Martinelli snapped the Browning to his shoulder and aimed at the target thrown from the high house. He aimed just under it and fired.

The circular target wobbled he had come that close but continued on its path.

Martinelli heard Lowell making a tsk-tsk sound of sympathy while he aimed at the target approaching from the low house. Of all the targets in a round of skeet, this was probably the easiest shot. You could practically reach up and hit it with the muzzle. He fired again, and again the target seemed to wobble, to hesitate, and then went on its path.

"Tough, Jack," Lowell said with absolutely transparent false sympathy. "You dropped both of them. What did the flight surgeon have to say about your eyes last time around?"

Martinelli did not trust himself to speak.

Lowell stepped under the high house and almost immediately called "Pull." The action of his shotgun closed as he brought it to his shoulder.

There were two barks, and both targets dissolved into small gray-black clouds of dust right over the center marker.

Lowell turned to Martinelli and smiled benignly at him. "Maybe you're getting a little too old for this game, Jack," he said.

Martinelli glared at Lowell and then glanced at the grassy field beyond the low house where the unbroken targets from the high house had landed. And then he stared in that direction. He could see half a dozen unbroken clay targets, nearly vertical in the tall grass. They were glistening, reflecting the bright fall sun. Clay pigeons are made of stamped pitch.

They normally break on impact, and they damned well don't glisten in die sunlight!

Martinelli thrust his shotgun into Lowell's hand.

"Don't go anywhere, Lowell!" he said, and then he ran across the range toward the unbroken targets.

"Sergeant," he heard Lowell ask, "do you get the feeling the colonel suspects that something is amiss?"

The range sergeant chuckled.

Martinelli picked up an unbroken target. It was painted white, and stamped WINCHESTER. WESTERN but it wasn't a clay target. It was an ashtray an advertising giveaway stamped out of aluminum, made in the shape of a target.

"You sonofabitch!" Martinelli shouted, looking back at the line. Lowell was laughing. The master sergeant was trying very hard not to. Martinelli looked around for, and picked up, seven aluminum ashtrays.

And then, his anger vanishing as the humor of what had been done to him by Lowell and the trap boys came to him (this had taken some preparation; it wasn't just a spur-of-the moment funny idea), he began to chuckle. Shaking his head, balancing the stack of ashtrays in his hand, trying very hard to appear angry, he walked back to the high house.

A staff car pulled into the parking lot and stopped beside Martinelli's Buick station wagon. When the passenger got out of the front seat, he saw the solid gold cord on the overseas hat, and the two silver stars of a major general pinned to the front of it.

Did that sonofabitch actually invite Paul Jiggs out here to watch him make an ass of me? Anger returned.

Martinelli saluted when he walked up to Jiggs, who was standing with Lowell. Technically you weren't supposed to salute in civilian clothing, but a general officer was a general officer.

"Did he actually invite you out here to witness this?" Martinelli asked.

"Witness what, Jack?" Jiggs asked.

"The bastard's had me shooting at aluminum targets," Martinelli said: "Claiming the protection of the thirty-first Article of War," Lowell said, "I decline to comment on the grounds that it may tend to incriminate me."

"Well, you got me good," Martinelli said. "But from now on, you will never be able to sleep soundly, and you're going to spend a lot of time looking over your shoulder."

"I called out to the board," General Jiggs said, "and your secretary told me reluctantly, I might add that you two were doing your required exercise. I knew what that meant, so I came here."

"Is something up?" Martinelli asked.

"Primarily it gave me an excuse to get out of the office. I thought maybe there'd be a spare gun." "Sure," Lowell said. "I've got a 12-bore in the car."

"Get the business out of the way first," General Jiggs said. "Lowell has been asked to be a pallbearer at a funeral. If there's no reason he can't and it would have to be a pretty solid reason I'd like to see him go."

"I can't think of anything, can you, Craig'?" Martinelli asked.

"No, sir," Lowell said.

"That's good, because the request came from Felter," Jiggs said. "Which is the same thing as saying the White House."

"Who died?"

"A naval officer, a Commander Edward B. Eaglebury," General Jiggs said.

"Friend of yours, Lowell?" Martinelli asked.

"Yes, sir," Lowell said simply.

There was more to this than he was being told, Martinelli realized, and he also realized that he had probably been told all he was going to be told.

"It looks like duty to me," Jiggs said. "Maybe administrative leave. Lowell's being told to go. Not that he wouldn't want to, but this came pretty close to being an order."

"I'll have orders cut putting him on TDY" (temporary duty) Martinelli said. "Where' s he have to go?" "Philadelphia," Jiggs said. "The funeral's tomorrow."

"Felter say how he got the body?" Lowell asked.

Jiggs gave him a cold look. He was talking about something that should not be talked about.

"Come on, Paul," Lowell said. "The Cubans know he's dead. They shot him."

"Felter didn't say. Probably through the Swiss."

