TWENTY-THREE.

Washington, D.C. Friday, 7:17 A.M.

As mayor of Los Angeles and as head of Op-Center, Paul Hood had taken calls from heads of state. During times of crisis he had spoken calmly over the phone with his counterparts in other nations. Even when lives were at risk or lost, Hood had been able to speak without agitation to operatives in the field. He had talked with the wives and mothers of police officers and firefighters who had lost husbands and sons. He had called and visited the families of the Strikers who had perished in the Kashmir conflict.

But Hood was somewhat unnerved when he got around to accessing his personal cell phone messages. Daphne Connors had called at six-fifteen that morning. From the sound of her voice she had just woken up. Or perhaps she was just going to sleep. She often went to client parties that continued late into the night. She reported in a low, smoky voice that she had a dream about him. It had something to do with a stagecoach driver and a tavern owner in the old West. Only Hood was running the saloon and Daphne was running the stage.

Maybe that was true. Or maybe it was a pretext to phone. In either case, the call troubled him. Or rather, it was the tone of Daphne's voice. He had not heard a bedroom voice in years. His former wife, Sharon, had never had one, really. And the one night he spent with Op-Center's former press liaison, Ann Farris, was followed by awkward silence and forced felicity.

Daphne's voice was very feminine, very seductive. It got into Hood's ear, into his mind, into all his nerve endings in a way that made him very uncomfortable. It also made him wonder with dismay whether his discomfort was actually with Daphne. It might be with the idea of anyone getting close. Maybe his marriage had gone just the way he wanted it to. Built around a core of emotional and physical detachment for the sake of stability. It was as if he were running a city government or federal agency.

Hood did not like that thought at all. He chose not to think about it. He had arrived at the office a half hour before, and he was still going through the report from the evening unit. It appeared to have been an uneventful night everywhere except in the Celebes Sea. Hood listened to a call from Lowell Coffey to Hood's evening counterpart, Curt Hardaway. The call had been recorded digitally on Hood's computer.

Coffey reported that the Singaporean patrol ship had discovered an empty concrete block at a nuclear disposal site. The block should have contained radioactive waste. Radiation detectors on board Coffey's ship, an Australian MIC corvette, supported the findings.

"The Singaporeans are not trying to put anything over on us," Coffey a.s.sured Hardaway. "We are going to try to locate the vessel that made this drop. The ship that was scheduled to have been at the 130-5 site is owned by Mahathir bin Dahman of Malaysia. Warrant Officer Jelbart has heard of Dahman. He is involved with waste disposal on a global scale."

Hood made a note of the name.

"Jelbart is not hopeful of tracking the missing material from here," Coffey continued. "If the ship sold the nuclear material, the vessel will already have gotten a face-lift. If they were just p.a.w.ns, it will be difficult to get timely interviews with anyone who may have been involved. The Malaysian government is not known for opening its books, so to speak. Especially when it comes to the country's leading citizens."

Coffey then asked Hardaway if the NRO would have a look at the region. Perhaps they saw something. Hardaway had left Hood a note saying that he had checked with the NRO. They did not routinely watch the Celebes Sea. The only time they would turn a satellite to the region was if they learned the Chinese or Russians were also doing so. Like the United States, those nations often tested their satellite systems using targets in out-of-the-way sectors. New s.p.a.ce cameras were often calibrated and focused using targets on ships or submarines.

Hood archived the messages, then put in a call to Bob Herbert. The intelligence officer would have been airborne for a little under six hours. That was just enough time to make him cranky. Herbert enjoyed being in the field. But once Herbert started downloading mission data into his brain, he was anxious to act on it. Waiting killed him.

The pilot of the TR-1 said that Herbert was sleeping. He asked if Hood wanted to talk to him anyway. Hood said he did not. He was sure Herbert would check in when he woke.

As Hood hung up, he got a call from Stephen Viens. For several years Viens had been the Satellite Imaging supervisor at the National Reconnaissance Office.

Viens had been a college chum of Matt Stoll, Op-Center's chief technical officer. Because of their close relationship, Viens had always given Op-Center's needs top priority. Viens was now Op-Center's internal security chief. He still had friends at the NRO, however. Whenever they came across something that might be of interest to Op-Center, they let him know.

"Paul, I just got a call from Noah Moore-Mooney at the NRO," Viens said. "Bob Herbert had put out an APB on activity in the Celebes Sea."

"Curt Hardaway said there's nothing going on there," Hood said.

"There wasn't," Viens said. "Until a few minutes ago."

"What have you got?" Hood asked.

"Our Shado-3 Shado-3 satellite watches Chinese satellites," Viens said. "When they move, it tracks them. They just saw one shift from Taiwanese shipping lanes in the South China Sea to an area of the Celebes." satellite watches Chinese satellites," Viens said. "When they move, it tracks them. They just saw one shift from Taiwanese shipping lanes in the South China Sea to an area of the Celebes."

"What area?" Hood asked.

"The coordinates are one-hundred and thirty degrees longitude, five degrees lat.i.tude," Viens told him.

