"Hold it, Dex! Not another step!" he called out, and pumped a fresh cartridge into the chamber of the Remington. "I mean it."

Dex halted under an arcade of pine branches. He was panting from fear and exertion.

"Turn around," Ricci said. "Slow."

Dex did as he'd been told.

Ricci moved forward, the gun barrel out in front of him, his finger on the trigger.

Dex stood there in a sort of half slump, still panting, his long hair wet from sweat and pasted to his cheeks and neck. He glanced at Ricci a moment, and then cast his eyes down at some indeterminate patch of ground between them.

Ricci stepped closer, pushed the muzzle of the gun against the underside of Dex's chin, and forced his head upward.

"Look at me," Ricci said. And pushed his chin further up with the muzzle. "Look me in the eye." eye."

Dex again did as he'd been told.

"First thing," Ricci said. "You're a greedy little slug."

Dex was quiet, his lips trembling. Perspiration streamed from under his watchcap.

"Second," Ricci said. "You're a would-be murderer."

Dex started to say something, but Ricci silenced him with a prod of the gun barrel.

"I can make it so there's nothing left under that hat of yours besides mush," he said. "Better you let me do the talking."

Dex shut his mouth.

They faced each other in silence. The interwoven branches overhead blocked out most of the morning sunlight and cast lacy patterns of shadow over both their features.

"We always split the take right down the middle, and that was fine by me. Didn't matter I took the chances, long as you did your job and watched my back," Ricci said. "But then you went behind it instead. Got down with Cobbs and Phipps on that pinch the other day. Fixed the pressure gauge so I wouldn't know when my tank was out of air. Emptied my spare. Rather than coming to me when Cobbs laid some heat on you, telling me so we could put him in his place, you cuddled up with him and tried to kill kill me." me."

Ricci was silent again. From behind him near the slab of rock, he could hear Cobbs's whimpering sobs.

"I owe you, Dex," Ricci said. "You deserve for me to pull the trigger, and better believe I'm tempted to do it."

Dex tensed, his breath coming in staccato bursts. Small blotches of red erupted on his cheeks.

Ricci held the shotgun steadily up to his chin for another second, then shook his head and lowered its barrel toward the ground.

"Relax," he said. "You, Cobbs, and all your other pals won't have to worry about me anymore. Wouldn't have even if nothing had happened today besides us striking the mother lode of urchins. Because I got an offer from somebody out of town and decided to take it. All you would've needed to do to know that was wait till this afternoon, when the for-sale sign goes up in front of my house."

More silence. Dex had a cowed, beaten expression on his face and seemed on the verge of squirming. Yet Ricci sensed he had little true remorse over the wrong he had done and only a partial understanding of its depth. In his own eyes he was a victim and that status both justified his actions and absolved him of blame. The shame in him was mostly over having gotten caught.

"Cobbs'll be okay," Ricci said. "I'm running the skiff back to the wharf. The two of you wait till maybe fifteen minutes after I'm gone, then take his boat, get him to the hospital. Anybody asks what happened to him, leave me out of your story. Or I give you my word, you'll pay."

Silence.

Ricci looked at him, and felt a sudden abhorrence that came close to making him physically sick. Then he gestured back the way they had come with his head.

"Get out of my sight," he said at last.

Dex hesitated a moment, as if he still thought there was something he ought to say but didn't know what it should be, or was afraid it might get him fouled up again. Then he simply nodded, stepped past Ricci, and started to walk away through the woods.

"And, Dex?"

Dex stopped, glanced back over his shoulder.

"Don't worry," Ricci said. "I'm sure you'll manage to live with yourself."

SEVENTEEN.

VARIOUS LOCALES APRIL 22, 2001.

HARLAN DEVANE SAT OPPOSITE KUHL AT A CANE TABLE on his veranda, dealing out a hand of solitaire as the engorged red sun sank through the evening sky into the Bolivian rain forest. on his veranda, dealing out a hand of solitaire as the engorged red sun sank through the evening sky into the Bolivian rain forest.

"Give me your a.s.sessment," he said without raising his eyes from the cards.

"The pulse device should fulfill its requirements," Kuhl said. "We are close to ready for the endgame."

DeVane turned over a card and examined it. A jack of diamonds. He laid it atop a queen of clubs.

"The trial run seems to have made an outstanding impression on you," he said.

"Yes," Kuhl said. "The damage to the train surpa.s.sed every expectation."

DeVane nodded and glanced up from the table.

"Your emphasis on the amount of carnage that resulted fascinates me, Siegfried," he said. "Do you know the piece of information I find most useful after having heard your account?"

Kuhl looked at him with absolute stillness but did not reply. There was no sign on his face that he was considering an answer, and indeed DeVane would have been surprised and disappointed if he'd had anything to say. The most efficient predator never revealed its thinking, or made it obvious if it was thinking at all. Could anyone know the mind of a shark? A python?

