"Nothing seems the same anymore. It's as if I've come home from a long trip to find that nothing's left of the neighborhood." She sighed. "Too often it's not the neighborhood but oneself that's changed."

Audrey, listening to her mother, was becoming increasingly concerned. "Why don't you go away for a while," she said. "There's no earthly reason for you to stay here."

"There's my job."

"Take a leave of absence," Audrey said. "G.o.d knows you've earned it. And who's going tp complain? Grandfather?"

"Just because I work for my father," Lillian said, "is no reason to take advantage of being family."

"Compa.s.sionate leave is not taking advantage," Audrey said. "Why not go back to France? You love it there. Remember that delicious place near Nice you told me about once? The place that had once been a cathedral?"

Lillian smiled. "A monastery."

"Well anyway, it was old. I remember your telling me about it. What a wonderful time you had there. I wish you had been able to go with Dad."

"That is between you and me, it is our secret. I never told anyone else about that place," Lillian said. "Anyway, your father had no time for vacations."

"And now," Audrey said, "it's too late." She could feel the emotion welling up inside her again, just as it had at the funeral home. She put a hand up to her face. "Oh G.o.d, it was so horrible in there. Having to decide what kind of casket to put him in, looking at the prices." "There's no use in talking about it, dearest," Lillian said. "What's done is done. We had a difficult job to do and we did it."

"You sound as if we're soldiers off to war," Audrey said, nystified.

"Do I?" Lillian evinced some surprise. "Well, perhaps we are, in a way.

Courage and duty must guide us now. G.o.d knows your father can't."

Audrey began to cry. She had fought the tears back all morning, retreating into a kind of protective coc.o.o.n while the mortician took them through his macabre three-ring circus.

G.o.d knows your father can't.

She wept into hands cupped over her face. "All right, now," Lillian said softly. She put her hand over r daughter's. "Be brave, dearest. That would be what your her would tell you if he were here." But he's not, Audrey thought.

Oh, I wish he were! She is abruptly angry. "I can't believe you're still spouting that nonsense! I don't even know what bravery means! Bravery is one of those mysterious terms men always talk about but can never explain either to themselves or anyone else." She was making a concerted effort to gather herself together. "That was always his hold over you." "It was his hold over all of us," Lillian reminded her. "In-cluding you."

But whatever control Audrey could summon was fast slip-ping away from her. The tears-or more likely, the swirl of primal emotion that had caused them-were lifting chunks of detritus from the dark pool of her unconscious. "He felt he had failed by siring a daughter, and I paid him back in kind. He wanted two sons," she cried. "Yes. Yes. He made that perfectly clear. Many times."

Lillian stared at her daughter. "Did you ever, ever hear him say that?"

"He didn't have to say it," Audrey said. "I could see the disappointment in his eyes every time he'd watch me swing a bat or throw a baseball."

"Your father was proud of you, Audrey. He loved you very much."

"Mother, don't you understand? I never got to know him!" Despite herself, she was weeping again. "And now I never will!"

"My poor baby," Lillian said, reaching across the table. "Oh my poor, poor baby."

"Spies," Michael echoed. He had said the word without really understanding it.Stunned, he had said nothing as they went down the wide staircase of the Ellipse Club, collected their coats from the steward and went out to Jonas's waiting limousine. During the short ride to BITE headquarters in Fairfax, Michael had stared mutely out the heavily tinted bulletproof windows. It was only after the car had deposited them inside the bureau's compound that he had said anything.

"BITE is an intelligence organization focusing on external threats to the United States," Jonas said.

"You're a spy?"

"Yes," Jonas Sammartin said. "Your father was as well. And a d.a.m.n fine one, too."

Michael took a deep breath. He felt as if he had woken up one morning to find his entire world transformed into an alien landscape. Nothing around him seemed right or real. "What exactly did my father do?" he said at last. He had had to force himself to ask the question; his mouth seemed full of choking dust.

"Your father worked as a field operative," Jonas said. "He would never have been happy behind a desk. His field name was Civet. He was what we call a Cat.

And like all Cats, he was involved in wet work." They were outside the BITE offices, walking down a tree-lined path. But they were still within the compound, still surrounded by chain-link fences guard dogs, electronic sensors, perimeter trip wires. "It refers to a very specialized kind of field work." Plane trees interspersed with magnolia threw shade in their direction.

It was already hot and muggy and the shadows were to be appre dated. "Only the most elite agents qualify to join the Cats. "And what do Cats do?" Michael asked.

"l suppose," Jonas said, "that the term wet work derives its name from the literal spilling of blood that is involved." "What are you telling me?"

"Cats are a.s.sa.s.sins, Michael," Jonas said. "They extract individuals who have been sanctioned by this office." Stunned, Michael was silent. There was a knot in his stomach. Part of him wanted to run away and hide or break down and cry.

