"I don't know. We'll probably never know now," Eileen said, and started turning the pages of the bankbook. There was something written on the back page.

"Phone numbers," Rosen said in a strangled yelp. "Look."

Eileen looked at the first phone number. She knew the number. She felt a burst of savage excitement, and Rosen saw the look in her face. His face flushed a dusky red color.

"Whose is it? You know?"

"I know," Eileen said in satisfaction, and punched Dave Rosen on the thick part of the arm. "Feels good, doesn't it? We've got the b.a.s.t.a.r.d now."

"Who?"

"It's Major Blaine."

Central Intelligence Agency, Langley, Virginia.

Lucy's screen was full of windows, but her mind refused to process any of the information. She was exhausted. Lieutenant Jefferson and four other officers had grilled her all morning in the stuffy room at the Pentagon. Mills, wisely, said little. He sat next to her on the hard folding chair and nodded sagely at all the right places. Lucy talked until she was hoa.r.s.e, then talked some more. She shared her donuts, which had suddenly lost their taste. She longed for some more beef jerky, the greasy teriyaki kind.

Jefferson gave a little information away. Yes, there had been a takeover of a Russian missile silo. And yes, since Lucy seemed to know about it before it happened, it was in Uzbekistan. Even though Uzbekistan was now technically a separate country, the silos were still considered Russian territory, with the cooperation of the Uzbekistani government. Jefferson refused to discuss anything else.

Lucy did her best. She believed Jefferson was a listener. He was a smart man. The other officers might be of the same mettle, but it was Jefferson she spoke to. And, through Jefferson, Admiral Kane.

"Look, I know how this sounds," she had said. "You don't want to wade through Muallah's master's thesis. But if you did, you'd understand this guy really believes he is the One of the Prophecies. He believes he will blow this "Trumpet of Doom' and unite the Arab countries into a new empire. What else could his trumpet of doom be but a nuclear bomb?"

"Saddam Hussein will eat him for breakfast if he tries a stunt like that," one of the unnamed officers said. He was a Marine, with cold eyes. Lucy didn't have to stretch to figure this guy was a veteran of the Gulf War. Mills made a little wiggling gesture in his chair, as though to apologize for her. She could have killed him then.

"I didn't say it was a good plan," Lucy said patiently. "The man is a freak. He killed a girl in Paris right after he killed Tabor. He-" Here Lucy stopped. She realized she was about to make a horrible blunder. Charles D'Arnot understood about Sufi. But he was French. These men, American military men, were not going to understand the monstrous ego behind the murder of Sufi. She was not going to score points by trying to explain.

"He's a murderer, a casual one," she finished lamely. "He kills for fun. He's going to launch that missile."

"There is no way a terrorist is going to launch a nuclear missile to unite the Arab countries," the Marine said dismissively. "The Arab countries wouldn't unite even if he single-handedly destroyed Israel on live television. No, he probably wants money. Or the release of a few of his buddies from Israeli prison."

"I didn't say it was a good plan," Lucy said again, feeling hopeless. Jefferson nodded sympathetically at her. There were a few more questions, but the session was over. She felt she had failed.

The phone rang. Lucy started, and realized she had a half-chewed piece of teriyaki jerky in one hand. Pregnancy really sucked. This whole day sucked, and it was only noon.

"h.e.l.lo, Giometti here," she said.

"Lucy! What's up? Got something for me on the Tabor case?" The voice was cheerful Californian surfer boy. Fred Nguyen.

"Fred!" she said happily. She couldn't be depressed with Fred on the line. He positively crackled with energy. "I do, actually. But I'm muzzled right now until things settle out."

"b.u.mmer," Fred said. "You're gonna let me know when everything's over, right?"

"I will," Lucy said firmly. She was of the younger generation at the CIA, and didn't buy into the old rivalry between the services. Nguyen was of her generation as well, and he laughed.

"Good," he said. "That Tabor case was a real wreck for my boss. I guess they'd been closing in on this dude for a while. Me, I just keep thinking about that poor d.a.m.n dog he left behind. I wish he'd given her the cyanide pills, for sure."

