"It better not."

"Mr. President, what caused the, the-"

"'Disaster' is probably the word you're looking for, Charles," the President said.

"-excitement at Fort Detrick yesterday was Colonel Hamilton declaring a Potential Level Four Biological Hazard Disaster. That probably won't happen today."

The President snorted, and then asked, "So what's going to happen when the insulated container from Texas is delivered to Hamilton?"

"He will determine whether the container contains more Congo-X."

"And if it does?"

"Excuse me?"

"If it does contain more of this noxious substance-now, that's an understatement, isn't it? 'Noxious substance'?-what is he going to do about that?"

"The colonel has been experimenting with high-temperature incineration as a means of destroying Congo-X. He has had some success, but he is not prepared to declare that the solution."

"So we then have several questions that need answering, don't we? One, what is this stuff? Two, how do we deal with it? More important, three, who's sending it to us? And, four, why are they sending it to us?"

"Yes, sir, that's true."

"And you have no answers?"

"I think we can safely presume, sir, that it was sent to us by the same people who were operating the 'fish farm' that we destroyed in the Congo."

"I think we can 'safely presume' that we didn't destroy everything that needed destroying in the Congo, can't we?"

"I'm afraid we have to proceed on that a.s.sumption, Mr. President."

"And you have no recommendations?"

"Sir?"

"It seems to me our options range from sending Natalie Cohen to Moscow and Teheran to get on her knees and beg for mercy all the way up to nuking both the Kremlin and wherever that unshaven little Iranian b.a.s.t.a.r.d hangs his hat in Teheran."

"There are more options than those extremes, Mr. President."

"Such as?"

"Sir, it seems to me that if whoever sent these two packages of Congo-X wanted to cause us harm, they would have already done so."

"That thought has also run through my mind," Clendennen said sarcastically.

"It would therefore follow they want something. What we have to do is learn what they want."

"Would you be surprised, Charles, if I told you that thought has also run through my mind?"

Montvale didn't reply.

"I want you to set up a meeting here at, say, five," the President said. "We'll brainstorm it. You, Natalie, the DCI, the FBI director, the secretary of Defense, the heads of Homeland Security and the DIA. And Colonel Hamilton, too. By then he'll probably know if this new stuff is more Congo-X or not. In any event, he can bring everybody up to speed on what he does know."

"Yes, sir. That's probably a good idea."

"I thought you might think so," President Clendennen said.

[SIX].

The Office of the Director of National Intelligence Eisenhower Executive Office Building 17th Street and Pennsylvania Avenue, N.W.

Washington, D.C.

1010 5 February 2007

Truman C. Ellsworth, whose t.i.tle was "executive a.s.sistant to the director of National Intelligence," learned only after having served in that position for three months that the t.i.tle was most commonly used by members of the secretarial sorority to denote those women who were more than just secretaries. Those females who had, in other words, their own secretaries to do the typing, filing, and fetching of coffee.

By the time he found out, it was too late to do anything about it.

Ellsworth, a tall, silver-haired, rather elegant man in his fifties, had chosen the t.i.tle himself when Charles M. Montvale had asked him to again leave his successful, even distinguished law practice in New York to work for him, as his deputy, in the newly created Directorate of National Intelligence.

He wouldn't have the t.i.tle of deputy, Montvale explained, because there was already a deputy director of National Intelligence, whom Montvale privately described as "a connected cretin" who had been appointed by the President in the discharge of some political debt.

Montvale said he would make-and he quickly had made-it clear that Truman C. Ellsworth was number two in the Office of the Director of National Intelligence, and that any t.i.tle would do. Ellsworth chose "executive a.s.sistant" because an executive is someone who executes and he was inarguably going to be Montvale's a.s.sistant.

In this role, while Charles M. Montvale sat on his office couch, Truman C. Ellsworth sat behind Montvale's desk and called first the secretary of State, Natalie Cohen, whom he knew socially well enough to address by her first name, and told her that the President had asked "the boss" to set up a five o'clock meeting at the White House to discuss "a new development in the Congo business."

She said she would of course be there.

Then Truman called, in turn, Wyatt Vanderpool, the secretary of Defense; John "Jack" Powell, the director of the Central Intelligence Agency; Mark Schmidt, the director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation; and Lieutenant General William W. Withers, U.S. Army, the commanding general of the Defense Intelligence Agency. He told them, somewhat more curtly, that "the amba.s.sador" had told him to call them to summon them to a five P.M. brainstorming session at the White House vis-a-vis the new development in the Congo affair. He wasn't able to reach the secretary of Homeland Security, but he did get through to a.s.sistant Secretary of Homeland Security Mason Andrews.

Ellsworth returned the telephone receiver to its cradle and reported as much to Amba.s.sador Montvale: "I got through to everybody but DHS, Charles. I had to settle for Mason Andrews."

"I wish I had thought of this when you had Jack Powell on the line," Montvale said.

"Thought of what, Charles?"

"Castillo may be involved in this-probably is, in some way-and I have no idea where he is."

Ellsworth's eyebrows rose.

"I daresay that the colonel, retired, in compliance with his orders, has dropped off the face of the earth."

"I want to know where he is," Montvale said. "I forgot that the President told me the next time he asked, he expected me to be able to tell him where Castillo is."

