"I dont think youd want to hear it. Besides, its pretty personal-Ive never told anyone."

"Ill trade off with you, Tye. I have something personal, too, that Ive never told anybody, not even Jackson, much less my parents. Id like to tell somebody. Maybe we can help each other, since well probably never see each other when all this is over. Do you want to hear it?"

"Yes," said Tyrell, studying her somewhat anxious, perhaps slightly pleading, expression. "What is it, Cathy?"

"Poole and my folks think I was born to be military, born to be a top-gun air force pilot and all that goes with it."

"If youll forgive me," said Hawthorne, smiling gently. "I think Jackson believes you were issued, not merely born to it."

"Wrong on every count," countered Major Catherine Neilsen. "Until I was accepted to the Point and a free education, all I ever wanted to be was an anthropologist. Someone like Margaret Mead, traveling all over the world, studying cultures no one knew about, discovering things about primitive people who in so many ways are better off than we are. Sometimes that dream still comes back to me.... I sound foolish, dont I?"

"Not at all. Why dont you go for it?... I always wanted my own sloop, to make a living sailing under my own flag, as it were. So I got sidetracked for a decade, so what?"

"The circ.u.mstances are vastly different, Tye. You started being trained for what youre doing now when you were practically a kid. Id have to go back to school for G.o.d knows how long."

"What, a couple of years? Its not brain surgery. Then you can learn on the job."

"What?"

"You can do what ninety percent of all anthropologists cant do. Youre a pilot; you can fly them wherever they want to go."

"This is crazy talk," said Cathy quietly, pensively. Then she sat upright and cleared her throat. "Ive told you my secret, Tye. Whats yours? Fairs fair."

"We sound like a couple of kids, but all right.... Every now and then it comes back to me, and I suppose its my crutch, my rationalization.... One night I went to meet a Soviet, a KGB man pretty much like me, a sailor from the Black Sea. We both knew things were getting out of hand, the corpses in the ca.n.a.ls insane. For what? The summits couldnt care less about us, and he and I were going to cool down the craziness. When I found him, he was still alive, but his face was carved up by a razor, no less than a hamburger. I understood what he wanted me to do, so I... relieved him of his misery, his excruciating pain. It was then that I knew what I really had to do. It wasnt simply to go after the corrupt who made fortunes out of nothing, or the misguided moles or bureaucrats who were brought up to oppose us ideologically, it was to go after the fanatics, the maniacs who could do this to one of their own. All in the name of some unwavering, unblemished loyalty that didnt mean a G.o.dd.a.m.n thing in the changing super bowls of history."

"Thats heavy, Commander," said Cathy softly. "Was that when you met Stevens, Captain Stevens?"

"Henry the Horrible?"

"Was he ... is he?"

"Sometimes. Lets say hes aggressively dedicated. Actually, I knew his wife better than I knew him. They had no children, so she worked for the emba.s.sy. She was in the transport division, coordinating all personnel travel arrangements, and I had my share of bouncing around. Nice lady, and I suspect she curbed his excesses more than shed ever admit."

"A few minutes ago you asked him about your wife-" Tyrell snapped his head to his left, his eyes locked with the majors. "Sorry," she said, looking away.

"I knew the answer, but it was a question that had to be asked," he said calmly. "Van Nostrand made a crude remark-to provoke me, throw me off guard."

"And Stevens put the lie to it," completed Cathy. "You believed him, of course."

"Without the slightest doubt." Hawthorne grinned, not so much in humor but in remembrance, his eyes again on the ceiling. "Aggressiveness aside, Henry Stevens is very bright, very a.n.a.lytical, but the main reason he was taken out of the field and shoved upstairs is that hes a totally inept liar. To begin with, you think hes about to sweat, whether you see him or merely hear his voice. Its why Im convinced he knows more about my wifes death-her murder-than hes telling me.... You know what I asked him, so you can a.s.sume the implication. His answer was so flat and unequivocal, his reaction so quick, instantaneous, I knew it was the truth. He said hed met Ingrid only once, at the small wedding reception the emba.s.sy gave us-when he accompanied his wife."

"So much for the lie," said Cathy.

"I never had a doubt. Neither would you if youd known Ingrid."

"I wish I had."

"She would have liked you." Tyrell moved his head slowly, again looking at the major, no hostility in his eyes. "Youre about the same age she was, and with that same sense of independence, even authority, but you a.s.sert it more-she never had to."

"Thanks a whole h.e.l.l of a lot, Commander."

