Then the prisoner appeared. His hands were still behind his back. The captain and XO were there, too. Wegener was saying something official, but they couldnt hear it. The wind whistled across the deck, and through the mast structure with its many signal halyardsoh, thats what Riley did, Alison realized. Hed used a halyard as a messenger line to run the one-inch hemp through the block. Even Riley wasnt crazy enough to crawl the mast top in this weather.

Then some lights came on. They were the deck floods, used to help guide a helo in. They had the main effect of illuminating the rain, but did give a slightly clearer picture of what was happening. Wegener said one more thing to the prisoner, whose face was still set in an arrogant cast. He still didnt believe it, Alison thought, wondering if that would change. The captain shook his head and stepped back. Riley then placed the noose around his neck.

John Does expression changed at that. He still didnt believe it, but all of a sudden things were slightly more serious. Five people assembled on the running end of the line. Alison almost laughed. Hed known that was how it was done, but hadnt quite expected the skipper to go that far. . . .

The final touch was the black hood. Riley turned the prisoner to face aft toward Alison and his friendthere was another reason, as wellbefore surprising him with it. And finally it got through to Mr. Doe.

Noooooo! The scream was perfect, a ghostly sort of cry that matched the weather and the wind better than anyone might have hoped. His knees buckled as expected, and the men on the running end of the line took the strain and ran aft. The prisoners feet rose clear of the black no-skid deck as the body jerked skyward. The legs kicked a few times, then were still before the line was tied off on a stanchion.

Well, thats that, Alison said. He took the other Mr. Doe by the arm and led him forward. Now its your turn, sport.

Lightning flashed close aboard just as they reached the door leading back into the superstructure. The prisoner stopped cold, looking up one last time. There was his companion, body limp, swinging like a pendulum below the yard, hanging there dead in the rain.

You believe me now? the navigator asked as he pulled him inside. Mr. Does trousers were already soaked from the falling rain, but they were wet for another reason as well.

The first order of business was to get dried off. When the court reconvened, everyone had changed to fresh clothing. James Doe was now in a set of blue Coast Guard coveralls. His handcuffs had been taken off and left off, and he found a hot cup of coffee waiting for him on the defense table. He failed to note that Chief Oreza was no longer at the head table, nor was Chief Riley in the wardroom at the moment. The entire atmosphere was more relaxed than it had been, but the prisoner scarcely noticed that. James Doe was anything but calm.

Mr. Alison, the captain intoned, I would suggest that you confer with your client.

This ones real simple, sport, Alison said. You can talk or you can swing. The skipper doesnt give a shit one way or the other. For starters, whats your name?

Jesus started talking. One of the officers of the court picked up a portable TV camerathe same one used in the boarding, in factand they asked him to start again.

Okaydo you understand that you are not required to say anything? someone asked. The prisoner scarcely noticed, and the question was repeated.

Yeah, right, I understand, okay? he responded without turning his head. Look, what do you want to know?

The questions were already written down, of course. Alison, who was also the cutters legal officer, ran down the list as slowly as he could, in front of the video camera. His main problem was in slowing the answers down enough to be intelligible. The questioning lasted forty minutes. The prisoner spoke rapidly, but matter-of-factly, and didnt notice the looks he was getting from the members of the court.

Thank you for your cooperation, Wegener said when things were concluded. Well try to see that things go a little easier for you because of your cooperation. We wont be able to do much for your colleague, of course. You do understand that, dont you?

Too bad for him, I guess, the man answered, and everyone in the room breathed a little easier.

Well talk to the U.S. Attorney, the captain promised. Lieutenant, you can return the prisoner to the brig.

Aye aye, sir. Alison took the prisoner out of the room as the camera followed. On reaching the ladder to go below, however, the prisoner tripped. He didnt see the hand that caused it, and didnt have time to look, as another unseen hand crashed down on the back of his neck. Next Chief Riley broke the unconscious mans forearm, while Chief Oreza clamped a patch of ether-soaked gauze over his mouth. The two chiefs carried him to sick bay, where the cutters medical corpsman splinted the arm. It was a simple green-stick fracture and required no special assistance. His undamaged arm was secured to the bunk in sick bay, and he was allowed to sleep there.

