"I got hysterical," Audrey said. "I was freezing even through my ski suit."

"With that wind, it must have been thirteen below," Michael recalled.

"I wanted to run, Mike," she said. "But you grabbed me, and together we built this shelter out of snow. You got us out of that terrible, bone-chilling wind.

You put my head into your chest. I remember breathing into your heartbeat.

G.o.d, I was so frightened. But I never got any colder. We huddled together for warmth until the storm was over. Until Dad came and found us." She lifted her head, stared at him. "You were my Nana, my protector, that day. Dad couldn'tbelieve how smart you were. I remember how he kissed us both. I think it was the first and only time I remember him kissing us."

"He kept saying, 'I thought you were dead. I thought you were dead.' " Michael got up, went behind the desk to the shoji-covered window. The rice-paper screens played up the illumination from the security lights. He was uncomfortable with her memories of how Philip had admired him; it was a subtle admission that their father had not had the same feeling about her. Did he realize that he was just as uncomfortable with her expression of her sisterly love for him?

"I guess Mom asked Dad to put these security lights in," he said.

Audrey turned, one arm along the back of the sofa. "Actually, no. I was here when Dad put them in. They were his idea."

Michael was looking at the pattern the shadows of the trees made along the side of the house. "Did Dad say why he wanted them?"

"He didn't have to," Audrey said, and when Michael turned to stare at her, she shrugged. "I a.s.sumed Mom had told you. There was a break-in attempt."

"She didn't tell me," Michael said. "What happened?"

Audrey shrugged again. "Not much. Apparently, a prowler tried to get into the house. Into this room. The thing was, I was here. It was about three in the morning. I couldn't sleep, as usual. I heard someone at the window, just about where you are now."

"Did you see who it was?"

"No. I just took out Dad's pistol and fired it through the window."

"Security lights," Michael said. "That's just not like Dad."

"No. Not at all."

He came back to where Audrey was sitting. He saw that her legs were curled beneath her. She seemed more relaxed.

"Michael," she began. He sat beside her. "Do you know how Dad died?"

"In a car crash, Uncle Sammy said."

"Yes, I know that."

There was silence for a time.

At last Michael said, "What are you getting at, Aydee?"

Her face was composed, serious. "You're the bogeyman. You tell me."

"Where is it?"

The thick brown finger pointed.

"I want it."

The thick brown finger wiggled.

"You promised that I would have it."

Having wiggled, the thick brown finger stirred the small pile jumbled on the center of the koa-wood desk top. The pile was charred. It was making the room smell smoky.

Fat Boy Ichimada sighed. And in so doing, his impressive stomach rubbed up against the edge of his desk. "I don't have it." His small, bowlike lips opened and closed. His double chins wobbled. "I want it and I don't have it."

His black eyes lifted to the two men standing uncomfortably before him. They were virtually identical. They wore matching aloha shirts, wildly colored surfer's swim trunks and thong sandals.

"What," Fat Boy Ichimada said, "is your explanation?"

Outside, the Dobermans began to bark, and both Ha-waiians turned their heads to look out the windows. A pair of boys just in their teens, long blond hair flying, ran by. Each held a brace of dogs straining on choke chains. They headed off into the thick, tropical foliage.

"Someone's crossed the perimeter," one of the Hawaiians said.

"Maybe it's the police," said the other.

"It is nothing at all," Fat Boy Ichimada said with conviction. "Just a wild boar. The spoor gets their hackles up."

"The dogs' or the surfers'?" the first Hawaiian said. It was a joke of a sort and, in any case, rhetorical.

"This is Kahakuloa," Fat Boy Ichimada said. He spoke in finite statements, as if whatever he said was carved in stone and not to be contradicted, ever."There are no police here unless I summon them." Kahakuloa was in the extreme northeast section of Maui. Only one small two-lane road linked it with the nearest real town, Wailuku, to the south. To the north, a scarifying, unpaved track at the edge of sheer cliffs wound around to Kapalua. It was navigable-when it was pa.s.sable at all-only with a four-wheel-drive vehicle of sufficient height. Many a car had been stranded after the deep ruts had stripped m.u.f.fler, oil pan and drive train off the undercarriage.

