The attorney general nodded without realizing it. "You're a patriot, Mr. Filotimo, I've read your file. America is going to war-for whatever reason no longer matters-the war will soon be a fact." He shrugged. "And the old man in the White House is incapable of winning it."

"There are any number of reasons you might kill me, I think," DeWitt said matter-of-factly. "But my death leaves the lives of thousands of American men and women in the tender keeping of a half-senile old man who is so gullible that he has nominated a communist spy as his successor."

"Think of it. The blood of so many"-he looked down at the field-"so many that we are watching today, no doubt, spilled out upon the banner of your own vengeful impatience." He shook his head. "A waste of your talents and of life, sir."

Xenos was quiet for a long time. "You have fifty-four seconds to make your proposal. I a.s.sume you have one."

"I do." He gathered himself.

"Ten million dollars for you, five million dollars compensation to the family of that Satordi boy. Complete vindication of the Alvarez woman and her appointment to the amba.s.sadorial post she chooses. Or my complete overt and covert support in any election bid for any office. And another ten million dollars to rebuild that clinic of yours and pay any compensations you feel I've left out."

"You really think you'll live long enough to pay out all that?"

"That, Mr. Filotimo, is up to you. I have a speech to make. He shut off the phone with an arrogant snap. But didn't move until the light beams disappeared from the luxury box.

"Call the Secret Service, DeWitt said as he stood to leave." Tell them there's a sniper in the stadium. But tell them I'm making the speech anyway.

"Jeff! Don't you think-"

"For G.o.d's sake, Michael, he's not going to shoot! Not today anyway. Maybe after he gets to thinking about it, but not now. That offer's too d.a.m.ned good to turn down flat. He's a mercenary and they never turn down money without thinking about it first."

He started for the door. "Just make the call and join me when you can. He glad-handed his way into the corridor after tossing the cell phone to his aide."

Michael looked at the closed door, thought about the insanity that was soon to be president. An insanity that would-he was now sure-find him eminently expendable at the slightest fit of pique after he'd gotten what he wanted.

He thought about all that he would never get to do, all the dreams and time that would then be wasted.

He looked out at the stadium, knowing that Filotimo was out there somewhere, but knowing him better than the arrogant s.h.i.t that had just left possibly could.

He had worked for years, swallowed loads of s.h.i.t and more self-respect than any man should ever have to, and he would be G.o.dd.a.m.ned if he allowed either man-the preening a.s.s or the outraged weapon-to take it away from him now that he was so close.

He looked down at the phone, dialed *69, and waited.

A moment later Xenos's voice came over the line-firm and clear.

"What do you propose?"

"A confidential act of amnesty," Valerie said to the president, his chief counsel, and Buckley.

"Not possible," the attorney general designate said. "Whatever your motivations, Valerie, you still turned cla.s.sified doc.u.ments and information over to a hostile foreign power. That's treason, maybe a lower degree, but treason nevertheless."

"And you've still only given us hints, snippets, possibilities about DeWitt, nothing we could take to court and get a conviction with," the White House counsel added. "You're going to have to do better."

"What about all that?" She pointed angrily at the box of evidence Michael had turned over to Buckley. "What's that, if not evidence?"

"That"-Buckley waved at the box-"is incriminating as h.e.l.l. Along with your testimony it's d.a.m.ning as h.e.l.l."

He hesitated, as if the taste of the next soured him. "But they'll argue everything in there is faked, forged, composited in a smear campaign. And your testimony will be viewed simply as the inadmissible ravings of a cultist coconspirator." He became uncomfortably quiet.

"Maybe you're the traitor," Valerie growled.

Buckley nodded. "I might've been. I do fit the circ.u.mstantial profile, but"-he tapped the box-"we now know it's DeWitt."

"We need more, Congresswoman," the president said softly.

For over an hour-since she'd told her story-Valerie had been arguing her case. Desperately trying to find an accommodation that would work for everyone and allow her to remain with her children. Because the one thing she now knew, beyond anything else in this whole muddled mess, was that she would never allow anything to come between them and her again.

