"Hes trying to find you a pattern-not of the traffic he can identify, which has to be at least fifty to seventy-five, discounting scrambled military and diplomatic-but by factoring in the aberrations, the unusual, the relatively untraceable."

"He can do that with those b.u.t.tons and dials and squeaks?"

"Oh, yes, he can do that."

"I hate Renaissance men."

"Did I mention hes also one of Patricks top karate instructors?"

"If he picks a fight with you, Major," said Tyrell, smiling, "Im on his side. A crippled midget could knock me out of the ring."

"Not according to your dossier."

"My dossier? Is nothing sacred?"

"Not when youre a.s.suming even limited control over an equally ranking commanding officer from another branch. Military courtesy as well as regulations require that the replacing officer be convinced of the validity of the command replacement. I was convinced."

"You sure as h.e.l.l didnt show it back on Saba."

"I was angry, as angry as you would have been if a stranger had walked into your sphere of operations and said he was taking over."

"I never said that."

"Of course you did. You made it abundantly clear when you said 'get your a.s.ses on board. Thats when I knew you were still Lieutenant Commander Hawthorne."

"Hold it!" came the cry from the AWAC IIs huge hull, so loud it was heard over the engines, while sending shock waves through the earphones. "Its crazy!" Jackson Poole was standing up over his elongated Formica desk and waving his arms.

"Cool it, my darling!" ordered Major Neilsen, steadying the aircraft. "Sit down and tell us calmly what youve got.... Commander, please put on the earphones so you can hear everything."

" 'My darling?" Tyrell interrupted involuntarily, his voice carrying harshly over the intercom.

"Its aircraft slang, Commander. Dont read anything into it," said Major Neilsen.

"Not a thing, Navy," added the master sergeant of security called Charlie. "You may have the bra.s.s, sir, but youre still a guest here."

"You know, Sergeant, youre becoming a large pain in the a.s.s!"

"Put a lid on it, Hawthorne," said the blond-haired pilot. "What did you find, Lieutenant?"

"What doesnt exist, Cathy! Its not on any of the charts-the area maps-and Ive checked every detailed program on the screen!"

"Be clearer, please."

"The signal bounces off a j.a.panese satellite and beams down to nothing, at least nothing on our maps. But it has to be there! The transmissions clear."

"Lieutenant," Tyrell broke in, "can your machines tell us where the transmissions coming from?"

"Not specifically; our big brothers probably could, but were limited. All I can do is give you a computerized laser projection."

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

"You know, like those indoor golf games where you hit a ball off a tee into an electronic screen and you get an instant picture where it goes down the fairway."

"Im not a golfer, but Ill take your word for it. How long will it take you?"

"Im working on it while were talkin.... I can almost guarantee this one."

"This one what?"

"The transmission to our nowhere downstairs. Its from someplace in the Mediterranean, by way of the j.a.panese satellite Noguma."

"Italy? Southern Italy?"

"Could be. Or northern Africa. Thats the general area."

"Thats our target!" said Hawthorne.

"Youre sure?" asked Neilsen.

"Ive got a raw shoulder to prove it, three strips of tape and all. Lieutenant, can you give me precise, and I mean precise, navigational coordinates to that nowhere downstairs?"

"h.e.l.l, yes, Yankee, I punched em in. Small land ma.s.ses about thirty miles due north of Anguilla."

"Im pretty sure I know them! Poole, you are a genius."

"Not me, sir. Its the equipment."

"We can do better than coordinates," said Catherine Neilsen, inching her wheel forward into a descent. "Well find that 'nowhere downstairs so clearly that youll know every inch of the terrain."

"No.... Please dont do that."

"Are you nuts? Were here, were above it, and we can do it!"

"And whoevers down there will know youre doing it."

"Youre d.a.m.n right."

"And thats d.a.m.n wrong. Whats the nearest place where you can land this cow?"

"This aircraft, which Im very fond of-admittedly an awkward cow-may not land on foreign territory; thats strict military regulations."

"I didnt ask you whether you may, Major, I simply asked you where you can. Where?"

"My charts say St. Martin. Its French and Dutch."

"I know that, Im a charter man, remember?... Is there anything in this panoply of exotic equipment in front of me that can operate as a perfectly normal telephone?"

"Certainly. Its called a telephone and its right there below your armrest."

"Youre kidding." Hawthorne found it, pulled it out of its cradle, and asked, "How do I use it?"

"As you would a normal telephone, but with the knowledge that your conversation is recorded by Patrick Air Force Base and immediately forwarded to the Pentagon."

"I love it," said Tyrell, dialing furiously. In seconds he continued. "I-One and make it quick, sailor! The code is four-zero and my main man is Captain Henry Stevens, and do me a favor and bypa.s.s the a.s.shole who wants my life history. The name Tye-spelled T-Y-E-will get you through."

"Hawthorne, where are you? What have you got?" Stevens was on the line barely three seconds later, his words running over one another.

"Our conversations being taped and forwarded to Arlington-"

"Not from that plane it isnt; Ive got a black drape on it. You can a.s.sume youre in a confessional with the high priest of secrets. Whats the news?"

"This fat, ugly aircraft you spun out of Patrick is a wonder. We found the transmission target, and I want a lieutenant named Poole made immediately a colonel or a general!"

"Tye, are you drinking?"

