"Oh, Christ, Im sorry, bro," Hawthorne interrupted, bringing his focus back. "Practical matters.... I a.s.sume the money came through and youre looking for a couple of cla.s.s As."

"Hey, come on, Tye, I just sailed into Red Hook an hour ago! But, yes, I did contact Cyril at the Chase in Charlotte Amalie, and he told me we got an unbelievable transfer from London. He was pressing me for any connections to the old Noriega crowd!"

"h.e.l.l trace and find its as clean as the queens lingerie. Get to work on the boats."

"Without you?"

"I said get to work, dont make a deal. If you find something promising, put a binder on it."

"Oh, yes, I remember now, a binder. When do you think youll be back?"

"It cant be too much longer-one way or another."

"What do you mean, one way or another?"

"I cant tell you. Ill call you in a day or so."

"Tye ...?"

"Yes?"

"For G.o.ds sake, be careful, will you?"

"Of course, bro. You know my dictum, I despise foolhardy people."

"You say."

Hawthorne replaced the telephone, wincing as he leaned to his left. "Where are the notes that were in my trousers?" he asked Poole.

"Right here," replied Jackson, going to the bureau and picking up several pages scrunched together.

Hawthorne took the sc.r.a.ps of paper, rustling through them, extracting one and flattening it out on the bed. He picked up the phone, again wincing as he turned, reading the figures on the paper, and dialed. "Secretary Palisser, please," he said courteously. "T. N. Hawthorne calling."

"Yes, sir," said the secretary. "Im to put you right through."

"Thank you."

"Commander?" Palissers voice was like the man-authoritative, not aggressive. "What have you learned, if anything?"

"Another killing, and I almost made it one after that."

"Good Lord, are you all right?"

"A couple of st.i.tches, thats all; I walked-ran-right into it."

"What happened?"

"Later, Mr. Secretary, theres something else. Do you know a CIA a.n.a.lyst named ORyan?"

"Yes, I believe I do. He was the DCIs senior aide at our last briefing. As I recall, hes been around for quite a while and is considered one of those back-room whizzes. I could be wrong, but I think it was Ryan or ORyan."

"Youre not wrong and hes dead, courtesy of Little Girl Blood."

"Oh, my G.o.d!"

"If I read it correctly, he was the primary intelligence leak to Bajaratt and her crowd."

"Arent you contradicting yourself?" interrupted an astonished yet thinking Palisser. "If he was of such value to her-them-why would they kill him?"

"Only a guess, but he may have made a mistake that could lead us to her, or, even more likely, hed fulfilled his function and had to be eliminated because of what and who he knew."

"Which leads back to your thesis that the Baaka penetration in Washington reaches into dangerously high places."

"Knowingly or unknowingly, Mr. Secretary," Hawthorne broke in quickly. "For example, your helping Van Nostrand was an act of compa.s.sion, not complicity. You were conned."

"Its so hard to believe-"

"Further, if Howard Davenports death is related, and Im convinced it is, even the most avid conspiracy freak would back away from calling him a friend of Bajaratts, any more than you. Youre just not logical candidates."

"Good heavens, never!"

"But ORyan was-"

"How can you be certain?"

"She was within a mile of where he was killed."

"How do you know that?"

"I told you, she tried to add me to the list."

"You saw her?"

"Lets put it this way, I was trying like h.e.l.l to get out of her line of sight.... Please, Mr. Secretary, were wasting time. Have you got the papers I asked for?"

"Ill have them all in a half hour, although I still have misgivings."

"Do you have a choice-do we have a choice?"

"Not if your service record is accurate and wasnt written by your mother. Incidentally, we took your photograph from your last navy ID, which was six years ago. It appears you havent aged perceptibly."

"I look better, because I have a better job. Ask my mother."

"Thank you, but I shouldnt care to have another Hawthorne in my life, no matter how charming she may be. Have the lieutenant come around and pick everything up. He should ask to see the undersecretary for Caribbean affairs. h.e.l.l have the envelope with your credentials-Special Agent, Consular Operations. It will be logged, sealed, and marked Geological Survey, North Coast: Montserrat."

"As in Bajaratt?"

"One should always antic.i.p.ate the esoterica of future congressional hearings, Commander. Also, the mentalities of the inquisitors. Such an obvious code mitigates the specter of criminal secrecy."

"It does?"

"Certainly.... A senator asks, 'Montserrat and Bajaratt? Isnt that kind of obvious, Mr. Secretary?... 'Why, Senator, youre very astute. Therefore, as youve so brilliantly perceived, we did not engage in duplicity when we enlisted former Commander Hawthorne. If we had, we surely would not have been-as youve pointed out-so obvious. "

"In short, youre covering the State Departments a.s.s."

"Most a.s.suredly," agreed the secretary. "As well as yours, Commander. And, Hawthorne?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Whats your approach with the families?"

"Down and dirty."

"Right now, since Ive prepared your credentials, be a little more specific, please."

"Direct confrontation. Ill claim theres a State Department crisis of extreme sensitivity that could well involve the deceased. Theres no time for the usual period of mourning prior to interrogation."

"Youll be resented, perhaps stopped by family members or the religious."

