspected he’d regretted not only bringing Martin aboard as his VP, but also positioning him for a run at the White House.

A terrible mistake, Dutcher thought, but hopefully a correctable one.

“Speaking of serving,” Martin replied, “I don’t recall seeing your name on the schedule. Did you stow away in Dick’s pocket?”

“No, sir, I was invited.”

Martin narrowed his eyes at Dutcher. “Not by me.”

Too much ego, not enough substance, Dutcher thought. A hollow man squabbling over petty control issues. For a brief moment Leland felt sorry for him. For Martin, every moment of every day, was consumed with worries over his image. It had to be a maddening existence. The problem was, unlike many people who fight similar demons, Martin had sold his own country in pursuit of a legacy his very character would never support.

“I asked him to come,” Bousikaris said. “Leland has some experience with both China and Russia; his perspective might be useful.”

“Fine. So, gentlemen, where do we stand? Any change in either country’s posture?”

“Before we get to that,” Mason said. “I have something you might want to take a look at.” Mason opened his briefcase, withdrew a file folder, and handed it to Martin.

Frowning, Martin took the folder, flipped it open, and began reading. After thirty seconds, he snatched off his glasses and glared at Mason. “What is this?”

“That’s an affidavit signed by your chief of staff.”

Martin turned in his chair and looked at Bousikaris. “Howard, what the hell—”

Mason broke in: “Currently four copies of that affidavit exist: The one you’re reading and three others, each of them sealed and notarized. One is—”

“What in God’s name are you doing?” Martin growled. “This is a dangerous game, Dick. One phone call from me and—”

“Phil,” Bousikaris said. “Listen to what they have to say. If you make the wrong decision now, you’ll regret it.”

“Are you threatening me, Howard? You little mealy-mouthed asshole! How dare you!”

“I’m telling you it’s over, Phil Your only chance—our only chance — of not ending up in jail is to listen to what they have to say.”

Jaw muscles pulsing, Martin said, “Go on, Dick. Keep digging your grave.”

“One of the affidavits is in the CIA’s chief counsel’s office safe; the second in the safe of an assistant director at the FBI, the third in a safe-deposit box,” Mason said. “If in two hour’s time each of us fails to make a phone call, the affidavits will be distributed.”

“To whom?”

“One will go to the attorney general, the other to the director of the FBI, the third to the editor in chief of The Washington Post. In short, the affidavit outlines your collusion with the People’s Republic of China, starting with its donations to your campaign—”

“I never knew it was them. That was—”

“To your agreement with China’s ambassador to commit U.S. military assets to further China’s strategic aims. The affidavit also contains a report from a decorated Special Agent with the FBI detailing his investigation into the murder of a Commerce Department official and his family—”

“What? That’s nonsense. I don’t know anything about—”

“—who were murdered by agents of China’s Ministry of State Security — the same agents that served as intermediaries between Mr. Bousikaris, yourself, and China’s ambassador.”

Martin stared at Mason, then chuckled and tossed the folder onto the coffee table. “Wonderful story. Problem is, gentlemen, you’ve forgotten something: If you follow through on your threat, your names will come out as well. You’ll be lucky to survive it. You sink me, you sink yourselves.”

Dutcher said, “Small price to pay to stop a war. I for one would rather take my chances than to see you stay in this office another day.”

Martin glanced at Cathermeier. “And you, General? I can’t believe you, of all people, would betray me. I’m your commander in chief, for God’s sake. You’re sworn to follow my orders.”

“And you’re sworn to uphold the Constitution and to put this country’s welfare above everything else — including yourself,” Cathermeier responded. “I’ve had a good career — a good life — and if in the process of tossing you out on your ass I lose all of it, I’ll still call it a fair trade.”

“You’re a disgrace! All of you! You’re all traitors, and I swear on my soul I’ll see you pay—”

“An empty oath,” Mason said. “You’ve got no soul to swear on. The only question that remains is, are you going to go willingly or kicking and screaming?”

“Go to hell!”

Mason shrugged. “Once you’re out of here, perhaps, but not before.”

Martin looked at Bousikaris. “Howard, how could you do this to me? I trusted you. Of all the people who would want to see me fail, I never thought you’d be one of them.”

Bousikaris looked down at the carpet and Dutcher saw a tear at the corner of his eye. “I’m sorry, Phil,” he whispered. “I am. We made a terrible choice, and there’s no running away from it. We could have done the right thing; we could have told them to go to hell and let the chips fall where they may. But we didn’t.”

“You little weasel! That’s fine, I don’t need you.” Martin turned back to the others; he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and grinned. “You think you’re ready to take me on? I am the president of the goddamned United States] I’ll have you hauled out of here in handcuffs, and then we’ll see what you’re made of!”

Martin stood up and started walking toward his desk.

“Just so we’re clear on this,” Dutcher said. “Whether you have us arrested or not, nothing will change. The affidavits will go out. By tomorrow morning you’ll have the attorney general, the Justice Department, the FBI, and every newspaper and television reporter in the country sitting in your lap. And that’s just day one; day two will be worse still, and so and so forth until you’re drummed out of office and hung in effigy from every tree in every town in this country. You’ll go down in history as the most corrupt president in our nation’s history — and that’s if you’re lucky. More likely, you’ll end up in jail. So go ahead and make your call. Maybe it’s fitting that you seal your coffin.”

With one hand hovering over the phone, Martin shook his head and smiled ruefully. “I’ll give you this: You boys know how to tie a good knot.” Martin walked back to his chair and sat down. “So you’ve got me over a barrel. What’s it going to be? You all want influence … special consideration? You’ve got it. What’s your pleasure, gentlemen?”

Amazing, Dutcher thought. Martin was still trying to play his own game. Despite it all, he truly thought they were just like him.

Dutcher glanced at Mason and Cathermeier, who both shook their heads sadly.

“How about it, gentlemen?” Martin said. “You’ve won your little victory. Now it’s time to collect. It’s not often I admit to being bested, so don’t squander it.”

Bousikaris stepped forward. “Phil—”

“No, Howard, I know when to bend a little. Let them enjoy their time in the sun.”

Mason sighed, then looked at Bousikaris and nodded.

Bousikaris picked up the phone, spoke into it for a few seconds, then hung up. Thirty seconds later the door opened and David Lahey walked in. “Good evening, Phil.”

“What’re you doing here?” Martin said. “Dick, this is between us. David’s got nothing to do with this.”

“He’s got everything to do with it. He’s your replacement.”

“What? Oh Jesus, give it up, gentlemen! You can’t really expect me to simply step down.”

“That’s exactly what we expect. Next week you’ll hold a press conference. Citing a cancerous brain tumor — a cerebella astrocytomas, to be exact — you have transferred power to Vice President Lahey. While the tumor is not fatal, the doctors have told you it will eventually begin to affect your judgment and therefore your ability to carry out your duties. For the good of the country, you are tendering your resignation.”

“No one will buy that.”

“Of course they will,” Dutcher replied. “Most of them gladly.”

For the first time, Martin lost a bit of his swagger. He spread his hands. “You can’t do this. Please … Don’t do this to me.”

“You did it to yourself,” Cathermeier replied.

Mason said, “Make your decision. If you take the option we’re offering, you get to retire to your farm in New Hampshire and write your damned memoirs; if you go against us, your life is over. It’s time to decide, Phil.”

As though suddenly deflated, Martin leaned back in his chair. He stared at the carpet for nearly a full minute. “Okay,” he whispered. “You win. What do you want me to do?”

Thirty minutes later they were joined by the White House’s chief counsel and the director of the Secret Service. As they entered, both men were visibly wary. For Martin’s part, he played his role well, sitting tall in his desk chair, the commanding and brave president.

“Now that we’re all here, I have an announcement to make. What I’m about to tell you is very difficult. Aside from Howard, my wife, and my personal physician, no one else knows about this.”

Martin went on to explain his condition, the type of tumor involved, and then his prognosis, never once missing a beat. It was a masterful performance, Dutcher thought. It was no wonder how Martin had risen so high in politics; he was a chameleon of the highest order.

“And so,” Martin concluded, “next week I will be resigning the presidency. Effective immediately, however, I wish to formally turn over my duties and responsibilities to Vice President Lahey.”

The room was silent. The director of the Secret Service was the first to break the silence. He stepped forward. “Mr. President?”

Dutcher held his breath. This was the point of no return. If Martin chose to damn the consequences and turn on them, it would happen now. Dutcher had no idea what the duress code word would be, but within seconds of Martin’s using it, they would find themselves surrounded by a dozen Secret Service agents.

Martin paused a few seconds, then shook his head. “Relax, Roger. I appreciate your concern, but this is my decision, and as painful as it is, it’s the right thing.”

“Very well, Mr. President.”

Martin turned to the White House counsel. “Lorne, how do we make this official?”