"Well, you can tell Jack Powell to start looking for him when you see him at the White House."

"That's seven hours from now," Montvale said. "Get him on a secure line, please, Truman. I will speak with him."

Ellsworth reached for a red telephone on the desk, and said into it, "White House, will you please get DCI Powell on a secure line for Amba.s.sador Montvale?"

[ONE].

Estancia San Joaquin Near San Martin de los Andes Patagonia Neuquen Province, Argentina 1645 5 February 2007

From the air, the landing strip at Estancia San Joaquin looked like a dirt road running along the Chimehuin River, which arguably was the best trout-fishing river in the world.

It was only when the manager of the estancia heard the Aero Commander-which he expected-overhead and threw a switch that the aeronautical function of the dirt road became obvious. The switch (a) caused lights marking both ends of the runway to rise from the ground and begin to flash, and (b) another hydraulic piston to rise, this one with a flashing arrow indicating the direction of the wind.

The sleek, twin-engined, high-wing airplane touched down and taxied to a large, thatched-roof farm building near the road. There, part of what looked like the wall of the farm building swung open and, as soon as the pilot shut down the engines, a half-dozen men pushed the aircraft into what was actually a hangar. There was a Bell Ranger helicopter parked inside.

The door/wall closed, the marking lights sank back into the ground, and the airfield again became a dirt road running along the tranquil Chimehuin River.

Edgar Delchamps was the first to emerge from the airplane.

Max ran to greet him, which he did by resting his paws on Delchamps's shoulder as he kissed him.

It was a long moment before the dog had enough and Delchamps could straighten up.

"Funny, I would never have taken you for a trout fisherman," Charley Castillo greeted him.

Castillo was wearing a yellow polo shirt, khaki trousers, a battered Stetson hat, and even more battered Western boots.

"Ha-ha," Delchamps responded.

Delchamps pointed to the helicopter and raised his eyebrows.

"Our host's," Castillo said. "Alek loans it to me from time to time, when I have something important to do, like going fishing."

Alex Darby came out of the airplane next, followed by Liam Duffy, and finally a man wearing a Gendarmeria Nacional uniform and pilot's wings.

Darby and Castillo shook hands. Liam Duffy wrapped his arm around Castillo's shoulders and hugged him.

"Ace, your pal Alek wouldn't happen to be here, would he?" Delchamps asked.

"As a matter of fact, he is."

"Why do I think Alek is not here to fish?" Delchamps said.

"Because in a previous life, you were trained to be suspicious," Castillo replied. "You're going to have to adjust to our changed circ.u.mstances." When he saw the look on Delchamps's face, he went on: "But since you ask, at a few minutes after seven this morning, Alek and I were out on the beautiful Rio Chimehuin catching our breakfast."

"Then Pevsner doesn't know about the letter?"

"Charley," Liam Duffy interrupted, nodding at the pilot. "We're going to have to get Primer Alferez Sanchez to the airport."

Primer Alferez, Alferez Sanchez, who had piloted the Aero Commander, was the equivalent of first lieutenant in the gendarmeria. And Castillo saw his unhappy look.

He's thinking, "I'm being gotten rid of so I won't learn what's going on here."

And he's right to be p.i.s.sed. Liam could have handled that better; the last thing we want is a pilot who knows more than he should harboring a grudge.

Duffy's sometimes the sort of commander whose officers loathe him.

"Sanchez, what did you think of the new avionics in that old bird?" Castillo asked, switching to Spanish, and smiling at the pilot.

"Fantastic!" the pilot replied. "All I had to do was take it off and land it. The navigation was entirely automatic, and when I dropped out of the cloud cover, I was lined up with the runway."

"We're working on that," Castillo said. "The idea is to eliminate pilots like you and me."

"I'm not sure I'd like that, senor."

"As I was just telling my friend here, one has to adjust to changed circ.u.mstances. I'm sorry there's no time to offer you a drink, but Aerolineas Argentinas waits for no man, and if you don't get to the San Martin de los Andes airport in the next forty-five minutes ..."

"I understand, senor," the pilot said, and then came to attention. "With your permission, mi comandante mi comandante?"

Duffy nodded. The pilot saluted and Duffy returned it.

"Sanchez," Castillo said, "don't tell anyone about the avionics."

"El comandante made that clear on the way here, senor." made that clear on the way here, senor."

Delchamps waited until the pilot had left the hangar, and then said, "Tell me about the changed circ.u.mstances, Ace."

"I hardly know where to start," Castillo said.

"Try starting with telling me whether or not Pevsner has seen Solomatin's letter."

"Gladly," Castillo said. "Okay, starting at the beginning: Alek's man went on the net as scheduled at oh-four-twenty hundred Zulu."

"'Alek's man went on the net'? Our Our net?" net?"

"I thought you knew that all of us are retired and have fallen off the face of the earth. We now have people to do things like going on the net at one-twenty in the morning."

Delchamps and Darby both shook their heads. This was unexpected.

"So Alek's guy," Castillo went on, "went on the net at oh-one-twenty local time. At oh-one-twenty-two, Colonel V. N. Solomatin's letter came through, five by five. At oh-one-twenty-five, Alek telephoned me here, waking me from the sleep of the innocent, to tell me he had a letter from Cousin Vladlen and that he wanted me to see it as soon as possible."