The Tesla Secret

By

Alex Lukeman

Book Five in the PROJECT Series

Copyright 2012 by Alex Lukeman

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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means except by prior and express permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or used as an element of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

Acknowledgements

As always, my wife Gayle. Her patience is the stuff of legend. When she reads the revised draft, her observations are spot on. Several people helped with this book, with comments on the "Beta" version. Valerie Miller, Jeff Dawson, Gloria Lakritz, Penny Nichols. Thank you. Your keen eyes and comments make this a better book and me a better writer.

Another great cover by Neil Jackson.

Part One

CHAPTER ONE

It was what he didn't hear that woke him.

Nick Carter listened. No insects. No frogs. No rustlings in the trees, no familiar sounds of the night. It was cool in the cabin after the heat of day. The clean scent of California cedars and damp earth drifted through the open windows.

Selena Connor slept next to him. He touched her on the shoulder and she came awake. His voice was soft in her ear.

"Get dressed. Something's wrong."

Nick pushed off the sheet. He placed his feet on the hard wooden floor and picked up the .45 on the nightstand.

Selena slipped naked out of bed. Her clothes were on a chair near the front bedroom window. Wranglers, a green tank top, underwear. She stayed away from the window, skipped the underwear, pulled on the jeans and the top. She slipped her feet into a pair of Nikes and slipped her Glock from its holster.

Nick stepped into his pants. He heard a tiny scraping sound of metal against metal outside the window, a familiar click as the lever released. Adrenaline flooded his body, a rush of raw energy.

"Selena, Grenade!" he shouted.

He threw his forearm across his face and ran straight through the screen door that led onto the deck, Selena behind him. He leapt off the deck, stumbled and fell and rolled to his feet again. Pain shot up his spine. The explosion of the grenade rocked the cabin.

The cedars were thirty exposed yards away. They ran across the gap and reached the concealing shadows of the grove. Nick looked back at his cabin. Bright flames lit the bedroom. The fire was already crawling up the outside wall toward the green metal roof.

Incendiary, he thought. An incendiary grenade. Shit. He took deep breaths and calmed himself.

"How many?" Selena asked. Her voice was low, tense.

"Probably more than one." He watched the flames spreading. "We have to take them down. I'll circle right and come out near the front. You go left. Watch for me."

She nodded.

He touched her arm. "Don't get hurt."

He moved away. Selena watched him go. Her heart thumped against her ribs. She began moving though the trees, her pistol held in both hands down at her side.

The flames roared through the dry wood of the cabin. Red and orange and yellow embers soared into the night sky. Small explosions sounded from inside the burning building. The noise covered Nick's movement through the cedars. He pushed branches aside and lifted his bare feet and set them down with careful precision, feeling the uneven ground. He stayed away from the edge of the grove and circled the flames.

He heard them talking before he saw them, two white men dressed in black. They had Uzis.

"They might of got out." The first man said. He was about six feet tall, lean. Ex-military, Nick thought, the way he's standing with that weapon. The second man was short, stocky.

"From that? Are you kidding?"

He waved at the building. The cabin was engulfed in flame. The framework began to appear as the inferno consumed the walls and interior.

Nick raised his pistol and listened.

"He shouted before it went off," the tall one said.

"Yeah, well. He can shout all the way to hell. They're fried. Let's get out of here."

"Hey, look over there. A cat." The tall one pointed.

A big, orange cat sat at the edge of the clearing, curious, watching the flames. Nick recognized him.

Burps.

The cat was always around when they showed up. Nick owed him. He'd saved their lives a year before.

"Watch this," the man said. "Cat food." He raised his Uzi.

Nick put two rounds in the center of the tall man's back. He went down hard. The next two shots hit the short man in the chest and knocked him backward onto the ground.

Burps ran into the woods. Now we're even, buddy. Nick watched and waited. The bodies didn't move. He looked right and left, saw nothing. No one. He walked out into the open.

Selena's pistol barked in the woods, three hard, flat echoes. A third man fell out into the clearing, dressed in black like the others. Selena stepped from the trees. Nick went over to the man, scanning the shadows. He kicked another Uzi out of reach. Blood bubbled on the man's lips.

Nick knelt down. "Who sent you?"

The man looked up, his face contorted with fear. He coughed blood. He tried to speak and coughed again, a sudden gusher of bright red that spilled out over the brown earth. His chest stopped moving.

Selena walked over and stared down at the man she'd killed. Don't think about it. Deal with it later. She was getting good at tucking her thoughts and feelings away until she could look at them.

"Damn it," she said.

Nick got to his feet and gestured at the bodies. "They deserved what they got. That one over there was going to kill Burps. Just for fun."

"You're bleeding a little," she said. His chest was crossed with welts from the branches and scratches where the screen door had cut him going through.

"It's nothing. We'd better call Harker. There's a backup phone in the truck. "

Selena watched the shifting colors of the flames play over him. His gray eyes were black in the night. His skin glowed red in the firelight, the old scars dark shadows and spots and hollows on his body. They walked to his Silverado. He pulled a gym bag from behind the seat and put on running shoes and an old black tee shirt. He took a phone from the bag and stuck it in his pocket.

The cabin burned. They could feel the heat all the way across the clearing.

"Let's check the bodies." He went to the first man he'd killed and started going through his pockets. Selena took the man next to him.

"Nothing," she said.

"Not here, either." He went to the last body and felt a hard shape through the clothes. He pulled out a cell phone, the kind of cheap throwaway model you could buy anywhere with prepaid time. He pocketed the phone.

"This place is going to be crawling with cops and fire trucks soon," he said. "We have to get the bodies out of sight. Help me drag them into the trees."

They moved the three dead men deep into the woods, went back and collected the weapons, put them with the bodies.

He handed her the phone from the bag. "Give Harker a call while I find some socks."

Selena stood with the phone and watched him walk back to the truck. As she watched, the propane tank in back of the cabin exploded. She looked at the blazing building and realized she still held the Glock in her other hand.

How did I get here? she thought.

CHAPTER TWO

It was a few minutes before six in the morning in Virginia. Elizabeth Harker had been behind her desk for more than an hour. A cup of black coffee warmed her hand. She felt at home when she was behind the desk. The Project had become her life.

Elizabeth Harker had wide green eyes and milk-white skin. She was a small woman. Her size and looks and raven black hair made people think of a Tolkien fantasy where elves and fairies danced in the woods. People sometimes confused size and gender with competence and wrote her off. It was a mistake no one made twice.

Her satellite phone signaled a call.

Trouble, she thought, it's too early. She picked up.

"Director. Someone came after us at Nick's cabin. We need a clean up."

"Bodies?"

"Three. The cabin is toast. Literally."

"Are you all right?"

"Yes. Nick's scratched up some."

"Scratched up?"

"Here, he'll tell you."

Elizabeth heard Selena say something and Nick came on.

"Director, we need a clean up team."

"So Selena said. What happened?" She listened while Nick told her.

"Hold on," she said. She picked up her desk phone, spoke briefly to someone on the other end. Set the phone down.

"A team is on the way. It will take them two hours. Hide the bodies and weapons before anyone gets there."

"Already done."

Nick watched the embers rise, every one a fire waiting to happen. There'd been a freak rain the day before. The cabin was in a wide clearing. There was plenty of space around the flames and there was no breeze. It might be all right. In the distance he heard the first siren.

"Fire trucks and the Sheriff will be here soon."

"What will you tell them?" Harker's voice echoed over the satellite link.

"Propane leak. They'll buy that, the tank went up with the cabin."

"Any idea who they were? Any ID?"

"No. A cell phone, nothing else. There might be something on it."

"Get back here as soon as you can. Don't get arrested."

Elizabeth leaned back in her chair and thought about it. If someone had gone after Nick and Selena, they might go after the others. She called Ronnie Peete and told him what had happened. She called Lamont and Stephanie and told them Ronnie would pick them up.

The Project was the shadow hand of the President. No one was supposed to know who was on the team or where they lived. The Project was secret as far as the public was concerned, but it wasn't the public throwing grenades. Over the last few months too many people had found out about her group. She was getting the feeling that secret wasn't the operative word anymore.

Elizabeth sipped her coffee and looked at the picture of the Twin Towers she kept on her desk. Anytime she began to doubt why she was here, all she needed to do was look at that picture.

The day hadn't started well. She wondered what else it would bring.

CHAPTER THREE

Ronnie Peete and Lamont Cameron were on their way to pick up Stephanie.  They rode in Ronnie's black Hummer,

"What do you figure?" Lamont said. He looked in the mirror on the door. A black Crown Vic tailed them a block behind.

"He was outside your building when I picked you up. It could be a cop or Feds. Could be the people who went for Nick. Harker said they used a grenade."

"Wouldn't be the first time. Nick's got bad karma or something about grenades."

"Karma? You going New Age on me?"

"Yeah, right." Lamont took out his pistol and pulled the slide partway back to check for a round. He rested it in his lap. "Nick's got to be pissed about the cabin."

Ronnie glanced in his mirror. The car was still there. Another black Ford entered the intersection ahead and turned toward them. The car behind sped up to close the gap.

"Here we go," Ronnie said.

"Think they're feds?"

Someone leaned out of the oncoming car as it neared and fired a machine pistol at them. The Hummer was fitted with bullet proof glass. The windshield starred with the rounds.

"Nope. Not feds."

Ronnie stepped hard on the emergency brake and cranked the steering left. The Hummer slid into a screeching 180 turn and slammed sideways into the other car and knocked it off to the side.

Ronnie released the brake, punched the accelerator down and headed straight for the second car. Lamont saw panic on the driver's face as the Hummer bore down on him. He tried to turn out of the way.

Ronnie's truck was modified with armor plating, a beefed up frame, a turbocharged engine and a lot of extra horses. A heavy black steel bumper and grill dominated the front. It hit the Ford like a 6000 pound hammer and bulldozed it over the curb. Ronnie kept the pedal down and pushed the car into a store front with a big plate glass window. The window disintegrated in an explosion of glass. Neatly dressed mannequins fell out onto the pavement.

A man scrambled out of the car. Ronnie rolled out of the Hummer and shot him, three quick rounds. Down the block, a woman started screaming.

Lamont got out and squatted down behind the Hummer a second before a large man came out of the car across the street firing an Uzi. The 9mm rounds rang against the steel plating on the Hummer. Lamont's first and second shots missed. The third and fourth shots didn't. The man dropped out of sight.

Ronnie fired. The driver fell forward over the wheel.

That fast, it was over. The echoes died away. Traffic was stopped at the intersections. Nothing moved on the block. Lamont saw a curtain flutter in an apartment window and swung toward it, pistol aimed in both hands. He saw a terrified woman step back out of sight.

Steam rose under the buckled hood of the car in the store front. The driver was dead, his head at an odd angle. The front seat passenger had a thick shard of plate glass from the store window sticking in his neck. An Uzi was clenched in his dead hand. The front of the car interior was wet and red with blood. The man Ronnie had killed lay sprawled on the sidewalk by the open car door.

"Let's check the other one," Lamont said.

They started across the street. No one moved by the second car. Ronnie saw gas underneath. He held out his arm and stopped Lamont. The gas tank exploded, ripping through the Ford.

Sirens were coming, lots of them. They went back to the Hummer. The right side was a mess. The rear quarter panel was crumpled and bent, the shiny black paint along the side marred and scratched, the front fender buckled in against the tire. The metalwork and windows were pocked with bullet holes.

"Messed up your ride," Lamont said.

Ronnie looked at his car and shook his head. "We'll need help with the cops. I'll call in."

CHAPTER FOUR

The team met in Harker's office. Nick and Selena had gotten in from California an hour before.

Stephanie Willits sat on the couch. She was the Project's computer guru, a hacker genius. Everything about computers was in her keeping. Stephanie had dark eyes and hair and a pleasant face people characterized as friendly. She usually had a ready smile. At the moment, the smile had gone missing.

Ronnie sat next to her. The story of the Navajo Nation was written on his face. He had square, solid features and dark brown eyes. His nose was large, Roman looking, a noble nose. His skin was light brown with an underlying reddish tint that got darker during the sunny months. He had on one of his favorite shirts, a gaudy panorama of big-finned Cadillacs full of joyous surfers cruising the Hawaiian sands.

A silver pen that had belonged to FDR lay on Harker's desk next to a picture of the Twin Towers on 9/11. She picked it up and twirled it in her fingers.

"No question this was a concerted attack," she said. "There were no IDs on the people who came after you, in California or here. But we found out who most of them were."

"How?" Selena asked.

She looked fresher than Nick, but not by much. Her face showed lines of fatigue, her violet eyes were bloodshot. She wore jeans and a blue sweatshirt and hadn't bothered with makeup. Her red-blonde hair was pulled back in a short ponytail held by a rubber band. She was letting it grow out.

A long way from when she first walked in here, Harker thought. She's changed. No more rich girl look.

"The three in California were ex military. Their prints were on file. We couldn't get prints from the one who burned up, but the others used to be with Langley."

"Mercenaries," Nick said, "and ex spooks."

"Yes."

"I don't like that. Where did we see this before? Spooks and mercs?""

"In Texas," Ronnie said. He still felt the effects of the wound he'd taken there. "You think it's the same people, Director?"

"Yes. There was one incoming call on the phone you found. It traced back to a company called Endgame Development. They design interactive, violent video games. Think Friday the 13th in 3D and high definition. Endgame is a subsidiary shell of a subsidiary of an entertainment company owned by Malcolm Foxworth."

"Foxworth runs AEON."

"That's why I think it's the same people."

"What do you want us to do?" Nick asked.

"Endgame is in Brighton Beach, in Brooklyn. I want you and Lamont to go there and see what you can find out." Elizabeth fiddled with her pen. "This could have been a preemptive strike, so we don't get in the way of something. They'd go after you four because you're the guts of the fire team. Steph and I were probably on the list after they got the shooters handled."

"Big mistake." Lamont smiled. "They don't know you two very well."

Lamont had retired from the Navy Seals just before joining the Project. A shrapnel scar ran from his forehead down across his nose and cheek. It made a thin ridge of pink against his coffee-colored skin. He had pale blue eyes, a gift from his Ethiopian grandfather.

Selena said, "What could they be planning?"

Harker tapped her pen. "If the past is any indication we'll find out soon enough."

CHAPTER FIVE

The man who led AEON looked out from his penthouse windows over the city of London. The view took in most of the city. It was a good spot to contemplate power.

Malcolm Foxworth was a small man with a large presence. His hair was black with streaks of silver and carefully styled. His ears were a little too large for his head. His eyebrows formed thin, black streaks over flat eyes blue as glacier ice. Foxworth's face was unremarkable, common even. When he was angry, his complexion turned red. When he was very angry, his face turned chalk white.

Foxworth had started out with a small newspaper inherited from his father. Over the years he'd created a world-wide media empire by telling angry people what they wanted to hear. He controlled radio stations, newspapers, magazines and television outlets, all with one thing in common. Each worked to feed and strengthen the ominous cloud of divisiveness and fear spreading over the globe.

Fear was Foxworth's stock in trade. Fear overwhelmed reason. Fearful people became angry and could be manipulated. The world's leaders had always used fear to get what they wanted. They congratulated themselves and imagined themselves masters of the world. But few knew who pulled the strings that made the world dance.

Foxworth knew, because he was one of them. The conspiracy theorists were right about a hidden group seeking world domination but they'd gotten most of it wrong.

AEON had been called by many names over the centuries. The Illuminati. The Secret Masons. The Hidden Masters. The New World Order. The Trilateral Commission. The Bilderberg Group. Those were useful red herrings, shadows thrown up against the screen of human paranoia, psychological sleight of hand. No one had ever managed to expose the real conspiracy.

In the past year someone had begun to interfere.

Someone had pointed Harker's dogs at the Demeter operation. It was like throwing sand into a machine with closely cut gears. Years of preparation had been destroyed in hours by an insignificant team of ignorant, washed up soldiers led by a woman. It wasn't the first time she'd derailed one of AEON's operations. Every time he thought about Harker, Foxworth wanted to take her throat in his hands and crush it.

Harker drew her power from the Presidency. President Rice didn't play by the rules. He couldn't be bribed, or persuaded to see reason about things that mattered. He was weak, opposed to war. Without him, Harker would become irrelevant.

Rice's opponent in the upcoming US election was AEON's puppet. Voting was untrustworthy, no matter what the polls predicted. Foxworth had no intention of waiting until November to see his man elected.

He was going to assassinate Rice, then eliminate Harker.

He gazed out at the changing London skyline. A light rain spattered the glass. Beyond the Thames, the giant Ferris wheel Londoners called the Eye stood out against the gray sky.

A sudden stab of blinding pain staggered him. He placed his hand against the thick glass of the window to steady himself. His vision blurred. Then his sight cleared and the pain on his skull receded. He walked unsteadily to his desk and sat down.

A door on the other side of the room opened. A tall, smartly dressed woman with pale skin and long black hair came in. She moved with unconscious ease and sexual promise. She glowed in a cream-colored suit that set off her hair. Her red blouse showed just enough cleavage to intrigue the eye. Her dark eyes glittered with unspoken thoughts.

Mandy Atherton had been a model at the top of her profession when she'd met Foxworth two years before. In the cutthroat world of high end fashion and beautiful women there was always someone scheming to take her place. Mandy was no fool. She knew where her future lay, and it wasn't with the fashion industry. It lay in a rich man's bed.

Lately Foxworth had been finding it difficult to perform, but that wasn't a problem for Mandy. Besides, she had other ways to satisfy her needs. She was inventive and intelligent as well as attractive. During working hours she acted as Foxworth's executive assistant.

"Malcolm, Doctor Morel is here."

"About time. Send him in."

Doctor Morel wore a goatee and mustache and a three piece dark suit that had cost a great deal of money. He was 50 years old, balding and beginning to show a paunch. He looked like an actor portraying Sigmund Freud. Custom shoes that added to his height and expensive cologne hinted at his vanity. In his right hand he carried a smooth black leather briefcase full of select medications.

Morel was under five and a half feet tall, one of the reasons Foxworth liked having him about. Aside from the bonus of his height, Morel was also discreet. He was a man who knew how to make his clients feel pampered and respected. More important, he knew how to make them feel better.

"Goddamn it, Morel, what took you so long? I can't think with this headache."

"Sorry, Malcolm, there was construction on the M1. I came as quickly as possible. Please, sit down."

Foxworth insisted that associates he saw all the time call him by his first name. Worker bees called him "sir".

Foxworth sat at his desk. Morel placed his case on the desk, opened it and pulled up a facing chair. He took out an instrument and shone a light into Foxworth's eyes.

"Look up. Now right. Now left." He put the instrument away, took out a vial of clear liquid and a syringe.

"Any other symptoms, Malcolm? Blurring of vision? Hearing problems? Any problems with balance?"

"Never mind that crap. Just give me something for this headache. I've got an important meeting in twenty minutes."

"Of course." Morel filled the syringe, squirted a few drops. "Pants, please."

Foxworth stood. Morel noticed he was a bit unsteady, but said nothing. Foxworth exposed his buttock. Morel gave him the injection.

"You'll feel better in a minute or two," he said. "Are you still unwilling to put yourself in for a few tests? Just overnight."

"I don't want any tests." Foxworth felt the drug working. The pain receded. He took a deep breath. "I don't need any tests. These headaches are just stress."

"Malcolm..."

"Morel. I said I don't want any bloody tests."

Foxworth's voice had gone cold. Something ancient and dangerous lay just beneath it. Morel took an involuntary step backward, as if he had just seen something unspeakably evil. Ridiculous, he thought. It's just the stress talking.

Foxworth calmed himself.  "Don't ask me again. A long as I can reach you, I don't need anything else."

"I'm always available for you." Morel closed his case.

The money he got for these visits guaranteed it. If his patient didn't want tests, well, that was his decision. Morel had done what he could. He wouldn't bring it up again, not after what Foxworth had said. For a moment, he'd actually felt threatened.

CHAPTER SIX

Selena's condo had security good enough for Langley or the NSA. She needed it. There was enough rare art on the walls to start a private museum. She'd inherited a fortune from her uncle. His murder had brought her to the Project. She'd never imagined then that she would end up working for Harker.

One of the things Nick liked about her was her lack of pretension. Selena didn't flaunt her money. She had no false airs of superiority because of wealth.

He sat at the counter and watched her in the kitchen. She moved with smoothness perfected in twenty years of martial arts training. The reddish blond coloring of her hair revealed her Celtic ancestors. Her eyes were sometimes blue, sometimes deep violet. Her face was interesting. One cheekbone was a little higher than the other. She had the kind of look people called striking. There was a small dark mole on her upper lip, a natural beauty mark.

Selena had a lot of skills, but cooking wasn't one of them. She was trying out a recipe for beef stroganoff. A pan of noodles burbled on the stove.

"You need any help with that?"

Nick kept the nervousness out of his voice. Selena's last two attempts to make dinner hadn't ended well. They usually ate out when they were together, or Nick fixed something.

"No, I'm fine. How's your drink?"

"I'm good." He picked up his whiskey, took a sip. Foam lifted off the noodles and boiled over onto the stove.

"Darn!" She turned down the flame.

"Won't hurt anything," he said.

She took the noodles off the stove, strained them into a colander in the sink. Half of them stuck to the pan. She scooped them out and added the beef and brought everything over to the counter. It was already set with plates and napkins and silverware. She'd put a rose in a bud vase on the counter. Water in crystal glasses. A large Greek salad.

Nick eyed the stroganoff. "What are those black things?"

"Olives. I didn't have any pickles."

He took a bite. The meat was like leather. His eyes watered. "Kind of hot." They both reached for water. "How much pepper did you use?"

"It said a tablespoon. You like spicy things so I added a bit more."

"A tablespoon." No way, he thought. "Not bad," he said. He took another gulp of water.

"It's terrible. Damn it." She pushed her plate away.

"Great chefs weren't made in a day. The wine's good." He leaned over and kissed her. "And you taste good. Kind of like peppered wine."

"You taste like whiskey. With curdled sour cream."

"Let's just eat the salad."

When they were done they moved to a long couch where they could look out over the lights of the city. The Capitol Dome glowed white in the distance.

"I wish it could always be like this," she said.

"It's like this right now."

"For how long? Something's going to come up. It always does. We still aren't certain who came after us."

"No. We'll find out, though."

"You think they'll try again?"

"Yes."

"How can we stop them?"

"They'll make a mistake. Sooner or later, there's always a mistake. All we need is a lead. We follow that, we learn more, we keep going. Somewhere there's an end to the trail. Then we eliminate the threat."

"We don't know what the threat is."

He picked up his drink and gazed into the amber glow of the whiskey. He set it down.

"We'll find out," he said again. He changed the subject. "You miss what you did before you hooked up with Harker?"

Selena had a unique gift for ancient and obscure languages. She had a world wide reputation as an expert.

"Sometimes. Mostly not. After this last year, I could never go back to my old life. Even with the drawbacks of working for Elizabeth."

She stared into her wine glass. "You think you'll ever want to get out of this? Do something different?"

"I think about it, sometimes. It would be hard to just have a normal life. Whatever that is."

"Some things don't change, normal life or not."

"What do you mean?"

She set her glass down and kissed him. A long kiss.

They broke apart. "Let's not change that," he said.

She looked into his eyes. Gray eyes, with flecks of gold.

They went into the bedroom and undressed. She pressed against him and wrapped her arms around him. She ran her hands over his body, feeling the geography that told his history. His right side was stippled with scars from the calf to the shoulder, the result of a grenade in Afghanistan. A puckered ridge marked where a round had passed through his upper chest. The scars were familiar to her touch. She took in his scent, tried to inhale him. She pushed him down on the bed and straddled him.

"Tell me you love me," she said. "Tell me."

"You know I do."

"Tell me."

"Yes. Yes, I love you."

She was ready for him. She guided him in and they began moving together. Afterward, they lay for a long time in each other's arms.

Nick fell asleep. He dreamed the dream.

They come in low and fast over the ridge, the rotors hammering out the hard heartbeat of war.

The village sits in a sandy valley between sharp, barren hills under a relentless sun. He's first out of the bird, his Marines fast behind. They hit the street running. On the right, low, flat roofed houses. On the left, more houses and the market. The shoddy bins of the market are made from old crates, the walls of hanging cloth. Flies swarm on meat hanging in the open air of the butcher’s stall.

A baby is crying somewhere. The street is empty.

Bearded figures spring up like dragon's teeth on the rooftops and open fire. The market stalls turn into a storm of splinters. Plaster and rock explodes from the sides of the buildings.

He ducks into a shallow doorway. From one of the houses, a child runs toward him with a grenade, screaming about Allah. Nick hesitates, a second too long. The boy throws as Nick shoots him. The child's head turns into a red mist of blood and bone. The grenade floats through the air in slow motion...everything goes white...

Nick shouted and sat up in the bed, slick with sweat.

"It's all right, Nick. It's just a dream." Selena waited until she was sure he was awake before she touched him.

He rubbed his face. "Try and go back to sleep," she said.

"There's no point."

He got up and waited for daylight.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Endgame Development was housed in a concrete and brick building off Brighton Beach Avenue. The area was a zoning nightmare. Apartment buildings and row houses butted up against commercial shops and services. Most of the business signs were in Russian and Ukrainian. Brighton Beach was known locally as "Little Odessa". It was the base for the Russian and Ukrainian Mafia in the US.

The August day was hot and humid. Nick and Lamont sat at a grungy sidewalk cafe down the block from the building, eating Russian pastries and drinking black coffee. Sport jackets concealed their weapons. Nick had a brought a .45 caliber Sig-Sauer P229 designed for concealed carry. He was thinking about changing over from his H-K. The Sig was smaller, less obvious. It sat snugly in a holster at his side.

No one would think they belonged in this neighborhood. They'd probably be taken for cops. Nick didn't like it, but there was no way around it.

There was little to see at the Endgame building. A long, dull yellow wall scrawled with graffiti. A large closed metal garage door at one end. Above and to the right of the garage, a door on the second floor opened out onto a black iron walkway running along the front. The building was four stories high. Two thirds of the way across, the walkway rose in a series of steps and landings to exits on the third and fourth floors. A few small windows, dirty and closed, looked out from the second story. At the other end was another garage.

"Doesn't look like much, " Lamont said, "for a high tech production company."

"Not very friendly. Like the architect was inspired by the Berlin Wall."

"Some of these guys around here probably helped build the Wall back in the good old days."

"I don't see any cameras." Nick sipped his coffee. The coffee was old. The pastry was new. "No obvious street surveillance."

"Neighborhood like this, there has to be something."

"Could be an agreement with the local mob boss. Plenty of security that way."

"Let's take a walk." Lamont tossed a few bills on the table and they got up. Inside the cafe, a rat-faced man watched them go and made a telephone call.

In this neighborhood Lamont's skin stood out like a neon sign. People passing by gave them hard looks. A small sign in English and Cyrillic by the entrance to the building announced that Endgame Technology was on the second floor. A short flight of steps led up to double glass doors. Stairs and a freight elevator were visible through the glass.

"How about the direct approach," Nick said. "I need to develop my game."

"After you." They entered the building.

The entry was dark and smelled of urine and stale beer and cigarettes. The steps were steep and dark and stained.

"Classy," Lamont said. "Their website made this look like the Hilton."

"Yeah, masters of illusion. That's one of their game titles."

They climbed the stairs. On the second floor a long hall covered in cracked linoleum stretched along the length of the building. Nick counted four metal doors, all painted a dull brown. A sign on the second door read Endgame Development, LLC.

Nick tried the handle. Locked.

A door opened down the hall. A large, muscular man with a buzz cut walked toward them. He wore a black tee shirt, black leather sport coat, black pants and black shoes. He moved like a boxer. His face was hard and he wasn't smiling. He looked like someone who could hold his own in the UFC.

Camera somewhere, Nick thought. Pretty good. Didn't see it.

"I help you?" His accent was Russian or Ukrainian.

"Sure, thanks. We're looking for Endgame Development. Got some work for them."

Nick reached in his jacket pocket, watched the reaction. The man covered it, but Nick saw the inner flinch. He's got a piece under that coat. Nick took out a business card and handed it to him. The card said he was Nicholas Allen, Executive VP of Video Production. It gave an address in Manhattan.

"I'm Nick Allen. This is my assistant, Lamont Cranston. We have a gaming project in mind. Endgame has been recommended. We'd like to explore possibilities with them, but they seem to be closed."

"Da, closed. Gone to beach." The man smiled. A gold tooth gleamed in his lower jaw. "You come back tomorrow." The smile didn't reach his eyes.

Nick heard the entry door close below, a whispered word. His ear started to itch and burn. His personal warning system, a psychic quirk that had saved him more than once.

"Well," he said, "I'll just slip my card under here." He bent down as if to push the card under the door, grabbed the man's leg and pulled it out from under him.

Gold tooth was quick. He hit the floor and kicked out at the same time. The blow landed on Nick's shoulder. It numbed his arm and broke the hold. Gold tooth rolled away and bounced to his feet, reaching inside his jacket. Lamont kicked out and slammed the knee. Nick heard it break. Gold tooth howled in pain. He had the gun out and fired as he went down. The bullet tugged at Nick's jacket.

Nick caught him with a hard kick to the groin. The man screamed. The gun skittered across the floor. Lamont kicked him in the head.

One down.

Footsteps pounded up the stairs. There was no cover in the hall. Nick drew the Sig and fired into the lock on the door. Lamont let off three fast shots at the head of the stairs. It would give anyone coming up something to think about.

Nick hit the door with his body. It popped open and they were inside Endgame Development. Lamont shut the door behind them. Bullets thudded into the metal.

The door was the only exit. They were trapped.

Piles of shrink-wrapped games were stacked along a wall. Four large wooden shipping crates took up one corner. Computers, a laptop and three large monitors sat on a work bench. A bright poster hung on the wall advertising a violent crime game Nick had seen in stores. It wasn't the real thing. The real thing was about to come through the door.

Nick signaled Lamont. The crates. Whoever was out there would figure they'd be behind the door when it opened. What they'd do was predictable. Nick and Lamont ran to the corner of the room and crouched down behind the crates. Nick breathed deep and brought the adrenaline rush under control. Outside the door, the hall was silent.

Lamont held up three fingers. Three men out there. Nick didn't wonder how he knew. Three or four or more, it didn't make much difference.

There were three.

The door burst open. The first man through rolled and came up shooting at where someone would be if they'd been waiting behind the door. The shots thudded into the plaster board wall. Lamont shot and missed, fired again and the man went down. It gave away their position.

The second and third men reached around the open door and began blasting away at the crates. Splinters exploded from the raw wood. A long piece struck Lamont under his eye and lodged in his cheek. Blood started. He kept firing. The men in the hall retreated.

Stalemate.

Fuck this. Nick stood and ran to the opposite wall. As he ran he got an angle on the hall. He saw one of the shooters and put two rounds into him before he could react.

The last one was stupid. He reached around the door to shoot at Nick. Lamont fired twice. The man slid down the doorframe, folded over in the opening and stopped moving. The room was filled with the smell of spent gunpowder and the hot copper smell of blood. Then the stink of emptying bowels.

Nick went to the workbench and picked up the laptop. He looked at the dead men and holstered his pistol.

"Game over," he said.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Harker leaned back in her chair.

"The tabloids are calling it the 'Brighton Beach Bloodbath' and blaming it on a mob feud. The men you killed were all tied to one of the Russian gangs. The crates in Endgame were full of pornography packaged as New Age Seminars."

"That's a nice touch," Lamont said. He had a large, white bandage on his face where the splinter had gouged him. It stood out against his dark skin.

"That building is made out of solid concrete with thick doors." Nick tugged on his ear. "Nobody heard the shooting. Or if they did, they thought it was none of their business."

"How did you make it out of there?" Stephanie asked.

"There was a second set of stairs at the end of the hall that led down to a garage. We borrowed one of their cars."

Lamont said, "Nice car, too. A brand new Beemer. We left it parked in a loading zone. It's New York, it would have been towed in minutes."

Ronnie laughed.

"That was a pretty extreme reaction," Nick said. "They couldn't have known what we wanted. Hell, we could have been cops. But they got hard core right from the start."

"They had orders to stop anyone from finding out what was in there," Elizabeth said. "It had to be more than porn."

"The laptop you brought back is encrypted," Stephanie said. "1024 bit encryption. That's state of the art, as good as it gets. Military grade."

"When will you know what's on it?"

"Freddie's working on it now."

