Jack folded the note back into the envelope and slid it into his coat pocket. He was correct, of course. Ryan was sure of it. Now he had to decide if it was right or not. He soon learned that it was much easier to second-guess such decisions when they were made by others.

They had to move, of course. Ramirez had them all doing something. The more work to be done, the fewer things had to be thought about. They had to erase any trace of their presence. They had to bury Rocha. When the time came, if it did, his family, if any, would get a sealed metal casket with one hundred fifty pounds of ballast inside to simulate the body that wasnt there. Chavez and Vega got the job of digging the grave. They went down the customary six feet, not liking the fact that they were going to leave one of their own behind like this. There was the hope that someone might come back to recover their comrade, but somehow neither expected that the effort would ever be made. Even coming from a peacetime army, neither was a stranger to death. Chavez remembered the two kids in Korea, and others killed in training accidents, helicopter crashes and the like. The life of the soldier is dangerous, even when there are no wars to fight. So they tried to rationalize it along the lines of an accidental death. But Rocha had not died by accident. Hed lost his life doing his job, soldiering at the behest of the country which he had volunteered to serve, whose uniform hed worn with pride. Hed known what the hazards were, taken his chances like a man, and now he was being planted in the ground of a foreign land.

Chavez knew that hed been irrational to assume that something like this would never happen. The surprise came from the fact that Rocha, like the rest of the squad members, had been a real pro, smart, tough, good with his weapons, quiet in the bush, an intense and very serious soldier who really liked the idea of going after druggiesfor reasons hed never explained to anyone. Oddly, that helped. Rocha had died doing his job. Ding figured that was a good enough epitaph for anyone. When the hole was finished, they lowered the body as gently as they could. Captain Ramirez said a few words, and the hole was filled in partway. As always, Olivero sprinkled his CS tear-gas powder to keep animals from digging it up, and the sod was replaced to erase any trace of what had been done. Ramirez made a point of recording the position, however, in case anyone ever did come back for his man. Then it was time to move.

They kept moving past dawn, heading for an alternate patrol base five miles from the one that Rocha now guarded alone. Ramirez planned to rest his men, then lead them on another mission as soon as possible. Better to have them working than thinking too much. Thats what the manuals said.

An aircraft carrier is as much a community as a warship, home for over six thousand men, with its own hospital and shopping center, church and synagogue, police force and videoclub, even its own newspaper and TV network. The men work long hours, and the services they enjoyed while off duty were nothing more than they deservedand more to the point, the Navy had found that the sailors worked far better when they received them.

Robby Jackson rose and showered as he always did, then found his way to the wardroom for coffee. Hed be having breakfast with the captain today, but wanted to be fully awake before he did so. There was a television set mounted on brackets in the corner, and the officers watched it just as they did at home, and for the same reason. Most Americans start off the day with TV news. In this case the announcer wasnt paid half a million dollars per year, and didnt have to wear makeup. He did have to write his own copy, however.

At about nine oclock last nighttwenty-one hundred hours to us on the Rangeran explosion ripped through the home of one Esteban Untiveros. Seor Untiveros was a major figure in the Medelln Cartel. Looks like one of his friends wasnt quite as friendly as he thought. News reports indicate that a car bomb totally destroyed his expensive hilltop residence, along with everyone in it.

At home, the first of the summers political conventions kicks off in Chicago next week. Governor J. Robert Fowler, the leading candidate for his partys nomination, is still a hundred votes short of a majority and is meeting today with representatives from . . .

Jackson turned to look around. Commander Jensen was thirty feet away, motioning to the TV and chuckling with one of his people, who grinned into his cup and said nothing.

Something in Robbys mind simply went click.

A Drop-Ex.

A tech-rep who didnt want to talk very much.

An A-6E that headed to the beach on a heading of one-one-five toward Ecuador and returned to Ranger on a heading of two-zero-five. The other side of that triangle mustmighthave taken the bird over . . . Colombia.

