"Im one bright son of a b.i.t.c.h, Commander. Now, what the f.u.c.k is this all about?"

"Insubordinate too. All right, Poole, Ill level. Its about the a.s.sa.s.sination of the President of the United States."

"What...?"

"And the terrorist is a woman who might just pull it off."

"Youre out of your mind! Thats plain crazy!"

"So were Dallas and Fords Theatre ... The word weve received from the Baaka Valley is that if this a.s.sa.s.sination takes place, there are three other targets-the Prime Minister of England, the President of France, and the head of the Israeli government. All to follow quickly. The signal is the killing of the President."

"it couldnt happen!"

"You saw what happened on St. Martins, what happened to Charlie and your plane despite guaranteed maximum security on one of our most cla.s.sified tech-weapons. What you dont know is that a team of deep-cover FBI agents was ma.s.sacred in Miami while on surveillance relative to this operation, and I was nearly killed on Saba tracking down an unrelated situation because somebody learned Id been recruited. There are leaks in Paris and Washington that we know about; London is still an enigma. In the words of a friend of mine, who I hate to admit is a terrific intelligence officer with MI-6, this woman and her people have resources no one ever dreamed of. Does that answer your question, Lieutenant Poole?"

"Oh, my G.o.d!" came the scratchy voice of Major Catherine Neilsen over Pooles radio.

"Yeah," said the lieutenant, glancing down at the pouch that held the radio. "I had it on, hope you dont mind. Saves you from repeating it all."

"I could break you both down to privates for that!" exploded Hawthorne. "Did it occur to you that whoevers in that house might have a frequency scanner?"

"Correction," said Neilsens voice over the radio. "This is military-direct, off frequency within two thousand meters. Were secure.... Thank you, Jackson, I think we can proceed now. And thank you, Mister Hawthorne. Sometimes the troops have to have a clue, Im sure you understand that."

"I understand that you two are impossible! The end of tolerance.... Where are you, Cathy?"

"About four hundred feet west of the cove. I figured youd be going back there."

"Head into it, but stay submerged at least forty feet from sh.o.r.e. We dont know the capability of the trip beams."

"Right on. Out."

"Out," said Poole, reaching down into his pouch and snapping off the radio.

"That was a dirty trick, Jackson."

"Surely was, but look how much we got cleared up. Before we had Charlie, now we got even more."

"Dont forget Mancini, your ersatz pal, Sal. He would have had you blown out of the sky without thinking twice."

"I dont want to think about him. I cant handle it."

"Then dont." Tyrell pointed below to the cove. "Lets go." The two black-suited figures moved like roving silhouettes, zigzagging down the incline to the cove. "On your stomach," Hawthorne whispered into the radio as they reached the beach. "Well crawl up to that stretch of flat bush. If Im not mistaken, its a wall."

"Well, Ill be a shorn possum!" exclaimed Poole when they had crept to the sheer vine-laden embankment and he thrust his hand through the foliage. "It is a wall, pure concrete."

"With more steel struts than an airport runway," added Tyrell. "This was made for bombs, not little typhoons or mere hurricanes. Stay low!... Come on, I have an idea well find a few more surprises."

They did. The first was a layer of green Astroturf that covered an ascending row of stone steps leading to a break in the hill just below the top. "Wed never spot this airborne," said the lieutenant.

"Thats the point, Jackson. Whoever it is doesnt roll out a red carpet, he rolls down a green one."

"Must be a very private kind of individual."

"Id say youre right. Stay to the left and slither up like a snake." The two men made their way up on their stomachs step by covered step, slowly, silently, until they came to a break in the stone staircase that seemed to lead to the outlines of a palm-covered structure beyond. Hawthorne lifted the carpet of green, revealing a flagstone path. "My G.o.d, its so simple," he whispered to Poole. "You could do it with any house in the countryside or at the sh.o.r.e and never spot it from the air or the water."

"Sure could," agreed the air force officer, impressed. "This gra.s.s stuff is a snap, but those palm trees, theyre a whole whale of a lot of difference."

"What?"

"Theyre fake."

"They are?"

"Youre no country boy, Commander, at least not one from Louisiana. Palms sweat in the early morning hours; its the change in temperature cause theyre alive. Look, theres not a glisten of moisture on those big leaves. Theyre nothin more than big dead cotton flowers, also too big for the trunks, which are probably plastic."

"Which means theyre mechanized cover-camouflage."

"Probably computerized, easy to do if you access-code your radar to your machinery."

"Huh?"

"Come on, Tye, its simple. Like garage doors that open when headlights. .h.i.t the receptors; this is just the reverse. The sky and sea sensors pick up the unfamiliar, and the equipment goes to work. They close up the shop."

"Just like that?"

"Sure. A plane or a boat that comes too close, say three or four thousand feet up or a couple of miles out on the water, the disks send the information to a computer and the machines are activated, like garage doors closin down by remote. I could design a system like that for a few thousand bucks, but the Pentagon doesnt want to hear my figures."

"Youd bankrupt the economy," Hawthorne whispered.

"Thats what my daddy says, but my little sister agrees with me."