Freddie was a maxed out Cray XMT in the computer room. Stephanie had names for all her computers.

"I don't like the Russian connection." Nick said. "Why are Russians involved?"

Lamont looked at Nick. "Maybe it's just about porn. Mafia stuff."

"The Russian mafia is bad news but they don't start shooting people unless they have to. It gets attention and makes trouble. Look at the headlines we got."

"This isn't about porn," Harker said, "it's something else. You went there because we found Endgame's number on that phone in California. It stirred up a hornet's nest. Foxworth is playing hardball for a good reason."

"What's next, Director?"

She set her pen down on her desk. "I want to see what's on that computer. It might give us the next step."

CHAPTER NINE

Malcolm Foxworth pressed a button concealed in the carving on his desk. A flat panel slid open along the top, revealing a large monitor and keyboard. He pressed a key and the monitor elevated itself. He looked at his gold Rolex. A minute to go. While he waited, he imagined the future and smiled. Precisely one minute later the screen came alive. It showed images of eight men, the other members of AEON's inner circle.

AEON had begun in the 18th Century. A group of wealthy and powerful men in England and France had formed an association based on the mutual creation of wealth and the application of power to achieve their goals.

The nine members always addressed each other on a first name basis. It created an illusion of collegiality, but Foxworth had no illusions about the group. None of them did. The leaders of AEON were more like a school of sharks than a gathering of colleagues. Like sharks, they would turn on any member who showed signs of weakness or lack of judgement. Alliances between members were matters of common convenience. Friendship was not unknown, but it was rare.

Foxworth began the conference.

"Gentlemen," he said. "Thank you for joining me."

There were nods of recognition.

"I believe we can keep it brief today. Anatoly, can you give us an update on your progress?"

Anatoly Ogorov was Russia's Foreign Minister.

"The Tesla device is almost complete." Nods of approval greeted his words. "I have been assured that we are close to testing the prototype. Construction of the power generator is ahead of schedule."

"What is the projected completion date?"

The speaker was the representative from Brazil, Jose Silva. In one way or another, Silva had gained control of all energy resources in Central and South America. He was one of the world's 100 wealthiest men. He was also the most powerful member of the inner group after Foxworth.

"Late October or early November," Ogorov answered. "Before the American election."

"You have overcome the obstacles?"

"Not all of them. Not yet. There are still problems. But I am confident."

Silva nodded. "Good. Yes, the election. Malcolm, what do you intend to do about that? We must defeat Rice. His policies are making things difficult for us."

There were murmurings of agreement from the others.

"I understand. Steps are being taken. Rice will not be a problem."

"We have your assurances on this?"

Silva wanted to unseat him as leader. Success was the criterion of continued leadership. There was only one answer possible. Foxworth gave it.

"You do."

For the next fifteen minutes they reviewed the European strategy. There was still disagreement about how long to let the Eurozone and the Euro currency continue. AEON intended to bring down the Euro and reap the benefits of the economic depression that was sure to follow. It wasn't a question of if but of when. There was no immediate urgency. They agreed to further deliberation. Foxworth ended the meeting on that note.

He pressed the hidden button and the monitor retracted into the desk. The panel slid back in place. He activated the intercom.

"Mandy, get Healy in here."

"Right away, Malcolm."

A few minutes later Healy knocked and came into the room.

Michael Healy was Foxworth's Chief of Security. He stood in front of Foxworth's huge desk, his feet slightly apart, hands clasped behind his back. Besides overseeing Foxworth's protection, Healy took care of operations that had nothing to do with corporate security or personal protection.

Healy had spent fourteen years in the SAS, Britain's elite Special Forces unit. He'd gotten caught up in a civilian sex scandal involving underage prostitutes and been kicked out of the service for "behavior unbecoming to an officer". A man with his skills could always find work. He'd ended up here, with Foxworth.

His civilian clothes might as well have been starched. The creases in his pants looked like they could cut. His shoes blinded with their shine. His back was erect, his shoulders wide, his face all angles and planes. His eyes were hazel and cold. Foxworth approved. He appreciated discipline.

"Are things ready in America?"

"Everything is in place."

"You are certain there can be no connection back here?"

"Yes."

"Good. You have a green light. Proceed with the operation. That's all."

"Yes, sir." Healy turned smartly and left. Foxworth watched him go.

All the little people with their prattle about democracy and freedom of speech and the rule of law, he thought. Soon there'd be a new rule of law. His law.

CHAPTER TEN

Nick dreamed.

It was hot. He was on a mission in the jungle, carrying his weapons, his gear. He was in a clearing. There was a big spider in the middle of the clearing. Selena was right behind him.

"Don't kill it, Nick. It will make too much noise."

The spider and the clearing disappeared and he was looking at an ancient ruin covered with vines and green things. Serpents and faces were carved on the weathered stones.

"That's it," Selena said behind him.

He turned and looked at her. She wore a pith helmet and a red bikini. She had combat boots and a red plastic pistol.

"Where are your weapons?" he said. "Where's your armor?"

She showed him the pistol, pulled the trigger. Water shot out. Then he was in the middle of a full blown firefight. Bullets chopped the greenery around him. Selena lay next to him, pulling the trigger on her water pistol. The stream was red.

A spot of bright red blossomed on her abdomen, red like her bikini. He watched the blood spread. He dropped his rifle, grabbed her. He tried to stop the blood, pressed his hands on her. Blood poured through his fingers.

"Nick," she said. "Nick."

Her eyes closed. Blood ran out of her mouth. She stopped breathing.

Waves of grief and rage swept through him. He raised his head and howled.

Someone was shaking him. He woke, gasping for air. His cheeks were wet. His heart was trying to pound out of his chest.

Selena gripped his arm. The clock by the bed read 3:07 A.M..

"Nick, you were shouting. You had a nightmare again."

He'd told Selena about the Afghanistan dream. He hadn't said much about the other dreams. They'd started when he was twelve. They didn't come often. He never knew until later what they meant. They were never about anything good and were always about something that hadn't happened yet. Those dreams had a strange intensity, a luminous quality.

Like the dream he'd just had.

It was a psychic ability inherited from his Irish ancestors. His Grandmother had told him it was called the "sight". She'd filled his head with dark mutterings and warnings about it. Nick assumed it came from the same place that made his ear itch and burn when everything was about to go bad.

"Christ," he said. He rubbed his face.

"Afghanistan again?"

"No." She waited.

Nick was silent. The image of his hands trying to hold in her blood stuck in his mind.

"You can't keep doing this," she said.

"Doing what?"

"Trying to get a handle on these dreams on your own. You need to see someone."

"I don't want someone poking around in my head. I'll handle it."

"You are one stubborn man." She wanted to shake him. Instead she said, "Let's go back to bed."

"We're already in bed. I don't think I can get back to sleep."

"I didn't say anything about sleeping. Don't be so damned literal."

Later, he slept.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

President James Rice stood in the wings of the Lakeside Building at Chicago's Convention Center. He listened with half an ear to his VP setting up the crowd of delegates and party faithful. Secret Service agents were stationed back stage. More circulated out front.

Rice was about to accept his party's nomination for a second term. 50,000,000 viewers would be watching. The polls showed him trailing his opponent by seven percentage points. Behind the scenes the atmosphere was tense, his campaign split into opposing factions over strategy.

Everyone wondered what Rice would say. About the endless problems in Afghanistan and the Middle East, the rising tensions with Iran and Russia and China. About jobs and an economy in trouble. The media was sharpening its knives.

It didn't matter that Rice had kept the country out of a new world war and survived a highly publicized assassination attempt a year before. The public's attitude was always "what have you done for me lately?" Kennedy's famous words about what you could do for your country had long been forgotten.

His opponent had no qualms about distorting Rice's record. Senator Richard Carino twisted facts to suit, throwing skewed numbers out like confetti in carefully rehearsed sound bites. He brayed about the enormous deficit and the wars, but posed no sensible alternatives and took no responsibility for the current state of affairs. AEON had spent hundreds of millions of dollars to oust Rice from the Presidency. His re-election bid was in trouble.

The space out front was filled to capacity. Kevin Hogan, Rice's Chief of Staff, stood at Rice's side. Hogan was the picture of a Washington political pro. He looked like what he was, a savvy, shrewd advisor with the unmistakable air that went with proximity to power. He was making an effort to keep calm. A lot was riding on the speech tonight.

"One minute, Mister President."

"How's the makeup?"

"Good, Sir. No one's going to think of Nixon."

Rice smiled. "I hope not."

Hogan gave a weak laugh. In the first Kennedy-Nixon televised debate, Richard Nixon had come across on the black and white screen as a man who needed a shave, a man who couldn't be trusted. It was a bad day for the country, the day television became a major player in shaping American politics.

Onstage, the Vice-President was finishing up. With a broad gesture he turned toward the wings.

"Fellow Americans, I give you the President of the United States."

"Showtime, Mister President." Hogan gave Rice an encouraging smile. "Give 'em hell, sir."

On cue, the sounds of "Hail to the Chief" filled the hall. Rice strode onto the stage, looking out at the crowd, waving his hand. Blinded by the lights, he stumbled on an electrical cord carelessly laid across the stage.

Rice heard the first shot and felt the wind as the bullet passed by the back of his head. Chaos erupted on the convention floor. In an instant, Rice was smothered under a swarm of Secret Service agents. He heard a second shot and felt it strike the man lying on top of him. The agent cried out. Blood sprayed out over the stage.

There was a volley of answering shots from his detail. An automatic weapon opened up somewhere overhead. For a moment, he was back in Vietnam. Bullets juddered into the living shield piled on top of him. The rounds ripped through the carpet, shattered the podium where he would have been speaking. The shooter was somewhere above in the darkness behind the lights.

He felt the shock as a bullet struck his arm, then pain. There was another fierce volley of shots from his detail. Suddenly the shooting stopped. Strong arms pulled bodies from him, lifted Rice and ran with him off stage.

Kevin Hogan lay on the floor in a spreading pool of blood. Proximity to power had its price.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Michael Healy feared no one. The closest he came to fear was nervousness. He was nervous now. He'd screwed up. The last three assignments from Foxworth had turned out badly. It didn't matter that he wasn't the one on the scene who had failed. He was responsible.

"Rice is still alive." Foxworth looked at him. "Lucky for you, the man you picked is dead. So are the people you sent after Harker's team. What have you got to say about it?"

"No excuses for Harker's people, sir. Bad luck with Rice. He tripped just as our man fired. It was certain, except for that."

"Not our man, Healy. Your man."

"Yes, sir."

"Tell me why I should not terminate your position."

He has no idea how fast I can kill him, Healy thought.

"No excuses, sir," he said again.

Foxworth swiveled, looked out the windows. He turned back.

"Don't make any more mistakes."

"Yes, sir." Healy relaxed, just a fraction.

"What is your assessment of the damage from the Brighton Beach incident?"

"It shouldn't be a problem. The men killed were low level security, former FSB provided by Ogorov. The police and papers think it's a gang war. I don't see it coming back to us. There is one possible issue."

Foxworth waited.

"A computer is missing. One of Harker's men must have taken it. It has messages on it that could lead back to Prague."

"Can they be read?"

"No. They're coded. But the point of origin can be traced."

"If Harker figures that out, she'll send someone to Prague."

"It's what I'd do."

Foxworth considered for a moment. "We have to cover it. Send a team to Prague. Watch for Harker's people to show up. If they do, eliminate them."

"Yes, sir."

"That's all."

After Healy left, Foxworth looked out his windows at the London cityscape and considered the problem of Harker. He hoped she sent someone to Prague. Sooner or later, he'd find a way to eliminate her and her group of troublemakers once and for all.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

"The shooter had an M4A1 with an ACOG sight," Elizabeth said, "the latest version. The one our snipers like."

"Christ," Nick said. "How does someone get hold of that?"

"Tracked to Fort Bragg. The Army arrested a Quartermaster Sergeant who works in the armory. They're talking to him as we speak."

"I'll bet they are, " Ronnie said.

"What's an ACOG?" Selena asked.

"ACOG stands for Advanced Combat Optical Group," Nick answered. "There are a lot of variants. It's a computerized telescopic sight with built in goodies to determine range, compensate for bullet drop and wind factors, things like that. You haven't worked with it yet. It's not available on the civilian market. The M4A1 is strictly military and police use."

"Where was the shooter?" Ronnie asked.

"In the HVAC duct work over the convention floor," Harker answered. "He fired through a vent. That center is 300,000 square feet. The system runs all around the top and it's huge. Plenty of room for someone to crawl in there."

"They ID him yet?"

"A former Army Staff Sergeant named Hardin. Dishonorable discharge after an incident in Afghanistan. He was accused of rape."

"Winning hearts and minds," Nick said. "There's always a rotten apple somewhere to give the military a bad name. How come he didn't end up in Leavenworth?"

"It was political."

Nick shook his head.

Harker said, "The Bureau and the Secret Service are all over the assassination attempt. It's not our concern at the moment. We have something else. Stephanie broke the encryption on the laptop from Endgame. Steph, show us what you found."

The monitor on the wall lit. On screen was an email with directions to Nick's cabin and photos of Nick and Selena. Selena shivered. Someone had taken her picture and sent assassins to kill her.

"Son of a bitch," Nick said.

"The message was sent to a cyber café in Los Angeles," Stephanie said. "It's a dead end. I got prints from the laptop and sent them to Interpol. There were two hits, both former FSB. Russians."

"The Russians went after us?" Selena looked at Stephanie. "Why would they do that?"

"They wouldn't," Harker said. "It's not the government."

"That's an assumption," Selena said, "that it isn't the Russian government."

"You want to do the assumption thing?" Ronnie asked.

"Why not?"

"Okay." Harker looked at them. "Assumption number one is it isn't the Kremlin. What's two?"

"Those hoods were ex FSB," Nick said. "So assumption number two is that whoever is behind this has a Russian connection."

Lamont said. "Who has the contacts to hire guys like that?"

"The Russian Mafia, for one."

"Yeah, but the mob wouldn't have any interest in us. Don't forget the ones who went after us here and in California were American."

"Then assumption number three is that it's someone with widespread contacts here as well as in Russia. Who fits that profile?"

"Endgame is part of Foxworth's holdings," Selena said. "He runs AEON. He would have contacts here and in Russia."

Elizabeth said, "Ogorov is part of AEON. He could be the Russian connection. So we're back to them again."

Nick shifted in his chair, trying to ease the pain in his back.

Ronnie smoothed the front of his shirt, where hula dancers swayed under impossibly green palm trees.

"Look what's happened so far." Lamont counted out points on his fingers. "First they go after Nick and Selena. Then Ronnie and me. Nick and I go to New York, Russians try to kill us, and we find a computer with directions to Nick's place."

He'd run out of fingers. "That about it?"

"There's more," Stephanie said.

Lamont groaned. "What, more?"

"Several emails went between Brighton Beach and Prague."

Nick rubbed his forehead. He felt a headache beginning. "Prague? As in the Czech Republic?"

"Yes." Steph clicked her mouse. The screen filled with neat groups of numbers.

"These are messages in code."

Elizabeth drummed her fingers on her desk. "Can you break it?"

"I'm not promising anything. The groupings are typical of a book code. The Brighton people were Russian. Assuming this actually is a book code, then the book is probably Russian."

"How will you find out which one it is?"

"I'm running a scan of every Russian book in the world databases, combined with a decryption program. If the numbers refer to a page and a word, either the word comes first or the page. The program checks it both ways and looks for correlations. If they added an extra digit or a pre-planned substitution to get the right location of the word, we'll never crack it. If the book they used isn't in the data banks, same result. We're out of luck. "

"And if it works?"

"Then we'll know which book, which edition, which page and which word. Then we translate. The computer will do that. Then we read the message."

"Simple," Ronnie said. "Why didn't I think of that?"

"Because the government pays you a princely salary to blow up things," Stephanie said. "They don't pay you to think." They all laughed.

Harker said, "How long will it take?"

"It depends. When there's a match the computer will tell me."

"All right. Good work."

"What about Prague?" Nick asked Harker.

"I want you and Selena to check it out. Selena, you speak Czech, don't you?"

"Yes. I'm rusty, though."

"That doesn't matter." She slid a folder across her desk. "Once Steph told me what she'd found, I put this together. This has your legend and passports. You and Nick are Canadian for this trip. Married."

"Quicker than Vegas," Nick murmured.

Harker gave him one of her looks. "Nick, you're a sales rep. You're in Prague to try and drum up a little business. You brought your wife along for a real European vacation."

"Doing my bit for globalization." He said it as if it left a bad taste in his mouth.

"The address of the cafe where those emails originated is in there." She tapped the folder. "It's not much, but it's all we've got. Go there, see what you can find out. Try and identify the sender."

"How are we supposed to pick someone out? Assuming the sender is even there?"

Harker reached into a drawer and took out what looked like an ordinary digital camera. "You're a tourist. Tourists take a lot of pictures. Every picture you take with this will upload to a satellite. Steph and I will have them seconds later. Go to the cafe where the emails came from and take pictures. If the sender uses it on a regular basis and if he's in the databases, we might get lucky."

"That's a lot of ifs and not much to go on."

"Best I can do."

"I hear the beer is pretty good in Prague," Ronnie said.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Nick and Selena landed at Ruzyně International Airport in the early evening. Nick had altered his appearance so the facial recognition scanners wouldn't pick him out and blow his cover. After the Jerusalem incident he couldn't travel in the open if operational security was in force.

He wore a neatly trimmed beard and mustache. Silicone pads and latex changed the shape of his face, giving him a puffy, slightly dissipated look, the face of a drinker. Skin-toned elastic pulled his ears tight against his head. The distinctive scar where a Chinese bullet had taken away the lobe on his left ear was gone. Contact lenses turned his gray eyes hazel. His short black hair was concealed under a brown wig indistinguishable from the real thing.

Nick's Canadian passport was genuine. It identified him as Richard Wilson, a business man from Vancouver. He wore a wedding ring. The customs form he'd filled out on the plane listed the purpose of his visit as business/vacation.

Selena was dressed in practical, plain clothes that made her look dull, an uninteresting woman in awkward brown shoes with a long skirt, excited about her once in a lifetime trip to Eastern Europe. She wore a wig of  mousy brown. Her eyes were the same color behind large glasses with clear plastic frames. She wore a cheap diamond wedding set. Her passport listed her occupation as elementary school teacher and her name as Sylvia Wilson.

They deplaned into the controlled lanes leading to customs. Nick noted the security cameras and guards and kept his head down, just another jet-lagged traveler anxious to get to his hotel.

The customs officer was bored. He looked at the passports and scrutinized Nick's face. He gestured at the camera bag slung over Nick's shoulder.

"Open the bag, please."

Nick opened it, took out the camera. "Latest model," he said. "Stores 5000 pictures."

The official checked that the camera had been declared. He stamped the passport and handed it back.

"Enjoy your stay." He stamped Selena's passport without more than a glance.

They took a taxi to their hotel. The room had been booked from Vancouver using a credit card in Wilson's name. The hotel was a remodeled older building optimistically rated 3 stars. A traveler on a limited budget would choose a hotel like this. From here it was a twenty minute walk to the heart of the old city.

They registered for five days. The clerk gave Nick a large metal key with a long wooden tag on it. He told them to leave the key when they left the hotel. He kept their passports and handed them a FedEx package.

"This came for you, an hour ago. From your office? You are here on business?"

"Yes." Nick handed the clerk a business card. "Business and pleasure. Thank you."

He took the package. A rack of brochures on the counter advertised tours, attractions and restaurants. Selena took several and placed them in her purse.

"Be sure to see the clock," the clerk said to her. "Welcome to Praha."

The elevator was ancient, an elaborate open box of wrought iron with an accordion gate. They rose at a snail's pace. Selena watched the shaft slide by through the black ironwork.

A bird in a cage must feel like this, she thought.

Their room was stuffy and hot. Nick closed the door and locked it. A window looked out onto the street. He opened the window and watched a brightly painted electric tram rumble by on the street below. His back ached from the flight, a long, dull pain that spread around his side and clawed at him when he moved. They'd flown coach. People like the Wilsons didn't fly business or first class.

He sat on the bed. It sagged under his weight. "We should take those detainees at Gitmo and strap them into economy airplane seats for a few days. That would make them talk."

Selena laughed. "That's cruel and unusual punishment, Nick. Can't do that."

She sat down next to him. Nick opened the package. It contained two Irish passports with entry stamps for the Czech Republic, two SIG Sauer P229 pistols chambered for .40 S&W, holsters and four loaded magazines. A box contained things they'd need if they had to use the Irish passports.

Nick had never liked the Glocks that the others carried. They were great when they worked, light, easy to carry. But they had a tendency to jam at awkward moments. Looking at the Sig, he made up his mind to talk with Harker about switching everyone over when they got back.

He picked up one of the pistols and inserted a magazine. He racked the slide, and let it go forward. He pushed the decocking lever down with his left thumb and put the gun in a holster. Selena did the same with hers. The pistol was safe with a round in the chamber. Pull the trigger and you were in business.

"Nothing like a gift from home," he said.

"What's our plan?"

"It's too late to do anything today except find someplace to eat dinner. We need sleep. Tomorrow we'll go to that cafe."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Morel placed the syringe back in his briefcase and closed it. Foxworth rolled down his sleeve and fastened a gold and diamond cuff link. The drug moved through his system, the pain receded. He didn't know what Morel had given him. He didn't care, as long as it handled the pain. The headaches were getting more frequent. But Doctor Morel made them go away and that was what mattered.

Foxworth smiled. "Thank you, Ernst."

Morel tried not to show his surprise. He couldn't remember Foxworth ever expressing gratitude or calling him by his first name. It was a symptom as disturbing as the fits of rage or cold anger. His patient stood and walked to the windows. Morel waited.

"A new day is coming," Foxworth said. "A day that will bring order to the chaos out there." He swept his arm across the view of London. "It will be difficult for them, of course. But in the end, they'll find their place. History will thank me."

"You're a visionary, Malcolm."

"Yes." He turned toward Morel. "We're going to Tuscany tomorrow. A car will pick you up in the morning. Mandy has your tickets."

"As you say, Malcolm." Morel dipped his head and left the room.

Foxworth watched him leave, then picked up his encrypted phone and placed a call to Moscow. He wanted an update from Ogorov

Anatoloy Ogarov's advice shaped Russia's foreign policy. The Russian President was unaware that the advice came from Foxworth.

Ogorov answered. "Malcolm. I planned to call you later today."

"We are on schedule?"

"We are. The first test is tomorrow. I trust Yuri. I am confident." Ogorov paused. "What happened, Malcolm? Why is Rice still alive?"

"Some idiot left a cable across the stage. Rice tripped over it just as our man fired. We won't get another chance anytime soon."

The drug was working. Foxworth felt only mild concern. "It doesn't matter. Just an unfortunate turn."

"Yes." Another pause. "Malcolm, some of the others are nervous. These last attempts to eliminate problems haven't worked out well."

Drug or not, Foxworth felt the anger begin. By others, Ogorov meant the leadership of AEON. Foxworth led and set the direction of the group. It wasn't a democracy, but his position depended on consensus by the others. Even he was not secure. Results were what mattered.

"Which others?" Foxworth had to trust someone. Ogorov was his strongest supporter in the leadership circle.

"Silva is one."

"That doesn't surprise me."

"Maupassant is unhappy."

"When they see the results in November, dissent will cease. If it does not..."

He left the rest unspoken.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Prague was everything the tourist brochures raved about. Selena and Nick strolled over the stones of Old Town Square in the heart of the medieval city. It was vacation month in Europe. The day was pleasant, with temperatures in the 70s. The square was jammed with tourists from every part of the Continent. They were just two more foreigners, taking pictures of everything, especially the clock on the old town city hall.

Prague's astronomical clock dated to 1410. Two large dials showed the position of the sun and moon and a calendar of months. The clock began striking the hour as they watched. Carved statues of the twelve Apostles came out on top and glided in procession from one side to the other. A skeletal figure of Death tolled out the time.

Nick watched Death hammering the bell. "Imagine what it must have been like back then, looking at that."

"The whole city is a time warp." Selena had been reading the brochures. "There's a street up by the castle called Golden Lane, the street of Alchemists. Tiny little houses built against the castle wall for the King's retainers."

Hradčany castle was the largest castle in the world. It dominated a hill overlooking the city on the other side of the Vltava river.

"Maybe we'll check it out later. Let's find that cafe."

The cobbled streets running off the square were narrow and old and had the feel of the middle ages. It was easy to imagine them filled with carts and horses and merchants centuries before. Now they were lined with modern shops and crowded cafes. Nick would have liked to browse the shops, sit in a cafe and watch people pass by. He doubted it would happen.

Caution was a habit. He checked for tails as they walked. Nothing stood out but something didn't feel right.

The cyber cafe was on a narrow side street. The decor was European punk. It looked like a second rate nightclub, black and chrome and plastic with neon highlights. The theme seemed to be somewhere between disco and heavy metal. Two dozen monitors and keyboards were lined up in a row on a counter. Chrome stools that might have come from a 50s diner in America were bolted to the floor in front of each monitor. They had swivel seats covered in red vinyl. Most of them were taken. A sign on the wall announced that computer time could be rented for 50 Korunas an hour. Nick did the calculation. About $2.50.

Across from the computer wall, a gleaming four piston espresso machine took up the short end of an L-shaped counter. A coffee bar displayed assorted pastries and sandwiches. A blackboard on the wall listed the specials of the day in colored chalk.

The cafe was crowded. About thirty tables took up the floor space. Someone got up from a table by the window and left. Nick and Selena walked over and sat down. In a minute a waitress came to the table.

She was young and almost pretty. She wore knock-off Levis and a black shirt. Her long black hair was pulled back in a pony tail. She had dark blue eyes. A short white apron was tied round her waist.

She said something in Czech. Selena understood but this wasn't the place to show off her knowledge of the language.

"I'm sorry. Do you speak English?" Selena took out a travel dictionary of English and Czech phrases, thumbed through it, pointed at a line that read "I would like a coffee and pastry, please." It was right below "Please, which way is the toilet?" and "Excuse me, I am a visitor in your country."

No shit, a visitor. Like anyone would think they were locals. Not on this trip.

"You are American?" the waitress said in English. Her accent wasn't bad.

"No, Canadian."

"We're from Vancouver, " Nick said, smiling.

"I have cousin in America, in Seattle. He has been to Vancouver."

"Can I take your picture?" Nick asked. The perfect tourist.

"Sure." The girl struck a pose, hand on hip and smiled. One of her teeth was missing, which somewhat spoiled the effect. Nick pointed the camera. Beyond the waitress, most of the cafe was visible. He took her picture, another, moved the camera slightly, took two more. He showed her the picture.

"Very nice, see?"

The man behind the counter yelled something at her.

"Okay, I bring you coffee." She moved away.

"I got most of the cafe." He raised the camera and took two shots of the computer wall, one of the men behind the counter. Someone scowled at him.

"Sorry." He waved and set the camera down.

"Someone's watching," she said.

The waitress reappeared, set down two small steaming cups of thick, black coffee and two sticky buns and went away.

"You mean the guy in the blue cap?"

"That's him. Second table to your right. Blue cap, mustache." She smiled.

Nick picked up his cup, blew on it. A man sitting in front of the monitors turned away. "I got him on camera. You're getting better. There's one more. By the computers. Suspenders, looks like a working guy. Stocky, black pants."

"'How did they know to follow us?"

"They weren't following us. They were already here."

"Waiting for us to show up."

"Looks like it. Eat some of your pasty. Laugh a little. We're going to have to do something about them." He grinned.

She laughed. A happy tourist. "You're such fun on a trip. What next?"

"We finish our coffee, pay our check and go sightseeing. They'll follow. If there are two, there may be more. They don't know we've made them. We'll let them make the play."

When Nick rose from his chair a jolt of pain took his breath away. He winced.

"You okay?" she asked.

"Fine. Let's sightsee."

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Zoran Jovanovich had been a company commander with the Scorpions at Srebrenica during the Bosnian War. The Scorpions were the infamous point of General Ratko Mladic's Serbian spear. Mladic had greatly admired Hitler's Nazi SS. Highly trained, ruthless, disciplined, the Scorpions were a cadre of ethnic fanatics who followed orders without question.

Srebrenica was a name written in blood. At Srebrenica, Mladic's troops had murdered 8,000 Muslim men and male children and buried them in mass graves. Then they'd raped the women. Zoran and his unit had been enthusiastic participants in the events.

Zoran was an assassin, what the West so quaintly called a "hit man". Over time he'd built a solid base of clients. In the criminal underworld he was called "The Scorpion", an acknowledgement of both his expertise and his wartime role.

Prague wasn't the first time he'd worked for his present client. The first time had been in Belgrade, a few years back. The target had been an assistant curator at the Tesla Museum, a man with stolen papers his employer wanted. There had been other assignments since then from the same unknown source.

Zoran watched the two Americans pretend to be tourists. His client had provided pictures and 100,000 American dollars as initial payment, with another 100,000 due upon completion. The operational details were left up to him. Zoran had been told the targets would come here, to the cafe. And there they were. It was good to deal with professionals. Good to have accurate intelligence.

It wasn't any of his business why his employer wanted them killed. The woman was good looking, behind those stupid glasses. Maybe he and his partner would enjoy her before they killed them. He'd make the man watch. It would be like Srebrenica again, only just two instead of thousands.

Zoran missed the old days.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Far to the east of Prague, Irtysh Air Force Base was a crumbling memorial to the passage of the Soviet empire, acres of concrete and decaying buildings that sprawled like a cancerous sore across the Western Siberian plain. Few remembered it or cared. They would have cared, if they had known what was happening there.

A man in a white laboratory coat stood in front of a gigantic hanger and watched a black Kamov helicopter hover like an uncertain bird before settling onto the cracked tarmac. The rotors slowed and stopped. An officer in full uniform climbed out of the helicopter.

General Sergei Kaminsky was one of the most powerful men in the Russian military. The stiff rank boards on his massive shoulders bore four gold stars. He was a bull of a man, with thick black eyebrows that matched the color of his eyes. He had a fleshy face. His mouth was set in a perpetual downward curve, as if he had never learned to smile.

The man in the white coat who came forward to greet him was the pride of Russian physics. Yuri Malenkov was thin and tall. He walked with his head tilted slightly to the side, as if listening to something only he could hear. He had a large, bulging forehead and an IQ topping out somewhere near 200. That made him a genius. It also made it difficult for most people to understand what he was talking about.

The physicist and the general shook hands. Kaminsky looked at the sky and took a deep breath of the clean air.

"A beautiful day. One can breathe here, not like Moscow." He looked closely at the scientist. "Shall we proceed, Yuri?"

"Yes, General. Please come with me."

The doors of the hanger stood open at one end. The Tesla device was mounted on a platform halfway across the hanger floor. Heavy electrical cables ran across the floor from four enormous diesel generators. The cables ended in junctions at the base of four tall rods of copper. A metallic core wrapped in tightly coiled wire protruded like a cannon barrel between them, pointing out through the open hangar doors. The air inside the hanger smelled of diesel and ozone.

Yuri led Kaminsky to a concrete bunker that had been built at the back of the hanger. Inside the bunker, tables stacked with electrical equipment took up most of the space. A half dozen technicians watched the instruments, waiting for the test to begin. All eyes turned to the two men as they entered.

The general and the physicist went over to a large viewing window in the forward wall of the bunker.

"What have you accomplished? Explain what I am looking at." Kaminsky eyed the odd structure in the middle of the hanger.

"Tesla's design is limited by the technology of his time, but it would have worked even back them. It has been a challenge to build it."

"You have overcome the obstacles?"

"Most of them. What you see here is a test device only, based on Tesla's prototype design with adaptations for modern materials. The plans for the actual weapon are different. It will be much bigger and requires a different power source."

"How does it work?" the general asked. Yuri had prepared himself with simple answers Kaminsky could understand.

"It ionizes hydrogen atoms and strips them of their electrons."

"Leaving sub-atomic particles?"

Yuri nodded, pleased at Kaminsky's understanding.

"Yes. Exactly. Stripping the electrons causes the creation of protons. The device accelerates the protons past a high voltage electrode and discharges them as a focused, high-energy particle beam. It travels at almost the speed of light in a straight line. The beam pulses continuously as long as power is applied. When it strikes the target it disrupts the atomic and molecular structure."

"Why hasn't this been done before?"

