"Because two of my friends were killed there, and I want to know why and by whom! Thats the trail I intend to follow; its the only one that makes sense. That b.i.t.c.h psycho is operating from the islands."

"Once were on board the aircraft, you can get in touch with anybody you like. Youve already proven you can reach the people who make decisions."

"Youre right," Hawthorne agreed, lowering his voice. "Im sorry, Ive no right blowing up at you."

"No, you dont. You lost two friends, and in our own way so did we. I thought we were on the same side. You made a pretty good case for it a few hours ago."

"I think what the majors trying to say is that if you hop off in Virgin Gorda, were going with you," said Poole. "We distinctly remember our orders. We were a.s.signed to you, and we want to help," he added, wincing as he raised his back against the concealed breakwall.

"Youre not going to be much help in your condition, Lieutenant."

"Thatll change in a day with a couple of hot tubs and maybe some cortisone," Jackson said. "Remember, Ive got experience in the physical areas. I know when Im hurt and when Im hurt. I aint."

"All right," said Tye, fatigue overwhelming his resistance, "suppose I dont send you back to your base, will you both accept the fact that Im running the show? You do as I say?"

"Naturally," said the major. "Youre in command."

"That hasnt made much impact so far."

"What she means, Commander-"

"Will you stop telling him what I mean," said the major, sinking cross-legged to the sand as she stared at Poole menacingly.

"Okay, okay," Tye interrupted. "Youre on board. For what, G.o.d knows."

"Talking about being on board," said Neilsen, looking at Tyrell. "You dont get along with Captain Stevens, do you?"

"It doesnt matter. Im not accountable to him."

"Hes your superior officer-"

"The h.e.l.l he is. I was hired by MI-6, London."

"Hired?" exclaimed Poole.

"Thats right. They met my price, Lieutenant." Hawthorne arched his neck; he was exhausted.

"But everything you said about this incredible terrorist and the army of fanatics behind her, all ready to commit ma.s.s a.s.sa.s.sinations-you joined up for a price?"

"Thats the way it was, yes."

"Youre one strange guy, Commander Hawthorne. Im not sure I understand you at all."

"Your understanding me, Major, isnt germane to this operation."

"Of course not ... sir."

"It isnt germane, Cath, cause youre cuttin around the nerve endings," said Poole, his back against the vine-laden breakwall.

"What the h.e.l.l are you talking about?" asked Hawthorne. His eyes half closed, he kept blinking back the exhaustion but with each blink was nodding closer to sleep.

"I was on the Patrick phone too. Your wife was killed for what you figure were the wrong reasons, that much I got, and thats why you wouldnt go back to your old crowd even if they offered you half the real estate in Washington."

"Youre very observant," said Hawthorne softly, his chin sinking into his chest. "Even if you dont know what youre talking about."

"Then something else happened," continued Poole. "When we picked you up on Saba, you made like you didnt give a s.h.i.t, but you did. You were like a man on fire when my equipment began deliverin. You began to see something you didnt see before, and you got real sharp. You even nailed Sal Mancini like a rattlesnake strikin out at a rat."

"What are you driving at, Jackson?" asked Cathy.

"Somethin he knows and wont tell us," replied Poole.

"... The b.a.s.t.a.r.ds," whispered Tyrell, his head nodding up and down, his eyes closed now.

"How long has it been since you slept?" asked Catherine, moving over in the sand next to Hawthorne.

"Im fine...."

"The h.e.l.l you are," said the pilot, her hand steadying Tyrells weaving shoulder. "Youre spiraling out of action, Commander."

"Dominique?" murmured Hawthorne suddenly, his body arching back, as if in slow motion, held by Neilsens arm.

"Who?"

"Hold it, Cath," said Poole, extending his right hand in the moonlight. "Is Dominique your wife?"

"No!" rasped Tye, only half conscious. "Ingrid ..."

"She was the one who was killed?"

"Lies! They said she was on a ... Soviet payroll."

"Was she?" asked Neilsen, now cradling the failing Hawthorne.

"I dont know," said Tyrell, barely able to be heard. "She wanted everything to stop."

"Everything what?" pressed the lieutenant.

"I dont know-everything."

"Go to sleep, Tye," said Cathy.

"No!" objected Poole. "Whos Dominique?" But Hawthorne had lapsed into unconsciousness on the beach. "That mans got problems."

"Shut up and build a fire," ordered the major.

Eighteen minutes later, the flames of the fire casting shadows over the beach, the limping Poole sat down on the sand and looked over at Cathy, who was staring down at the sleeping Tyrell. "He does have problems, doesnt he?" said the major.

"More than we ever had, including Pensacola and Miami."

"Hes a good guy, Jackson."

"Tell me something I dont know, Cath. Ive been watchin you, your bulls.h.i.t and all, and like the commander said, Im pretty observant. You and he could make one h.e.l.l of a couple."

