Fine. You tell Fowler that! The President slammed a file folder down on his desk. His own private polls showed Fowler ahead by fourteen points.

Sir, after the convention, the opposition candidate always Now youre giving me political advice? Mister, you havent shown me a hell of a lot of competence in your supposed area of expertise.

Mr. President, I I want this whole thing shut down. I want it kept quiet. I want you to do it, and I want you to do it fast. This is your mess and you will clean it up.

Cutter hesitated. Sir, how do you want me to go about it?

I dont want to know. I just want to know when its done.

Sir, that may mean that Ill have to disappear for a while.

Then disappear!

People might notice.

Then you are on a special, classified mission for the President. Admiral, I want this thing closed out. I dont care what you have to do. Just do it!

Cutter came to attention. He still remembered how to do that. Yes, Mr. President.

Reverse your rudder, Wegener said. USCGC Panache pivoted with the change of rudder and engine settings, pointing herself down the channel.

Midships.

Rudder amidships, aye. Sir, my rudder is amidships, the young helmsman announced under the watchful eye of Master Chief Quartermaster Oreza.

Very well. All ahead one-third, steady up on course one-nine-five. Wegener looked at the junior officer of the deck. You have the conn. Take her out.

Aye aye, sir, I have the conn, the ensign acknowledged in some surprise. Take her out generally means that you start from the dock, but the skipper was unusually cautious today. The kid on the wheel could handle it from here. Wegener lit his pipe and headed out for the bridge wing. Portagee followed him there.

Thats about as happy as Ive ever been to head out to sea, Wegener said.

I know what you mean, Capn.

It had been one scary day. Only one, but that had been enough. The FBI agents warning had come as quite a shock. Wegener had grilled his people one by onesomething that hed found as distasteful as it had been unfruitfulto find out who had spilled the beans. Oreza thought he knew but wasnt sure. He was thankful that hed never have to be. That danger had died with the pirates in Mobile jail. But both men had learned their lesson. From now on theyd abide by the rules.

Skipper, why dya suppose that FBI guy warned us?

Thats a good question, Portagee. It figures that what we choked out of the bastards turned that money seizure they pulled off. I guess they figured they owed us some. Besides, the local guy says that it was his boss in Washington who ordered him to warn us.

I think we owe him one, Oreza said.

I think youre right. Both men stayed out to savor yet another sunset at sea, and Panache took a heading of one-eightone, heading for her patrol station in the Yucatan Channel.

Chavez was down to his last set of batteries. The situation, if anything, had gotten worse. There was a group somewhere be hind them, necessitating a rear guard. It was something that he on point, couldnt concern himself about, but it was there a nagging concern as real as the sore muscles that had him popping Tylenol every few hours. Maybe they were being followed Maybe it was just accidentalor maybe Ramirez had gotten predictable in his evasion tactics. Chavez didnt think so but he was becoming too tired to think coherently, and knew it. Maybe the captain had the same problem, he realized. That was especially worrisome. Sergeants were paid to fight Captains were paid to think. But if Ramirez was too tired to do that then they might as well not have him.

Noise. A whisper from a branch swishing through the air. But there was no wind blowing at the moment. Maybe animal. Maybe not.

Chavez stopped. He held his hand straight up. Vega, waking slack fifty meters back, relayed the signal. Ding moved alongside a tree and stayed standing for the best possible visibiity. He started to lean against it and found himself drifting. The sergeant shook his head to clear it. Fatigue was really getting to him now.

There. Movement. It was a man. Just a spectral green shape, barely more than a stick figure on the goggle display, nearly two hundred meters to Dings right front. He was moving uphill andanother one, about twenty meters behind. They were moving like . . . soldiers, with the elaborate footwork that looked so damned crazy when somebody else was doing it. . . .

There was one way to check. On the bottom side of his PVS-7 goggles was a small infrared light for use in reading maps. Invisible to the human eye, it would show up like a beacon to anyone wearing another PVS-7. He didnt even have to make a noise. Theyd be looking around constantly.

It was still a risk, of course.

Chavez stepped away from the tree. It was too far to see if they were wearing their headsets, if they were. . . .

Yes. The lead figure was turning his head left and right. It stopped dead on where Chavez was standing. Ding tipped his goggles up to expose the IR light and blinked it three times. He dropped his night scope back into place just in time to see the other one do the same.

I think theyre our guys, Chavez whispered into his radio mike.

Then theyre pretty lost, Ramirez replied through his earpiece. Be careful, Sergeant.

Click-Click. Okay.

