'Actually, we use what's known as false subtraction,' he said. 'In this case it means you have a series of ten separate subtractions. For instance, when you subtract six from zero four numbers in, you don't borrow from the column to the left, you just invent the ten. Or when you subtract nine from seven*you pretend the seven is a seventeen. False subtraction adds an extra layer of security and makes the math simpler, once you get used to it. The total here is a sort of alphabetical equivalent of one hick.' The number fifteen equals the letter O, fourteen equals N, etcetera. Now, one hick' doesn't sound very encouraging, but it's probably the closest safe house Burt had at his disposal.' He flipped through the atlas. 'Ah, there's a Hickory Road about twenty miles north.'

The light at the end of Charlie's tunnel burst back on at high wattage. With energy to match, he threw the Durango into a U-turn.

'So what's the deal with this Hen' guy?' he asked.

'From the Cavalry?'

'Yeah.'

'First, I need to tell you one more thing.'

'What?'

'What I said about Grandpa Tony?'

'Yeah?'

'You won't tell him that you know, okay?'

A shiver ran the length of Charlie. 'There's no chance whatsoever of that happening,' he said haltingly. Grandpa Tony had pa.s.sed away eight years ago, and not only was there a funeral, Charlie and Drummond both were pallbearers.

'Thank you,' said Drummond.

'So who's Hen?' Charlie asked.

To no avail.

31.

Cranch continued firing questions, and Alice volleyed with enough information to create the illusion of cooperation. Eighty percent of the information was useless, but it would be impossible for him to determine which was which. firing questions, and Alice volleyed with enough information to create the illusion of cooperation. Eighty percent of the information was useless, but it would be impossible for him to determine which was which.

'What about Drummond Clark?' he asked. 'How did you get him?'

'We used a Meals on Wheels van.'

'So that wasn't a real Meals on Wheels van?'

'It was, once upon a time, in Albany. One of our people got it from a junkyard. It still ran. Just needed a little work on the brakes was all.'

'Were the Meals on Wheels volunteers your people too?'

'Glorified cutouts, really. They believed Clark was an embezzler and that we were a special investigative unit of the IRS.'

'What did you want with him?'

The objective of Alice's actual operation, code-named 'Marquis' (as in de Sade de Sade, an explicit reference to Fielding), was to investigate Fielding in general and, specifically, to determine whether he'd hired Lincoln Cadaret to a.s.sa.s.sinate Roberto Mariateguia, an NSA officer who'd penetrated the Shining Path in Peru. Mariateguia was found bound to a desk chair in a Lima hotel room, having been bled to death by leeches. The gruesome scene yielded no link to Fielding, but certainly it was his directorial style. A more tangible link was that the contractor who'd built Fielding's three-hundred-thousand-gallon swimming pool recently had installed a smaller version for Cadaret on nearby St. Bart's, gratis. Alice had found her way onto a murky trail that led to veteran Company man Drummond Clark. NSA had intercepted numerous communications from both Mariateguia and Fielding to Perriman Appliances, where Clark nominally worked. Her hope was that Clark would shed some light on Mariateguia. Her 'holiday' in Brooklyn provided only more questions, though, and the unexpected news of Prabhakar Gaznavi's visit required she hurry back to Martinique before she could get any answers.

'Drummond Clark works for Perriman Appliances,' she told Cranch, hoping that with only slightly expurgated truth she might elicit the true nature of Fielding's interest in Clark. 'We know Fielding worked there from ninety-one to ninety-four.'

'Thousands of people worked for Perriman Appliances during that time period.'

'We also know about the CIA entry Clark leaves off his resume. We wanted to learn his connection to Fielding. But as you know if you heard the audio, the closest thing to a secret I uncovered was that Clark's son goes by Charlie, rather than Charles.'

'One just has to know the right questions.' Cranch balled his hands as if they contained a magic key. 'I expect to be getting on a private jet to go debrief Mr. Clark shortly. Maybe you'll get to listen to some of that audio.'

Until now, Cranch had given Alice no indication that he cared whether she lived or died. Yet here he was trying to impress her. And in so doing, she realized, he'd let slip a bit of information that might prove critical.

32.

At Hickory Road, thick woods dissolved into a secluded pastoral valley. Charlie turned the Durango in at I HICKORY, the mile-long lane's only sign, onto a gravel driveway that wound through hundreds of acres of serene pasture neatly fenced by weather-grayed rails. After several more miles, the driveway ended in a cobblestoned circle and a large stucco-over-stone colonial farmhouse with a commanding view of old-growth orchards and a barn that almost had to have been the basis for the Wyeth painting. Everything was copper as the sun sank into the hazy foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains.

As he turned off the engine, he heard only a mild breeze, the whinnying of horses, and the soft-shoe of a stream. Nudging Drummond from a nap, he said, 'If we need to hole up somewhere while Hattemer straightens things out, this wouldn't suck.'

'Burt Hattemer?' Drummond asked, as if there had been discussion of several Hattemers. Clearly the nap had not recharged him. Hattemer?' Drummond asked, as if there had been discussion of several Hattemers. Clearly the nap had not recharged him.

