"I already am."

"Try not to get in any more trouble, and call me when you get back." Thorpe hangs up.

THIRTY-THREE.

The second he got off the phone with Madriani, Thorpe grabbed his jacket and was out the door. One agent held the elevator for him while another waited for them in a car down in the garage. Thorpe was pressed for time, and what he was dealing with couldn't wait.

It was Victor Soyev, a Russian arms merchant who had been arrested in Los Angeles. The FBI had received an anonymous tip as to Soyev's whereabouts and had taken him into custody at LAX just as he was getting ready to jump on a flight to Asia. Immediately, they hustled him off to Washington on a government jet.

For two days agents had been moving him around, from one location to another, trying to keep him out of the news and away from the clutches of defense lawyers. If the honchos at the Justice Department found out, Thorpe would be looking for a new job.

Based on the anonymous tip, the FBI checked Soyev's voice against the NSA voiceprints from the telephone conversation between North Korea and Cuba. The Russian's voice was a match. Soyev's was the voice on the North Korean end of the conversation. He was one of the operatives moving the ma.s.sive thermobaric device that got grounded in Thailand. Thorpe wanted answers, and he wanted them before Soyev had a chance to lawyer up.

The problem was the constantly changing rules for interrogation laid down by the White House. The guidelines were as clear as mud, and designed with enough political wiggle room so that members of Congress and the White House could run for cover and point the finger at underlings the minute anything went wrong. Everything was on a case-by-case basis. The minute Thorpe told the White House he had Soyev and what the case involved, the Russian would be put in a holding pattern, and the FBI would be told not to question him until a decision had been made by a higher authority as to the process to be used.

It was fashionable to quote Truman as to where the buck stopped, but in reality, every White House since had become increasingly expert in the art of plausible deniability. And every one of them could spin like a weather vane when it came to the blame game.

For the moment, Soyev was in a hotel room six blocks from FBI headquarters. Transported in a blacked-out van and taken up to the room in a service elevator with a hood over his head, the Russian had no idea what city he was in. He would be in the hotel for no more than two hours before they moved him again. Interrogation was captured on multichannel microphones and video in case they missed something the first time through. At night they held him in a safe house just across the Maryland state line, where questioning continued. Thorpe would devour the interrogation transcripts each morning.

So far Soyev wasn't giving up much. He denied that he was ever in North Korea. He claimed he was a Moscow businessman dealing in heavy industrial equipment. He demanded to see the nearest Russian consul, and when that failed, he asked for a lawyer.

Thorpe had his people giving Soyev only the best when it came to food and drink. They would give him Stolichnaya vodka whenever he asked for it. It was available only through one importer in the States. The agents told him if he wanted a lawyer they would get one, but that if they did, Soyev would have to be locked up in a federal facility pending trial, and the booze and steaks would all go away. The Russian withdrew his request for a lawyer. Thorpe knew he couldn't keep the movable feast going forever. He was running out of time.

When Thorpe arrived at the hotel that afternoon, interrogation had already started. The room had been sanitized to remove everything that might tell Soyev where he was. The curtains were pulled and only a single light from a lamp illuminated the room.

It was the third time Soyev had seen Thorpe, though the two men had never talked. All questioning was conducted through a set of three interrogators. But the Russian seemed to know that Thorpe was someone important. Like a b.i.t.c.h in heat, he could smell an alpha male.

"Mr. Soyev, why don't you tell us what we want to know?" said the interrogator. "We have the tape and the transcript of your telephone conversation from Pyongyang to Cuba. We know that it was your voice coming from North Korea based on voiceprint identification."

"So you say," said Soyev. "And I tell you I have never been to North Korea. Check my pa.s.sport if you don't believe me."

"We are well aware that an arms merchant of your stature can avoid the normal processes of customs and immigration in places like North Korea. Let's stop playing games. Tell us who the man was on the other end of the telephone conversation. The man in Cuba."

"I don't know what you're talking about. I am a Russian citizen and I demand to see the Russian consul. Also I would like a drink if you don't mind. I'm getting thirsty. How long is this going to go on? I am very tired. As you know, I haven't been able to sleep in two days. You keep waking me up every few minutes to ask more questions."

The interrogator nodded toward one of the other agents, who immediately opened an attache case and came up with the bottle of Stolichnaya.