"Then the dogs are superfluous," the first Hawaiian pointed out.

"There are always tourists," Fat Boy Ichimada said. "Hikers, hippies, curiosity seekers and the like who need to be dissuaded. This is private property, after all."

The first Hawaiian laughed. "Yah," he said. "The tons of gra.s.s moved in and outta here is real private, ya, bro."

Fat Boy Ichimada heaved himself up. He was a big man by any standards; for a j.a.panese, he was a giant. He stood over six feet tall, a veritable mountain of a man. His small facial features accentuated the fact.

He had fists the size of bear paws. There were stories- perhaps apocryphal, perhaps not-that he had killed men with one clout of his fist.

Fat Boy Ichimada had been on one Hawaiian island or another for seven years.

He knew as much about them-or more-than many natives, who were too busy tending to the millions of tourists who yearly flocked to paradise to recall the history of their heartbreakingly beautiful land.

"You are new with me, so I have been patient with you up to now. But ask around. I am tolerant with my children. As far as my employees go, there are only two situations. The job well executed and the job not executed at all.

For the one, I reward handsomely. For the other, I have no tolerance whatsoever. I do not wait for history to repeat itself. Those employees who do not deliver that which is asked of them do not work for me again. They do not work for anyone again."

Fat Boy Ichimada was aware that during this speech, the two Hawaiians had begun to fidget. He wondered whether or not that was a good sign. He had not liked the idea of hiring new people at such short notice. But after he had made his decision, this matter had become far too delicate and explosive to use anyone known to be in Ichimada's employ. Now the major drawback of hiring from the outside was making itself manifest.

"You answer me at once," he said, "or I will tell the boys to loose the Dobermans. I keep them hungry. All the time hungry. They work harder that way." Fat Boy Ichimada's smile was without an ounce of warmth. "They are like people in that regard, neh?"

"Is that meant to frighten us?" the first Hawaiian said.

"You have a mouth on you," Fat Boy Ichimada said neutrally.

"You got a att.i.tude problem, bro," the first Hawaiian said. "You think you're better than those golden boys out there?" He jerked a thumb in the direction that the boys holding the Dobermans had gone. "No way. You an' them's just haolies- you're outsiders. Got as much right to be on our land as a piece of s.h.i.t in the living room."

Without dropping his gaze, Fat Boy Ichimada thumbed the intercom. "Kimo," he said into the speaker, "unleash the dogs."

The first Hawaiian's hand snaked beneath his aloha shirt. There was a snub-nosed .38 in it.

Fat Boy Ichimada was already in motion. It was astounding to see a man of his size move with such speed. In a blur he had leaned across the desk, his right hand extended. The edge of his hand, the yellow callus as hard as steel, smashed into the Hawaiian's wrist with such force that the gun clattered to the floor.

The first Hawaiian howled, and Fat Boy Ichimada struck him with the tips of two fingers just above his heart. The second Hawaiian, standing transfixed with fear and awe, never saw a man hit the floor so hard or so fast as his brother did.

By that time, Fat Boy Ichimada was around on their side of the desk. Hissize-fifteen loafer came down on the .38, covering it completely. He hauled the semiconscious Hawaiian to his feet. Holding him so just the tips of his toes dragged on the wood floor, he brought him to the door, opened it and threw him down the rough, wooden steps.

"Watch it!" he called, his bulk filling the entire doorway. "Here they come!"

When Fat Boy Ichimada locked the door and turned back to the room, he saw the second Hawaiian's ashen face. "Hey," he said almost amiably, "you okay?"

"Are they really coming?" the second Hawaiian managed to get out.

"Who?"

"The Dobermans."

"The Dobermans are eating lunch," Fat Boy Ichimada said, sitting down behind his desk again. He opened up a jar of macadamia nuts, popped a handful in his mouth-and half the jar was gone.

While he chewed, Fat Boy Ichimada watched the Hawaiian's eyes. He was enjoying this as fully as he was enjoying the macadamias.