"I hope I am, because I can summon up a few resentments of my own.... Lets say Im very personally motivated. In addition to everything thats happened, theres a friend of mine in the hospital who may never walk again." Tyrell hung up the phone and turned to a pensive Poole, who was staring out the window. "Youre elected, Jackson," he said. "Youre to see the undersecretary for Caribbean affairs; hes got a large padded manila envelope for me.... Whats the matter?"

"Things are happening awful fast, Tye," replied the lieutenant, stepping back from the window, his eyes on Hawthorne. "The body count is risin quicker than we can keep up with it.... Van Nostrand and his head of security, plus a gatehouse guard, then the old woman, a chauffeur, and a red-haired guy right down in that parking lot, then Davenport, Ingersol, and now this ORyan."

"Youre forgetting a few, arent you, Lieutenant?" asked Hawthorne. "If I recall, they were close friends of mine, and one was a very close friend of yours. I dont think this is the time for evangelical pacifism."

"Youre not hearing me, Commander."

"What did I miss?"

"Were not a thousand miles away in the Caribbean, where you and I can sorta control the things we can control. The geographys narrowed down a whole h.e.l.l of a lot, and theres a lot of people involved we dont know."

"Thats logical. We dont have a schedule, but we know this is ground zero, and Bajaratts systematically eliminating every conceivable link to her."

"We know where shes comin from, but whos on our side? Whos on those controls?"

"Itll be San Juan again," Hawthorne replied. "Youll take Cathys place and handle the base camp here. Youll coordinate my moves as the additional information comes in."

"With what and from whom?"

"With the high technology thats supposedly replaced men like me-what we used to be. I imagine it was there, but we didnt have much use for it, or the laboratory boys didnt think we could learn."

"Whats the equipment?"

"First, theres a device called a transponder-"

"Its a tracing module on UHF," Poole explained sharply. "Within given distances it can relay your position to a map grid."

"Thats what I gathered. Itll be embedded in a belt thats in the envelope. Then theres a paging mechanism that emits small electrical charges telling me whoevers at the other end wants to reach me, two shots repeated twice meaning as soon as its convenient, three shots repeated a number of times signaling emergency. Its fiber-optic and implanted in a plastic cigarette lighter so it can bypa.s.s a metal detector."

"Who controls it?" asked the lieutenant.

"You. Ill set it up that way."

"Set it up so I know by alternatin codes whoever it is at the Agency or the State Department whos delivering information for you. The number should be restricted to the required personnel on four-hour shifts, all sequestered under guard and with no access to telephones."

"Were you in my former business, Poole?"

"No, Commander, Im a senior computer operator of an AWAC. False information-deliberately false-is a nightmare we gotta live with."

"I wonder where Sal Mancini is?... Sorry."

"Dont be. If I ever see him, youll know it when you read the papers. Hes a dead snake, cause hes as much responsible for Charlies death as any of the others! And make d.a.m.n sure the people forwarding you information are the same ones on the grids."

"What grids?"

"The screen printouts that pinpoint your whereabouts relayed by the transponder. One team can handle both; separate teams leave everything too loose."

"Arent we getting a little paranoid? Palisser made it clear to me that only the most experienced and trusted people at Central Intelligence would be working with us."

"In other words," said the lieutenant, "it might have been someone like the late Mr. ORyan?"

"Ill tell Palisser and make it clear thats the way its got to be," said Hawthorne, nodding slowly. "All right, lets get started." Tyrell rose unsteadily from the bed and pointed to his hip. "I meant what I said, Jackson. Tape this thing up firmer."

"What about your clothes?" Poole grabbed the adhesive gauze from the desk as Hawthorne stood up, pulled down his shorts, and watched the lieutenant expertly crisscross the tape across his wound. "You cant head out to the ORyans and the Ingersols in skivvies."

"I gave my measurements to Palissers secretary. Within an hour everything will be delivered here. Suit, shirt, tie, and shoes-the whole fish and fancy chips. A State Department employee cant violate a dress code." The telephone rang and Hawthorne bounced down on the bed, once again wincing. "Yes?" he said curtly.

"Its Henry, Tye. Did you get any sleep?"

"More than I thought."

"How are you feeling? Hows the wound?"

"Im anxious and the st.i.tches are holding. Phyllis said you finally hit the sack with a loud thump yourself. Youll never learn to be subtle, will you, Hank?"

"Thanks for that-the Hank."

"Youre welcome. Youre not off my personal hook, and maybe someday youll fill in the missing pages that were lost in Amsterdam, but right now were working together. Speaking of which, do you have anything new? What about the telephone in Paris?"

"Its a mansion in Parc Monceau belonging to a family, a dynasty, I guess, named Couvier, very old, very large French fortune. According to the Deuxieme, the owner is the last of the great boulevardiers; hes close to eighty with a fifth wife who, until last year, was a beach hostess in Saint-Tropez."

"Any phone records, international, I mean?"

"Four from that side of the pond. Two from the Caribbean and two from the mainland during the past ten days. Theyve got it tapped; from now on theyll get specific locations by area codes and numbers."

"Are the Couviers in residence?"

"Not according to the head housekeeper; theyre in Hong Kong."