Considering the gravity of the event, the transfer of power from Martin to Lahey was surprisingly simple, Dutcher thought. There would be further bureaucratic hoops through which to jump, of course, but an hour after giving the order, Martin was signing the last of the documents transferring the powers of office to David Lahey. The documents were then witnessed and signed by both the chief counsel and the director of the Secret Service.

“Is that it?” Martin asked.

“Yes, sir,” said the chief counsel. “That’s it.”

“Thank you both. Roger, please inform my detail that President Lahey’s personal detail will arrive shortly for a transfer of duties.”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s all, then. You can go.”

Once they were gone, Martin let out a heavy sigh, pushed himself away from the desk, and stood up. He turned to Lahey and gestured to the chair with a flourish. “David, the mantle is yours.”

Lahey merely nodded.

Martin looked at Dutcher, Mason, and Cathermeier each in turn. “I assume, gentlemen, that you have no problem with me retiring to my bedroom?”

Mason shook his head.

As Martin headed for the door, Mason called, “Phil.”

“Yes?”

“Make no mistake: Tomorrow or ten years from now, the affidavits will still be there. Between the three of us, we’ll see to that.”

Martin nodded wearily. “I know, Dick. I’ll be a good boy, I promise.”

As the door shut behind him, there was a long, awkward silence in the room. Finally, Lahey walked to one of the wingback chairs and sat down heavily. “Jesus Christ.”

“Yeah,” Mason said.

“I actually feel a little sorry for the bastard. I can hardly believe it, but I do.”

The intercom on the desk buzzed. Everyone glanced at it, but no one moved.

“I believe that’s for you, Mr. President,” Leland Dutcher said.

“Yeah, I guess it is.” Lahey walked to his desk, picked up the phone, listened, then nodded to Cathermeier. “For you. I sure hope this isn’t a bad omen.”

Cathermeier took the phone, listened for a few moments, then hung up.

Mason said, “What is it, Chuck?”

“The Chinese have planes in the air. They’re headed toward the Russian border.”

Tanner spent the first half of the day asleep, curled up inside the rotted bole of a black walnut with underbrush and branches piled around him for camouflage.

A little after noon he woke up, coded a message for the Motorola, and sent it home. He then ate his last remaining rations of trail mix and beef jerky and washed it down with some of Wu’s sweat sock soup spiked with honey; it tasted almost pleasant.

At two, he left his cave and headed out, crawling deeper into the forest. His destination lay two miles to the south and he had three hours to get there, but without knowing what kind of daylight patrols Xiang had set, he wanted to allow plenty of time.

It turned out to be the right decision.

The forest surrounding the camp was thick with Xiang’s paratroopers as roving patrols had been dispatched to augment the OPs. A few hundred yards from his starting point Tanner again found himself playing a nerve-wracking game of hide-and-go-seek.

The paratroopers were good, but, as before, Tanner used patience to his advantage. Patrols came and went, oftentimes passing within feet of him as he lay under his homemade ghillie cape, holding his breath until their footsteps faded and he could continue on his way.

At four-thirty he reached the edge of the woods. Ahead lay a clearing at the center of which was a wide, sand-filled pit; to his right, back toward the camp, was the road Hsiao had described. Briggs was about to grab his map to confirm his location when the stench of feces filled his nostrils. A spurt of bile filled his mouth; he swallowed it.

This has to be the right place, he thought.

Now he waited.

Thirty-five minutes later he heard the roar of a truck engine echoing through the trees. Tanner peered down the road. The tanker truck, driven by a guard from the camp, chugged around the bend and pulled into the clearing. Black hoses dangled like tentacles from their mounts on the holding tank, bouncing and swaying with each bump in the road. With a grinding of gears, the truck stopped, did a Y-turn and backed toward the pit, stopping a few feet short of the edge.

The guard shut off the engine and got out. He wore rubber chest waders and elbow-high gloves. He walked to the rear of the truck, unhooked one of the hoses, and dropped it into the pit.

Tanner got to his feet and sprinted to the truck’s front bumper, where he dropped to his belly. Beneath the length of the truck he could see the guard’s feet shuffling as he readied the vehicle.

With a whine, the tank’s pump kicked on. The man’s feet backed away from the hose and stopped beside the rear tire. The hose convulsed a few times, then came the sound of gushing water. And then, the odor — the sickly sweet stench of feces, urine, and garbage.

Tanner felt his belly heave. He set his teeth against it.

Forget it, he ordered himself. This is your way in.

He crab-walked around to the passenger side, mounted the access ladder, and climbed to the top of the tank. He laid himself flat and shimmied forward until he could see the guard’s head. The man was smoking as he watched the hose, seemingly transfixed by the effluent gushing into the pit.

Tanner reached out and lifted open the tank’s hatch. A cloud of fat, blue-backed flies burst from the opening; it took all his self-control to not drop the lid. Don’t think, just do it … Fingers clenched around the strap, he lowered the pack through the hatch until he felt it bump the ladder, then clipped the D-ring to a rung and released it.

Eyes fixed on the guard below, Briggs turned the AK so it hung across his chest, then dropped his feet through the hatch. He took one final breath of fresh air, then started downward.

The tank’s interior was a perfect echo chamber, amplifying the rhythmic grinding of the pump. He closed the hatch and the tank fell into complete blackness. Tanner felt a flash of claustrophobia. He closed his eyes, pressed his ghillie mask tighter over his nose, and concentrated on his breathing until the panic waned. He clicked on his flashlight and felt instantly better.

The tank was half full of fecal bilge, a brown-green quagmire that lapped at the sides of the tank with a sickening, gurgling sound. A miniwave of it washed over the bottom rung and left behind an oily deposit on his boot. At the rear of the tank the fluid whirl pooled around the vent valve.

Slowly but steadily the effluent level began to drop. A sporadic sucking sound echoed through the tank. The pump chugged and groaned. Tanner felt like he was trapped inside the belly of some prehistoric beast.

After another ten minutes, the tank was finally empty except for a half-inch of waste. Briggs stepped down, careful of his footing on the stainless-steel surface.

With a great sucking whoosh, the last of the tank’s contents disappeared through the valve. The pump went silent. The cab’s door opened, then shut. The truck’s engine growled to life, and as Tanner reached out to steady himself on the ladder, it began moving.

He spent most of the twenty-minute trip perched on the ladder, holding the hatch open a few inches and breathing fresh air. He couldn’t remember a more beautiful smell and vowed to never take it for granted again.

With more grinding of gears, the truck began slowing, then came to a stop. Outside, a voice — the driver’s, he assumed — called out in Mandarin. Another voice answered, followed by the squeaking of steel hinges. The main gate, Briggs thought. The truck lurched forward again.

Inside—

The truck lurched to a stop. Silence. Then footsteps clanking on the access ladder outside. What the hell is this …? Hsiao had mentioned nothing about anyone inspecting the inside of the tank. Briggs unclipped his pack from the ladder, unzipped the side pocket, pulled out the revolver.

The hatch opened. A shaft of sunlight knifed through the darkness.

Tanner raised the revolver and pointed at the opening.

A hand appeared and gave the thumbs-up sign. A moment later, Kam Hsiao’s face appeared in the opening. He spotted Tanner, gave him a brief nod and a smile, then withdrew.

The hatch clanged shut. Then Hsiao’s voice: “All clear! Drive on!”

After a few more stops and turns the truck was backed into the garage and the barn doors shut behind it. Briggs remained inside the tank for another ten minutes until certain he was alone, then climbed the ladder, popped the hatch, and peeked out.

Aside from some daylight showing around the edges of the doors and through a small, tarnished window in the rear, the garage was dark.

He grabbed his pack, climbed down the ladder, and dropped to the floor.

Hsiao’s directions took him into the garage’s small office, where he found a battleship gray desk, a chair, a filing cabinet, and a mangy, threadbare rug covering the floor. Tanner lifted its corner and there, set into the floor just as Hsiao had promised, was a hatch. He grabbed the handle and lifted, exposing the dirt foundation. A gust of cold, musty air blew past his face.

Built in the early fifties, all of the camp’s buildings had been equipped with crawl spaces for easy access to the electrical conduits and plumbing. Chosen twice a month by lottery, three guards were forced to inspect each building’s crawl spaces for rodent infestation and weather damage.

“It’s the least favorite duty in the camp,” Hsiao had explained, “Believe me: no one will go there unless they have to. You’ll be safe.”

Tanner dropped his pack and AK through the hatch, then stepped down. The opening came up to his waist. He reached back, grabbed the corner of the rug, then pulled it over the hatch as he closed it behind him.

A few feet into the crawl space Briggs found a black plastic garbage bag — the items he’d asked Hsiao to gather. He took a quick inventory and found everything there — including a surprise: a small tinfoil package. Inside was a hunk of roast pork tenderloin, some grilled broccoli, and fried rice.

