But something was wrong.

Again, he carefully searched the camp. The guards, the trucks, the hostages... The hostages.

No one was being a.s.saulted, no one being brutalized. They were laughing with the Afghans! Coffee and food were being doled out. There was a general sense of relaxation and ease.

Then one of the crates was pried open, and Jerry finally understood. Slowly he worked his way closer to the camp to confirm the awful truth.

The crates were stenciled in German, not English; and what was coming out of them was far from humanitarian aid. Rather, it was Heckler & Koch a.s.sault weapons in their original factory wrappers. Each arm-length weapon coming complete with its triple-forked banana clips.

And the relief workers wore the pale blue uniforms of the Grens-Schutz Gruppe III. West German GSG-3 counterinsurgents, not U.N. workers.

Jerry cried.

Because these people-their wives, children, animals, homes, their very existence and any traces of it-were to be wiped out simply because they had changed allegiance from one Western power to another. And Herb Stone-as well as the people behind him-were going to send that message to the other groups.

"We buy you, you'd better stay bought."

"Car Wreck, Car Wreck, Car Wreck, this is ground."

"Car Wreck."

"Car Wreck, this is ground, all units at jump-off. Go/no go?"

"Ground from Car Wreck." Jerry took a deep breath. "Abort, abort, abort." "Say again Car Wreck."

"Abort! Abort! Abort," he almost shouted into his radio as the tears of this final betrayal filled his eyes.

Disaffection from service to country almost never comes about apocalyptically. There are almost never crashes of thunder, streaks of lightning, or great sudden realizations.

Instead, it's a gentle, a quiet thing. A moment-if a moment could be identified-when you realize that you're being used not to protect G.o.d and country, not for lofty ideals or flags waving in the wind; but to get someone a corner office, enhance an invisible's career, defend an essentially meaningless whim, or merely the transitory personal agenda of middle management.

These are the things that lead to apostates and burnouts, suicides and men shooting from towers.

But at this moment (being asked to destroy innocent allies in the name of proprietary office politics)-torn between the pull of his twin addictions (nepenthe and blind patriotism)-Jerry Goldman simply and completely chose to blink from all existence.

Hoping G.o.d and the devil wouldn't notice.

Xenos pulled himself back from his dark center.

"I finally realized," he said to the rapt youth, "that the only thing these men wanted was power. For themselves, for their power structure, for the h.e.l.l of it. Right and wrong were mere abstracts to them. Tools." He paused. "Like I was."

He exhaled deeply. "Anyway, I quit because-whether he wants to admit it or not-your grandfather taught me to hold myself to a higher standard. To demand truths, real truths of the world, and to defend them whenever and wherever I found them."

"Trouble was ... I couldn't find them. So, after a while, I stopped looking."

He shrugged, like a helpless child. "How could I go home to a man like your grandfather after that?"

Bradley shook his head. "You just could've. I know him."

Xenos sadly shook his head. "Sixteen," he said with a sad laugh. "Talk to me when you're forty."

Bradley stared at his uncle, then suddenly stood up and walked to the door.

"There is some soul of goodness in things evil," would men observingly distill it out, he recited carefully, thoughtfully. "For who could bear the whips and scorns of time, the oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, the pangs of despised love, the law's delay, the insolence of office, and the spurns that merit of the unworthy takes..."

Xenos looked up abruptly.

"... but that the dread of something after death," he said as if going into or coming out of a trance, "the undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveler returns, puzzles the will and makes us rather bear those ills we have than fly to others that we know not of." He hesitated. "Thus conscience does make cowards of us all."

He looked stunned. "Where did you learn that?"

Bradley shrugged as he went through the door. "Something Poppy taught me." And he was gone.

Slowly, as if drugged and fighting through it, Xenos turned the pages in the old book, not checking numbers, knowing by the feel where it was.

By Jove, I am not covetous for gold, nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;

It yearns me not if men my garments wear;

Such outward things dwell not in my desires;

But if it be a sin to covet honor, I am the most offending soul alive.