"Why?" Lucy asked.

"Oh, come on. You think anyone's going to adopt her? She's a full-grown dog. She'll live for another day or so and then they'll put her to sleep. d.a.m.n spy couldn't even kill his own dog. I guess I can understand, but it p.i.s.ses me off."

"Poor thing," Lucy said.

"Yeah. I'd adopt her myself, but my youngest has asthma. Can't have a dog. So, hey, keep in touch."

"You betcha," Lucy said, and rang off. She felt better after talking to Fred, even if no one else believed her. She bit off another hunk of jerky.

Steven Mills walked in. His thinning blond hair was askew and his pale eyes were bloodshot. He had the beginnings of sweat dampening his forehead, but a small smile sat on his lips, an odd, satisfied kind of smile. Lucy didn't like his smile at all.

"Giometti, we have a problem," he said without preamble. "Stillwell is stuck in some backwoods Oklahoma airport and won't make it in before midnight at the earliest. You need to get out there today and do some damage control."

Lucy nearly choked on her jerky. She chewed hard, and swallowed.

"Are you kidding? With Muallah in the missile silo? You're sending me to Colorado?"

Mills looked at her without expression. "Why, yes," he said. "We need you out there to help with the cover-up."

Lucy felt a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach. She was being put Outside. Put out of the way.

"What about Jefferson?" she choked. "He probably wants to talk to me-"

"Nope, the Pentagon is done with your a.n.a.lysis," Mills said smugly. "You aren't needed on that effort any longer. I called Lieutenant Jefferson on that issue and he agreed that you could be sent to Colorado."

Lucy sat for a moment, then swallowed hard.

"Well, sure, Steve," she said mildly. This took enough effort that she could feel tiny sweat beads in her hairline. "You get Travel to set up the airline tickets, and I'll call Ted."

"I really appreciate it," he said. "What shall you go as? Air Force?"

"How about DIA?"

"Great idea," he said, and left the office.

Lucy leaned over her desk, eyes closed, feeling betrayed. How could Jefferson do that to her? Then she raised her head and blinked hard.

"Oh my G.o.d," she said suddenly, alone in her office. What would be the most likely target of a missile aimed at the United States? Why, Washington, D.C., of course. Washington, D.C., was always the first ground zero, the first target. Jefferson believed her. He was trying to get her out of harm's way. Lucy grinned. d.a.m.n chauvinist. What a wonderful man. Lucy picked up the phone and dialed quickly.

"Ted," she said. "I'm being sent out of town. Colorado. Do you think you could take a plane to your sister's place in Florida for a few days?"

31.

Colorado Springs.

"So you want to bring him in?" Harben sat behind his perfect desk, his fingers folded neatly in front of him. His tie was narrow and black and his dark brown hair was combed. He looked back and forth from Eileen to Dave Rosen.

"Look, he's got to be the one," Eileen said. "He's her contact to get information out. He's the one who delivers the money to her. We found three numbers in that bankbook. Two of them are disconnected."

"They've been disconnected for two days," Rosen said. "I checked with the phone company. The services were canceled the day Guzman was murdered."

"The foreign spies," Harben said.

"Yes," Eileen said. "There isn't a single thing she could do that would be worth fourteen thousand a pop except for drugs or espionage."

"How about drugs, then?"

"The only indication we have as far as drugs go is Blame's apparent marijuana use the night Art Bailey was killed," Rosen said crisply.

"I missed that," Harben said. "Eileen?"

"Maybe he was a little stoned the night Art was killed," Eileen said reluctantly. "I put it in my report. Maybe it was dope. Maybe it was because he'd just murdered Art and it wasn't as well planned out as Terry."

"Maybe he has a drug habit," Harben said. "But that doesn't matter, because espionage takes this case right out of our hands. You know that, don't you?" He addressed his remarks to both of the detectives. Rosen's lanky frame was slumped in the chair in front of him. Eileen sat forward in hers, forearms on her knees, her head propped in her hands.