Good ol’ Hsiao.

Despite the grumbling in his belly, Briggs resealed the food and set it aside. First work, then eat.

He had a lot to do if he was going to be ready for tonight.

Led by General Cathermeier, now-President David Lahey, Dick Mason, and Leland Dutcher walked into the center. “What’s happening, Commander?”

The CAC duty officer, a female navy lieutenant commander, walked over. “I have a briefing ready, General. If you’ll follow me.”

She led them into the tank and waited for everyone to find a seat, then walked to the wall screen, which showed a map of the Chinese-Russian border stretching from the western corner of the Mongolian salient to Birobijan, Russia’s Jewish Autonomous Oblast, in the east.

“As of now,” the duty officer began, “we’re showing two squadrons of aircraft moving toward the border. Initial composition of the group appears to be a mix of A-501, Russian built A-50 birds, and defense fighters.”

Lahey interrupted. “Pardon me, Commander, but I’m a little rusty. Could you translate all that into English for me?”

“Yes, sir. A-501s are Israeli-made AWACS radar planes used to coordinate air-to-air fighters. They can spot and track targets from hundreds of miles away and then vector fighters to intercept them. The use of such planes is critical if an attacker hopes to gain air superiority.

“A-50s are similar to AWACS, but they serve in more of an ELINT role — electronic intelligence gathering. Similar to that of the AWACS, their job is to detect enemy radio and radar transmissions, and in some cases jam them. A-50s are old, but still useful; they can be used to direct ground-attack aircraft toward ground-to-air missile sites, as well as fighters toward enemy AWACS.”

“Unless I’m wrong, doesn’t that tell us something?” Lahey said.

“Yes, sir,” Cathermeier replied. “Whatever the Chinese are planning, they’re making it their first job to gain air superiority over Siberia. If they can wipe the skies of Russian fighters, that makes everything else easier.”

“But we still don’t know what that is.”

“No, sir. Commander, anything new on ground forces in the salient?”

“Very little movement. All of it’s consistent with the increased alert status, but not a coordinated push toward the border. Even if they moved now, the first mechanized division wouldn’t reach the border for three days.”

Dick Mason said, “That’s damned odd.”

“Go on, Commander,” said Cathermeier.

“Fighter bases throughout the Beijing and Shenyang military regions are on full alert. We expect once the AWACS and ELINT planes get on station with their midair refuelers, we’ll see a surge of fighters and interceptors moving toward the border.”

“They’re trying to get the Russians to commit their own fighters and AWACS early,” Dutcher said. “Get them up, make them wait, expend resources, then swoop in.”

Cathermeier nodded. “I agree. And they’ll have no choice but to do it. These days they haven’t got enough ground, radar stations to cover the whole salient. Commander, any statements from either Moscow or Beijing?”

“Not a peep, sir.”

“Bad sign,” Mason said.

“There’s more,” the duty officer said. “As of an hour ago, satellite surveillance showed a Chinese surface-action group from the PLAAN’s North Sea Fleet moving out of the East China Sea and into the Korean Straits.”

“Moving toward Vladivostok,” Cathermeier muttered.

“Explain,” Lahey said.

“Our joint battle group is currently steaming …” Cathermeier looked to the duty officer.

“One hundred fifty miles, steaming east at twelve knots.”

“A hundred fifty miles off the Russian coast; in response, the Russians sent out their own SAG — surface action group — to meet us, which is …”

“One hundred seventy miles south of us, steaming north at fifteen,” the duty officer replied.

“They’re closing the box,” Cathermeier said.

“Explain,” Lahey said.

“Geography is against us. Vladivostok is in the Sea of Japan, which is a tight fit for a battle group. To the north, the waters continue to narrow between Sakhalin Island and the Russian coast. Now, squeeze into that space our battle group, the Russian and Chinese SAGs … We’ll be scraping paint with each other. Worse still, we’ve got no way of withdrawing except by going south — through the Russian group. Commander, what’s the size and makeup of the Chinese SAG?”

“Sixteen ships, consisting mainly of Haizhou-, Shenzhen-and Luda-class destroyers plus an odd mix of medium and light frigates.”

“By itself, not much of a match for us,” Cathermeier told Lahey, “but throw the Russians into the mix … It’s a disaster waiting to happen.”

“Which is probably their intention,” Dutcher replied. “To the Russians, it will be more evidence that we’re in bed with China: A U.S. battle group and a Chinese SAG off their coast, and Chinese fighters threatening their southern border.”

“Not to mention the attack on NV,” Mason added.

“A joint invasion,” Lahey murmured. “If I were sitting in Moscow myself, I’d probably see the same thing. Christ almighty.”

There was a knock on the conference room door; a marine lieutenant poked his head in. “Director Mason, message for you.”

“Thanks.” Mason took the message, read it, then looked at Cathermeier. “General, can you excuse the commander for a moment?”

“Sure. Thank you, Commander. Anything else?”

“No, sir.”

Once she was gone, Mason held up the message. “From Tanner.”

“Thank God,” Dutcher said, leaning forward. “What’s he say?”

“He’s alive and at the camp. He’s making his move tonight, his time.”

“How?”

“He didn’t say.”

Lahey said, “Excuse me, gentlemen, what are we talking about?”

Mason responded. “Tanner is the man we sent in after General Soong. A few days ago in Beijing he was burned; he went on the run. He’s managed to reach the prison camp where they’re holding Soong.”

“And this Soong — he’s the one you think might hold the key to what China’s up to?”

“Yes, sir. We hope.”

“Well, then let’s say a little prayer for both of them,” Lahey replied. “In the meantime, we have to slow this thing down. What are our options?”

“Diplomacy is out,” Dutcher said. “At this stage, China’s got too much. They’re not going to stop.”

“I agree,” Mason said.

“Then Moscow,” Lahey said. “We’ve got to make the Russians see the bigger picture.”

“That’s a toss-up. Vladimir Bulganin is something of an enigma, and so far he isn’t showing the greatest restraint. He’s already got his forces at full alert, ready to pull the trigger.”

David Lahey sighed. “Well, then my introduction to the game of international diplomacy is going to be an interesting one. Let’s get President Bulganin on the phone.”

​“What does this mean? How far from the border are they?” cried Vladimir Bulganin. “Is this an attack or not!”

Marshal Beskrovny hesitated. “Not an attack, Mr. President, but it certainly appears like the precursor to one. These radar and signal-gathering aircraft that—”

“Gathering what?”

“Electronic intelligence from radio transmissions, SAM sites—”

“Our defenses, you mean.”

“Yes, sir. The radar aircraft they’ve got up are most often used to coordinate fighter aircraft.”

Bulganin began pacing, his hands clasped behind his back. “… going to attack,” he muttered to himself. “The yellow bastards are going to attack us!”

For the first time in days, Ivan Nochenko agreed with Bulganin. They were seeing the opening moves of an air campaign. But why? he wondered. To what end? So far, Beijing had rebuffed their every attempt to communicate. This wasn’t about the Chinese diaspora in Siberia; the reaction was too disproportionate. Then what?

“That may be, Mr. President,” said SVR director Sergei Fedorin, “but I remind you, we’re seeing virtually no movement of ground forces on their side of the border. If they are planning to invade, it can’t be coming anytime soon — a week, at least.”

“You’re splitting hairs, Fedorin! Air … ground … They’re both an invasion of the Motherland! Good lord, are you both blind? All of you? Are you suggesting we should simply open the doors for their aircraft? Perhaps thank them because they’re not sending tanks?”

“That’s not what we’re saying,” Beskrovny countered. “Our point is, we have time to examine the situation — to plan the appropriate response.”

“I’ll tell you what the appropriate response is,” Bulganin shouted. “It’s the same that Koba gave Hitler sixty years ago: We crush them!” Bulganin began pacing again, gesticulating wildly. “This time, though, it will be different. This time, we’re not going to give up an inch of ground! Not an inch! The moment their fighters cross into our airspace, we’ll swat them from the sky!”

Both Fedorin and Beskrovny glanced at Nochenko, who stepped closer to Bulganin’s desk. “Mr. President.”

“… let them try, if they have the stomach for it. We will—”

“Mr. President!”

“What!”

“Please, I ask you again: Listen to Marshal Beskrovny. Our country — the Motherland — is in a dire position, but we have alternatives. We must choose carefully. If not, this conflict could turn fatal for everyone involved.”

“You mean nuclear, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

Bulganin squared off with him, chest to chest. “Does that frighten you, Ivan?”

“Yes, sir, it does.”

“You’re weak.”