"I hope you have ice?" said Soyev.

"Stop," said Thorpe. "Enough." Thorpe reached over and flipped on the switch for the overhead lights in the room.

Soyev looked at him, squinted, and shaded his eyes.

"Mr. Soyev, I am Zeb Thorpe, executive a.s.sistant director for the National Security Branch of the FBI. We've carried on with this as long as we can and I'm putting an end to it right now. Upon leaving here, you're going to be transported to a federal detention facility for maximum-security prisoners. You will be charged with numerous crimes, including violation of international weapons embargoes, terrorism, conspiracy to commit terrorism, and arms smuggling for starters. I'm sure that there will be superseding indictments with other charges that will be added in the coming weeks. Suffice it to say that there will be enough charges and convictions that you are almost certain to spend the rest of your life in a federal penitentiary in this country. That is, unless one of these thermobaric devices that you're dealing in goes off in a major metropolitan area, killing a number of people, in which case we will be seeking the death penalty. Do you understand?"

Soyev just looked. He didn't say a word.

"There will be no more vodka and no more rich meals. Now, the only way you are going to change any of these circ.u.mstances is by cooperating with us. And to do that, you have a very brief window of opportunity. You see, your compadre, your comrade, the man on the other end of that telephone conversation with you, the one in Cuba..."

Soyev followed every word.

"... he not only ratted you out and turned you in ..."

Soyev's brow furrowed, and his eyes turned to little slits.

"... he is also, I a.s.sume, operating on some kind of a timetable, a schedule," said Thorpe. "That means that the minute he uses any of the weapons that you shipped to him, the window of opportunity for you to cut a deal with me is going to come down on the back of your neck just like a sharp blade. That means that you will be charged as an accomplice with any and all of his deeds. You will be subject to the same penalties as he is. Since he did you the favor of landing you here, why don't you do the same for him?" Thorpe stood there, looking straight at the Russian.

"You know this?" asked Soyev.

"As a matter of fact, we do. The phone call that gave us your name and flight number came into our field office in Los Angeles. It was taped. Voiceprint a.n.a.lysis confirms that the voice on that telephone conversation is the same voice as that from Cuba during your telephone conversation from North Korea."

"s.h.i.t!" said Soyev. "b.a.s.t.a.r.d never paid me. Second half of money."

Thorpe was lying. The call fingering the Russian was placed to the TSA, the Transportation Security Administration, at the airport. And it wasn't taped.

"Who is he?" said Thorpe.

"If I knew, believe me, I would tell you," said Soyev. "I don't know his name. I call him Chief. He calls me Tonto, but he never uses the name. Whenever I call, he knows my voice."

"You've never met him?"

"No. This is not unusual," said the Russian. "I never meet most of my customers. Just voices on the phone."

"And the money?" says Thorpe. "I a.s.sume he paid you something. How? An overseas numbered account?"

Soyev nods.

"I need the name of your bank and the number of your account," said Thorpe.

"Fat chance." Soyev laughed. "Next you're going to tell me you have a bridge you wish to sell me."

"We won't touch the funds," said Thorpe.

"And for this what do I have, your word?" said Soyev.

"I need the number. With your account number I can have the Treasury Department turn the screws on the bank and trace his last wire transfer back to his bank and his account number. With that number we may get a name."

"If we are going to be doing this, I need to talk to a lawyer," said Soyev.

"While you're conferring with your lawyer, he could be setting off one of the devices. How many are there?" asked Thorpe.

Soyev sat back in the chair and folded his arms. "What kind of a deal do I get? Life in prison does not sound like bottom line to me," said Soyev.

"Do you know what he was doing with the bombs? Do you have any information on targets? If you know, now is the time to tell us. Afterward it's going to be too late."

"I know nothing about that," said Soyev. "All I did was obtain items he asked for. He tells me nothing about anything else."

Thorpe turned to one of the interrogators. "Gimme the transcript of the telephone conversation, Pyongyang to Cuba."

The agent went to his briefcase, found it, and handed it to Thorpe. Thorpe flipped a few pages. "Here it is. You talk about 'the big guy' and 'the kid'-Fat Man and Little Boy, is that correct?"

Soyev looked at him but didn't say anything.