"He was a good guy," Lowell said, and then: "I'll get you a gun."

(One) Philadelphia International Airport 1800 Hours, 29 November 1961 When Northeast Airlines Flight 208 discharged its Philadelphia passengers at gate three, Lieutenant Colonel Craig W. Lowell and First Lieutenant Thomas I. Ellis were waiting in the concourse. Lieutenant Ellis was wearing khaki trousers, an open-collared khaki shirt, and a zippered powder-blue quilted nylon ski jacket purchased an hour before in the men's shop in the lobby of the Bellevue Stratford hotel. He looked like a boy en route home from college. Colonel Lowell looked like an army officer. He looked, Ellis had thought, like the drawings hung on the wall of the uniform concessionaire's place of business in the PX at Bragg: "The Well Dressed Army Officer."

The uniform was of the highest quality material and superbly tailored. It had come from London, from an establishment that had been clothing British officers since before the American Revolution, and American officers those few who could afford it since World War I. The orange-and-black embroidered insignia of the Army Aviation Center was sewn to the left sleeve of the tunic. The only other insignia were the silver oak leaves of his rank; the cavalry-sabers-superimposed-on-a-tank insignia of Armor, Army Aviator's wings with a star identifying a senior aviator; and above them a miniature (and unauthorized) Combat Infantry Badge with a star on its silver wreathed musket signifying the second award.

Colonel Lowell was tall, muscular, blond, mustached, and handsome, and in his uniform, complete with fur-felt cap with golden scrambled eggs of a field grade officer on the brim, he drew admiring glances from civilians in the terminal. Ellis felt like a slob beside him.

Four of the Northeast's Atlanta-boarded passengers who came into the terminal were also in uniform. They were Colonel Paul T. Hanrahan, who wore the crossed rifles of infantry. He was red-haired, ruddy-faced, and slightly built. Next came Lieutenant Colonel Rudolph G. MacMillan, another infantryman, stocky and round-faced; Major Philip Sheridan Parker IV, Armor, broad-shouldered, six foot three, two hundred and fifteen pounds, and very black; and Warrant Officer (Junior Grade) Stefan T. Wojinski, as pale as Parker was daik, barrel chested ball necked with two hundred and twenty pounds hung gracefully on a five-foot-eleven-inch frame.

Aside from the different insignia of rank, they were dressed identically in army-green uniforms. They all wore parachutist's insignia, and they all wore their trouser bottoms bloused around the tops of glistening paratrooper boots. They all wore Combat Infantry Badges. MacMillan and Parker wore Army Aviator's wings, MacMillan's with the wreathed star on top of a Master Aviator. They all wore a strip embroidered AIRBORNE sewn near the top of their tunic sleeves, and below that the embroidered insignia of Special Forces. And they all wore green berets. Lowell walked up to Colonel Hanrahan and shook his hand. "Yoo-hoo," he called over the colonel's shoulder to Major Parker. "Little girl, I'll take two boxes of the chocolate chip cookies and one of the vanilla wafers."

Major Parker shook his head, but he had to smile. When his teeth were exposed against his very black skin, they seemed extraordinarily white.

"Oh, for God's sake, Craig," Colonel Hanrahan said angrily. He was having enough trouble about the Green Berets without having to take wise-ass ridicule from Craig W. Lowell.

Two days before, he had received a CO NARC (Continental Army Command) directive. It had not come through normal distribution channels. Instead his copy had come addressed "Personal Attention of Col. Paul T. Hanrahan" in an envelope bearing the return address "Office of the Commanding General, Headquarters, Continental Army Command, Fort Monroe, Virginia." There was no accompanying letter. The return address had said all that had to be said. The CO NARC directive forbade the wearing of "nonstandard headgear, to include foreign beret' type headgear."

Hanrahan thought that Lieutenant General Triple H Howard was behind the directive. Not long before, he had defied Howard's local order banning the green berets by claiming that while the Special Warfare Center and School were on Fort Bragg, they were not subordinate to it. Howard did not have the authority the CO NARC commander did over Special Forces.

Hanrahan hadn't told anyone of the CO NARC order, not even Sergeant Major Taylor, who generally knew everything Hanrahan did. When he got back to Bragg, he would have to issue the order. But now he'd try to ignore it.

He thought it was perhaps fitting that the beret would sort of be buried with Lieutenant Commander Ed Eaglebury, a naval officer who had won the right to wear one and had jumped into Cuba as a Green Beret.

"I think you all look just splendid!" Lowell went on, undaunted. "I will sleep soundly tonight, knowing that the ustion's defense is in your capable hands."

"He's been drinking," MacMillan said flatly.

"Naw," Wojinski said mockingly. "How are you, Ski?" Lowell said to him, shaking his hand.

"Hello, Ellis," Colonel Hanrahan said. "I see that it took you no time at all to fall in with evil companions."

"Good evening, sir," Ellis said.