Chavez waited for Oso to set his SAW up in a convenient place, then walked toward the other man, careful to keep where Vega could cover him. It seemed an awfully long way to walk, farther still without being able to put his weapon on the target, but he couldnt exactly do that, could he? He spotted one more, and there would be others out there also, watching him over the sights of their weapons. If that wasnt a friendly, his chances of seeing the sunrise were somewhere between zero and not much.

Ding, is that you? a whisper called the remaining ten meters. Its Len.

Chavez nodded. Both men took very deep breaths as they walked together and hugged. Somehow a handshake just wasnt enough under the circumstances.

Youre lost, Berto.

No shit, man. I know where the fuck we are, but were fucking lost all right.

Wheres Capn Rojas?

Dead. Esteves, Delgado, half the team.

Okay. Hold it. Ding punched his radio button. Six, this is Point. We just made contact with BANNER. Theyve had a little trouble, sir. You better get up here.

Click-click.

Len waved for his men to come in. Chavez didnt even think to count. It was enough to see that half werent there. Both men sat on a fallen tree.

What happened?

We walked right into it, man. Thought it was a processing site. It wasnt. Musta been thirty-forty guys there. I think Esteves fucked up and it all came apart. Like a bar fight with guns, man. Then Captain Rojas went down, andit was pretty bad, mano. Been on the run ever since.

We got people chasing us, too.

Whats the good news? Len asked.

I aint heard any lately, Berto, Ding said. I think its time for us to get our asses outa this place.

Roge-o, Sergeant Len said just as Ramirez appeared. He made his report to the captain.

Capn, Chavez said when he was finished, were all pretty beat. We need a place to belly up.

The mans right, Guerra agreed.

What about behind us?

They aint heard nothin in two hours, sir, Guerra reminded him. That knoll over there looks like a good spot to me. That was about as hard as he could press his officer, but finally it was enough.

Take the men up. Set up the perimeter and two outposts. Well try to rest up till sundown, and maybe I can call in and get us some help.

Sounds good to me, Capn. Guerra took off to get things organized. Chavez left at once to sweep the area while the rest of the squad moved to its new RON siteexcept, Chavez thought, this was an RODremain-over-daysite. It was a bleak attempt at humor, but it was all he could manage under the circumstances.

My God, Ryan breathed. It was four in the morning, and he was awake only because of coffee and apprehension. Ryan had uncovered his share of things with the Agency. But never anything like this. The first thing he had to do was . . . what?

Get some sleep, even a few hours, he told himself. Jack lifted the phone and called the office. There was always a watch officer on duty.

This is Dr. Ryan. Im going to be late. Something I ate. Ive been throwing up all night . . . no, I think its over now, but I need a few hours of sleep. Ill drive myself in tomorrtoday, he corrected himself. Yeah, thats right. Thanks. Bye.

He left a note on the refrigerator door for his wife and crawled into a spare bed to avoid disturbing her.

Passing the message was the easiest part for Cortez. It would have been hard for anyone else, but one of the first things hed done after joining the Cartel was to get a list of certain telephone numbers in the Washington, D.C., area. It hadnt been hard. As with any task, it was just a matter of finding someone who knew what you needed to know. That was something Cortez excelled at. Once he had the list of numbersit had cost him $10,000, the best sort of money well spent, that is to say, someones elses well-spent moneyit was merely a matter of knowing schedules. That was tricky, of course. The person might not be there, which risked disclosure, but the right sort of eyes-only prefix would probably serve to warn off the casual viewer. The secretaries of such people typically were disciplined people who risked their jobs when they showed too much curiosity.

But what really made it easy was a new bit of technology, the facsimile printer. It was a brand-new status symbol. Everyone had to have one, just as everyone, especially the important, had to have a direct private telephone line that bypassed his secretary. That and the fax went together. Cortez had driven to Medellin to his private office and typed the message himself. He knew what official U.S. government messages looked like, of course, and did his best to reproduce it here. EYES-ONLY NIMBUS was the header, and the name in the FROM slot was bogus, but that in the To place was quite genuine, which ought to have been sufficient to get the attention of the addressee. The body of the message was brief and to the point, and indicated a coded reply-address. How would the addressee react? Well, there was no telling, was there? But this, too, Cortez felt was a good gamble. He inserted the single sheet in his fax, dialed the proper number, and waited. The machine did the rest. As soon as it heard the warbling electronic love-call of another fax machine, it transmitted the message form. Cortez removed the original and folded it away into his wallet.

The addressee turned in surprise when he heard the whir of his fax printing out a message. It had to be official, because only half a dozen people knew that private line. (It never occurred to him that the telephone companys computer knew about it, too.) He finished what he was doing before reaching over for the message.