"I know," Eileen said glumly.

"We could haul him in and have a few hours to interrogate him," Rosen said. "Just by arresting him we could make him talk, maybe."

"Maybe so," Harben said. "But we won't. The Air Force OSI officer called me this morning. He'll be arriving this evening and he'll take the whole case out of our hands. We turn our doc.u.ments over to him and it's his ball game."

Eileen stared at the floor.

"It all fits," Rosen pleaded. "Blaine was there. He's got a motive. He's our man."

"He'll be the FBI's man, if he's anybody's," Harben said. "This is a federal case." Eileen looked up at Harben. Her captain was staring at her, and as always there was no emotion in his face.

"Eileen, you've done a fine job here," Harben said. "And so have you, Dave. I'm sorry you can't close this case. I want you to wrap up the doc.u.ments and get them printed for the OSI officer."

"I'd like to talk to Lowell Guzman one more time," Eileen said in desperation. "Maybe he knows something about Terry's dealings with Major Blaine. I won't blow the case, I swear. I just have to wrap up the last loose ends."

Harben opened his mouth, then hesitated.

"Lowell might be in danger from Blaine, actually," Rosen said, and Eileen and Harben turned to look at him. "Wouldn't Blaine want to make sure Terry didn't have anything that pointed a finger at him? I wonder why he didn't search Lowell's house already."

"Maybe he hasn't gotten around to it," Eileen said.

Harben leaned back in his chair. It didn't squeak. Nothing was ever out of place around Harben.

"Please," Eileen said. "Don't let it just end like this. We can wrap it all the way up and they can just-tie the bow on the thing. I don't want to let them stuff this case in a drawer somewhere, or screw it up. Please let me-I mean, us-finish this."

There was silence.

"Go check on Lowell, Eileen," Harben said. "You could suggest he spend the night at a hotel until the OSI has Blaine in custody."

"I can't believe we can't arrest him right now-" Rosen started, and Harben waved him down.

"I won't allow that. They might want to let him run, to see if he reveals anyone else. We don't deal with espionage. But I have," Harben added dryly, "read up on it. Check on Lowell Guzman."

"I'm on my way," Eileen said.

Turtkul, Uzbekistan.

"I am Fouad Muallah," Muallah said proudly. Behind him, Ruadh had finished his research and was now examining the launch control panels. The microphone in front of Muallah smelled faintly of garlic.

"What are your intentions, Mr. Muallah?" the voice asked respectfully. The speaker was Russian but spoke a pa.s.sable Arabic. They knew who he was, then.

"Let my intentions be known to the world," Muallah said grandly. "Let the name of Fouad Muallah be repeated around the world, as the One of the Prophecies. Allah has sent us here today to complete a holy mission-a jitan. This you shall know. Let all know my name."

With that, Muallah gestured to Ruadh, who obediently left off his examination of the launch panel. Ruadh turned off the radio and returned without a word to the panel.

"When?" Muallah asked tensely. This was taking longer than he expected.

"Very soon, Mahdi," Ruadh said serenely. "Very soon."

Moscow, Russian Republic.

"What the h.e.l.l does that mean?" Major Paxton said in bewilderment. Lucy Giometti could have told him, but Lucy was boarding a United Airlines flight for Colorado Springs. Major Sergei Kalashnikov didn't like the sound of Muallah. He didn't like his tone, and he didn't like what the man said, once it was translated from Arabic by the sergeant who spoke the language.

"I don't like the sound of this," Major General Cherepovitch said.

"I have been instructed to offer you American Stealth bombers," Major Paxton said unexpectedly. Cherepovitch and Kalashnikov turned to the Major, who was not looking much like the master of anything at the moment. His hair looked sweaty and rumpled.

"We can blow the covers off the silos and drop bombs down the tubes in two bomber waves, guaranteed," the Major said reluctantly. His face was definitely flushed. He was not a happy-looking man.

"That will kill the Russian women and children in silo number six, won't it?" Kalashnikov said softly. The Major's flush deepened. He knew that.