"We tried to develop such a weapon. The old Semipalatinsk-21 test site in Kazakhstan was used for the experiments. The Americans have been experimenting with particle beam weapons for years. The difficulty lies with the energy source and portability. We could not make the beam strong enough to prevent dispersion in the atmosphere, or make the weapon practical in size. Once I understood how Tesla's thinking worked, I was able to design a unit that overcomes some of these obstacles. Some remain."

Kaminsky waited. Yuri continued.

"The biggest problem is power. The beam requires more than 100 megawatts to reach targets in space. Tesla designed a revolutionary power source. It is almost complete, but we still lack a key element to boost it to sufficient levels. We are building ahead of ourselves. Until we have that element, we will not have the capability you desire."

"What is missing?"

"An amplifier, the key to reaching maximum power."

"And this?" Kaminsky waved his hand at the odd-looking shape in the hanger. "What is the capability?"

"With the test unit I anticipate a range of less than two kilometers before blooming."

"Blooming?"

"Blooming is when the beam disperses because of particles in the atmosphere. Dust, humidity, things like that. Once it blooms, it loses destructive force. Two kilometers is a great achievement, but as you can see, the device is not practical for battlefield conditions."

"You don't know if it will work." There was a hint of warning in Kaminsky's voice.

"General, you requested I notify you when the device was ready to demonstrate. I am confident it will work."

Kaminsky smiled and patted Yuri on the shoulder. "So, let us see it work."

"Begin, Sasha." Yuri spoke to his chief technician, hovering nearby.

Sasha barked commands. Rows of lights on the boards changed from red to yellow to green. The ozone smell grew stronger.

"We have to build up the charge," Yuri said. "Once we reach that point, power can be applied continuously."

Kaminsky nodded. Electricity crackled and leapt from the tops of the copper rods like lightning and poured into the core. A blue haze formed around the Tesla device. It hummed, a deep, low vibration Kaminsky felt through the soles of his boots.

"Ready," Sasha called.

From their vantage point, Yuri and Kaminsky could see the target, a T-34 tank placed a kilometer away on the plain.

"General," Yuri said, "just press that button under the window. The device has already been targeted."

A large red button projected from a steel box mounted on the wall. The two men looked through the glass. Kaminsky pressed the button.

A blinding beam of blue light ripped through the air. The tank vanished with a sound as if a god had clapped his hands together.

Kaminsky stared open-mouthed at the spot where the tank had been, speechless. Even Yuri was surprised at the power he had unleashed.

Kaminsky found his voice. "This was designed as a weapon?"

"Yes. The American papers of the time called it a 'Death Ray'."

"They were right," Kaminsky said. "Amazing. You have done well, Yuri."

The physicist preened at the flattery.

Kaminsky picked at his large nose. "We have a little less than three months. Will it be ready?"

"Only if we can resolve the power amplification. Otherwise, no." He paused. "There is something that may help, but it's a long shot."

"Go on."

"There is a book, very old, in Portugal. The Spaniards found it during the conquest of the Yucatan. It's called the Mafra Codex. Tesla mentions it in his notes. I'm not sure why, but he thought it might help him refine the weapon. Get me the book."

Kaminsky nodded. "It will be done. Once you have the power boost, will the weapon work?"

"Given that condition, yes. We've had some difficulty with the aiming device. Since we can't test it with the real weapon yet, we're using lasers. I think we are past most of the problems. With a true amplifier in place, the range of the beam will be as good as infinite. Nothing will stop it."

"And you can sustain the beam?"

"Once the amplification problem is solved, I am confident we can. Perhaps only for a few minutes."

"A few minutes is all we need," Kaminsky said.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Elizabeth and Stephanie watched the display from a photo comparison program running on the Crays downstairs. The program scanned a combined database from Interpol, NSA, DIA, Langley and the intelligence services of Israel, Britain, and the European Union. There were a lot of bad people in that database. The computers looked for a match to the pictures transmitted from Nick's camera.

The program analyzed distinctive facial features and body posture. Eye shape, bone structure, ear lobes, the shape of the skull. The nose. Dimensions in a 3-D axis. Beards, clothes, hats, eyeglasses, contact lenses and makeup meant little to the computer. It could be fooled, but it wasn't easy.

On the left of the monitor screen, the pictures from the cafe flickered and changed as the computer sorted and compared. On the right, facial images from the database blurred in rapid succession. The facial recognition program was one of the foundations of anti-terrorism. It required the kind of computing power only governments could afford.

The pictures froze. MATCH appeared in bold red letters.

"Bingo," Stephanie said. She tapped a key. The picture went full screen. Information about the subject popped up beneath it.

"Well, well. Not a nice man," Elizabeth said. "Zoran Jovanovich. Captain in Mladic's Scorpions. Wanted for war crimes committed at Srebrenica in '95."

They read the file in silence.

"A real bastard," Stephanie said.

"He's sitting a few tables away from Nick. I don't believe in coincidences. I wonder if he's got any friends with him?"

"I'll narrow the search to Serbian nationals, war criminals. Associations with Mladic."

Steph entered the commands. Images flooded the screen again. Within a minute there was another match.

"Nikola Nikovich. Also at Srebrenica, a sergeant under Jovanovich. Wanted for war crimes. He personally executed over 200 male children under Jovanovich's orders. Wanted by Interpol for rape and murder."

"What have Nick and Selena got themselves into?" Steph asked.

"We'll have to let them sort it out." Elizabeth picked up her sat phone. "Time to make a call."

CHAPTER TWENTY

Prague in August was a pickpocket's dream. The crowds reminded Nick of a Tokyo subway at rush hour. They walked through the arch of the tower guarding the old town side of Charles Bridge.

The bridge over the Vltava river had been built by Charles IV to link the city and Hradčany Castle. Construction had begun in 1357. It was 600 meters long, supported by massive arches and piers of stone. Statues of saints and kings lined the span on both sides.

There were no vehicles allowed on the bridge. The roadway was packed with tourists and vendors and noisy with the chaotic babble of half a dozen languages. Kiosks sold food and crafts and souvenirs. High on the other side of the Vltava, the walls and towers of the castle loomed over everything.

"Impressive." Selena looked up at the enormous building. "You want a castle, you can't beat that one. Blue Cap is behind with his friend."

They stopped at a kiosk displaying 19th century prints of Prague and the surrounding countryside.

"I don't like this crowd," Nick said. "If they want to hurt us, there's a lot of cover here. Confusion. No way to tell who's who."

They began walking again, dodging a mime in white face and stripes who stepped in front of them. They kept to the middle of the broad avenue.

"You think they want to kill us?"

"Always assume the worst."

"One of your rules."

"It's a good one."

"If the crowd works for them, it works for us, too."

"There's that," he said.

They were half way across. Nick's ear began itching. They stopped at a kiosk selling sunglasses lined up on a revolving rack with a mirror. Nick glanced in the mirror and saw Blue Cap moving up fast behind.

"They're closing," he said. "Get ready. They'll have knives. They won't use guns here."

His adrenaline started pumping. The crowd pressed around them. Blue Cap came up on the right. Nick thought block, elbow strike, leg sweep. He got ready. The man passed three feet away and kept on walking. Nick pulled himself back at the last second. He watched the cap disappear into the throng.

Selena let out a long breath. "The other one is still back there. He's looking at postcards."

"Maybe he wants to send one to his mother." Nick looked up at the castle.

"Let's go to the castle There are too many people here. They'll make a move later."

Selena said, "We can see the Crown Jewels. There's a special exhibition on."

"You want to see the Crown Jewels? Are we on vacation?"

"You have a better idea? I like jewelry. Not on men, though. You'd look dumb wearing a crown."

"King Nicholas. Has a good ring to it."

Nick's phone rang.

"Speaking of rings." He looked at Harker's ID on the display.

"Nick, you're in bad company."

"Hello to you, too, Director. What else is new?"

"Get serious, if that's not too much trouble. Where are you?"

"On the Charles Bridge. We've got two watchers on us. They knew we were coming and waiting for us in the cafe."

"One in a blue cap, the other has suspenders?"

"Yes."

Elizabeth said, "The one in the blue cap is named Jovanovich. He commanded a company at Srebrenica during the Bosnian War. The one with suspenders was in his unit. They're both wanted for war crimes."

Nick knew about Srebrenica.

"Bad company. Like you said."

"See if you can get them to tell you why they're after you."

Nick said nothing.

"We need to find out what's going on here. Why were they waiting? Who hired them? Whatever else you can get."

"There are a lot of people around."

"So get them somewhere that's not crowded."

"Director..." She was gone.

"Well?" Selena looked at him. Over his shoulder, she saw Suspenders still looking at postcards.

Nick told her what Harker had said.

"How do we find them?

"We'll see them up there," he said. He nodded at the castle. "They'll find us."

In the Old City behind them, Death tolled out the hour.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Stephanie walked into Elizabeth's office. Elizabeth took one look and couldn't help smiling.

"Good news? You look like the proverbial cat."

"I identified the book they were using at Endgame. In Brighton Beach? I broke the code, I can read their messages."

"Better sit down. What's the book?"

"At first I thought it might be a Russian classic. Something like a first edition of War and Peace."

"But it wasn't."

"No. It's modern. Generation P, by Viktor Pelevin. It's a metaphor about consumerism and greed and the search for meaning in a corrupt society, about a conspiracy of the media to control the masses. Not the sort of thing you'd expect a bunch of ex FSB hatchet men to be reading."

"A media conspiracy."

"Yes."

"Makes me think of Foxworth."

"If it's him, he's got a weird sense of humor."

"What did you find out?"

"Brighton Beach was a central routing point for messages from all over the globe. Everything came in there and went out again. Since we broke up Endgame they've moved the routing station somewhere else. I ran a trace to find the main servers and got nowhere. If I can't find them, NSA can't either. "

"Who's got that kind of technology?"

"A government or someone with unlimited resources. They aren't as clever as they think, though. I was able to send a little something to them. It tells us when a new message is sent and captures it. A new one just came through. It ended up in Paris."

"Go on." Harker picked up her pen.

"It's about something called the Mafra Codex."

Harker began tapping. "Talk to me, Steph. What is the Mafra Codex?"

"I had to look it up. It's an ancient book from Mexico. Pre-Classic Mayan, probably around 500 CE. It's the only one that survives from that period."

"A book."

"Not a book like books today. It's made of bark pages with pictures and glyphs on them. The Conquistadors brought it back to Spain. King Phillip gave it as a present to a family that backed him when he took the Portuguese throne. It hasn't been fully translated."

"Where is this book?"

"In Portugal, in the Mafra Palace library. That's why it's called the Mafra Codex. It's in bad condition and not on display. They keep it in a special archival vault."

"So, what's the message?"

"An urgent order to steal the Codex from the library. The message says by any means. No restrictions."

"What could possibly be that important in a Mayan book? Good work, Steph."

Stephanie watched Harker tap her pen.

"You're going to send everyone after it, aren't you?"

"Am I that obvious?"

"What else could you do? If it's important enough that the bad guys want to grab it..." She left the thought unfinished. "I'll be in the computer room if you need me."

The door closed behind her. For the moment, Elizabeth was alone in her office. She took a labored breath and forced herself to relax. There were no lights flashing on her phones. No calls from CIA or the White House. No immediate crisis she was supposed to solve or comment on or stop dead in its tracks. There were plenty of potential problems in the pile of folders on her desk, but they could wait.

She was tired.

It wasn't just the illness that made her tired, the disease that almost killed her before the doctors found the drug that saved her life. It wasn't the frequent headaches, an after effect of the .22 round she'd taken in her head.

She was just plain tired.

She closed her eyes and leaned back in her chair. When was the last time you took a vacation? She thought about it. Years ago. She'd gone to the Bahamas and gotten the worst sunburn of her life. In the back of her mind she'd thought she might meet someone on one of those white sand beaches, someone to have a romance novel fling with. She'd never had a fling.

She'd never been promiscuous, but she was no stranger to sex. The last time she'd let a man into her bed she'd been younger, still working at Justice. She'd thought he was the one. She'd had the classic hopes, a career, a family, a loving husband. Classic hopes had turned into a classic situation. He'd turned out to be a pompous ass. He'd left her for someone who didn't challenge his narcissistic image of himself, someone younger who ended up throwing him out.

Since then there'd been no one she was really attracted to. Someone who could handle the reality of who she was, her job and all the ripples that went with it. If he was out there, she hadn't met him yet.

The time was past for children. But she wouldn't mind having someone to share her life with, someone to hold on a cold night, someone to have breakfast with in the morning.

For Christ's sake, she thought. Elizabeth, you need a break. Maybe Hawaii...No you can't. Not now. Maybe later.

When all this was over she promised herself she would take that vacation.

She opened her eyes. Reality returned. Stephanie had been right. She had to send the team after the Codex. Nick and Selena could join Ronnie and Lamont in Portugal after they were done in Prague.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Red velvet rope kept a group of tourists away from a glassed case holding the crown jewels of the Holy Roman Emperors. Two armed guards wearing elaborate powder-blue uniforms kept watch on either side of the case. Blue Cap was in the group. Suspenders pretended to study a display of medieval armor a hundred feet from where Nick and Selena stood.

They looked at the glittering display. The crown was made of hoops of gold rising from a circular band of gold set with precious stones. Four elaborate finials rose from the band, studded with the biggest sapphires Selena had ever seen. The crown was topped with a golden cross embedded with more sapphires. Diamonds, rubies the size of pigeon eggs and gleaming pearls rounded out the decorations. A golden scepter and orb, both set with an abundance of jewels, completed the display.

"We're lucky to see these," Selena said. "They're usually locked up. It says in the brochure that it takes seven separate keys just to get to where you can access the vault."

"Some of our politicians in Washington would like a set of those."

"I'll bet that crown was heavy."

"Price of being king," Nick said. "You get the toys, you get the headache and the stiff neck."

"Can you imagine living here?"

The original castle had been started in 880 CE. It had been added to for centuries. Every style of European architecture was represented somewhere. There were hundreds of rooms. There were chapels, quarters for medieval monks and nuns, kitchens and bedrooms and dungeons, buildings for every use and description, a large cathedral. The castle stretched for half a mile, a rat's maze of halls, passageways, walkways, gardens, bridges and stairs.

She said as much to Nick.

"Rat's maze. Our rats are still with us. I'm getting tired of sightseeing. Let's get them somewhere quiet."

Nick consulted a map of the castle he'd picked up when they came in.

"Here."

"The Basilica of St. George?"

"There will be fewer people around. It's good a place as any."

The Basilica was located toward one corner of the castle grounds, away from the main buildings, connected to a former Benedictine convent and marked with two needle-shaped towers of whitish stone. The towers were over 90 feet high. Everything about the castle was big. The Basilica of St. George was no exception.

They strolled through the castle grounds until they reached the Basilica. They went in with their watchers not far behind. Their footsteps echoed on the hard stone floor. Nick looked around and pointed at a side chapel.

"That looks like a good, quiet spot."

The tour map identified the chapel as the shrine of Vratislav I. A sign with closed in four languages hung from a chain strung across the entrance between two metal stands. They stepped around the barrier and into the shrine.

It was an impressive room. The high, arched ceiling had been fitted together with a master stone mason's skill. At the far end of the chapel, wide stairs swept up in matching curves to a curved apse with tall windows. The dome-like ceiling of the apse bore faded paintings of religious figures against a white background. Afternoon sun streamed though the windows and filled the chapel with light.

The tomb of the saint was to their right. It looked like a small wooden house set on a stone base and was decorated with a painting of a nun and a bishop holding a staff. The bishop knelt in front of the nun. Nick didn't have time to contemplate the symbolism. Blue Cap and Suspenders came in. Steel flashed in their hands.

"Go for the high ground," he said. "There's room to move up there. Try not to use your gun."

They ran up the stairs.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The two Serbian killers split and came up the stairs on each side of the apse. Selena and Nick waited for them near the windows. Blue Cap had a long, shiny switch blade. He tossed it from hand to hand and smiled. Nick watched them come. He turned to Selena.

"I hate knives."

"So do I."

"To hell with the noise." He pulled his pistol out. Selena did the same.

The two Serbs froze. They hadn't expected that.

"Drop the knives." Nick's voice was harsh. "Do it."

The one wearing suspenders looked at Blue Cap. Blue Cap was the leader. He nodded. The knives clattered on the stones.

"You will not shoot," Blue Cap said. "If shoot, police come, you die in jail quick. I guarantee this."

"Your English is pretty good for something I'd usually scrape off my shoe. Tell us who sent you."

"No one send. We are seeing sights. We see rich American tourist, think you have money. Just business. You should let us go now."

"Who told you we were American? We're Canadian, asshole. You were waiting for us in the cafe. Who told you we'd be there?"

"Okay, you Canadian. Having coffee in cafe." He shrugged. "No one sends us." He grinned.

"Get down on your knees."

Blue Cap didn't like that.

"You make mistake."

"Down. Now."

The two men got down on their knees.

"Put your hands behind your back." Nick took a roll of electrician's tape from his pocket and gave it to Selena.

"Cuff 'em, Dano."

"What?"

"You never watched Hawaii Five-O? Doesn't matter. Wrap this around their wrists and hands. Bind them tight. We'll take a little walk to the police station. I know who you are, Jovanovich. The cops might be interested in Srebrenica."

Blue Cap was fast. As Selena stepped forward, he fell forward onto his hands in sudden movement and swept his legs across and knocked Selena down. He grabbed for her gun. She rolled toward him and slammed her elbow into the side of his head and followed with a hammered fist into his solar plexus. He gasped and stopped fighting. His partner tried to get up. Nick brought the Sig down hard on top of his head, then hit him again to make sure. The man sprawled unconscious on the floor. Selena got to her feet. They taped the men's hands behind them.

Jovanovich groaned. Blood trickled from his ear.

"What do we do with them?" she asked.

"We talk to our friend here. Then we turn them in. Interpol's going to love it. Give me your gun."

She handed it to him. He took the pistols and went over to a tall, wide vase filled with flowers next to the wall and dropped the guns in.

"I've done enough sightseeing for one day."

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Back in the hotel, Nick had Harker on the satellite phone.

"Jovanovich talked. He doesn't know who hired him, but he's worked for the same person before."

"Yes?"

"Jovanovich makes his living killing people. His first job for whoever is after us was a little over three years ago. He knifed a clerk from the Tesla Museum in Belgrade and made it look like a sex deal gone wrong. The clerk had some papers his client wanted, designs by Nikola Tesla. Since then, Jovanovich has killed a half dozen people for the same guy. He says the man is his best customer."

"He sounds like a real piece of work."

"He's proud of what he does. Considers himself a professional."

"His client is probably Foxworth. I wonder why he wanted designs by Tesla? Or how the clerk came by them?"

"Director, we need to get out of here. The police are suspicious. They let us come back to the hotel but they took our passports."

"Use the Irish ones."

"I thought you might say that. Selena is changing her look right now."

As he said it, she came out of the bathroom. She wore a wig made from shoulder length red hair. The glasses and school teacher look were gone. She had on a tailored green blouse, a stylish skirt and silver earrings in the form of a Celtic knot. Her eyes were covered by green contacts. She looked more Irish than the Irish did.

"I'm sending you to Portugal," Harker said. "Ronnie and Lamont will meet you in Lisbon. They'll explain the mission. Your flight leaves from Ruzyně at 8:35. The tickets will be at the TAP counter, first class. Get rid of the guns."

"Already did."

"Have a good flight." She broke the connection.

Nick said, "We're going to Portugal"

"Portugal? Why?"

"I don't know. Ronnie and Lamont will brief us when we get there."

"Are we going to Lisbon?"

"At least to the airport."

"They have great cafes there. Good music."

"In the airport?"

"Of course not. In Lisbon. And stores for shopping."

Nick groaned. "Shopping."

It took him fifteen minutes to change his appearance. A different wig, new contacts that turned his eyes blue. The beard was gone. Different glasses. Different clothes. They left the hotel by a side entrance and avoided the desk. As far as anyone knew, Mr. and Mrs. Wilson were still upstairs.

Two Irish tourists caught a taxi for the airport.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Elizabeth pulled up the latest pass of SBIRS. The Space-Based Infra Red System consisted of 24 low orbit satellites and 4 satellites high in geo-synchronous orbits. Tracking stations spread across the globe fed a continuous data stream back to the Pentagon and the various intelligence agencies. The system's primary mission was to detect and track missiles in the event of a launch, but it had other uses.

Checking the satellite intel was part of her daily routine. For the past year she'd been watching something in Central Russia on the Western Siberian plain. That part of Russia contained no significant military capabilities. It wasn't much of a factor in the Pentagon's war game scenarios and received little attention. The installation was camouflaged to look like a grove of trees, but the infra red revealed a distinctive shape. It looked as though the Russians were building a pyramid there, which made no sense at all.

The site was near an abandoned military air base left over from the Cold War, near the fishing village of Irtysh at the junction of the Irtysh and Ob rivers. The Irtysh flowed north from Kazakhstan until it joined the Ob and then continued on to the Arctic Ocean. A paved road, rare in that part of Russia, ran from the town to the base.

SBIRS had been in operation for several years, but there were gaps in the coverage. Elizabeth pulled up the records for the location and began scanning backward. The pictures moved back in time until the shape changed and disappeared. The outline had first appeared less than two years before. She ran the photos back another two years and stopped.

Why would the Russians build a pyramid in the middle of nowhere? Why build it at all?

She began running the sequence forward a day at a time and watched. At first, nothing. Just an abandoned base. An occasional figure, walking. Two men with motorcycles, using the old runways to race each other. Then a sudden flurry of activity. Trucks, men, equipment. She checked the time stamps. Almost three years ago.

Fences went up. Soldiers began patrolling. The Russians were using the abandoned base for something. Hot spots indicated significant heat sources inside the old hangers, probably large generators. The satellite intel should have been flagged for closer observation, but there was no record of that.

She followed the trail of distribution for analysis. All surveillance of the area had been tasked to Langley. Even Langley wasn't so incompetent they would miss something as blatant as this. The only possible explanation was that the intel had been deliberately buried. Someone had shut down any inquiry. Elizabeth's intuition started setting off alarms. Very few had the power to do that.

Lodge, she thought. The former Director of the CIA. He'd been Deputy Director when the pyramid had first shown up in the reconnaissance photos. Everything would have gone through him.

The pictures unreeled like a silent movie made of stills. A large flatbed loaded with a T-34 appeared. Men unloaded the tank in a field away from the hangers, past the runways. An old tank, non-op, in a field. It didn't make sense. The pictures moved forward. Suddenly the tank was no longer there. The time stamp was recent.

At first Elizabeth thought the shots were somehow out of sequence, or that the tank had disappeared during one of the periods when the satellite was out of range. She moved back and forth. One shot, the tank was there. Next, it was gone. The frames were one second apart. The tank had vanished in an impossible amount of time. The ground where it had been was disturbed, covered with a dark smear.

What were the Russians doing out there?

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

"That is really something."

Lamont spoke for all of them. The Mafra Palace sprawled stark and white and beautiful in the moonlight. It lay 18 miles outside of Lisbon, near the Portuguese coast. The Palace was as big as a small city, one of the largest single structures in Europe. Two tall bell towers rose from the center. The full moon shone down on the promise of a king to his queen, Mary of Austria.

Give me an heir and I will build you a palace to rival any kingdom in the world.

She did. He had.

The team sat in a gray Fiat van parked near a wildlife preserve next to the castle grounds. In the light of the moon, the extravagant Baroque monument to a king's ego looked like a magical vision from a fairy tale.

Mafra had an elaborate security system to protect the priceless art and treasures inside, supplemented by a complement of guards. During the day the castle was patrolled by a full roster. At night two men watched monitors in a security center on the ground floor and took turns making rounds. The guards carried pistols. Cameras watched the grounds and galleries and halls.

No one could approach across the lawns and gardens without triggering an alarm. All of the windows and entrances had infra-red and motion sensors. The sheer size of the place meant the camera views had to switch in ordered sequence. There were gaps in the continuous coverage.

There hadn't been much time to prepare a plan. They'd gone over maps and old blueprints of the palace. Nick had decided to go in through the cover of the park and access the ancient sewer system under the palace. From there they would find a way into the palace itself.

"This moon could be a problem," Nick said.

"The light might keep the rats away," Selena said.

"Rats?"

"There's a legend the sewers breed giant man-eating rats that come out at night."

"I hate rats." Ronnie looked out at the trees and paths of the park. "Doesn't seem fair."

"What doesn't?"

"You said man-eating. Means they won't go after you."

Nick rolled his eyes. "Check your gear," he said.

They got out of the van. They were dressed in black. Black jackets, black pants and gloves, black Kevlar vests, black shoes with soft soles. Black balaclavas. Ronnie carried a pack. Each had a pistol, knife, light, ammunition and a suppressed MP-5. They had earpieces and microphones. If they split up, they could stay in contact.

"Remember the ROE," Nick said. Rules of Engagement. "The Portuguese guards are off limits. Subdue them if you have to, don't kill them. They have uniforms, they're easy to ID. No one else should be there. You see anyone else, they're one of the bad guys and fair game."

"Got your library card with you?" Lamont said.

"Let's go get something for Selena to read."

They moved into the park. The gravel path crunched under their feet. The moonlight made dark pools of shadow under the trees. The night air was cool and  smelled of pine and the mixed, dark scent of the zoo animals. A bird called, high, mournful sounds that sent shivers up and down her spine. She felt the adrenaline kick in and forced herself to walk calmly.

They came to a large maintenance shed housing a pumping sub-station for the sewer system.

Nick consulted his map of the grounds. "The entrance should be in here."

He had the lock open in a few seconds. They stepped inside and closed the door. He flicked on his light. The pumps and a generator sat silent against one wall. A round steel plate was placed in the center of the floor. Ronnie and Lamont lifted it away. Iron rungs descended down a brick shaft into darkness. A foul odor of ancient and modern waste drifted up through the opening.

"Phew," Ronnie said.

"What did you expect? Roses? I'll go first. Lamont, you bring up the rear."

They entered the shaft and climbed down. The ladder ended on a platform with an iron railing. The platform opened onto a walkway of stone wide enough to move single file along the sewer wall.

The sewer was horseshoe shaped, big enough to stand up in. A dizzying pattern of ancient stone bricks laid in concentric circles ran off toward the palace on the right and the ocean to the left. The walls dripped with gray slime that sucked the light away. The air was thick, like breathing syrup. A trickle of dark water ran down the center of the passage.

"Smells like shit," Ronnie said.

"Good one, Sherlock." Lamont wrinkled his nose. ''At least we can stand up."

"That way." Nick pointed right.

They walked along the tunnel. There were rats. They weren't giant rats but they were black and they were big. They squeaked and ran past their feet. Selena shuddered. She met Nick's eyes.

"Like California," she said.

He nodded. "At least we've got light this time."

"And no spiders."

Ronnie kicked a squealing rat into the center channel.

There was something darker than human offal in the tunnel. A miasma of centuries, of a time when kings ruled Europe and wore golden crowns worth enough to feed thousands. As he walked, Nick thought not much had really changed since the kings ran things. The crowns were gone, but in their place were plenty of new symbols of power. Hi-tech weapons that cost countless billions of dollars. Television commercials for unneeded and meaningless products. Expensive political ads that sold dishonest hypocrites and liars as smiling men of the people. And the same age old, hopeless poverty for most of the human race.

They came around a long curve to a place where the tunnel branched in two. Nick chose the passage on the right. After ten minutes they came to a second platform, old and crumbling. Another set of rungs led upward.

Nick shone his light up the shaft. The rungs ended at an iron cover. He climbed. Bits of old rust drifted down in a shower. At the top, he pushed against the plate. He put all his strength into it. It didn't move. Nick climbed back down.

"No good. Let's look for another."

"What if they're all like that?" Selena asked.

"Then we'll figure something out."

They walked on. They'd reached the original tunnel, dating back to 1717. Moisture dripped from the walls. Nick tried not to breathe. They came to another set of rungs. Nick climbed to the top and pushed against the cover. It moved, just a little. Something popped in his back. He took a deep breath.

"Ronnie, climb up here and help me."

The two men pushed against the plate. It moved. Steady pain radiated down Nick's left leg. The plate slid to the side. They climbed out of the hole. The others came through.

"You okay?" Ronnie looked at him.

Nick wiped a sheen of sweat from his forehead. "Yeah. I'm fine."

The air was stale with dust. Compared to the sewer it felt like a spring day in the country.

"Glad we're out of there," Lamont said.

The room was a sub basement full of boxes, crates, broken statuary and junk of every description. It might once have been a dungeon. The ceiling was of rock, low and dark. A narrow flight of worn stone steps led upward. At the top of the steps was a solid wooden door. Nick climbed, the others behind. Pain was steady in his leg.

"You're limping," Selena said.

"It's nothing."

Nick adjusted his gear, unslung his MP-5. He opened the door into another basement.

"Looks like we got lucky," Lamont said.

They were in the electrical room, modern and clean. Thick metal conduits housing the main power supply fed into panels of circuit breakers. Dozens of lines led away from the panels into the building.

"Those look like the video feeds." Nick shone his light on a thick bundle of colored wires.

Ronnie opened his pack and took out a small video recorder, a series of probes and what looked like a pocket television with a digital meter. He went over to the wires and began probing.

"We've got cameras," he said. On the fifth try he said, "Got it." He clipped the probe onto the wire.

The screen showed 24 tiny images from the security cameras above. "This one is the main feed. Everything routes through here. We're looking at everything they see."

He plugged the video recorder into the device and turned it on.

"We'll set up a two minute loop and take the real ones off line. Whoever's looking will see what we want them to."

"Nothing."

"Right." They waited. Ronnie checked the recording and attached another lead to the main feed.

"Taking the cameras off line...now." Ronnie pressed a switch. The image flickered and steadied.

"We're good to go."

Nick said, "Once we get oriented, we head for the second floor. The library is in the rear. When we find it, Selena, you're the boss. Tell us what to do. When we get the Codex, we get out."

"What could be simpler?" Lamont said.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Project security went everywhere with Elizabeth since the attacks on her team. She had 24/7 surveillance on her Georgetown home. She was always guarded when she wasn't inside Project HQ.

Elizabeth closed her office door and took the elevator down to the ground floor exit. A black, armored Lincoln waited for her. It had five inches of armor plate, bullet proof glass, steel sidewalls, run flat tires and a turbo-charged diesel engine. It wasn't good on mileage. Her driver held the rear door open for her.

"Good evening, Director."

"Good evening, Tom."

Tom closed the door after her. Her other bodyguard was a big man, a comforting presence. He got in the front passenger seat. A Remington 12 gauge pump stood upright in a rack next to him. Elizabeth began reviewing the latest satellite data from Russia as the car rolled out of the garage.

There was new activity at the Irtysh air base. She had battled with DIA over getting a satellite tasked full time to observe, with only partial success. There were windows of time when the satellite was out of range. But a picture was emerging.

The Russians had increased security. She estimated that a full company of soldiers was stationed at the base. Anyone approaching the pyramid had to pass through three checkpoints, each one more elaborate than the one before.

There was new fencing. A new road from the base to the pyramid. Guards patrolled. Dogs. Light towers were going up. Someone was putting a lot of effort into guarding something.

She glanced out through the tinted windows of the Lincoln. A yellow motorcycle with two riders in black leather sped by. Both riders wore full helmets with black visors that concealed their faces. As the bike pulled ahead, the passenger turned and threw a dark package behind him toward the car.

"Fuck!" Tom yelled and hit the brakes.

The heavy car shuddered and slowed. The armor underneath the engine took the blast. The explosion sounded like a thunderclap inside the car. The Lincoln lifted into the air and the windshield blew out. Bits of glass cut her face. Elizabeth was thrown hard against the door as the car came down on its side and slid along the pavement to a stop.

Her driver lay unmoving against his door. His partner hung sideways from his seatbelt, unconscious and bleeding. Dazed, she saw the motorcycle turn back. The passenger leaned out with another bomb in his hand.

Elizabeth never went anywhere without her gun. She drew the Glock and aimed with shaking hands through the opening where the windshield had been. She was seeing double through the smoke, two motorcycles coming toward her. She pulled the trigger as fast as she could, again and again. It felt as if she were underwater, everything in slow motion, the sound of the gunshots muffled and indistinct. Hot brass shells fell around her, a shiny, strange rain.

The motorcycle slammed down onto the pavement and the bomb meant for her exploded. The bike and riders were enveloped in flame.

