"They want Caspar to kill you," Song said.

Maybe it was because he was so tired-that pinhead Everton had kept a light shining in his face for twelve straight hours-but Melchior's mind filled with an image of Caspar at four years old, looking up at him with trust-love-in his eyes. He saw Caspar at six, eight, ten, twelve, the love steadily replaced by a dead smirk as he attempted to maintain some sense of self while the Company put him through the wringer. Finally Caspar at eighteen, on leave from the Marines. "They're sending me to j.a.pan," Melchior remembered him saying, both hands wrapped around a gla.s.s to keep them from shaking. "I guess it's finally starting."

"Melchior?" Song's voice cut into his thoughts.

Melchior shook himself. "Last I heard, the Company'd got Caspar stationed at Atsugi. The idea was that he would stage a defection, then buy his way into KGB with secrets about the U2 program. Although, after Powers, the cat was pretty much out of the bag."

"That was four years ago," Ivelitsch said. "Caspar arrived in Moscow in October 1959. Of course we suspected him of being a Company operative. Who in his right mind wants to move to the Soviet Union? We spent months trying to crack him, but he proved intractable. This seemed less due to any fort.i.tude than simple instability. Caspar"-Melchior found it telling that Ivelitsch chose not to use Caspar's real name, since neither he nor Song had-"suffered from paranoia and delusions of grandeur and general confusion about who he was and what he believed in. He started calling himself Alik for some reason-his wife didn't even know his real name until after they were married."

"He got married?" married?"

"A whirlwind romance," Ivelitsch said wryly. "Less than two months pa.s.sed from the day they met until their nuptials."

"Hmph," Melchior said. "That doesn't sound convenient at all." at all."

Ivelitsch didn't respond to Melchior's innuendo. "When Marina became pregnant, Caspar requested to return to the United States. He said he was 'disillusioned' by Communism."

"If everyone who felt that way was allowed to leave the Soviet Union, the country'd have fewer living inhabitants than Pompeii after Vesuvius blew its top. Lemme guess, you let him take the wife, too? Because she was pregnant."

"Ultimately we decided it was easier letting him leave than watching him all the time. As soon as he got back here, he immediately resumed his pro-Communist persona, and became a very visible supporter of the revolution in Cuba-even as, behind the scenes, he made connections with several persons involved with CIA's program to a.s.sa.s.sinate Castro, including some a.s.sociates of Sam Giancana."

"Giancana, huh?"

"Do you know him?"

"Let's just say his name keeps coming up."

"Melchior," Song said, "Caspar wouldn't-couldn't-kill you, could he? After all you've been through?"

Melchior shook his head. "I dunno. It's been a long time."

"CIA feels Caspar's behavior has become alarmingly erratic," Ivelitsch said. "Angleton suspects we might have doubled him even."

"Golitsyn, me, Caspar. Is there anyone Angleton doesn't doesn't think is a double agent?" think is a double agent?"

"Yes. Kim Philby." Ivelitsch chuckled, then went on. "At any rate, Caspar's involvement with Giancana is entirely self-initiated. Last month he even tried to get a visa to Cuba, presumably to make an attempt on Castro's life. And the Company's pretty sure he was the person who took a shot at William Walker back in April."

"Walker's a fascist, Castro's a Commie," Melchior said. "And Kim Philby's in Russia."

"Scheider thinks Caspar-" Ivelitsch broke off. "What?"

"I said, Kim Philby's in Russia."

"What's your point?" Ivelitsch said coldly.

"My point is, you said yesterday that Philby was your mole inside CIA. But he's been in Russia since January, which means there's no way Angleton could have told him he wanted Caspar to kill me. Which means you got the info from someone else. I'm guessing it was Caspar himself."

"Pavel?" Song said. "What's he talking about? Did you turn Caspar?"

"Yes, Pavel," Pavel," Melchior sneered. "Did you double him? Or is he playing you? Because if the Company's got a file on you, then this partnership is Melchior sneered. "Did you double him? Or is he playing you? Because if the Company's got a file on you, then this partnership is over." over."

Ivelitsch didn't say anything for a moment. Then: "You'll have to ask him that yourself. When you see him in Dallas."

"Cut the bulls.h.i.t, comrade. I need to know the truth before I see Caspar. Has he been in regular contact with KGB since he came back from Russia?"

"Of course we tried to recruit him," Ivelitsch said exasperatedly. "But Caspar's so confused that he can no longer distinguish between legend and reality. He may well think he's working for KGB. For all I know, he'll tell you we have dinner once a week. But the simple truth is that he's too crazy, even for us."

"So what you're saying is that I should believe Caspar if he tells me what you want me to believe, but if he contradicts you, it's just a delusion. You'll understand me if I find that unsatisfactory."

"I'd worry less about who he's working for than if he's going to shoot you. After his failure in the Soviet Union, he needs to do something that'll prove his worth to the Company-it doesn't matter if he's doing it out of loyalty to the U.S. or the Soviet Union. You'll still be dead."