A report of a car bomb.

A bomb with a combustible case. A smart-bomb with a combustible case, Commander Jackson corrected himself.

Well, son of a bitch. . . .

It was amusing in more than one way. Taking out a drug dealer didnt trouble his conscience very much. Hell, he wondered why they didnt just shoot those drug-courier flights down. All that loose politician talk about threats to national security and people conducting chemical warfare against the United Stateswell, shit, he thought, why not have a for-real Shoot-Ex? You wouldnt even have to spend money for target drones. There was not a man in the service who wouldnt mind taking a few druggies out. Enemies are where you find themwhere National Command Authority said they were, that isand dealing with his countrys enemies was what Commander Robert Jefferson Jackson, USN, did for a living. Doing them with a smart-bomb, and making it look like something else, well, that was just sheer artistry.

More amusing was the fact that Robby thought he knew what had happened. That was the trouble with secrets. They were impossible to keep. One way or another, they always got out. He wouldnt tell anyone, of course. And that really was too bad, wasnt it?

But why bother keeping it a secret? Robby wondered. The way the druggies killed the FBI Directorthat was a declaration of war. Why not just go public and say, Were coming for you! In a political year, too. When had the American people ever failed to support their President when he declared the necessity to go after people?

But Jacksons job was not political. It was time to see the skipper. Two minutes later he arrived at the COs stateroom. The Marine standing guard opened the door for him, and Robby found the captain reading dispatches.

Youre out of uniform! the man said sternly.

Whatexcuse me, Capn? Robby stopped cold, looking to see that his fly was zipped.

Here. Rangers CO rose and handed over the message flimsy. You just got frocked, Robbyexcuse me, Captain Jackson. Congratulations, Rob. Sure beats coffee for startin off the day, doesnt it?

Thank you, sir.

Now if we can just get those charlie-fox fighter tactics of yours to work. . . .

Yes, sir.

Ritchie.

Okay, Ritchie.

You can still call me sir on the bridge and in public, though, the captain pointed out. Newly promoted officers always got razzed. They also had to pay for the wetting down parties.

The TV news crews arrived in the early morning. They, too, had difficulty with the road up to the Untiveros house. The police were already there, and it didnt occur to any of the crews to wonder if these police officers might be of the tame variety. They wore uniforms and pistol belts and seemed to be acting like real cops. Under Cortezs supervision, the real search for survivors had been completed already, and the two people found taken off, along with most of the surviving security guards and almost all of the firearms. Security guards per se were not terribly unusual in Colombia, though fully automatic weapons and crew-served machine guns were. Of course, Cortez was also gone before the news crews arrived, and by the time they started taping, the police search was fully underway. Several of the crews had direct satellite feeds, though one of the heavy ground-station trucks had failed to make the hill.

The easiest part of the search, lovingly recorded for posterity by the portacams, began in what had been the conference room, now a three-foot pile of gravel. The largest piece of a Production Committee member found (that title was also not revealed to the newsies) was a surprisingly intact lower leg, from just below the knee to a shoe still laced on the right foot. It would later be established that this remain belonged to Carlos Wagner. Untiveross wife and two young children had been in the opposite side of the house on the second floor, watching a taped movie. The VCR, still plugged in and on play, was found right before the bodies. Yet another TV camera followed the mana security guard temporarily without his AK-47who carried the limp, bloody body of a dead child to an ambulance.

Oh, My God, the President said, watching one of the several televisions in the Oval Office. If anybody figures this out . . .

Mr. President, weve dealt with this sort of thing before, Cutter pointed out. The Libyan bombing under Reagan, the air strikes into Lebanon and And we caught hell for it every time! Nobody cares why we did it, all they care about is that we killed the wrong people. Christ, Jim, that was a kid! What are we going to say? Oh, thats too bad, but he was in the wrong place?