Later, she couldn't remember how she'd gotten out of the car. What she remembered was the sound of sirens and the body of her driver, covered in blood.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

The Library of Mafra Palace wasn't like any library Nick had seen before. The room was the length of a football field. Ceilings of white plaster molded with floral accents radiated in ribbed arches from a high, closed dome in the center. The library was a testament to the golden age of Baroque architecture.

The floor was paved with tiles in white, rose and gray. Under the central dome, the tiles formed a circle of geometric patterns bounded by a square. It looked like an expensive oriental rug woven of marble. Two tiers of wooden shelves stretched away on either side of the room. Thousands of books lined the shelves. Marble columns supported the second tier and a balcony bordered by a marble balustrade. Pale moonlight streamed through large windows. The library was eerily beautiful in the cold light.

Dark shapes swooped down on them and darted away as they moved into the room. Ronnie ducked and swore.

"Bats. They've got bats in here. Rats and bats. What the hell kind of a palace is this?"

Nick laughed. "Rats and Bats. Sounds like a good name for a rock band."

"The bats eat insects that would eat the books," Selena said. "The Portuguese let them live in here."

Lamont sighed. "How do you know stuff like that?" He looked at the leather bound volumes lining the shelves. "Lots of books. Where's the Codex?"

"The Codex isn't on display. Look for another room. There has to be a place where they keep damaged books for restoration or storage."

Five minutes later they found it, locked with an electronic key pad. Ronnie took a device from his pack and placed it against the lock. Digital numbers in green blurred and stopped one by one until a five number combination appeared. The door clicked open.

In the security station near the main entrance, a red warning light illuminated. The guard watching the monitors didn't see it. He was lying on the floor. The back of his skull was gone, where a bullet had exited and taken most of his brain with it.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

The restoration room was the size of a large garage. A workbench along one wall bore a neat array of glues, inks and odd tools no one but a book restorer would ever understand. A leather bound volume lay on the bench, open to a drawing of a medieval knight stepping off into an abyss.

Selena walked over to the table.

"This is incredible." Selena's voice was hushed, almost reverent. "This is a 14th Century illustrated edition of Le Morte D'Artur. The Death of Arthur."

"King Arthur?" Nick walked to her, looked down at the book.

"The same."

"Very nice," Nick said, "but not what we came for."

"Sorry." She scanned the room. "Try that cabinet with the keypad. It's temperature controlled."

The code they had used to enter the room opened the cabinet. Inside was an oblong wooden box about six inches deep and a foot long. Selena took it out and opened the lid.

"This is it," she said. She closed the lid and placed the box in a large, empty pocket in front of her jacket. It made the jacket bulge out in front. Nick thought of Afghanistan and suicide bombers. He shook off the memory.

His ear began itching.

"Something's not right," he said.

Nick's ear burned. He tugged on it. Ronnie and Lamont looked at each other. They all knew what that meant.

"Shit," Ronnie muttered.

"Kill the lights." Nick's voice was quiet, calm. He felt the old pre-combat surge.

He let the door open a crack. They heard muffled whispers, the scrape of a boot on marble. MP-5 up by his cheek, Nick pulled the door open.

Five men, dressed in black, wearing balaclavas and holding ugly, short barreled automatic weapons.

Nick opened fire. The gunfire lit the library in bright flashes with a disorienting, strobe-like effect. Everyone began yelling and shooting. Something slammed into his chest and spun him around. He saw Selena hit as he went down. It was a ballet of death, shadow men dancing in the moonlight and the light from the guns...

...and the bullets shattered the market stalls around him, ricocheting from the stone walls, the AKs a constant roar in his ears. He made it to a doorway. Across the dirt street a child ran toward him shouting about Allah. The child had a grenade...

...and he was back in Portugal. The flashback was over. The fight was over. He'd been gone for a minute. He broke out in a cold sweat. Five black shapes lay crumpled on the marble. The floor was littered with spent brass. The smell of the guns filled the air.

Lamont bent over him. "You all right?" He helped Nick to his feet.

"Yeah." His chest was bruised. His left arm was numb. Selena was doubled over, gasping for air.

"S'all right," she said. She struggled for breath. "Knocked the wind out of me."

Ronnie helped her up. She pulled the box with the Codex from her jacket. The round had punched through the book and been stopped by the armor  underneath.

"Nick," Lamont said.

"I'm okay. Jesus, I love this armor."

Ronnie bent over one of the dead men. "Guess theirs wasn't as good as ours." He picked up one of their guns. "Russian. PP-19. Good weapon."

"Not good enough," Lamont said. "What are Russians doing here?"

"Same as us."

"This one is still alive." Ronnie knelt next to one of the prone figures. The man's eyes fluttered and opened. Blood ran from his mouth. Ronnie knew he wasn't getting up again. So did the man on the floor.

"Fuck your mother," he said in Russian. Then he was gone.

"Definitely Russians," Lamont said.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Elizabeth sat in Stephanie's office drinking coffee and thinking about people trying to kill her. She'd dressed all in black today. Black silk blouse, black suit, black shoes. It suited her mood. The only touch of color was a silver pin in the shape of a swan over her left breast, set with tiny diamonds.

Nine in the morning, and she was already on her fourth cup. Her stress levels were somewhere in the stratosphere.

Stephanie's desk had three large monitors and built in keyboards linking to the bank of Crays downstairs. A bobble doll of Elvis Presley was stuck on top of the monitor in the middle. A framed travel poster of Venice hung on one wall.

A large corkboard over the console was pinned with notes to herself and pictures of friends and family. A vase with fresh flowers was placed between two of the monitors. On the right wall was a realistic photo picture of a window looking out over an ocean scene and a sunny day.

"No clues?" Stephanie asked her. "Nothing to indicate who sent them?"

"No. My guess is AEON."

There were no long term physical effects from the bomb. She'd been partially deaf for a day. Her face bore several cuts from flying bits of the windshield. She had bruised ribs where she'd been thrown against the door. Apart from that, her body was fine.

The attack replayed itself in her mind. The car lifting into the air and crashing down onto it's side. The impact. The noise as it scraped along the pavement. The pistol recoiling in her hands as she shot at the faceless riders, the explosions. The scene was etched into her thoughts forever. She thought of her guards, one dead, one on life support.

She'd sent a plane to Portugal. The team was on the way back with the Codex.

"There was no ID on the men they killed in Mafra?" Stephanie reached out and tapped Elvis with her finger. He wobbled and bobbled.

"No, but they had Russian weapons. One of them died speaking Russian."

"What did he say?"

"Nothing important. They were after the Codex. It's just good luck we got there first."

"Bad luck for them." Stephanie tapped Elvis. He bobbled.

"They killed the museum guards. That wasn't necessary. I don't have any sympathy. The Portuguese are trying to figure out what happened, but I don't think they'll get anywhere."

"AEON would explain a Russian connection."

Elizabeth nodded in agreement. "This is getting messy. I wonder what's in that Codex? It has to be important to send in a team like that."

"What do you think they're trying to do?"

"Foxworth is up to something. He's made a serious effort to eliminate us."

"But why? All he's done is get us involved."

"I thought at first he might be trying to get even for Texas, but it's gone way beyond that. Or perhaps that's all it is."

"Going after you was a mistake."

"No," she said. "Failing was a mistake."

Elizabeth's voice was quiet and controlled, her green eyes an unusually dark color. Stephanie had no doubt that Foxworth had just made the biggest mistake of his life.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

The Codex lay on Elizabeth's desk. There was a hole in the middle from the bullet. The bark pages were faded and brittle. The corners were chewed away by insects. There were tiny holes everywhere. The pages were long and narrow and covered with faded pictures and the strange shapes of Mayan glyphs. To Nick the writing looked like drawings of pieces of popcorn, with a helping of squiggles, pictures and rows of dots.

"You can read this?" he asked Selena.

She brushed a hand across her forehead. Her violet eyes shone with excitement. This was her element, ancient languages and writing that made the Times crossword puzzle look simple.

"Some of it. This example is unique. It has elements of early Mayan and Toltec mixed together. I'd guess it's from around 500 or 600 CE. It's going to take me a while to figure it all out, but I can do it."

"Can you make sense of what you see so far?" Elizabeth asked.

"Some of it. I don't know why AEON would want it  The first page is part of a construction record. Perhaps an inventory."

She pointed at a vertical row of glyphs and dots. "This is a list of building materials. The dots are numbers, how many units of stone, that kind of thing. I think some pages may be missing. Usually the first page praises the king and dates the record by his rule, glorifies his achievements. Like the Egyptian obelisks."

"How long will it take you to translate?" Elizabeth asked.

"I'm not sure. Mayan is one of the most documented of all the ancient languages but early variants like this aren't well understood. I'll need Steph to help me. I'll compare this with known texts and look for similarities and speed it up with the computers."

"Like you did with the Minoan."

"Exactly."

"Then you'd better get started."

"Come on, Selena." Stephanie stood. "Let's go talk to Freddy."

Nick watched them leave. "Steph acts like those computers were people."

"Just don't say anything bad about them when she's around," Elizabeth said. "They're like a family to her." She picked up her pen. "Any ideas about Portugal?"

"Only a question. Why the Russians?" Nick said. "I don't think they were regular forces or Spetsnaz. Their armor was inferior. They were careless. Special Ops people wouldn't have done what they did. Besides, their uniforms had a red patch on them I'd never seen before."

"I think Ogorov sent them."

"AEON?"

"It's the only thing that makes sense. The question is whether or not this is sanctioned by the Federation government."

"You think the Kremlin would cooperate with AEON? Foxworth?"

"No, but we need to find out exactly what we're up against. It makes a big difference if we're taking on the Federation."

"How are you going to find out?" Ronnie said.

"The old fashioned way. Ask. I think it's time for me to reach out and touch someone."

Part Two

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

General Alexei Ivanovich Vysotsky ran Department S, one of eight specialized departments within the Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki, Russia's Foreign Intelligence Service. Department S included the Special Operations Group called Zaslon, a group that did not officially exist.

Foreign Minister Ogorov had been playing SVR and FSB against each other and Alexei was determined to find out why. The Federal'naya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti handled all internal security. The struggle for power between internal and foreign security dated back to when they had been directorates of the old KGB. Now they were separate organizations. The rivalry was worse than ever.

Ever since Vysotsky had found a way to eliminate the criminal Gelashvili, FSB had been in what the Americans called a snit. Vysotsky loved American slang. It was almost as good as Russian slang, except for the insults. No foreigner would ever match the essence or subtlety of the Russian insult.

Alexei had survived purges, plots and the transition to the new so-called democracy. He'd kept his deepest ambitions concealed, which was one reason he held his position of power. Few things took him by surprise anymore. Even so, he was surprised when his encrypted satellite phone signaled a call from Elizabeth Harker.

This will be interesting. What could she possibly want?

Vysotsky opened a drawer and activated an unapproved and unofficial security system that blanketed his office from every kind of  electronic surveillance. He assumed the room was bugged in ways he had not discovered. It wasn't personal, he knew, just the nature of the business. Especially in Russia. Whatever Harker had to say, he didn't want anyone else to hear it.

Alliance with her in the past had resulted in the end of a threat to the Motherland and confusion to the CIA. A satisfactory conclusion, but Alexei was wary of pressing his luck. Cooperation with Americans could easily be seen as treason. He didn't trust Harker. But he had to admit he enjoyed and appreciated her sharp decisiveness.

"Vysotsky."

"General. This is Director Harker." Her voice was clear over the satellite link. He pictured her in his mind. Probably dressed in black and white. Every picture he'd seen of her showed her in black and white.

"Director. How delightful to hear from you."

"General, there is something I would like to discuss with you."

"Please do."

"It might be better if we met in person."

Alexei was intrigued. Major Korov had given him a detailed briefing about Harker. Vysotsky's files on her were extensive. Briefings and files were a poor substitute for direct impressions.

Harker was a serious woman. Vysotsky respected seriousness. She kept her word. She was unafraid to do what needed to be done. They'd crossed boundaries together, but they were not allies. He smiled to himself. This woman had balls. What was so important it could not be discussed over a secure line?

"What could require us to meet?" he said.

"It concerns Foreign Minister Ogorov."

When she said that, Alexei knew he would have to meet with her. Ogorov. Why would she want to talk about Ogorov? He waited.

"I realize a trip to Washington might not be in your best interest. I suggest someplace nearer to Moscow. Copenhagen, perhaps?"

In the West, but not far away. A short flight for him, a long journey for her. Neutral ground, but he was vulnerable there. She was more vulnerable than he was, that close to Russian territory.

If he were in her place he would want to maintain the working status between them. Any unfortunate incident at their level within the intelligence world would lead to serious repercussions. She had nothing to gain by setting a trap.

"Copenhagen is acceptable. When do you suggest this meeting take place?"

"As soon as possible."

"I can be there in two days." He heard something tapping in the background on her end.

"Tivoli Gardens, then. Say morning? 9:00 A.M.?"

"Agreed. The veranda in front of the Nimb Hotel."

"Good. Until then." She ended the call.

Ogorov, he thought, what have you done?

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

The large monitor on the wall behind Harker's desk was blank.

It ought to have a screen saver, Nick thought, one of those aquariums with dolphins swimming around. Or sharks.

Harker finished reading Selena's report on the Mafra Codex and set it aside. She looked up.

"You're sure about this, Selena?"

"I'm sure."

"This reads like a documentary about ancient aliens. Something dreamed up for one of those UFO shows."

Selena nodded. "It goes against everything we think we know about those pyramids. Aliens might be as good an explanation as any."

"How about letting us in on the secret, Director?" Ronnie said.

"If you tell me where you got that shirt."

Ronnie smiled. "You like it?" He looked down at his shirt.

Noble Hawaiian chiefs stood heroically in outrigger canoes, gazing toward the most hallucinogenic island Elizabeth had ever seen. The scene was repeated several times over. The waters of the Pacific were a poisonous blue, the sky streaked with what were supposed to be the rays of a sunrise. Harker thought they looked more like streaks of blood.

Elizabeth sighed. "I was kidding, Ronnie. Selena, explain it, please."

Selena wore black casual slacks and a silk lavender blouse that brought out the color of her eyes. Gold earrings with sapphire accents caught the overhead lights. Nick thought she looked beautiful.

"The Codex is a detailed construction record of a pyramid in the Yucatan."

"What's unusual about that?" Nick asked.

"Everything. No one knows how any of them were built. Mostly it's informed speculation. Slaves dragging stones, that sort of thing. Archeology says they were used for religious sacrifices. That's correct, as far as it goes."

"Why do I hear a 'but' in there?"

"The Codex says it was an electrical power source."

Nick looked at her in disbelief.

"Power? The ancient Mayans had electricity? Come on."

She shrugged. "They didn't call it electricity, but there's no other possibility. The Codex describes a series of engineered channels that carried water under the pyramid. Rods of metal were extended down into the earth and the inner chamber was lined like an insulator. It was like a giant battery. Nikola Tesla designed something similar back in the last century."

Something tugged at Elizabeth's intuition.

Nick said, "It's a pile of stone. How does it get to be a battery?"

"It used Telluric currents."

Lamont said, "What's a Telluric current?"

"It's a geomagnetic phenomenon."

"Oh, yeah, of course." He smacked his forehead with his palm. "How could I forget about Telluric currents?"

Selena laughed. "Telluric currents are waves of very low frequency electrical energy caused by the earth's magnetic field. We can measure their intensity, predict their flow, map their locations. Do you remember I mentioned Tesla? He started to build a tower at the beginning of the last century that would have broadcast free electricity in every direction. It tapped into Telluric currents."

"I guess it didn't work," Nick said. "You look at your electric bill lately?"

"It would have worked except for J.P. Morgan. He and his cronies financed the project. Morgan pulled the plug when he saw he couldn't make money from free electricity. It was never finished. The plans disappeared."

"Figures," Nick said. "Not much changes. But how does that tie into the pyramid?"

"Telluric currents travel in predictable patterns. There are points along the earth's surface where they're especially strong. Hotspots of power. The Yucatan is one of those places."

"What would Mayans do with electricity?"

"Mayan TVs," Lamont said. "Ancient toasters."

"Lamont..." Harker's voice carried a warning note.

"Sorry." He didn't look sorry.

Selena continued. "The Codex describes a kind of lighthouse. There was something in it that focused the stored energy and emitted a beam of light. That's the closest I could come with the translation. It might not be right. But definitely a light of some kind, right at the top. I think the Mayans were trying to send a message to their gods."

"Is that it?" Nick asked.

"There are warnings about the light. Basically, stay away or the gods will punish you. The Codex isn't complete. It doesn't say what, but there was something at the top of the pyramid that made the light. There aren't any details."

"You said it's in the Yucatan. Where?"

"Southeast of Mérida, a few hours from Chichen Itza. It's in the jungle and completely overgrown. Smaller than Chichen Itza and older."

Nick had been to Chichen Itza. The main attractions were a gigantic, stepped pyramid and an impressive stone ball court where the Mayans had played an early and brutal form of soccer.

"Why hasn't it been excavated?"

"There are a lot of archeological sites in Mexico. The government has enough problems maintaining the ones they've opened up. This one is out of sight, out of mind. We pinned it down with SBIRS. Infrared sees right through the jungle canopy."

Elizabeth thought about the satellite pictures from Russia. She thought about a full out firefight in the Mafra Palace over bark pages 1500 years old. She thought about AEON and a dead museum clerk with designs by Nikola Tesla.

"I want to show you something," she said.

She touched a key on her desk console. The big screen lit up on the wall. She tapped another key and a satellite photo of the Russian pyramid appeared on the monitor.

"This is something I've been looking at in Russia. You see the square shape that shows up under infrared?"

"Okay."

"Now look at this shot of the pyramid mentioned in the Codex." She brought it up next to the first photo.

"They look similar." Nick rubbed a hand across dark stubble on his chin.

"They are similar. Someone is building a pyramid in Russia. It's too much of a coincidence, the Codex, the coded messages. It has to be AEON. Ogorov has enough clout to pull it off."

"Why would they do that? AEON isn't sending messages to the gods."

"I haven't any idea, but they wanted the Codex for something. We beat them to it."

"Too bad for them."

"If you were trying to get information about that pyramid and you couldn't get the Codex, what would you do?"

"That's a no-brainer," Nick said. "I'd go to the source and see what I could find out." He could sense where this was going.

Elizabeth picked up her pen, tapped her desk. "Selena, you said this pyramid is hidden in the jungle, unexcavated. That means no one has seen it yet."

"That's right."

"Then I think it's time someone took a look."

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

The airport at Mérida sparkled in the aftermath of morning rain. The sun threw shimmering storm light across the wet pavement. Dark thunderheads towered overhead with the promise of more rain to come. The Project team stepped from the air-conditioned comfort of their Gulfstream into the torrid humidity of late summer in the Yucatan. It was like stepping into a steam bath.

A black, four wheel drive Suburban waited for them. The man standing beside it wore aviator sunglasses, tan Dockers, an open shirt and an unbuttoned tan sport jacket. There was a bulge under his coat. He introduced himself as John Madison. Nick guessed him to be in his late 20s.

"You guys must have some pull," he said. He shook hands with Nick and handed him a business card identifying him as a second assistant cultural attaché.

"The Consulate sent me over. I'm supposed to give you the keys to the vehicle. After that, you're on your own."

He looked at Nick. "Say, I know you. You're Carter." His face lit with recognition. It made him look even younger. It made Nick feel old. "You were with the President in Jerusalem. Sir, I'd like to shake your hand."

Selena knew Nick was embarrassed. Strangers still came up to him months after the Jerusalem bomb.

"We need to get moving," she said.

Madison said, "You speak Spanish?"

"Yes."

"It's spoken a little differently around here, but you shouldn't have too much trouble. You'll need a map. There's one in the glove compartment."

"Gas?" Nick asked.

"A full tank. You've got a spare 20 gallons in back. Best advice I can give you is fill up anytime you see a Pemex station. Bring the vehicle back here to the airport when you're done. It's brand new, so try not to beat it up too much. The Consul waited a year to get it, it's his pride and joy."

"We'll be careful," Selena said. "Thanks."

"I don't know why you're here, but good luck." Madison shook Nick's hand again. He walked over to a white sedan idling nearby and drove away. They watched him go.

"Second assistant attaché," Nick said. "With a nine under his jacket."

"Maybe he's worried about bandits," Lamont said.

"Means Langley knows we're here." Nick looked at the Suburban. "Why are these government rides always black? They might as well paint a target on them."

They loaded aluminum cases into the back. The cases held their weapons and everything they'd need in the jungle.

"This is weird," Nick lifted a case into the truck.

"Sure is," Ronnie said.

Selena said, "What are you two talking about?"

"Nick and I have been in the jungle before." Ronnie picked up another case. "It was a lot different. We'd be dropped in somewhere with our pack and weapons. Spend a month or two. Crawl around in the muck, live off the land, eat whatever we could find or kill. This is luxury."

He waved at the cases, the Suburban. "Kind of like a camping vacation."

"Yeah, a vacation," Nick said. "I'd rather be at the beach."

Jungles triggered bad memories. Nick hated the insects. Every jungle had it's own, nasty variety. Poisonous centipedes that could make your arm or your leg blow up like a balloon. Vipers that hid unseen in the green leaves, with a bite that killed before you took a dozen steps. Venomous spiders crawling over you as you slept. Big mosquitoes that swarmed in millions.

The Yucatan wasn't as bad as South America. It had big spiders, but none that were poisonous. The worst problem would be the moscas, the mosquitoes. Then there were black scorpions, Las Alacránes. Evil looking with a bad sting, but not lethal. Or fire ants. Those would crawl up your pants and show you how they got their name, if you were unlucky enough to step on a nest. Army ants, that ate everything in their path. They'd eat your boots and you too, if you let them.

Much as he didn't like insects, he wasn't worried about them. He was more concerned about the snakes. The coral snake, the rattlesnake and the Cantil all lived in the Yucatan. The Cantil was like a cottonmouth, close enough. The coral was deadly. All three species lived right where they were going.

They got in the Suburban. Selena sat in front, Nick drove. Ronnie and Lamont sat in the back. Selena took out the map and unfolded it.

"First we head to Pisté. It's a straight shot on route 180. It looks like a good road," she said. "I think about two hours."

She turned on her GPS. The unit was programmed to show their position relative to the objective. She could switch to satellite view of the area with an infrared option. Harker had a geostationary satellite tasked on their target, giving them real time images. At the moment, the view was unhampered by cloud cover and showed nothing unusual. The ruins were invisible under the dense canopy.

"From Pisté there's a secondary road." She traced the route with her finger and compared it to her GPS. "We jog a little, then go south. The road heads into the jungle. The map shows it ending past a small village."

"What's the name of that town?"

"You'll just confuse your tongue, don't worry about it. I probably can't get it right, anyway. It's in Mayan. It will take a few hours more from Pisté."

"Do we get to see Chichen Itza?" Lamont asked.

"No, that's on the other side of Pisté."

"I've seen it," Nick said. "It's impressive. Big pyramid, with lots of steps. Also something called the Ball Court. They used to play a kind of soccer there."

"Soccer?" Ronnie said.

"It was a lot rougher then. The court is paved with stone and lined with stone walls. They put two stone hoops sticking out of the walls, high up. The idea was to get the ball through a hoop without touching it with your hands. No holds barred."

"What happened if you won? The king give you a trophy or something?"

"You were a hero, lots of feasting. Gifts from the king. The games were religious."

"And if you lost?"

"You got sacrificed to the gods. It made for pretty spirited competition."

"I'll bet there's some coaches in the NFL who wish they could do that. Talk about motivation, that would do it."

They gassed up at Pisté and turned south. The road was in poor shape. They turned east for twenty minutes, then south again at a cluster of shacks. The road became a rutted, muddy track, barely wide enough for the vehicle. The jungle closed in on either side. They drove in an eerie green tunnel filled with shifting shadows.

Nick kept the truck in four wheel drive as they bumped along.

Selena looked at her GPS. "Almost there," she said.

The dirt track broke out of the jungle into a wide clearing with a half dozen huts. The walls of the huts were of mud and cinder blocks. The roofs were thatched with jungle fronds and grasses that hung down around the eves. Children in ragged clothes stared at them and ran inside. Scrawny chickens scattered out of the way. A one-eyed goat watched them from a patch by one of the houses.

Two women chatted by a circular stone well. They looked up in astonishment as the truck rolled slowly past. Beyond the village, the track disappeared into the green.

"I don't think they get many visitors," Ronnie said.

"Wonder what happens on a Saturday night?" Lamont watched the women staring after them. Then they were past and back in the jungle.

"Not much," Nick said. "Selena, how much farther?"

"Not far. The road ends a half mile ahead."

Ten minutes later the road petered out in an overgrown clearing. The jungle was already taking it back.

Nick stopped and turned off the ignition. A glint of chrome shone through the greenery from something hidden in the dense growth. A blue Toyota SUV.

They got out. Nick took out his pistol and listened. The sounds around him were the endless sounds of the jungle, birds, rustlings in the thick undergrowth. The ticking of the engine in the Suburban was the only thing out of place.

He put the pistol away and walked over to the concealed truck, touched the hood. Cold. A narrow trail had been hacked out through the greenery, leading away from the truck.

Ronnie came up beside him and knelt down. Nick was quiet, waiting for Ronnie to do his thing. In Recon, he was legendary for his tracking skills. After a minute he stood.

"Five men. One big man. They're all carrying gear. Looks like they're headed where we are. Not today. Yesterday or the day before."

Nick looked at the makeshift path.

"Let's get the gear out."

"Complicates things."

Nick gestured at the narrow trail chopped into the growth. "But they saved us a lot of work."

They opened the aluminum cases. There were four packs with rations, extra ammo, a med kit, shelter halves. A water filter that could suck clean water out of a cesspool. It took a lot of hand pumping, but it worked.

"Where are the vests?" Ronnie said.

"What do you mean?"

Nick looked at the open cases. No vests. Then he felt a headache begin. He knew where they were.

Back in Virginia.

He'd screwed up. He'd been about to get the vests out of the equipment room in the Project when he'd gotten a call from his sister in California.

"Nick, you have to come home."

Shelley always thought of Palo Alto as home, where they'd been brought up. It sure as hell hadn't been much of a home for him.

"I can't come to California. What's the matter?"

"You're never around when you should be. It's Mom. She's had a stroke. I'm at the hospital. If you'd listened to me and let us put her in a home this wouldn't have happened."

Shelley was always on him about their mother, how he didn't do enough, how she had to take care of everything. In reality, she didn't have to do anything. His mother had Alzheimer's. He'd arranged for full time, live-in care for her. It let her stay at home. As long as there was someone to look after her, she was better off at home, where she still remembered a few familiar things. But she usually didn't know who he was when he called.

Shelley was mad at him for blocking her attempt to put their mother in a home and sell off her house. She was mad at him for being angry at their father. She refused to understand it. It had always been Nick and his mom who bore the brunt of his father's drunken rages, not Shelley. Shelley was Daddy's Little Girl. She still defended the son of a bitch.

Now she was telling him it was his fault his mom had a stroke. He felt his blood pressure rising, a tight band across his forehead.

"Shelley, drop the martyr act and the accusations and tell me how she is."

"That's just like you," his sister had said. "You can't take any responsibility for her, you just want to keep George and me from getting our share. You won't even come out when your mother needs you."

That was when he'd lost it. "Goddamn it, Shelley!" He'd shouted into the phone. "Just tell me how she is! You think you can do that?"

His sister's voice was cold over the phone. "She's alive. I suppose that's all you need to know." She'd hung up.

Nick had wanted to hurl the phone across the room. For a short time after Jerusalem, Shelley had been a little more understanding, a touch more willing to see him as her brother instead of an obstacle in her path. It hadn't lasted long.

He'd put the phone away. He'd been so angry he'd forgotten about the vests.

"The damn vests are back in Virginia."

Ronnie looked at the cases. "Not much we can do about it. We probably won't need them. Plenty of times, we didn't have 'em."

"Yeah." It didn't make him feel any better.

They still wore the light civilian clothes they'd had on the plane. They changed for the jungle into heavy boots and camouflaged outfits that would blend into the greenery. Selena stripped with the others. No one except Nick paid attention. She was wearing red underwear. He remembered the dream of Selena wearing a red bikini.

Don't go there, he thought. It doesn't mean anything.

"Let's get the paint on," Nick said. They took turns covering their faces and hands with green and black and brown.

Ronnie looked at Selena. "Now you look right."

"Ready for Vogue," she said.

No helmets, only soft brimmed covers. Aside from their packs, each carried a knife, an H-K pistol and an MP-5N. Both guns were chambered for the .40 S&W round.

"Weapons check. Lock and load."

The clacking sound of the weapons sent a flurry of birds into the air.

He looked them over. His team. His family.

"We'll stay with the trail at first," Nick said. "There might be traps, so pay attention. Ronnie, you take point, then me, then Selena. Lamont, you bring up our six."

They headed into the jungle.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

The Nimb Hotel was an architect's elaborate misconception of a Moorish palace, a five star monument to the craze for historical architecture that had swept the European continent at the turn of the twentieth century. The hotel featured an ornate facade of high Moorish arches fronting a covered veranda. Arched windows repeated the theme on the second story. An onion shaped dome topped with the crescent of Islam towered over the entry way. Six smaller towers suggested minarets.

A broad, flat terrace extended away from the front of the building. A flight of steps led from the terrace to a landscaped garden area, where a large, circular fountain shot jets of water into the air. The water made a constant, soothing murmur in the background.

Elizabeth walked out of the entrance to the hotel and scanned the area. She wore a long black coat and carried two manila folders in her left hand. Vysotsky sat in the sun at a table on the far side of the terrace, reading a newspaper and sipping espresso. He wore a medium length outdoor jacket, open to the fading summer warmth. He looked exactly like a tourist.

Alexei Vysotsky was handsome in a European way. No one would ever mistake him for an American. He was not a big man, nor was he small. His eyes were black and penetrating as he watched her approach. He wore steel-rimmed tinted glasses that reminded her of movies about WWII.  He was hatless. His hair was black, showing streaks of white. High cheekbones and the shape of his face hinted at an ancestor from the Mongolian steppes. He stood to greet her.

"Director. You are even better looking than your picture."

Elizabeth found herself smiling. A charmer. "As are you, General."

Vysotsky held a chair for her. She sat down and laid the folders on the table, away from Vysotsky. He looked amused. A waiter appeared and took Elizabeth's order. Cappuccino, pastry. Vysotsky ordered another espresso.

They waited in almost comfortable silence and watched the fountain bubble until the order came and the waiter left. Vysotsky took a sip.

"I remember in the old days, in Berlin, how our two sides would sometimes have a quiet meeting to ensure there were no, ah, misunderstandings. There hasn't been much of that since then."

"It's a tradition you and I might revive," Elizabeth said. "Things are more dangerous now than ever. Conversation is always preferable to the alternatives. It's refreshing to bypass the usual obstacles."

"Let us be candid, Director. You would not have called me if you didn't need my cooperation. I admit, my curiosity is aroused. You mentioned Ogorov. What is it about him that requires this meeting?"

"You are aware Ogorov is part of AEON's leadership."

"I have only your word for that."

"I have no reason to mislead you. If you are unwilling to take my word, coming here was a mistake."

"You are talking about one of my government's leaders."

"I'm talking about a man who is part of an organization that respects no government. Not yours. Not mine. Ogorov has been creating problems for you with the FSB. If you didn't think something was suspicious you would not have come."

I surprised him with that. Good. Let him wonder how I know.

"You are well informed. Is this what you wish to talk about? Something in those folders, perhaps?"

"I believe AEON is doing something on Russian soil that may threaten both our nations. If they are, Ogorov is involved."

She slid the first folder across to him. He opened it and looked at the satellite picture on top. The resolution of their satellites is better than ours. He filed the thought away for future consideration.

"Your infrared spy satellites have been busy."

"Always, General. As are yours."

Vysotsky looked at the notation on the photograph.

"Irtysh? There's nothing there but an old air base."

"There is now. Look at the next sequence."

He turned the page. After a few seconds he frowned. Elizabeth watched him. Did he already know about Irtysh? Vysotsky turned to the next picture and the next. His face set into hard lines. He looked up.

"This is obviously an official project. Why do you believe AEON is involved?"

"Because someone is building a pyramid."

"A pyramid?"

"Look near the river. You can see a canal has been cut from the river to a square shape picked up by the infrared. That is the base of a pyramid. It's well camouflaged and hidden from direct view."

"Certainly there is something there. Why do you say it is a pyramid?"

