She tore her gaze off the punk-rocker girl in the mirror and shut off the tap. She dried her hands on her jeans because those blower machines were useless and headed for the door.

She was going to do this. She'd get through security and then she'd be home free. For a while, at least.

The lines were much shorter at the pa.s.sport control stations now, only three people deep. Zoe hadn't seen Ry since they'd caught separate cabs to the airport, and had that ride ever been the loneliest hour of her life. But there he was, putting his carry-on onto the X-ray machine's conveyor belt. Fatama had put him in a salt-and-pepper wig and beard, and an old man's potbelly. He shuffled along, stoop-shouldered and looking crotchety, and it made her smile.

Then the smile froze on her face.

Four men of the French Surete Nationale were coming down the corridor. They carried submachine guns and scanned the crowd with narrowed, intense eyes. One of them had a piece of paper imprinted with the photographs of a man and a woman in his hand, and he was comparing it to the faces of those he pa.s.sed. Zoe wondered if it was possible to faint from fear.

How can they recognize me? I've got purple hair and a gold stud in my nose.

Only one person was ahead of her in line now, a man wearing a maroon sweat outfit and with long, slicked-back hair that looked as if it hadn't been washed since Christmas. The man in the booth had already given him his ticket and pa.s.sport back, but maroon guy lingered, babbling in French about G.o.d knew what.

Come on. Come on ...

Zoe looked over her shoulder. The cops had turned off the corridor and were coming right at her now, walking fast, one of them talking excitedly into his shoulder radio.

Maroon guy laughed, said something more, and slapped his pa.s.sport against his palm. Then at last, at last, he picked up his carry-on and started to walk away. Zoe stepped up and handed her airline ticket and pa.s.sport to the man in the booth. She was Marjorie Ridgeway, from Brighton, England. What if he asked her a question, though? Could she fake a British accent? Her hair in the pa.s.sport photo was short and black, but it wasn't purple on the ends. Fatama had said that would be too much; it would raise a red flag. n.o.body ever looked exactly like his or her pa.s.sport photo.

The man in the booth opened her pa.s.sport, looked at her photograph, looked at her, looked at her photograph. Behind her, Zoe heard the crackle of excited chatter on the cop's radio.

The man in the booth was looking at her ticket now. Round-trip to Budapest and back on Malev airlines, leaving at 1850 from Gate 15. She'd bought a round-trip because one-ways also raised red flags.

What was taking him so long? Oh, G.o.d, now he was looking at her pa.s.sport again.

She heard a shout and the thud of running booted feet behind her. She whirled, stricken nearly deaf and blind with fear. The cops were coming right at her, and she started to raise her hands in surrender because she didn't want them to shoot.

Then they were running past her, through the throng around the security machines, and out a door that led down to the tarmac.

She heard someone say, "Mademoiselle?" "Mademoiselle?"

She looked around to see the man in the booth, holding out her pa.s.sport and ticket. "Have a pleasant flight," he said, and smiled.

ZOE SANK DOWN into her seat, still shaking inside, sure she'd sweated off five pounds in the last five minutes. But she'd made it onto the plane, and Ry, too-she'd spotted him seven rows down, while she was stowing her satchel under the seatback in front of her. into her seat, still shaking inside, sure she'd sweated off five pounds in the last five minutes. But she'd made it onto the plane, and Ry, too-she'd spotted him seven rows down, while she was stowing her satchel under the seatback in front of her.

She drew in a deep breath and looked out the window. The lights from the ground-control vehicles shone in red, white, and blue streamers on the wet tarmac. America. Home. She wanted to be back in San Francisco, curled up on the sofa in her loft with Barney and Bitsy purring away beside her, taking turns rolling onto their backs so she could give their bellies a rub.

She felt a presence beside her, heard a woman's voice, and she twisted around fast, nearly coming up out of her seat.

But it was only the flight attendant, who smiled and said, "I asked if you would like a magazine. I've only the one left in English. Vanity Fair Vanity Fair."

Zoe took the magazine, more to be polite than anything else. What she really wanted was a drink. Straight vodka, easy on the ice, thank you very much.

She started to slip the magazine into the seat pocket in front of her, then her eyes fell on the face of the man on the cover, and she nearly gasped out loud.

She couldn't believe it, it simply couldn't be, but it was.

It was the third man in the film, the one in the railroad uniform, the one who'd taken the rifle from Ry's dad, broken it down, put it in a toolbox, and then walked away with it, into the sunset. The flaring eyebrows, the p.r.o.nounced widow's peak that pointed like an arrow to the hooked beak of a nose, the full lips that looked too Angelina Jolie for a man. He was much older now, nearly fifty years older, but it was still him.