“Sir—”

“You haven’t the stomach for the hard choices. None of you do! Those little devils to the south understand only force, don’t you see? If we show the slightest weakness, they will exploit it. And the Americans! They’re as two-faced as always. For all we know, they’re working with China. It makes sense, after all: Wait until that weak nobody from Omsk comes into power, then attack. The shoemaker from nowhere will surely crumble. He’ll be so scared he’ll probably hand us the keys to the Kremlin!” Bulganin tapped his chest with a thumb. “They’re wrong! They’re in for a surprise!”

Bulganin’s desk intercom buzzed. “Sir, the president of the United States is on line one. He urgently wishes to speak with you.”

Bulganin’s eyes narrowed. “Well, gentlemen, speak of the devil … Send it through.”

The phone buzzed and Bulganin snatched it up. “President Bulganin here.”

There was a few seconds pause as the interpreters exchanged the words.

“Mr. President, this is David Lahey.”

“Who?”

Nochenko whispered, “The vice president.”

“Lahey?” Bulganin replied. “Why in the hell am I talking to you? Where is President Martin?”

“President Martin is unavailable, sir. He’s asked me to stand-in for him.”

“What is this nonsense? Unavailable — what does that mean?”

“He has a medical condition that required care. Please believe me when I tell you I have full authority to speak for, and act on, the behalf of the government of the United States.”

“Very well. What would you like to say?”

“As I’m sure you are, we’re aware of the Chinese aircraft moving toward your border, and we share your concern over it. I’d like to discuss how we might work together to defuse the situation.”

“You can defuse the situation by withdrawing your battle group from our waters,” Bulganin replied. “Once you have done that, you can further defuse the situation by explaining why you attacked and destroyed the port of Nakhodka-Vostochny.”

There was a five-second pause. “President Bulganin, I—”

“You didn’t think we knew about that, did you? Well, we do. Your words are meaningless, Lahey. They contradict every action your country has taken in the past two weeks.”

“If you’ll give me a chance,” Lahey said, “I might be able to provide an explanation.”

There was a knock on Bulganin’s office door. A messenger walked in and handed Marshal Beskrovny a message. Bulganin put his hand over the phone. “What is it? What have you got there?”

“A reconnaissance flight out of Vladivostok has sighted a PLAAN surface group moving north through the Korean Straits.”

“Moving north?”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“Toward us,” Bulganin muttered. “How far away? How many days?”

“At present speed, thirty hours.”

“Bastards!” Bulganin returned to the phone: “Lahey, I’ve just been informed a group of Chinese warships is steaming toward our coast. Is this another coincidence, or is this just yet another piece of the plan?”

“There is no plan, Mr. President. You have to believe me.”

“I don’t have to do anything, Lahey. I can see what’s happening! We’re done talking, you and I. Good day!”

Bulganin slammed down the phone and turned to Beskrovny. “How many hours did you say?”

“Thirty. Mr. President, perhaps we should reestablish communication with—”

“No. They’re trying to buy time, to keep us from reacting until it’s too late. If those Chinese ships are allowed to link up with the American group, we’ll be outgunned. That’s when they’ll make their move over the border!”

Bulganin paced behind his desk and leaned on it, thinking for a moment. He then rapped the top with his fist. “We must move now, before the Chinese get into position. Marshal, order our ships to close with the American battle group and prepare to attack.”

Lying on his belly in the crawl space, Tanner worked steadily into the night, assembling half a dozen crude flash-fire bombs from Hsiao’s supplies.

Similar to the device he’d used to cripple Solon Trulau’s yacht in Jakarta, each bomb consisted of two sets of ingredients: a base and a catalyst. Alone, each was stable, but combined they were volatile. In this case, he was using a mixture of petroleum products he’d found in the garage along with some chlorine-based cleanser used to clean the inside of the tanker truck.

Once certain the chemicals were correctly blended, it was time for a test.

A few feet down the crawl space he dug a small hole in the earth and then, arm outstretched, spooned into it a couple drops of the base, followed by a drop of catalyst. With a small poof, a blue white flame filled the hole. Tanner quickly covered it with dirt and the flame died.

Now for the vessels.

He lit the sterno can, then placed on top of it the small sauce pot Hsiao had stolen from the kitchen. Into this he dumped the half a dozen candles and the contents of four tins of shoe polish.

Once the mixture was completely melted, but not yet boiling, he removed the pot and began the molding process. It took an hour, most of the mix, and a lot of kneading, but in the end he’d created twelve golf ball-size shells.

Careful to keep them separated, he filled half of them with the base, the other half with the catalyst, then, using the last of the wax, he sealed each shell. He let them fully harden and then duct taped them together in pairs, one base and one catalyst.

In theory, upon impact each shell would shatter, mixing the chemicals together. The resulting flash fire would be brief, but strong enough to ignite almost anything it touched.

Tanner scrutinized his handiwork. As long as he placed them well and timed his movements right, they would do the job, he decided. Even so, the biggest variable was out of his control. He could only hope the guards responded like the well-trained professionals they were.

An hour later he heard the garage door open above him, then close. Footsteps clicked on the floorboards above. “Everything is awful,” a voice called.

Hsiao. “That makes two of us,” Tanner called back.

The hatch opened and light poured into the crawl space. Tanner shimmied-over to the opening to find Hsiao squatting beside it. “Are you ready?” he asked.

Tanner nodded. “What did you find out about Soong and his daughter?”

“The general is in his regular cell. Two of Xiang’s paratroopers have been posted outside his door, though.”

“I’ll handle them.”

“Soong’s daughter is being kept in a bunk room in the same building as the control center.”

Tanner nodded. “When do you go on duty again?”

“I managed to change places with another guard. I have the roving patrol starting at midnight.”

“That didn’t raise any suspicion?”

Hsiao shook his head. “A group of us play mah-jongg every evening; I told him I didn’t want to miss the game.”

“Good. Can you stop by here?”

“Yes, but only for a moment. If I miss a checkpoint by even a few minutes, the alarm sounds.”

“I’ll only need you for a minute,” Tanner said, then explained what he had in mind. “I assume the control center has an incoming phone line? You know the number?”

“Yes.”

“Good. You might want to practice your acting skills. What’re the chances they’ll buy it?”

Hsiao smiled, shrugged. “I know the guard manning the control center tonight. His name is Wujan. He’s … how do you say it? Er bai wu.”

Tanner smiled back; he knew the phrase. Er bai wu literally meant 250—on an intelligence scale of 1000, Wujan was three-quarters stupid. “If you can fluster him a bit, it would help.”

“I’ll try.” Hsiao took a deep breath and let it out. “I’m a little scared, Briggs.”

“Just a little? Then you’re doing better than me,” Tanner replied, only half joking.

After all the hardship he’d endured to get here, his success or failure would soon come down to a period of a few minutes. If he succeeded, they would be a step closer to freedom; if he failed, Soong and Lian would spend the rest of their lives here and he and Hsiao would be executed.

He gripped Hsiao’s forearm and gave it a squeeze. “It’s almost over. Hang in there.”

“Okay. See you a little after midnight.”

Tanner dozed intermittently until he again heard the garage door open and footsteps entering. He checked his watch: 12:40. He felt his heart rate shoot up. Almost time.

The hatch opened and Tanner crawled over.

Hsiao said, “Ready?”

“Yeah, you?”

“I think so. Tell me again what you want me to say.”

Tanner went over the wording once more. “Keep it short. Act excited as if you’re on the run.”

“Okay, okay. I’m ready.”

Tanner pulled out the Motorola and dialed the number. Once it began ringing, he handed it to Hsiao. They pressed their heads together so Tanner could hear.

“Administration, Corporal Wujan speaking.”

“Wujan, this is Sergeant Jong.”

“Uh … pardon? Who’s this?”

“I’m one of Director Xiang’s men, dammit! We’ve found the missing truck in a ravine about three miles east of Beiyinhe. We think we’ve found the American’s trail, but we need help.”

“Uh … okay … ” Wujan replied. “Where are you?”

“On the outskirts of Beiyinhe. We have a witness who thinks they saw the American.”

“What was your name—”

“Hurry! We need help. Three miles east of Beiyinhe! The American can’t have gotten far!”

“Okay, but what—”

Hsiao handed the phone back to Tanner, who disconnected. “Perfect.”

“Do you think it will work?”

“It’ll get a reaction, that’s certain,” Tanner replied. “Whether it’s the kind we want, we’ll know shortly. Go back to your rounds. When the fireworks start, sound the alarm, wait for the commotion to start, then meet me in the hangar.”

“Right.” Hsiao closed the hatch and left.

One more miscue, Tanner thought. Success now hinged on one thing: Whether upon receiving the news Xiang would ask, or fail to ask, that one critical question.

Inside the control center, Corporal Wujan was torn between confusion and terror. Though he missed part of the message, the gist of it had been clear: Someone had found the American! Where had the man said? Beiyinhe? This was important … had to remember that part. With someone as important as Director Xiang involved … Perhaps there was a commendation in it for him.