"I've included pictures of several pyramids buried in the sands of Egypt. Notice the shape. The Irtysh image is identical, don't you think?"

He shuffled through the pictures. "How does this involve Ogorov?"

She gave him the second folder. "It will save time if you read this. It will take a few minutes."

The folder contained a copy of Selena's research on the Codex and a detailed action report about Mafra. Harker was taking a huge gamble. If Vysotsky was in some way involved, she had just handed her enemies everything they needed.

She was unable to do anything about such a large and secret project located in the heart of Russia. But Vysotsky could. She needed him, just as he had needed her to operate in America not long before. The game was on his turf.

Vysotsky read the brief. When he looked up, his face was expressionless.

"Director. This assessment of the Mexican pyramid strains belief."

She nodded. "Yes. However, the scientific principles are well understood. If someone could harness and amplify the Telluric energies, it would provide a source of inexhaustible power. Power that could be put to many uses. I believe that is what Ogorov is doing."

"Your accusation of Ogorov is based on identification of him as a member of AEON's leadership. That information was provided by an anonymous source."

"That's true. Do I need to point out that the source was accurate regarding the Demeter and Black Harvest plan to attack the Federation?"

"Minister Ogorov is a strong voice for our place in the world."

"Minister Ogorov is a man who has a higher priority than the welfare of Russia."

"So you say." Vysotsky emptied his coffee. He signaled the waiter over. "Vodka. Bring the bottle, your best quality."

He looked at Harker. "Two glasses."

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Selena had learned a lot since she'd joined the Project. She wasn't a rookie any more. But walking in the Yucatan jungle with three former Special Forces veterans was a new experience. It showed her how little she knew. It made her feel like she was starting all over again.

For one thing, they were silent. More than once, she stepped on something that made noise, only to get a look of disapproval from Lamont or Nick. Ronnie was on the point. He didn't bother looking back.

She tried to imitate the way the others walked. They moved in single file, slowly, lifting each foot into the air and carefully setting it down again. They were aware of every twig, every stone, every leaf, every possible thing that could trip them or make noise as they passed. Their bodies were loose, yet tense. Their eyes never stopped moving. They scanned the canopy above, the jungle to the sides of the trail, the trail itself.

After a bit she got better at it. Her legs ached from the unnatural effort. She was soaked in sweat. Swarms of mosquitoes had found them. Nick looked back and smiled at her and gave her a thumbs up.

It's like he's on a stroll, she thought, a nature hike with weapons. He's enjoying this. The thought was like ice water on her body. He's enjoying this. It's what he lives for, the danger, the edge. He'll never change.

With the thought, a wave of sadness rushed over her. He'll never change. It's what he knows how to do, what he wants to do. But is it what I want to do?

No one talked. Ahead, Ronnie held up his hand. He pointed down at the side of the trail, moved to the side and forward again. She saw a brightly colored coral snake curled in a spot where sunlight filtered through the canopy. It ignored her.

After about an hour Ronnie held up his hand again and waited for the others to come up to him. Here, the trail widened a bit. They stood close together. Selena drank some water.

"We're close," Ronnie said. "Doesn't look like anyone's come back this way, yet."

Selena became acutely aware of the sounds all around them, a constant murmur of life that never ceased. The jungle had it's own voice. Chattering birds. Sounds she couldn't identify. Insects. The hum of mosquitoes grew louder. She wiped sweat away. Her hand came away smeared with green camouflage paint. She drank some more water.

"All right," Nick said. "Whoever is here has to be hostile."

He looked at Selena. She still needs looking out for. "We'll get close and scout the area and play it by ear," he said to her. "Follow our lead, you'll be fine. Watch your back."

She nodded.

"Let's go."

Ronnie led them down the trail. After another ten minutes, he signaled. Ahead, the dark mass of the pyramid rose through the trees.

"That's it," Nick said. His voice was very quiet. "Get off the trail. Selena, watch the noise."

They moved off the trail and crept through the foliage. Selena saw a tiny frog jump from a broad leaf. A brown spider as big as her fist scuttled away underfoot. She shuddered. They came to the edge of what had been a wide plaza in front of the Mayan ruin. She peered out through the leaves. The uneven pavement of the plaza was twisted and broken where trees had pushed up through the stones.

The pyramid rose high into the canopy overhead. The passage of time had not been kind. The stones were stained dark by the rains of centuries. Tall trees pushed up against it. Carvings of faces and serpents peered out from behind the jungle growth. Tangled vines with thick trunks and deep green leaves blurred the outlines of crumbling stone ledges. A steep set of steps ran up the center of the ruin from the plaza to a stone altar and a square-shaped temple on the peak.

At the foot of the steps were two tents. Two men stood by one of them, talking and laughing. They were dressed in dull green. Not an official uniform. Not civilian clothes. They were armed.

"They're carrying AN-94s," Ronnie said. "How the hell do they get those?"

The AN-94 was Russia's newest assault rifle, a highly advanced weapon. 5.45 mm, with a radical design that fired two rounds at a time and minimized recoil. The shooter had trigger selection to control the rate of fire, from 600 to 1800 rounds per minute. Production problems and a Kremlin hard up for cash meant only elite forces had access to them. Their presence in the Yucatan proved high level government involvement.

"I don't think those guys are archeologists," Lamont said.

Selena listened. "They're speaking Russian."

"What are they saying?"

"Something about a woman called Nadia." She listened. Her face tightened. "They're pigs. They raped her. They're laughing about it."

A radio squawked. One of the men spoke into a shoulder microphone.

"They've found something," Selena said. "Whatever they were looking for."

Three men emerged from the doorway at the top of the ruin. One held something wrapped in cloth up over his head, grinning. He shouted something. The three started down the steps leading to the plaza.

"How you want to do it?" Lamont brushed a mosquito away. The men had reached the half way point in their descent.

"Wait until they're almost at the bottom," Nick said. "Then hit them."

Selena rubbed her nose.

"Try to keep one alive," he said.

Then Selena sneezed.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Malcolm Foxworth's villa in Tuscany was built on terraces cut into the steep slope of a rugged promontory jutting out into the Arno River. A narrow road wound down the side of a small mountain and ended at a set of formidable iron gates. Twelve foot high walls topped with glass shards surrounded three sides of the property.

The river side was dominated by a massive stone landing. Behind it was a channel leading from the river to a boat house under the villa. Entry to the boat house was blocked by steel gates. Two neo-classical statues of Roman gods stood guard on the ends of the pier. An elegant stone railing followed a long flight of steps and landings leading up from the river to the main house.

The villa was old. It was large, four stories high. Two narrow, pointed towers flanked one end, commanding a view of the river. Above the main building more steps rose to a second building and then to the level of the landside entry, where there was a large paved courtyard and another three story structure that housed the guards and the villa staff.

The walls glowed yellow in the welcoming Tuscan sunlight. The villa with its red tile roofs by the river looked like a vacation dream of Italy. No one could have guessed the kinds of dreams that took place within those picture perfect walls.

Doctor Morel put the syringe back in his case and closed it. Foxworth felt the pain ease. Lately the headaches were much worse. More frequent.

"Send Healy in," he said.

"Of course, Malcolm."

Morel picked up his case and left. A moment later Foxworth's chief of security came into the room. He looked calm, but Foxworth was a master at reading people. He knew Healy was nervous. As he should be.

"You fucked up again, Healy."

"The team in Mafra were good. It should have been enough."

Foxworth waited. He drew the silence out, let Healy sweat. Finally he said, "All right. Harker's people are damn good. But there better not be any more problems. Give me a progress report."

"There's a sealed room at the top of the pyramid. They're working to get into it. If there's anything there, that's where it will be. Aside from that, it's just another pile of stone."

"How are Ogorov's men performing?"

Healy shrugged. "They follow orders. It was Ogorov's people that got it in Portugal. You give me the men I want, we'll be better off."

"No. There are too many leaks in the mercenary groups. Too many ears. Besides, I tried it your way in California and Washington. Ogorov's men are trained and they're not on the radar."

"Whatever you say, sir."

"That's right. Whatever I say. Keep me informed." Healy turned to go.

"Find Mandy and send her in."

"Yes, sir."

He watched Healy shut the door behind him and thought about Mandy.

Damn the woman. It had been a long time since he'd let a woman get under his skin. She was like a drug, like one of Morel's concoctions. It wasn't just the sex, though Mandy was inventive and enthusiastic. She was smart. She did her job well in her official capacity as his assistant. She was brilliant at sensing when someone was lying, an extremely useful asset. Probably because she was such a good liar herself.

She was having an affair with Healy. Foxworth was almost ready to do something about it. Healy had been making mistakes. Mandy was one mistake too many.

Foxworth didn't love Mandy. He wasn't sure what love meant. But he needed her, he was sure about that. As long as he kept her satisfied with the trinkets his fortune could buy and gave her freedom for the occasional affair, she'd stay. But Healy was too close to home. He couldn't allow it to go on much longer.

As Healy went to find Mandy he thought about Foxworth. The arrogant son of a bitch. He wouldn't last a second in a firefight. He walked through the villa looking for her and found her on the garden terrace. She sat at a table, sipping something red with ice in it.

"He wants you," Healy said.

Mandy Atherton wore a designer dress of pale blue silk that highlighted her unusual beauty. Anyone could see why she had graced the covers of every important fashion magazine in the world. Around her throat was a chased gold choker of diamonds and sapphires. The sapphires and the dress picked up the color of her eyes. The hard white gleam of the diamonds went with something unseen inside her.

A light breeze from the river sent ripples through her long black hair. It shone with highlights in the Tuscan sun. Healy felt himself stiffen.

Damn, he wanted her.

Mandy saw the bulge in his trousers and laughed. "Better hadn't let Malcolm see that."

"He doesn't produce the same effect."

She stood. "We have to be careful for a while. I think he's getting suspicious."

"One day I'm going to kill the bastard."

"Kill the golden goose? I don't think so." She fingered the jeweled choker. "At least not until you can provide the same benefits. And we both know that isn't going to happen, don't we?"

"You're a greedy bitch, Mandy."

"No, darling. Just practical. Be grateful for what I can give you." She gave him a peck on the cheek. He wanted to choke her.

"I'll go see what the great man wants."

Healy watched the movement of her body under the dress as she walked away. He'd never had a woman tie up his mind like Mandy did. One of these days he would do something about Malcolm.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Selena's sneeze echoed across the plaza. Birds flew shrieking into the air. The figures on the steps froze. One of the men near the tents shouted something and swept his rifle up and began firing blindly in their direction. A storm of bullets ripped through the leaves over their heads with a sound like the world tearing apart.

To Selena, everything happened at once. Ronnie, Lamont and Nick opened fire. The men near the tent shot into the jungle. The others scrambled down the last steps. Two of them unslung their rifles and fired. Selena brought her MP-5 up, felt herself pull the trigger, watched one of the figures by the tent fly backwards from the impact of her rounds. The men on the steps reached the ground and scattered to both sides. The man carrying the bundle ran around the corner of the ruin. Chips flew from the stones behind him. He disappeared into the trees.

She felt the recoil of her gun. Some piece of her noted the empty shells flying into the air. The bolt of her MP-5 clacked on an empty chamber. She reached for a magazine.

Something hit her hard, low on the right side. The blow spun her around and knocked her onto the moist jungle floor, face down in the dirt and leaves. For a second she felt nothing, then deep, frightening pain that cut through her. She gasped, unable to call out. There was liquid warmth under her clothes.

She was vaguely aware the noise of the guns had stopped. Nick knelt over her. He was saying something. His voice faded in and out.

"Selena," he was saying. "Selena, stay with me."

She tried to speak. Then the world went black.

Nick fought down his panic. He held his hand against the wound and looked at Ronnie. Blood welled between his fingers.

"She's hit bad. Get a kit. Lamont, call Harker. Get a chopper."

"They can't make it in here. We'll have to go back to the truck."

"No time. Tell them to home in on our beacon and drop a litter and a medic through the canopy. We don't get her to a hospital fast, she'll die."

I forgot the fucking vests. This is my fault. My fault. One fucking round.

Selena was unconscious. Nick reached around her back and felt for an exit wound. The high-velocity round had gone through and come out the other side. He pressed his hands against the wounds. The flow of blood through his fingers was a steady trickle.

"God damn it, Ronnie, hurry up."

Ronnie cut her shirt away. The 5.4mm round had made a small, red hole in her abdomen, then ripped out through her back. Blood flowed from the wounds.

Ronnie applied pressure bandages. Neither man spoke. She wouldn't live if the bullet had clipped an artery. She might live if they got her to a hospital in time. They'd both seen wounds like this before. They both knew she might not make it.

"The bleeding's slowed," Ronnie said. "Nothing to do but wait for the bird."

"Chopper's on the way," Lamont said. "Twenty minutes."

"We didn't get them all," Ronnie said. "The guy carrying something got away."

Nick cradled Selena's head in his bloody hands. He made an effort to focus.

"He's here somewhere. Watch out in case he thinks he's a hero. Search the bodies. See if there's anything that will help us ID them. Grab one of those AN-94s. Once Selena's safe, we'll figure out what they were doing here. "

He looked up at the indifferent green canopy above.

"I hate jungles," he said.

Selena's face was an unnatural white, her eyes slightly open. Her breasts rose and fell in labored gasps.

Christ, I'm losing her.

"Don't give up," he whispered. "You can do it, help's coming. You'll be all right. Don't give up."

You forgot the vests. He waited for the sound of the helicopter, his mind black with guilt.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

The atmosphere in Harker's office was depressing.

"After we got her out." Nick stopped, began again. "After the chopper left, we climbed the steps. There was a temple at the top and a second room inside, sealed up a long time ago. Maybe when the Spaniards were coming. The bad guys broke it open. It took them a while. The walls were three feet thick, solid stone."

Harker began tapping, impatient.

"We found an altar in there, made of jade and inlaid with turquoise and gold. A round shaft goes right through the middle and down into the pyramid. I dropped a rock into it and never heard it hit bottom. There was a hole in the roof over the platform, same size, circular. Perfectly lined up with the shaft."

"Go on."

"Everything was black with mold and stained from the rains, but you could see where there'd been something on the altar, right over that shaft. One of the bad guys got away. He took whatever it was with him. There was a lot of gold, but they didn't bother with it."

"I wonder what was more important than gold?"

Ronnie said, "We got back to the truck and found it shot up. You're going to hear about it. The Consul wasn't happy."

Harker's pen beat a nervous tattoo on her desk. Time to deal with the elephant in the room.

"About Selena," she said. "She's stable, but the round clipped a vertebra. A bone fragment is pressing against the spinal cord. It has to be removed. She's been airlifted to Bethesda."

"She's here?" Nick said.

"Yes. They're going to operate today." She paused. "It's risky. They doctors say she could end up paralyzed from the waist down. They won't know until after the surgery."

Nick felt something clench in his gut. "It's my fault."

Ronnie shook his head. "Come on, Nick. She sneezed. They heard it." He shrugged. "Like they say, shit happens."

"That doesn't help. I fucked up. I forgot to pack the vests. She'd been wearing one, she'd be all right."

Harker's pen stopped moving. "Nick. I need to know you've got your head on straight."

He took a deep breath. "Don't worry. I can handle it. I want to get the bastard behind this. Foxworth. And his Russian buddy, Ogorov. Who else could have provided those weapons?"

"That's what I want to talk about today. You might get your chance. I met with General Vysotsky while you were in Mexico. We're considering a joint operation."

"In Russia?"

"Not yet. He has to be careful about moving against Ogorov."

"If we don't have to go to Russia, why do we need Vysotsky?"

"He needs evidence Ogorov is a traitor. Vysotsky still isn't convinced Ogorov is part of AEON."

"What does he have in mind?"

"Foxworth is in Italy. He always spends a month there this time of year. Vysotsky wants us to raid Foxworth's villa and he wants Major Korov to go with you. He's looking for proof. If Korov is with you, he'll trust whatever you find."

Nick smiled for the first time since Selena had been shot. "Korov? That would work."

Korov was part of Zaslon, under Vysotsky's command. Nick respected and liked him, even if he was technically an enemy. In Texas, he'd helped carry Ronnie out under heavy fire.

"This isn't just another raid," Elizabeth said. "I should go to the President with it. Foxworth is too important, too powerful. It could backfire."

"If you go to Rice he'll say no." Nick tugged on his ear. He thought of Selena. "He doesn't need to know about this. We can make Foxworth talk."

The coldness in his voice made them all look at him.

"What are you staring at? You know I'm right."

They waited for Harker to think it over. After a moment she said, "All right, we'll do it. I'll set it up. Everyone go home and get some rest."

"What are the rules of engagement?" Nick asked. "With Foxworth?"

"We can't kill him. I'm warning you, Nick. This isn't about vengeance."

"What if he resists? With deadly force?"

"That's different."

Nick smiled for the second time that day.

CHAPTER FORTY

Major Arkady Korov was dressed in civilian clothes, but he would have been recognized as a professional soldier anywhere in the world. Korov's life had been spent in the military. He was just over six feet tall. His eyes were blue like arctic sky, his short hair blonde. His face was square, with a trace of reddish shadow on his jaw. He had a small, crescent shaped scar on his chin.

Korov had been summoned to Vysotsky's office. He stood at attention in front of the General's wide desk.

"You are going to Italy, Arkady." Vysotsky opened a drawer, took out a bottle of Vodka and two glasses. "Sit." He gestured at a chair.

"Sir." Korov sat. Vysotsky poured, handed him a glass.

"Na Zdrov'nya."

"Na Zdrov'nya."

They emptied the glasses. Vysotsky poured another and sat back. "You will work with the Americans again."

"The Project?"

"Yes. This is a mission of highest secrecy. There must be no hint of your involvement."

Arkady noticed the choice of words. Your involvement. Your, not our. It meant he was on his own if anything happened.

"I understand. What are my orders?"

"You will meet Harker's team in Florence. They will provide weapons and logistical support. The target is a man called Foxworth. Harker says he is the leader of AEON, the group that was behind the CIA conspiracy against us. She says Ogorov acts on Foxworth's orders."

"Why is she telling you this?"

"She's worried. She showed me proof something secret is happening here and she thinks AEON is behind it. It is as before, there is a threat to both our nations. Or so Harker believes. I have looked for myself. There is a significant project, but I find no official authorization, no records. Harker says it is Ogorov. Your orders are to try and confirm his association with Foxworth and AEON."

Korov lifted his glass and considered his vodka. "Minister Ogorov has been interfering with our operations."

Vysotsky nodded. "Just so. Ogorov has the ear of our President. If he is plotting against the Motherland I must have proof of treason before I go after him."

"And this man, Foxworth. You want him questioned about Ogorov?"

"Exactly. That is Harker's intention. I am impressed by her determination. She risks everything by working with us. I don't think her President knows about it."

"That would be consistent," Korov said. "She doesn't strike me as someone who is bound by the rules."

"That makes her a valuable ally and a dangerous enemy," Vysotsky said. "Go to Italy. Find out which she is."

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Selena walked with her dog on the beach near her childhood home in California. Her older brother was there, except he was much younger than she was, only three or four years old, making a sand castle on the beach with a red plastic bucket. Her dog had been gone a long time. She knew that, yet there he was.

She watched a black cloud grow large on the horizon. She looked around for her brother, but he was gone. She looked for her dog, but he was gone, too. The beach was empty. She was alone.

A moment before it had been bright and sunny, but now it was cold. Dark. She looked again at the ocean. The cloud  was huge, closer. Bolts of lightning flashed inside it, great crackling streaks of electricity that hurled themselves into the waters.

A harsh, biting wind whipped grains of sand around her. She was cold and afraid. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to keep warm. She tried to call out, but no sound came from her mouth.

The cloud was almost upon her. Beneath it, a towering, dark wave rushed toward her, twenty, thirty, forty feet high, foam curling and boiling on the top. It terrified her. She tried to run, but her feet wouldn't move. She couldn't feel her feet. She opened her mouth to scream. The wall of water crashed over her. She couldn't breathe...

Selena gasped and opened her eyes. It took a moment to understand where she was. She was lying in a bed. A hospital bed. The ceiling above her was cream colored. The sheets under her were crisp. She turned her head to one side. A tier of machines stood by the bed. Green blips moved in a constant line across a screen. Digital numbers monitored her life signs. A plastic bag of fluid hung on a rack with a tube running down to her arm.

She couldn't feel her legs. She had a headache. There was something wrong, but she didn't know what it was. She turned her head the other way.

Nick was asleep in a chair by her bed. He was unshaven, his jacket off, showing the .45 he wore in a shoulder holster. He looked ten years older, his face drawn and tired.

She couldn't remember how she'd gotten here, wherever here was. The last thing she remembered was the jungle. They'd been in a firefight, she'd shot someone.

I was hit. I didn't have a vest. I'm in a hospital.

She couldn't feel her hips. She couldn't move her legs.

Probably drugs, pain killers. That's why I can't feel much. Why can't I move my legs?

Her throat was dry. "Nick," she rasped.

He came awake, startled. His eyes were bloodshot and rimmed with red.

"Selena. You had me worried." His smile didn't quite come off.

"Water," she said. "Please."

He took a cup with a bending straw from a table by the bed and held it to her mouth.

"Not too much."

The water was like nectar. She swallowed and coughed.

"Where am I?"

"Bethesda. You needed an operation." He looked at her. "You've been out for five days."

"Five days?"

"You were hit bad. You went into shock. The doctors kept you sedated."

"I can't feel my legs." She watched his face pale.

Oh, shit, she thought. What's wrong?

"It's the drugs," he said. He talked quickly. "You're loaded up with pain killers. You'll be feeling plenty in a day or so." He smiled.

"How bad?"

"How bad, what?"

"How bad was I hit?"

"You took one through the gut and out the back. It nicked the liver. It missed the hepatic artery, or we wouldn't be talking. You're going to have a couple of scars to compete with me."

"What else? There's more, I can tell."

He looked down at the floor, then back up at her. "The bullet nicked a vertebra on your spine. They had to operate to clean out the fragments. They got them all."

"Nick, I can't feel my legs. Tell me I'm not paralyzed. Tell me."

She felt panic hovering. Fear. If she couldn't walk, what would she do? How would she function? Her passion for life was built around action, athletics, movement. Movement. Something she'd always taken for granted, never thought about.

"Your spinal cord wasn't hit, but it's bruised. That causes temporary paralysis."

"Temporary? This will go away?"

"Yes. They're optimistic." He paused. "For the short term, you can't walk. But it will heal. You have to believe that."

"How long? How long until I find out if it's permanent?"

"A month. Maybe less. As it heals, you'll get feeling back. You're in for some tough rehab, but it should all come back."

"If it heals."

"Yes."

"You forgot the vests." As she said it, she wished she could take the words back.

He looked down at the floor again.

"Yes," he said. "Yes, I did."

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Ronnie, Nick and Lamont met Korov at the airport terminal in Florence. From there they would drive southwest toward Pisa and Foxworth's villa on the Arno. Ronnie watched Korov coming toward them across the terminal floor. The Russian wore a brown jacket, dark brown pants and shoes, a white shirt open at the collar. The collar on his shirt had wide points. He carried a cheap blue airline bag.

"Reminds me a lot of you," Ronnie said to Nick. "We could have used him, back in the day."

"Back in the day, he was probably helping people shoot at us."

"Yeah. Times change."

Korov came up to them. "So. We are a team again." He shook hands all around. "It is good to see you. Selena is not with you?"

Nick was tight lipped. "Hello, Arkady. Not this time. Let's get going."

Korov looked a question at Ronnie. He made a slight don't ask gesture with his head. They followed Nick out to the parking lot and their rented Alfa.

"I still say we should have got the Ferrari," Lamont said. "Always wanted to drive one of those."

"We would have needed three of them."

"Christ, Nick. Lighten up."

They tossed their bags in the trunk and got in the car. Lamont followed signs out of the airport and got on the E76 toward Pisa. Nick and Korov sat in back. Nick opened a folder with satellite photos of the villa and a road map of the region. Outside, the peaceful countryside rolled past.

Tuscany, one of the world's great destinations, the birthplace of the Italian Renaissance and some of the greatest art, literature, architecture and music in the world. It had been the home of the Medicis, of dukes and popes and kings. It was a land of good wine, good food, passion and beauty. It was also a land drenched in treachery and blood.

"We stay on this road until Pisa." Nick traced the route on the map. "At Pisa we go south toward the coast. Foxworth's place is right on the Arno, here, upriver from where it empties into the Ligurian Sea." He handed the photographs to Korov.

Korov studied the pictures. "Only one road in. Fortified. What's his security?"

"Foxworth has a dozen guards. Most of them are concentrated up top. They've got Uzis. The way the villa is built in tiers means we'd have to fight through them and down three levels. I want to come in from the river."

Nick showed him another set of photographs, taken from the river.

"This big stone landing is the river access. Behind it, there's a boathouse." He placed his finger on the photo. "We can either go up those steps on the outside or through the boathouse to get into the main building. We do it quiet, the guards up top won't know we're there. We grab Foxworth, get out and take him someplace where we won't be interrupted."

"The steps are exposed," Korov said. "They can fire from above. We wouldn't make it."

"That's why I'm thinking the boathouse is the best bet. There has to be an inside entrance to the villa."

"What about the gate to the boathouse?"

"Lamont will handle that. He'll go underwater and open it."

Lamont wove in and out through the traffic. The speedometer on the Alfa held at a steady 130kph, about 80 mph. Traffic was heavy and rules absent. The Italians all drove as if they were in the Grand Prix. Lamont passed a truck and dodged a battered red Fiat. The driver raised his finger in a universal sign.

"There must be alarms. Sensors." Korov shuffled the pictures.

"That's a problem," Nick said. "We don't have enough intel. We have to play it by ear."

"By ear?" Korov had a puzzled expression.

"An idiom, Arkady. Means we improvise. "

"You have a boat ready?"

"Waiting for us at Tyrrhenia, on the coast."

Harker had arranged everything. Someone was coming after dark and bringing the weapons and gear they'd need.

"And when we have the target?"

"We make like Napoleon." Nick smiled. "We head for the island of Elba. An isolated house. No one will be looking for us there, not at first. It will give us time. To talk."

Less than an hour later they reached the outskirts of Pisa and turned south. After a short while they turned off on a road to the shore. A house on the beach waited for them. It had two bedrooms, a kitchen and a living area with a sofa. Nick planned to hit the villa around three in the morning, when the guards would be bored and least alert.

"Better get some sleep," he said. "It's going to be a long night." He went into one of the bedrooms and closed the door.

Korov looked at the closed door, then at Ronnie and Lamont.

"What is wrong? Nick is not the same. Is there trouble?"

Ronnie told him about Mexico. "He thinks it's his fault about Selena. Problem is, he's partly right. It's eating him up inside."

"And he thinks this man Foxworth is responsible."

"Right."

"I don't think I would want to be this man," Korov said.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

It wasn't much fun, lying awake at three in the morning. The floor outside Selena's room was quiet. She'd asked the duty nurse to leave the door open. The open door was just enough to keep the demons at bay. It was quiet, this early in the morning. Sometimes someone passed outside. Sometimes she could hear voices from the nurse's station down the corridor, or a call over the hospital speakers for a doctor.

She didn't need to feel isolated and alone on top of everything else. It was bad enough that a catheter drained her body waste, bad enough that she still had no feeling in her legs.

The pain killers kept her awake. Her mind turned things over in a drugged half sleep. She couldn't get out of the bed by herself. Lying there with a night light throwing shadows on the pale walls, she had nothing to look at but the monitors and the steady spikes of her heart beating across the screen in digital green.

She'd demanded they cut back on the drugs. She hated the fuzzy feeling that came from the morphine or whatever they'd been pumping into her. She could push a button for a hit, if the pain got bad, but she kept her finger away. It was too easy to let herself drift in a monotonous, monochrome sea of disturbing thoughts and images.

The pain told her she was alive. She thought she'd felt a twinge in her foot, an hour or so ago. She might have imagined it.

She fought the thoughts, the fear she would never walk again. Never run. Never swim. Never jump from an airplane or go shopping without a wheelchair or just go to the damned bathroom like a human being.

Never feel the adrenaline rush that came when her finger was pressed against the trigger and people were trying to kill her. She didn't like the killing, but she couldn't lie to herself. She'd come to crave the adventure, the danger, the sense of being on the edge.

The edge had caught up with her. More than caught up, she'd fallen off it.

She tried to think about anything except the possibility she'd be crippled for life. She remembered good days spent with her brother and parents, before the accident took them from her. She remembered her uncle laughing as he took her around Paris and showed her the glories of the Louvre, introduced her to her first taste of good wine and French cooking.

The City of Light, he'd said, a beacon of culture in a barbaric world.

She remembered the first time she'd seen Nick in Harker's office and the look of surprise he couldn't quite hide.

She smiled. He'd been expecting someone else, probably a dried up academic. She remembered the first time they'd made love, in his cabin. They were good memories. In every one of them she'd been standing on her own two feet. Well, except for making love. Sometimes even then.

She had no feeling below the waist. If she was paralyzed, her relationship with Nick was over. She would never allow him to stay with her, even if he swore he wanted to.

She pushed back tears.

Pain from the surgery was a steady fire in her abdomen. They were feeding her intravenously, to give her intestines time to heal. She was losing weight. When she got out of here she'd look like one of those anorexic models on supermarket magazine covers.

When she got out of here.

What would she do?

She felt a wave of self pity lurking and shut it down. She was going to beat this. She thought about Master Kim, her martial arts teacher and friend. What would he do? He would never surrender, never give up. Neither would she.

She closed her eyes and took a breath and began the meditation on the warrior's way.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

"Cool," Lamont said.

Their boat was docked in a private marina in a secluded cove. It was 46 feet long, shaped like a bullet and painted black. It looked sleek and fast and sinister.

"Nice boat," Korov said.

"Nice? This is more than nice. This is a Ferrari of boats, the best. It's a rich man's boat. I know about these. It's a Rough Rider XP, top of the line. Two Mercury engines, turbo charged. I'll bet it's got a hell of a stereo."

"How much power?" Ronnie asked.

"A lot. 2700 horse or more. This is one fast son of a bitch. I wonder who Harker knows? We'd better take good care of it."

"2700 horsepower for a fiberglass sport boat?" Nick said. "You have got to be kidding."

"I told you, rich man's boat, built for racing. Something like this costs three quarters of a million dollars. I never thought I'd get to drive one."

"Who said you're driving?"

"I'm the water guy, remember? We had cigarette boats in the Seals. They're kind of touchy. You don't want to make a mistake."

"Cigarette boat?" Korov had that puzzled look again. "It doesn't look like a cigarette."

Lamont and Ronnie laughed. "They call them that because smugglers used them to run cigarettes past the Coast Guard. Nobody does that anymore, now it's drugs. Too fast to catch. Before that they were called rum runners."

"Enough with the history," Nick said. "Saddle up."

They stowed the gear in a small cabin in front of the cockpit. The boat sat six. There would be room to strap Foxworth in. Korov ran his fingers over the smooth tan leather of the seats.

Lamont started the engines. The sound at idle was subdued, a gentle rumble in the night.

"Cast off," Lamont said.

The boat came free of the dock. He eased the throttle forward. They moved away toward open water. The grumble of the twin Mercurys was steady, soothing.

The line of instruments on the dash threw a soft, green glow across the cockpit.

"Boat's got it all," Lamont said. "GPS. Livorsi instruments, touch screen navigation, radio if we need it. Probably plays Jimmie Hendrix in mood light LEDs if you want." He eyed the stereo.

"Don't even think about it," Nick said.

The night was black except for the radiance of the stars. Lamont headed a little way offshore and turned in the direction of the Arno River. He opened the throttle a bit more. The bow lifted and the boat surged ahead. With their low profile and black paint they were an arrow-like phantom on the water. The air smelled of salt and seaweed and the shore passing on their left. There was a steady, cool breeze.

In twenty minutes they came to the mouth of the Arno. Lamont steered into the river and headed upstream. He looked at the GPS.

"Getting close."

"Check your gear," Nick said.

Vests. MP-5s. Flash bangs. Pistols. If this went wrong, every cop in Europe would be looking for them. They'd be in the middle of an international shit storm. The world saw Foxworth as a rich and successful businessman, a philanthropist, a man to be emulated and admired. The world had no idea who he was behind the public mask.

Foxworth's villa appeared ahead on their left. Lamont throttled down and stayed in the middle of the river. The engines made low burbling noises. Nick watched the house though night vision lenses as they idled past.

