"That's a Tupolev Tu-934A, Mr. President."

"I don't think I've ever seen one before," Natalie Cohen said.

"Few people have. It's a Russian Special Operations aircraft. Magnificent airplane. It's practically invisible to radar, can fly nonstop-with aerial refueling, of course-anywhere in the world at Mach zero point nine and land on a football field. We are offering a hundred twenty-five million for one."

"You better hope Senator Johns doesn't hear about that," the President said. "A hundred twenty-five million! Are the Russians that far ahead of us?"

"In this area, yes, sir. We have nothing like it; the Air Force really wants to take a close look at the Tu-934A. And, in a manner of speaking, sir, the Russians have been ahead of us before. They beat us into s.p.a.ce of course, and before that, Igor Sikorsky-who fled the Communist revolution to come here-is generally recognized as the man who made rotary-wing flight practical."

"And exactly where is this this example of Russian aeronautical genius landing, Jack?" example of Russian aeronautical genius landing, Jack?"

"In a dry lake in Mexico, sir. Specifically, Laguna el Guaje, in Coahuila State."

"How do you know that?"

"Our a.n.a.lysts worked with the angle of sun, Mr. President," Powell said. "And with the date and time on the surveillance tapes. At the time shown, the angle of the sun would be like that on the tapes at only Laguna el Guaje."

"I'm impressed, Frank, I really am. What I'm wondering is where you got the tapes."

Powell did not respond directly, and instead said, "The man walking toward the Tupolev, sir, is, with a ninety-nine-point-nine-percent certainty, Pavel Koslov, the FSB rezident rezident in Mexico City. We computer-compared the image on the surveillance tapes with images in our database." in Mexico City. We computer-compared the image on the surveillance tapes with images in our database."

"I'll be d.a.m.ned."

"Those men, sir, coming down the ramp of the Tupolev are almost certainly Russian Spetsnaz-Russian Special Forces. And that man, sir, is General Yakov Vladimirovich Sirinov. We made that identification ninety-nine-point-nine-percent certain by comparing this image with images of him in our database. Sirinov runs the FSB for Vladimir Putin, Mr. President."

"What are those barrels?" Clendennen asked.

"What we believe, sir, with an eighty to eighty-five degree of certainty, is that those barrels are the ones sent to Colonel Hamilton at Fort Detrick. The scenario is that they were taken across the border near the dry lake; that the first was then moved to Miami, and from there FedExed to Colonel Hamilton, and the second left for the Border Patrol to find near McAllen."

Natalie Cohen said, "If you can compare pictures of people on a computer, Jack, and say they're just about a perfect match, why can't you do the same thing with a couple of what look like blue beer barrels?"

Powell said, "According to Stan Waters-"

"Who?" the President asked.

"J. Stanley Waters, the deputy director for operations, Mr. President. He supervised the a.n.a.lysis of these tapes. He's an old a.n.a.lysis type."

"And what did he tell you?"

"There are more details on a human being that can be compared to another image of that person, Mr. President. An object like these blue 'beer' barrels is more difficult; they look like every other barrel."

"Are these the same barrels? Yes or no?"

"With an eighty to eighty-five percent degree of certainty, Mr. President, we believe they are."

President Clendennen snorted.

"Where did you get these tapes, Jack?" Natalie Cohen asked, and immediately, when she saw the look on his face, regretted having asked. She had guessed the source.

"I think we can safely proceed on the a.s.sumption that these are the barrels of Congo-X now at Fort Detrick, Mr. President," Powell said.

"Answer Natalie's question, Jack," the President said.

"They were, in a manner of speaking, slipped under our door, Mr. President, addressed to DDCI Lammelle."

"Tell me what that means," Clendennen said.

"Sir, parties unknown delivered them to my outer office yesterday."

"In other words, you don't know where these came from?"

"No, sir. I don't know where they came from."

"Mr. President, it doesn't matter, does it?" the secretary of State began. "We have them, and they have been determined to be genuine. We now can send Frank Lammelle back to Sergei Murov-"

"Maybe G.o.d slipped them under your door, Jack," the President cut her off. "Or little green men from Mars. Or maybe, as incredible as it might sound, Lieutenant Colonel Castillo might even be responsible. Isn't that true?"

"Mr. President, since I don't know where these tapes came from, anything is possible."

"You were both here, I seem to recall, when I made it as plain as I knew how that I didn't want my predecessor's loose cannon, or anyone a.s.sociated with Colonel Castillo, Retired, connected in any way with our Congo-X problem. Is that right?"

"Yes, sir," Powell said.

"I was here, Mr. President," the secretary of State said.

"Where is Castillo?" the President asked.

"I have no idea, Mr. President," Powell said.

"Nor do I," Cohen said.

"What about Amba.s.sador Montvale, my Director of National Intelligence? Has anyone heard from him?"

"I spoke with the amba.s.sador last night, Mr. President. He's in Buenos Aires. As is Truman Ellsworth. At your orders, sir."

"And has he found Castillo and delivered my orders to him that he is not to get involved in any way with Congo-X?"

"No, sir."

"Did Montvale have anything at all to say?"

"He believes he knows where Mr. Darby is, sir."

"Who is Darby?"

"Until he was recruited for OOA, Mr. President, he was the CIA station chief in Buenos Aires. He retired when OOA was disbanded."

