"Yes."

"Let's hear it," said Calibrisi.

"I scanned Agency logs, archives, directories, stuff that was deleted, you name it. I found a blocked archive. Even with top secret access I wasn't able to open it. Anyway, I figured out a way around it, of course. It's a bunch of projects that were apparently the sort of projects you didn't want anyone to know about."

"What does it have to do with Cloud?"

"Something happened in 1986. Something involving a Russian nuclear scientist named Anuslav Vargarin. It was a project. They called it 'Double Play.' The Agency was recruiting Vargarin. He was supposed to defect and work out of Los Alamos."

"What happened?"

"I don't know. They destroyed everything else."

Calibrisi took a sip from his coffee cup, thinking.

"There are plenty of Vargarins. How do you know he's related?"

"He had a son named Pyotr."

Calibrisi-momentarily taken aback-dropped the cup. It hit the floor and tumbled.

"Are you kidding?" he asked.

"I'm dead serious."

"Show me the scan."

Igor pointed at his screen, which Calibrisi quickly read. The file-what remained of it-was only a few words.

PROJECT 818:.

DOUBLE PLAY.

01/82-07/86 Recruitment of Vargarin, Anuslav, wife Sylvie, son Pyotr "We need to know what happened," Calibrisi said. "You need to find that case and decrypt it."

"The data's gone, Hector. Poof. Doesn't exist. What you're looking at is some sort of catalog key. They got rid of it, perhaps because it's so old."

"They didn't get rid of it," said Calibrisi. "I know where it is."

Calibrisi looked at Katie and Tacoma.

"You two, you're coming with me," he said.

71.

GEORGES BANK.

ATLANTIC OCEAN.

80 MILES EAST OF PRINCE EDWARD ISLAND, CANADA.

As dawn broke over the horizon, Faqir was already in the galley, making breakfast for the crew. It wasn't fancy. He brewed a pot of coffee, then cooked oatmeal, which he ladled into six bowls and sprinkled with brown sugar.

At seven, he woke the men.

He left Poldark in his bed. The old professor was now too weak to get up. The night before, when he heard two of the Chechens debating how long it would take for Poldark to die, Faqir had slapped each man viciously across the face, telling them to keep their mouths shut.

Now, even he was beginning to feel the radiation sickness. Though he'd yet to vomit, the nausea had arrived in the middle of the night and hadn't left. Faqir planned to make breakfast just once on the trip, on this day, a critical day, and now he realized it would probably be a waste. If the others felt anything like he did, they would have no appetite.

When they gathered around the galley table, only one man wanted oatmeal. The others weren't hungry.

Faqir spoke in Chechen.

"I want every man ready," he said. "That means weapons in hand, loaded. You wait belowdecks. When the boat arrives, you know what to do. Watch your field of fire."

"How long until it happens?" asked one of the men.

"Who knows?" answered Faqir. "Could be soon. Could be all day."

One of the Chechens leaned forward, then placed his head on the table. He groaned.

"What the fuck?" shouted another man.

Suddenly, the man began to throw up, coughing white, thick liquid out in an acrid, chunky splash across the table.

One of the others stood to run.

"Don't move," snapped Faqir, "until I tell you you can move. Do you understand?"

"But he just-"

"Don't talk back either!" yelled Faqir, voice rising in anger. "Shut the fuck up and do your job."

Faqir stepped to the sick man, grabbed his hair, and jerked him up.

"You too," Faqir said, his teeth visible as a look of anger crossed his face. "We all feel sick. Either toughen up, or get off the fucking boat."

"What about the old fuck downstairs?" complained one of the others. "Why isn't he here?"

Faqir's eyes moved slowly, deliberately, and hatefully to the young Chechen who'd just asked the question.

"That old man is the only reason any of us are here," said Faqir.

He paused, then looked at all of the men.

"We're about to make history on behalf of Allah," said Faqir. "We will kill as many people as one hundred nine/elevens. You will all be famous. Each one of your names will be known around the world. Your actions today will be studied, hated, and reviled by the West. But they will know you. And where it matters most, you will be loved and honored, forever, by those who matter. Allah will greet you at the fourth gate."

Faqir paused and stepped toward the man who'd mouthed off. He leaned toward him, an intense look, a savage expression on his face as he stared into the young man's black eyes.

"Without the work of that old man, you would be nothing. You would do nothing. If any of you say even one word more of disrespect for him, the next thing you'll know is the feeling of a bullet striking you in the head. Is that understood?"

"Yes," said the young Chechen, bowing his head. "I'm very sorry."

Faqir nodded, acknowledging-just barely-the apology.

"Now we begin," he said calmly. He nodded toward the door. "Belowdecks. And remember, watch your field of fire."

Back in the wheelhouse, Faqir moved the radio frequency to channel 16, reserved for marine distress calls. He picked up the mike.

"Mayday," said Faqir. "Mayday. Is there anyone who can hear me?"

Over the next two hours, every minute or so, Faqir repeated the call for help. Finally, a faint, scratchy voice came over the radio.

"Roger on that mayday. Over. This is the Dogfish. I hear you. What's the situation?"

"This is the Lonely Fisherman," said Faqir. "We have a priority problem. We are in need of urgent assistance. Over."

"What's the problem, Captain?"

"We have fuel, but the pump is not transferring. We need a pump."

"Where are you?"

"East of Newfoundland," said Faqir. "Near the Flemish Cap."

He gave the captain of the Dogfish his coordinates.

"Let me see what I can do," said the captain. "We're at the beginning of our trip and we'll be heading a little south of you. Let me see if we can we spare a pump. Switch to forty-one."

Fifteen minutes later, the captain of the Dogfish came on channel 41.

"Fisherman, you there? This is the Dogfish. Over."

"We're here, Captain."

"We have a pump we can spare. I expect to be compensated for it."

72.

ELEKTROSTAL.

Cloud watched the news reports on his computer, volume turned down. The plane had crashed near the airport, in a town called Tolstopaltsevo. The scene was pandemonium.

A low beeping noise sounded from Sascha's computer. Cloud looked up. Sascha was waving him over.

"There's something happening," he said.

"Move over."

Cloud took over the keyboard, sitting down in the seat, quickly scanning the screen. It showed signals intelligence activity over the past day originating at the CIA. The activity had virtually ceased the evening before, then started back up.

The analysis was displayed as a long list. These were precise nodes of activity, fed back to them via the virus infecting Langley. Next to each entry, electronic activity was represented by percentages, over time.

It was clear that Langley had shut down everything following the failed attempt to extract him. That was expected. What he hadn't expected was the resumption of activity. It could mean only one thing: they were hunting for him. Langley would attempt to find him in the same way he'd found them, via the Internet.

Cloud's entire network was protected by several levels of state-of-the-art encryption. The only way to find him was for someone to find the encryption key, then break it. Breaking the key itself would require months. More important, someone would first have to find an instance of the algorithm itself just to have a chance to break it. As of now, Langley was clueless.

Yet, theoretically, it was possible for them to use the trapdoor to find the encryption layer. It didn't mean they could get through it, but even giving Langley that glimpse of his line of defense made Cloud nervous.

He sat back, crossed his arms, and shut his eyes. After a few moments, he opened them. He leaned forward and started typing.

"Go to access four," Cloud said without looking up.

"And do what?" asked Sascha.

"Destroy it."

"If I do that, the trapdoor will be gone," protested Sascha.

"If they find access four, they will be able to find us. Shut it down immediately."

73.

BANCHOR COTTAGE.

SCOTLAND.

Chalmers stepped through the back door of Banchor Cottage, then down a flight of stairs that led to a locked door. He inserted a key and pushed into the windowless basement.