"Dont be ridiculous."

"Look at him. Hes clouds above Pensacola. I mean, hes a man, not some p.r.i.c.k who keeps lookin into mirrors."

"Hes not too terrible," said the air force pilot, holding Tyrells head as she piled a pillow of sand below it. "Lets say hes not unqualified."

"Go for it, Cath. Im the genius, remember?"

"Hes not ready, Jackson. Neither am I."

"Do me a favor."

"What?"

"Do what comes naturally."

The major looked over at the lieutenant, then down at the reposed face of Tyrell Nathaniel Hawthorne partially on her lap. She leaned down and kissed his parted lips.

"Dominique?"

"No, Commander. Somebody else."

"Buona sera, signore," said Bajaratt, leading her reluctant barone-cadetto to the reporter from The Miami Herald who spoke fluent Italian. "The red-haired young man suggested that we come and speak with you. Your account of the press conference yesterday was most flattering indeed. We thank you."

"Sorry we only made the beachfront pages, but hes a h.e.l.l of a kid, Countess," said the journalist pleasantly. "Youre both pretty awesome, in fact. By the way, my names Del Rossi."

"Yet something troubles you?"

"You could say that, but Im not ready to go into print with it."

"And what exactly is that?"

"Whats your game, lady?"

"I dont understand you-"

"But he does. He understands every word were saying in English."

"Why do you think that?"

"Because Im bilingual. Its always in the eyes, isnt it? A flash of understanding, a glint of resentment or humor having nothing to do with a tone of voice or an expression."

"Or partial comprehension, perhaps strengthened by previously translated conversation-is that not possible, fellow linguist?"

"Anythings possible, Countess, but he does speak and understand English-isnt that right, young fella?"

"What-che csa?"

"Case closed, lady." Del Rossi smiled under Bajaratts glare. "But, hey, I dont fault you for it, Countess. Actually, its pretty d.a.m.ned smart."

"And what do you mean by that?" asked the Baj icily.

"Its called deniability by way of misinterpretation. The old Soviets, the Chinese, and the White House are experts at it. He can say anything he likes, then retract it and claim he didnt understand."

"But why?" pressed Bajaratt.

"I havent figured that out yet, which accounts for my not going into print."

"But were you not one of the journalists who spoke to the barone himself in Ravello?"

"Thats right, and to be frank, he wasnt the best source Ive ever had. He kept saying 'tutto quello che dice e vero and 'qualsiasi cosa dica. Essentially, 'whatever he says is the truth. What truth, Countess?"

"The familys investments, of course."

"Maybe, but why did I get the feeling that talking to the great baron was about as helpful as talking to an answering machine?"

"An overactive imagination, signore. It is late and we must leave. Buona ntte."

"Im going too," said the reporter. "Its a pretty long drive to Miami."

"We must find our host and hostess." The Baj took Nicolos arm, leading him away.

"Ill stay a proper twenty paces behind," added Del Rossi, obviously enjoying the moment.

Bajaratt turned, suddenly looking at the reporter warmly, the ice gone from her eyes. "Why, Signor Giornalista? That would be very undemocratic of you. It would appear that you disapprove of us, disapprove of our positions."

"Oh, no, Countess, I neither approve nor disapprove. In my business we dont make judgments, we just tell it like it is."

"Then do so, but now you walk on my other side and I shall be between two handsome italiani as we say our farewells."

"Youre something else, lady." Del Rossi stepped forward, politely offering his arm.

"And youre too elliptical for me, signore," said the Baj as all three began across the lawn. Then, without warning, the Countess Cabrini lurched downward, her body twisting, her heel apparently caught in a patch of soft gra.s.s or a sprinkler head. She cried out as Nicolo and Del Rossi instantly sprang down to her, both on their knees, their hands reaching for her. "My foot! Free it, please, or remove my shoe!"

"Ive got it," said the reporter, lifting her ankle gently off the gra.s.s.

"Oh, thank you!" exclaimed Bajaratt, grabbing Del Rossis leg for support as guests raced over, surrounding them.

"Ouch!" sputtered the reporter as a trickle of blood appeared on his trousers while he and Nicolo lifted the countess to her feet.

"Thank you-thank you all. Im fine, really Im fine. Im simply mortified at my awkwardness!" A chorus of sympathy and understanding greeted her, so the contessa and her escorts proceeded to their hosts, who were on the patio, saying good night to departing guests. "Good heavens!" said Bajaratt, seeing the thin rivulet of blood on Del Rossis right pant leg. "When I grabbed you, that d.a.m.ned bracelet of mine ripped your trousers. Worse, it cut you! Im so dreadfully sorry!"

"Its nothing, Countess, just a scratch."

"You must send me the bill for your trousers!... I adore this bracelet, but those gold points are frightening. I shall never wear it again!"