The Belgian sat regarding the other man without speaking for several moments. He said, "It is important that we understand each other."

"There's no misunderstanding on my part," Rivera assured him. "I sincerely hope there's none upon yours."

"There won't be, from now on," the Belgian said.

The encounter concluded, Belac's departure duly noted by the CIA surveillance team, witli Rivera firmly believing himself to be the victor.

Which he had been, far more than he knew.

Belac had done nothing about obtaining the American-manufactured, American-equipped computer system listed among the top ten items barred from export to any communist country.

Belatedly Belac approached a hi-tech consultant in California through whom he had previously dealt-always by telephone or letter-for technical advice upon such things. And upon the consultant's advice Belac finally did approach Sweden. The company was named Epetric, was headquartered in the very heart of Stockholm, and was regarded as the most amenable to rule bending as well as one of the best hi-tech corporations in the country.

Precisely because it was such a state-of-the-art organization as well as being so amenable to rule bending, Epetric was prominent on the list of suspected technological infringers not just in the CIA but in the U.S. Customs Service as well. The combined pressure of both agencies resulted in Washington warning Stockholm that unless they did more to control the technology flood. Swedish industries, and particularly companies like Epetric, would be denied by federal legislation the legal American computer exports upon which the industry, worldwide, depended.

Stockholm resented the threat but could not deny the hemorrhage, and the cabinet decided that the country had to show itself a less open technological doorway.

Nine months before Belac approached Epetric-months, in fact, before there had ever been contact between the Belgian and Jose Gaviria Rivera-Swedish customs investigators had succeeded in suborning an informant within the contracts and finance department of the Epetric company.

His name was Lars Henstrom.

Paul Rodgers felt life was sweet; sweet as a little nut. Sweeter in fact. What was sweeter than a little nut? Angie maybe. She sure as hell was sweet; tits she had-no silicone, either-made those bimbos in the skin mags look like grandmothers or bag ladies. And not just the tits. Rodgers, who'd bucked a few in his time flying in Nam and then for Florida, before it went bust, reckoned there hadn't been a trick invented in the sack that Angie didn't know; guessed she might have invented a few of them.

And not just the joy of Angie, since he'd wised up. There was the paid-for-cash condo in Naples, as an investment, and the paid-for-cash beach house where they lived at Fort Lauderdale, and the paid-for-cash Jaguar XK6, the latest convertible model, and those discreet safe-deposit boxes in Miami and Tampa and Dallas and New York, everything nicely spread around, solid as those unquestioning banks. Yes sir, life was sweet; sweet as a little ...

Rodgers didn't bother to finish the thought, frowning at the cumulus buildup ahead, a boiling, churning foam of blackened cloud already split apart by lightning. The forecast-the best he could get, that was, before lifting off from the dirt strip outside Cartagena-had warned of occasional seasonal turbulence. Sure as fuck this wasn't occasional seasonal turbulence. This was a full-blown storm, the kind that every so often strutted the Caribbean, blowing down the tarp shacks and uprooting a tree here and there and giving those vacationing jerks paying $300 a day the hurricane story of a lifetime when they got back to Des Moines or Billings. Except that it wasn't a hurricane. Just an awkward fucking storm just when he didn't want one, right in the way of where he wanted to go.

"Shit!" Rodgers said with feeling. Briefly-but only briefly-life wasn't quite so sweet anymore.

The wise money said to fly around it. The engines of the DC3 were already chattering like they had teeth and twice he'd thought they were going to cut out altogether. Rodgers bet the entire fucking aircraft was held together with no more than string, spit, and chewing gum.

If he went head-on into what was up ahead, he was going to end up in the matchstick-making business and that wasn't the business he was interested in building into a career. Which course, then? Wise money again said even more abruptly to go eastwards, over Haiti, and hope he could get around the blockage and still cut westward to come down on the Matanzas airstrip.

Except the bastard Colombians had short-changed him on the fuel, knowing the gauge was faulty and that he couldn't really challenge them. It was fucking amazing: every run worth a minimum of $50 million, and they had to cheat on nickels and dimes.

Westward then? Less chance of being driven out into die Atlantic, with nothing between him, paella, and die bullfights of Spain but three thousand miles of empty ocean. But the Americans were shit-hot around the Gulf: not just radar on the ground but AWACs planes in me air and spot-the-druggie training forming a permanent part of all air-force and naval exercises.