"What more can I say?" she asked quietly. "I've come here willingly, to try and prevent an American tragedy of hitherto unknown proportions, and you're quoting the letter of the law at me!"

The president smiled and poured her a drink. "I probably believe you about your children. I've known you for years and I know what I would do for mine or my grandkids." He shivered at the thought. "But I still need more."

"Mr. President, I've told you everything I can. I've warned you about DeWitt, about the Chinese, about everything that's happened or about to happen. What more can I do?"

Buckley answered the phone, spoke quietly for a moment, then nodded at the president.

The old man smiled just then. "Show him in," he said casually. A moment later the door to the Oval Office opened. "h.e.l.lo, George. We were just talking about you, he said easily."

George Steingarth nodded as he entered the room. "Mr. President, my apologies. But I was caught up in a series of international calls this ..." He froze as Valerie turned to see who had come into the room.

"Te voy a picar en pedacitos de salchica y da.r.s.elos de comer a tu madre," Valerie muttered in poisoned tones as she slowly stood up.

"Eh, Mr. President, I must ...," Steingarth said as he turned to leave-only to find his way blocked by two Secret Service agents.

Valerie launched herself at the man, her hands closing around his throat as they toppled to the ground.

"b.a.s.t.a.r.d!"

The Secret Service agents started to come forward, but the president waived them off. "Leave her," he called out.

Valerie released her left hand and began methodically smashing it against the man's face. Apparently not satisfied with the result, she grabbed a bra.s.s ashtray from a nearby table and began using its corners on the man's groin.

"Help me," Steingarth moaned in a child's voice. "She's going to kill me!"

The president nodded and the Secret Service agents-both of them-barely pulled Valerie off of him. "Well," the president sighed, "you seem to have some explaining to do, George."

"I have ...diplomatic immunity ...from the ... People's Republic of ..." Steingarth's voice was a near thing, barely there as he gasped for lifesaving air and clutched at his groin.

"Of China, yes, George. I think we know that now," Buckley said as he sat down. "You have your corroboration, Val. The question now is: what are we going to do with you, both of you?"

"And what do we tell the American people?" the White House counsel added.

"Christ," the president said as he downed Valerie's drink.

It was still several hours before sunrise as the two old men strolled through the barely lit Imperial Gardens in the Forbidden City.

Below, in the tightly secured offices that no outsider had previously seen, they had said the facts, the brutish realities that would guide the decisions they must make. But here, among the willows and koi ponds and gentle floral beauty, contemplation only was in order.

They spoke little, then mostly about this plant or that tree. Both men knew the thoughts of the other, the ramparts that they would or would not cross. And neither was anxious to give voice to the realities that bore in on them.

But time-in all forms-was an ally to neither man.

"If what you say has happened has happened," Xi said calmly, "then I'm afraid our countries may be at war with the coming of the sun."

Herb shook his head. "I came here to turn off one war, not start another. We don't have to make it more complicated than that."

"And your country would seek no retaliation for the death of the vice president. Please, Director Stone, neither of us are young naives."

Herb nodded. "But we are realists."

Xi studied the eyes of the man he'd made war on for over forty years. "Tell me your reality."

"War is made between men, not countries. So, too, the peace."

"Agreed."

"We want the names of all American citizens involved in the Apple Blossom project. We want the withdrawal of all Chinese advisers and military units from North Korea, Vietnam, Laos, Cambodia, and from within one hundred miles of the Indian border. We want, we expect, full and active support from the Chinese Mission to the United Nations on all U.S. proposals on human rights. We expect you to allow international inspections of all military facilities that can either stage to or directly threaten Taiwan and an immediate cessation of all hostile acts toward that nation."

Xi smiled. "Those are essentially political demands, he said simply." Things for diplomats in their striped pants to negotiate. He gestured at a nearby marble bench. They walked over and sat down. "What do you require, Director Stone?" He waited.

