Charlie looked up at Drummond, plaintively. 'That's it?'

'Yes,' said Drummond.

With a m.u.f.fled report and a trail of gore, a bullet emerged from the lower left part of Cadaret's belly, the area over the diaphragm. Belknapp's head snapped backward, taking his body along. As he came to rest on the blacktop, blood arched from the socket where his right eye had been.

'I wish I hadn't had to do that,' Drummond said, withdrawing his Walther from the small of Cadaret's back. 'For what it's worth, Charles, your surrender was very convincing.' Retrieving the Walther from the pickup truck*along with smearing ketchup on his chest*had been the essence of Drummond's plan; Charlie's role had been diversion.

Marshaling his faculties just to process the fact that the risky plan had actually worked, Charlie said, 'I have lots of experience with cowardice. For what it's worth, you play a mean dead.'

'I would have been more than just playing if not for that,' Drummond said, eyeing the dislodged hood that had protected him from the explosion. 'How's your leg?'

'Okay, except it feels like it might snap if I take another step.'

Drummond knelt on the blacktop and gently rolled up Charlie's left pants cuff, purple and soggy with blood. On its way in and out of the denim, the bullet had carved a groove on the outside of Charlie's calf.

Drummond said, 'I wouldn't say it's nothing, but *'

'A paper cut by the standards of your industry?'

'Best not to worry about it.' Drummond pulled a set of keys from Flattop's pocket. 'Now, if our brief helicopter ride taught us anything, it's that you ought to be the designated driver.'

Limping after him to the Durango, Charlie tried to ignore the repeated detonations in his leg. 'When in Spook City *' he exhorted himself.

29.

If there's such a thing as a lucky gunshot wound, Charlie thought, he'd been lucky because the wound was in his left leg rather than the one used to press the pedals. He drove the Durango from County Route 1 onto a side road where it was less likely to be spotted. such a thing as a lucky gunshot wound, Charlie thought, he'd been lucky because the wound was in his left leg rather than the one used to press the pedals. He drove the Durango from County Route 1 onto a side road where it was less likely to be spotted.

Drummond sat on the floor of the s.p.a.cious pa.s.senger footwell. Like Charlie, he'd replaced his b.l.o.o.d.y and torn clothing with one of the business suits that had been among the gunmen's belongings. Charlie watched him power on the fresh-from-the-factory-case prepaid cell phone also found in the gunmen's things.

'So who does a person typically call when his own CIA special ops group is trying to neutralize him and his son?' Charlie asked.

'There's a reports officer at headquarters whose job is to monitor everything, down to the number of bullets expended,' Drummond said, his voice fluctuating according to the b.u.mps and ruts in the road. 'I don't think it would be wise to call her, though. In light of the way the fellows have been posing as FBI and DIA, we can conclude that she either signed off on the operation, she was bullied into it, or she's had a bad fall down a flight of stairs from which she won't recover.'

Charlie started to grin, until realizing Drummond wasn't kidding. 'Wouldn't the FBI or the DIA want to know what the fellows fellows have been up to?' have been up to?'

'There are a number of agencies who would, and to whom we could turn. All have twenty-four-hour panic lines manned by veteran agents. The problem is those lines will be canva.s.sed.'

The cell phone beeped its readiness.

'So what does that leave us?' Charlie asked. 'Greenpeace?'

'Burt Hattemer.' Drummond clearly expected Charlie to know the name.

Charlie felt the discomfort of dinnertimes past, when his ignorance of current events, other than sports, was bared by Drummond's choices of conversation.

'He's the national security advisor,' Drummond said matter-of-factly, probably masking his disappointment Charlie hadn't known. 'He's been a friend since college, and I would trust him with my life.'

'So wouldn't it occur to the fellows that you'd call him?'

'I imagine he's at the top of their list. We can reach him without their knowledge, though.' Peeking over the window line, Drummond pointed to a part of the shoulder shaded by particularly thick treetops. 'Pull over there.'

He punched an 800 number onto the phone's keypad. Charlie brought the Durango to a halt in time to hear ringing. A fuzzy recording of a Scandinavian-accented woman blared through the earpiece. 'G.o.d dag 'G.o.d dag, you have reached Specialties of Sweden, bakers of the world's finest flotevafler flotevafler*'

Drummond hit 7-6-7.

'Please hold,' said the recording. On came whiney strands of an instrument that sounded to be a cross between a sitar and a fiddle.

'Nyckelharpa,' Drummond said fondly. Drummond said fondly.

Charlie felt a familiar chill. 'Wrong number, by any chance?'

Intent on the nyckelharpa, Drummond shook his head.

Charlie looked at the sky. No sign of search craft. Nothing but the setting sun, which seemed grimly metaphorical. 'So you called a bakery?'

Drummond pressed a palm over the mouthpiece. 'In ninety-nine, Burt and I went to Stockholm under nonofficial cover, posing as venture capitalists. Specialties of Sweden was in the red without prospect of a turnaround. We bought it because it ab.u.t.ted the Iranian emba.s.sy. When the workers went home, we drilled through one of our exterior walls and into what the Iranians thought was a secure conference room. We planted microphones, and the Iranians never caught on, so Burt's venture capital firm' kept the business. The number I input, seven six seven, is S-O-S, alphanumerically. In a few seconds, I'll input a code, known only to me. Then both numbers will be routed only to him. First, the system determines our location.'