Not my father, he thought. It couldn't be. But the truth fit his memory of his father's comings and goings. It fit so many little incidents, unexplainable until now. It was like a complicated jigsaw puzzle, incomprehensible until one miss-ing piece-the key-was produced, linking all the pieces together.

Still, Michael heard himself say, "Not an a.s.sa.s.sin. That's a corruption of the Arabic hashashin. A hashash was a fanatic Muslim in the era of the Crusades who secretly murdered Christians and less fanatic Muslim enemies while high on dope."

Jonas Sammartin stopped beneath a magnolia. Its scent was so sweet it was almost cloying. His gray eyes regarded Michael shrewdly. "You hate me now, Michael. It's no good denying it. I can feel the force of it. You hold me responsible for your father's death. For his life as well, I expect. Well, you're wrong on both counts. Your father wanted to be in his line of work. He needed it. Yes, I recruited him. But only after I got to know him, got to know what it was he wanted." Michael shook his head. "That would mean my father wanted to kill people."

Jonas's gaze was unwavering. "You know that's not the case, son. Philip did what he needed to do to keep his country safe."

Michael heard the heavy emphasis in Jonas's words and feIt the truth of them at the core of his being. In that respect, he was his father's son all right.

"It was your father's choice. His place was not at home. That didn't mean that he didn't love you or Audrey or, G.o.d knows, Lillian. What it did mean was that he had a higher calling. Like a priest or a-" "Priest!"

"Yes, Michael. Your father had a remarkable mind. Extraordinary, even. He saw the world in truly global terms. He knew what was important in the long run."

"All those trips, all the presents he brought back for us, for the house.

You're telling me that each one represents the death of a human being."

"He was doing a necessary job."

"Christ!" Michael said. He was still reeling from the shock of learning justwhat it was his father had been doing all these years. " 'It's a dirty job, but somebody's got to do it.' Is that it?"

"In a way. Yes."

"Oh Unde Sammy!"

Jonas heard the despair in Michael's voice, and his heart went out to the younger man. "Your father was a patriot, he said. "You should never lose sight of that, Michael, on the contrary-you should cherish ms memory all the more for it."

"I don't know." Michael shook his head. What was he going to tell Audrey?

"You asked me how your father died," Jonas said calmly. He could feel the force of Michael's rage; he knew what dangerous position he was in.

"I didn't need to see that.. . atrocity. What was the point. Just like I don't need to see the catalogue of a.s.sa.s.sinations you say he-"

"Then you'll never learn why he died."

That stopped Michael. "You're not going to tell me?"

"I'm sorry to disappoint you," Jonas said. "But I can't. You see, I don't know why your father died."

"What do you mean?" Michael said thickly.

"That car crash your father was in on Maui," Jonas said. "It wasn't an accident."

"My father was murdered?"

"I'm sure of it," Jonas said. "Yes."

"By whom? Do you have any idea, any leads?"

"Just one," Jonas said. He kept his eyes on Michael. "But it's so tenuous I cannot afford to use any field personnel to follow it up. Besides, until we unravel the mystery of what killed your father and why, we can't know which operatives, if any, have been compromised."

The implications of that hit Michael hard. "You mean that he might have been tortured before-"

Jonas put his hand on Michael's shoulder. "I don't mean to imply anything, Michael. But it would be foolish to stumble blindly into a situation of unknown origin."

"Then your hands are tied."

Jonas nodded. "In a sense. Yes. But if I had someone with your skills, Michael. Someone unknown by operatives and cutouts, well ..."

Michael stared at him as if he had suddenly sprouted wings. "You want me to take over where my father left off," he said.

Jonas nodded.

"You don't want me," Michael said. "I'm a painter. I putter around a lab and concoct dyes."

"None of my people can touch your father's case," Jonas said. "Any of them could now be known to the adversary parties. I am not in the business of executing my own people." "This is crazy, Uncle Sammy. I'm not six, and we're not playing cowboys and Indians."

"No," Jonas said seriously. "There is great danger here. I don't want to minimize that. Just as I don't want to minimize your background." He gripped Michael's arm. "Son, your training in the martial arts makes you just about perfect for this a.s.signment."

"What you want is a Chuck Norris," Michael said. "But he only exists in the movies."

"I brought you to that meeting at the Ellipse Club for a reason, Michael,"

Jonas said. "I wanted to bring home to you how crucial a situation we find ourselves in. This is yet another kind of cold war we're fighting. And it's against a supposed ally. If j.a.pan forces us into these protectionist laws, our economy's going down the tubes just as sure as I'm stand-ing here. This country's in fragile enough shape as it is. There is so much national debt that we're already staggering. We're like a punch-drunk boxer who doesn't know when to quit. The protectionist legislation's going to deliver the knockout punch."

"But what's all this got to do with my father's death?" "I don't know," Jonasadmitted. "That's one of the things need you to explore."

Michael shook his head. "I'm sorry, Uncle Sammy. I'm just not cut out to be your man."

Jonas pursed his lips, blew air out in a sharp burst. "Do me one favor, at least." Michael nodded. "If I can."