"Hey, come on, youre a military officer; you have to. She was a quadrilingual translator; it wasnt called for. I wasnt insulting you."

"By G.o.d, she bought it!" shouted Poole, bursting through the door of Neilsens room.

"Bought what?" asked Hawthorne.

"The fact that I volunteered for an underwater gravity-free bathysphere that sprung an oxygen leak in my lungs! Hot d.a.m.n!"

"Lets eat," Cathy said.

Room service arrived forty-five minutes later, the interim spent with Hawthorne studying the gatehouse entry log, Poole reading the newspapers he had purchased at the stand in the lobby, and Catherine taking a warm bath, hoping to "wash away a dozen or so anxiety attacks." They kept the television set on, the volume low but sufficient to hear any sudden news bulletins that might concern Van Nostrand. Thankfully, there were none. Their meals finished, Tyrell phoned Henry Stevens at the office.

"Can you plug up any intercepts with a scrambler?"

"You still think weve got leaks here?"

"Im d.a.m.n sure of it."

"Well, if you have some new evidence, let me know, because you and I have been on reverse scrambler for the last three days. Which would mean the leaks are on your end."

"Absolutely impossible."

"Christ, Im sick of your know-it-all att.i.tude."

"Not know-it-all, Henry, just generally knowing more than you."

"Im sick of that too."

"Then its simple. Fire me."

"We didnt hire you!"

"If you cut off the funds we need, its the same thing. Do you want to do that?"

"Oh, shut up.... What have you got? Any word on Little Girl Blood?"

"No more than you have," answered Tyrell. "Shes here, within a few miles of her strike, and no one knows where."

"Therell be no strike. The Presidents as good as locked in a vault. Times on our side."

"I love your confidence, but he cant keep that up too long. An invisible President is no President at all."

"I dont love your att.i.tude. What else? You said you were going to give me some names."

"Here they are, and put every one of them under the sharpest micros youve got." Hawthorne read off the names he had selected from the gatehouse log, having eliminated the usual estate personnel-a plumber, a veterinarian for the horses, and a quartet of Spanish dancers who had been hired for an outside barbecue, Argentine style.

"Youre talking about some of the biggest guns in the administration!" Stevens exploded. "You are now certifiable!"

"Every one of them was there during the last eighteen days. And since Little Girl Blood is indelibly linked with Van Nostrand, its entirely possible that one, or more than one, is part of that b.a.s.t.a.r.ds agenda-knowingly or unknowingly."

"Do you realize what youre asking me to do? The secretary of defense, the director of the CIA, that crazy chief of clandestine G-2, the G.o.dd.a.m.ned secretary of state? Youre nuts!"

"They were there, Henry. So was Bajaratt."

"Do you have proof? For G.o.ds sake, I could be fried by every one of the Presidents men!"

"Im holding the proof in my hand, Captain. The only people on this list who would fry you are working with Bajaratt, again knowingly or unknowingly. Now, d.a.m.n you, go to work!... Incidentally, within the next twenty minutes or so, Im going to give you a traceable a.s.set that could make you an admiral if youre not killed first."

"Thats nice. What the h.e.l.l is it, and where will the trace take us?"

"To the person behind Van Nostrands getting out of the country."

"Van Nostrands dead!"

"They dont know that at his point of departure. I repeat, go to work, Henry." Tyrell hung up the phone and alternately looked at Neilsen and Poole, who stared at him, mouths agape. "Is something bothering you?" he asked.

"You sure play hardball, Commander," said the lieutenant.

"Theres no other way to play it, Jackson."

"Suppose youre wrong?" said Cathy. "Suppose no one on that list has anything to do with Bajaratt?"

"I wont accept that. And if Stevens cant come up with anything, Ill see that this list goes public with the larger story and so many innuendos, lies, and half-truths that the power structure will have ma.s.s cardiac arrests coming up with explanations. There wont be any safety nets even for the real saints in Washington."

"Thats cynical to the point of complete irresponsibility," Neilsen said curtly.

"It certainly is, Major, because to find Little Girl Blood, the core of her support group has to panic. We know theyre out there, and we know theyve penetrated our closed circles here and in London and Paris. Just one mistake, one person trying to cover his a.s.s, and the experts go to work with their magic serums."

"You make it sound so simple."

"Basically, its not that complicated. We start with the gatehouse list, men known to have been in close contact with Van Nostrand, then the list expands with the individual microscopes. Who are their friends, their a.s.sociates; who works in their offices with access to cla.s.sified materials? Who among them have life-styles seemingly beyond their means? Are there weaknesses that could make them marks for extortion? Everything progresses at top speed, fear and panic the ammunition." The telephone rang and Tyrell pounced on it. "Stevens?" Hawthorne frowned; he covered the mouthpiece and gestured to Poole. "Its for you."

