Malone listened to the president of the United States, who sounded more anxious than normal.

"I think Zorin intends to make a play during the inauguration," Daniels said through the phone.

He did not disagree, but had to point out, "That would be next to impossible. No one could get anywhere close enough to do the kind of damage he'd need to inflict."

Earlier, back in Eastport on the phone, Edwin Davis had told him about the 20th Amendment and the flaws both it and the 1947 Presidential Succession Act contained.

"Experts tell me that one of those things, if it exists, would be around six kilotons," Daniels said. "To do maximum damage it needs to be deployed from up high so the overpressure would be strongest. The wind blast would level everything within a mile. And you're looking at a fireball a thousand yards wide. Of course, if it's sitting a few hundred feet from the swearing-in, that will have about the same effect. But I agree with you, there's no way to get that close."

"How high does it have to be to do its worst?"

"A few hundred feet. That could mean a plane, chopper, or drone."

"These guys wouldn't have access to drones."

"But the Russians do."

"You don't seriously think Moscow wants to start a war."

"I'm not sure Moscow has anything to do with this. I want you and Cassiopeia back here fast. It's time we have a chat with the incoming administration and I'd like you two present."

"For what?"

"They're not going to believe anything I have to say."

He was not accustomed to defeatism in this president.

"I now know what it means to be a lame duck," Daniels said. "I can do some, but not near what I once could. People know my time is over."

"What is it you want to do?"

"We have to change the swearing-in. It's the only way."

Stephanie reentered the Mandarin Oriental. Normally she would work out of the Justice Department when in DC, but in her current state of "between employers" the hotel seemed her only choice. The trip to Kris Cox's house had proved enlightening, and she needed time to digest all that she'd been told.

She entered the lobby, but before turning for the elevators she spotted Nikolai Osin, standing off to the side, still draped in a sharp, black wool overcoat.

He said nothing as she approached.

"What brings you here?" she asked.

His face remained stoic, the features as frigid as the air outside.

"Some people, who would like to speak with you. Privately. Not from the government. They are ... entrepreneurs."

She knew what that sugarcoating meant.

Mobsters.

"They are here, though, on behalf of some within the government," he said. "A few of those people we discussed earlier. Which, more than anything else, explains my presence here."

She got it. No choice. "Okay."

"A car is just outside, rear door open, waiting for you."

"Are you coming?"

He shook his head.

"This talk is only for you."

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE.

Zorin sat in the front seat as Kelly drove. They'd decided to split the duty between them, each resting a few hours. The route was simple, Kelly had said. Straight south on the same highway until they came to Virginia, then they'd head west, into the rural countryside about eighty kilometers west of Washington, DC.

He thought back to his time with the KGB. Canada had long been intended as a forward base for Soviet military operations. He'd personally reconnoitered several crossing points into Minnesota and North Dakota. The Flathead dam in Montana would have been one of their first targets for destruction, all part of a coordinated infrastructure attack designed to internally weaken the United States. But Canada itself had formed an important target. He'd spent two years gathering intelligence on its oil refineries and gas pipelines, determining the best way to sabotage them, all of which had been carefully detailed in reports back to Moscow.

Nearly every Canadian province and all of the American states had been partitioned into "zones of operation." Each came with a central base in a rural location equipped with a parachute landing site, clear of buildings for two kilometers, and adjacent safe houses for refuge. They'd named the landing sites dorozhka, runways, and the houses uley, beehives. KGB guidelines required that the land for both should belong to someone trusted, the uley stocked with a radio, money, food, and water. There should also be police, military, railway, and forestry worker uniforms, along with local clothing. Encrypted files on site laid out the targeted power-transmission lines, oil and gas pipelines, bridges, tunnels, and military installations within 120 kilometers.

Then there were weapons.

Caches of firearms and explosives, either smuggled in or more likely bought locally inside the country. That had been particularly true in the United States, where firepower could be easily purchased.

"Did you personally prepare the uley for Fool's Mate?" he asked Kelly.

"I thought you were asleep."

"I was."

"Yes, Aleksandr, I own it."

"Risky, was it not?"

"Those were Andropov's orders. I was to involve no one else. He wanted me to have total control."

"It's been such a long time. How could any of that still exist?"

"That was part of my orders. It had to last. No exact date for action was ever noted. I assumed it would be sooner rather than later, but with the peculiar weapons involved special arrangements had to be made."

He knew what that meant. "A constant power source."

"Exactly. And I will say that proved a challenge."

"Is it booby-trapped?"

Kelly nodded. "One of the devices is designed to explode if the cache is breached. That was also part of my orders. No detection or anything left to find."

And the risk taken there had been enormous. What if there'd been a breach, whether intentional or accidental, and a six-kiloton nuclear explosion happened? That would be hard to explain.

"When did you learn what Andropov had in mind?" Kelly asked.

