Seebank had gone to that barn on that road eight years earlier, as he was going to it now because of another phone call from another stranger. But eight years ago, under the glow of an old lantern, in the presence of the shadowed, elegant Neptune, he had read the affidavits of the commandants of the five prison camps in which he and his men had been interned.

"Colonel Seebank was most cooperative and frequently dined with us..."

"The colonel would describe for us the escape procedures his other officers created..."

"A number of times we pretended to subject him to physical abuse while he screamed in earshot of his comrades..."

"We used a mild acid to discolor his flesh-usually while he was quite happily drunk-and sent him back later to his quarters in torn clothing..."

"He was cooperative, but we did not admire him..."

Everything was there. Brigadier General Paul Seebank was no hero. He was something else.

And he was valuable to the Providers, so valuable, he was given an elite position: Scorpio Four. All future elections were guaranteed, for no opponent could ever match his political war chest. He had won his second term by burying the contender in an avalanche of money, The senator, a military expert, had merely to steer defense contracts to the coffers of those selected by the Providers.

The old barn was in sight, a ramshackle silhouette against the gray sky, on the rise of a hill of wild gra.s.s. Seebank left the road and climbed toward the rendezvous, the beam of his flashlight now steady. Six minutes later he reached the broken-down doors, half doors, slats really, and called out, "Im here. Where are you?"

His answer was the brief illumination of a second flashlight. "Come inside," said the voice in the darkness. "Its a pleasure to meet my superior officer-in a different army, of course.... Turn off your light."

Seebank did so. "Did we serve together? Do I know you?"

"Weve never met personally. You might, however, remember a unit number and a rank, even a barracks location-the 'south compound. "

"A prisoner, you were a prisoner! We were prisoners together!"

"It was a long time ago, Senator," interrupted the unseen figure. "Or do you prefer General?"

"I prefer to know why you called me and why you chose this place."

"Isnt this where you were recruited? This very barn? I was. I merely thought it would convey how very urgent the emergency is."

"Recruited ...? You? Then you are-"

"Of course I am. Why else would you be here? Let me introduce myself, General. I am Scorpio Five, the last of the elite Scorpions, the remaining twenty every bit as vital but without our authority."

"I cant say Im not relieved." Seebanks hands were still trembling, the tic in his lower lip now constant. "Of course, this location had an immediate impact on me. Frankly, I thought Id be meeting with one of our ... our-"

"Say it, Senator, one of our Providers, right?"

"Yes ... a Provider."

"In light of the extraordinary events of the past two days, Im surprised that you havent-also somewhat relieved."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, according to the telephone codes, Scorpio Four is now, for all intents and purposes, Scorpio One, isnt that so?"

"Yes, yes, I suppose it is." Seebanks tic accelerated.

"Do you know why?"

"No, not actually." The senator clasped his hands around the extinguished flashlight to control the trembling.

"No, you probably wouldnt. You dont have access to the information. Fortunately, I do, and Ive acted upon it."

"Youre talking in circles, soldier. I dont like that!"

"What you like doesnt matter. Scorpios Two and Three were taken out. They chickened; they couldnt live with the current scenario, so Little Girl Blood had them eliminated, and thats good enough for me."

"I dont understand. Who the h.e.l.l is Little Girl Blood?"

"I wondered if you knew; you dont. You work for the Providers in a different area, very profitable but very different, and this isnt your thing. Considering what you are-what we know you are-you couldnt hack it. Its called no guts. Youre a fraud, Scorpio Four, and I was told years ago to watch you.... Now youre a liability."

"How dare you!" roared the panicked Seebank. "You are my subordinate!"