Wujan picked up the phone.

Two minutes later Xiang and Eng barged into the control center. The base commander was already there. Xiang asked, “When did it come in?”

“Minutes ago,” replied the base commander. “One of Shen’s men called in and reported finding the truck near Beiyinhe.”

“Three miles to the east of Beiyinhe,” Wujan added nervously. “He was very clear about that. He said they may have found the American — or, no, his trail. They found his trail.”

“How far away is that?” Xiang asked the base commander.

“Ten miles to the southwest.”

“Contact the patrols outside the camp and tell them to move in closer.”

“Why?”

“If this is a ruse, Tanner will use it to try to slip into the camp. Eng, go get Shen. Have him gather ten men and meet me at the helicopter pad.”

Tanner crouched beneath the crawl space hatch in his yellow coveralls and matching flash hood, waiting and listening. The backpack and AK were slung over his shoulder. In his right hand he carried his ghillie blanket, rolled into a tube with the revolver stuffed inside; in his left hand, a gas mask.

As Hsiao had explained, the coveralls, flash hood, and gas mask were standard attire for the camp’s fire-fighting squad, which consisted of a handful of guards specially trained to respond to fires and general minor disasters that came with living year-round in the wild’s of northeastern China. Aside from the camp commander himself, members of the fire squad outranked everyone during emergencies.

Tanner was about to find out if that was true.

Five minutes after Hsiao placed his call, Tanner heard the electrical whine of the Hind’s turbo-shaft engine being powered up, followed moments later by voices shouting to one another:

“No packs, just weapons!”

“Move, move, move!”

Briggs popped open the hatch, boosted himself up onto the floor, and stood up. He raced to the garage doors and peeked through a crack. Shrugging on their coats and packs, paratroopers were racing out of the barracks toward the landing pad. Xiang and another man — the leader of the paratroopers, Tanner assumed — stood beside the Hind’s door until the last man was aboard, then climbed in and slid shut the door.

The Hind’s rotors spun to full speed. The pilot lifted off, rotated in place to clear the hangar roof, then banked right and disappeared over the treetops.

Briggs started his mental clock. Five minutes for them to reach the false dump spot, another five to realize it’s a ruse, another five back to the camp … He could count on fifteen minutes, no more.

He pulled the first flash bomb out of his pack and hurled it across the garage, where it hit the wall and ignited in a flash of blue flame. Within seconds, smoke began to drift across the garage.

Tanner jogged to the rear of the garage, pried open the window, leaned, and heaved a second flash bomb against the wall of the adjoining storage shed. It ignited, sending a splash of flames up into the eaves. He turned right and threw another bomb against the shed closest to the hangar.

Around him the garage was thick with smoke, the far wall half engulfed in flame.

He pushed his backpack through the window, followed it, then dashed along the rear of the sheds until he was kitty-corner to the hangar. He removed the last three bombs, gingerly tucked them inside his coveralls, then strapped the AK to his pack and tossed the bundle overhand toward the hangar wall, where it bounced into the shadows.

Suddenly the whoop, whoop, whoop of an alarm began blaring. Voices started shouting. Smoke was wafting across the compound. He could see the first tendrils of flames beneath the garage’s eaves.

He donned his mask, tucked his ghillie blanket under his arm, and ran into the compound.

He headed straight for Soong’s barracks. A dozen guards, many still in their long underwear, were stumbling out of bunkroom barracks, staring at the smoke and flames.

“Huo zai!” someone shouted. Fire! “Huo zai!”

“The hangar’s in danger!” another voice called. “Someone get the pilot, hurry!”

Tanner strode up to the group and gestured wildly. “Move it! Move, move!”

The men hesitated for a moment, then scrambled in different directions.

Tanner kept jogging, mounted the barracks steps, and pushed through the door. A pair of men rushed past him into the compound. Mentally following Hsiao’s map, Tanner turned left down the hallway, then right, then left again. Before him lay a door labeled with Mandarin characters. He could only decipher one word, but it was enough: “sublevel.”

He backed up a few feet, threw a flash bomb down the hallway, then pushed through the door and trotted down the steps to the sublevel.

It was quiet here, the earthen walls absorbing all but a few shouts from above. He took a moment to get his bearings, then started jogging. Right … left … another left …

He turned the corner and skidded to a halt. He was standing in a short hallway at the end of which was a lone wooden door. On each side of the jamb stood a paratrooper, an AK-47 across each body. They eyed Tanner with a mixture of fear and uncertainty.

“Ni shi shei?” one of them asked. Who are you? State your business.

“The camp’s on fire!” Tanner shouted through his mask. “Get the general!”

He started toward the door, but one of the paratroopers moved to block him. “No one enters, but the camp commander, you know that!”

Out of choices, Briggs thought. He threw up his hands. “Er bei wu!” I’ll find him!

He turned, jogged down the hall and around the corner. He stopped, jammed his hand inside the blanket, and gripped the revolver. Gotta be quick … can’t miss … four shots, two apiece …

He took a breath, spun around the corner. He took two bounding steps, dropped to one knee.

Muffled by the blanket, the revolver’s report was barely audible. He fired twice into the nearest paratrooper’s chest, then adjusted his aim and put two more into the second man. They both crumpled.

Tanner tossed away the revolver and snatched up one of their AKs. He fired a three-round burst into the door’s top hinge, then the bottom. With a crash, the door dropped off its hinges and swung inward, ripping the knob and lock out of the jamb as it fell.

Tanner stepped through the door.

Curled into a ball in the corner was General Han Soong. He stared wide-eyed at Tanner. “What?” he cried. “What is it?”

Seeing his friend, this once proud man, huddled like a frightened child, filled Briggs’s chest with emotion. My God, what had they done to him? He ripped off his gas mask. “Hello, Han.”

Soong blinked once, then again. “Briggs? My God, Briggs …”

Tanner walked over and knelt beside him. “Good to see you again.”

“And you!”

“Feel up to a little traveling?”

“Yes, of course. My God, yes!”

“Then we better move; we haven’t got much time.”

“What about Lian? I have no idea where they’re keeping her! Briggs, I can’t leave without—”

“You won’t have to. She’s here.”

“Here? What do you mean? I don’t—”

“Later, Han. We have to go—now.”

“Of course. What do you want me to do?”

“Nothing. Play dead.”

With Soong dangling over his shoulder and covered by the ghillie blanket, Tanner climbed the stairwell to the main floor, retraced his steps to the entrance, and charged into the compound.

The garage and the storage sheds were fully engulfed. Despite the coveralls, he could feel the heat of the flames on his skin. Black smoke roiled across the compound, so thick he could see little past the few feet before him. The guard towers had turned their spotlights onto the garage and burning embers and ash swirled in the beams. Bodies rushed by on all sides, fading in and out of the smoke. Someone jostled him from behind, then was gone. Disembodied voices called out to one another.

From across the compound he heard another turbo-shaft engine grinding to a start. The Hoplite. Following procedure, the camp’s pilot and ground team were moving the helicopter from the imperiled hangar and warming up the engines should it need to be evacuated.

Using the sound as his guide, Tanner pushed on through the smoke. As he passed the garage, a man in red coveralls and a gas mask — the leader of the fire team, Tanner assumed — grabbed his arm. “You! Where are you going?”

Tanner shouted a garbled response, then jerked his thumb at Soong’s limp body and kept going.

“Wait! Come back here!”

After ten more paces he felt his feet hit concrete. The landing pad. He adjusted course and a few seconds later the hangar doors materialized out of the smoke.

The nose and most of the cockpit of the Hoplite were halfway out the doors. Two soldiers — one of them Hsiao — were bent over the nose wheel’s tow bar, struggling to pull the Hoplite onto the pad. Tanner ran around to the already open cabin door.

The pilot jerked around in his seat. “Hey!”

“Injured!” Tanner shouted, and waved him back to the controls. He lay Soong on the cabin floor and tucked the AK beneath him. Briggs lifted the corner of his mask and pressed his mouth to Soong’s ear, “Stay on your belly. Keep your face hidden. I’ll be back.”

He followed the fence away from the garage until he saw a wooden wall off to his right. He turned toward it. The control center. He mounted the steps, pushed through the door, and started down the hall. Radio room, first door on the left …

“You!” came a voice from behind. “I asked you, what are you doing?”

Tanner turned. The fire-team leader stood in the open door. Briggs again shouted nonsense and turned to go. The man chased after him. “Stop right there! Who are you? Show me your face!”

Tanner turned, took a quick step toward the man, and kicked. The top of his foot slammed into the man’s knee, shattering the joint. As he screamed and fell forward, Tanner met him, slamming his knee into the center of his forehead. He toppled over sideways and went limp.

“Hey! Hey!”