Herb took his time lighting a cigar. "I want you to demonstrate, in some material way, your..."-he smiled-"deep remorse and grief over this horrible moment in our relations. He gestured with the cigar." Something to do with drugs might help.

"And if all the opium fields in Burma, southern China, and Vietnam were to be verifiably destroyed by fire?"

"A good start. But nowhere near complete enough."

Xi looked off into the waning night sky. "If what you say has happened has happened-and you understand I cannot take your word for this?"

"Of course."

"In that event, I think I might take your proposals to the Central Committee."

They stood and began to walk again.

"It was a beautiful plan," Herb said sincerely.

"Thank you."

They stopped by a tree that seemed filled with fireflies- dancing in the last moment of the night in green shimmering brilliance.

"Will its failure go hard for you?"

Xi shrugged. "All failures are relative, I believe. While the acquisition of positive control over the fortunes of your country were not completely achieved, secondary designs-unrelated to your people-were reached."

Herb was too much of a gentleman (as much as any were in the intelligence community) to ask. "Will you be able to convince the general secretary of that?"

Xi almost-not quite but close-smiled. "Regretfully, our beloved general secretary has taken ill. The prognosis is not good."

"Indeed?"

"His illness seems to have affected his judgment, causing him to sanction certain operations that a healthy man in retention of all his faculties would never have done. Approved, it seems, by many misguided-similarly ill-members of the Central Committee."

He hesitated. "I'm afraid this flu epidemic may lead to a great many state funerals."

Herb studied the man's eyes, his soul-as much as he had one. "Pity," was all he said as he waited.

"In their benevolent wisdom, in the wake of these tragedies, the Central Committee has asked me to take over our esteemed general secretary's duties."

"My condolences and congratulations," Herb said deliberately as he locked blazing gazes with his Chinese counterpart. "When did all of this happen?"

"Approximately six hours from now." Xi gestured and a car came forward. "Your plane awaits you, Director Stone. A pleasure to have met you."

"A pleasure, Secretary Xi."

Xi remained in the garden until the sun was fully up, embracing him with its warmth and renewal. A strengthening brought about as he lost a country, and gained a country. And as the sun rose and strengthened in light and intensity, so, too, would his China.

That, after all, was the real purpose behind Apple Blossom... depending on perspectives, where you stood or who you were.

Finally, almost reluctantly, he got into his car to announce to the general secretary and the Central Committee that a "new age of China, as a member of the community of nations, had begun during the night."

And that they were no longer a part of it.

"Mr. Attorney General?"

DeWitt stopped at the mouth of the tunnel leading out onto the field. He turned to the men in the suits who had stepped between him and the throng awaiting him. "Who are you?"

"Inspector Lewis Pena, United States Secret Service." "Oh, right. I remember you, you're the man in charge here, right?"

"Uh, yes, sir." He seemed uncomfortable as five more of his men came up around him. "Sir, I can't allow you to go out onto that field."

DeWitt smiled bravely. "I know about the sniper, Inspector. But I won't allow a vague threat to silence me or keep me from the people."

"Yes, sir," Pena mumbled. "Very, uh, courageous of you. He hesitated." But the president has instructed me to return you to Washington immediately.

DeWitt looked confused. "Has something happened that I don't know about?"

"Yes, Michael whispered as he walked away and disappeared into the crowd."

"What? Michael? The agents began forcing DeWitt back into the tunnel toward a waiting car." What the h.e.l.l is going on here? Michael!

"Jefferson Wilson DeWitt," Pena intoned as they moved toward the parking lot, "you are under arrest for the crime of treason against the United States of America."

"What? Have you lost your f.u.c.k-"

He never finished his thought as they came out of the tunnel, into the sun of the parking lot, and two shots tore through his right eye into his brain.

If he still had a soul, it left his body before it hit the ground.

As Xenos Filotimo withdrew his rifle, rolled up his limousine's window, and gestured for the driver to leave.