"And so will he," Song said. "The Company will tip off FBI, who'll pick him up for murder, and six months later he'll end up in the electric chair. And that's the end of the Wiz Kids."

Melchior glanced at Song, but he was thinking about Caspar again. About the last time he'd seen him, in a geisha bar outside the naval air base in Atsugi. Just before they parted, Caspar had pulled Melchior aside. "Promise me you'll get me out if they brainwash me."

"Get you out-"

"Take me out," Caspar corrected him. "I don't want them to turn me into something I'm not." Such a statement begged the question: what was Caspar? But Melchior hadn't had the heart to ask it. "Promise?" Caspar had said. "I promise," Melchior had said, and somehow they both knew he was going to break it. me out," Caspar corrected him. "I don't want them to turn me into something I'm not." Such a statement begged the question: what was Caspar? But Melchior hadn't had the heart to ask it. "Promise?" Caspar had said. "I promise," Melchior had said, and somehow they both knew he was going to break it.

"Melchior?" This time it was Ivelitsch who pulled him from his reverie. Melchior shook his head to clear it, but Caspar's face refused to go away. He stood up so abruptly that his newspaper fell to the ground and a few pages fluttered away in the breeze.

"I have to go to Chicago. We'll deal with Chandler and Naz later."

"Chicago?" Ivelitsch called after Melchior's retreating form.

"You want the bomb to come to America," Melchior called back. "I'm going to get it here, and take care of Caspar at the same time."

Ivelitsch turned to Song. "I don't understand."

Song put a hand on Ivelitsch's knee to keep him from getting up. "I don't either," she said, staring after Melchior. "But Chicago is Giancana's home base."

"Ah," Ivelitsch said.

Song pointed to the dateline on the paper, and for the first time Ivelitsch noticed that it was the Dallas Morning News Dallas Morning News. It took him a second to figure it out.

"He already knew, didn't he? He was just pumping us for information, making sure we were telling the truth."

"I told you," Song said. "He's good."

Ivelitsch picked up the front page, which was covered with a series of red and black X's and O's.

"What's this?"

Song peered at it. "I'm not sure, but I think it's an old cipher system dating from the forties. It's hugely complicated. You take your message and the particular page of newsprint you're using and create an algorithm that encodes the former onto the latter. There are only a handful of agents who can break it without a computer."

"Huh." Ivelitsch was about to say something else, but, twenty feet away, Melchior had turned to look back at him.

"Did you double him?"

A little smirk played over Ivelitsch's lips. "I'll tell you in fifty years, if we're both still alive."

Melchior nodded, turned back around. "Song keeps petting you like that," he muttered, "I'm pretty sure you'll be dead long before then."

New York, NY November 19, 1963

The men flanked him, the smaller one ahead, the bigger one behind, as they descended the staircase and made their way toward the front door. They spoke to each other in Russian, more or less confirming BC's earlier suspicion. This was a bad sign. It was one thing for Melchior to go rogue. It was quite another for him to cross to the other side. Or had word of Orpheus simply crossed international channels? Still, for some reason he wasn't afraid. He was already bucking the FBI and CIA, after all. What was one more acronymed agency? behind, as they descended the staircase and made their way toward the front door. They spoke to each other in Russian, more or less confirming BC's earlier suspicion. This was a bad sign. It was one thing for Melchior to go rogue. It was quite another for him to cross to the other side. Or had word of Orpheus simply crossed international channels? Still, for some reason he wasn't afraid. He was already bucking the FBI and CIA, after all. What was one more acronymed agency?

When they reached the bottom of the stairs, the first man turned back to him. "We know you are traveling with Orpheus. You will take us to him, or Nazanin Haverman will die."

"Of course," BC said. "If you'll go get me a pen and, uh"-a glance over his shoulder-"your partner tracks down some paper, I'd be glad to write down the address."

The lead agent smiled at BC's attempt at a joke. "We are strangers in the city. We would be very appreciative if you took us to him yourself."

BC shrugged. "Whatever floats your boat."

The second man pressed so close as they made their way through the thronged front hall that BC could feel the man's belly pressed against the small of his back. He couldn't resist.

"Is that a gun in your pocket, or are you just glad to see me?"

"Why can't it be both?" the man said.

The crowd seemed to have thickened. The parlors oozed smoke and music and body heat, and people eddied back and forth between them, making the hall a swirling ma.s.s. The three men inched their way forward, the lead Russian unwilling to shove through. Probably didn't want to attract attention, BC thought. The agent's hesitation bought him a few seconds, but to do what?

A fresh surge of people pushed the three men against a sleek modern console. An expressionist portrait hung over it-a woman looking like she'd been dismembered and rea.s.sembled by a blind surgeon. More helpfully, there was a medium-sized bra.s.s vase on the console beneath the painting.

Another press from the crowd. BC slipped his left hand into the vase as though it were a big bra.s.s glove. A puff of ash floated into the air as his hand sank into the metal canister. Great, he thought, I've stuck my hand in an ashtray. He hugged it quickly to his stomach, thankful he wasn't wearing one of his new suits.