"The young shall inherit the earth and all its b.u.t.tons."

"What do we do now? Walk through those big cotton leaves and announce ourselves?"

"No, we dont walk, we crawl very silently around those big cotton leaves and do our best not to be announced."

"What are we lookin for?"

"Whatever we can see."

"What then?"

"Depends on what we see."

"Youre filled with all kinds of plans."

"Some things you cant put into a computer, young man. Come on."

They crept over the hard, sharp zoysia gra.s.s, a favored ground cover in the Caribbean, and swept around the uprooted false palms, both men peering down into the machinery and touching the "bark" of the first "trunk." Poole nodded in the moonlight, as if to confirm his previous guesswork that it was a thick tube of mottled plastic, indistinguishable from the real thing but a far lighter load on the mechanism. Hawthorne gestured at a low break in the greenery, indicating that the lieutenant should follow him.

One behind the other they crawled through the tunnel of dyed cloth to a point directly below a line of light from a parted slat. Both quietly stood up and looked inside; there was no activity to be seen, so Tyrell separated the shutter strip an additional inch for a better view. What they saw was astonishing.

The interior of the house had the appearance of some doges Renaissance villa, huge arches leading from one area to another, gold-flaked marble everywhere, and on the white walls tapestries of a quality usually inherited or on loan to museums. A figure came into sight, an old man in a motorized wheelchair. He was crossing under the archways from one room to another. He disappeared from view, but following him was a blond-haired giant, his ma.s.sive shoulders stretching the cloth of his guayabera jacket. Hawthorne touched Pooles shoulder, pointing out the length of the house, and by his gesture telling the air force officer again to follow him. The lieutenant did so, each man sidestepping his way, silently pushing the huge cloth palms away as he progressed, until Tyrell reached what he estimated to be the area where the old man in the wheelchair had gone. The hurricane shutters emitted no light in this stretch of the wall, so Hawthorne grabbed Pooles arm, pulled the lieutenant beside him, and parted a slat at eye level.

Inside was the unbelievable, a fantasy created by a gambling maniac. It was a miniature casino designed for an emperor, an emperor racked with insomnia. There were slot machines, a pool table, a very low, curved blackjack table, and a wheel of fortune, all waist level for the wheelchair, the flat surfaces covered with stacks of paper money at the edges. Whoever the old man was, he was betting both for and against the house. He couldnt lose.

The blond bodyguard-he couldnt be anything else-stood beside the gaunt, balding white-haired man in the wheelchair, yawning as the old man put coins into a slot and laughed or grimaced at the results. Then a second man appeared, wheeling in a cart of food with a carafe of red wine and placing it alongside the invalid. The old cripple scowled, then shouted at his second guard-c.u.m-chef, who instantly bowed and removed a dish, apparently stating it would be replaced immediately.

"Come on!" whispered Tyrell. "There wont be a better time. Weve got to find a way in while that other gorilla is gone!"

"Where?"

"How do I know? Lets go!"

"Wait a minute!" whispered Poole. "I know this gla.s.s, this window. Its a dual pane with a vacuum in between, and once the vacuum is filled with air, you can break it with a heavy elbow."

"How do we do that?"

"Our guns have silencers, right?"

"Yes."

"And when a slot machine pays off, bells ring, right?"

"Sure."

"We wait till we see he hits a big one, then poke two holes on either side and break the d.a.m.n thing in."

"Lieutenant, you may be a genius after all."

"Ive been tryin to tell you that but you wont listen. You hit the low right corner, I hit the low left. We give the gla.s.s a couple of seconds to fog up, then smash it in. Actually, with a cushion of air it should make less noise than a regular window."

"Whatever you say, General."

Both men stripped open their Velcroed holsters and whipped out their weapons.

"Hes. .h.i.t one, Tye!" cried Poole as the old man inside began waving his arms in front of the blinding lights of the blinking, glittering slot machine.

Both fired their weapons and pushed up the exterior shutters as the mistlike vapor filled the gla.s.s, then crashed through the window while the slot machine was still blinking and spewing out coins, its bells clamoring, echoing off the marble walls. Amid the shattered gla.s.s they crouched on the floor as the stunned guard spun around and reached into his belt.

"Dont even try it!" Hawthorne said in a strident whisper as the deafening slot machine grew silent. "If either one of you raises your voice, itll be the last sound you make. Trust me, I really dont like you."

"Impossible!" screamed the old man in the wheelchair, in shock at the sight of the two invaders in their black wet suits.

"Oh, its real possible," said Poole, getting to his feet first and leveling his gun at the invalid. "I speak a little Italian, courtesy of a guy I thought was my friend, but if you and he had Charlie killed, youre not gonna need that wheelchair a second more."

"We want him alive, not dead," broke in Tyrell. "Cool it, Lieutenant, thats an order."

"Its a tough one to obey, Commander."