The man who had helped to kill President John Fitzgerald Kennedy.

Zoe spread the magazine out on her lap with shaking hands. She read the subhead, and this time she did gasp out loud.

MILES TAYLOR, AMERICA'S KINGMAKER.

37.

New York City MILES TAYLOR picked up the steaming coffee his secretary had deposited by his elbow and took a sip, his mouth puckering. It was just the way he liked it, black and thick as tar pitch. He winced as he levered himself out of his favorite tufted brown leather wing chair and limped to the library window, bringing the coffee with him. picked up the steaming coffee his secretary had deposited by his elbow and took a sip, his mouth puckering. It was just the way he liked it, black and thick as tar pitch. He winced as he levered himself out of his favorite tufted brown leather wing chair and limped to the library window, bringing the coffee with him.

He looked down on Central Park and a grove of gray, withered birches. He spotted only one hardy jogger out on the path that wove through the trees. The street directly below him, though, was bustling with yellow cabs and scurrying pedestrians. The morning's snowfall had already turned to a sooty slush, and gray, saggy clouds hung low over the rooftops.

The whole d.a.m.n world's gone gray on me. Gray clouds, gray trees, gray snow.

Yasmine. She should have called from Paris by now, called to tell him the Dmitroff girl had been found and dealt with and the film destroyed. Yet both the cell in his pocket and the telephone that sat on his ma.s.sive antique partner's desk stayed ominously silent.

He hated this, hated not having control, hated having to wait for the ring of a telephone.

It's Nikolai, he thought. The b.a.s.t.a.r.d's beat Yasmine to the girl. He's got the film, and now he's gonna try to use it. Either he'll bleed me dry, or he'll figure out a way to use me. Well, f.u.c.k that, because it's not gonna happen. Not this time The b.a.s.t.a.r.d's beat Yasmine to the girl. He's got the film, and now he's gonna try to use it. Either he'll bleed me dry, or he'll figure out a way to use me. Well, f.u.c.k that, because it's not gonna happen. Not this time.

He thought back, so many years ago now, to the angry young man he had once been. And to the Russian who had come into his life and known just what it would take to buy his soul.

THE FIRST TIME he met Nikolai Popov, it was a crisp, sunny December day in 1951. he met Nikolai Popov, it was a crisp, sunny December day in 1951.

Miles had gotten a track-and-field scholarship to Boston College out of high school, but he blew out his knee going over the hurdles during his very first meet. So after that, the only way he could manage the tuition was to take just a couple of cla.s.ses a semester, in between working construction jobs down at the harbor.

It was good times, though. He crashed with five other guys in a run-down Victorian apartment building on the edge of Chestnut Hill and lived off peanut b.u.t.ter and cans of pork 'n' beans. Got laid when he could, which wasn't often because the kind of girl that caught his eye-girls with cla.s.s and money and pedigrees that went back four generations-they didn't often put out for schmucks like him.

Miles had this one Jesuit professor, Father Patrick Meaney, who was young and hip and a political activist, and who seemed to take a particular liking to him, claiming Miles was some kind of economic genius and pretending that he cared. One night, after his econ theory cla.s.s, Father Pat invited Miles back to his place for a brandy, and to continue "our discussion on reflexivity in the marketplace."

To Miles's surprise, Father Pat had invited another guest over for a drink that night, too, a Russian he introduced as Nikolai Popov, who was supposed to be some sort of economic adviser attached to the Russian emba.s.sy in Washington. Miles figured the guy for a spy right off, though, because weren't they all spies?

The funny thing was, they did talk about reflexivity in the marketplace that night. At one point, Miles leaned back in his chair, pleased with the argument he'd just made-that the biases of individuals enter into market transactions, potentially changing the fundamentals of the economy-when he realized his professor had left the room and he was alone with the Russian.

"Poor Father Pat," Nikolai Popov said, as he leaned over to pour more brandy into Miles's gla.s.s. "He is in bad trouble with his bishop these days. It seems he may be consorting with some members of the Communist Party. Real card-carrying members."

"Like yourself?" Miles said.

Popov smiled and shrugged. "I foresee a rea.s.signment in his future. To some mission in deepest, darkest Africa, I fear. What is it you Americans say? Better dead than Red?"

Miles waved away the idea with his gla.s.s, slopping brandy onto his hand. "Aw, most of that radical stuff he spouts in cla.s.s-it's just for show. I doubt he really believes in half of it."