The DC3 began to buck and shudder, the stick sluggish in his hands and me rudder bar spongy underfoot. Decision time. Rodgers turned west; there might be a lot of guys in white hats, but this way there was also Mexico, and if the fuel got crucial, there were more safe illicit airstrips than fleas on a brown dog.

Rodgers had always had a nasty feeling about having to ditch in the sea and get his ass wet. Besides, there was the cargo to think of: almost five hundred kilos of high-purity cocaine could be better used on dry land-even if it weren't the dry land upon which he was supposed to put down-than to clear the sinuses of the sharks and barracudas.

He still intended, if he could, to deliver in Cuba.

Rodgers kept right against the storm edge-able to see clear sunlight to his left, rain-lashed blackness to his right-riding the up and downdrafts, teeth snapping together with the suddenness of the lifts and drops. The ancient aircraft groaned and creaked in protest, those sounds overwhelmed by the crashing of the storm outside.

One of his wipers quit-fortunately not that of his immediate windshield-and then he went too close and was engulfed in the cloud, and the crack of the lightning strike was so loud it actually deafened him, making his ears ache. On the panel his instrumentation went haywire; the compass was whirling like a roulette wheel and the artificial horizon showed him falling sideways, although the altimeter had him at two thousand feet. If that were his correct height, then he'd been driven too low, Rodgers realized: dangerously too low. Not necessary to worry too much. He'd be difficult to detect, mixed up in this sort of shit.

Rodgers had the cans off his ears, held by the headpiece around his neck; through them came the occasional screech of static and in a sudden but brief moment of absolute clarity he picked up Miami airport sending out a general warning of a severe and unexpected storm in the Caribbean basin, setting out its longitude and latitude.

"Thanks a bunch, fella!" Rodgers said aloud. If anything in the goddamned airplane worked and he had any charts, he might have been able to find out how far, and how deep, he was into the storm.

The bright sunshine to port dazzled Rodgers, making him blink, and he turned out toward it, wanting to clear the cumulus and prevent the plane breaking up. The transition, from practically uncontrolled bucking to level-flying calm, was startling, and Rodgers heard his own breath go from him, unaware until that moment how tense he had been.

He watched eagerly for the instruments to settle, wanting a positive bearing, uncomfortably aware that by taking the course he had he had placed the storm-the storm that was still raging and growling to starboard-between himself and Cuba. And if it didn't dissipate, which it showed no signs of doing, he was going to put himself dangerously close to the American mainland by flying around it.

He'd fucked up, Rodgers decided. The storm was stationary, a positive barrier. If he'd gone eastward in the first place, he could have come easily up over die Grand Bahama Bank, made a perfect three-pointer at Matanzas, and by now have been drinking the first rum and lime with the $100,000 delivery fee snug in the arm-strap money wallet that now hung empty and waiting, like a shoulder holster, beneath the sweat-blackened shirt.

"Son of a bitch!" he said bitterly. And then, when he saw it, he said "Oh fuck!" even more bitterly.

The first plane was a jet, a spotter, which circled and buzzed and tried to come close for a look-see but wasn't able to because it couldn't go that slowly. Very soon the rest of the squad, the smaller propeller-driven aircraft, swept in from the north and swarmed around him like killer bees. There were three; two pulled up close, either side, and although he couldn't see, he guessed the third was above and behind, ready for any unexpected avoidance routine. The two alongside had U.S. Customs markings, as well as their government insignia. At an obvious signal each plane gave the wing-wobble follow-us instruction, and just in case he'd misunderstood, the pilot to starboard mimed the hand gesture.

"Fuck you," said Rodgers. hoping the man had understood what he'd said. To himself, looking away, he said. "Sorry guys. What I ain't got, you can't find." It seemed a criminal waste, dumping nearly half a ton of coke into the sea.

Rodgers put the controls into auto and groped his way toward the rear of the aircraft. The drug occupied very little of the cargo space, all easily accommodated near the port door. Such a waste, he thought again. He tugged at the handle. The bar was unlocked but it didn't budge. He yanked again, feeling the sweat break out on his forehead, looking around for something solid with which he could smash at it. There wasn't anything. It was only the fact that he was holding on to the handle, making another attempt to open it, that saved Rodgers from being hurled the complete length of the aircraft. It suddenly went nose-up, when the auto pilot slipped out, then began pitching downward. Rodgers let go, allowing the angle of the plunging aircraft to slide him back to the cockpit, snatching out for the controls to pull it back level. The sea was so close he could see the silver glint of the sun on the wave tops and make out a startled couple in a yellow and blue cruiser. Momentarily he was alone and then the escorts were alongside again; they would have thought he was trying to evade them, Rodgers realized. He put the auto on again, waiting, and at once it disengaged. He tried again. It disengaged again. It was a pretty simple choice, Rodgers recognized: death-injury at least-or discovery. From either side there was another wing wiggle and a hand gesture and this time Rodgers raised his hand in acknowledgment.