The prisoner slept late. Breakfast was brought in to him from the wardroom, and he was allowed to clean himself up before the helicopter arrived. Oreza came to collect him, leading him topside again, and aft to the helo deck, where he found Chief Riley, who was delivering the other prisoner to the helicopter. What James Doehis real name had turned out to be Jesus Castillofound remarkable was the fact that John DoeRamn Jos Capatiwas alive. A pair of DEA agents seated them as far apart as possible, and had instructions to keep the prisoners separate. One had confessed, the captain explained, and the other might not be overly pleased with that. Castillo couldnt take his eyes off Capati, and the amazement in his eyes looked enough like fear that the agentswho liked the idea of a confession in a capital caseresolved to keep the prisoners as far apart as circumstances allowed. Along with them went all the physical evidence and several videotape cassettes. Wegener watched the Coast Guard Dolphin helo power up, wondering how the people on the beach would react. The sober pause that always follows a slightly mad act had set in, but Wegener had anticipated that also. In fact, he figured that hed anticipated everything. Only eight members of the crew knew what had taken place, and they knew what they were supposed to say. The executive officer appeared at Wegeners side.

Nothings ever quite what it seems, is it?

I suppose not, but three innocent people died. Instead of four. Sure as hell the owner wasnt any angel, the captain reflected. But did they have to kill his wife and kids, too? Wegener stared out at the changeless sea, unaware of what he had started or how many people would die because of it.

Preliminaries.

CHAVEZS FIRST INDICATION of how unusual this job really was came at San Jos airport. Driven there in an unmarked rental van, they ended up in the general-aviation part of the facility and found a private jet waiting for them. Now, that was really something. Colonel Smith didnt board. He shook every mans hand, told them that theyd be met, and got back into the van. The sergeants all boarded the aircraft which, they saw, was less an executive jet than a mini-airliner. It even had a stewardess who served drinks. Each man stowed his gear and availed himself of a drink except Chavez, who was too tired even to look at the young lady. He barely noted the planes takeoff, and was asleep before the climb-out was finished. Something told him that he ought to sleep while he had the time. It was a common instinct for soldiers, and usually a correct one.

Lieutenant Jackson had never been at the Monterey facility, but his older brother had given him the necessary instructions, and he found the O-Club without difficulty. He felt suddenly lonely. As he locked his Honda he realized that his was the only Army uniform in view. At least it wasnt hard to figure out whom to salute. As a second lieutenant, he had to salute damned near everybody.

Yo, Timmy! his brother called, just inside the door.

Hiya, Rob. The two men embraced. Theirs was a close family, but Timmy hadnt seen his big brother, Commander Robert Jefferson Jackson, USN, in almost a year. Robbys mother had died years before. Only thirty-nine, shed complained of a headache, decided to lie down for a few minutes, and never stirred again, the victim of a massive stroke. It had later been determined that she was an undiagnosed hypertensive, one of many American blacks cursed by the symptomless malady. Her husband, the Reverend Hosiah Jackson, mourned her loss along with the community in which both had raised their family. But pious man that Reverend Jackson was, he was also a father whose children needed a mother. Four years later hed remarried, to a twenty-three-year-old parishioner, and started afresh. Timothy was the first child of his second union. His fourth son had followed a path similar to the firsts. An Annapolis graduate, Robby Jackson flew fighter aircraft for the Navy. Timmy had won an appointment at West Point, and looked forward to a career in the infantry. Another brother was a physician, and the fourth was a lawyer with political ambitions. Times had changed in Mississippi.

It would have been hard for an observer to determine which brother was prouder of the other. Robby, with three gold stripes on his shoulder boards, bore on his breast pocket the gold star that denoted a former command at seain his case, VF-41, a squadron of F-14 Tomcat fighters. Now working in the Pentagon, Robby was on his way to command of a Carrier Air Wing, and after that perhaps his own carrier. Timothy, on the other hand, had been the family runt for quite a few years, but West Point had changed that with a vengeance. He had two solid inches on his older brother, and at least fifteen more pounds of muscle. There was a Ranger flash on his shoulder above the hourglass insignia of his division. Another boy had been turned into a man, the old-fashioned way.