"My brother-"

"I am waiting for my explanation."

"But he-"

"If he doesn't s.h.i.t his shorts, he will be fine. Let him be."

The second Hawaiian did not know whether Fat Boy Ichimada was making a joke.

The thick brown finger probed the charred remains. "This is all that is left of his personal effects, you tell me." The finger stirred the ashes, bits of papers, the edge of a wallet. "But there isn't enough here for me to believe that it went up in smoke. I want it and I don't have it." Making runic patterns. "Tell me why."

The white-faced Hawaiian swallowed. "We were there," he said, "just after it happened. We'd followed just as you-"

"At Kaanapali."

The Hawaiian nodded.

"You saw the body." It was not a question but, rather, a reminder of an earlier statement.

"We saw it. The fire was still burning, but they managed to get it out of the wreckage very quickly."

"The police."

"No," the Hawaiian said. "The paramedics." He was familiar with interrogations and knew he was the subject of one now. He wondered, if it came down to it, whether he should lie or tell the truth. He thought about his brother outside with the unleashed Dobermans and something lurched inside him. Hatred and fear commingled, vying for supremacy.

"You saw them take the body out of the car."

"Pry it out's more like it."

Fat Boy Ichimada nodded. "Go on."

"There was already quite a crowd. The police were spending a lot of time directing traffic around the crash site. We had our opportunity. You told us what to look for."

"And these things?" The thick brown finger buried itself anew in the ashes on the desk top. "How did you get them?"

The Hawaiian shrugged. "Like I say, the cops were busy with traffic along the highway. They needed volunteers right off to fight the fire-to help get the driver out."

"So you and your brother volunteered."

"We were at the car. Right there," the Hawaiian said. "We got everything there was. But as you can see, it was all burned. 'Cept this. We found it near the car, so it wasn't singed or nothing." He held out a short length of braided cord of a red so dark it was almost black.

Fat Boy Ichimada stared at it, expressionless. "What about the trunk?"

"Popped open on impact. Wasn't nothin' there that shouldn't've been."

Fat Boy Ichimada's mouth pursed. "But it is not here, is it?"

"Not what you described."

"I want it.""I know."

"Find it."

The Ellipse Club was located on New Hampshire Avenue, almost midway between the John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts and the Watergate Hotel.

From its lofty, thick-curtained windows one had an un.o.bstructed view of a slice of Rock Creek Park and, beyond, the Potomac River.

Michael had not heard of the Ellipse Club, but in a city that was home to a thousand clubs, organizations and a.s.sociations, that was hardly surprising.

Besides, he never had been a member of Washington society.

He went up the granite steps of a building with an imposing Federal-style facade. A uniformed steward met him in the vast entryway and, after hearing his name, nodded, gesturing. He was led up a wide mahogany-ball.u.s.traded staircase, through a second-story gallery. The steward knocked on a paneled oak door, then opened it for Michael.

The room, large and high-ceilinged, had about it that unmistakable air of a gentleman's club in the traditional sense. Over the years, a conglomerate of well-worn leather, dusty velvet, cigar and pipe smoke and men's cologne had seeped so thoroughly into the furniture, carpet, even the walls, that nothing short of complete demolition would eradicate it.

Three huge windows were s.p.a.ced along one wall. In between, leather wing chairs dark with age and use were ranged against the cream-and-gilt walls. At each end of the room, gla.s.s-and-patinaed oak cabinets displayed an impressive array of vintage ports, sherries, brandies and Armagnacs dating back to the mid-1800s. Two large portraits filled walls otherwise studded with bra.s.s sconces. One was of George Washington, the other was of Teddy Roosevelt.

The center of the room was dominated by a ma.s.sive, carved fruitwood conference table around which eighteen chairs were arrayed in perfect order. A dozen of these were occupied as Michael entered. The air was blue with smoke.

Jonas Sammartin, unwrapping steel-framed gla.s.ses from his head, rose, hurried to greet him. "Ah, Michael. Right on time," he said, extending his hand.