They put down in Tampa. By the time they landed the radio-alerted Customs had the airfield prepared, civilian as well as official vehicles blocking him the moment he stopped.

Rodgers sat where he was after turning off the systems; they had to hammer, too, to get through the jammed door. A stream of investigators came into the aircraft, some immediately coming up to the flight deck, others staying around the cargo.

"Well lookee here!" said one, in a thick, southern accent. "Why didn't you dump it, you stupid bastard!"

Rodgers sought out the man who looked to be in charge. "I think we've got things to talk about," he said.

EIGHT.

IT WASN'T getting any better; worse, in fact. O'Farrell knew that he was still outwardly holding himself together-almost literally-and that no one, not even Jill, had guessed how his nerves were tightening up, but inwardly that was just how he did feel, stretched tight as if he were being gradually pulled apart on some medieval rack.

O'Farrell would definitely have gone to Petty and ended it, but for how things were going at home. That was worse, too. Not actually worse-it seemed important, as strained as he felt, to get the words accurate-but not as good as he would have liked. During a second visit to Chicago, Ellen admitted that she hadn't gone to an attorney yet and there had been a shouted argument in front of Billy, which had been a mistake. They'd all ended up in tears, only O'Farrell staying dry-eyed, and that with difficulty. And then John had flunked a course in Phoenix. It was not an outright disaster, just a setback that was going to mean maybe an extra nine months before he graduated. And nine months was a rather apposite period, because in his last letter his son had announced that Beth was pregnant and they were all very happy about it. So were Jill and O'Farrell, although they realized it meant Beth was going to have to quit her job selling advertising space in the local Scottsdale newspaper, which had provided most of their income, apart from what O'Farrell sent and had intended to reduce.

It would not have been so difficult if O'Farrell hadn't years before gone in for the sort of insurance he had, guaranteeing a tremendous death benefit but with matchingly high payments he was locked into, without any possibility of renegotiating. At the time he'd felt-he still felt-that it was the responsible thing to do to protect the unknowing Jill and the kids if anything did happen to him on an assignment, but in the changed circumstances it monthly absorbed more of his available cash than was convenient. And then there was the heavy mortgage on the Alexandria house. So there were nights in the den now when O'Farrell hunched over rows of figures, not his ancestor's archive, working out how much he could afford to send to Arizona, on top of the allowance for Ellen, when Beth did have to stop work. He discussed it with Jill, of course, because they discussed every domestic situation together, and decided that the best they could manage for Phoenix was $300 a month; John had a part-time job in a garage anyway and they both agreed, without much discussion, that Ellen's needs were greater. O'Farrell had been relieved, during the last telephone call two days ago, to hear that Ellen had at last gone to her attorney and that the lawyer had already written to Patrick. And even more relieved to hear that three pushers had been rounded up near Billy's school without others appearing to have taken their place and that the feeling was that there had been an overreaction to the drug scare in the first place. O'Farrell hoped it were true.

The Wichita addition to his archives provided a welcome respite. The material came a month after the initial letter from the historical society and built up an appreciable amount about his great-grandfather's early life. It stopped short of answering one of O'Farrell's major questions-whether the man had been an immigrant or whether there had been an American O'Farrell before him-but it put him at eighteen on a westbound wagon trek and recorded his swearing in at Wichita as a sheriff's deputy. Earlier than I started, reflected O'Farrell, the second martini already half-drunk and dinner still an hour away; years earlier in fact. But the ruling (by whom? O'Farrell wondered) decreed that a person had to attain a reasoning and balanced maturity before being inducted into the specialized section of the CIA to which O'Farrell was attached.

He finished the martini and topped up his glass with the overflow that seemed invariable these evenings, pleased that it practically filled his glass for a third time. The assessment wouldn't be a problem, he was sure; he'd get through it, like he'd gotten through all the others. And not just the sessions with Symmons-any psychologist. Since his last, successful, encounter with the man, there had been range practice-not just fixed but moving targets-and his score had only been a point below his usual average. so the twitch in his hands wasn't a problem in an important situation. And he'd isolated and evaded the watchers on each of the mandatory surveillance exercises and that wasn't easy because shitty-shift penalties were imposed upon the tracking professionals if they failed. So he was still as good as ever. Almost. Just a bit under par, that's all; distracted by the children's difficulties.