"Sorry, I couldnt wait for that to change-couldnt wait for the electronics to untangle the signals and replace you. If you could call your wife right now, shed tell you that a telephone serviceman came to your house at eight-ten this morning, twelve minutes after you left for your Senate office. He did his work on the phone in your den.... You see, were too close, General, too close to putting this country back where it belongs. Weve been stripped bare, our military budgets cut disastrously across the board, our personnel decimated, our armed might reduced to chickens.h.i.t. There are twenty thousand nuclear warheads all over Europe and Asia pointed at us and we pretend they dont exist!... Well, thatll change when Little Girl Blood carries out her operation. Well be in charge again, the nation ours to govern the way it should be governed! The country will be paralyzed, and, naturally, as always, it will turn to us for guidance and protection."

"Im not against you, soldier," the trembling senator managed to say. "Those could be my very words; surely you must know that."

"h.e.l.l, General, I certainly do, but theyre only words. Youre all words, no action. Your cowardice is a deficiency we cant afford. You couldnt hack it."

"Hack what?"

"The killing of the President. How does that grab you?"

"My G.o.d, youre insane!" whispered Paul Seebank, his hands suddenly steady, his tic diminished in sheer terror. "I cant believe what youre saying. Who are you?"

"Yes, I guess its time." From behind the brick wall a one-armed figure, his right sleeve folded into his shoulder, emerged. "Do you recognize me, General?"

Seebank stared, uncomprehending, at a face he knew all too well. "You ...?"

"Does the absence of my arm bring back any memories? Certainly, you were told about it."

"No!... No memories! I dont know what youre talking about."

"Sure you do, General, although you never saw my face back then-I was simply Captain X, as far as you were concerned-a very particular Captain X."

"No ... no! Youre fantasizing-I never knew you!"

"As I said, not personally, no, you didnt. Have you any idea how amused I was sitting at a table in front of your interminable Senate hearings, listening to your so-called military expertise, which was pure bulls.h.i.t, fed to you by our mutual benefactors through Scorpio One? The army graciously provided me with a prosthesis, a false right arm that filled the uniform, for the Pentagon recognized that my talents did not require an arm, only a brain and a certain minor eloquence which is allowed the military."

"I swear to Christ, I know you only as you are, nothing before!"

"Then let me prod your temporary amnesia. Do you remember the south compound? Do you remember hearing that an obscure captain had engineered a foolproof escape? An escape that would have worked.... But it didnt-because an American officer had tipped off the compounds prisoner council. The gooks came into our hut, held out my right arm, and cut it off with one of their f.u.c.king swords. And in near perfect English the camp translator said, 'Now you try escape. "

"I had nothing to do with that-with you!"

"Move off it, General, I have you dead to rights. When I was recruited, Neptune showed me the depositions from Hanoi, including a paragraph you never saw. He was the one who told me to watch you. How to alter your telephone if it was ever necessary."

"Thats all in the past! It doesnt matter anymore!"

"Would you believe it does to me? Ive waited twenty-five years to pay you back."

Two shots were fired as a drizzle caressed the old dilapidated barn in a barren field in Rockville, Maryland.

And the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff walked through the high gra.s.s toward his concealed civilian Buick. If everything remained on schedule, Little Girl Blood was one step nearer Ground Zero.

A perplexed, frustrated Hawthorne drove the State Department vehicle toward McLean, Virginia, trying to understand the enigma of the family ORyan. They were either the dumbest, most gullible bunch of human beings he had ever encountered, or they were taught so well by ORyan they could all pa.s.s a polygraph claiming they werent even on the premises while robbing a bank!

He had arrived at the beach house shortly past 5:30, and by 7:00 oclock Hawthorne had begun to think that Patrick Timothy ORyan was the most close-mouthed Irishman in the history of that Gaelic race. From ORyans Agency file, delivered to him an hour before he had left the Shenandoah Lodge, Tyrells antennae had been a.s.saulted by a gaping omission in the a.n.a.lysts background check. The familys sudden reversal of fortune, from a modest house on a median CIA salary to a much larger residence, as well as a substantial summer home on the beach, was just too pat to be explained by an inheritance from a horse-breeding uncle in Ireland. The Agency had settled for the legal paperwork; they hadnt gone any deeper. In Hawthornes judgment, they should have, much deeper. For starters, ORyan had older brothers in the New York City police department. Where were they and why had they been bypa.s.sed by a wealthy relative who, according to Mrs. ORyan, had never met any of the boys?