Lookin good, boy, Robby observed. How bout a drink?

Not too many, Ive been up for a while.

Long day?

Long week, as a matter of fact, Tim replied, but I did get a nap yesterday.

Nice ofem, the elder Jackson observed with some fraternal concern.

Hey, if I wanted an easy life, I woulda joined the Navy. The brothers had a good laugh on the way to the bar. Robby ordered John Jameson, a taste introduced to him by a friend. Tim settled for a beer. Conversation over dinner, of course, began with catching up on family matters, then turned to shop talk.

Not real different from what you do, Timmy explained. You try to get in close and smoke a guy with a missile before he knows youre there. We try to get in close and shoot him in the head before he knows where we are. You know about that, dont you, big brother? Timmy asked with a smile that was touched with envy. Robby had been there once.

Once was enough, Robby answered soberly. I leave that close-quarter crap to idiots like you.

Yeah, well, last night we were the forward element for the battalion. My lead squad went in beautiful. The OPFORexcuse me, Opposing Forcewas a bunch from the California Guard, mainly tanks. They got careless about how they set up, and Sergeant Chavez was inside the laager before they knew about it. You oughta see this guy operate. I swear, Rob, hes nearly invisible when he wants to be. Its going to be a bitch to replace him.

Huh?

Just transferred out this afternoon. I was going to lose him in a couple weeks anyway, but they lifted him early to go to Fort Benning. Whole bunch of good sergeants moved out today. Tim paused for a moment. All Spanish ones. Coincidence. Another pause. Thats funny, wasnt Len supposed to go to Fort Benning, too?

Whos Len?

Sergeant E-6. He was in Ben Tuckers platoonBen and I played ball together at the Point. Yeah, he was supposed to be going to Ranger School as an instructor in a couple of weeks. I wonder why him and Chavez left together? Ah, well, thats the Army for you. So how do you like the Pentagon?

Could be worse, Robby allowed. Twenty-five more months, and thank God Almighty, Ill be free at last. Im in the running for a CAG slot, the elder brother explained. He was at the career stage where things got really sticky. There were more good men than jobs to be filled. As with combat operations, one of the determining factors now was pure luck. Timmy, he saw, didnt know about that yet.

The jet landed after a flight of just under three hours. Once on the ground it taxied to the cargo terminal at the small airport. Chavez didnt know which one. He awoke still short of the sleep he needed when the planes door was wrenched open. His first impression was that there wasnt much air here. It seemed an odd observation to make, and he wrote it off to the usual confusion following a nap.

Where the hell are we? another sergeant asked.

Theyll tell you outside, the attendant replied. Yall have a nice time here. The smile that accompanied the answer was too charming to merit a further challenge.

The sergeants collected their bags and shuffled out of the aircraft, finding yet another van waiting for them. Chavez got his question answered before he boarded it. The air was very thin here, all right, and in the west he saw why. The last glow of sunset illuminated the jagged outline of mountains to the west. Easterly course, three hours flight time, and mountains: he knew at once they were somewhere in the Rockies, even though hed never really been there. His last view of the aircraft as the van rolled off showed a fueling truck moving toward it. Chavez didnt quite put it together. The aircraft would be leaving in less than thirty minutes. Few people would have noticed that it had even been there, much less trouble themselves to wonder why.

Clarks hotel room was a nice one, befitting his cover. There was an ache at the back of his head to remind him that he was still not fully adjusted to the altitude, but a couple of Tylenol caplets went to work on that, and he knew that his job didnt involve much in the way of physical activity. He ordered breakfast sent up and went through some setting-up exercises to work the kinks out of his muscles. The morning jog was definitely out, however. Finished, he showered and shaved. Service was good here. Just as he got his clothes on, breakfast arrived, and by nine oclock he was ready for work. Clark took the elevator down to the lobby, then went outside. The car was waiting. He got in the front.