"The signal light," DeVane said in response to his own question. "That you saw it come back on within seconds of the derailment indicates its circuits were left intact, and able to work normally once the disruption to the electromagnetic field ceased. Not only will the reason for the light's malfunction never be ascertained, there is no hard evidence a malfunction occurred. The cause of the train wreck will be impossible to determine or trace, and therefore we cannot be incriminated. This to me is the salient detail with regard to our larger objectives."

Kuhl's eyes were like small windows into a vast frozen reach.

"If I hadn't thought it important, it would not have been included in my report," he said.

"And I welcome your thoroughness." DeVane studied the neat rows of playing cards in front of him. There was a four of spades in one, a six of clubs in another. He flipped another three off the deck. "Of course, while there is no need for you to explain your selection of a target, I did did admittedly find it intriguing." admittedly find it intriguing."

"Oh?"

DeVane nodded.

"Why a pa.s.senger train as opposed to something like a freight train? I wondered. Why send human beings over that hillside rather than cattle or lumber, the accompanying loss of life being nonessential to the test?" He turned over three more cards. "And then the answer came to me. In a snap, as they say."

Kuhl said nothing.

DeVane looked directly at him. "Are you acquainted with the paintings of Brueghel or Hieronymus Bosch?" he asked.

Kuhl shook his head. "I've no interest in art."

"Perhaps not, but you might want to make an exception and seek theirs out anyway. 'The Last Judgment,' 'The Triumph of Death,' 'The Beggars' ... they are works filled with marvelous deviltry, to mangle the words of a poet who admired Brueghel in particular." DeVane smiled. "Very little is known about either man, and most of their oils are undated. We know both lived in the Middle Ages, about a century apart. Who commissioned their paintings, what specifications they were given, whether they ever painted to please themselves rather than their patrons ... these things are mostly open to conjecture. But their styles and monstrous images cannot be confused with anyone else's, and must have bordered upon the heretical in their day. One sees a Bosch canvas, one does not need a signature to identify the cruel, exacting hand of its creator. The work itself itself is signature enough." is signature enough."

Kuhl met his gaze.

"I don't get your point."

DeVane smiled.

"I think you do, despite my occasional tendency to be elliptical," he said. "Please accept that I implied no disrespect. To the contrary, I see you as a master of your trade, an invisible artist whose handiwork is unmistakable to the studied connoisseur. And I enjoy giving you creative leeway."

DeVane turned over more cards. Kuhl watched him, showing neither interest nor disinterest.

"I must tell you, Siegfried, my single nagging concern about our endeavor is not that we will fail to carry it out, but that success could prove a disappointment to our clients," DeVane said after a moment. "Compared to what we intend to place aboard the Russian orbital platform, the device you fielded is as a cannonball would be to a precision-guided missile."

Kuhl shrugged minimally. A taste. taste.

"Havoc does have a far higher performance watershed to meet, yes, and the fact that one proved reliable is no guarantee that the other will do the same," he said. "Still, the Albanians have paid us up front. As have the cartels. We've made clear that their money is ours to keep regardless."

"I like to take the larger view. Keep our customers satisfied." DeVane paused again. "It is also my wish to see Roger Gordian's reputation and influence suffer for all this. UpLink's growing presence in so many of our pipeline nations arguably represents our greatest threat. The economic and political stability his operations brings to those states is bad for business, and what is bad for business must be eliminated. Think of the trust he stands to lose with his global partners should we deliver on our contracts ... and consider the embarra.s.sment to us if we don't. There are huge dividends at stake on both sides."

Kuhl nodded once.

"A weapon's effectiveness cannot be absolutely proven until it is deployed," he said. "But we know that the engineering difficulties that beset its prototypical antecedents--namely the lack of an adequate, rechargeable energy source, and susceptibility to their own radiation--have been solved. The sun itself will function as an incomparably powerful generator and allow long-range, focused targeting from s.p.a.ce. And the exotic metal alloy developed by Ilkanovitch's team has proven capable of shielding the device's components from its intense, repet.i.tive production of broad-frequency microwave beams. Ilkanovitch's doc.u.mentation of the Russian testing is backed up by the evidence we've seen of its potential."

"You are referring to the railway 'accident'?"

"And to the crash of the 747 commuter plane in Los Angeles some months back. American investigators attributed its explosion after takeoff to a spark in the conductive wiring inside its center fuel tank. This was true. But the cause of the spark remained undetermined in official reports, and the abrupt retirement of a senior FBI official who publicly speculated that it might have been a microwave pulse was swept under the agency's very large carpet." Kuhl paused. "Again, I am convinced beyond doubt that Ilkanovitch's claim of responsibility is genuine ... and Havoc is many, many times more effective than the ground-based device that ignited the fuel tank. Imagine the destruction of not a single plane, but of dozens with the targeting of a major airport's air traffic control system. Imagine the chaos that would arise from the total disruption of civil electronic systems and communications grids in a city such as New York or London. Havoc will achieve superb results. It will make the entire world hostage to our demands."

DeVane looked at him.