"Uncle Finead was a saint!" Maria Santoni ORyan had shouted through her tears. "The Lord G.o.d told him my Paddy was the most beloved of Jesus Christ! In my hour of sorrow and torment, youve got to come here with such questions?"

Not good enough, Mrs. ORyan, Tyrell thought. But then, you dont have any answers. Neither had the three sons and two daughters in varying degrees of innocent anger. Something was rotten, the smell overpowering, but Hawthorne could not locate the source of the odor.

It was close to nine-thirty when he swung into the McLean, Virginia, private road that led to the large colonial house belonging to the Ingersols. The long double-lined circular drive was filled with dark limousines and expensive cars-Jaguars, Mercedes, and a smattering of Cadillacs and Lincolns; a separate lawn to the left of the house was also a parking area, served by attendants who parked the visiting mourners automobiles.

He was greeted at the door by David Ingersols son, a pleasant young man, sincere, courteous, and with a pool of sadness in his eyes, Tyrell thought as he showed him his credentials.

"I think Id better get my fathers partner," said the dead mans son. "I wouldnt be of any help to you-whatever youre here for."

Edward White, of Ingersol and White, was a compact, medium-size man with a balding head and piercing brown eyes. "Ill take care of this!" he said curtly after studying Hawthornes identification. "Stay by the door, Todd. This gentleman and I will go into the corridor." Once in a narrow hallway, White continued. "To say that Im appalled at your appearance here tonight would be an understatement. A State Department investigation, when the poor soul hasnt even been ... finished at the funeral home? How can you?"

"Very easily and very quickly, Mr. White," replied Tyrell. "Immediacy is vital to us."

"For G.o.ds sake, why?"

"Because David Ingersol may have been the prime mover in a ma.s.sive money-laundering operation involving both the old Medelln and the new Cali drug cartels. Both were brokered out of Puerto Rico."

"Thats utterly preposterous! We have clients in Puerto Rico, Davids clients mainly, but theres never been a scintilla of wrongdoing. I was his partner, I ought to know."

"Perhaps you know less than you think. Suppose I were to tell you that through State Department intercession weve learned that David Ingersol has accounts in Zurich and Bern in excess of eight figures, American. Those sums didnt come from your law firm. Youre rich, but not that rich."

"Youre either a liar or a paranoiac.... Lets go into Davids study; this is nowhere to talk. Come this way." The two men bypa.s.sed the crowd inside the large living room and walked down another hallway, where Edward White opened a door. Inside was a book-lined study; it was wood-paneled with dark brown leather everywhere-chairs, tables, two couches, even the tall back of a turned-around desk chair behind the huge surface that held David Ingersols papers. "I dont believe you for an instant," White said as he closed the door.

"This isnt an arrest, Counselor, merely one arm of an investigation. If you doubt me, call the State Department. Im sure you know the right people to reach."

"You callous son of a b.i.t.c.h! Think of Davids family!"

"Im thinking of several foreign accounts that could have been designed by the BCCI and an Asmerican citizen who used his considerable influence to keep the drug mobs in business."

"Are you all things to this highly suspect investigation, Mr. Hawthorne? Police, judge, and jury? Have you ever considered how simple it is to establish 'foreign accounts in any name you like simply by writing out a scan-proof signature?"

"No, I dont, but you apparently do."

"Yes, I do, because Ive made a minor study of them, and any client of our firm has to have a d.a.m.n good reason for possessing one, especially if were paid from such an account."

"Thats a world I dont know anything about," lied Tyrell, "but if what you say is true, all we have to do is fax David Ingersols signature to Zurich and Bern."