Briggs turned. Standing outside the radio-room door was a guard. In his left hand he held a Makarov 9 mm pistol. “Stop right there! Don’t move!”

Ten miles to the southwest, Xiang’s hind was landing on the road beside the ravine. As soon as the skids touched the dirt, Shen and his men jumped to the ground and scrambled down the bank and into the ravine.

Barely aware of his surroundings, Xiang remained sitting in the cabin. Something’s not right about this … what is it? Think! What had Corporal Wujan said? “One of Shen’s men had called …” Not radioed—called! Was it a slip of the tongue?

Xiang got up and walked into the cockpit. “Contact the camp, get a status report!”

“Yes, sir,” the pilot replied. Ten seconds later. “Sir, there’s no answer.”

No, no, no …

Panting, Shen appeared in the Hind’s doorway. “There’s nothing down there!”

“I know,” Xiang growled. “That bastard! Damn him! Get your men—”

“What the hell is that?” the pilot cried, pointing out the window.

To the northeast, an orange glow hung over the treetops.

“Get your men aboard!” Xiang shouted. “He’s set the damned camp on fire!”

Tanner gauged the distance between himself and the man. Too far. He’d be dead before he made it halfway. Briggs noticed the corporal’s patch on the man’s sleeve. Wujan …

“Wujan, help me!” Tanner cried. Pointing a finger at the fire chiefs body, he pressed his back against the wall and began sliding toward Wujan. “That’s … that’s the American!”

“What? He’s—”

From the corner of his eye, Briggs saw Wujan’s gun hand droop ever so slightly. He snapped his hand forward, grabbed Wujan’s wrist in an overhand grip, and wrenched. As Wujan stumbled forward, Tanner hit him, driving his fist into the point where his jaw met his ear. Wujan slumped forward, unconscious.

Tanner took the gun, stuffed it into his pocket, and stepped into the radio room. He pulled out his next-to-last flash bomb and threw it against the wall above the radio set. Liquid fire splashed, over the set and ignited the wooden table. Briggs ran back into the hall.

There were two remaining doors, both on the right side.

Briggs pushed open the first one: mops, buckets brooms … He moved to the next door and turned the knob. It was locked. He backed against the wall and slammed his heel against the knob plate. The wood splintered, but held. He kicked again, then a third time. The jamb tore loose. The door swung open.

Heart in his throat, Tanner rushed inside.

Lian Soong sat in a wooden, hardback chair in the center of the room with her hands clasped in her lap. Though it had been twelve years since Tanner had last seen her, she seemed to have changed very little: petite, smooth, white skin, silken black hair … My God, Lian …

She stared up at him with an expression Tanner could only describe as apathetic. She no longer cared, he thought. Broken and obedient, she was resigned to the course her life had taken. What had they done to her? To both of them?

Briggs took off his mask. “Lian, it’s me. It’s Briggs.”

Her eyes went wide for a moment, then she cocked her head. “Briggs.”

Not a question, but a statement.

“Yes, Lian. I have your father outside. We’re getting out of here. All of us.”

“Briggs,” Lian repeated, as though reconnecting memories in her mind. “It’s you.”

Tanner stepped forward and knelt before her. He took her hands in his own. “It’s me.”

Lian looked into his eyes, then smiled tentatively. “He told me you were coming back for us.”

As with her father, Tanner draped Lian over his shoulder, then ran into the hall. Gray smoke poured from the radio-room door. One wall and part of the ceiling was aflame. He ran out the door, down the steps, and into the compound. He sprinted through the smoke, dodging bodies, until he reached the landing pad. The Hoplite was there, rotors turning at idle. Busy checking gauges, the pilot never saw him climb into the cabin. He laid Lian on the cabin floor next to her father.

“Both of you lay perfectly still,” he shouted to them.

Briggs leaned out the cabin door, looking around. “Hsiao!”

Hsiao materialized out of the smoke with Tanner’s pack in his hand. Briggs took it, pulled him aboard, and slid the door shut.

“What’re you doing?” the pilot called. “We don’t have orders to—”

Tanner drew the Makarov and pointed it at him. Careful to stay below the windshield, Briggs crouch-walked into the cockpit. He jammed the gun into the pilot’s side. “Do you speak English?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Listen carefully: I can fly this helicopter — not as well as you, but I could — so I don’t need you. Do you understand?”

“I understand.”

“Make one wrong move, and I’ll shoot you dead.”

“I understand.”

“Good. Liftoff.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

Six minutes after the hoplite disappeared over the treetops, Xiang’s Hind landed in the middle of the compound amid a tornado of black smoke and embers. Shen slid open the side door and he and Xiang jumped to the ground. Xiang coughed and squinted his eyes against the smoke.

Xiang stared in silence at the chaos around him. All but two of the camp’s buildings were in flames. Now just a charred skeleton, the garage had collapsed in on itself. Portions of the septic truck were visible through the timbers; the silver tank glowed red through the patches of soot. Members of the fire team and partially dressed guards hurried to and fro.

Xiang felt a flash of rage, but it passed almost immediately. In its place came a detached calm. It was remarkable, really. He had underestimated Tanner every step of the way. The man had wasted their time, divided their forces, disappeared and reappeared like a ghost …

None of that matters now, Xiang thought. True enough, he had lost this battle, but not yet the war. It wasn’t over. Tanner wasn’t as smart as imagined.

Eng appeared out of the smoke. “The Hoplite’s gone, sir. We tried to stop it, but …”

“I know,” Xiang murmured. “Lieutenant Shen!”

“Sir!”

“Send some men to Soong’s cell.”

“Yes, sir.” Two minutes later Xiang got the answer he expected: “He’s gone,” Shen reported.

Xiang nodded.

Shen stared at him. “Sir?”

“What?”

“Your orders?”

Xiang pulled himself erect. “Yes. I assume the Hind has the RFDF unit?” he asked, referring to Radio Frequency Direction Finder.

“Uh … yes, sir — for locating search-and-rescue beacons.”

“That’ll do,” Xiang said. “Gather your platoon. We’re going on a hunting trip.”

As Tanner and his party were lifting off from the camp, nine hundred miles to their northwest the first wave of Chinese fighters — three regiments of nine squadrons apiece for a total of 120 aircraft — approached the border in stacked formation, layered from twenty-five thousand to thirty-five thousand feet in the darkened night sky to confuse Russian ground-radar stations.

Once over the border, the wave split, the uppermost layer of the more advanced J-10 and J-12 interceptors breaking off into individual flights of four planes and climbing to their maximum ceiling, where they again split, half the flights to the east, the other to the west, all still pushing northward, all under the guidance of the Chinese AWACs loitering in the relative safety of Chinese airspace.

Below them, the lowermost layer of aging J-5 and J-6 fighters — essentially Chinese versions of Russian MiG-17s and 19s — went to full throttle and closed with the Russian’s ready-alert defending force, an enhanced regiment of SU-27 Flankers and MiG-21 Fishbeds.

Mindful of the Chinese interceptors orbiting high above, the Russian ground and air radar stations immediately realized the dilemma. While more than a match for the Chinese J-5s and 6s, the defenders were still outnumbered two to one and had no choice but to devote their attention to the leading edge of attackers, all the while knowing a full regiment of AWACS-guided J-10s and 12s hovered twenty thousand feet above, waiting to swoop into the fray.

Within minutes of the first missile exchange, the Russian defenders had cut the Chinese’s first wave by more than half. But the cost was high, as the Russian regiment had lost ten of its thirty-six planes, six Fishbeds and four Flankers.

At a prearranged signal, the few remaining aged Chinese fighters turned south and headed for home, drawing a portion of the defenders into a game of pursuit. Seeing this, the Chinese AWACS ordered the J-10s and J-12s into the fray.

Sweeping in from above in a pincer movement, the interceptors slashed into the now-spent defenders. Plane to plane, the Russian Flankers and Fishbeds are well matched against their attackers, but the odds had not only reversed, but worsened. For every Russian fighter there were three Chinese.

One by one the defenders were blotted from the sky. Streams of tracer shells crisscrossed the darkness accompanied by blooms of orange. Crippled and flaming planes tumbled toward earth.

Out of fuel, and ammunition, and luck, the remaining Russian fighters broke off and turned north. Of the thirty-six that had lifted off forty minutes before, only eight survived.

“Is this a real-time image?” David Lahey asked, nodding to the large view screen.

“Yes, sir,” replied Cathermeier. “Keyhole satellite.”

Along with the rest of the CAC’s personnel, Lahey, Dutcher, and Mason stared, dumbfounded, at the screen. Though the image was rendered in mostly black, here and there they could see the twinkling of city lights far below — Chita, Kungara, Hailor. Above them blooms of orange and yellow dotted the sky.

“My God,” Dutcher murmured.

Lahey said, “General, each one of those is an explosion — a plane?”