Buenos das, the driver said. There may be rain this afternoon.

If so, I have my coat.

A cold rain, perhaps.

The coat has a liner, Clark said, finishing the code sequence.

Whoever thought that one up was bright enough, the man said. There is rain in the forecast. The names Larson.

Clark. They didnt shake hands. It just wasnt done. Larson, which probably wasnt his real name either, Clark thought, was about thirty, with dark hair that belied his vaguely Nordic surname. Locally, Carlos Larson was thought to be the son of a Danish father and a Venezuelan mother, and he ran a flying school, a service much in demand. He was a skilled pilot who taught what he knew and didnt ask many questions, which appealed to his clientele. He didnt really need to ask questionspilots, especially student pilots, talk a good dealand he had a good memory for every sort of detail, plus the sort of professional expertise that invited lots of requests for advice. It was also widely believed that hed financed his business by making a few highly illegal flights, then semiretired to a life of luxury. This legend created bona fides for the people in whom he had interest, but did so without making him any sort of adversary. He was a man whod done what was needed to get what he wanted, and now lived the sort of life that hed wanted to live. That explained the car, which was the most powerful BMW made, and the expensive apartment, and the mistress, a stewardess for Avianca whose real job was as a courier for CIA. Larson thought it all a dream assignment, the more so because the stewardess really was his lover, a fringe benefit that might not have amused the Agencys personnel directorate. The only thing that bothered him was that his placement in Colombia was also unknown to the station chief. A relatively inexperienced agent, LarsonClark would have been surprised to learn that that was his real nameknew enough about how the Agency worked to realize that separate command loops generally denoted some sort of special operation. His cover had been established over a period of eighteen months, during which hed been required to do not very much in return. Clarks arrival was probably the signal that all of that was about to change. Time to earn his pay.

Whats the plan of the day? Clark asked.

Do a little flying. Well be down before the weather goes bad, Larson added.

I know you have an instrument rating.

I will take that as a vote of confidence, the pilot said with a smile as he drove toward the airport. Youve been over the photos, of course.

Yeah, about three days worth. Im just old-fashioned enough that I like to eyeball things myself. Maps and photos dont tell you everything.

They told me the mission profile is just to fly around straight and level, no buzzing or circling to get people mad. The nice thing about having a flying school was that its aircraft were expected to be all over the place, but if one showed specific interest in specific people, they might take note of your registration number, and they might come down to the airport to ask why. The people who lived in Medellin were not known to ask such questions politely. Larson was not afraid of them. So long as he maintained his cover, he knew that he had little to worry about. At the same time, he was a pro, and pros are careful, especially if they want to last.

Sounds okay to me. Clark knew the same things. Hed gotten old in a dangerous business by taking only the necessary risks. Those were bad enough. It wasnt very different from playing the lottery. Even though the odds were against ones hitting the number, if you played the game long enough, the rightor wrongnumber would appear, no matter how careful you were. Except in this lottery the prize wasnt money. It was an unmarked, shallow grave, and you got that only if the opposition remembered something about religion.

He couldnt decide if he liked the mission or not. On the one hand, the objective was worthy enough. On the other . . . But Clark wasnt paid to make that sort of evaluation. He was paid to do, not to think very much about it. That was the main problem with covert operations. You had to risk your life on the judgment of others. It was nice to know why, but the decision-makers said knowing why often had the effect of making the job all the more dangerous. The field operators didnt always believe that. Clark had that problem right now.

The Twin-Beech was parked in the general-aviation section of El Dorado International Airport. It didnt require too much in the way of intelligence to make an accurate assessment of what the aircraft were used for. There were too many expensive cars, and far too many expensive aircraft to be explained by the Colombian gentry. These were toys for the newly rich. Clarks eyes swept over them, his face showing neutral interest.

Wages of sin aint bad, are they? Larson chuckled.

What about the poor bastards whore paying the wages?

