Nina lowered her eyes and stared at the twist of smoke coming off her cigarette. Jesus, what's cooking with these guys? Jesus, what's cooking with these guys? Joe Reed was scary and Dale was creepy. Gordy was barely under control. And Ace-he was rowing across an ocean of booze, striving to maintain an even strain between mania and depression. Joe Reed was scary and Dale was creepy. Gordy was barely under control. And Ace-he was rowing across an ocean of booze, striving to maintain an even strain between mania and depression.

Dale walked into the apartment and said, "I seen your new girl."

"Nina?"

"Uh-huh. Her husband came by the shed this morning pretending to look at my old Deere. You f.u.c.k her yet?"

"Nah, it ain't like that. She's going through a bad time breaking up. We're just sort of fellow travelers." The husband The husband, he thought, moving toward the front window.

"Losing your touch?" Dale said.

Ace stopped and regarded his brother with gentle eyes. He had never allowed himself to be angry with Dale, regardless of what he said. "What's on your mind, Dale?"

"Gordy come and talked to me about her."

"Yeah?"

"He's nervous, thinks she's here to snoop."

"What do you think?'

"I think Gordy has reason to be nervous. More than you. That's what I think."

Ace clapped his brother on the shoulder. "So he's got a reason to be nervous, huh?"

"Yep. Joe says Gordy's running too much dope; Pseudoephedrine in bulk down from Winnepeg, some c.o.ke, and that hydroponic gra.s.s they got. Joe says he's attracting sharks." Dale pointed down the stairway. "Maybe federal sharks."

"A fed, huh? I ain't so sure. She just don't strike me as a cop."

"Has she been asking around, kinda snooping after something?"

"Mainly she's been p.i.s.sed from the minute she walked through that door. At her husband mostly, but I get the feeling she's p.i.s.sed at the world in general."

"Still, you gotta be careful, brother. You gotta do something about Gordy."

"Christ, Dale, Gordy does all the work around here, he keeps the books. How am I going to replace him?"

Dale shrugged. "h.e.l.l, I can keep books, you know that."

Ace shook his head. "Nah, I don't want you mixed up in this. You sell off the last of the junk across the road, padlock the door, and go to Florida."

"I wanna help. What if I could get him to quit running dope. How about that?" Dale said. "You always looked out for me, except when you were in jail that time. Just fair I do something to help."

Another sore point. Ace's easy smile masked a swell of remorse. Would it have made a difference if he'd been around during the end of Dale's senior year, when he turned funny, inward, a little weird? Probably not.

"Sure. Talk to Gordy if you think it'll help. But don't take any s.h.i.t. If he gets antsy, you tell me." Ace continued to the front window, eased the curtain aside with his finger.

Dale smiled. "I'll give him a talking-to he won't forget."

"You do that," Ace said, facing away, looking out the window. h.e.l.lo. What's this? h.e.l.lo. What's this? Across the road he saw Broker walking next to Deputy Jimmy Yeager. Broker got in a green Explorer that was parked in front of the Shuster shed. Yeager got in his cruiser on the road. Then Broker followed Yeager east toward town. Across the road he saw Broker walking next to Deputy Jimmy Yeager. Broker got in a green Explorer that was parked in front of the Shuster shed. Yeager got in his cruiser on the road. Then Broker followed Yeager east toward town.

What do you suppose they're up to?

Dale nodded and left him, went down the stairs, ignored Nina, who was still sitting at Ace's table, smoking, drinking coffee, and reading the Grand Forks Herald Grand Forks Herald. He walked up to the office door.

"Guess Joe's p.i.s.sed at me, huh?" Gordy said, looking up from the desk.

Dale said, "I can fill you in on where he's coming from-say, later tonight. You got anything going on?"

"Maybe."

"Mind if I come along?"

Gordy shot a wary look at Nina in the other room, took a pen from his chest pocket, and wrote "9 P.M. P.M.., here" on a notepad. Then he tore the paper in half, then in quarters, and tossed it in the trash can behind the bar.

Dale nodded and started for the door. As he left the bar he sang out, "Be seeing you, Nina..."

Chapter Twenty.

"She calls herself Nina Pryce. Red hair, mid-thirties, and she's competent. I don't think she's a cop. More like government. Maybe military." Nina Pryce. Red hair, mid-thirties, and she's competent. I don't think she's a cop. More like government. Maybe military."

"How can you tell?" the Mole said into the telephone receiver.

"The way she watches things, the way she moves. Trust me on this. And then there's her alleged husband..."

"Forget the husband, there are already too many distractions."

"I'm just saying-"

"No, stay on plan, you understand?"

"Okay. But this is taking a funny bounce, the way she's coming on to Ace, pretending to have drinking problem, marriage problems. Point is, they are definitely here."