Wrong, though, to let it all get to him like it had. So okay, they weren't having an easy time-Ellen more than John-but objectively (always be calm and objective) they were a damned sight better off (and certainly better protected) than a lot of others their age. Had that been when it started, this uncertainty of his, around the time of Ellen's problems? Near enough, O'Farrell thought; within days at least. Christ, these martinis were good! O'Farrell decided he could win drink-making contests with them. He studied the glass seriously, extended before him. Not a difficulty, he told himself. He'd increased from one to two-and sometimes a half more, so what!-a night but that was still a very moderate intake and it didn't affect him at all. Still steady as a rock. Almost. Hadn't he thought that word before? Not important. What was important was that he didn't need it. That afternoon on the way back from Chevy Chase had been the last time he'd taken a drink before getting home and after that he'd set himself the test and passed, because he didn't think of booze or need it during the day. Didn't need it now; just a way of relaxing while Jill fixed the meal and he looked over the cuttings.

He hadn't done anything about getting them copied, he realized. Or preserving the photograph upstairs. He really had to do that. Maybe he'd take the whole lot into Washington the following day and get it done, there and then. Then again, maybe he should wait and ask around; he couldn't risk the slightest damage. Who could he ask? Someone in one of the libraries or archives, he supposed; Washington was knee-deep in records so it shouldn't be difficult. He seemed to remember that the Library of Congress had a photographic section, too, so he could ask there about the fading print. He'd definitely do it the very next day. Not a lot of work on, after all. He was up to date with the accounts and Petty hadn't-O'Farrell determinedly stopped the direction, unwilling to consider Petty and what a summons from the man would mean. Perhaps there wouldn't be one anymore, he thought, the perpetual hope. With it came the other hope to which the first was always linked. There were others in the department after all-although he had no idea of their identities, of course, any more than they had of his-so it was not automatic he would be the one chosen.

With the third martini almost exhausted (no, he wouldn't make anymore: that would be ridiculous) O'Farrell hunched over his glass, forcing the examination upon himself. Why? Why was he feeling like this, nervous like this, flaky like this! It couldn't be any moral uncertainty. Every sentence he had carried out had been one hundred and one percent justified, absolutely, unquestionably, and unequivocably; all the evidence examined and checked, all the benefits and doubts allowed in the defendants' favor. Proven guilty beyond doubt or appeal. Why then! Age; some midlife hormonal imbalance? Preposterous! What did age have to do with anything! The three-monthly physical examinations would have picked up any bodily fluctuations. And mentally he'd been trained far beyond this sort of infantile self-questioning. What about fear? The word presented itself in his mind, like an unwelcome guest whose shadow he had already picked out beyond a door but hoped would not intrude. Fear of what then? The roles being reversed? Had he become frightened of the tables being turned, of there one day being a mistake-the simplest, easiest error-and of himself becoming the victim, the hunted, rather than always the victor, the hunter?

Had that been how his great-grandfather felt when he retired? But at sixty, O'Farrell remembered, not forty-six. He shuddered the question away, not able to answer it anyway. There was something he could answer, positively resolve. Now that he'd let the unwelcome shadow take a form-present itself-O'Farrell was sure he could defeat it. As long as he didn't make a mistake-and wasn't that the thrust of all the training and retraining and exercises?-he didn't run the risk of becoming a victim. There was a slight lift of relief, but very slight, not as much as he warned. Enough, though. He'd isolated the problem, and having isolated it, he could easily defeat it. He hoped that really was his problem.

O'Farrell responded at once to his wife's call, curious when he stood to see that his glass was empty, because he couldn't remember finishing it. He carried it with him to the kitchen and smiled at Jill, who smiled back.

"I was writing to Ellen and I burned the meat loaf," she apologized.

O'Farrell became aware of the smell. "I like my meat loaf well done."

"You got it!"

The gin and vermouth were still on the counter, where he had left the bottles after making his martini. He put his empty glass beside the sink, away from them. With his back to his wife, O'Farrell said, "Would you like a drink with dinner?"

"Drink?"

"I bought some California burgundy-Napa Valley-on the way home."

"No," said Jill, very definitely.

"Then I won't, either," he said, turning and smiling at her again. Another proving test, showing (showing who?) that he didn't need it.