"One man on the garden terrace, smoking a cigarette. One headed topside on the steps coming up from the pier. His weapon is slung and he's looking at his watch. Bored."

Then they were past and around a long bend in the river. Lamont continued up river for a short distance, then throttled down and brought the boat around. The engines idled. They drifted with the sluggish current downstream, toward the villa.

"All right. We get around the end of the pier and up to the boathouse. Ronnie, someone spots us, be ready to take him out."

Ronnie nodded.

"Let's do it."

Lamont touched the throttle. They came back down around the bend. The promontory and their target lay ahead. Most of the villa was dark. Dim lights showed behind tall French windows on the ground floor. The courtyard by the main gate was lit. The boathouse was shrouded in darkness.

"Coming down the steps," Korov said in a low voice.

A single guard started down the long flight of stairs from the villa to the pier. Ronnie had his MP-5 up against his cheek, tracking the unsuspecting man through the night scope. The gun was suppressed, but a silenced weapon wasn't all that silent. If he fired, the noise could be enough to alert others. Better if they didn't have to shoot. Lamont applied just enough power to keep headway and guided the boat toward the landing.

Nick watched the guard. Once we reach the end we'll be hidden. Unless he comes to the edge and looks down.

Lamont killed the engines. The boat glided silently into the dark channel of water leading to the closed boathouse gates. Momentum carried them forward. Lamont cut the helm over. They turned sideways and bumped up against the gates with a soft, scraping sound. Korov reached for the steel bars and held the boat steady. They waited.

The guard's footsteps sounded on the landing above and stopped. A sudden stream of liquid splashed down into the water, ten yards from where they waited. They heard the man sigh, the sound of a zipper. The footsteps started again and receded.

Nick felt a headache beginning. He unclenched tight fingers from his MP-5.

The gates were made of stainless steel and opened in the middle. They didn't move when Nick pushed against them. They weren't chained or locked. There had to be a controlling mechanism somewhere inside. Like a garage door, operated by a remote when coming in from the river.

Lamont stripped down to his shorts, rinsed out a pair of goggles and put them on. He lowered himself over the side, took a deep breath, another, then submerged into the black-green water.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Lamont kicked downward until he found the bottom of the gate. He swam under it and came up on the other side.

"You look like a drowned rat," Nick said.

"Called camouflage."

Nick handed him a flashlight through the bars.

"Find that control."

"Aye, aye, Cap'n."

The boathouse was long and high, a cavern of moldering brick and moss-covered stone. A wide stone landing ran along one side. White boat fenders hung down at regular intervals. Steps cut into the landing led down to the water and disappeared below the surface. A cabin cruiser was docked at the far end. Polished brass gleamed in the light from the flash.

Lamont swam to the steps and climbed up on the platform. A switch box was mounted on the wall. Next to the box, a narrow flight of steps led to the villa above. His feet left wet prints on the rough stone as he walked to the box. It contained two switches labeled in Italian, one marked LAMPADAS, the other PORTA. Lights and gate.

Lamont flicked the PORTA switch down and the two sides of the gate swung inward. He went along the platform to the open gates, caught a rope from Nick and pulled the boat stern first into the cavern and up against the bumpers. The others scrambled onto the platform. Lamont dressed and picked up his MP-5. They pulled black balaclavas over their heads.

Nick said, "Korov, you stick close to me."

"What if Foxworth is not here?"

"He's here. I can feel it."

Nick's ear tingled, his sixth sense, the one that had failed him back in Mexico. Back when Selena was shot. He shook off the thought.

They went up the stairs single file. The steps ended at a closed wooden door.

"This feels too easy," Ronnie said.

"Uh huh," Lamont said. "That's what I was thinking."

"There could be alarms," Korov said.

Nick shone his light around the closed door, looking for anything to show the door was wired.

"I don't see anything. But something doesn't feel right."

"I had a place like this, I'd have an alarm on the gate." Lamont spoke softly.

"And someone on the other side of that door," Korov said.

Nick flicked the selector on his MP-5 to three round bursts. He thought about Selena, paralyzed in a hospital bed because of the man somewhere in this house. As far as he was concerned, everyone here had forfeited the right to presumed innocence. This early in the morning they weren't going to run into the cleaning lady.

Nick put his hand on the latch and felt the adrenaline begin. He mouthed the count.

One. Two. Three.

He opened the door. Nothing happened.

They stepped into a hallway lit by a single bulb. To the right, the passage ended in a brick wall. To the left, there was a window at the far end and another set of steps.

The soft rubber soles of their shoes made no noise. The hall floor was paved with large marble tiles in black and white. They moved down the hall, past a side passage to another set of stairs. Looking up, Nick saw a high, plaster ceiling, dimly lit. He climbed, quiet and careful. The others came behind.

The stairs led to a room big enough for an embassy reception. A second story balcony lined with a railing ran along three sides. More stairs led up to the balcony at each end.

Brocaded sofas and chairs and antique end tables were scattered about in ordered groupings. Four elaborate crystal chandeliers hung from a ceiling forty feet overhead. The floor was tiled with white marble. Museum lights illuminated oil paintings in gilded frames on the walls, pastoral country scenes and portraits of medieval nobles with malevolent eyes and sharp noses and floppy hats. There were no religious paintings.

A large white marble fireplace dominated one end of the room. Over the mantle, a single light shone on a larger than life-sized portrait of a hard faced man in a blue pinstripe suit and lavender tie. The man sat in a carved wooden chair that could have been a throne. The artist had caught a gleam of light on the arm of the chair where the man rested his hand. It looked as though he held a butcher knife.

Foxworth.

Nick pointed at Ronnie and Lamont, signaled for them to clear the rooms on the left. He pointed at himself and Korov, indicated the right. The first room Nick entered was a dimly lit conservatory with high ceilings and tall French windows, filled with plants of every description. He stepped back out. Across the way Ronnie and Lamont emerged from a doorway and shook their heads.

They came together at the last room. It was a study and library, rich with leather and wood and soft rugs underfoot. The windows faced out toward the river below. The room was on the far side of the house, away from the boat.

Nick went to the desk. It was a modern piece, out of place in the library's atmosphere of classic European elegance. He started opening drawers.

Papers. A bound stack of purple Euro notes. A Walther pistol. Two British passports. Nick glanced at them. One for Foxworth. One for someone named Mandy Atherton. The bottom drawer was locked. Nick used his knife to pry it open. Inside was a brown, tissue-thin envelope with blue writing on it. Nick took it out and opened it. It was a list of  names. One of the names was Ogorov's. He showed the paper to Korov.

"Take a look." His voice was quiet.

The Russian read the list. "Ogorov. So, he is involved. A traitor." His expression was grim. "This one, Maupassant. That's the name of the French Finance Minister."

"Yeah. I think we've got what we need."

Nick heard the scrape of a boot somewhere outside the library. His ear began to throb. He tucked the envelope inside his shirt and signaled. The four men moved silently to the door.

From where he stood, Nick couldn't see anyone in the main room or on the balcony to the sides. There could be someone on the balcony above the library. He spoke in a whisper.

"Someone's out there."

"Guards?" Ronnie said.

"Maybe. Time to leave."

"What about Foxworth?"

Nick patted the paper under his shirt. "We've got proof he's mixed up with Ogorov. Forget Foxworth. We have to get back to the boat."

"It's a long way across that room." Ronnie pointed with his MP-5 at the ceiling. "If someone's on that balcony, we're sitting ducks."

"Ducks?" Korov said.

Nick shook his head. "I'll explain later."

"There is another set of steps down," Korov said. "To the right as we go out. Not far, maybe five or six meters."

"I saw that. They have to lead back to the lower level. I don't want to cross that room again." He looked at the others. "All right. We go for those stairs."

They stepped out of the library. The chandeliers erupted in a blaze of light. The adrenaline hit him, the aliveness, the fear. The rush.

"Drop your weapons!"

The voice came from above.

"Go!" Nick yelled. They ran for the stairwell opening. Nick lifted his MP-5 and fired blindly up at the balcony as he ran. The room filled with the sound of guns. Bullets ricocheted and whined away off the stone floor, leaving puffs of white dust where they hit.

One of the men on the balcony fell over the railing and plunged to the floor below. It sounded like someone had dropped a large watermelon onto the marble. Korov went down. He cursed in Russian. Ronnie and Nick kept up heavy covering fire and Lamont helped him to his feet. They reached the steps and started down.

The steps ended in a short hall. They ran to the end and found themselves in the long passage leading to the boathouse. Lamont fired a burst at someone who'd made it down the stairs. They reached the boathouse door, slammed it shut behind them and ran down the steps and out onto the platform. The boat was still there. The engines fired with the touch of a button. Ahead, the gates began to close. Someone had triggered them from inside the house.

Lamont grabbed the throttles and the boat leapt forward. The gates scraped along the fiberglass hull as they cleared the boathouse. An Uzi sounded nearby and the back row of seats shredded in bits of foam and leather. Nick lifted his gun and shot a man firing from the steps. He tumbled down the stairs onto the landing and lay motionless in a crumpled heap.

They cleared the end of the landing. Lamont put the helm over and opened the throttles. The cigarette lifted up and shot down the river toward the sea. The villa disappeared behind them.

They were  moving too fast. Lamont throttled back.

"How's the boat?" Nick asked.

"I think we're cool. He blew the hell out of the seats but missed the engines. I don't think we're taking water. Lucky."

"Foxworth will have everyone after us. Head south down the coast. I'll get hold of Harker and call for extraction."

They reached the open water. Lamont increased power and turned south. The cigarette was a black arrow skimming over the waves. A wide, foaming wake trailed behind, phosphorescent in the Tuscan night.

Nick turned to Korov. "You were hit?"

"Yes. But your vests are good. I have soreness, no more."

Nick nodded. Korov was right, they were good, the latest model. 30 layers of Kevlar, the best gear America made. It would stop a .308. Heavy, but effective. The thought reminded Nick of Selena.

What if she can't ever walk again? It was your fault. Your fault. How could you forget?

There had been plenty of missions in the old days without vests or with vests that were a joke, that would barely stop a .22. But the new ones would have stopped the round that hit her. The ones he'd forgotten to pack.

He knew he'd never forgive himself if she was paralyzed.

I fucked up. His mood turned dark.

"Nick." Ronnie's voice brought him back. "Hadn't you better call Harker?"

"Yeah." Nick took out the satellite phone, punched in the code. Two rings.

"Yes, Nick."

"We have a problem." He briefed her.

"All right. I've got you on screen."

In Virginia, Elizabeth watched the marker from Nick's GPS moving south along the coast.

"You're passing Livorno," she said. "You should see it on your left."

"I see it."

The lights of Livorno were already falling behind as they sped over the water.

"The next town along the coast is called Rosignano. It's about 20 kilometers from where you are. There's a big castle there, built on a hill overlooking the coast. You'll see it coming. Get ashore there and I'll have someone meet you. Stay out of sight until I can set up extraction."

"Roger that." He paused. "How's Selena?"

"She's out of danger. Call me when you make shore." Elizabeth broke the connection. She wasn't about to tell Nick it looked like Selena might be paralyzed for the rest of her life.

Nick put the phone away. He told them what Harker had said.

"Be light soon," Ronnie said.

"We'll be ashore by then."

Nick settled back in one of the comfortable seats. The adrenaline rush was gone. His back was on fire and clamping up. He felt every old wound, every one of his  years. Not for the first time, he thought about quitting. But what would he do if he quit? Like every other time he'd thought about it, he had no answer.

He gave in to the tiredness and was dozing when the big Mercury engines burst into full throated roar and the craft leapt forward. They began smacking the low wave tops in a constant up and down motion that turned his stomach over.

Lamont said, "We've got company." He handed Nick the night vision binoculars and pointed out to sea. An Italian patrol boat was headed toward them. Water curled high around the bow. They were coming at flank speed.

"Can't you go any faster? Nick asked.

Lamont answered in an indignant Scottish accent. "I'm givin' her all she's got, Captain. Any more, and she'll blow."

Nick smiled in spite of himself. The boat flew across the surface. He lifted his binoculars. The smile disappeared. He handed the lenses to Korov.

"They are still far away," Korov said. He gave the binoculars back.

Nick trained the lenses on the boat. "It looks like a Dicotti class," he said. "It'll have a 76mm gun, remote controlled. They've got us on their radar, for sure. They get a little closer, they can hit us."

"They'll want to talk before they start shooting," Lamont said. "Board us."

Nick scanned the shore. The shadowy bulk of the castle marking the medieval town of Rosignano loomed on a high hill ahead. A distant boom came from the darkness out at sea. A white fountain of water erupted several hundred yards away from them.

"Guess they don't want to talk," Lamont said.

"They're still out of range, but not for long. Head for shore. Look for somewhere we can ditch this."

"It's all beach. We can run right up to it." He turned the boat toward shore.

The beach was visible in the predawn, a smooth white band against the dark of the mainland. Another muffled boom sounded from the Italian patrol boat. This time the shell landed 200 yards behind them.

"Take us close. Ditch the weapons and the rest of the gear except the pistols." They threw everything over the side. Nick kept his GPS. They were still a hundred yards off shore.

"They can't make us out in this light," Nick said, "but they've got us on their radar." There was another report from the cannon. The shell landed twenty yards away. Water sprayed over the boat.

"We're out of time. Lamont, turn parallel to the shore. We'll go over the side and swim in. Set the throttle and get your ass in after us."

"Roger that."

Lamont slowed a little, put the helm over and tied off the wheel. The others went over the side. Lamont balanced himself on the edge of the cockpit and pulled the throttles wide open and dove off. The big Mercury engines and 2700 horses kicked in. The needle bow lifted high in the air. The empty boat screamed away.

The sound of the cannon echoed in the distance. They heard the shell whistle through the air. The boat vanished in a blossom of orange flame. Debris and water cascaded down on them. They swam hard for shore. They reached the beach and ran across the pristine sands and into a forest of pines.

Nick felt cold water draining down into his pants. He pulled out the envelope he'd taken from the villa. The paper inside was a soggy mass, useless, the blue writing nothing more than a blur. He wadded it up and threw it down in disgust on the sand, then took out his phone and called Harker.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

The morning after the raid, Foxworth summoned Mandy, Morel and Healy to the library. Morel had never seen Foxworth in a rage like this. He paced back and forth across the room, shouting. Spittle flew from his mouth. They stood shocked and silent, unmoving while he ranted.

It's a tumor, I know it is, Morel thought. It's getting worse. He's losing control.

The security chief was stone-faced. In the SAS he'd seen enraged officers dress down subordinates. He'd seen men go berserk in the stress of battle. He thought he'd seen it all. But he'd never seen anything like this.

He's gone bonkers. Stark, raving looney. The room was suddenly quiet. Foxworth walked over and stood in front of Healy. His eyes narrowed. His face was chalk white.

"You screwed up again." After the shouting, his voice was hoarse, quiet. The calmness was strange after the rage. "Do you have anything to say?"

"Sir, we kept them away from you. It's what you hired me for."

"No, Healy, it isn't."

Foxworth's eyes glittered. The pupils were huge.

Those drugs Morel gives you, Healy thought. They're not working, mate.

Foxworth said, "I hired you to make sure no one even got close to me. I hired you to take care of things. You haven't been doing that very well, have you? I think you should resign."

Healy was done. He'd had enough, working for this arrogant asshole.

"Sir, you have my resignation."

"Good. I'm glad you agree."

Foxworth took out a Walther PPK and shot Healy in the face. The body flew backwards and fell to the floor. Blood sprayed over Mandy's elegant silk dress. Foxworth stepped forward and fired three more rounds into Healy's twitching body. He put the gun back under his jacket and straightened his tie. He turned to Mandy. Her mouth was half open, her face drained of color. Morel didn't dare move.

"Mandy, my dear. I am so sorry about your dress. Tomorrow we'll go to Florence and shop for a new one. Why don't you change and we'll breakfast on the terrace."

She swallowed. "Yes, Malcolm. Right away." She glanced down at Healy's corpse and walked quickly from the room.

Three guards ran into the room, guns drawn. They looked at the body, then at Foxworth. One of the men was broad shouldered and dark faced. Foxworth knew who he was. He knew all the life details of everyone who worked for him.

"Sir, we heard shots. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. Dragonov, you are now chief of security." He gestured at Healy's body. "Take that out of here and get rid of it."

"Yes, sir." Dragonov and the other two picked up the dead weight and hurried from the room.

"Morel. I have a headache. Take care of it."

Soon Foxworth was relaxed and out of pain. He dismissed Morel. He opened the library windows and stepped onto the balcony and looked out toward the river. The day was beautiful, the kind of day travel agents sold and vacationers dreamed of. Birds sang in the trees under brilliant blue sky that had inspired the greatest painters of the Renaissance.

Foxworth took a deep breath of the warm Italian air. After breakfast he would indulge himself with Mandy. She would be insatiable after the morning's events. He was certain violence turned women on.

The drugs coursed through his body. Yes, life was good.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

Yuri Malenkov and Anatoly Ogorov contemplated the object recovered from the Yucatan ruins. A frigid blast of wind rattled the windows of Malenkov's laboratory at Irtysh, a warning of approaching winter.

Yuri's voice betrayed his excitement. "This could not have been produced in a pre-technological civilization."

"It's a crystal," Ogorov said. "What is so different about it?"

The crystal was about a foot and a half tall, polished and transparent. It had a flat base and a perfect, tapered point. Yuri concealed his frustration at Ogorov's question.

"I subjected it to electron microscopy and X-ray crystallography. It was shaped by some process I don't understand. There are no tooling marks of any kind. That alone makes it different."

He took the crystal in both hands and placed it on a pedestal in the middle of the room.

"The crystal is impossibly flawless," he said. "It acts to focus and direct energy. I've arranged a demonstration for you. If you look up you'll see a sheet of fire resistant material on the ceiling."

Ogorov looked up.

"Watch this, but stay away from the crystal."

Ogorov stepped back. Yuri took a laser pointer from his shirt pocket, the kind lecturers used everywhere. He aimed and turned it on. The crystal turned deep, blood red. An intense beam of light shot straight upward and struck the asbestos sheet above. It began to glow with heat. Ogorov heard a low humming, a faint resonance through the soles of his shoes.

Yuri switched off the laser. The humming stopped. The asbestos smoldered.

"That was an ordinary pointer, a harmless laser. Imagine what it will do with Tesla's ray. This is what he lacked. An amplifier, a way to increase the power of his device. This solves that problem. With this, we can reach the moon." He looked up, as if he could see the universe through the roof of the building. "We will command space."

"Why did you not think of crystal before?" Ogorov asked.

"I did. But this is not ordinary crystal. I am not even sure it is from this planet."

Ogorov raised his eyebrows. "'You can't be serious."

"There is no crystal on earth anything like it. The arrangement of the atoms is unique."

"Can you make more of these?"

"No. Not with our current technology. There will only be one weapon. We must protect it."

"That is underway. What remains to be done for deployment?"

"The pyramid is complete. I'm moving everything over there. Construction is almost finished on the Tesla machine. I'll need to test the power outputs and make adjustments. I'm adapting our existing missile guidance technology for the aiming device. Once everything is functioning properly and the crystal is mounted, we are ready."

"How long?"

"I think three months. Perhaps two."

"Have it completed in two," Ogorov said. "I have a perfect test in mind."

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

Selena was in a rotten mood on her first day of rehab. Feeling had come back to her legs, an agony of pins and needles. She couldn't stand upright without help. She couldn't feel the floor. Her back hurt like hell. She felt like an old woman, a very old woman. It didn't help that she had to be pushed around in a wheelchair.

At least she wouldn't be paralyzed. She would beat it. The doctors were cautiously optimistic. Would she get full use back? Probably, they said. Would her legs be as strong as they had been? Very likely, they said, but we don't know. We can't guarantee it. We'll know better after a few months. It all depends.

Their opinions were about as useful as a first class stateroom on the Titanic.

An orderly brought her into the rehab center and left. A woman in nurse's uniform came over to her. She had silky smooth skin the color of honey. She was attractive and young, cheerful and perky and strong. Selena hated her on the spot.

"Hi, I'm Arlene. I'm going to be your rehab person today."

"Can you just tell me what the specials are?"

Arlene gave her a cool look.

"Never mind," Selena said. "Bad joke."

"Let me ask you something. You want to walk again?"

"What do you mean? Of course I do."

"Then lose the attitude. There's no miracle here. This is going to hurt. You have to get your mind around it. Okay?"

"Yes. Sorry."

"Good. Let's get started."

For an hour Arlene pushed Selena through the exercises. Selena clenched her teeth and took it. At the end, she was exhausted, but sore was better than numb. Aches were better than nothing. Then Arlene wheeled her back to her room.

When she got there, Nick was waiting. He'd brought flowers. Birds of paradise, something green, white baby's breath.

He looked terrible, like he hadn't slept for a week.

"Hey."

"Hey yourself." She hated having him see her like this.

Arlene helped her into bed. "See you tomorrow."

"I'm sorry if I gave you a hard time," Selena said.

"That's okay. I'm used to it. Everyone hates rehab. You did great." She arranged the flowers on the bedside table. "Just take it one day at a time."

As she left she smiled at Nick.

He said, "How are you?"

"Good. I'm good." She paused. "No I'm not. But I will be. Good, I mean."

She'd had time to think, lying in her bed. Time to consider how she'd gotten here. Time to replay the fight in the jungle over and over, the shock of the bullet hitting her, tearing through her body because she wasn't wearing a vest. She didn't want to blame him but she did. It didn't matter what she told herself.

"Selena, I'm sorry."

Suddenly she was angry. "Goddamn it, don't say you're sorry. Sorry doesn't help. You forgot the vests. I stood up. No one's to blame. But don't say you're sorry."

He opened his mouth, closed it again.

She looked at the flowers and took a deep breath. "It's all part of what we do. If you say you're sorry, you make it your fault. Don't say you're sorry. I knew what I was getting into. It's my life. You're not responsible for what happens in it."

"I was in charge."

"You weren't in charge of the men who shot at us. You're not in charge of me, in the field or anywhere else. So get off it. You're feeling sorry for yourself."

He flushed. "That's not fair."

"So? Who said life was fair?"

"Maybe I should go."

"Maybe you should."

Nick looked at her. He laid the flowers on her bedside table. Then he turned and left.

"Thanks for the flowers," she said to the empty room.

Then she cried.

CHAPTER FIFTY

The nights were turning crisp and cool. The election was a few weeks away. Nick had been to California and moved his mother to a private nursing home after her stroke. She hadn't recognized him. His sister was nagging him about putting the house on the market.

His father was dead, which was fine by Nick. His sister was an annoying thorn in his side. His mother didn't know who he was. More and more, he thought of the Project team as his real family, the only people he could rely on. The only ones he cared about.

He and Selena weren't talking much. He was drinking more than usual. Running helped keep him keep it together.

Nick stepped out for his usual evening run. A black armored Cadillac limo waited at the curb, idling. The driver wore a black suit, dark sunglasses, a white earpiece and a pistol under his jacket. He opened the rear door and waited for Nick to get in.

Shit, Nick thought, here we go again. What now?

The man riding in the back of that car called himself Adam. Nick didn't know who he was or what he looked like or if Adam was his real name. He hadn't been able to find out where he came from or where he went. All he knew was that Adam was a serious player. Adam had told him about the existence of AEON and warned him about the Demeter threat. Whatever the man was about to tell him, Nick was sure it would complicate his life. Nick got in. The driver closed the door. The lock clicked.

The inside of the car was a luxury cocoon of top grain leather and soft halo lighting. The windows were completely blacked out. A partition of opaque, black glass divided the rear compartment down the middle. A speaker was set in the glass. A slot in the partition allowed for something to be passed through. The driver was invisible behind another barrier of black glass.

The Cadillac pulled smoothly away into the unseen traffic. It was very quiet and comfortable inside the car.

"Good evening, Nick."

Even though he knew it was coming, the words startled him. The voice was masked by electronics. There was no way to identify the speaker.

"Adam."

"You must go to Russia."

Adam wasn't much for idle conversation.

"I think you're about to tell me why."

The electronic voice chuckled. It sounded like it was underwater. "A little over three years ago, a clerk cataloging documents in the Nikola Tesla Museum in Belgrade discovered secret plans hidden by Tesla. He sold them on the black market and was killed right after. You met his killer."

"I remember. The one in Prague who came after us. He said his first job for whoever had hired him was a museum clerk."

"It was Foxworth who hired him." The electronic voice continued. "The plans are for a particle beam weapon. Tesla talked about it and even demonstrated a small device that operated in a vacuum. The tabloids of the time called it a death ray. Tesla said he'd overcome problems that prevented the weapon from working in the atmosphere. He also said he hadn't written down the plans. He was lying. Now AEON has them."

"Adam, what the hell is a particle beam weapon?"

"It fires a focused proton beam of high intensity. The beam destabilizes the atomic structure of the target. Picture a building or a tank or a plane suddenly deprived of the atomic glue that holds it together. It would literally disintegrate."

"That sounds like science fiction."

Nick could almost sense Adam nodding in agreement behind the partition.

"Yes. However, it is possible. The theoretical physics are well understood. The United States, Russia, and China have been trying to build one for years. Experimental prototypes exist, but no one has succeeded in constructing a practical application. Not yet. The beam requires enormous power to be effective."

"I take it Tesla wasn't crazy."

"AEON is building it in Russia."

Nick considered that. "Why? They just tried to bring Russia down a few months ago."

"AEON is opportunistic, always operating on many levels. A project like this needs equipment, serious funding, research, secrecy. Only a government can provide that. This weapon will provide a unique strategic advantage. Like the atomic bomb."

"They intend to give this to the Russians?"

"No. The Kremlin is unaware of AEON's real motive."

"What is their motive?"

"Dominance and control. Tesla's weapon will be turned against us and the Russians and anyone else who stands in their way. They have been preparing for years, since they got their hands on Tesla's secret. They've put up a satellite relay system. Once the beam is operational, it can be directed at any target on earth. They found what they needed in Mexico to maximize the power levels. The weapon is in the final stages of construction."

Mexico, again. The ripples of his failure kept spreading.

Adam continued. "My best intelligence says it will be completed soon."

"We're not welcome in Russia."

"General Vysotsky will smooth the way."

"Vysotsky? But he's SVR. He'd as soon lock us up or shoot us if we set foot on Russian territory."

"Vysotsky is a nationalist. Director Harker briefed him. He knows that Ogorov is not acting in the interest of the Federation. He has worked with you before. He respects Harker. He will help you."

"You sound sure."

"I am sure. Ogorov has gained control of the FSB through General Kaminsky. He wants to reestablish the old KGB with Kaminsky as Director. SVR would be reduced in importance. If Vysotsky reveals Ogorov and Kaminsky as traitors, it could gain him the Director's slot at SVR."

"You want to throw us into the middle of an internal power struggle between Russia's security agencies? Christ, Adam."

"Vysotsky only controls Department S. SVR is riddled with informers and political enemies. He can't use his own people except for a few like Major Korov. He needs you and your team."

"Even if we succeed in finding this weapon and stopping AEON, what's to prevent Vysotsky from taking control of it himself?"

"Well, Nick. I rely on you to solve that problem. You must destroy the installation."

"What about Foxworth?"

Distorted laughter came from the other side of the partition.

"You ruined his vacation, Nick. He was quite upset about it. Foxworth will not be a problem much longer. It's Ogorov we have to watch."

"Why won't he be a problem?"

"Foxworth has an inoperable brain tumor, but he doesn't know it. He refused to have the tests that could have saved his life and now it's too late. His judgement is becoming erratic and he's making mistakes. He'll be dead in a year. Sooner, if the rest of AEON discovers the truth."

Nick wondered how Adam knew these things. It didn't matter, if he was right. He'd been right before.

Adam continued. "His instability makes him extremely dangerous. Foxworth is unable to see consequences that don't fit with rewarding his ego. If he uses this weapon against us it will mean war with Russia. Some of the others in AEON's leadership group are getting nervous. They may eliminate him, but not before he does something stupid."

The Cadillac came to a quiet stop. A silver tray bearing a slim, manila envelope came through the slot in the partition.

"Everything is in the envelope," Adam said.

Nick picked up the envelope. The tray slid back into the partition.

The lock on the rear door clicked open.

"Goodbye, Nick."

Nick got out and closed the door. He was back in front of his apartment building. He watched the car pull away and merge smoothly into the Washington traffic.

He wondered who Adam was. He looked at the envelope in his hand and opened it and began to read.

He went inside to call Harker.

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

The first two weeks of rehab had been difficult. The next two were hell. Arlene knew Selena needed to push herself. She let her do it without passing the limit of what her body could endure while it healed. The two women had become friends.

Her spine was healing. The bruising was less serious than feared, but her feet still didn't feel right. Her legs were weak. It would be months before the damage was fully repaired. If it could be. It was too soon to tell.

Once, Arlene had asked how she'd been shot. Selena had made up a story about being in the wrong place at the wrong time. She knew Arlene didn't believe her, but the nurse didn't bring it up again. Nick, though, was a different subject.

"He's good looking, in a kind of scary way," Arlene said. Selena was walking on a narrow moving strip, holding on to two long parallel bars.

"I suppose so," Selena said. She didn't want to talk about Nick.

The walkway slowed and stopped. Sweat beaded her forehead. Her legs trembled. She stumbled as she stepped off the walkway. Arlene reached out and steadied her.

"Goddamn it." There were tears of frustration in her eyes.

"You're doing good. You're way ahead of where you should be. The doctors are all talking about it. Don't let it get to you."

She walked Selena over to the hot tub and helped her in. The warm, bubbling water was soothing. The jets felt good on her sore back.

Arlene leaned over and began massaging Selena's shoulders. Her touch was strong, nurturing. Suddenly Selena began crying. Arlene continued kneading and working the knots of muscle under the skin.

"It's okay. Let it out." Arlene's voice was soft. Selena put her hands over her face and sobbed, deep, racking cries that shook her body. After a while, she managed to stop.

"It's him, isn't it?" Arlene said.

Selena nodded. She still had her face covered with her hands. Arlene stopped rubbing her shoulders and reached for a hand towel.

"Here. Use this." Selena took the towel and blew her nose twice. She folded the towel over and wiped her face. Arlene took the towel and set it aside.

"You want to talk about it?"

"I can't. I mean, I can't tell you what happened."

"I can guess. It's got something to do with how you got shot."

Selena nodded again. "But it's not that. What we do..." She stopped. "I don't know if I can keep doing it. But Nick will never change. He'll do it until it kills him."

Arlene helped her out of the tub and handed her a clean towel.

"He loves you. Anyone can see that, the way he looks at you. You quit what you're doing, you think you'll lose him?"

Selena said, "It's more than that. He relies on me. They all do." She was saying too much, but she didn't care. "If I quit, I let them down. I put them all at risk."

They began the slow walk back to Selena's room.

"You think you're responsible for Nick? For his safety, and, uh, the others, whoever they are?"

"Yes. No, I know better. But I can't get over what happened. It was Nick's fault."

As soon as she said it, she started crying again. Arlene looked distressed.

"Oh my. Girl, you do have a problem. What are you going to do?"

"I don't know."

"You talk with him about it yet?"

"No. I pushed him away. He didn't come back for a week." Selena got control of herself. "Since then everything's been wrong between us. Like we're strangers."

"Then I guess you better start talking. Looks like you're going to get your chance."

Selena saw Nick coming from the other direction. He had a dozen red flowers in one hand. She brushed tears away from her face with the back of her hand.

"Anyone who brings you roses can't be all bad, " Arlene said.

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

Elizabeth called Alexei Vysotsky in Moscow.

"Director. We seem fated to work together."

"I take it Adam has contacted you."

"Yes. A package by way of UPS, if you can believe it. He seems determined on detente between our two organizations. He suggests a joint operation, not unlike what you and I did before."

"How much did he tell you?"

"Enough."

Elizabeth picked up her silver pen. "We have to act, Alexei."

She could feel him hesitate, thousands of miles away.

"How well do you understand what is happening here?"

How much should she say? Vysotsky was referring to the internal power struggle he was waging with Ogorov and the FSB. He was losing. There was no tactical advantage in concealing her knowledge.

"I am aware you are in a difficult situation and cannot trust many of your own people. Ogorov seems bent on getting control of your security services. Of course, it is AEON directing him."

"I've been watching him closely since our meeting in Denmark. He has been using state funds, materials, deploying troops. All without anyone in the Kremlin seeming to notice."