It is alleged, the TV reporter was saying, that the owner of this house was a member of the Medelln Cartel, but local police sources tell us that he was never officially charged with any crime, and well . . . The reporter paused in front of the camera. You saw what this car bomb did to his wife and children.

Great, the President growled. He lifted the controller and punched off the TV set. Those bastards can do whatever the hell they want to our kids, but if we go after them on their turf, all of a sudden theyre the goddamned victims! Has Moore told Congress about this yet?

No, Mr. President. CIA doesnt have to tell them until fortyeight hours after such an operation begins, and, for administrative purposes, the operation didnt actually begin until yesterday afternoon.

They dont find out, the President said. If we tell em, then itll leak sure as hell. You tell Moore and Ritter that.

Mr. President, I cant The hell you cant! I just gave you an order, mister. The President walked to the windows. It wasnt supposed to be this way, he muttered.

Cutter knew what the real issue was, of course. The oppositions political convention would begin shortly. Their candidate, Governor Bob Fowler of Ohio, was leading the President in the polls. That was normal, of course. The incumbent had run through the primaries without serious opposition, resulting in a dull, predetermined result, while Fowler had fought a toothand-nail campaign for his partys nomination and was still an eyelash short of certain nomination. Voters always responded to the lively candidates, and while Fowler was personally about as lively as a dishrag, his contest had been the interesting one. And like every candidate since Nixon and the first war on drugs, he was saying that the President hadnt made good on his promise to restrict drug traffic. That sounded familiar to the current occupant of the Oval Office. Hed said the same thing four years earlier, and ridden that issue, and others, into the house on Pennsylvania Avenue. So now hed actually tried something radical. And this had happened. The government of the United States had just used its most sophisticated military weapons to murder a couple of kids and their mother. Thats what Fowler would say. After all, it was an election year.

Mr. President, it would be unsound to terminate the operations we have running at this point. If you are serious about avenging the deaths of Director Jacobs and the rest, and serious about putting a dent in drug trafficking, you cannot stop things now. Were just about to show results. Drug flights into the country are down twenty percent, Cutter pointed out. Add that to the money-laundering bust and we can say that weve achieved a real victory.

How do we explain the bombing?

Ive been thinking about that, sir. What if we say that we dont know, but it could be one of two things. First, it might be an attack by M-19. That groups political rhetoric lately has been critical of the drug lords. Second, we could say that it results from an internecine dispute within the Cartel itself.

How so? he asked without turning around. It was a bad sign when WRANGLER didnt look you in the eye, Cutter knew. He was really worried about this. Politics were such a pain in the ass, the Admiral thought, but they were also the most interesting game in town.

Killing Jacobs and the rest was an irresponsible action on their part. Everyone knows that. We can leak the argument that some parts of the Cartel are punishing their own peers for doing something so radical as to endanger their whole operation. Cutter was rather proud of that argument. It had come from Ritter, but the President didnt know that. We know that the druggies arent all that reticent about killing off family membersits practically their trademark. This way we can explain what they are doing. We can have our cake and eat it, too, he concluded, smiling at the Presidents back.

The President turned away from the windows. His mien was skeptical, but . . . You really think you can bring that off?

Yes, sir, I do. It also allows us at least one more RECIPROCITY attack.

I have to show that were doing something, the President said quietly. What about those soldiers we have running around in the jungle?

They have eliminated a total of five processing sites. Weve lost two people killed, and have two more wounded, but not seriously. Thats a cost of doing business, sir. These people are professional soldiers. They knew what the risks were going in. They are proud of what they are doing. You wont have any problems on that score, sir. Pretty soon the words going to get out that the local peasants ought not to work for the druggies. That will put a serious dent in the processing operations. Itll be temporaryonly a few months, but itll be real. Itll be something you can point to. The street price of cocaine is going to go up soon. You can point to that, too. Thats how we gauge success or failure in our interdiction operations. The papers will run that bit of news before we have to announce it.