I know about that, too. Im just saying that theyre nice airplanes. Those GulfstreamsIm checked out on emthats one sweet-handlin bird.

What do they cost? Clark asked.

A wise man once said, if you have to ask the price, you cant afford it.

Yeah. Clarks mouth twisted into a smile. But some things carry a price thats not measured in dollars. He was already getting into the proper frame of mind for the mission.

Larson preflighted the Beech in about fifteen minutes. Hed just flown in ninety minutes earlier, and few private pilots would have bothered to run through the whole checklist, but Larson was a good pilot, which meant he was before all things a careful one. Clark took the right-side cockpit seat, strapping in as though he were a student pilot on his first hop. Commercial traffic was light at this hour, and it was easy to taxi into the takeoff pattern. About the only surprise was the long takeoff roll.

Its the altitude, Larson explained over the intercom headset as he rotated off the runway. It makes the controls a little mushy at low speed, too. No problem. Like driving in the snowyou just have to pay attention. He moved the lever to bring the gear up, leaving the aircraft at full power to claw up to altitude as quickly as possible. Clark scanned the instruments and saw nothing obviously awry, though it did seem odd to show nine thousand feet of altitude when you could still pick out individual people on the ground.

The aircraft banked to the left, taking a northwesterly heading. Larson backed off on the throttles, commenting that you also had to pay close attention to engine temperatures here, though the cooling systems on the twin Continental engines were beefed up to allow for it. They were heading toward the countrys mountainous spine. The sky was clear and the sun was bright.

Beautiful, isnt it?

It is that, Clark agreed. The mountains were covered with emerald-green trees whose leaves shimmered with moisture from the nights rain. But Clarks trained eyes saw something else. Walking these hills would be a cast-iron bitch. About the only good thing to be said was that there was good cover under which people could conceal themselves. The combination of steep hills and thin air would make this place an arduous one. He hadnt been briefed on what exactly was going to happen, but he knew enough to be glad that the hard part of the job would not be his.

The mountain ranges in Colombia run on a southwest-to-northeast vector. Larson picked a convenient pass to fly over, but the winds off the nearby Pacific Ocean made the crossing bumpy.

Get used to it. Winds are picking up today because of the weather front thats moving in. They really boil around these hills. You ought to see what real bad weather is like.

Thanks, but no thanks! Not much in the way of places to land in case things Go bad? Larson asked. Thats why I pay attention to the checklist. Besides, there are more little strips down there than you might imagine. Of course, you dont always get a welcome when you decide to use one. Dont sweat it. I just put new engines on this bird a month ago. Sold the old ones to one of my students for his old King Air. It belongs to the Bureau of Customs now, Larson explained.

Did you have any part in that?

Negative! Look, they expect me to know why all these kids are taking lessons. Im not supposed to be dumb, right? So I also teach them standard evasion tactics. You can read them in any decent book, and they expect me to be able to do that. Pablo wasnt real big on reading. Hell of a natural pilot, though. Too bad, really, he was a nice enough kid. They bagged him with fifty keys. I understand he didnt talk much. No surprise there. Gutsy little bastard.

How well motivated are these folks? Clark had seen lots of combat once, and he knew that the measure of an enemy is not to be found by counting his weapons.

Larson frowned at the sky. Depends on what you mean. If you change the word from motivated to macho, that about covers it. You know, the cult of manliness, that sort of thing. Part of its kinda admirable. These people have a funny sense of honor. For example, the ones I know socially treat me just fine. Their hospitality is impressive, especially if you show a little deference, which everyone does. Besides, Im not a business rival. What I mean is, I know these people. Ive taught a bunch of them to fly. If I had a money problem, I could probably go to them for help and get it. Im talking like half a million in cash on a handshakeand Id walk out of the hacienda with the cash in a briefcase. Id have to make some courier flights to square things, of course. And Id never have to pay the money back. On the other hand, if I screwed them, well, theyd make damned sure that I paid for that, too. They have rules. If you live by them, youre fairly safe. If not, youd better have your bags packed.