As the Mole listened, his eyes traveled across the deserted truck stop and fixed on the word CLOSED CLOSED written in soap on the empty diner windows. Closed. Out of business. The end. Now written in soap on the empty diner windows. Closed. Out of business. The end. Now they they would be out of business if he didn't act. would be out of business if he didn't act.

"We'll see how it goes tonight," the Mole said.

"You're taking a big risk, cousin."

"We're after a big jackpot. You just get our friend out of there."

"It won't be easy. We've created some kind of monster. He's getting harder to control. We might have to put him down and let it all go."

"No. We're almost there. Stick to the plan. We'll get rid of him when it's all over," the Mole said. The calmness of his voice was at odds with the violence with which he slammed the phone down on the hook. Immediately he regretted the show of anger. The man he'd been talking to was family, a distant cousin who handled the Canadian end of the smuggling network. Now his cousin was having doubts, and the moment he decided the plan was losing its wheels, he would likely disappear back to Canada.

s.h.i.t. The Mole clenched his fists. He'd been too long out of play. His method of recruiting the American had been flawed, and now it had backfired.

d.a.m.n, it had all been so perfect.

At first, he had just agreed to smuggle Rashid's shipment and had brought in his cousin for extra security. They'd met with Rashid to finalize the deal and lingered over coffee. Rashid revealed the depth of his background check. He knew that twenty years earlier the Mole had trained with the group that went on to hit the Marine barracks in Beirut. That he had been diverted from the front lines for this lonely work in America.

Rashid politely wondered if years spent living in the suburbs quietly smuggling drugs to finance Hamas and Hezbollah might have eroded his commitment to killing Americans.

"Try me," the Mole said.

Some testing back and forth ensued. It was established that the Mole had been trained in the bombmaker's art and that the contraband being negotiated was explosives. Not long after that, and after he'd made reference to jihad three times, Rashid confided that, yes, he was a.s.sociated with Al Qaeda. But he was no zealot, he insisted. And being a practical man, he was willing to contract out work; especially in the current security environment.

Which was fine, because while the Mole and his cousin paid lip service to the Cause, basically their background was rooted in the criminal underbelly of the movement in the Bekaa Valley. They preferred their politics heavily flavored with money.

Then they returned to North Dakota to case the specific smuggling route for Rashid's Semtex. That's when they were found out by the strange American. The easy solution would have been to kill him on the spot. Instead they let him talk. In the man's desperate babble the Mole discerned the essence of a plan that could dwarf the 9/11 attack.

The American understood he was in dangerous company. Instead of being intimidated, this fact encouraged him to talk freely, ultimately revealing his secret desires. It was, the Mole perceived, a marriage made in h.e.l.l. In the end, they agreed to an exchange of favors. The American wanted to kill three people. But the Mole figured that three million dollars deposited in a Danish bank would be a fair price for the project he now envisioned. After thinking it through, he'd traveled to Detroit and sat down for coffee with Rashid a second time.

He told Rashid: "Your organization is under a lot of stress right now. It's gotta be difficult to mount a large operation in the States. I, however, can offer you one-stop shopping."

Rashid said, "Explain one-stop shopping."

"None of your people would be involved," the Mole began. "Just give me the ton of explosives you have in Canada. I'll build the weapon and position it and execute the attack. If I succeed, you pay me three million dollars."

"That's a lot of money. What do you intend to attack?" Rashid asked.

The Mole explained the kind of target he had in mind, but not the specific location.

Rashid's coffee cup trembled slightly in his fingers and he leaned closer. "What exactly is the weapon?"

The Mole briefed him with the aid of some photos and several pages of detailed diagrams.

Rashid licked his lips. "But how would you get inside?"

So the Mole told him.

Rashid leaned closer, thought for a moment, then whispered, "G.o.d in heaven. This could work."

Eventually someone in a cave on the Afghan-Pakistan border thought so, too, and the deal was struck. Now, after a lot of work and a bit of luck, the weapon was in place. The Mole had his pa.s.sport in his pocket, along with an airline ticket to Copenhagen.

He looked up into the clouds with a pained expression as a sprinkle of raindrops dotted his windshield. Please, no more rain. Please, no more rain. Forget the rain. He had other things to worry about. Like their "friend." They had set him up for his first kill, thinking that by taping the crime they could always blackmail him if they sensed him slipping outside their control. The opposite proved true. He couldn't get enough of the tape. Now he wanted more. Forget the rain. He had other things to worry about. Like their "friend." They had set him up for his first kill, thinking that by taping the crime they could always blackmail him if they sensed him slipping outside their control. The opposite proved true. He couldn't get enough of the tape. Now he wanted more.

But first they had to get through tonight.

Chapter Twenty-one.