"I'm going to a.s.sume that it is. You told the man in Cuba that 'the kid' will take a later flight. Meaning that the smaller of the two devices was not on the Russian plane that was forced down in Thailand." He looked at Soyev. "So I'm a.s.suming it was shipped some other way?"

Soyev was now refusing to make eye contact.

"That means that the 'Fat Man,' or 'big guy,' was the one we found on the plane in Bangkok. But then you go on to volunteer to your compatriot, to your coconspirator in Cuba, and I quote, 'the man has a brother.' Look at me when I'm talking to you!" Thorpe shouted at him.

The Russian's head and eyes jerked to the right to engage Thorpe.

"That means there was a replacement for the 'Fat Man,' doesn't it? Doesn't it?"

Soyev didn't want to, but he nodded, almost by reflex.

"Has that device been delivered?" asked Thorpe.

This time Soyev nodded more deliberately.

"Where did you deliver them?" said Thorpe.

"I want to talk to a lawyer," said Soyev.

"Later," said Thorpe. "Right now you talk to me."

"All I know is that one of them was shipped to New York. The other I don't know about because it was transshipped. I delivered it to Havana. From there I don't know."

"New York?" said Thorpe. "Where? Did you have an address?"

"It was a bonded warehouse on the docks. It was to be picked up."

"Which one of the devices went to New York?"

"The replacement," said Soyev.

"Fat Man? The big one?" asked Thorpe.

Soyev nodded.

s.h.i.t, thought Thorpe.

"And you have no idea what the target is?"

"I don't know that there is a target. People buy munitions for all kinds of things."

"You don't need a lawyer. You're doing fine on your own," said Thorpe. "He never mentioned a possible target? Think!"

Soyev paused for a moment, if for no other reason than to make it look good. "No. As I say, I have no idea what he was going to do with any of this equipment."

"What equipment?" said Thorpe. "You sold him two bombs. According to my experts, these things are just half a step down from nuclear devices."

"No. No. They are wrong," said Soyev. "I have never dealt in nuclear materials or any weapons of ma.s.s destruction."

"I see. You're a merchant of death with moral standards, is that it... ?"

Before Soyev could answer, Thorpe said, "Are you going to give me the number for your overseas account or not?"

"Not until I talk to my lawyer," said Soyev.

"Yeah, and by the time he gets through, the account won't exist because he'll clean it out for his retainer. Take him away. Lock him up, and get him a lawyer. And make sure the court knows he can afford to pay for his own. If he's going to kill a bunch of taxpayers, the least we can do is make sure they don't have to pay for his legal defense."

THIRTY-FOUR.

The flight time from Miami to San Juan, Puerto Rico, is listed as two hours and forty-three minutes. Today's flight takes us more than three hours. According to the pilot, we have been bucking heavy headwinds all the way.

We sit three abreast in the center section, Joselyn between Herman and me, and we look over her shoulder at a photo of the Hotel Belgica in Ponce on Joselyn's laptop. She found the Web site and downloaded it to a file before we left the airport in Miami.

The hotel is two stories, something from the plantation period of the last century. It has an upscale ambience, even from the outside, pastel masonry with white trim, arched windows, and green wrought-iron railings. There are awnings over all of the windows as well as the main entrance on the ground floor. The building could pa.s.s for one of the better establishments on Royal Street in New Orleans.

"Looks like a nice place," says Joselyn. "Too bad we can't stay there."

"Can't take the chance," says Herman. "Not if Thorn's there. All we need is for him to recognize you."

That Thorn may be there is a long shot, but it's the only lead we have. We have to a.s.sume that he penned the note with the hotel's telephone number for a reason. Either he or someone he is dealing with is staying there.

Joselyn has also downloaded a map of the town of Ponce onto her computer. It looks like a vacation spot with an abundance of hotels and cultural exhibits, and a sizable port facility. There is a museum of art, and a central plaza with a cathedral as well as a number of tourist sites, mostly eco tours and snorkeling according to the information on the computer.

"Where we stayin'?" says Herman.

"I booked us at a small hotel downtown, not far from the Belgica," I tell him. "I reserved a car at the airport. When we land I'll get the car, you guys can get the luggage, and we'll meet out in front."

"I have to make a phone call," says Joselyn. "I need to contact my office, let them know I'm alive."

"I'll grab the luggage," says Herman.

A half hour later we're on the ground, inside the terminal. "Catch you guys later. Out front at the curb." I point.