"And lucky for you that he has," Lowell said. "Since you are all famous for not being able to find your way out of a closet, I have assumed logistic responsibility for this mission. If you will all please get your luggage and follow me..

"Meaning what?" Hanrahan asked.

"About the logistics?" Lowell asked. Hanrahan nodded. "I have hotel rooms and wheels and the schedule. I have also previously reconnoitered the area. I know where we're going."

"And you have been at the whiskey?" "I have had a nip or two," Lowell said. "Widows and that sort of thing depress me."

"I'm sorry you have been inconvenienced by all this," Hanrahan said sarcastically.

"I don't suppose you've heard from the Mouse?" Lowell asked, ignoring the sarcasm.

Hanrahan shook his head. "Felter's not here?"

"No, and I get that I'll relay your message to Colonel Felter' bullshit when I try to call the White House," Lowell said.

"Maybe he's driving up," Ilanrahan said. "Maybe he brought Sharon."

"Yeah, probably," Lowell said.

They were at the baggage carousel. A livened chauffeur trailed by a red cap walked up.

"Point out your luggage to these gentlemen," Lowell said, "and give them the tags."

"Is he just dressed like that?" Hanrahan asked softly. "Or does he have a long black car to go with that uniform?"

"Actually, it's maroon," Lowell said. "And there's no divider, so watch what you say." He saw the look in Hanrahan's eyes. "It's not as expensive as you think, Paul, and it makes a lot of sense to have a car that can hold us all and someone to worry about it and run errands."

"Never look a gift jackass in the mouth, I always say," Hanrahan said.

He felt a little guilty. Lowell was probably right about the car. Hanrahan, having never hired a chauffeured limousine, had no idea what one cost. But it was probably less than it would have been to hire two taxicabs, and with all their luggage they would have had to hire two.

When they were all loaded in the limousine, Lowell announced that they were going to Old Original Bookbinder's Restaurant. Ellis, however, would proceed to the hotel, where he would "climb into a uniform, then join us at the restaurant. At Bookbinder's we will victual, and then we will all go out to Swarthmore and pay our respects to the family, and finally we will return to the hotel," Lowell said. "Are there any questions?"

"You seem to have everything under control, Colonel," Hanrahan said, paused, and added, "for once in your life."

"In case anyone gets lost," Lowell said, "and with MacMillan we always have to keep that in mind, we're in the Bellevue Stratford Hotel, in Penthouse B."

"Penthouse B?" Hanrahan asked dryly.

"They made me a deal," Lowell said. "You would be surprised, Paul, how seldom they have a chance to rent a suite like that. They're willing to bargain."

The penthouse, which was like a two-story house on the hotel roof, was the first penthouse Lieutenant Ellis had ever seen, except in the movies. The ride from the hotel to the airport, similarly, had been his first ride in a limousine. He'd heard the stories about Colonel Lowell being very rich, but until tonight, when Lowell had summoned him from the inexpensive room he had rented to the penthouse, it had seemed like so much bullshit. If a man had more money than he could spend, what was he doing in the army?

(Two) The Presidential Apartments The White House Washington, D.C. 1815 Hours, 29 November 1961 The President raised his eyes from the noon-to-four-P.M. summary, and looked around for its author. Colonel Sanford T. Felter was on one of the scrambler telephones. The President waited until he was through and then called his name.

Felter walked over to him.

"Is everything laid on to go to Philadelphia?" he asked.

"Yes, sir."

"I've decided to do it," the President said. "What shall we have Salinger tell the Fourth Estate?"

Something close to a smile curled Felter's thin lips.

"That's not my area of specialization, sir," Felter said.

Pierre Salinger, the presidential press secretary, hearing his name, looked across the room at the President. The President beckoned to him.

"You will inform the gentlemen of the press that I will depart in ten minutes by helicopter for Camp David. Only Mr. Felter will go with me."

"You're going to Camp David? Why?"

"Actually, I'm going to Philadelphia," the President said. "But I don't want the press disrupting a funeral. Which they would."

"Jack," Salinger said, "is that smart?"

"I got him killed, Pierre," the President said. "The least I can do is tell his family I'm sorry. And spare them the press while he's being buried."

"What are you going to tell Johnson?"

"I presume the Secret Service knows where he is," the President said. "I can't see any reason why he has to hear about this. Don't tell him unless you have to. I will go from Philadelphia to Camp David. You can send a couple of pool photographers out there in the morning to take my picture getting on the helicopter."

(Three) Old Original Bookbinder's Restaurant Philadelphia, Pennsylvania 1835 Hours, 29 November 1961 They were given a table on the second floor. Walking to it, they passed a glass case in which live lobsters crawled.

"When the waiter comes, he will lie to you," Lowell announced as they sat down. "He will offer the confidential information that most people think smaller lobsters are tastier. That's simply not so."

The waiter did just that.

"Bring us the five largest lobsters in the tank," Lowell said. "And steamed clams all around. And beer for everybody."