The lieutenant picked up the phone on the desk. "Did it happen, Mac?... Ten minutes ago? Okay, thanks.... How the h.e.l.l do I know? Sell the d.a.m.n thing! If they had any brains, theyd have flown it to Cuba." Poole hung up and looked at Tye. "Van Nostrands jet landed and apparently there was a lot of confusion. The Washington escort had a blowup with the Jones boys, who left the plane at General Aviation, saying theyd been dismissed by the owner and then got outta there."

"Its time for St. Thomas," said Tyrell, reaching for the phone and dialing the Caribbean. His face creased with antic.i.p.ation, he waited, then pressed the two-digit ICM code and listened to his messages.... My darling, its Dominique! Im calling from a boring cruise off the coast of Portofino.... Hawthorne blanched, his eyes wide, the muscles of his face taut. It was false, as everything about Dominique was false, the mendacity of a killer whose whole life was a lie. And Pauline in Paris was part of that lie, a fragment that could bring them one step closer to Bajaratt.

"What is it?" said Cathy, reading the anxiety on his face.

"Nothing," replied Tyrell quietly. "I just heard from someone who made a mistake." Another message followed; his tension returned.

Suddenly, from outside the hotel window, there was an ear-shattering scream. It continued, growing louder, then hysterical. Neilsen and Poole ran to the window. "Down in the parking lot!" cried the lieutenant. "Look!"

Below, where the huge black surface of the parking area was illuminated by bordering floodlights, stood a blond woman and a middle-aged man. The woman was shrieking in horror, clutching her companion as he tried desperately to quiet her and pull her away. Poole opened the window; the gray-haired mans pleas were now audible.

"Shut up! Weve got to get out of here. Will you be quiet, you idiot, people will hear you!"

"Hes dead, Myron! Jesus, look at his head-its half blown away! Holy Christ!"

"Shut up, you G.o.dd.a.m.ned tramp!"

Several white-jacketed waiters came running from a rear door, one of them holding a flashlight, its beam wavering back and forth, finally settling on the figure of a man, his body angled out of the open door of a Porsche convertible, half on the seat, half on the pavement. The dark area around the mans head glistened under the flashlights beam; the skull was shattered, bleeding.

"Tye, come over here!" cried Neilsen, the shouts below covering the urgency of her voice.

"Shhh!" Hawthorne held the palm of his left hand over his ear, concentrating on the words he was hearing on the line from St. Thomas.

"Someone was just killed down there!" Cathy continued. "A man in a sports car. Theyre sending for the police!"

"Be quiet, Major, Ive got to get this right." Tyrell wrote on the room-service menu.

Outside the room, in the Shenandoah Lodges corridor, Amaya Bajaratt hurried past Hawthornes door, removing a pair of surgical gloves.

21.

"Good G.o.d, its the secretary of state," said Tyrell quietly to himself. Stunned, he slowly replaced the telephone as the sound of sirens filled the parking lot below. "I dont want to believe it!" he whispered, albeit loud enough to be heard.

"Believe what?" asked Cathy, turning away from the window. "Its a mess down there."

"Its a mess up here too."

"Someone was killed, Tye."

"I understand that, but it has nothing to do with us. We are, however, very involved with something else thatd give the country ma.s.s cardiac arrest."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Van Nostrands military escort at the airport in Charlotte was by direct order of the secretary of state."

"Oh, mgawd," said Poole softly, his gaze on Hawthorne, his hands closing the window. "And I thought you were hangin ten on a skateboard when you talked about people like that."

"Theres got to be an explanation," Neilsen interrupted, "because youre right, there cant be a connection between him and Bajaratt."

"He had a pretty solid connection with Van Nostrand, strong enough to get him out of the country under d.a.m.ned strange circ.u.mstances, and Van Nostrand-Mr. Neptune-had Little Girl Blood hidden in a guest house a few hundred yards away from that library. To go back to the alphabet, if A equals B, and B equals C, then theres a specific relationship between A and C."

"But you said you saw two men gettin into that limo, Tye. One with a hat-"

"Which is standard for covering a bald head," broke in Hawthorne. "I said that too, Jackson, and I was wrong on one count and too limited with the other. They werent two men; one was a woman, and a hat doesnt cover just a bald head; it also hides a womans hair."

"It really was Bajaratt," Cathy whispered. "We were so close!"