I know about the ruthlessness. What about the brains?

Theyre as smart as they have to be. What smarts they dont have, they buy. They can buy anything, anybody. Dont underestimate them. Their security systems are state-of-the-art, like what we put on ICBM silosshit, maybe better than that. Theyre protected as tightly as we protect the President, except their shooters are less restrained by rules of engagement. I suppose the best indicator on how smart they are is the fact that theyve banded together to form the cartel. Theyre smart enough to know that gang wars cost everybody, so they formed a loose alliance. It aint perfect, but it works. People who try to break into the business mostly end up dead. Medellin is an easy town to die in.

Cops? Courts?

The locals have tried. Lots of dead cops, lots of dead judges to prove it, Larson said with a shake of the head. Takes a lot for people to keep plugging away when they cant see any results. Then toss in the money angle. How often can a man walk away from a suitcase full of tax-free hundred-dollar bills? Especially when the alternative is certain death for himself and his family. The cartel is smart, my friend, and its patient, and it has all the resources it needs, and its ruthless enough to scare a veteran Nazi. All in all, thats some enemy. Larson pointed to a gray smudge in the distance. Theres Medellin. Drugs RUs, all in that one little city in the valley. One nuke could settle things, say about two megatons, air-burst four thousand feet AGL. I wonder if the rest of the country would really mind . . . ?

That earned Larson a glance from his passenger. Larson lived here, knew a lot of these people, and even liked some, as hed just said. But his hatred for them occasionally peeked through his professional detachment. The best sort of duplicity. This kid had a real future in the Agency, Clark decided. Brains and passion both. If he knew how to maintain a proper balance of the two, he could go places. Clark reached into his bag for a camera and a pair of binoculars. His interest wasnt in the city itself.

Nice places, arent they?

The drug chieftains were growing increasingly security-conscious. The hilltops around the city were all being cleared of trees. Clark counted over a dozen new homes already. Homes, he thought with a snort. Castles was more like it. Walled fortresses. Enormous dwelling structures surrounded by low walls, surrounded in turn by hundreds of yards of clear, steep slopes. What people found picturesque about Italian villages and Bavarian castles was always the elegant setting. Always on the top of a hill or mountain. You could easily imagine the work that went into such a beautiful placeclearing the trees, hauling the stone blocks up the slopes, and ending up with a commanding view of the countryside that extended for miles. But the castles and villages hadnt been built in such places for fun, and neither had these houses. The heights meant that no one could approach them unobserved. The cleared ground around those houses was known in terse military nomenclature as a killing zone, a clear field of fire for automatic weapons. Each house had a single road up to a single gate. Each house had a helipad for a fast evacuation. The wall around each was made of stone that would stop any bullet up to fifty caliber. His binoculars showed that immediately inside each wall was a gravel or concrete path for guards to walk. A company of trained infantrymen would have no easy time assaulting one of these haciendas. Maybe a helicopter assault, supported by mortars and gunships . . . Christ, Clark thought to himself, what am I thinking about?

What about house plans?

No problem. Three architectural firms have designed these places. Security isnt all that good there. Besides, Ive been in that one for a partyjust two weeks ago, as a matter of fact. I guess thats one area theyre not too smart in. They like to show their places off. I can get you floor plans. The satellite overheads will show guard strength, vehicle garaging, all that sort of thing.

They do. Clark smiled.

Can you tell me exactly what youre here for?

Well, they want an evaluation of the physical characteristics of the terrain.

I can see that. Hell, I could do that easy enough from memory. Larsons question was not so much curiosity as his slight offense at not being asked to do this job himself.

You know how it is at Langley, was the statement Clark used to dismiss the observation.

Youre a pilot, Clark didnt say. Youve never humped a field pack in the boonies. I have. If Larson had known his background, he could have made an intelligent guess, but what Clark did for the Agency, and what hed done before joining, were not widely known. In fact, they were hardly known at all.

Need-to-know, Mr. Larson, Clark said after another moment.

Roger that, the pilot agreed over the intercom.

Lets do a photo pass.