"Machine facsimiles are not acceptable to spectrograph scans. Im surprised you dont know that."

"Youre the expert, not me. But Ill tell you what I am an expert in-Im a terrific observer. I watch you limousine cowboys drive around this city, bathed in respectability, while you peddle your influence to the highest bidders. And when you cross over the line, Im there to nail you."

"Thats hardly State Department language; you sound like a paranoid comic-book avenger, and youre way out of line. I think I will make that phone call you suggested-"

"Dont bother, Edward." A third voice in the room startled both men. Suddenly, the high-backed leather chair behind the desk swiveled around, revealing an old man, slender, obviously quite tall, and dressed so perfectly, so fashionably that Tyrell gasped, believing for a moment in the dim light that he was staring at Nils Van Nostrand.

"My name is Richard Ingersol, Mr. Hawthorne, formerly a.s.sociate justice of the Supreme Court. I believe we should talk-by ourselves, Edward, but not in this room. Not in any room in this house."

"I dont understand, sir," said the astonished partner of Ingersol and White.

"Theres no way you could, dear fellow. Please keep my daughter-in-law and grandson occupied with all those ... limousine sycophants. Mr. Hawthorne and I will slip outside through the kitchen."

"But Justice Ingersol-"

"My son is dead, Edward, and I dont think he cares what the society pages of The Washington Post write about his well-heeled mourners, a number of whom in the legal fraternity have undoubtedly sought out his personal clients." The old man struggled out of the chair and walked around the desk. "Come along, Hawthorne, theres no one here who can tell you anything. Besides, its a lovely night for a stroll."

A frustrated White held the door as Tyrell followed the elder Ingersol down the hallway, through the hectic kitchen, and out into the fenced back lawn complete with a lighted swimming pool and what appeared to be an immense garden fronting a row of twenty-foot-high hedges. The former a.s.sociate justice stepped onto the brick deck of the pool and spoke.

"Why are you really here, Mr. Hawthorne, and what do you know?"

"You heard what I told your sons partner."

"Money laundering? Drug cartels?... Come, sir, David had neither the inclination nor the audacity even to consider such activities. However, your reference to Swiss accounts is not without merit."

"Then maybe I should ask you what you know, Justice Ingersol."

"Its a macabre story with elements of triumph and anguish and a fair degree of tragedy-Athenian to the core but without the majesty of Greek drama."

"Thats very eloquent, but it doesnt tell me anything."

"You looked at me strangely inside," said Ingersol, disregarding Tyrells remark. "It wasnt merely the surprise of finding me there; it was something else, wasnt it?"

"You reminded me of someone."

"I thought so. Your crude appearance here smacked of a shock strategy-throw the subjects off balance, perhaps into panic. Your reaction to me confirmed it."

"I dont know what youre talking about."

"Certainly you do. Nils Van Nostrand-Mr. Neptune, if you prefer.... The similarity of our appearance struck you instantly; it was in your expression, although I a.s.sure you the similarity is surface only. Given certain characteristics-height, figure, and coloring-men of our advanced age and station tend to look alike. In our case its basically sartorial. You know Van Nostrand, and the last place on earth you expected to find him was in this house. That told me a great deal."

"Considering what it told you, Im surprised you admit you know Neptune."

"Oh, thats part of the story," continued Ingersol, entering a latticed arch to a garden profuse with flowers, an isolated arbor away from the house and the crowds. "Once all the pieces were in place, Nils came to the Costa del Sol a number of times. I didnt know who he was, of course, but we became friendly. He seemed like so many of us-elderly drifters with enough money to jet from place to place in search of shallow amus.e.m.e.nt. I even sent him to my personal tailor in London."

"When did you learn he was Neptune?"

"Five years ago. Id begun to suspect that there was something off kilter about him, about his sudden brief appearances and abrupt departures, also his family background when hed discuss it, even his wealth, which seemed elusive at its sources."