The Russian raised an amused eyebrow. "You think not? And what do you believe in, young Miles? Or for you, too, is it all just for show?"

"Nothing," Miles said, as he tried surrept.i.tiously to wipe the brandy off his hand and onto his pant leg. "I don't believe in anything."

"Not anything?" Popov pursed his lips and tilted his head, as if he found the younger man quite amusing. It was starting to p.i.s.s Miles off. "No, I think you believe rather wholeheartedly in money. The power of money."

"Money can't buy happiness," Miles said, not believing a word of it, of course, but then he rarely told people what he really thought.

"Enough of it can buy you anything."

Miles shrugged, conceding the point.

Popov took a sip of brandy, let the silence build, then said, "We have spoken of Father Pat's future, but what of yours? Boston College is a fine school, but it is neither Harvard nor Yale. And you will not get a position with a firm such as Wertheim and Company on wishing and hoping alone. You need connections. An in."

"I know people."

"Really? And how do you know these people, Miles? From parking their cars for them during summer parties at the Vineyard? From seeing them drop by your father's Oak Bluffs service station for a tune-up? These same people, who after your father deserted your family, didn't even think enough of your mother to give her a job cleaning their toilets."

Miles felt his face burn with shame and he hated the man for being able to do that to him. "f.u.c.k 'em, then," he said, his lips stiff. "I don't need them."

"No, what you need is to be be one of them, and that can never happen. You don't even exist for them. They drive up to your papa's service station in the summer, and you fill up the tanks of their big, fancy cars, and they don't see you. They look at you and give you money for the gas, but they never see you. You could drop dead at their feet, and they wouldn't give a s.h.i.t." one of them, and that can never happen. You don't even exist for them. They drive up to your papa's service station in the summer, and you fill up the tanks of their big, fancy cars, and they don't see you. They look at you and give you money for the gas, but they never see you. You could drop dead at their feet, and they wouldn't give a s.h.i.t."

Miles wanted to punch his fist through the guy's face, but he said and did nothing.

"That is why you stole the Kennedy boy's car that summer you were twelve," Popov went on. "You went for a joyride and wrecked it just a little, yes? But he sent a gofer down to the police station to deal with it, he didn't even press charges, and that rankled, didn't it, Miles? It rankles to this day. Because you took that car to make all of them see you, to prove you mattered, and yet ..." Popov snapped his fingers. "That is how little you mattered." is how little you mattered."

Miles's mouth stretched into a travesty of a smile. "Who gives a f.u.c.k what happened when I was twelve? Someday I'm going to be richer than the Kennedys, richer than any of those arrogant a.s.sholes can hope to dream of."

Popov smiled that d.a.m.n smile again. "And how will you accomplish that? You have a little over twenty-four thousand in the bank, which has come from playing the market-quite ingeniously I might add-with the few dollars you've managed to sc.r.a.pe together. But in the world you wish to enter, twenty-four thousand is p.i.s.sing money."

"How do you know all this stuff? Just who in the h.e.l.l are you?"

"Don't ask stupid questions. You know I do more for my emba.s.sy than advise them on which way the capitalist winds will blow when the markets open tomorrow.... As I was saying, you are about to embark on your career with a degree and twenty-four thousand dollars to your name. Not bad for a boy like you, who comes from nothing. But it is peanuts and you know it is peanuts. You know the only way to make real money is to have real money to begin with, like the Du Ponts have, and the Rockefellers and the Gettys."

"Okay," Miles said after a moment. "Why don't we cut through all the bullc.r.a.p, Mr. Popov? What are you willing to give me, and what do I have to do to get it?"

WHAT ARE YOU willing to give me ... willing to give me ...

What Nikolai Popov had given him was the seed money, and the kind of insider trading, that he needed to play the markets in ways that really counted for something. Popov also gave Miles a mission: to search out and develop ties within the policy-making circles at the highest levels of the U.S. government. And once inside those circles, he was to feed whatever intel he came across back to Moscow. The deal served both men well. At least in the beginning.

Miles got filthy rich, and with each billion came a power and influence on Wall Street and within the corridors of Congress and the Oval Office beyond even his wildest dreams. In return, Popov had collected on his investment in the currency of all spies everywhere: information.

How many national secrets had Miles spilled into the Russian's ears over the years? Enough to get him hanged a thousand times over, and that didn't even count the murder of a president.