"That's where Lowell Coffey is," Hood said, "along with Australian and Singaporean naval vessels. Why the h.e.l.l would China be watching two small naval ships?"

"How would they even know the ships were out there?" Viens asked. "Flyover?"

"Maybe," Hood said.

It was unlikely that the Chinese would be dealing in third-party nuclear material. They had enough of their own to sell, much of it to Pakistan.

"Stephen, when you were at the NRO, did you come across any cooperative satellite use?" Hood asked.

"You mean would another nation have access to the Chinese satellite?" Viens asked.

"Right."

"Allies like the Vietnamese or North Koreans asked Beijing for intelligence," Viens said. "But China controlled the hardware."

"All right, Stephen, thanks," Hood said. "Let me know if you get any other information about this."

"Will do," Viens said.

Hood hung up. He looked at his computer clock. He needed to call someone. Someone who had not been returning his calls. But right now it was the only person who might be able to get him the information he needed.

Hood picked up the phone and placed one of those calls he was comfortable making. One he was good at. One where the fate of nations, and not the fate of Paul Hood, was at risk.

TWENTY-FOUR.

The Celebes Sea Friday, 10:33 P.M.

Raja Adnan bin Omar and his radio operator stood in the small dark cabin of the fishing boat. The radio operator was standing beside a shortwave set on a shelf.

The radio operator's legs were bent slightly to help him stand on the rocking deck. Bin Omar was at the wheel. Both men were dressed in heavy black pullovers. Their heads were uncovered, their hair and beards well groomed. A wet wind hissed against the windows. It punched through the old wood of the cabin walls. The two men were accustomed to it. So were the two other fishermen aboard the thirty-footer. One of them was bin Omar's twenty-seven-year-old son. They were below, putting fish in large ice lockers and repairing the nets. They had caught more fish during their zigzagging delay. When they were finished, they ripped the nylon strands on purpose so they would have something to do. In case they were ever boarded, bin Omar wanted them to be busy. Idle men looked guilty, even if they were not. The lockers were stored in a closet at the stern of the vessel. Two of them were made of lead. They were not designed to hold fish.

Automatic weapons were also stored below in case they were needed.

The radio operator removed his headset. "They are just over two hours from us. They apologized again for the delay."

"Did they give you a reason?" bin Omar asked.

"Mr. M said only that the problem was mechanical in nature," the operator replied.

"Ah," said bin Omar. "The excuse that cannot be disproved."

"Perhaps they will tell us more when we are together," the radio operator suggested.

"They will have to," bin Omar said. "Our employers will certainly wish to know more. But it is not our problem. We are merely messengers."

For the first time in more than a year of dealings, Captain Kannaday had failed to make a rendezvous. The sixty-two-year-old fisherman was unhappy about that. He disliked the unexpected, whether it was a storm, a surprise inspection by harbor police in Pontian Ketchil, or a delay. It was particularly dangerous in the smuggling business. Whether they were transporting drugs, weapons, or nuclear material, seamen did not like being out in the open sea. Here, they were equally vulnerable to patrol ships and pirate vessels.

Bin Omar hoped that Captain Kannaday had a reasonable explanation. Though processed nuclear waste was not the easiest material to obtain, Kannaday was not the only supplier in the region. Until today, he had simply been the most efficient. And the group with whom bin Omar was a.s.sociated, the Kansai Unit, demanded reliability. The Asian group also demanded accountability. Bin Omar would have to explain the delay.

Despite that, bin Omar was at peace. His wife and other children were home and well cared for. And he was always at ease on these waters, which his family had sailed for hundreds of years. For whatever the fate of the angry men and the mad civilizations they built, he knew one thing for certain. The bin Omars would sail these seas for centuries to come.

TWENTY-FIVE.

Tokyo, j.a.pan Friday, 9:34 P.M.

Shigeo Fujima was standing on the balcony of his apartment smoking a cigarette. The j.a.panese intelligence officer was tired and had come home early. He wanted to try to relax this weekend. Fujima had worked on several situations back to back. There was Chinese involvement in the attack on Vatican clergy in Botswana; increasing Chinese financial links with Taiwan; and the rapid growth of the Chinese s.p.a.ce program, which was about to put a man into orbit. Chinese expansionism on earth, with a workforce of one billion people, was a direct threat to j.a.pan and the entire Asian Rim. Especially with the j.a.panese economy so hard hit by the worldwide recession.

Fujima lived with his wife and two daughters in a s.p.a.cious apartment near Yoyogi Park. They had been living here for nearly seven months. The elder Fujima daughter, Keiko, attended the International Trade and Industry Inspection Inst.i.tute, which was just a five-minute walk from the apartment. Their younger daughter, ten-year-old Emiko, attended the Children's Play International School, which was a six-minute walk from the apartment. They were lucky to get the 2,000-square-foot, two-story place, though the Fujimas' good fortune came at a price. They lived here because the j.a.panese economy was in turmoil. A commercial photographer used to live here. When retail sales began to struggle, advertising was cut back. If agencies ran advertis.e.m.e.nts at all, they used text and computer-generated images rather than photographs. The photographer was evicted. The Fujimas moved in from an apartment that was half the size and nearly as expensive.