So much the better, the President observed with his first smile of the day. Okaylets just be more careful.

Of course, Mr. President.

Morning PT for the 7th Division commenced at 0615 hours. It was one explanation for the puritanical virtue of the unit. Though soldiers, especially young soldiers, like to drink as much as any other segment of American society, doing physical training exercises with a hangover is one step down from lingering death. It was already warm at Fort Ord, and by seven oclock, at the finish of the daily three-mile run, every member of the platoon had worked up a good sweat. Then it was time for breakfast.

The officers ate together this morning and table talk was on the same subject being contemplated all over the country.

About fucking time, one captain noted.

They said it was a car bomb, another pointed out.

Im sure the Agency knows how to arrange it. All the experience from Lebanon an all, a company XO offered.

Not as easy as you think, the battalion S-2, intelligence officer, observed. A former company commander in the Rangers, he knew a thing or two about bombs and booby traps. But whoever did it, it was a pretty slick job.

Shame we cant go down there, a lieutenant said. The junior officers grunted agreement. The senior ones were quiet. Plans for that contingency had been the subject of division and corps staff discussion for some years. Deploying units for warand thats exactly what it waswas not to be discussed lightly, though the general consensus was that it could be done . . . if the local governments approved. Which they would not, of course. That, the officers thought, was understandable but most unfortunate. It was difficult to overstate the level of loathing in the Army for drugs. The senior battalion officers, major and above, could remember the drug problems of the seventies, when the Army had been every bit as hollow as critics had said it was, and it hadnt been unknown for officers to travel in certain places only with armed guards. Conquering that particular enemy had required years of effort. Even today every member of the American military was liable to random drug testing. For senior NCOs and all officers, there was no forgiveness. One positive test and you were gone. For E-5s and below, there was more leeway: one positive test resulted in an Article 15 and a very stern talking to; a second positive, and out they went. The official slogan was a simple one: NOT IN MY ARMY! Then there was the other dimension. Most of the men around this table were married, with children whom some drug dealer might approach sooner or later as a potential client. The general agreement was that if anyone sold drugs to the child of a professional soldier, that dealers life was in mortal danger. Such events rarely took place because soldiers are above all disciplined people, but the desire was there. As was the ability.

And the odd dealer had disappeared from time to time, his death invariably ascribed to turf wars. Many of those murders went forever unsolved.

And thats where Chavez is, Tim Jackson realized. There were just too many coincidences. He and Muoz and Len. All Spanish-speakers. All checked out the same day. So they were doing a covert operation, probably at CIA bequest. It was dangerous work in all likelihood, but they were soldiers and that was their business. Lieutenant Jackson breathed easier now that he knew what he didnt need to know. Whatever Chavez was doing, it was okay. He wouldnt have to follow that up anymore. Tim Jackson hoped that hed be all right. Chavez was damned good, he remembered. If anyone could do it, he could.

The TV crews soon got bored, leaving to write their copy and do their voice-overs. Cortez returned as soon as the last of their vehicles went up the road toward Medelln. This time he drove a jeep up the hill. He was tired and irritable, but more than that he was curious. Something very odd had happened and he wasnt sure what it was. He wouldnt be satisfied until he did. The two survivors from the house had been taken to Medelln, where they would be treated privately by a trusted physician. Cortez would be talking to them, but there was one more thing he had to do here. The police contingent at the house was commanded by a captain who had long since come to terms with the Cartel. Flix was certain that hed shed no tears over the deaths of Untiveros and the rest, but that was beside the point, wasnt it? The Cuban parked his jeep and walked over to where the police commander was talking with two of his men.

Good morning, Capitn. Have you determined what sort of bomb it was?

Definitely a car bomb, the man replied seriously.

Yes, I suspected that myself, Cortez said patiently. The explosive agent?

The man shrugged. I have no idea.

Perhaps you might find out, Flix suggested. As a routine part of your investigation.

Fine. I can do that.