Broker and Kit watched the blue single-engine Piper Saratoga II HP cruise the Langdon strip at 500 feet then go into a standard landing pattern: flying counterclockwise, making a series of left turns around the strip, and finally lining up on approach and setting down. When the prop stopped moving, two men emerged: Doc Harris, the pilot, and Lyle Torgeson, a Cook County deputy. They greeted Kit and shook hands with Broker. the blue single-engine Piper Saratoga II HP cruise the Langdon strip at 500 feet then go into a standard landing pattern: flying counterclockwise, making a series of left turns around the strip, and finally lining up on approach and setting down. When the prop stopped moving, two men emerged: Doc Harris, the pilot, and Lyle Torgeson, a Cook County deputy. They greeted Kit and shook hands with Broker.

Harris, a tanned, well-preserved seventy, a retired general surgeon, asked Broker about his hand. Broker lied and said it was no problem. Lyle said, "I don't suppose you'll tell me what's going on here? Your mom had us lined up to pick up Kit before you called."

Broker just smiled, clapped Lyle on the shoulder, and said, "I really appreciate this."

Lyle said, "I figured that's about all you'd say. Watch yourself."

Kit, still in a huff from their minor tiff leaving Shuster's equipment shed, remained distant and stoic. Broker wondered if she'd acquired the old army trick of picking a fight with loved ones before shipping out, to make the parting easier. But climbing into the small door aft of the wing, she turned and grabbed him in a bear hug and he had to pry her arms from around his neck as she shouted, "I want you and Mommy to come home together together."

Then she climbed into the plane, pressed her face up against a pa.s.senger window, and nagged him with her teared-up eyes. The prop revved up but the engine noise didn't quite drown out the echo of her words.

Broker's marching orders were getting more complicated.

Then the plane taxied down the strip and flew away. Kit's face, framed in an aircraft window, faded into a blur as Doc climbed and banked east.

Broker stood awhile watching the plane disappear. He reminded himself that the Saratoga was a first-cla.s.s high-performance aircraft. And that Doc Harris was a veteran pilot. But as he walked back to the Ford he was mindful of the moody clouds hanging overhead. And that JFK Jr. had taken his last flight in a Piper Saratoga.

He got in the Ford, pulled up to the highway, and looked right and then left. The entry road to the airstrip was about 300 yards from the bar and the equipment shed. He could just make out Dale Shuster and another guy walking across the highway and going into the bar.

Broker had dismissed Kit's strange comment about Dale Shuster's toilet, but he'd noticed something else at the shed that got him thinking. So he decided to pay another visit. Making no attempt to hide his approach, he drove down the highway and pulled into the weedy lot in front of the shed. There were two vehicles in the lot, both pretty beat up-a Grand Prix with a filthy windshield and a brown Chevy van.

Okay, he thought as he got out of his truck, he thought as he got out of his truck, so I'm being a little obvious. so I'm being a little obvious. He threw a glance across the road at the bar's brick facade. Maybe he wouldn't mind a rematch with that Gordy guy. He threw a glance across the road at the bar's brick facade. Maybe he wouldn't mind a rematch with that Gordy guy.

Broker walked around the back of the shed to where the lone piece of earth-moving equipment was parked. Something about the Deere had caught his attention: on the left rear end, one of the counterweights was missing. A solid hunk of yellow cast iron two feet square, six inches deep, and weighing perhaps 500 pounds, a counterweight was the ultimate blunt object. Huge bolts held it to the machine's frame. Its purpose was to offset the load in the bucket. It was not something that got damaged under normal use.

Broker c.o.c.ked his ear when he heard a motor start. He peeked around the edge of the shed and saw the brown van pull onto the highway, caught a glimpse of the driver-the scarred-up dude he'd seen with Dale Shuster this morning. The van accelerated back toward town. He waited a few moments, heard nothing else, and moved off ten yards into the damp weeds along the side of the shed. Looked around to get his bearings. Right about here he'd seen a flash of yellow on his first visit. The ground was disturbed, dug up and refilled. Okay. He moved deeper in the weeds and found it. A corner of yellow cast iron peeked from the ground. The rain had washed away the top layer of dirt.

Broker stooped and rapped his knuckle against the dense iron. Now who in the h.e.l.l would bury a counterweight? He got up, walked back to the Deere front-loader, and began to study it like a puzzle.

"Morning," a voice said behind him.

Broker turned and saw the husky deputy-Jim Yeager-watching him. Yeager was in uniform, tan over brown.

"Hi," Broker said.

"What's up?" Yeager asked.

Broker held up a red Bic lighter. "Was by here earlier looking at this Deere. Dropped my lighter. Just found it."

"Uh-huh," Yeager said. "Mr. Broker, would you mind following me into town?" Polite but firm.