"Think about what I've said. Think about your duty." "To my country? That's what suckered my father into this game of yours." But Jonas was already shaking his head. "No. I mean your duty to your father. I think you owe it to him to finish he started. And to find out who murdered him."

"That's your opinion," Michael said shortly.

"At least do as I ask," Jonas said. "As a personal favor. Then come and see me at the office tomorrow, or the next day."

Michael looked into the older man's eyes. He remembed that face, striped in warpaint, falling down in mock death as Michael shot him with his toy six-gun.

He nodded. "All right."

It was only much later that Michael understood the ultimate implications of his promise.

A knock on the door announced Ude. The big man slid open the rice-paper screen, bowed until his forehead touched the floor, then came across the threshold on his knees. He knelt on the fragrant tatami, waiting.

Kozo Shiina was from the old school. He did not, as so many of his a.s.sociates had, have a Western-style room in his house. There were no informal meetings, therefore. Each occasion at his house was formal, adhering to the strict code of etiquette centuries old. Here, it was as if the Westerners had never set foot on j.a.panese soil.

Looking at Ude, he sighed. Years ago, he knew, it was easy to recruit young people into the Yakuza. The lower cla.s.ses, the disenfranchised, the outcasts, all were more than eager to become part of a highly disciplined machine such as the Yakuza. Here in the j.a.panese underworld they could make money, gain prestige, recover the face they had lost in various ways in the day-to-day world.

Nowadays, the outcasts were youngsters whose wildnes was difficult, if not impossible, to contain. They seemed to have no ties to the past. They were only marginally interest in honor, in giri-that certain form of obligation that remained today one of the linchpins of Yakuza society. They most certainly were not concerned with discipline.

Shamelessly, they echewed pain as a valueless commodity These misfits were, in Shiina's opinion, the true criminals of his society, not the Yakuza, who lived by a strict code of honor and who had a long and ill.u.s.trious history of altruism.

No, these young punks lived by night in a semidrugged stupor, spattered with music of mind-numbing volume. They were anarchic and, as such, totally alien to Shiina's way of life. They wanted money from him to feed their habits, not to build a family, a way of life for themselves.

Of course Shiina was not above exploiting them to achieve his ends. He had commissioned exhaustive studies of these punks and had discovered that they were not worthless after all. They, too, could serve a purpose, even if they themselves were unaware of it.

Shiina made absolutely certain of his psychological and emotional profiles before setting the last stage of his plan in motion. He saw at once the advantage these people would provide him, and he lost no time in discovering a way to use them. He did not feel remorse at what had become of the new generation. Only anger. The anger a great field marshal feels in war. The anger that b.u.ms inside him and ignites the courage to order his men into battle, knowing that blood will be spilled, lives will be lost. The anger of the righteous.

This burned inside Shiina with a force no reasonable man could possibly understand. But then it was said that war was not born of reason but of hunger. Those who longed for war often justified their action by saying thatthey were bringing order out of anarchy. But in fact they were merely replacing one reality with another. All of them-the righteous and Just, the madmen and tyrants-had one thing in common: They hungered to imprint their conception of order on others. And Kozo Shiina was no exception.

"I am gratified that you stopped here on the way to the airport," he said now.

Ude knew what he meant. "I was not followed. I made certain of that."

Shiina gave no outward sign, but he was pleased. "You do not trust Masashi, do you?" Ude asked. "He is your oyabun," Shiina said by way of answer. "He is oyabun of the entire Taki-gumi now, the largest and most powerful of j.a.pan's underworld clans. You must be loyal to him."

"I was loyal to Wataro Taki," Ude said. "He was magic. He was the one. Now that he is gone . . ."He shrugged. "There is giri," Shiina pointed out. "Giri is the burden hardest to bear," Ude said. "My obligation ended the moment Wataro Taki died."

"But surely your loyalty-your obligation-must lie some-where."

"It is to the Taki-gumi," Ude said. "The clan is Wataro Taki's creation.

Whatever or whoever ensures the dominance of the clan will have my loyalty."

Shiina broke out tea. For a long time, while he brewed it, stirred it with the whisk and served it, there were no other sounds in the room. After they had both drunk-Ude before his host-the old man said, "Were it me, I would be thinking: How can I trust a man who rejoices in his own father's death and then orders his brother's demise." [ "You ordered Hiroshi's death," Ude said pointedly.

The old man shook his head. "Remember clearly," he said not unkindly. "I suggested it. It was Masashi who ordered it." He shrugged. "It seems to me that my role was the minor one. After all, Hiroshi Taki was not my brother, he was Masashi's. And the decision was Masashi's to make."

"He did it in order to save the Taki-gumi," Ude said. The dregs of his tea had long ago grown cold. "Joji is weak. Now Masashi has taken Wataro Taki's place."

"And you said yourself that Wataro Taki was magic. He was the one," the old man said softly. "Can you imagine that Masashi is, also?"