Thank you. He walked back to his jeep for the ride north. A locally fabricated bomb might use dynamitethere was plenty of that available from local mining operationsor a commercial plastic explosive, or even something made from nitrated fertilizer. If made by M-19, however, Cortez would expect Semtex, a Czech-made variant of RDX currently favored by Marxist terrorists all over the world for its power and ready, cheap supply. Determining what had actually been used would tell him something, and it amused Cortez to have the police run that information down. It was one thing to smile about as he drove down the mountainside.

And there were others. The elimination of four senior Cartel chieftains did not sadden him any more than it had the policeman. After all, they were just businessmen, not a class of individual for which Cortez had great regard. He took their money, that was all. Whoever had done the bombing had done a marvelous, professional job. That started him thinking that it could not have been CIA. They didnt know very much about killing people. Cortez was less offended than one might imagine that hed come so close to being killed. Covert operations were his business, after all, and he understood the risks. Besides, if he had been the primary target of so elegant a plan, clearly hed not be trying to analyze it now. In any case, the removal of Untiveros, Fernndez, Wagner, and dAlejandro meant that there were four openings at the top of the Cartel, four fewer people with the power and prestige to stand in his way if. . . If, he told himself. Well, why not? A seat at the table, certainly. Perhaps more than that. But there was work to do, and a crime to solve.

By the time he reached Medellin, the two survivors from Untiveros hilltop house had been treated and were ready for questioning, along with a half-dozen servants from the dead lords Medellin condominium. They were in a top-floor room of a sturdy, fire-resistive high-rise building, which was also quite soundproof. Cortez walked into the room to find the eight trusted servants all sitting, handcuffed to straight-back chairs.

Which of you knew about the meeting last night? he asked pleasantly.

There were nods. They all did, of course. Untiveros was a talker, and servants were invariably listeners.

Very well. Which of you told, and whom did you tell? he asked in a formal, literate way. No one will leave this room until I know the answer to that, he promised them.

The immediate response was a confused flood of denials. Hed expected that. Most of them were true. Cortez was sure of that, too.

It was too bad.

Flix looked to the head guard and pointed to the one in the left-most chair.

Well start with her.

Governor Fowler emerged from the hotel suite in the knowledge that the goal to which he had dedicated the last three years of his life was now in his grasp. Almost, he told himself, remembering that in politics there are no certainties. But a congressman from Kentucky whod run a surprisingly strong campaign had just traded his pledged delegates for a cabinet post, and that put Fowler over the top, with a safety margin of several hundred votes. He couldnt say that, of course. He had to let the man from Kentucky make his own announcement, scheduled for the second day of the convention to give him one last day in the sunor more properly the klieg lights. It would be leaked by people in both camps, but the congressman would smile in his aw-shucks way and tell people to speculate all they wantedbut that he was the only one who knew. Politics, Fowler thought, could be so goddamned phony. This was especially odd since above all things Fowler was a very sincere man, which did not, however, allow him to violate the rules of the game.

And he played by those rules now, standing before the bright TV lights and saying nothing at all for about six minutes of continuous talking. There had been interesting discussions of the great issues facing our country. The Governor and the congressman were united in their desire to see new leadership for a country which, both were sure, though they couldnt say it, would prosper whichever man won in November, because petty political differences of presidents and parties generally got lost in the noise of the Capitol Building, and because American parties were so disorganized that every presidential campaign was increasingly a beauty contest. Perhaps that was just as well, Fowler thought, though it was frustrating to see that the power for which he lusted might really be an illusion, after all. Then it was time for questions.

He was surprised by the first one. Fowler didnt see who asked it. He was dazzled by the lights and the flashing strobesafter so many months of it, he wondered if his vision would ever recoverbut it was a male voice who asked, from one of the big papers, he thought.

Governor, there is a report from Colombia that a car bomb destroyed the home of a major figure in the Medelln Cartel, along with his family. Coming so soon after the assassination of the FBI Director and our ambassador to Colombia, would you care to comment?