"And he's in Argentina?"

"Amba.s.sador Montvale has information suggesting that Mr. Darby may be in Ushuaia."

"Where the h.e.l.l is that?"

"It's the southernmost city in South America, sir."

"What's he doing there?" the President asked, and then, before Powell could reply, went on: "Is Usah ... whatever you said ... a place where Castillo could hide the defectors?"

"That has occurred to Amba.s.sador Montvale and myself, sir."

"And what have you done about it, either of you?"

"I sent six first-cla.s.s officers of the Clandestine Service down there, Mr. President, to a.s.sist the new station chief. And of course Amba.s.sador Montvale. They should be in Argentina this morning. I'm sure that as soon as they get there, Amba.s.sador Montvale will send at least two of them to Ushuaia."

Clendennen nodded.

"But I must tell you, Mr. President, that Amba.s.sador Montvale told me he has also developed intelligence that suggests that Mr. Darby's presence in Ushuaia has nothing to do with Castillo or the Russians."

"What the h.e.l.l else would he be doing in some town on the southern tip of South America?"

"He may be there with an Argentine national, a young woman not his wife, if you take my meaning, Mr. President."

"Where the h.e.l.l did Montvale get that?"

"From Mrs. Darby, sir. She's here in the States."

"I'll be a sonofab.i.t.c.h!"

"May I speak, Mr. President?" the secretary of State said.

The President made an impatient gesture giving her permission to do so.

"Mr. President, I respectfully suggest that this whole business could be put behind us by sending either DCI Powell or-probably preferably-DDCI Lammelle back to Sergei Murov with this tape. And this time, Frank delivers the ultimatum: 'Turn over whatever Congo-X you have, give us a written statement that you neither have control of nor have knowledge of any more of this substance, or we'll call an emergency session of the United Nations and play this tape for the world.'"

The President didn't respond for a moment, then he asked, more or less courteously, "Are you through, Madam Secretary?"

"Yes. For the moment."

"The female is really the deadlier of the species, isn't it?" the President asked rhetorically. "Natalie, do you know what would happen while we're calling the Russian bluff? We'd be right back where we were when my impulsive predecessor sent the bombers to take out the Fish Farm: at the edge of a nuclear exchange."

"With respect, Mr. President, I don't think so," Cohen said.

"What you think doesn't really matter, does it, Natalie? I'm the President."

"With respect, Mr. President, I a.s.sociate myself with the position of the secretary of State," Powell said.

The President ignored him.

"Now, what's going to happen is that nothing will be done with these tapes until I say so," the President said. "What I intend to do is find those Russians and put them on a plane to Moscow. Once we have done that, we'll evaluate the Russian reaction, and go from there.

"And since the way to find the Russians is to find Colonel Castillo, that is the priority. When I get back from Chicago this afternoon-somewhere around three, I would guess-I want you both back here. Plus the secretary of Defense and the director of the FBI."

"The secretary of Defense is in India, Mr. President," Cohen said.

"I was about to say, Madam Secretary, 'Then his deputy,' but when I think about it, when I think about who that is, I don't want to do that. Have General Naylor here, and if Naylor is in Timbuktu or someplace, get word to him to return immediately. When I walk back in this office this afternoon, I want to see Naylor, or you holding the general's estimated time of arrival in your hand, Madam Secretary.

"This meeting is concluded. Thank you for coming," the President said.

And then he walked out of the Oval Office without shaking hands with either Powell or Cohen.

[THREE].

Aboard Cessna Mustang N0099S Bahias de Huatulco International Airport Near Pochutla, Mexico 1015 8 February 2007

"Huatulco, Mustang Double Zero Double Nine Sugar," Castillo called in Spanish. "Will you close out my VFR flight plan from Cancun, please? We just decided to stop for lunch."

"Double Zero Double Nine, are you on the ground?"

"No. I'm on final to a dirt strip next to a marvelous restaurant on Route 200 near Bajos de Chila."

"I know the place. Report when on the ground. Have a nice lunch."

Castillo pa.s.sed over the coastline and made a slow, sweeping descent over the Pacific Ocean. Although there was a marvelous restaurant near Bajos de Chila, he had no intention of landing on the dirt strip behind it.

When he had dropped almost to the surface of the sea-and had thus, he hoped, dropped off the Huatulco radar-he touched his throat microphone again.

"Huatulco, Double Zero Double Nine on the ground at one seven past the hour."

"Double Zero Double Nine, Huatulco closing you out as of ten-seventeen."

"Thank you."

Two minutes later, having spotted the pier he was looking for, he picked up enough alt.i.tude to pa.s.s over a small hill on the coastline. At the peak of the climb, he spotted the landing strip he was looking for, dropped the nose, made a straight-in approach, and greased the landing.

Feeling more than a little smug, he pressed the cabin speaker b.u.t.ton.

"Welcome to Grapefruit International Airport. Please remain in your seats with your chast.i.ty belts fastened until we reach the terminal. We hope you have enjoyed your flight, and the next time you're running from the CIA that you will choose High Roller Airlines again."

"You are insane," his co-pilot said, but she was smiling. Then she gestured, as he turned the Mustang around, out the windows, at rows of grapefruit trees lining the runway as far as the eye could see. "That's all grapefruit?"