The grandfather clock in the corner began to strike, and Miles started so violently he spilled coffee down the front of his suit coat. He brushed at it with his hand, smearing it into the gray silk cashmere. He swore. Custom-made in Savile Row, it had cost him five thousand bucks, and even that ruinously expensive French cleaner his secretary took his clothes to on the Upper West Side might not be able to get the stain out.

f.u.c.k this. If Yasmine didn't call in the next five minutes, he was calling Nikolai. Better to know right off if Nikolai had the film, and then he could exert some control over the situation.

It was almost funny when you thought about it. He'd watched it all go down, live and in living color, but the only images he could ever call to his mind were the still prints Mike O'Malley had made from that d.a.m.n film. Of himself in that stupid railroad uniform, taking the rifle from Mike's hands.

Yasmine was right. He had believed the con was all his, that he'd played and manipulated Nikolai Popov and the KGB into carrying out the a.s.sa.s.sination. But when it came to Popov, he should have suspected that there were wheels within wheels.

Especially when Popov forced him to take part in the dirty work, by threatening to expose him as a commie spy if he refused. Putting him in the frame, figuratively. And literally, too, as it turned out. Thanks to O'Malley and that d.a.m.n film.

Miles turned and limped back to the desk, stared down at the telephone. Black and simple, and checked by his security twice a day for bugs, its number known by only a handful of people in the world.

Ring, d.a.m.n you. Ring.

IT DIDN'T RING.

He went around the desk and sat down, the leather of his captain's chair sighing softly beneath his weight. He pulled the telephone toward him, lifted the receiver, waited a few seconds more, then dialed the number of a telephone on the other side of the world that would also probably be plain and black and checked for bugs twice a day.

It rang four times, there was a click, but he heard no one at the other end of the line. No "Da?" "Da?" or the more formal or the more formal "Zdraste." "Zdraste." Just silence. Just silence.

"Nikolai?" Miles listened for the smallest intake of breath, for any show of surprise, but what he heard was soft laughter.

"Miles, is that really you? Of course it is you. But why are you telephoning after all this time? What do you want?"

"Can't an old friend call up to see how you're doing?"

"How many years has it been since last we spoke? Twenty-five, thirty? A loyal comrade falls out of favor and he is dropped like a-what is it you Americans say? A hot tamale? And now suddenly you are ringing me up to see how I am doing?"

"Potato," Miles said. "Dropped like a hot potato." Miles said. "Dropped like a hot potato."

Nikolai blew out a long, sad sigh. "Since you are kind enough to ask after my health, I am alive. And at my age that is quite the accomplishment. Mostly, though, I am content to sit and look out at the lovely pond in my garden, at water so blue you cannot tell where it leaves off and the sky begins. Or rather I would be if it were not February and the pond was not strangled with ice."

Miles watched a pigeon fly into view, land on the windowsill, and then c.r.a.p all over it. "You must be bored s.h.i.tless."

Nikolai laughed. "Well, I do still dabble in a few things. On the occasion."

The pigeon flew off. Miles said, "Is that what you were doing in San Francisco? Dabbling? Because, if so, you've lost your touch."

For a second or two, all Miles heard was static. Hesitation on Popov's part? Or merely a hiccup with the satellite?

Then, "I am afraid you have lost me, Miles. I haven't been to your delightful country in years."

"Cut the c.r.a.p, Nikki. I might be late to the party, but I know all about O'Malley's forty-nine-year bluff now. He never had the film. At least not for long. His woman ran off on him and took it with him, lo these many moons ago."

More static, then, "Here you are, America's Kingmaker, and I am but the son of a poor Russian peasant, yet I am, as always, one step ahead of you. Indeed, you are right, I knew all along about Katya Orlova, and that she had the film. And now you think that because she is dead, I must have it, and you are calling to see what my price will be."

"I don't care what your price is, I'm not paying it."

"But, my dear Miles, you are such a testimonial to the wonders of capitalism. Whereas I am forced to live off a measly government pension and the dubious charity of a son who is little better than a murderer and a thief. Surely you can spare a billion or two? You have so many."

"The thing is, I don't think you have the film, Nikki. I think your guy botched it and killed her before he could get her to say where she'd stashed it. Did you know that she was already dying of cancer?"

Nikolai heaved another mock sigh. "My man lost his temper. The b.i.t.c.h stabbed him with a whiskey bottle-can you believe it? It isn't like the old days. One simply cannot find competence in the a.s.sa.s.sination business anymore.... But you are right, of course, I do not have the film. At least not yet. I should have known better than to try to fool you, Miles."

"You've been fooling me from the very beginning, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Tell me about the altar of bones."

"The altar of what?" Not a second's hesitation this time, not even a second's worth of static.