'Christ. Please don't tell me he's really one of them?'

'Them?'

'The people you used to work with who keep trying to kill us?'

'Right, right, of course. No, we're okay. Burt's a good friend.'

Despite the a.s.surance, Charlie thought only of how Hattemer might prove their undoing. There was an H in Hattemer, and an E. But at least there was no N. If his name were Hatten, Charlie would have insisted they drive the h.e.l.l away this instant.

'Come on inside before y'all catch your death,' came a squawky voice.

It belonged to the man who stood atop the marble front steps, holding open the door. Seventy if a day, he wore a parka over long underwear surely purchased in his beefier years; the bottoms hung like pantaloons until sucked into high rubber boots. In and around his a.s.sortment of puckers and pits and creases was a cheery face topped by a thicket of white hair.

Ushering Charlie and Drummond into the vaulted foyer, he said, 'I'm Mort, the caretaker, and I'm it for the staff here during winter months, so don't be cross if your suppers are nothing fancy.'

Entering, Charlie was struck by an anxiety he couldn't explain. He hoped it was just a reflex born of being attacked everywhere he'd set foot the last two days.

He took in the foyer, furnished with an antique drop-leaf table, a tall pewter vase, and a series of framed ornithological watercolors. The l.u.s.trous pine floorboards were as wide as diving boards. If this room were representative of the home's decor, interior design enthusiasts would pay admission to see the rest.

'Whose place is this?' he asked Mort.

'Sir, all I can tell you is he's an oilman named MacCallum from up in Alaska.'

'You mean that's all you're allowed to say?'

'No, sir. Except for he's a friend of Mr. Hattemer's, it's all I know. Mr. MacCallum's never once set foot here.'

Charlie suspected that he now knew at least as much about MacCallum as Mort did.

'Why don't y'all come on here into the den and take a load off?' Mort said, leading the way.

The floor of the ma.s.sive 'den' was covered by a pair of rich Oriental carpets*probably no single Oriental carpet on Earth would have been big enough. The walls, with refined checkerboard wainscoting, boasted more art than many galleries; the gla.s.s and pewter frames mirrored the flickering within the stone fireplace, making the bra.s.s banquet lamps unnecessary. Charlie ogled a Breugel snowscape.

Drummond remained behind in the doorway, seemingly lost.

Mort was so hunched that he barely needed to bend in order to draw a log from the bra.s.s rack on the floor. With a sibilant grunt, he tossed the dry wood onto the andirons. The fire flared, turning the room a soft ochre and revealing what Charlie deemed the home's most attractive feature: the pair of scallop-rimmed dinner plates, set on the bar, each with a hearty turkey and cheddar sandwich and a pile of potato chips*the upscale, kettle-cooked kind.

'There's your suppers,' Mort said. 'Help yourselves to whatever you want to drink*the fridge behind the bar's loaded with cold beer and pop. If you're still hungry, y'all're welcome to try your luck in the kitchen. Also there's clothes and anything else a person could ever need in the mudroom. And if y'all're okay with that, I'm gonna go on up to bed*the beasts here like to get up and eat their breakfast way too darn early. Mr. H. oughtta be here in a half hour or thereabouts.'

Charlie understood his misgivings now.

Suppers.

During his ten-second phone conversation with Hattemer, Drummond hadn't indicated Charlie was with him. Yet Mort had been instructed to prepare two suppers.

'Hey, Mort, just one more thing?' Charlie asked.

'Sir?'

'Was it Mr. H. himself who called you?'

'That's right.'

'Did he tell you how many people to expect?'

'Four, I think.'

'Four?'

'Y'all plus him and Mr. Fielding.'

'Who's Fielding?'

Mort turned to Drummond. 'Fella you and Mr. H. work with, ain't that right, sir?'

'Could be,' Drummond said. 'I don't know a lot of the men in Refrigeration.'

In a mirror, Charlie caught Mort shooting a bewildered look at Drummond. Mort didn't know anything, Charlie concluded.

Mort dug a sticky-pad message from a pocket and read, 'Nicholas 'Nicholas Fielding?' Fielding?'

Drummond shrugged.

'Also Mr. H. said Willie wasn't gonna be able to make it,' Mort added.

'Can I see that, please?' Charlie asked.

'Yours to keep,' said Mort, handing over the piece of paper.

'Thanks,' Charlie said. 'Thanks for everything, Mort.'

As Mort climbed the stairs, Charlie studied the handwritten message: 5:30: MR. H + NICHOLAS FIELDING + NO WILLIE.

No Willie was Hattemer's safety code, meaning Nicholas Fielding, whoever he was, was no threat. As far as Hattemer knew. From the name Nicholas Fielding, however, three letters jumped up at Charlie: was Hattemer's safety code, meaning Nicholas Fielding, whoever he was, was no threat. As far as Hattemer knew. From the name Nicholas Fielding, however, three letters jumped up at Charlie: H, E, and N.