Im afraid I didnt get a chance to catch the news this morning because of my breakfast with the congressman. What are you suggesting? Fowler asked. His demeanor had changed from optimistic candidate to careful politician who hoped to become a statesmanwhatever the hell that was, he thought. It had seemed so clear once, too.

There is speculation, sir, that America might have been involved, the reporter amplified.

Oh? You know the President and I have many differences, and some of them are very serious differences, but I cant remember when weve had a President who was willing to commit cold-blooded murder, and I certainly will not accuse our President of that, Fowler said in his best statesmans voice. Hed meant to say nothing at allthats what statesmens voices are for, after all, either nothing or the obvious. Hed kept a fairly high road for most of his presidential campaign. Even Fowlers bitterest enemieshe had several in his own party, not to mention the oppositionssaid that he was an honorable, thoughtful man who concentrated on issues and not invective. His statement reflected that. He hadnt meant to change United States government policy, hadnt meant to trap his prospective opponent. But he had, without knowing it, done both.

The President had scheduled the trip well in advance. It was a customary courtesy for the chief executive to maintain a low profile during the oppositions convention. It was just as easy to work at Camp Davideasier in fact since it was far easier to shoo reporters away. But you had to run the gauntlet to get there. With the Marine VH-3 helicopter sitting and waiting on the White House lawn, the President emerged from the groundlevel door with the First Lady and two other functionaries in tow, and there they were again, a solid phalanx of reporters and cameras. He wondered if the Russians with their glasnost knew what they were in for.

Mister President! called a senior TV reporter. Governor Fowler says that he hopes we werent involved in the bombing in COLOMBIA! Do you have any comment?

Even as he walked over to the roped enclosure of journalists, the President knew that it was a mistake, but he was drawn to them and the question as a lemming is drawn to the sea. He couldnt not do it. The way the question was shouted, everyone would know that hed heard it, and no answer would itself be seen as an answer of sorts. The President ducked the question of . . . And he couldnt leave Washington for a week of lowprofile existence, leaving the limelight to the other sidenot with that question lying unanswered behind him on the White House lawn, could he?

The United States, the President said, does not kill innocent women and children. The United States fights against people who do that. We do not sink down to their bestial level. Is that a clear enough answer? It was delivered in a quiet, reasoned voice, but the look the President gave the reporter made that experienced journalist wilt before his eyes. It was good, the President thought, to see that his power occasionally reached the bastards.

It was the second major political lie of the daya slow news day to be sure. Governor Fowler well remembered that John and Robert Kennedy had plotted the deaths of Castro and others with a kind of elitist glee born of Ian Flemings novels, only to learn the hard way that assassination was a messy business. Very messy indeed, for there were usually people about whom you didnt especially want to kill. The current President knew all about collateral damage, a term which he found distasteful but indicative of something both necessary and impossible to explain to people who didnt understand how the world really worked: terrorists, criminals, and all manner of cowardsbrutal people are most often cowards, after allregularly hid behind or among the innocent, daring the mighty to act, using the altruism of their enemies as a weapon against those enemies. You cannot touch me. We are the evil ones. You are the good ones. You cannot attack us without casting away your self-image. It was the most hateful attribute of those most hateful of people, and sometimesrarely, but sometimesthey had to be shown that it didnt work. And that was messy, wasnt it? Like some sort of international auto accident.

But how the hell do I explain that to the American people? In an election year? Vote to re-elect the President who just killed a wife, two kids, and various domestic servants to protect your children from drugs . . . ? The President wondered if Governor Fowler understood just how illusory presidential power wasand about the awful noise generated when one principle crashed hard up against another. That was even worse than the noise of the reporters, the President thought. It was something to shake his head about as he walked to his helicopter. The Marine sergeant saluted at the steps. The President returned ita tradition despite the fact that no sitting President had ever worn a uniform. He strapped in and looked back at the assembled mob. The cameras were still on him, taping the takeoff. The networks wouldnt run that particular shot, but just in case the chopper blew up or crashed, they wanted the cameras rolling.