"So, uh ..." He squinted at the signature on the painting. The man's handwriting was the most recognizable thing on the canvas. "What's your opinion of de Kooning?"

Even as the front man was turning around, BC whirled, leading with his metal-capped hand. The big Russian behind him was fast, he had to give him that. His gun was already out and leveling off. The vase struck it with a loud clang. The gun bounced off the console and went flying across the room.

"Whoa, bad trip!" someone yelled as BC whirled back to the front. He wasn't so lucky this time. He heard the sound of a shot as he turned, saw the smoking barrel of the gun in the lead Russian's hand even as a ripple traveled up and down his skeleton, shaking his bones one from the other. He wobbled on his feet, only his skin holding him together.

The Russian smiled. He seemed about to say something, then stopped. His brow furrowed, his smile leveled out. Blood leaked from his mouth and a second stain was flowering on his chest.

"Blyat," he said, and fell backward. he said, and fell backward.

BC held up the vase and saw the dent on the base. He'd gotten lucky after all.

Not that he had time to enjoy it. Something hard struck him in the small of the back and he was thrown forward. He landed on the fallen Russian and grabbed for his gun, trying to shake the bullet-dented vase off his left hand the whole time, but all he got was a cloud of ash. Still, he had the gun in his right hand, and he rolled onto his back and waved it at the second Russian.

"Back off," he said, inching backward across the marble floor, the bra.s.s vase clanking with every step.

"This s.h.i.t is the best! best!" someone said. "You would not believe what I'm seeing right now!"

Other partygoers were less sanguine, or less stoned.

"Call the cops!"

"Take it outta here, man. You're bringing down the vibe!"

Just then Peggy Hitchc.o.c.k came into the hall.

"Oh my G.o.d," she yelled, looking not at the gun in BC's right hand but the vase on his left. "Grandma!"

"Call Billy," BC told her. "Tell him you've got a dead KGB agent in your foyer. He'll know what to do."

To her credit, Hitchc.o.c.k just nodded and ran from the room.

The Russian seized the moment, diving behind the console beneath the painting. From his position on the ground, BC tried to aim underneath it, but before he knew it the console had flipped up in the air and was coming down top-first on his body, looking for all the world like a coffin falling from the sky. His right hand slammed into the marble floor and his fingers lost their grip on the gun.

Before he could move a second weight crashed into him. The console exploded in pieces, and he found himself staring at a pair of quivering jowls.

"If you think de Kooning is bad," the grinning Russian said, "wait till you see what I do with your face." He grabbed BC's throat with both hands and banged his head against the marble floor.

BC slammed the urn into the side of the Russian's head. It wasn't a strong blow, and all the Russian did was blink as a cloud of Peggy Hitchc.o.c.k's grandmother's ashes burst into the air, but at least he stopped banging BC's head against the floor. BC hit him again, angling for the man's bulbous nose this time, which showered his own face with blood. A third blow. A fourth. It was the Russian's face that resembled the de Kooning painting, but still he refused to let go of BC's throat. Spots dancing in front of BC's eyes obscured the Russian even more.

He was about to go for one last blow when the Russian's head fell on his chest and his hands finally slackened their grip. BC looked up to see Peggy Hitchc.o.c.k standing over him with an African-looking totem in her hands. She was holding it by a p.e.n.i.s the size of its abdomen.

"Just go," she said before BC could speak.

BC lifted his left hand, still stuck in the dented urn. Peggy Hitchc.o.c.k waved it away.

"Grandma's seen worse."

BC retrieved the unconscious agent's gun and stumbled into the hall, pressed the b.u.t.ton for the elevator. He'd just managed to extricate his hand from the urn when the doors opened. A shower of ash shot into the air like a desiccated thundercloud. The elevator operator pretended not to notice the ash or the blood or the skewed wig.

"Find what you were looking for, sir?"

BC straightened his vest and walked onto the elevator. "More like it found me."

The operator was nice enough to hail a cab for BC when they reached the street level, and he raced back to the Village. The cab got stuck in a traffic jam at the end of Fifth, and BC had to run the last five blocks to the hotel. Sweat mixed with the ash and blood on his face to form an acrid gruel that kept dripping into his mouth, but as soon as he pushed the door to the hotel room open, he realized he needn't have bothered.

Chandler was gone.

Chicago, IL November 19, 1963

Sam Giancana's guards didn't just frisk Melchior: they untucked his shirt and lifted it up to check for a wire, took off his shoes, felt inside the band of his hat, leafed through his wallet. They even opened his pen and scribbled on a piece of paper to make sure it was real-then kept it for themselves. Satisfied he was neither armed nor miked, they ushered him into Giancana's private office. his shirt and lifted it up to check for a wire, took off his shoes, felt inside the band of his hat, leafed through his wallet. They even opened his pen and scribbled on a piece of paper to make sure it was real-then kept it for themselves. Satisfied he was neither armed nor miked, they ushered him into Giancana's private office.

"I'm gonna want that pen back before I go," Melchior said to the guards as they left, then turned around to face the kingpin of the Chicago mob.