"Cover me," said Hawthorne. He approached the blond guard, yanked up his guayabera, and slipped the revolver out of his belt. "Get by the side of the archway, Jackson, and hug the wall," Tyrell continued, his concentration on the now furious, agitated guard. "If youre thinking what I think youre thinking," he snapped at the man, "reevaluate. I said I wanted Methuselah here alive. You I couldnt possibly care less about. Move between those two slot machines, now. And dont figure you can risk jumping me. Thugs dont interest me; theyre expendable. Move!"

The huge guard squeezed between the lowered machines, sweat rolling down his forehead, his eyes on fire. "You dont get outta here," he mumbled in broken English.

"You dont think so?" Hawthorne walked rapidly to the side of the adjacent slot machine, switching his weapon to his left hand and removing the radio from his pouch. He snapped on the transmitter, brought the instrument to his lips, and spoke quietly. "Can you hear me, Major?"

"Every syllable, Commander." The female voice that issued out of the miniaturized speaker astonished the guard, and for an instant infuriated the helpless old man in the wheelchair, whose whole body suddenly trembled with anger and fear. Then, as quickly as his fury had been summoned, it disappeared. Instead, he stared at Hawthorne and grinned; it was the most malevolent smile Tye had ever seen, for a moment transfixing him. "Whats your status?" asked Neilsen over the radio.

"A home run, Cathy," replied Hawthorne, taking his eyes off the disturbing face of evil incarnate below. "Were inside the first cousin to Hadrians villa. Weve got two of the residents and were waiting for a third. Who else is here, if anyone, we dont know."

"Should I radio the Brit P.T. with your findings?" Hearing the words, the old man bolted forward in the wheelchair, his hand clutching an instrument in the padded arm, his fury returning. He was stopped by Pooles foot, his hand fell away, grabbing a spoke.

"Its beyond your military-direct, isnt it?"

"True."

"Then wait until Jackson has studied whatever equipment is here. I wouldnt want specifics picked up from the ether. But if by some chance we go out of contact, then make that call quickly."

"Keep your radio on."

"I intend to. Itll be m.u.f.fled in the pouch, but youll hear enough." Footsteps! From an outer area, heels against hard marble. "Im off, Major," whispered Tye. Hawthorne replaced the radio, switched his weapon, and pointed it at the head of the blond giant three feet away above the next slot machine.

"Arresto!" shrieked the old Italian, suddenly propelling his chair forward toward the archway. As he did so, the blond guard crashed his immense bulk into the slot machine on his left, hurling it into Tyrells body with such force that it sent Hawthorne to the marble floor, machine and man instantly on top of him, his right arm pinned, his weapon useless. Simultaneously, there was the smashing of china plates beyond the arch. As the blond giants fingers dug into the flesh of Tyrells throat, choking off all air, a silenced gunshot pierced the s.p.a.ce above Hawthorne, blowing apart half the guards head. He fell away as Tye wrenched his arm from under the ma.s.sive, blinking, silent slot machine, and sprang to his feet only to observe Andrew Jackson Poole V subdue the third man with a series of punishing blows, delivered by flying feet and flat hands until the second guard staggered out of control. The lieutenant grabbed him and threw the mans dead weight across the frail back of the invalid, stopping the patriarch in mid-flight.

"Hawthorne?... Jackson?" Catherine Neilsens voice shot out from the pouch-encased radio. "What happened? I heard a lot of noise!"

"Hold on," said Tyrell, breathless, walking to the nonproductive one-armed bandit, leaning down and pulling the plug out of the wall. The maniacal blinking stopped; it was both calming and ominous. The old man struggled under the weight of his guards unconscious body until Poole removed it, letting it crash to the floor, the skull thumping onto the marble. "Were back in control," Hawthorne continued into the radio. "And Ill insist on nothing less than the rank of general for an under-thirty lieutenant named Andrew Jackson Poole. Christ, he saved my life!"

"He does small favors. What now?"

"Well check out the premises and then the equipment. Stay on."

Tye and Jackson gagged and tightly strapped the guard and the old Italian, hands and feet, into the chairs, lashed them to the upturned slot machine with clothesline they found in a kitchen cabinet, and proceeded to search the house, then the estate itself. They crawled around the grounds southeast of the fenced kennels, which were barely forty yards from the main house, until they spotted a small all-green cabin, large palms surrounding it, with a dim pulsating light from a very small window. They crept up to the sheltered gla.s.s; inside was a figure on a reclining chair, large flowering plants all around him, staring at a television screen and punching the air with his fists at a sequence of cartoons.

"That boy isnt playin with a full deck," whispered Poole.

"No, hes not," Hawthorne said, "but hes still another body capable of being ordered to do something we wouldnt like."

"What do you want to do?"

"The doors on the other side. Well break in, tie him up, and you do one of your things that puts him out for a couple of hours so he cant interfere."

"A simple spinal chop," the lieutenant said.

"Right.... Be quiet! He hears something; hes going for a red box on a table across the room. Lets go!"

The two black-suited figures raced around the camouflaged cabin, broke through the door, and confronted a bewildered man who did nothing but smile at them as he turned off the screeching machine on the table. "Thats my signal to release the dogs," he said hesitantly. "Its always the signal," he added, reaching for a lever against the wall. "I must do it immediately."