What the hell is NIMBUS? he wondered. Whatever it was, it was eyes-only to him, and therefore he started to read the message. He was sipping his third cup of morning coffee while he did so, and was fortunate that his cough deposited some of it onto his desk and not his trousers.

Cathy Ryan was nothing if not punctual. The phone in the guest room rang at precisely 8:30. Jacks head jerked off the pillow as though from an electric shock, and his hand reached out to grab the offensive instrument.

Hello?

Good morning, Jack, his wife said brightly. Whats the problem with you?

I had to stay up late with some work. Did you take the other thing with you?

Yes, whats the Jack cut her off. I know what it says, babe. Could you just make the call? Its important. Dr. Caroline Ryan was also bright enough to catch the meaning of what he said.

Okay, Jack. How do you feel?

Awful. But I have work to do.

So do I, honey. Bye.

Yeah. Jack hung up and commanded himself to get out of the bed. First a shower, he told himself.

Cathy was on her way to Surgery, and had to hurry. She lifted her office phone and called the proper number on the hospitals D.C. line. It rang only once.

Dan Murray.

Dan, this is Cathy Ryan.

Morning! What can I do for you this fine day, Doctor?

Jack said to tell you that hed be in to see you just after ten. He wants you to let him park in the drive-through, and he said to tell you that the folks down the hall arent supposed to know. I dont know what that means, but thats what he told me to say. Cathy didnt know whether to be amused or not. Jack did like to play funny little gamesshe thought they were pretty dumb little gameswith people who shared his clearances, and wondered if this was some sort of joke or not. Jack especially liked to play games with his FBI friend.

Okay, Cath, Ill take care of that.

I have to run off to fix somebodys eyeball. Say hi to Liz for me.

Will do. Have a good one.

Murray hung up with a puzzled look on his face. Folks down the hall arent supposed to know. The folks down the hall was a phrase Murray had used the first time theyd met, in St. Thomass Hospital in London when Dan had been the legal attach at the U.S. Embassy on Grosvenor Square. The folks down the hall were CIA.

But Ryan was one of the top six people at Langley, arguably one of the top three.

What the hell did that mean?

Hmph. He called his secretary and had her notify the security guards to allow Ryan into the driveway that passed under the main entrance to the Hoover Building. Whatever it meant, he could wait.

Clark arrived at Langley at nine that morning. He didnt have a security passnot the sort of thing you carry into the fieldand had to use a code-word to get through the main gate, which seemed very conspiratorial indeed. He parked in the visitors lotCIA has one of thoseand walked in the main entrance, heading immediately to the left where he quickly got what looked like a visitors badge which, however, worked just fine in the electronically controlled gates. Now he angled off to the right, past the wall murals that looked as though some enormous child had daubed mud all over the place. The decorator for this place, Clark was sure, had to have been a KGB plant. Or maybe theyd just picked the lowest bidder. An elevator took him to the seventh floor, and he walked around the corridor to the executive offices that have their own separate corridor on the face of the building. He ended up in front of the DDOs secretary.

Mr. Clark to see Mr. Ritter, he said.

Do you have an appointment? the secretary asked.

No, I dont, but I think he wants to see me, Clark said politely. There was no sense in abusing her. Besides, Clark had been raised to show deference to women. She lifted her phone and passed the message. You can go right in, Mr. Clark.

Thank you. He closed the door behind him. The door, of course, was heavy and soundproof. That was just as well.

What the hell are you doing here? the DDO demanded.

Youre going to have to shut SHOWBOAT down, Clark said without preamble. Its coming apart. The bad guys are hunting those kids down and I know. I heard late last night. Look, I never figured this would be a no-loss operation. One of the teams got clobbered pretty good thirty-six hours ago, but based on intercepts, looks like they gave better than they took, and then they got even with some others who That was me, Clark said.

What? Ritter asked in surprise.

Larson and I took a little drive about this time yesterday, and I found three of thosewhatevers. They were just finished loading up the bodies into the back of a truck. I didnt see any point in letting them live, Mr. Clark said in a normal tone of voice. It had been a very long time since anyone at CIA had said something like that.

Christ, John! Ritter was even too surprised to blast Clark for violating his own security by stepping into a separate operation.

I recognized one of the bodies, Clark went on. Captain Emilio Rojas, United States Army. He was a hell of a nice kid, by the way.

Im sorry about that. Nobody ever said this was safe.

Im sure his family, if any, will appreciate that. This operation is blown. Its time to cut our losses. What are we doing to get them out? Clark asked.

Im looking at that. I have to coordinate with somebody. Im not sure that hell agree.

In that case, sir, Clark told his boss, I suggest that you make your case rather forcefully.

Are you threatening me? Ritter asked quietly.