"Parts came from the other two officers. Then I searched the old records and gathered more. But that archivist knew things, too."

Belchenko had tempted him for years with Fool's Mate. Telling him about the zero amendment. That information had been gleaned from Andropov's private papers, which remain sealed to this day. Eventually, he'd learned enough to know what Andropov had planned for Reagan. Each time a new American president had been elected he'd pressed for more, and each time Belchenko resisted. But not this time. Finally, his old friend had come through and sent him along the right trail.

Which Moscow also seemed to be following.

"Are you hungry?" Kelly asked.

"We have to keep going."

"We also have to eat. We can buy something and eat on the road. There are several places just ahead."

Some food would be good and it would cost them only a few minutes. He checked his watch.

1:16 P.M.

22 hours left.

Malone gazed out the jet's side window to the terrain below. They were somewhere over New York or New Jersey, headed south aboard a Gulfstream C-37A owned by the air force. At five hundred miles per hour they would be back in DC before 2:00 P.M.

Cassiopeia sat across from him. He'd caught up with her at the Bangor airport and they'd immediately boarded, leaving the two state troopers behind with their questions still unanswered. He'd filled her in on everything he knew and on Danny Daniels' apprehension about the pending inauguration.

"Zorin's down there," he said. "Heading south." He turned from the window. "Thankfully, we have him on a tight leash, both physically and electronically."

"So we let him lead us to whatever there is, then take him down."

"That's the idea. But we have the added complication of the Russians with their panties in a wad."

She smiled. "More of that southern colloquialism?"

"Just a statement of fact." He thought about things for a moment. "My guess, Zorin is headed for somewhere in or around DC. So we'll wait there for him to come to us. If not, we'll head to him. Sorry about all these flights."

He knew flying was not her favorite thing.

"This is not so bad," she said. "Plenty of room to move around. Those fighter jets are a different story. I just don't see the appeal."

He did, though. In fact, if not for a few twists of fate he would have been a navy fighter jock, now retired after a twenty-year career. Interesting how that seemed so mundane. So few ever got the chance to pilot a multimillion-dollar warplane, but that paled in comparison with his experiences first with the Magellan Billet, then on his own after retiring. He'd been involved with some amazing adventures, the current one no exception.

"I need to call Stephanie," he said.

The plane came with its own communications system, which he activated by lifting a phone from a nearby console. He dialed Stephanie's cell phone number, the one she'd provided to him two days ago.

The phone rang in his ear.

Twice.

Three times.

After the fourth ring, voice mail kicked in and a robotic message said that the caller was unavailable and for him to please leave a message.

He decided not to and ended the call.

"She told me she wanted to know the minute we had things under control," he said as he hung up the phone. "So where is she?"

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX.

Stephanie occupied the backseat of the Escalade by herself. Two men with no personality sat up front. The SUV wove its way through traffic, and even though it was the weekend the streets were clogged with inaugural visitors. The next two days would be jammed with celebrations, too many to count. A million-plus people from all over the country would be in town, security extra tight. Already, the White House, the National Mall, and the west end of the Capitol should be sealed to visitors. The scaffolding for the swearing-in would be patrolled around the clock. All the museums that stretched on both sides of the Mall, from the Capitol to the Washington Monument, would likewise be occupied by security teams, their doors locked hours before the ceremony. Back in 1989 she remembered climbing the north tower in the Smithsonian Castle and watching George Bush take the oath of office from there. That would never be allowed today. Too high a spot, with too clear a shot. Instead, either a military sentry or the Secret Service would enjoy that lofty perch.

She wasn't quite sure what was happening here and had not liked the look on Osin's face back in the hotel lobby. But she'd had no choice. What would Danny say? Knowledge is knowing a tomato is a fruit, wisdom is not putting it in fruit salad. She was in pursuit of wisdom. Interesting how even unemployed she managed to stay in trouble. For the first time she sympathized with Cotton, as this was exactly the situation he'd repeatedly faced from her.

She grabbed her bearings and saw that they were headed north on 7th Street toward Columbia Heights. The car turned onto a side route. She hadn't been able to catch the street name. A small neighborhood park appeared on the right. The vehicle stopped. The man in the passenger seat climbed out and opened her door.

A gentleman?

She stepped out into the cold.

Luckily she still wore her heavy coat with gloves and scarf. The park stretched about a block and was deserted except for a man sitting on a lone bench.

She walked over.

"I apologize for the intrigue," he said to her as she drew close. "But it was important we speak."

He was short and plump, little more than a dark overcoat, a trilby hat, and stylish Louis Vuitton scarf. A lighted cigarette dangled from the gloved fingers of his right hand, which he puffed in the cold.

"You have a name?" she asked.

"Call me Ishmael."

She smiled at his use of the opening line to Moby-Dick.

"Names are unimportant," he said. "But what we need to discuss is vital. Please, have a seat."