"How could that be possible?" Elizabeth asked.

"It isn't possible. That is what worries me. Were it not for his attempts to subvert my organization, or his membership in AEON, I would applaud him for building this weapon. As it is..."

Vysotsky left the sentence unfinished.

It was a game of world chess with consequences far more important than the toppling of a wooden king. Vysotsky wanted to take Ogorov off the board. In that, she was his ally. But then he would want to keep the weapon for Russia. In that, they were opponents.

Elizabeth had no illusions. Vysotsky was a nationalist, a right-wing patriot. He was ambitious. He would try and get control of the weapon. It would give him a very big stick, perhaps big enough to propel him into the Kremlin without the trouble of another sham election. Russians were always looking for a strong leader. She had to make him see that if the Federation possessed Tesla's secret there would be war. The United States would not permit it. She had to make him see reason. Whether he did or not, the weapon would still have to be destroyed.

The objective was deep inside Russia and well guarded. Her team would never get close without his cooperation. Maybe she could play to his male ego.

"What do you suggest, Alexei?"

She put just a hint of uncertainty in her voice, a woman asking for the superior judgement of a powerful man.

Vysotsky laughed, a deep belly laugh. "Very good, Elizabeth. But I know you better than that. You mustn't try to use your considerable charm on me."

In Moscow, Vysotsky couldn't see her smile. "It was worth a try."

"I would have been surprised if you had not."

Choose your words with care. "Alexei, I will be frank. In your place I would want to eliminate Ogorov and keep the weapon intact. But it must be destroyed."

"Oh?"

"If Russia gets this weapon it will have bad results."

"If we had told you there would be bad results, would that have made a difference when you built your atomic bomb?" She could hear annoyance in his voice.

"Of course not, but that was a different time. There is no defense against this weapon. It will destabilize everything. There are people here who will see it as an unacceptable threat. I am certain it will lead to war if we do not act together, a war neither of us can win. Both our nations will be destroyed."

She waited. When he spoke again, there was resignation in his voice.

"There are elements here as well that would not hesitate to use such a device."

"So far, no one knows Ogorov has built this thing. I believe Adam wants us to work together because it is the only way my government can be certain the threat is eliminated."

"You mean your President."

"I have to tell Rice what Ogorov is planning. I know the President. He doesn't want another war, certainly not with Russia. He will not act against you if there is another way to ensure our security. I need your assurances. If I tell him my team is going in and will verify destruction of the weapon, he will wait and take no counter measures. He will prepare them, but he will not use them."

"You are putting me in a difficult position, Director."

"Once this weapon is operational, the entire world is hostage. Adam has told me that AEON sent up twelve satellites in the last year that can relay the beam back to earth. They form a targeting grid that covers the globe. Neither the White House or the Kremlin is safe."

"If Adam, whoever he is, is correct. What if this is disinformation?"

"The satellites are there, I have verified it. As can you. I remind you that Adam prevented a disaster for the Federation. Why would he mislead us?"

"There are always hidden agendas."

"Neither one of us is comfortable with him, I admit. But my gut says we have to trust him on this. We know Ogorov is part of AEON. The pyramid is there. It all adds up. Plus there's more."

"More?"

Elizabeth told him about the Mafra Library. She told him about Mexico. She told him about Tesla's experiments with Telluric currents.

"All of that confirms Adam's information. Ogorov is building a design that uses the unlimited power of the earth's magnetic field. We believe he found something in Mexico to help him amplify that power and make Tesla's design work."

"What was it?"

"In Mexico? I don't know."

"Ogorov has powerful friends. I cannot move openly against him."

"Then we must move secretly. A small strike team, experienced. My people and yours. Nick and Korov work well together. What do you think?"

Rice was waiting to hear the outcome of this conversation. If Vysotsky didn't agree, things were going to get complicated in short order. Complicated and dangerous.

"All right," Vysotsky said. "But Korov will command the mission."

"Agreed."

They talked until they had the outlines of an operational plan. The team would leave for Russia as soon as Vysotsky had made his preparations. They agreed on communication protocols between them and ended the conversation.

The team. She thought about Selena. No one else on the team spoke Russian. Damn it, why did she have to get herself shot?

Elizabeth felt guilty for the thought. It looked like Selena would recover. Her body would heal, but what about her mind? She'd almost died. How would she come back from that? And then there was Nick. Since Mexico he'd been even more taciturn than usual. Moody. Trouble between him and Selena could affect his judgement. Affect the team. How would he resolve it? How would Selena?

Elizabeth didn't know. If she could have read Selena's mind at that moment, she would have realized that Selena didn't know either.

Part Three

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

Korov looked inside the small box Vysotsky handed him. It contained shoulder boards with the two stars of a Lieutenant Colonel, a significant promotion, difficult to gain.

"Thank you, sir."

"You earned it, Arkady. You've done well with the Americans. They will be part of a new mission and you will be in command."

Vysotsky passed several photographs across his desk. They were taken from a distance with a telephoto lens. The pictures showed a large, distinctive shape, camouflaged to fool aerial observers.

"This is what the traitor Ogorov has been constructing. It is located on the Siberian plain, near Irtysh."

"A pyramid? Why?"

"It is a design of Nikola Tesla. You know who Tesla was?"

Korov nodded. "Of course."

"The pyramid powers one of Tesla's inventions, a weapon that projects an unstoppable, destructive beam."

"Why here? There is nothing here, only a village and an old base."

"Tesla's design draws upon the earth for its power. The pyramid is near the juncture of the Ob and the Irtysh rivers. It has been explained to me that there are strong earth currents at this location. It is isolated, difficult to attack except with missiles. There are anti-aircraft defenses. Bombers would be intercepted long before they reached their target."

"It could be attacked on the ground."

"Exactly. But that would require an invasion or an internal force."

Korov saw what was coming. "You want me to penetrate this installation. With the Americans."

Vysotsky opened his desk drawer and took out the vodka and glasses he always kept there.

"Yes."

"We could be shot for treason."

"We could." Vysotsky poured the drinks. "But we will not be shot. Not if you succeed."

He watched Korov closely. It was one thing to send him on a mission with the Americans to Texas or Italy. It was another to attack an objective within his own country. He poured the vodka.

"Na Zdrov'nya," he said. They downed the liquor. Vysotsky poured another.

"You will remember that AEON was behind the Demeter operation."

Korov knew all about AEON.

"Ogorov is not working for the Motherland. He is working for AEON and his own advancement. He is very close to using this weapon. If he succeeds, it will draw us into war with the United States."

"He can't believe we could beat them!" Korov was shocked. "What is the target?"

"The Americans are about to launch a new spy satellite, more advanced than the others they have. It is a major upgrade to their systems. I think that is the target."

"This weapon could reach it? It does not use missiles?"

"It could reach it." Korov shrugged. "Perhaps Ogorov thinks the United States will not know how their satellite was destroyed. There is no hope of that. We must stop Ogorov and gain this weapon for the Motherland. Then Russia will have a powerful bargaining tool with the West. It will be like the end of the Great Patriotic War, when atomic weapons made them supreme. Now it is our turn."

Korov finished his vodka. "You do not wish to destroy it."

"Of course not. I wish to control it."

"The American Project team may not agree."

"That is a problem you will solve, if it arises."

He poured another drink. They raised their glasses.

"To the Motherland," Vysotsky said.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

Nick sat by Selena's bed in Bethesda. The doctors were ready to discharge her for outpatient treatment. The numbness was almost gone, but she couldn't begin workouts any time soon. The surgery was healing. The doctors said there was a possibility of permanent damage, but the prognosis was good. She'd be almost normal in a year, they said. She was determined to make it sooner.

"We need to talk," he said.

"Yes. We do."

"Harker is sending the team to Russia. We're going to take a look at what AEON is building over there."

"That's what you want to talk about?"

"No, but it's relevant." He looked out the window. The sky was dirty gray. Rain was coming. "I have a bad feeling about it."

She felt something twist in her gut. His sixth sense. It wasn't like him to worry about a mission. Then she understood.

"You think you might not come back."

His silence told her the answer. He'd never said anything like that before.

"Why do you keep doing this, Nick? We could leave, make a life together. Where we don't have to look over our shoulder all the time. Where no one is shooting at us."

He said, "I don't know if I can explain."

"Try me."

"You're a civilian." She started to say something. He held up his hand. "I know, that's not exactly right anymore. You've proved yourself. But you've never been in the military. You don't understand why I think the way I do."

She could feel herself getting angry. "Don't you dare patronize me. What's the military got to do with it?"

"I'm not trying to patronize you. When I say civilians don't understand, it's the truth. It's not possible if you haven't been in the service. Think about how you felt before you came into the Project. Can you say you understood what it was like to have people try their damndest to kill you, or what it felt like to kill someone? Any idea of what was necessary to stay alive?"

Selena remembered the Chinese soldier she'd shot. The first man she'd killed. She would never forget his face, the neat pattern of bloody holes across his chest. Holes she'd put there. His death had changed her.

"No."

"I was trained from day one to understand that. You never had that training. Civilians never have that training. Civilians call people like me murderers and go home and sleep in nice warm beds because people like me keep the wolves from the door."

He paused. "You asked why I keep doing it. There are a lot of wolves out there. Our enemies aren't going away any time soon. That's why."

She looked at him for a long moment. Where anger had been she felt only sadness.

"I need to know where you stand," he said. "I know it's hard for you. I don't fault you for blaming me, but we have to get past it."

"I don't blame you." She plucked at her blanket, turned away and looked out the window. "I did at first. It wasn't your fault. I should have been more savvy." She turned back to face him.

"You've been pushing me away." He paused. "Selena, I can't deal with that. It's messing up my head. I need to know if we're good or not."

He looked resigned. She'd never seen him look like that, ever.

"Something changed when I got hit," she said.

He waited.

"It scared the hell out of me. I thought I'd never walk again. I'm not sure I can keep doing this. Or if I want to."

He nodded. "I understand that. The first time I got hit, I was near the end of my tour. I almost quit. I'm glad I didn't. Hell, I wouldn't have met you."

"You'll never quit. Will you?"

"It's what I do. At least while I'm still fit enough to do it."

"And if I don't do it with you?"

"As long as I have you to come back to, it wouldn't matter. You could still work with Harker. You'd be safe. You don't have to go in the field."

And I can wait and see if you come back alive or in a box.

She said, "They're letting me out of here tomorrow."

"That's great."

"Elizabeth is putting me on a desk until I'm all the way back physically."

"See? Like I said." He smiled.

She saw that smile and she wanted to take him in her arms. But something held her back. She couldn't forget that his mistake had almost gotten her killed. She'd had faith Nick would always get it right, always be able to give her a fighting chance just by his presence, his experience. That faith was shattered.

"Give me some time."

"Selena..."

She stopped him. "It's the best I can do. Can you handle that?"

He nodded. "I guess I have to."

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

Ronnie, Nick and Lamont looked at the latest satellite pictures of the objective. Banks of missile and anti-aircraft batteries were scattered around the site. They stood out in stark contrast against ground covered with snow.

"Ogorov's been busy," Nick said.

Elizabeth was tight lipped. "Vysotsky says the installation is complete. He thinks Ogorov wants to use it against ODIN. I think he's right."

"What's ODIN?" Lamont asked.

"Our latest secret spy satellite, set to launch tomorrow. It's the most sophisticated surveillance technology on the planet."

"How does Vysotsky know about that?"

"I don't know, Nick. But he's a spy, after all. It's hard to keep a project that big under wraps. Once ODIN is operational, it will make ECHELON obsolete."

ECHELON was NSA's extensive system for capturing digital and wireless communications all over the world. It was one of the technological cornerstones of America's security, critical in a world where terrorism was the business of people with cell phones and fax machines. If ODIN was good enough to relegate ECHELON to second tier status, it could be a game changer.

"A single eye that sees everything," Nick said. "Just like the Norse god."

"That's right." Elizabeth picked up her pen. "If they knock down that satellite it will start a war."

"Don't Ogorov and the others realize that?" Ronnie asked. "Are they really that stupid?"

"It appears that they are. You don't build a weapon like that and then sit on it. Remember, AEON is behind this. If they knock out ODIN they will have demonstrated that they have a weapon no one else can match. Like the A-Bomb after Hiroshima. They must think they can exert enough pressure to stop a war before it gets going."

"Why do our enemies always underestimate us?" Ronnie asked.

"Because our politicians give them good reason to," Nick said.

"Rice won't wait," Elizabeth said, "and he won't negotiate. I can guarantee that. I've briefed him. If we don't destroy this weapon, he will. That means a pre-emptive strike against Russia and that almost certainly means nuclear war. No one wins."

Not again, Nick thought.

Harker touched a key. The picture on the monitor changed.

"Vysotsky was able to get pictures of the installation."

The pyramid was large, made out of stone, and shaped like the pyramids at Giza in Egypt. A gleam of metal shrouded the peak.

"There's only one direct way in." She changed the picture and pointed at a road leading to the pyramid. "Right down that road, through three armed checkpoints and the main gate."

"So what do we do, drive up and ask for a tour?"

"Very funny, Ronnie. Even Vysotsky can't get us in that way."

"You said one direct way." Nick tugged on his scarred ear. "Does that mean there's an indirect one?"

"Yes." She put a new photo on the screen. "They've brought in water from the river and built a shaft where it drops out of sight. Vysotsky says it meets up with a network of channels underneath the pyramid."

"What are they for?" Lamont wondered.

"It's something to do with how Tesla's device is powered."

"You want us to go in through there?"

"It's the only way."

"Do we have plans of the interior?"

"No. But Vysotsky is sure there is access. They have to be able to maintain the system. Look."

She zoomed in on the shaft. Ladder rungs were visible on one side of the shaft. Water from the river plunged over the edge. It would be like climbing down by a waterfall, but it could be done.

"Vysotsky will handle operational details once you're on his turf. Korov will meet you in Turkey and bring you across the border on a plane with the right transponder codes for the Russian air defenses. From Turkey you're going to Chelyabinsk. Vysotsky will get you and Korov's team to the target."

"What's our plan for extraction?"

"We can't get you out by air from the objective. Vysotsky will have a fast boat on the river. He wants to get Korov back and that's the best guarantee for your safety I can think of. If you have to run, get south to Kazakhstan."

"That's a long way."

"Yes."

"No backup from here."

"No."

"Deniable?" That meant if something happened the US would have no official knowledge of them and would do nothing to aid them.

"Yes."

Ronnie and Lamont didn't look happy. Nick just shook his head.

"Korov will have Russian uniforms and weapons for you."

"None of us speak enough Russian to understand what's going on."

"I have a solution for that. Selena will be here with me. You'll wear a two-way satellite uplink. We'll be able to hear everything and you can talk to us. She and I will listen in real time and keep you aware of what's said. Korov knows English. We have to trust Vysotsky."

"That's a lot of trust."

"I haven't gotten to the hard part yet."

Lamont sighed.

Harker said, "The purpose of this mission is to destroy the installation. Once Vysotsky is in control he may want to change his mind. You have to make sure that doesn't happen."

"That would mean going up against Korov and his Spetsnaz buddies," Nick said. He thought about the night they'd all gotten drunk together in Washington. Nick liked Korov, they all did. "You're putting us in a bad situation."

"We cannot permit Russia to have this weapon." Harker's voice was hard. She began beating a tattoo on her desk with her pen. "Not under any circumstances. If you have to go up against Korov, you do it. Are we clear?"

"Yeah," Nick said. "We're clear.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

The flight to Ankara was uneventful. The terminal at Esenboğa International Airport was a long, sleek stretch of white laid out on the Turkish plains. Sweeping curves rose to a roof high above stone floors polished to a glass-like shine. It reminded Nick of DIA in Denver. There were even mountains outside in the distance. But it was a long way from Colorado.

Korov met them as they came off the plane. They shook hands all around.

"There is no need to clear customs," he said. "We will not leave the airport except on our plane."

They followed Korov to the far end of the terminal. Guards took one look at Korov's papers and passed them outside to a restricted area. A car waited to take them to the General Aviation building.

Their plane was a Dassault Falcon 20, a French jet with a range of about 2000 miles. The Dassault was much favored by the power elite of Europe. Like the American Gulfstream, it was an efficient, luxury business plane available with many options. Twenty minutes after they boarded, they were in the air.

They changed into Russian uniforms.

"It is about four hours to Chelyabinsk, " Korov said.

Ronnie had a small leather pouch in his hand.

"What is that you are holding?" Korov asked.

"This? This is a jish. I always have it with me."

The jish was Ronnie's personal medicine bundle. He only took it out when he was nervous about a mission. Ronnie had told Nick that the jish was like a living person. It had to be cared for, interacted with, respected. Otherwise it became no more than superstition, a good luck charm.

"What is in the bag?".

"Oh, a few things. Corn pollen. A pinch of earth from each of the four sacred mountains. A few other things."

Ronnie had never told Nick or anyone else exactly what was inside. It was bad medicine to talk much about it. He slipped the jish back in his pocket.

Nick changed the subject. "How do we get from Chelyabinsk to the objective?"

"We fly and we jump," Korov said. "You are all qualified. It will be a low altitude night jump. The anti-aircraft batteries will be informed of a training exercise. We will have the proper codes. They will not see us leave the plane."

They settled in for the flight. Nick fell into a half sleep, his mind filled with vague images. He woke to the monotone drone of the engines and looked at his watch. He'd been asleep for an hour and a half. He rubbed his eyes. Korov came over and sat down next to him.

"You were uneasy in your sleep," he said. "You are all right?"

"Yeah, fine. What happens when we get to Chelyabinsk?"

"My team will meet us. They will have weapons for you."

"How do they feel about working with Americans?"

"They will follow orders." He paused. "Nick, I am in command here. We are clear on this?"

"We are. It's your operation."

"Good." Korov checked his watch. "We are less than two hours from Chelyabinsk. We will be in the air soon after that. Let's go over the plan now."

For the next hour they reviewed the satellite photos. They discussed the defenses and possible complications. Both men knew there were things about this mission that could get them killed. Both had years of experience. Except for the bizarre nature of the target and their unlikely alliance, it was just another assignment. The uncertainties went with the job. Neither of them expected everything to go smoothly. The best they could do was anticipate problems and prepare mentally for every possibility they could think of. Training was a given. Preparation was what kept you alive.

Professionals, getting ready for another day at the office in Special Ops.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

Selena came into Harker's office, using a cane. Stephanie jumped up and hugged her. Selena winced.

"I'm so glad to see you. We were so worried about you."

"I'm fine. Six months and I'll be up to speed."

Selena was pale. She sank into a chair and let out deep breath.

"Maybe longer," she said.

"There's no rush." Elizabeth handed her a headset and a control. "The team is about to land in Chelyabinsk. You'll be able to hear everything. I want you to monitor the Russians. Just in case."

"I understand. Nick can hear us?"

"Yes. The others can't. Just press that button to transmit. When you press it twice, it will alert him so he won't show surprise. Then you can talk."

Selena donned the headset, adjusted the volume. She could hear the engines  and the sounds of men talking in Russian in the cabin. The engine noise made it difficult.

"Do the Russians know we can listen?"

"No."

"I'm going to test it out." She pressed the button twice. "Nick, this is a test. If you can hear me okay, just cough. Like you're clearing your throat."

She heard him cough, once.

"Okay, you're five by five." She paused. "For the record I thought about it, what you said. We're good."

Cough, cough.

"We'll talk when you get back."

Cough.

It felt like a weight off her chest. She'd thought about it every day. Every long night. The job. Nick. She hadn't thought about much else. Whatever happened between them in the future, she didn't want him out where he could get killed thinking she wasn't behind him.

"What was that," Elizabeth said.

"Like I said, a test."

Elizabeth and Stephanie looked at each other.

"Good," Elizabeth said.

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

The Russians were all Special Forces, hard men. Captain Ilya Zhukov was second in command after Korov. Senior Sergeant Bukharin was recognizable in any army as a career non com. Sergeant Ivanesky was the third man. Korov made the introductions. Ivanesky gave Nick a hard look and walked away with a few words to Korov. Selena's voice sounded in Nick's ear.

"Someone is unhappy with you. He says he will do his job but he doesn't have to like any of you. He said he's going to check on the chutes."

Nick coughed.

"You must excuse Sergeant Ivanesky," Korov said. "His father was a helicopter pilot in Afghanistan. One of your stinger missiles killed him."

"He doesn't like us. Can we trust him?"

Korov bristled. "He is Spetsnaz. He will obey orders without question. Ivanesky is one of my best men."

The Americans were dressed as the others, in gray and black and white camouflage uniforms and black jump boots and berets. Nick wore the rank markings of a Major. Anyone looking at the group would have seen nothing out of order. A small group of soldiers going somewhere. Ronnie could have been from the Siberian steppes. The only thing unusual was Lamont's skin color. People would guess he was from one of the former Soviet Republics in the south. Unusual, but not unknown.

Korov had provided AK-47 carbines for their primary weapon.

"I thought about the new AN-94," he said, as he handed Nick a rifle. "It's accurate, but trouble in the field."

"How so? I thought the 94 was replacing the AKs."

"They're supposed to. But they're too complicated. Expensive. Very good for accurate, high rate of fire but difficult to maintain. They jam, they catch on your clothes. I don't like them. We stick with these. Besides, you are familiar with them."

"Half the world is familiar with them," Nick said. Half the world was, usually the half that hated America.

Their ride was an Antonov AN-72, nicknamed the Cheburashka by the Russians after a popular cartoon character. The name came from the unusual engine configuration, two huge jets mounted forward on the tops of the wings like giant ears. The plane had been in production since the 80s. A large cargo door in the rear made it ideal for their purpose. Thinking about a jump at low altitude at night made Nick's back ache in anticipation.

The air crew ignored the Americans, assuming they were Russian, though they'd given Lamont odd looks. As long as everyone kept their mouth shut, they'd be all right. They all knew a few Russian phrases and words. An airman brought Nick a cup of steaming black tea and he thanked him in Russian. The man nodded and returned forward.

Each man had a small pack in addition to his parachute. The Russian parachutes were their newest stealth model, almost invisible from the ground, similar to the American design. Korov had gone over the differences with them. Still the same procedure. Jump. Pull cord. Land. Assuming the chute opened. They almost always did.

Ronnie, Nick and Lamont sat on one side. The fuselage was lined with strap benches, just like in the states. When you came down to it, the military forces of the world were much the same everywhere. What was different was the degree of professionalism. The Russian elite forces had that in spades.

Korov and his men sat on the opposite side of the plane. Nick was too wired to doze off. Ronnie turned his jish over in his fingers, reciting a Navajo prayer to himself. His lips moved silently. Lamont sat with his eyes half closed. Sergeant Ivanesky stared at them. When Ivanseky saw Nick notice him, he looked away.

"We'd better keep an eye on that one," Nick said to Lamont.

"Yeah. I noticed. He doesn't like us much."

"Selena said one of our missiles got his father. In Afghanistan."

"Explains it. I wouldn't like us much either."

Korov spoke into his headset, listened. He got up and came over to Nick.

"We are ten minutes away. Get ready. We jump together. I will lead, you come last."

"Got it."

"There is little wind. Snow on the ground, it will show tracks. We are coming in at 2000 feet."

The cargo door dropped open and the engines slowed. The plane lost altitude and speed. The inside of the cabin turned freezing cold as the wind sucked all the heat into the Russian night. They formed up. The engines maintained a steady beat. The light over the open door changed from red to green.

"Go," Korov yelled in Russian. He leapt into the darkness. The others followed close behind.

Nick didn't like low altitude jumps. That close to the ground, there was no room for error. He kept his knees bent tight together and his stomach taut. The chute opened with a familiar jolt that grabbed him in the groin. The night sky was cloud covered. There was no light. The air smelled of coming snow.

The landing zone was flat, free of boulders or trees. The ground came up in seconds, a white blur emerging from the darkness. The snow cover wasn't enough to cushion the shock. Nick hit hard and rolled. Warning stabs of pain shot up his spine.

He was last man down. He pulled in his chute and ignored the pain. The others had gathered around something. Nick walked over and looked down at the body of Captain Zhukov. He lay shattered on the ground, his chute tangled about him. The bones of his legs stuck out through his bloody uniform. It was a bad way to begin.

Korov was stone faced. "Leave the chutes over him."

They covered the body.

"The river canal is that way," Korov said. "We go there and follow it in."

He set off at a fast trot. The snow crunched under their boots. Someone's equipment creaked. The pyramid loomed on their right. They ran until they came to the canal and followed it to the shaft. Water from the Irtysh River plummeted down over the edge and out of sight. Freezing spray drifted over the opening. Steel rungs covered with a thin coating of ice descended at precise intervals along the side of the shaft.

Korov gestured. "Nick, take the point. I will come last."

Nick slung his AK muzzle down and began the long climb to whatever lay below.

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

If there had been a window in Elizabeth's office, she could have looked out on a warm Indian Summer afternoon. There was no window. She had a satellite display on the wall monitor instead.

They had infrared visual on the objective. Selena, Stephanie and Elizabeth had been listening to the mission unfold. The jump. The death of the Russian captain. They watched the luminous heat signatures of the men run toward the river canal, turn, and reach the black hole of the water shaft. They heard Korov tell Nick to start down.

The shaft was visible only as a dim heat gradient. Selena watched one of the green figures detach itself from the others.

She clicked her microphone button twice. "We can see you and hear you, Nick. We might lose you under ground." She stopped. What should she say? She didn't want to distract him. "I'm with you. We're watching."

Cough.

Then he was gone. The others followed down the ladder. The three women watched until all that remained on the screen was darkness.

"This is the part I hate," Steph said.

"What do you mean?" Selena rubbed the surgical scar on her abdomen, still fresh. It itched.

"The waiting. To see how it turns out."

To see if they come back. The unspoken thought.

"It can't be that bad," Selena said. "How about some coffee?"

"Oh, oh," Elizabeth said.

On screen, the infrared image flared. A large heat source moved into view.

"What's that?" Selena asked.

"A helicopter coming in."

"What's it doing there that early in the morning?"

"Good question. That's not normal."  Elizabeth swore under her breath. "It's trouble. Selena, get Nick."

She pressed her transmitter button twice.

"He's not responding."

"See what I mean about the waiting?" Stephanie said.

CHAPTER SIXTY

Ogorov ducked under the whirling blades of his helicopter and walked toward the pyramid. Tonight they would use the weapon for the first time. He'd gotten word the site had been penetrated and radioed ahead to warn Kaminsky.

General Kaminsky waited by the entrance to the pyramid. Ogorov was climbing the hierarchy of power. Kaminsky intended to climb with him. He was Ogorov's man.

"Minister." He clicked the heels of his shiny, high topped boots together.

"What is the situation regarding the intruders?" Ogorov's breath formed clouds of condensation in the cold air.

"I thought it wise to use our special detachment, rather than troops from the base. They're ten minutes behind you. Whoever they are, they will be killed or captured."

Ogorov said, "One of our people is with them. He informs me there are three Americans in the group."

"Americans? What are they doing here?"

"Probably CIA. It doesn't matter. Try not to kill them. I want to question them."

"That may not be possible."

The two men went inside and got into an elevator. It rose in seconds to the control room below the peak of the pyramid. The doors opened with a soft, pneumatic hiss. The room was brightly lit. Several technicians sat in front of instruments monitoring the status of Tesla's device. A digital clock centered on one wall counted down minutes and seconds and tenths of a second in large, red numbers. It showed just under fifteen minutes. The room smelled of tension and stale sweat.

Yuri Malenkov sat in front of the master control panel. A row of six digital gauges measured fluctuating power levels from Tesla's weapon. A screen above the gauges displayed a changing stream of numbers and coordinates. Yuri rose from his seat as Ogorov and Kaminsky came into the room.

"What is our status?" Ogorov asked.

"We are on schedule, Minister." He gestured at the screen. "I am about to activate the targeting sequence."

He flipped back a safety cover and pressed a red button. Gears whined beneath their feet. Outside, the metal walls of the peak above the control room folded back like the petals of a deadly plant. Yuri pressed another button. A blank monitor came alive with a live video stream from the peak. It showed the crystal amplifier and the targeting array.

"We can watch the beam discharge from here. Our sensors will lock on to ODIN and adjust the direction of the beam. Once we fire, the American satellite will be destroyed instantly."

"Good," Ogorov said. "Good."

They waited for ODIN to come within range.

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

The rungs of the ladder were slippery with ice, hard to grasp. Korov gave the order for lights as they descended. The roar of the falling water from the river made it difficult to hear. Each man wore a light on the side of his helmet. The lights illuminated concrete walls dark with moisture. They climbed down the ladder.

Nick was soaked with spray. He shivered. "We're nearing bottom," he called. "I see light."

His arms and back ached from the strain. The AK felt heavy on his shoulder. Getting a little old for this stuff. He pushed the thought aside. Keep moving. You'll be all right, just keep moving.

He reached a platform built out from the wall. The ladder continued on into darkness below. The platform opened onto a passageway. The passage ran straight and true for fifty yards or more. The walls were lined with white ceramic material and lit with strips that gave off bluish-white light.

Nick stepped away from the ladder and onto the platform. He took a deep breath, unslung his AK and took a few steps into the passage. He heard a faint buzzing sound. The air was warm. He sniffed.

Ozone.

The smell triggered a memory. Years back he'd been caught in a violent thunderstorm in the high mountains of Colorado. A bolt of lightning had struck the ground, not a hundred yards from where he'd crouched under a rocky overhang. The air had smelled just like this before it hit. Like electricity.

Korov joined him.

"Nick, take the point."

"Ronnie, Lamont, let's go."

They set out along the passage, close to the walls. There was no cover. The corridor was a shooting gallery. Nick had a pounding headache to go with the stiffness in his back.

"I don't like having that guy behind us," Ronnie said. "Ivanesky. This isn't like Texas."

"Yeah." The buzzing noise was louder. "There's a door up there, set back in the wall."

Korov caught up with them. "Nick, come ahead with me. Leave the others." He said something in Russian to his men.

"Wait here," Nick said to Ronnie and Lamont. He walked part way down the passage with Korov.

"We have a problem."

"What problem?"

"Captain Zhukov's chute was sabotaged."

Nick took that in. "You're sure?"

"Yes. Someone killed him." Korov was angry. "It had to be one of my men, or someone in the aircraft crew. I could not tell you before."

"Then we're compromised. What do you want to do?"

"We have two choices. We can abort, or we can continue."

Nick thought about what to say.

"Arkady," he said. "My mission is to destroy this installation. What's yours?"

Korov's face showed his tension. "I will be honest. My orders are to secure the installation, not destroy it. This makes a problem between us, I think."

"AEON knows we're here or Captain Zhukov would still be alive. What do you think they'll do with this after they knock down our satellite? Do you think Russia is safe? The Chinese have launched a network of satellites that can deflect the beam from this device back to earth. Anywhere on earth, including Moscow."

Korov raised his eyebrows. "I did not know that." China had long been a traditional enemy. It still was, in spite of trade alliances and public assertions of friendship.

"You can bet Vysotsky does. Once it's operational, whoever has this can target anyone, anywhere. Do you think he's just going to hand it over to the Kremlin? All that power?"

Korov remembered something Vysotsky had once said. They'd been in the General's office. Vysotsky had been drinking.

"We are patriots, Arkady, you and I. We believe in the destiny of our nation."

Korov had nodded agreement. General Vysotsky often confided in him when he'd been drinking. Vysotsky had mentored him, even treated him as a friend, but Arkady knew better. He was Vysotsky's subordinate, not his friend, in a system built on rigid obedience to orders.

Vysotsky emptied his glass, filled it again. "Our leaders are fools. I thought we had a strong leader again, but I was wrong. We need someone who is not afraid to act. Someone who will not be cowed by the American hegemony. Someone who understands our power. These men, they have no balls. If I was in charge, things would be different."

He waved his glass in the direction of the Kremlin. Vodka spilled onto his desk.

"No balls," he said again.

The weapon would give Vysotsky the power he longed for. Why hadn't he mentioned the targeting satellites? It came together in Korov's mind. Vysotsky hadn't sent him here because he wanted to hand the weapon over to Russia. Seizing control wasn't for the good of the Motherland, it was for the good of Vysotsky. The realization shook him to the core. It was a betrayal.

Nick was right. Vysotsky was using him.

"Arkady." Nick spoke with quiet urgency. "I know the President. He won't back off. This thing can start the next World War. We have to destroy it. If Zhukov was murdered, AEON knows we're here. There's no way we can get control, much less keep it."