Charlie's doubt gave way to wonder. 'How?'

'A cell phone can be tracked to within a few feet by triangulating its signal strength with the three nearest cell towers.'

The recorded woman returned. 'To continue in English, dial or say two,' pour francais pour francais*' Drummond dialed 10.

'What language is ten?' Charlie asked.

'There is no ten,' Drummond said. 'It's the first part of my code.'

'To place an order, dial or say zero,'' said the voice. Drummond hit 16. 'To track a shipment*' Drummond hit 79. 'If you know the name of the person you are trying*' Drummond entered 11. 'I will now transfer you to*' Drummond added a 3 and a 5, then snapped the phone shut.

'We ought to hear from him in a few minutes,' he said confidently.

Charlie was convinced of the validity of the system, but not of the code. It started with 10, 16, and 79*his own date of birth. Hardly a spy-like choice. 'Any significance to one oh, one six, seventy-nine?' he asked.

'Only if you add the other four digits, one one three five, or eleven thirty-five in the morning*thirty-one minutes after you were born, or the precise time you and I first met, in the waiting room at Kings County Hospital. For a distress code, you choose a number you can't forget.'

Charlie laughed to himself. He judged it prudent not to explain why, but out of his mouth anyway came, 'Don't get me wrong. If Mom did anything, she showed that you deserve Espionage Parent of the Century. But you forgetting forgetting my birthday was about the closest thing we had to an annual tradition.' my birthday was about the closest thing we had to an annual tradition.'

Drummond retained his composure, probably with considerable effort. 'Regrettably, there were times where the goings-on at the office meant you were short shrifted.'

'It might have helped if I'd known why.'

'For security reasons I'm sure I don't need to explain, children of intelligence officers are told, at most, that Mother or Dad is a functionary at the State Department. I hope it makes some difference now that you do know.'

'Some.' Charlie felt the hurt of the eight-year-old who believed that his father cared more about a line of cheap washing machines. For the truth to make enough of a difference, he thought, somebody would need to travel back in time and have a talk with that kid.

'Looking for a crutch?' Drummond asked. He sucked at his lower lip, which Charlie recognized as an effort at self-restraint.

'Ever have one of those days where you find out your dad's a spy, your dead mother's really alive, a spy too, and then she gets her head blown off? I'm just trying to put things in perspective.'

'You can write off your situation to circ.u.mstance or plain old bad luck. Throw up your hands, go seek solace in a bar*most people would understand. Just remember, that's the easy way.'

Yes, of course, the Easy Way. Drummond used to speak of the easy way, the same way fire-and-brimstone preachers do the Road to Perdition. Charlie would have recognized the words just from the cadence. As always, they sent vitriol coursing through him.

'It's not like I came up with the idea that a person's upbringing has a bearing on his life,' he said.

Drummond tightened his tie. 'There's a point of accountability for everyone. Others have been dealt far worse hands and still found a way to prevail.'

Charlie loosened his tie. 'Like you, you mean?'

'One might make the argument.'

'But you had Grandpa Tony.'

'If you really want to know the truth, Tony DiStephano*'

'Tony Clark, you mean.'

'I do mean DiStephano. Clark' was just part of his cover. He was really an old Chicago mobster in witness protection who we used for messy jobs.'

Charlie sagged in accordance with the feeling that air had just been let out of him. He'd always thought of his grandfather as an oversized teddy bear. 'Beautiful,' he said.

'It could have been far worse. Your actual grandparents were charming, cultured, life-of-the-party Park Avenue sophisticates*'

'Well, thanks for shielding me from that s.h.i.t.'

'It was an act.' Drummond reddened a shade more than Charlie had ever seen. 'Really they were traitors. They spied for Stalin with the Alger Hiss silver spoon flock. An American war hero spent the last four days of his life hanging from a hook in a Leningrad meat locker as a direct consequence of an encrypted postcard they sent to their handler at the Ministry of State Security. When Whittaker Chambers named names, they were blown. They fled to Moscow, leaving me alone. I was five.'

For the first time, Charlie saw Drummond's inner workings as an a.s.sembly of human rather than mechanized parts. He felt himself beginning to understand him now, and sympathizing. To an extent. 'Then I'd think that you, of all people, wouldn't have left your son alone all the time.'

Drummond wiped his mouth with a sleeve, as if clearing the way for a forceful reb.u.t.tal, when the cell phone chimed.

30.

Six minutes earlier, E. Burton Hattemer had been sitting in a conference room in the Senate Hart Office Building while a staffer enthusiastically detailed a solar-powered, robotic surveillance device that looked, flew, and perched just like the barn swallows prevalent in the Middle East. 'The prototype can be done for as little as thirty million,' she told the roomful of Senate Intelligence Committee members and advisors. earlier, E. Burton Hattemer had been sitting in a conference room in the Senate Hart Office Building while a staffer enthusiastically detailed a solar-powered, robotic surveillance device that looked, flew, and perched just like the barn swallows prevalent in the Middle East. 'The prototype can be done for as little as thirty million,' she told the roomful of Senate Intelligence Committee members and advisors.