“Yes, sir. We’ll have a better idea within the hour, but at least initially it looks like a full division of Chinese fighters crossed the border north of the Hingann Mountains right about … here — a fifty-mile stretch between Igrashino and Dsahlinda.

“Again, once we’re able to firm up the BDA — battle damage assessment — we’ll have better figures, but we’ve got to give this round to the Chinese. The Federation could only concentrate a regiment in that area, so the odds were against them from the start. Round two is still a toss-up.”

“Round two?” Lahey asked. “Are you telling me this isn’t over?”

“Not even close. The Chinese will keep coming, and if they use the same strategy—”

“Which is?”

“They swarmed the Russians with older fighters; they’re no real match for their interceptors, but the Russians can’t ignore them either.”

“So while they’re busy with the PLA’s second-string planes, the starting team waits and watches for its chance to swoop in.”

“Exactly. It’s gonna cost the Chinese a lot of planes and pilots, but at last count the Beijing and Shenyang military regions had about fifteen hundred older MiGs and Sukhoi fighters at their disposal.”

Dick Mason said, “Cannon fodder.”

“Yep. A lot of them are nearly obsolete, but in quantity — in a close-in dogfight — they’re still dangerous. You get enough ants together, they can take down an elephant.”

“How long can the Chinese keep it up?” Lahey asked.

“It depends on how much they’re willing to sacrifice. By the numbers, the Chinese can pour more planes more quickly into the area than can the Russians. The problem is, if the Russians decide to wait until they’ve gathered the planes they need to make it a real battle, the Chinese will have tactical air superiority — in other words, to gain time the Russians might have to surrender some sky for a while.”

“Which will make it twice as hard to retake once they’re ready,” Dutcher added.

“Right. On the other hand, if the Russians choose to meet every wave the Chinese send across the border, their numbers will slowly but surely get whittled down.”

David Lahey stared at the screen. Finally he said, “What can we do to help?”

“Right now, nothing. The only possible asset we have in the area is the battle group.”

“How many planes?”

“Stennis could put eighty or ninety in the air. But, sir, there are several problems with that idea. One, unless the Russian surface group breaks off, we’re going to find ourselves in a major sea battle in a matter of hours; if we strip the group of its planes …”

“I understand. What are the other problems?”

“Distance. Even if the Russians agreed, it’s still a thousand miles from the coast to the battle area. Our planes would need refueling points, alternate airfields, ground control passovers—”

“And if we had all that?” Lahey pressed.

“That’s a mighty big ‘if,’ sir.”

“Humor me. Could we make a difference?”

Cathermeier thought for a moment then nodded. “Yes, it would make a difference. The Tomcats and Hornets aboard Stennis are more than a match for anything the Chinese can put in the air.”

Lahey considered this for a few moments. He looked to Dutcher and Mason. “Thoughts?”

“Tough sell,” Dutcher replied. “Especially given Bulganin’s reaction to your first call. Still, it’s worth a try. The alternative is much worse.”

“Dick?”

Mason nodded. “I agree. Bulganin’s about as unpredictable as a shark, but he’s got some good people around him. If he listens to them … maybe.”

Lahey nodded and turned to Cathermeier. “General, let’s try this again. Get President Bulganin on the phone.”

They settled around the head of the tank’s conference table and waited in nervous silence for two minutes before the intercom buzzed: “General, we’re linked with Moscow — line three.”

Lahey punched the button for speakerphone. “President Bulganin, this is Vice President Lahey, can you hear me?”

“Yes, yes, I hear you,” Bulganin growled. “What do you want? As I’m sure you’re aware, my country is under attack. Speak quickly, Lahey.”

“Mr. President, I have reason to believe both our countries are being drawn into a conflict neither of us wants. I will be glad to outline my reasons for believing that, but right now it’s important we get control of this situation before it’s beyond control.”

“What situation do you mean, Lahey? Your battle group looming off our coast, the attack on Nakhodka, or your ally’s incursion into our airspace? Which is it?”

“Mr. President, despite appearances, I promise you we are not working in conjunction with the People’s Republic of China. Circumstances have been manipulated to implicate my country—”

“Oh, I see,” Bulganin replied. “You are claiming your country is the victim here? You have stones, I’ll say that much, Lahey. While our brave pilots are fighting and dying at the border, you’re crying about the wrong done to you! How dare you!”

“No, sir, you’ve misunderstood. Your country has been attacked without provocation; I fully recognize that. All I’m asking is that we explore a joint solution to—”

“Withdraw your battle group immediately and I may consider your words.”

“As I said, the proximity of your surface group makes withdrawal difficult. If you will—”

“Order our ships to retreat?” Bulganin finished. “And give you a chance to attack? I think not! You have my conditions, Lahey. Order your aircraft carrier to withdraw immediately, or it will be attacked! If you fail to give the order it will only prove what I already know: You and those yellow devils are together in this!”

“Mr. President—”

“Will you give the order or not?”

“Yes, I will give the order, but you must first divert your surface group so my carrier will have room to maneuver—”

“To launch an attack!” Bulganin countered.

“No!” Lahey cried. “Mr. President, you have to listen to me—”

“No, we are done talking, Lahey. I won’t let you distract me again!”

The phone went dead.

Lahey stared at the buzzing phone, then leaned back and sighed. “Why won’t he listen?”

“He doesn’t sound stable,” Dutcher said. “His thought process was convoluted … disjointed.”

Mason nodded. “I agree. I fear he’s bought into the ruse.”

“General, how long before our ships and the Russian surface group is engaged?”

“Two hours at most,” said Cathermeier. “I can order them north, but the less water they have to maneuver in, the less able they’ll be to defend themselves. It’s either that, or we hold our ground and mix it up with them, or try to fight our way through their line.”

“Not much of a choice,” Lahey said. “Either way, we get bloody.”

​“It’s a another trick!” Bulganin shouted. “Why can’t you see that?”

Marshal Beskrovny shook his head. “Sir, I disagree. I think we should listen to his proposal. It costs us nothing. If he’s telling the truth, it certainly sheds a different light on the situation.”

“You’re blind! Fedorin, certainly you see my point! Tell him!”

The SVR director spread his hands. “With respect, Mr. President, I have to agree with the marshal. There may be some credence to what Lahey said. Consider their carrier group: They’re more than a match for our surface group, yet they haven’t attacked. They continue to withdraw north—”

“They’re buying time so the Chinese can continue with their air attacks—”

“I don’t think so. As the carriers withdraw north, their effectiveness dwindles. The closer they let our ships get, the better our chances. They know this, yet they haven’t attacked. That, I think, is significant.”

Nochenko spoke up. “I agree, Mr. President — Vladimir. Please think! Are the Americans truly our enemy in this? If there’s even a chance—”

Bulganin smashed his fist into the desktop. “There is no chance! No chance! My God, I’m surrounded by blind men! The Motherland is under attack from all sides and no one sees it but me!” Bulganin spun toward Beskrovny. “General, how many planes did we lose in the air engagement?”

“Twenty-eight.”

“Twenty-eight planes and twenty-eight pilots — gone! And what are the Chinese up to now?”

“There are indications another sortie will be launching in a few hours.”

“Exactly!” Bulganin said. “There you have it: Another attack, more brave pilots dead. I won’t have it! We’re going to put a stop to this, right now.” Bulganin walked to the conference table and leaned over the map. “Show me where their planes are coming from, General.”

Beskrovny pointed to several spots on the map. “Here — the foothills of the Hingann mountain range. They have air bases at Gulian, Changying, Pangu, and Ershizhan.”

“Four air bases.”

“Yes, sir.”

“How far from our border?”

“The closest is forty kilometers; the farthest, seventy.”

“Excellent!” Bulganin replied. “Well within range.”

Fedorin said, “Of what, Mr. President?”

“An air strike of our own, of course. Four strike groups, four weapons. General, I’ll leave the details to you, but I imagine air-launched cruise missiles are the best approach. Only one has to get through, after all. Our fighters can slip into their airspace, launch the missiles, then slip out again.”

“What are you talking about?” Ivan Nochenko asked.

“Ivan, haven’t you been paying attention? These four air bases are the crux of the problem. As long as they’re allowed to operate, the attacks will keep coming. Once they’re gone, the Chinese attack will be toothless. We’ll have the upper hand.”

“And how do you plan to do this?”

“Very simple. Four bases, four tactical nuclear warheads. We’ll blot them off the map.”

The signal the Chinese commandos had been awaiting came shortly after dawn.

Cahil and Skeldon were sitting on their log, putting the finishing touches on the sixth and final charge when the team’s radioman leapt up and began chattering excitedly. The rest of the paratroopers crowded around as the colonel received the report. After a brief celebration of backslapping and smiling, the colonel ordered them back to their tasks. He walked over to Cahil and Skeldon.

“Doner?” he said.