And beneath it, in a tiny, childish scrawl, the words: It is my sacred trust as a Knight Eminent to never

give up my honour! This I swear upon my very soul.

Jerry Goldman

10 years old

And he stared at those words for the bulk of the next hour.

"Six, in position."

"Copy six. Twelve?"

"Twelve, in position."

"Copy twelve. Thirty-four?"

"Thirty-four, in position."

"Copy thirty-four. Vulture, Vulture, Vulture, this is ground."

"Vulture."

"Vulture, this is ground, all units at IPs."

"Ground, this is Vulture. Inbound one-five minutes to LZ. All ground units are go for action in one-zero minutes from my mark."

"Vulture, this is ground. Copy. Ground units go one-zero minutes from your mark."

"Ground, ground, ground. My mark in three, two, one. Mark!"

"All units, all units, all units. This is ground. You are go for action in nine minutes five-zero seconds."

In his third day at the clinic, Herb was getting his balancing act down to a science.

Shuttling messages to his Washington headquarters through information-blind intermediaries in half the capitals of Europe; answering queries from other government agencies as if he were still in Washington; fending off the suspicion of Alvarez and the Corsicans with a natural charm and glee. He was alive, functional, awake after decades of disuse and bad habits born of boredom.

But, chillingly, he was no closer to stopping Apple Blossom than when he'd first arrived.

"Your reputation seems to have been inflated, Mr. Stone, Alvarez snapped at him."

He shrugged. "You're the politician, Congresswoman, not me. I just try to do my job."

"You don't do it very well!"

For one of the rare times in his life, Herb allowed his anger to show.

"What would you have me do?" he demanded. "If my suspicions and your allegations are even half right, then this Apple Blossom thing's penetrated almost every organ of the government. If George Steingarth's involved, if they're in your office for G.o.d's sake, I'd better G.o.dd.a.m.n a.s.sume they're in mine! And that means taking no chances, going d.a.m.ned slowly, and restricting access to the truth as much as possible."

He shook his head in exhausted fury. "Even without these handcuffs, I'll be d.a.m.ned if I know how to go about this without getting us all killed, committed, or disappeared!"

He began counting on his fingers.

"One, figure out who Apple Blossom is in provable, concrete terms."

"Two, find your children-G.o.d knows where-before exposing the traitor or risk losing them."

"Three, find a way to use this impossible to find proof to bring down Apple Blossom, whoever he is when he's at home."

"Four, find a way to expose the remainder of the Apple Blossom network. And let's not forget number five."

He paused, clearly for effect. "Do all this with no budget, no trustworthy, experienced personnel, no planning staff, and d.a.m.ned little else!"

"Xenos! You said-"

Avidol interrupted her. "My son has done what he's willing to do. What he can do, in good conscience." He shook his head. "Asking for more than that would be futile." He sighed. "I know."

"As do I," Herb added firmly.

Valerie looked at them-her mouth moving, but no words coming out-then whirled and stalked from the room.

Franco watched her go, then turned back to the men. "But you haven't given up."

"No," Herb said flatly. "Not likely either."

"Call if you need anything," Franco said as he headed out the door. "Just not in the next couple of hours, okay?" He smiled and hurried off.

Herb studied him. "You suppose that smile of his is ever sincere?"

"As often as yours is," Avidol said simply.

Herb smiled, then went back to work.

Franco caught up with Valerie at the door to her cottage on the edge of the clinic's grounds. "Hey, slow down. I hate running after a woman. It's demeaning."

"Go away." Valerie's voice was harsh and bitter.

"Sure, sure." But he didn't move.

There's a moment that comes at the end of every battle; an odd quiet that descends on the field and on the men and women in it. They hear the wind blow, the strange rustle of a dying flame, dirt settling, their own hearts trying to begin to beat again. As if the world-as they've known it-has stopped, and they're completely and utterly alone.

Like Valerie.