Hattemer wanted to say: Christ, that kind of cash could get us ten decent human spies and a hundred times the actionable intel.

Six years on the Hill had taught him that it would be more effective to part.i.tion the sentiment into gentle memos in the coming months when the Appropriations Subcommittee appointed a Robot-Barn-Swallow Task Force, the task force delegated a special panel, and the special panel prepared, drafted, and redrafted its recommendation to the committee.

Feeling his cell phone vibrate, he fished it from his suit pants. The LED flashed a reminder to pick up tulips for his wife at the florist in Potomac.

Hurrying out of the conference room, he said, 'I beg everybody's pardon. I've got to attend to a geriatric digestive issue.' Who here would want to know about that?

The florist*or SOS*message appeared when the switchboard in Stockholm activated a virtually undetectable shortwave band. 'Tulips' was Drummond Clark. Three years had pa.s.sed since Hattemer had communicated with his old friend other than by greeting card. That he would get in touch in this fashion, now, suggested Drummond's life was in peril and that it was an inside job.

Executive Order 11905, signed by President Ford and bolstered by Reagan with EO 12333, banned a.s.sa.s.sinations by government organizations. Yet spies continued to die of the flu, falls from terraces, or boating accidents with far greater frequency than people in other professions, in large part because men and women at the very highest levels of government believed themselves to be above the law or turned blind eyes or deaf ears in the name of the Greater Good*a sorry euphemism, Hattemer thought, for sacrificing ideals in order to mop up inconvenient messes. And that was when there was oversight at all.

For the sake of discretion, he took the stairs down to room SH-219. The two flights hurt like h.e.l.l, or about as much as he'd antic.i.p.ated. He'd been forced to abandon fieldwork when his deteriorated hips were replaced with six pounds of metal alloys, making the constant air and Jeep travel impractical. Still, it took him another two years to hang up his trench coat.

Protected by armed guards around the clock, few places on Earth afforded more secure communication than SH-219. Essentially a windowless steel vault, it blocked electromagnetic eavesdropping and prohibited signals from escaping. Every morning it was swept for listening devices with an attention to minutiae unseen outside archaeological digs. Even the electrical current was filtered.

Hattemer sat at the armchair at the inner p.r.o.ng of the giant, horseshoe-shaped table. On the olive-green wall behind him were the seals of the various intelligence agencies. Before him was a wall of high-definition monitors, the face of a system the Senate Intelligence Committee members liked to refer to as 'state-of-the-art.' In fact, state-of-the-art systems lacked many of its cla.s.sified bells and whistles. A few keypunches could bring him into locked video conference with American intelligence officers operating anywhere from the United States to the United Arab Emirates. He could access all the cla.s.sified computer networks. He could view satellite imagery of just about any place on the planet, either from vast archives or in real time. And if the pictures were inadequate, a program easier to use than text messaging, in his estimation, enabled him to dispatch reconnaissance drones.

He elected to use a device whose listing in the Intelligence Committee budget*'sound reproduction instrument'*always rankled him. It was, in laymen's terms, a telephone.

Drummond opened the cell phone and raised it to his lips, but said nothing.

A brash young woman's voice burst through the earpiece. 'Jimmy, that you?'

'No,' Drummond said, 'Willie.'

'This ain't two-five-two, oh-two-seven, oh-four-four-six?'

'Sorry, ma'am, no. Good day.'

Drummond didn't merely hang up; he disconnected the call by tearing the battery from the back of the phone.

Charlie was mystified. 'What? Was the phone about to self-destruct?'

'We can't use it again,' Drummond said. 'Even when it's off, it emits a signal.'

'Then how will we get the call from your man in Washington?'

'That was was him, with more than a little voice alteration interposed between his handset and my earpiece.' him, with more than a little voice alteration interposed between his handset and my earpiece.'

'I may have missed something.'

'w.i.l.l.i.e.s' is a proprietary shorthand for hostiles. When I said, No Willie,' it was a recognition code that signified I wasn't under duress. His ain't' in turn let me know that no one was holding a gun to his head. Good day' was my sign-off that his message had been received.'

'I'm guessing you've left out the part about what the message was.'

'It was the number he said he'd meant to dial.' On the cover of the killers' road atlas, Drummond wrote '2520270446.' '2520270446.'

'So will we need to get another phone to call it?' Charlie asked.

'No, we won't need to make any more calls. We just subtract my distress code' number from it.'

'A billion, five hundred thirteen million, four hundred seventy-nine thousand, three hundred and eleven?'

Drummond did the math on paper. 'Not bad,' he said.

'You spend seven days a week handicapping *'

With a look of either mock dismay or actual dismay*Charlie wasn't sure which*Drummond again wrote out: 2520270446.

1016791135.

This time, he tabulated it as: 1514589311.