Charlie fought to keep from gasping while Mort was in earshot. As soon as Mort was upstairs, Charlie showed Drummond the note, jabbed a finger at the pertinent characters, and said, 'According to Belknapp, it was HEN' who ordered the hit at the battlefield.'

'Which one was Belknapp again?'

'The last one.'

'Yes, yes, I see.' Drummond appeared more interested in*and to have greater appreciation for the significance of*his sandwich.

Hoping to squeeze even a drop of information from him nevertheless, Charlie blocked his path to the plate. 'What are the odds that this Hen isn't that that Hen?' Hen?'

'Odds?'

'Higher than the sky, in my professional opinion. Plenty of names have H, E, and N in that order. Howard Beckman, the detective, for one. But how many Hens do you work with?'

Drummond put a hand on his chin to think.

Charlie decided not to bother waiting for the results. 'In either case, we can't just drive off now,' he said. He was surprised not to be panicking. Maybe his nerves were shot. 'We'd just cross paths with them between here and Hickory Road.'

'All right then. Can we eat?'

'As soon as one of us works up an escape route.'

33.

As they crossed the dusky meadow behind the house, Charlie went over his idea. 'So we stay and hear what Hattemer and this Nicholas Fielding have to say. Worse comes to worse, we make it look like we tried to get away in the Durango. Really, if we manage to saddle a horse, we go on horseback. What do you think?' crossed the dusky meadow behind the house, Charlie went over his idea. 'So we stay and hear what Hattemer and this Nicholas Fielding have to say. Worse comes to worse, we make it look like we tried to get away in the Durango. Really, if we manage to saddle a horse, we go on horseback. What do you think?'

'Okay,' was the extent of Drummond's feedback, sadly.

The barn was built of pine planks and painted the cla.s.sic, rustic red. Inside, the musky scent of horses commingled wonderfully with the sweet smell of hay. It was too dark for Charlie to make out much beyond the expanse and many large shapes. Flipping on the lights might alert Mort to their presence here, so Charlie waited until his eyes adapted, then slipped in. Drummond lingered by the entryway, hungrily contemplating the green apples piled into a thick-slatted barrel.

In the stalls, five horses slept, all standing. The first three were tall and slim, with chiseled faces on long necks: Thoroughbreds. Charlie pa.s.sed them by. Thoroughbreds have two gears, Park and Locomotive. If he were to attempt to ride one, the odds said he'd be left on the ground with horseshoes permanently stamped on his face.

In stall four was a draft horse; Charlie recognized the characteristic giant hooves and weightlifter's shoulders. CANDICANE CANDICANE was engraved on the beveled-edged copper plaque on the stall door. If the Thoroughbred is a racecar, the draft horse is the family station wagon, the horse used to give grandkids and greenhorns the steadiest ride. Candicane's swayed back and droopy lips indicated she'd held that job for years. was engraved on the beveled-edged copper plaque on the stall door. If the Thoroughbred is a racecar, the draft horse is the family station wagon, the horse used to give grandkids and greenhorns the steadiest ride. Candicane's swayed back and droopy lips indicated she'd held that job for years.

In the last stall was Giovanni, a Thoroughbred who conjured a Ferrari. So Candicane was the man. Charlie hoped her name reflected her temperament. Despite all his time at the track, he'd never ridden a horse. He'd learned a few things though. Chiefly, those scenes in Westerns where a novice jumps onto a horse and rides off: complete malarkey. Just getting a saddle on would be an ordeal.

Candicane's eyes opened at his approach. He dangled an apple across her stall door. She bared her teeth, which brought ax blades to his mind. He willed himself to keep steady. If she detected his fear, she would whinny her displeasure, which could domino into bedlam in the barn. She sucked the apple from his palm with what felt like a kiss. He was charmed.

'I hope we can still be friends when I saddle you,' he whispered.

Equipment bloomed from the walls and ceiling in the adjacent tack room. Charlie unhooked a saddle and groped for bridle, brushes, and the rest of what he antic.i.p.ated he would need. Returning to Candicane, he opened the stall door and entered inches at a time so as not to spook the thousand-pound beast. She stepped sideways to accommodate him.

He'd seen grooms ready racehorses hundreds of times. Unfortunately, his attention was usually on the conversation*as sources, grooms ranked second only to attendants in the owners' and trainers' parking lot. One thing he had picked up was that a small bit of dirt caught between the hide and the saddle blanket or saddle pad could do to a horse what the pea did to the princess. So he brushed Candicane, delicately. She responded like a thousand-pound kitten, snorts in place of purring.

'Okay, Candi, now for your saddle blanket,' he said with rising confidence.

Having witnessed this relatively simple step so many times, he thought failure was impossible. As he opened the surprisingly large blanket, he reconsidered: It would be easier to get a tarp over a building. He set the top of the pile forward of her withers, then worked out the wrinkles as he spread the rest toward her tail, the grooms' method. The reason they did so, he realized, was that it allowed her hair to run in its natural direction. Again, Candicane snorted her contentment. Still Charlie was wary of losing his teeth as a result of poking her in a wrong spot, and he had no idea which spots those were.