The word got to the Mobile police a little late. The clerk of the court handled the paperwork, and when information leaks from a courthouse, that is usually the hole. In this case the clerk was outraged. He saw the cases come and go. A man in his middle fifties, hed gotten his children educated and through college, managing to avoid the drug epidemic. But that had not been true of every child in the clerks neighborhood. Right next door to his house, the familys youngest had bought a rock of crack cocaine and promptly driven his car into a bridge abutment at over a hundred miles per hour. The clerk had watched the child grow up, had driven him to school once or twice, and paid the child to mow his lawn. The coffin had been sealed for the funeral at Cypress Hill Baptist Church, and hed heard that the mother was still on medications after having had to identify what was left of the body. The minister talked about the scourge of drugs like the scourging of Christs own passion. He was a fine minister, a gifted orator in the Southern Baptist tradition, and while he led them in prayer for the dead boys soul his personal and wholly genuine fury over the drug problem merely amplified the outrage already felt by his congregation. . . .

The clerk couldnt understand it. Davidoff was a superb prosecuting attorney. Jew or not, this man was one of Gods elect, a true hero in a profession of charlatans. How could this be? Those two scum were going to get off! the clerk thought. It was wrong!

The clerk was unaccustomed to bars. A Baptist serious about his religious beliefs, he had never tasted spiritous liquors, had tried beer only once as a boy on a dare, and was forever guiltridden for that. That was one of only two narrow aspects to this otherwise decent and honorable citizen. The other was justice. He believed in justice as he believed in God, a faith that had somehow survived his thirty years of clerking in the federal courts. Justice, he thought, came from God, not from man. Laws came from God, not from man. Were not all Western laws based on Holy Scripture in one way or another? He revered his countrys Constitution as a divinely inspired document, for freedom was surely the way in which God intended man to live, that man could learn to know and serve his God not as a slave, but as a positive choice for Right. That was the way things were supposed to be. The problem was that the Right did not always prevail. Over the years hed gotten used to that idea. Frustrating though it was, he also knew that the Lord was the ultimate Judge, and His Justice would always prevail. But there were times when the Lords Justice needed help, and it was well known that God chose His Instruments through Faith. And so it was this hot, sultry Alabama afternoon. The clerk had his Faith, and God had His Instrument.

The clerk was in a cop bar, half a block from police headquarters, drinking club soda so that he could fit in. The police knew who he was, of course. He appeared at all the cop funerals. He headed a civic committee that looked after the families of cops and firemen who died in the line of duty. Never asked for anything in return, either. Never even asked to fix a tickethed never gotten one in his life, but no one had ever thought to check.

Hi, Bill, he said to a homicide cop.

Hows life with the feds? the detective lieutenant asked. He thought the clerk slightly peculiar, but far less so than most. All he really needed to know was that the clerk of the court took care of cops. That was enough.

I heard something that you ought to know about.

Oh? The lieutenant looked up from his beer. He, too, was a Baptist, but wasnt that Baptist. Few cops were, even in Alabama, and like most he felt guilty about it.

The pirates are getting a plea-bargain, the clerk told him.

What? It wasnt his case, but it was a symbol of all that was going wrong. And the pirates were in the same jail in which his prisoners were guests.

The clerk explained what he knew, which wasnt much. Something was wrong with the case. Some technicality or other. The judge hadnt explained it very well. Davidoff was enraged by it all, but there was nothing he could do. That was too bad, they both agreed. Davidoff was one of the Good Guys. Thats when the clerk told his lie. He didnt like to tell lies, but sometimes Justice required it. Hed learned that much in the federal court system. It was just a practical application of what his minister said: God moves in mysterious ways, His wonders to perform.