"Tell me what you've learned about Gordian's proposed reinforcement of the Cosmodrome."

"It's as we foresaw. My intelligence is that he's succeeded in convincing the officials at Baikonur to let him provide additional security. Much of the support is being brought over from the UpLink ground station in Kaliningrad, though he is drawing upon other a.s.sets as well ... all meant to prevent anything from interfering with the shuttle's launch."

"So he is playing into our hands. Without being aware of our true goal, thinking we mean to cripple cripple the ISS program, his security measures will be misdirected." the ISS program, his security measures will be misdirected."

"Exactly."

DeVane looked at him another moment, then nodded.

"Good enough," he said. "You have sufficient manpower in Kazakhstan to implement our strike?"

"Yes," Kuhl replied. "With added elements leaving from our base in the Panta.n.a.l tomorrow night."

"Those men will be transporting the device, I take it?"

"Yes."

"Then let us be expeditious and move within a few days," DeVane said.

"Yes."

DeVane turned over his last three cards and nodded with satisfaction, his smile lengthening, his lips parting slightly to show his small, white front teeth.

"Aces, Siegfried," he said, "We're all aces."

As the sun was setting in Bolivia it was blazing an ascendant track through the Kazakhstan sky halfway around the world, where the latest stream of UpLink helicopters and transport planes had begun to arrive at the military airfield in Leninsk, some twenty miles south of the Baikonur Cosmodrome.

His hand visored over his eyes to shield it from the desert brightness, Yuri Petrov stood looking out at the tarmac as a wide-bellied Lockheed transport made its final approach. He scowled. Perhaps he ought to feel something like grat.i.tude for the a.s.sistance he was receiving from UpLink, but instead he felt ... what? Outrage was more than he could muster these days, and he had worn indignation on his back for so long it was like an old, threadbare shirt. How could it be otherwise?

He was the director of a Russian s.p.a.ce Agency that was propped up by American loans and subsidies. The Baikonur facility that had been the launch site for every manned s.p.a.ce mission Russia had conducted, and the town of Leninsk that had been established as an outpost for its defense and supply, had since 1994 been leased from the sovereign state of Kazakhstan--once part of the Soviet Union--for over a hundred million dollars a year, much of it apportioned from the American hand-outs. And now the Voenno Kosmicheskie Sily, or Military s.p.a.ce Force, that was garrisoned in the town had been subordinated to a private American security contingent under the rubric of "mutual support" at the direct order of President Vladimir Starinov himself, who many believed had become not merely indebted, but indentured, indentured, to Roger Gordian after UpLink's people saved him from a.s.sa.s.sination the year before--and whose regime had been taking continuous political fire for blatantly kowtowing to American and NATO interests. to Roger Gordian after UpLink's people saved him from a.s.sa.s.sination the year before--and whose regime had been taking continuous political fire for blatantly kowtowing to American and NATO interests.

Petrov's scowl deepened. Why bother raising the Russian flag over the installation, emblazoning Russian decals on the s.p.a.cecraft that launched from it, or st.i.tching Russian patches onto the s.p.a.cesuits of the cosmonauts that rode into s.p.a.ce aboard those craft? Why not confirm what was already all too evident to him and stamp the stars and stripes, or better yet the U.S. dollar sign, onto the brow of every person who worked for an agency that had once been at the forefront of s.p.a.ce exploration, sending the first satellite into orbit around the earth, the first unmanned probes to the surface of the moon and Venus, the first human being human being into s.p.a.ce? into s.p.a.ce?

Now Petrov watched the Lockheed taxi easily to a stop in an unloading area across the airfield, where ground crews and wheeled freight conveyors were already rolling toward its freight door. He was aware of the almost subliminal drone of more aircraft winging in above the steppes, while above him another transport bearing UpLink insignia entered its landing pattern. The palletized loads of weapons, armored patrol vehicles, and other heavy lift had been arriving along with large complements of operating and service personnel for over forty-eight hours, and would continue to arrive right up until the launch later that week.

Petrov found himself wondering how the American populace would react if their government invited a Russian paramilitary force with tremendous surveillance and fighting capabilities into the heart of their nation, imposed fewer practical restraints upon their use of weapons than the average citizen was asked to accept, then allowed them to usurp control of a military policing operation from indigenous army units. Would that not be seen as compromising America's internal security? As a threat to the very underpinning of its national sovereignty? Would it be tolerated? tolerated?

He dropped his eyes and stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets. There could be no greater proof of America's global hegemony than those planes in the busy sky.

How could he describe how he felt?

He searched his mind for the right word and finally nodded.

Castrated.

That was it. That was perfect. perfect.

d.a.m.ned fortunate for him that his wife had lost interest in s.e.x some years ago. His head bent, his shoulders slightly stooped, Petrov strode toward the small terminal where he would prop himself up to give a gracious, politic reception to the current batch of newcomers from UpLink.

Welcoming them where they very well might be needed, but were most a.s.suredly not wanted.