“Yes,” Bear replied.

The colonel called two paratroopers over, who picked up the charge and carried it to where the others lay. “We leave in twenty minutes,” he told them. “Be ready.”

With that, the colonel turned on his heel and began barking orders. Two paratroopers stood up. One of them hoisted a charge over one shoulder, a roll of detonation cord over the other, while the second man shouldered the remaining two charges. They filed out of the camp and down the trail in the direction of the mine.

“What the hell is this?” Cahil whispered to Skeldon.

“Don’t know.”

Much of their plan depended on them moving as a group to the mine and then setting the charges. The night before, Skeldon had managed to steal a chemical detonator from one of the crates, providing them the final piece for their own charge — the six-ounce chunk of C4 they’d culled in bits and pieces from the main charges. Cahil could feel the disk of plastique pressing against the skin of his belly. He resisted the impulse to finger the detonator in his pocket.

As the three commandos disappeared down the trail, he felt his heart sink. Stupid, Bear. Never assume. With three of the charges already set and the commando team split, would they be able to reach the wall in time?

“That’s a problem.”

“Big problem,” Skeldon agreed. “You think they’ll come back?”

“I doubt it. That radio call means they’re on a deadline now.”

Which meant that whatever else the Chinese had planned for Siberia was probably under way. What about Briggs? Cahil wondered. As had been the case the year before during the Beirut operation, he had no way of knowing what was happening to his friend. The feeling of helplessness tore at his heart. Was Briggs alive, dead, or a prisoner of the Guoanbu!

He’ll make it, Bear told himself. And so will you. There was just one more hurdle to cross: take on six heavily armed commandos, stop the dam’s destruction, then get out of the mine alive and find a Russian who wouldn’t shoot him on sight. Simple.

“By the time we get there,” Cahil told Skeldon, “the first three charges will be primed.”

“What do you want to do?”

“Stick to our plan and pray.”

As Cahil and Skeldon were readying themselves for their do-or-die gambit, 1500 miles to their southeast, Sconi Bob Jurens and his SEAL team were preparing to make their own move.

Two hours before dawn, still hidden in their blind above the Federation Army roadblock, Jurens decided it was time to move. Throughout the night, reinforcement troops had been pouring into the area. In the space of an hour, he’d watched five trucks pass through the roadblock, each one loaded with a squad of soldiers. In the distance, he could hear voices calling to one another in Russian. Twice, foot patrols passed so close they’d heard the hiss of radio static and the crunch of footfalls.

Sooner or later a patrol would stumble upon their position and the mission would in an instant turn into a full-fledged firefight with several hundred Federation soldiers. Given such an inevitability, Jurens decided he’d rather join the battle on his terms. If they had any chance of escaping this, it would be by fire-and-maneuver tactics. Hit hard and disappear like ghosts.

He scanned the terrain through his Night Owls. Cape Kamensky was rugged and hilly, dotted with boulders, scrub pines, and slopes of loose slate and gravel. The roads wound around and up the peninsula like stripes on a barber pole, finally ending at the junction below them. To their southeast he could make out the small fishing pier Smitty had found on his reconnoiter the previous day. Jurens counted eight boats: six fishing trawlers and two skiffs.

Watching them roll with the swells, Sconi felt that old familiar draw: Water was safety; water was cover. Most of all, water was their way home.

He lowered his binoculars and wriggled back into the blind. Smitty, Zee, and Dickie gathered around him. Sunil Dhar sat a few feet away, arms wrapped around his knees.

Jurens pulled out his map and clicked on his hooded pen-light. “Smitty, that fishing pier — what d’you think? Three miles?”

“Give or take.”

Jurens nodded. “That’s where we’re headed. We’ll move fast and straight. Unless we have no choice, we’ll bypass any patrols.”

“And if we can’t?” Dickie asked.

“Then we take them out. Shoot-and-scoot; we can’t give them time to get coordinated.” With only four of them, any patrol they might encounter would likely have them outnumbered. “Either way, we need to reach the pier, snag a boat, and be on the water while it’s still dark. If we don’t make it into international waters before daylight, we’ve got problems. Any questions?”

There were none.

Jurens turned to Dhar. “Nobody’s gonna stop you if you run. I assume you’d rather go with us than take your chances with the Russians?”

Dhar nodded vigorously.

“Then keep up. We’ll try to protect you, but if you fall behind, you’re on your own.”

“I understand.”

Jurens folded up his map. “Zee, get on the Satcom and call home; give them our plan, tell them we’re on the move.”

​“Conn, Engineering.”

Archie Kinsock keyed the squawk box. “Go ahead, Chief.”

“We’re all set down here, Skipper. Just finished the last diagnostic check on the maneuvering thrusters. Everything reads green. You give the word, and we’ll have them powered up in thirty seconds.”

“Good. How about our leaks?”

“Under control.”

“And if I need to put a little depth under us?”

“I’ve got men stationed at each location; we’ll do our best to stay on top of them.”

“Conn, aye. Stand by for my order.”

Kinsock and MacGregor leaned over the chart table. Their position beside the continental shelf was circled in red; south of them, also marked in red pen, was the International Waters boundary.

“Fifteen miles,” Kinsock muttered.

“Long way at four knots,” MacGregor replied. “Even if we catch a current, we’re looking at four hours. A lot of time to attract attention.”

“Well, jeez, aren’t you a ray of sunshine,” Kinsock said with a grin.

“I try my darndest.”

“We’ll take our time. As long as we can get moving and stay at zero bubble, we can drift our way out. Four hours or four days, it’s better than sitting here waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

Saying the words, Kinsock felt another pang of guilt. The idea of leaving behind Jurens and his team grated on him, but his first responsibility was to Columbia and her crew. He had no doubt that given a choice his men would vote to try and rescue the SEALs, but the bird on Kinsock’s collar didn’t allow him the luxury of risking a hundred men to rescue four.

Pete Cantor, one of Kinsock’s first COs, had been fond of telling his junior officers that “the obligations of command and the comfort of personal conscience are often at odds.” It was, Archie thought now, a fancy way of saying, “You don’t have to like it; you just have to do it.”

As if reading his mind, MacGregor said, “I hope to God they’re okay.”

“Amen,” Kinsock murmured. “Okay, let’s get to it.” Kinsock reached up and keyed the squawk box. “Sonar, Conn.”

“Sonar, aye.”

“How’re we looking, Chief?”

“Five surface contacts on passive: The two hospital ships that came into port last night haven’t moved from their anchorages. As for the other three, I make them a Krivak and two Osa patrol boats, but they’re a good twelve miles to our northeast. As long as they stay there, we should be okay.”

“Any subs in the area?”

“Not for the last four hours, but I wouldn’t swear on anything.”

Kinsock understood. Simply by the nature of its propulsion and engineering systems, a surface ship twelve miles away was easier to detect than a sub lurking a mile away. “What’re the maneuvering thrusters going to do to your ears?”

“We’ll be deaf while they’re running. If you can shut them down occasionally—”

“That’s my plan.”

“Then we’ll keep listening.”

“Conn, aye.”

Kinsock grabbed the handset and switched to the ship-wide IMC. “All hands to general quarters. We’re going to make our move, gentlemen. It’s time to head for home.”

Hoping to pull off one last bit of illusion, Tanner ordered the pilot to climb to two thousand feet and head southeast toward Mudanjiang, the last major city before the Russian border and Vladivostok. The Russian port was, he thought, the most logical destination for someone trying to flee China in a hurry.

“We can’t outrun the Hind,” the pilot said. “They’ve got forty knots of airspeed on us.”

“I know,” Tanner said. Despite that, he felt light, almost buoyant, and it took him a moment before he realized why: He was alive—they were alive, and with each passing minute their chances of staying that way improved. Whether they would make good their escape was another matter, but this certainly was better than being hunted like an animal through the wilds of Heilongjiang Province.

“Why don’t you just give up?” the pilot asked. “If you know you can’t make it—”

“I’m a cockeyed optimist,” Tanner said. “Keep flying.”

Once sure they were headed in the right direction, he called Hsiao to the cockpit to watch over the pilot, then went back into the cabin. Tears streaming down his face, Han Soong sat on the floor with his daughter wrapped in his arms.

He reached out a hand to Tanner. “Thank you, Briggs. Words can’t describe my gratitude.”

Briggs gripped his shoulder. “No need, old friend. I’m just sorry it took me this long to get here. Lian, are you okay?”

She raised her head from her father’s chest and nodded. “I can’t believe this is real. Are we really free?”

“Almost, but not quite.”

“How long?”

“With a little luck, two hours.”

With a lot of luck, Briggs thought.

Once they were fifty miles from the camp, Tanner returned to the cockpit. “How’re your night-flying skills?” he asked the pilot.

“I’m fully qualified.”

“Night vision?”