"I wish to h.e.l.l I were. Also, while youre at your Pentagon games, theres a pilot named Neilsen, first name Catherine, who I insist be made head of the air force. How does that grab you, Hank?"

"You are back on the sauce," said Stevens angrily.

"No way, Henry." Tyrell spoke softly, his sobriety apparent. "I just want you to know how good they are."

"Okay, I accept that, and commendations will follow, okay? Now, what about the target?"

"Its unlisted, unmapped, but I know that cl.u.s.ter of so-called uninhabited islands-there must be five or six-and thanks to this plane here, I have the exact coordinates."

"Thats terrific. Bajaratts got to be there! Well send in a strike!"

"Not yet. Let me go in first to make sure she is there. And if she is, who her conduits are. Theyre the link to the terrorist network working our side."

"Tye, Ive got to ask you, you were very effective years ago at this sort of thing, but its been a while.... Can you hack it, Commander? I dont want ... your life on my slate."

"I a.s.sume youre alluding to my deceased wife, Captain."

"I refuse to go into that again. We had nothing to do with her death."

"Then why do I keep wondering?"

"Thats your problem, Tye, not ours. I just want to make sure youre not biting off more than you can chew."

"You dont have anybody else, so lets bypa.s.s the horses.h.i.t. I want this plane to land in St. Martin, the French side. So you reach the Deuxieme in the Quai dOrsay and clear it with Patrick Air Force Base in Florida. We land, and Im given whatever equipment I need. Over and out, Henry. Move."

Hawthorne replaced the phone, closed his eyes briefly, then turned to the pilot. "Head for St. Martin, Major," he said wearily. "Well be cleared, I a.s.sure you."

"I was on the telephone channel," said Neilsen with quiet authority. "Actually its a captains responsibility to monitor all conversations from such aircraft as this. Im sure you understand that."

"Im sure I have to."

"You mentioned your wife-the death of your wife."

"I guess I did. Stevens and I go back a long way, and sometimes I bring up things I shouldnt."

"Im sorry. About your wife, I mean."

"Thank you," said Tyrell, falling silent. It was those two simple words "my darling" that had so unnerved him, making him behave like a fool. It was as though the endearment belonged to him and no one else, certainly not to an arrogant American female air force officer speaking to a subordinate. It was so essentially a European expression, to be said quietly, either with feeling or so casually that deep and abiding warmth was implicit. Only two women in his life had ever used those words with any regularity. Ingrid and Dominique-the only women he had ever loved, one a wife he adored, the other a gossamer creature of loveliness as elusive as she was real, who had nurtured him back to sanity. Those words belonged to them, and addressed only to him. Still, he had behaved like an idiot; expressions were not the single property of anyone, he knew that. Still, again, they should not be abused, trivialized. Oh, Christ! He had to snap out of it. There was work to do. The target!

"St. Martin dead ahead ... Tye," said Major Neilsen softly.

"What?... Oh, sorry, what did you say?"

"You were either in a trance or you dozed with your eyes open for a few minutes. Ive been given clearance to land in St. Martin-both by Patrick and the French authorities. Well park at the end of the field and a guard detail will surround the aircraft, which Charlie will secure.... I asked that you be professional, but I never expected anything like this."

"You called me Tye."

"You ordered me to, Commander. Dont read anything into it, sir."

"I promise not to."

"According to Patrick and the French, were a.s.signed to you until you release us. They said that could be all day and perhaps tomorrow.... What the h.e.l.l is going on, Hawthorne? You talk about terrorists and links to terrorists, and we find unmapped islands that the G.o.dd.a.m.ned navy is prepared to blow out of the water! Id say thats a little out of the ordinary, even for our work."

"Its all out of the ordinary, even the extraordinary, Major ... Cathy-dont read anything into that, Madame Pilot."

"Be serious; we have a right to know. You call the shots as to where we go. You just proved that. But I am the pilot and Im responsible for this very expensive aircraft and its crew."

"Youre right, you are the pilot. So why dont you tell me, wheres your first flight officer, your copilot, as we land-based civilians call it?"

"I told you, Pooles qualified," answered Neilsen, her voice dropping.

"Gee whiz, Major Neilsen, why does it strike me that someones missing on this bird?"

"All right," said Catherine, embarra.s.sed. "Your Captain Stevens was emphatic that we leave Patrick on the dot of zero-minus this morning, but we couldnt reach Sal, who usually sits in your seat. We all know thereve been some marriage problems, so we didnt look too hard-as I say, Lieutenant Pooles as good a pilot as I am, and thats going some."

"It certainly is. And this Sal is another extremely qualified female officer?"

"Sal is short for Salvatore. Hes a terrific guy, but hes got a flaky wife, very heavy into booze. Since we were covered, we took off to accommodate the navys request-request, h.e.l.l, demand."

"Isnt that against regulations?"

"Look, dont tell me youve never covered for a friend. We thought this was a two- to four-hour sky search-wed get back and no one would be the wiser, and maybe Mancini could solve some of his problems. Is that such a crime, for a friend?"

"No, it isnt," replied Hawthorne, his mind racing, going back over a score of gaps that had nullified a hundred covert operations in his other life. "Can Patrick monitor communications from this plane?"

"Of course, but you heard Stevens. Nothings logged or sent to the Pentagon. Its a black drape."

"Yes, I understand that, but the air base in Florida can listen in."

"A select few, yes."

"Radio the base and ask to speak to your friend Mancini."