They sat with their heads lowered and O'Farrell gave thanks, wondering for the first time ever if there were an hypocrisy in how easy he found it to pray. Why should there be? Were more regular lawmen-FBI agents and CIA officers and sheriffs and policemen and marshals and drug enforcement agents and Customs investigators-precluded from acknowledging God because of the occasional outcome of their vocation?

"I told Ellen we'd go up next weekend," Jill announced, serving the meal. "I haven't sealed the letter, though; just in case you didn't want to."

"Is that likely?"

"I didn't want to take it for granted."

"I love you," O'Farrell blurted. And he did. He felt a physical warmth, a surge of emotion, toward her; he could have made love to her, right there, and decided to, later.

Jill smiled across the table at him, appearing surprised. "I love you, too," she said.

"There's something I want to tell you-" O'Farrell started to say, and then jerked to a stop, horrified at how close he'd come to bringing about an absolute disaster. He'd actually set out to explain to her-the words were jumbled there, in his mind-what he truly did! The incredulous awareness momentarily robbed him of any speech, although his mind still functioned. What was the right order of words?

I think you should know, darling, that I kill people. But don't be alarmed. I am one of a select few, executioners who operate within their own concepts of legality, justified-although not officially acknowledged or recognized-by the United States of America to rid it (and the world) of men who deserve to die but are beyond the reach or jurisdiction of any normal court of justice. Think how many lives would have been saved-assassination actually saves lives, you know-if someone had removed Hitler or Stalin or Amin. I just thought you should know and the meat loaf isn't burned too badly at all!

"What?" prompted Jill.

"Nothing ... I ... nothing ..." O'Farrell mumbled.

"But you started to say-"

"I wasn't thinking...."

"Darling! You're not making sense! And you're sweating! The sweat's all over your face. What is it!"

"Nothing." He was still groping, seeking an escape. What were the words! The explanation!

Jill laid down her knife and fork, staring at him across the table. "Are you all right!"

"Hot, that's all," he said, mumbling. "Maybe a fever." Could he get away with something as facile as that? She wasn't stupid-and she worked in a medical environment, for Christ's sake!

"Can I get you anything?"

The meat loaf was dry in his mouth, the ground beef like sawdust blocking his throat. He gulped at the water she'd set out, wishing it were the red wine he'd brought (better still, a strong gin). "It was an odd feeling, that's all. It's gone now. I'm all right. Honest." Why had he done it? What insanity had momentarily seized him and carried him so close to the cliff edge like that?

"So?" Jill prompted.

"So?" O'Farrell was stalling, still without the proper words.

"You started to say there was something you wanted to tell me?" she reminded him gently.

"The money," O'Farrell said desperately. "I made some calculations in the den tonight. I think we can afford to go on making the kids the sort of allowance that we are at the moment."

Jill frowned at him. "But we already decided that."

"I wasn't sure," O'Farrell said, a drowning man finding firmer ground. 'That's why I made the calculations. Now I am. Sure, I mean."

Jill stayed frowning. "Good," she said curiously.

"It is good, isn't it?" O'Farrell started to eat again, forcing himself to swallow.

"Very good," she agreed, still doubtful.

That night they didn't make love after all. O'Farrell remained awake long after Jill had fallen asleep beside him, his body as well as his mind held rigid by the enormity of his near collapse. His body was wet with the recollection but his mouth was dry, parched, so that he lay with his mouth open and had the impression that his lips were about to crack. He desperately wanted a drink but refused to get out of bed, fearing that if he went to the kitchen for water, he would change his mind and pour something else. Didn't need it, he told himself. Didn't need it. Couldn't give in. Wouldn't give in.

"Sweet Jesus!" exclaimed McCarthy. "Holy sweet Jesus!" He was given to blasphemous outbursts when he was excited and he was excited now.

"Quite a picture," Sneider agreed, seeking a lead from the other man.

"We can close down Belac," the CIA department head said. "Lure the bastard here, have the FBI arrest him, and then hit him with so many indictments he won't know which way is which."

"What about the ambassador, Rivera?"

"Which is what he is, an ambassador," said McCarthy, with logic that would have been absurdly obscure to any other man.

"He's not committing a crime within the jurisdiction of any American court. And he can always cop a plea of diplomatic immunity if we save it up for later."

McCarthy nodded in agreement. "He's got to be stopped, though."

"No doubt about it." Sneider knew the way now.

McCarthy used the private telephone on his desk, one that was security-cleared but did not go through the CIA switchboard. "George!" he greeted when Petty answered. "How are things?"

"Good," said Petty, from his office near Lafayette Park.

"Busy?"

"Not particularly."