"These are sad times," he muttered to himself as he flicked his cigarette toward the street. They were difficult for the economy and they were barely manageable in areas of world security. He was lucky to be home this early. To be able to have dinner with his wife. To see the kids before they went to bed. a.s.suming Keiko got off the phone and Emiko unplugged herself from the computer, that is. He smiled as he turned back to the apartment. He could not really expect them to change their routine for him. Things were not as they were when he was a boy. If he had not gone to his father when he came home from his job as a train conductor, he would have been beaten with a strap.

"Maybe it's good to have things so predictable here," he thought aloud. His life at the office was anything but that.

Suddenly, Keiko came running from her room. Her long raven hair framed her vampire-pale face.

"Father, there's a man on my cell phone," the teenager said. "He wants to talk to you." She held out the purple phone.

"Someone called for me on your phone?" Fujima asked.

"Yes. He cut in while I was talking with Kenji. He said it's urgent. He sounds foreign," she added. "His j.a.panese is terrible."

Fujima took the phone and thanked her. He turned back to the balcony. "This is Fujima," he said.

"I'm sorry to call this number," said the voice on the other end. "It was the only one listed in the directory."

Keiko was right. The man's j.a.panese was awful. But the voice was familiar. "Who is this?" Fujima asked.

"It's Paul Hood at Op-Center," he said in English. "I'm sorry. I was using a G.o.d-awful translation program on the computer. My phonetic j.a.panese is not particularly good."

"Neither is your timing, Mr. Hood," Fujima said. "This call is extremely-"

"Unorthodox, I know," Hood said. "My apologies, Mr. Fujima. But we need to speak."

"I was just about to have dinner with my wife," Fujima told him. "And this is an unsecured line."

"I know that, Mr. Fujima," Hood replied. "So I hope you will understand when I tell you that materials are missing from your backyard. Materials that should have been left at the 130-5 site."

"I see," Fujima said. Hood was referring to radioactive waste. Suddenly, dinner did not seem so important. Fujima used his shoulder to hold the phone to his ear while he lit another cigarette. "Please go on, Mr. Hood," he said as he drew hard on it.

"We are looking for it with the help of Singapore and Australia," Hood went on. "But someone is watching us. They're using a Chinese satellite, and we don't believe it is the Chinese. We think it may be the traffickers. We need to know who might have access to that platform. I thought you might be able to get that information."

"I can tell you that right now," Fujima said. "South Korea conducts naval maneuvers in that region. North Korea has full access to three satellites in the region. The satellite you're interested in is called the Fong Sai Fong Sai."

"Who would run that operation for the North Koreans?" Hood asked.

Fujima heard his daughter yelling from behind. "Father, my phone! That man had the operator break in!"

Fujima covered the mouthpiece. "A moment, Keiko," he said. He returned to Hood. "The man you want is Colonel Kim Hwan of the North Korean Reconnaissance Bureau. He's a very low-profile fellow."

"Do you have any contact information for him?" Hood asked.

"We have his office telephone and E-mail," Fujima said. "I'm sure you have that on file."

"If not, I'll let you know," Hood said.

"Is there anything we can do?" Fujima asked.

"Not at the moment, thank you," Hood said. "We have people on the scene and more en route. If anything happens, we'll talk again."

"You had best use my home phone," Fujima said. He gave Hood the unpublished number. "It will help to keep peace here. You have a teenage daughter, as I recall."

"I do," Hood said. "Go and have your dinner. Again, I'm sorry to have interrupted."

"Not at all," Fujima said.

The intelligence officer clicked off the phone and returned it to his daughter. The young woman hit Redial and disappeared into her room. She closed the door with her foot. Fujima shook his head and ran a hand through his short black hair. It was damp with sweat. Anxiety never showed in his stoic expression, his dark eyes, his strong mouth. When he was worried, he perspired.

Fujima continued to smoke his second cigarette. He wondered whether he should go back to his office at Gaimusho, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. He felt he should do some research into the 130-5 site. Perhaps get a schedule of the drop-offs, collect background data of the ships and their crews. But Op-Center was probably doing that already. It would be better if he rested tonight. That way he would be fresh for whatever happened the following week.

The slender thirty-five-year-old intelligence officer turned as his wife came from the kitchen. She told him that dinner would be ready in five minutes. He thanked her, winked, and said he would be in shortly. She smiled back. Then Fujima leaned on the railing and looked down at the street.

"What a world it is," he said.

Fujima's father would never have believed it. The nation that had dropped a pair of nuclear bombs on j.a.pan was asking him for help to find missing nuclear material. And Fujima had given that aid. In the s.p.a.ce of one generation, loyalties had shifted that dramatically. Yet that was not the most astonishing part. What was remarkable was that warlords and rogue groups could work in the shadows to create Hiroshima-level destruction. And not to end a war but to start one.

"What a world," Fujima said again.

For the moment, however, Fujima was going to leave the responsibility for it to someone else. Dinner and his wife were waiting. His daughters would join them.

He intended to enjoy them.

That, after all, was what he was fighting for.

TWENTY-SIX.