The Russians and the Americans watched Korov and Nick talking. Lamont and Ronnie stood apart from the others. Ivanesky watched them with a cold stare.

"Looks like a serious discussion," Lamont said.

"Yeah. Let's hope it's not an argument."

"Korov is a pretty good guy."

"He's a Russian," Ronnie said, "good guy or not. The question is, what kind of Russian?"

"We're about to find out." Nick and Korov were coming back.

"There is a door ahead," Korov said. "It should lead inside. Bukharin, take the point. Ivanesky, behind him. Once through the door, we will carry out our orders and destroy this thing."

He was speaking English. Nick nodded to himself. He'd been certain all along that the Russians spoke English. They were Spetsnaz, after all. Foreign languages, especially English, were a requirement for all Russian Special Forces. When Korov said they would destroy the pyramid, Nick watched for a reaction. Ivanesky showed a flicker of surprise before his face returned to a mask.

"Yes, sir," Bukharin said. The two moved down the hall. The others followed.

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

The door was made of the same ceramic material as the walls. Bukharin pulled it open a crack and peered through. The buzzing sound got louder, like the sound of a thousand bees. He opened the door wide. They went through the door and spread out to the sides, weapons ready.

The base of the pyramid was a vast, square chamber. A wide walkway of concrete went around the four sides. Light strips on the walls gave off the same glow that lit the hall. The walls sloped upward for a hundred feet or more to a flat ceiling high overhead. Like the hallway, the walls were lined with white ceramic material.

Nick looked out over what seemed to be a bottomless pit, trying to make sense of what he saw. In the exact center of the chamber was a flat concrete platform surrounded by a low railing. Bridge-like walkways crossed to it from each side of the perimeter. Four massive columns of copper rose from the pit to support the corners of the platform and continued upward, halfway to the ceiling. A constant, crackling discharge of blue-white lightning danced from column to column. Four thick rods of copper projected from the ceiling above the columns. Electricity flowed in four continuous streams between the columns and the rods.

In the middle of the platform was a machine. The buzzing sound came from six giant wheels made of smooth, circular bands of metal. Each was an odd golden color. Each was at least twenty feet high. They turned in a steady blur.

Impossible, Nick thought.

The wheels weren't attached to anything. They floated in the air without visible support, spinning above a curved cradle of silvery metal placed between two large, free-standing flat sheets of metal bolted to the concrete. A faint, blue haze shimmered over everything.

The air stank with the scent of ozone. The metal of his AK felt warm and gave little shocks to the touch. Static sparks jumped from Nick's clothes as he moved. His hair stirred in restless movement.

On the far side of the pyramid was a door. A thick ledge extended out over the pit, supporting an elevator shaft. The shaft rose to the ceiling and whatever was above. The wall on the right side of the pit had a closed set of double doors.

Lamont stared at the impossible wheels. "It looks like something out of a sci-fi movie."

"The Matrix," Ronnie said, "or Stargate."

"Listen up," Nick said.

"The control room will be up there." Korov pointed toward the ceiling. "This is the heart of it. We take this out. Nick, you and I will plant charges. Ronnie, Lamont, you cover the elevator and the doors. Bukharin, Ivanesky, stay here and cover the passageway."

Korov and Nick walked to the machine. Nick went to the cradle under the spinning wheels. His body tingled with electricity. He knelt on one knee and placed charges at the base of the cradle. He inserted detonators and hoped the random electricity didn't set them off. Then he went to one of the flat metal sheets and began there. Nothing on the platform would survive. Korov was busy at the copper columns.

Nick heard two clicks in his tiny earpiece, then Selena's voice.

"Nick, can you hear me?" The transmission crackled with static.

He coughed.

"Twenty minutes ago a helicopter brought someone in. A second one just landed. It's a troop transport."

In Virginia, Selena watched glowing green figures emerge from the aircraft like a stream of ants. The stream formed up into three orderly lines.

"30 men. They're getting ready to go inside."

"Shit," Nick said.

"What?" Korov looked up from where he was placing a detonator in a block of Semtex next to one of the columns.

"Assault troops, outside. We're about to have company." He stood and spoke into his headset. "Ronnie, Lamont. Get back over here."

Korov didn't ask how Nick knew. He reached for a timer.

"Stop what you are doing, Colonel. You, American. Tell your men to drop their weapons."

The voice came from behind them. They turned. Bukharin had his AK-47 leveled at them. Nick saw Ivanesky's body lying on the floor by the hall entry. Across the way, Ronnie and Lamont froze.

Korov's voice was calm, but his face betrayed his anger.

"Traitor. You killed Zhukov, didn't you? I wasn't sure. I thought perhaps one of the airmen."

Bukharin's face was expressionless. "The Lubyanka is a good place to consider treachery. You will..."

He never finished whatever he was going to say. A shot from across the way stopped him mid-sentence. Nick felt the burn of the bullet passing his cheek. The round took Bukharin in the throat. Blood gushed from his mouth. He stumbled backward against the platform railing and over it. The body fell away into the pit. Across the way, Lamont lowered his rifle.

Nick looked at him. "Nice shot. Kind of close, though."

"Didn't hit you, did I? You Jarheads aren't the only ones who can shoot."

"Time to leave. You'd better get over here." Nick turned to Korov. "I thought it would be Ivanesky."

Korov shook his head. "Bukharin was smarter than Ivanesky." He knelt down again. "Set the timers for eight minutes."

"Not much time," Nick said.

"Eight minutes."

They set the timers. Korov stood. "We boogie now, yes?".

"Da, now we boogie."

They hurried to the passage entrance. Ronnie and Lamont were already waiting. They stepped through the door.

The entry doors burst open. Troops in black uniforms with red patches on their shoulders began firing across the pit. Bullets chipped pieces from the wall. Nick slammed the door shut. Rounds hammered the other side.

"Those aren't our soldiers," Korov said. "I don't recognize those uniforms."

They ran down the passage. The door flew open behind them. Nick had a grenade out and ready. He turned and hurled it with everything he had and ran after the others.

The explosion slapped at his eardrums. He was outside the kill zone, but the men coming through the door hadn't been that lucky. Someone was screaming. Nick didn't look back.

He reached the shaft leading to the surface. Lamont and Ronnie had already started up the rungs. Korov stood to the side and fired down the corridor.

"Go on," he said.

Nick began climbing. He felt like he had the strength of lions. When those charges blew, he wanted to be as far from the pyramid if possible. He climbed as if demons were behind him.

It was a long way back to the surface. Going down had been hard. Going up was worse. He focused on a steady rhythm. Reach, step, reach, step, over and over. One rung at a time, one after the other. In his mind, eight minutes was counting down. Then he was at the top. Ronnie grabbed his hand and boosted him up and out into the night. Korov tumbled out of the shaft after him. It had started to snow. They ran for the river, where their escape boat waited.

In Virginia, Elizabeth and Selena and Stephanie watched the scene unfold.

"Don't talk to them," Elizabeth said to Selena. "They're a little busy at the moment."

In the control room on top of the pyramid, Yuri watched his readouts. The words TARGET ACQUIRED appeared in red on his screen. Then, LOCKED.

"One minute," he said.

Ogorov and Kaminsky watched the video feed from the peak, waiting for the moment the proton beam would rip into space and vaporize the American satellite. The crystal glowed with blue light.

The floor vibrated. The power meters for the device jumped into the red. Malenkov's face turned white. He had just enough time to think about reaching for his switches.

Nick and the others were almost to the river when the charges detonated. The air rushed away and for an instant there was total silence. Then the top of the pyramid vanished in a burst of blue light. An enormous ball of electric blue energy blossomed and turned the night into day.

The shock wave lifted Nick from his feet and hurled him through the air. He struck hard and felt something give in his shoulder. The sound was unlike anything he'd ever heard, like thunder and lightning and high explosive all combined.

Debris hurtled past. Afterimages of light danced behind his eyelids. A dense cloud of purple, red and white columned into the air and hung like a leprous rose in the air.

Nick raised his head. Where the pyramid had been was nothing. Nothing at all. Only a glowing, cavernous opening in the ground.

"Maybe you used a little too much Semtex," Ronnie said.

CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

The blast had knocked all of them down. They got to their feet. Nick felt like he'd been hit by a truck. His earpiece was filled with static. He pulled it out.

"There's a pier on the river," Korov said. "The boat should be there."

The ground was flat for another hundred yards before it sloped down to the river.  There was a gate in the fence and a guard house. A soldier stood outside, staring openmouthed at the glowing cloud behind them. He called out and brought his rifle up. Korov shouted something.

The guard was young, little more than a boy. He hesitated. Korov came up to him, shouting at him in Russian. The youth snapped to attention. When he was close enough, Korov swung his AK and slammed the guard in the side of his head. The boy went down.

"You kill him?" Lamont asked.

"No. He's just a soldier doing his duty. But he will have a very bad headache later."

They went through the gate and hurried down a set of steps to the pier. A boat waited there, a gray shape in the darkness, diesels idling. The snow fell faster. The wooden pier was slippery under their feet.

The boat was a Svetljak class, a hundred and fifty feet of serious business. A forest of antennas and masts rose from the superstructure. 30mm guns were mounted fore and aft. A gangway extended from the deck to the pier.

An officer watched them approach. They went up the gangway and Korov began talking with him. There were crewmen on deck. Nick hoped no one asked him any questions.

The crew took in the gangway. The deck throbbed and the boat pulled away from the pier.

Ronnie said, "That doesn't look good."

He pointed through the falling snow at a second boat coming from the south. Water foamed around the bow as the vessel sped toward them. It was another Svetljak class, with a single 30mm gun aft and a heavier 76mm forward. The boat was still some distance away. A squad of soldiers on deck wore the same black uniforms and red patches as the men AEON had sent against them at the pyramid.

"I thought this was too easy," Lamont said. Now what?"

"It's up to Korov now," Nick said.

Korov saw the boat and said something to the officer. They ran to a door. Nick heard their feet pounding up metal stairs, heading for the bridge.

A warning shot from the 76mm passed overhead. Klaxons sounded and a harsh voice in Russian came through the ship's speakers. The crew ran to their stations. The gun turrets rotated toward the oncoming ship.

The Ob River was wide like the Mississippi, with plenty of room to maneuver. The engines went to full power. The boat heeled over to port and headed for the middle of the river. Nick grabbed the rail to keep his balance. Another round whistled past. The ship's guns fired. Then the boat swung back and headed straight at the other ship.

Nick had never been in a naval battle. He'd never wanted to be in one. He felt helpless, at the mercy of the unseen Captain. He ran forward and watched as the two ships drew near on what looked like a collision course.

Ronnie and Lamont came up beside him.

"Jesus," Lamont said. "Like playing chicken with the Iranians in the Gulf."

Svetljak class boats mounted two torpedo tubes. Two white trails shot from the bow of their ship and bored in a straight line toward the other ship as it began to turn. The 76mm gun boomed. The shell struck behind them on the superstructure. The blast knocked the three of them down. Something tore into Nick's back. Their ship veered away.

The torpedoes ripped into the hull of the attacking boat and detonated in a burst of flame and light. A gigantic spout of water rose in the air. The vessel shuddered and slowed and began to go down by the bow as water poured into the breach.

Nick had time to realize he'd been hit before he lost consciousness.

CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

Three days later they were back in Virginia.

Shrapnel had torn a chunk out of Nick's back by his right shoulder. Six inches to the left and it would have taken his head off. A Russian naval doctor had stitched him up. Vysotsky had gotten them to Chelyabinsk and out of Russia.

Nick's arm was in a sling to discourage him from using it. He'd need some rehab once the stitches healed, but aside from a new scar, he'd been lucky. He was on painkillers. He liked the relief. He didn't like the side effects.

"I wonder how Korov will deal with Vysotsky." Nick tried to get comfortable in the chair. "You were right about him."

"I'm sure the Major will think of something," Harker said.

"He's been promoted to Colonel."

"Oh? That's smart on Vysotsky's part."

"I've said it before. It's too bad Korov isn't one of ours."

"What are we going to do about Foxworth?" Ronnie asked. "We still have him to deal with."

"Where is Foxworth now?" Nick asked her. He rubbed his face. The pills made it feel numb.

"Holed up in London. He's gotten paranoid since you hit him in Italy. When he comes out he's surrounded by bodyguards. He's got a new chief of security who used to work for the Bulgarian secret police."

"Guess we made him nervous," Ronnie said.

"Do we have any idea what he's planning?" Selena asked.

She's looking better, Nick thought. She's recovering. A small piece of his guilt dissolved.

"No. I want everyone to stay alert in case he comes after us again. He'll piece together what happened in Russia. Foxworth seems to take these things personally."

"We have to take him out," Nick said.

"You can't just kill him."

"Why not?"

"You know why not." Harker looked at him.

"No, I don't. Because it's not politically correct?"

"Because we don't assassinate people. Not since the 70s."

"You don't believe that."

"I have to believe that. For the most part, it's true. The Project acts outside the bounds all the time, but we have the evidence we need to act. Rules of engagement. We have to draw a line somewhere, otherwise we're just like Foxworth."

"Foxworth is an evil son of a bitch and he has to be stopped."

"There's a burden of proof we have to meet."

"You don't think Foxworth meets that? As I recall, the burden of proof is that someone has to have taken violent action against us or represent a 'continuing and persistent, imminent threat' to the country. Foxworth is persistent as hell."

Harker said nothing.

"Director, I don't think legality is the issue anymore. He built a super weapon that could have targeted the White House. He was going to attack us. You didn't see that thing in the pyramid. It was beyond belief. He doesn't seem to care if he starts the next world war and he's going crazy with a brain tumor. What more do you need?  He's a direct threat. Talk to Rice. Convince him."

"I already talked to him. Rice agrees with you. He thinks Foxworth is worse than Bin Laden. But it's not the same kind of situation. We're talking about a respected public figure. There's no outward knowledge of what he's done. Rice can't make an official finding. Unofficially, the White House would be happy if Foxworth was no longer an issue."

Nick's ear itched. He scratched it. "So do we go for him or not?"

She tapped her pen on her desk. "We do. Everyone is vulnerable, even people like him. But if anything goes wrong, there's no extraction, no backup. We'll be on our own."

"What else is new?" Ronnie said.

That evening Nick and Selena went to a restaurant near DuPont Circle. His eyes swept the room as they sat down, looking for anything out of the ordinary. The bulge under the jacket. The drink left untouched. Sunglasses in the middle of the night. Someone looking quickly away. The unguarded stare.

That took care of the amateurs. Professionals were harder to spot, but everyone made a mistake sooner or later. Harker had said everyone was vulnerable and that included himself and Selena. It wasn't like the movies. If you made a mistake, someone died.

He wasn't over feeling guilty about Mexico. He felt awkward with her. The food came. Selena toyed with her silverware.

"I was thinking about the meeting this morning. Do you think it's right?" she said.

"What?"

"That we can decide someone is so much of a threat that we act as judge and jury. Execute him. Without a trial."

No one was within earshot. "You mean our British friend. You know what I think."

"Even Charles Manson got a trial."

"Manson didn't have the power to buy judges and prosecutors or have control over what the public reads in the paper."

"But it just brings us down to his level."

Nick set his fork down. "Where are you going with this? You know what he represents. If this was 1933 and you had a chance to kill Hitler, would you take it?"

Selena took a bite of her steak.

"Foxworth is the enemy. Not just our enemy, everyone's. He's a psychopath. He'll do anything to get what he wants."

"Still."

"We can debate the morality of it but Foxworth isn't concerned with the morality of what he does."

"That's exactly what I mean. If we act in a way that's immoral it makes us no better than he is."

"I think morality is on our side. We have a moral duty to protect ourselves and our country."

"Someone else will take his place."

"Yes. But it will take AEON time to recover. They'll be in confusion, their plans disrupted. People will live who would otherwise die. I think it's justifiable. Putting down Foxworth might give us time to break up AEON for good."

"You talk about him as if he's a dangerous animal."

"He is. Though that's a little rough on the animals."

"Is everything so black and white for you?"

"Damn it, Selena. You know me better than that. What's bugging you?"

She took her time answering. She drank some wine and set the glass down before she spoke.

"Honestly? I guess it's my own morality I'm questioning."

"You feel bad about what you do? What we do?"

"I'd be lying if I said no. I thought I'd come to terms with it, but this has brought it all up again. It's not like I think about it all the time. I know it's necessary, that people like Foxworth have to be eliminated. I just wish we weren't the ones who had to do it."

"Somebody has to. We're part of the immune system for the human race. We try and stop the cancers out there. Foxworth is a cancer."

Selena looked down at her steak, blood red on her plate.

"I don't think I'm hungry anymore." She looked at him. "You could have been killed."

"Yeah. But I wasn't."

"But you could have been." She pushed the plate away. "I think we need to back off a little."

A headache started.

"What do you mean?"

"I have to think about it, where this is going. I need some distance. After everything that's happened the last few months." She stopped. "After I got shot. Then you almost get killed."

She drank some wine. "I have to think about it," she said again.

CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

The face of AEON's representative from Brazil filled the teleconference screen in Foxworth's London office. Don Julio Silva was apologetic. His voice oozed with false sincerity. Foxworth listened and controlled his rage. He knew what was coming. The pack had turned on its leader.

"Malcolm, most unfortunately these last adventures have failed, at great expense to the organization. It has brought unwanted attention." Don Julio paused. "We are appreciative of the guidance you have provided these past years. However, we all feel it best if you step down from the Chair."

"All of you?"

Don Julio's face hardened, "Yes, Malcolm. All of us. Out of respect, it has been decided to tell you of our decision rather than simply terminate your position."

Transitions of leadership within AEON were always terminal, but the illusion of civility had to be maintained. There was tradition to be considered. Don Julio was giving him time to set his affairs in order and make his arrangements. Perhaps even arrange his own death in a comfortable manner of his choosing. Socrates and his cup. Otherwise, death was likely to be neither comfortable nor convenient.

"I see," Foxworth said. His face betrayed nothing.

"I knew you'd understand," Don Julio said. "For what it is worth, Malcolm, I truly regret the necessity of this decision. And now I am afraid I must say goodbye."

The screen went blank. Foxworth stared at it for a few seconds, then picked up a heavy cut crystal ashtray and threw it at the monitor. It exploded in a shower of glass and sparks.

He understood, all right. Weak, ambitious minions grasping for power. People without his vision, his sense of destiny. Cautious, small minds unwilling to take risks and speed the day of AEON's supremacy. They were about to find out what a mistake they had made. If they could be swayed to betrayal by a few setbacks, they deserved to die. Malcolm had prepared for this day. His head throbbed with sudden pain. His hand began trembling. He stuffed it in his pocket.

He activated the intercom on his desk.

"Mandy, get Dragonov in here. After him, Morel."

A few minutes later Foxworth's new chief of security knocked on the door frame. Foxworth beckoned him in.

"You sent for me, sir?"

"Increase security to level one immediately. There will be attempts on my life."

"Yes, sir."

"I have a difficult assignment for you. It will require you to make use of your old contacts and I want you to handle it personally. There is a high element of risk involved."

Valentin Dragonov had been a senior sergeant in the Bulgarian secret police before he'd been recruited. He was intelligent and totally ruthless. His contacts included the faceless men who still ran the interrogation cells of Eastern Europe and the old Soviet Union. Dragonov liked women. He liked money. Foxworth had provided both, in generous amounts. The Bulgarian was perfect for what Foxworth had in mind.

Foxworth took a folder from his desk and handed it across. It contained the photographs, names and locations of the other members of AEON's inner circle. With Ogorov gone, there were seven.

"Open the folder."

Dragonov did as he was told. The first page showed a picture of Don Julio Silva and listed his locations, habits and vulnerabilities.

"These men are to be eliminated. I understand you will need to make plans, but time is critical. Do it quickly. Each will be alert and each one will be heavily guarded. Plan accordingly. Do you understand?"

Dragonov said. "These are very high profile targets. I will need to recruit. I will need ordnance. All this will be expensive."

"Get what you need. You have a blank check. Hire who you want. Make sure there are no trails back here."

Foxworth took several banded packets of purple 500 Euro notes from a drawer and pushed them across his desk. Dragonov eyed the money.

"This is pocket money for personal expenses. If you need more, tell me. With each success I will give you 200,000 Euros. When all seven assignments have been completed, you will receive an additional 1,000,000 Euros in a Swiss account. I trust this will be satisfactory?"

The large man nodded.

"Good. Don't let me down."

He didn't need to say more. Dragonov had carried his predecessor's body from the library in Italy.

The Bulgarian picked up the money. "I won't fail."

"That's all."

Dragonov left the room. With Silva and the others handled, Foxworth considered what to do about Elizabeth Harker and the Project. She had to be removed, permanently. He considered possibilities, complications. The Project wasn't Langley or NSA, but their security was still formidable.

He'd been saving a unique asset for something special. Foxworth decided this was the time to use it. With the right spin there would be few consequences. No one would trace it back to him. He pictured the result, watched it happen in his mind's eye. It could be done. He smiled to himself.

Morel entered the office with his briefcase full of magic.

It was turning into a good day.

CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

A freighter flying the Panamanian flag churned across choppy waters fourteen miles off the Virginia coast. The Consuela had been stopped once by the US Coast Guard, a routine inspection that yielded nothing. Her papers were in order. She was bound from Vera Cruz to Norfolk with shipping containers full of furniture consigned to an American chain that specialized in items from third world countries.

The Coast Guard had opened two of the containers and brought on the drug sniffing dogs. The captain of the freighter had given them a friendly wave as they went back to their patrol boat and turned south.

Captain Krushenko was one of Foxworth's finds. Before he'd left the Russian navy he had commanded an Ovod class small missile ship. The Ovod class fielded six P-15 Termit cruise missiles, unreliable weapons with barometric altimeters and erratic guidance systems. The Termits were subsonic, reaching speeds of about 600 MPH.

Krushenko didn't have any of those. He had only one missile, a Chinese CJ-10. Unlike the Termit, the CJ-10 was supersonic, capable of traveling at two and a half  times the speed of sound. It lay flat in one of the long cargo containers, surrounded by boxes of wooden trays and salad bowls.

The CJ-10 could be armed with either a nuclear warhead or conventional explosive. This one carried a generous payload of a new high energy explosive more than twice as powerful as the older types. The missile used an accurate inertial guidance system and was difficult to detect. It skimmed above the terrain at 1900 MPH until it reached and destroyed its target. Once launched, the CJ-10 was a lethal, single purpose, suicidal robot.

The distance from the Consuela to the target was approximately a hundred and seventy miles. Krushenko estimated time elapsed between launch and impact at less than twelve minutes. By the time coastal defenses could react it would be too late. That was the beauty of a cruise missile. It hugged the terrain and flew under the radar, with a low profile and high speed. Anti-missile defenses like the American AEGIS system required sufficient notice to be effective. The missile would already be over land before they detected it. There wouldn't be enough time to intercept.

Krushenko didn't know why this particular target had been chosen, but he wasn't curious. He was just doing a job. He figured he had a better than 50-50 chance of getting to shore once the missile was launched. The risk made the game more exciting. He was being paid accordingly, an extravagant sum.

The sides and top of a false cargo container had been removed, exposing the missile and launcher and a camouflage of boxes around it. Krushenko used a remote control to activate the launcher. The missile lifted into firing position.

The missile employed a cold launch system. Cold launch used pressurized nitrogen to send the missile airborne, eliminating the complex venting systems necessary for a conventional, hot launch. It was the reason the CJ-10 could be concealed in a container and fired from the deck. Once free of the carrier, the solid fuel engine would ignite and send the missile on its way. The electronic brain inside already contained the coordinates for the target.

Krushenko walked in a leisurely way to the side of the freighter and descended a sea ladder to a fast motor launch that would take him to shore and safety. His skeleton crew waited in the boat. The launch pulled away. Krushenko watched the abandoned ship sail steadily on toward Norfolk. When he judged it was far enough away, he took out his remote and triggered one of two switches.

The pressurized nitrogen released with a deadly hiss and sent the missile away from the ship. It rose into the air like an ancient, mythic sea monster. The engine ignited. The missile accelerated, broke through the sound barrier with a crack like thunder and vanished over the horizon.

Krushenko flipped the second switch. Explosions blew out the bottom of the Consuela. The ship lifted out of the water, then settled straight down, all buoyancy gone. The ocean poured over her deck. A moment later the only sign she had ever existed was a frenzied boiling of sea froth and foam on the surface.

The missile was gone. The ship was gone. The target would soon be gone. The motor launch headed for shore. Krushenko lit a cigarette and entered a number on his satellite phone.

In London, Foxworth said, "Yes."

"It's done."

"Good. Captain Krushenko, are you a religious man?"

Krushenko looked at the phone. What kind of question was that? It gave him a bad feeling.

"No. Why are you asking this?"

"Just wondering." Foxworth pressed a button. The signal went to the same satellite that carried Krushenko's encrypted transmission, then relayed down to another phone hidden in the hold of the motor launch and wired into three blocks of Semtex. A second later the launch disintegrated in an eruption of flame and debris. The sound of the explosion rolled across the waters.

Foxworth listened to the sudden silence and turned off his phone. He remembered something Benjamin Franklin had said. Three men can keep a secret if two of them are dead. Foxworth thought Franklin a wise man.

It hadn't been easy to arrange everything. But with enough money, anything was possible.

CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

It was an Indian Summer day, warm for early November. Elizabeth, Selena and Stephanie were eating lunch outside in the sheltered garden at the rear of the Project. They sat in the sun in the far corner, away from the building. A group of six analysts sat talking and laughing at one of the tables by the doors leading into the building.

The garden was two hundred feet long, surrounded by high concrete walls painted in desert earth tones. On the back wall was an exit door with an emergency bar on it. No one had ever needed to use it. The walls caught and held the warmth of the sun in the winter and provided seclusion and shade in summer. It was popular with everyone who worked at the Project, a favorite spot for a quick cigarette or a coffee break. Graveled walks meandered through decorative beds of flowers and under tall shade trees. This late in the year the leaves were down. The flowers were gone except for a few purple mums.

The paths intersected in the middle at a low fountain shaped like a smooth, gray boulder. Water flowed over artfully placed rocks, murmuring like a mountain stream. The sound made Elizabeth think of other places, other times. If she closed her eyes she could imagine the sound of the creek that ran behind her childhood home in Colorado.

Nick and Ronnie came out with trays and headed toward them. Nick had abandoned the sling but he had to be careful about the stitches. He looked at Selena and felt something close down.

Lamont was at a hospital in the city. His mom was ill again.

Ronnie and Nick were almost across the garden when something screamed out of the sky and exploded in the front of the building. The blast picked them up and tossed them aside. The air filled with flying debris. Blocks of concrete slammed into the earth and smashed against the garden walls. Pieces of the building rained from the sky.

In the aftermath, it seemed as if time had frozen and sound had ceased to exist.

Nick couldn't understand what had happened. He was lying on gravel. The stones dug into his face. The stitches in his back were torn open and bleeding. He couldn't hear anything. He tried to comprehend what he was doing there. Ronnie lay twenty feet away, not moving. A thick cloud of white dust drifted down on everything.

Hearing began to return. It brought the crackling of flames and the sound of things falling inside the building. Nick started to get to his knees and hit something with his head. A jagged spear of steel had embedded itself in a tree next to him. He saw Selena on her knees, bent over someone on the ground. The side of her face was covered in blood. Director Harker lay on her side, her back against the garden wall. Her black skirt was pushed up above her knees.

Nick struggled to his feet and looked back at Project headquarters. Black smoke and orange flame rose over the building, climbing into the blue Virginia sky. The rear wall was rubble. The roof was gone. He remembered that people had been talking and eating near the building entrance. They were buried under the remains of the wall. He could see a woman's leg sticking out from under concrete and twisted rebar.

He stumbled over to where Ronnie lay unconscious. The back of his head was covered with blood. Nick turned him over and lifted an eyelid, then the other. One pupil was large, the other small. A bad concussion, or worse. He pulled off his jacket and wadded it up into a pillow.

He looked again at the devastation. He wiped his forehead and his hand came away bloody. He had a headache. Ronnie's eyes fluttered and opened.

"What..."

"Easy, amigo. You're all right. Don't move." Gently, he put the makeshift pillow under Ronnie's head.

"Got a headache."

"Yeah."

"What happened?" His voice slurred.

"A bomb. Lie still. I'm going to look at the others."

Ronnie closed his eyes.

Nick went to where Selena knelt over Stephanie. Selena's clothes were ripped and covered in dirt and dust. She had a gash on her scalp that had bled down over her face.

"You all right?"

"Yes. Steph isn't."

"Shit." White bone stuck out of Steph's lower arm. There was a lot of blood.

"She's unconscious. Nick, what do we do?"

"Be ready to hold her still in case she wakes up. Give me your jacket."

Selena had a light weight suit jacket of silk. She pulled it off. He saw her wince.

"You sure you're all right?"

"I'm fine, just bruised. Here." She handed him the jacket.

He tore off a long strip of silk.

"Hold her head."

Nick lifted Steph up while Selena held her head off the ground. He wrapped the strip of silk around her body and pulled the upper arm tight against her chest. She moaned.

"She's waking up. Hold her."

Elizabeth knelt down next to them. "I'll help." She coughed, hard , rasping coughs.

He wrapped another piece below Steph's elbow and pulled it tight. The bleeding slowed to a trickle. The flames made a steady roaring sound, sucking in air around them. Heat from the fire was intense.

"Let's carry her out of here. Each of you take a leg."

The three of them carried Stephanie out through the door in the back wall and set her down.

"Stay with her. I'll get Ronnie. There's no one else we can help."

What was left of the Project building was an inferno. Nick got Ronnie to his feet. He half walked, half dragged him to where Harker held open the emergency door. Sirens sounded in the distance. He lay Ronnie down next to Stephanie and started toward the parking lot where the rescue trucks would be.

Then the rage began.

CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

They met at Selena's that evening. Stephanie and Ronnie were in Bethesda. Selena had been treated for the deep cut on her scalp. It had taken four stitches to close the cut on Nick's forehead and more to sew up his shoulder again. His arm was back in the sling. Elizabeth had multiple cuts and cracked ribs.

They sat at the granite counter dividing the living area from the kitchen, drinking coffee. Selena had set out a tray with pieces of dark chocolate.

"Chocolate?" Nick said.

"It helps," she said. "Go ahead. Try it." She took a piece.

"Everyone was killed," Elizabeth said. "Everyone."

They were silent. Then she said, "It was a cruise missile. The Pentagon thinks it came from a freighter off the coast."

"A freighter? How do you fire a missile from a freighter?" Nick held a cup of coffee in his left hand. Hot. Black. It helped him think.

"It was probably concealed in a cargo container. The satellites wouldn't have spotted it. If they used cold launch technology, they wouldn't need a vented platform. The missile was supersonic. By the time our people saw it, it was too close. They couldn't get something up in time to stop it. There's been no further indication of a threat. Rice has gone to DEFCON III, just in case."

"Cold launch and supersonic. That's government ordnance. Any claims of responsibility?"

"Several. Everyone is going crazy over at Langley and the Pentagon trying to figure out who did it."

"How is the White House going to spin it? You can't hide something like this. It's bound to leak that a missile got through our defenses."

"As far as the outside world knows, our building was a high-tech engineering research firm. The story will be that it's a terrorist attack gone wrong, with a missile targeted at the White House going astray and landing in Virginia by accident. A case of targeting error. The only upside is that it will probably clinch Rice's re-election."

"Why us? Why didn't someone put a missile on the White House?"

"The White House has AEGIS protection, but you're right, they might have gotten one through. So that's the right question. With targets like the White House or Capitol Hill or the Pentagon, why us?"

"Let's start making assumptions," Selena said. "It usually works, though I'm not sure why."

"Okay," Nick said. "Let's start with a fact. Someone sent a cruise missile and targeted it on our building. It can't be an accident it hit us. Something that advanced would have internal programming to put it right on the money."

Everyone nodded in agreement.

"Then assumption number one is that someone is out to get us. What's assumption number two? Aside from the fact that we've pissed someone off?"

"Number two is that whoever it is has a lot of money and powerful contacts," Elizabeth said. "Missiles are expensive and you can't order one out of a catalog. At least you can't unless you're a government."

"It can't be a government," Selena said. "We aren't important enough to risk a war with the US by sending a missile at us. This is real overkill. It's an insane thing to do."

"So we've got someone who is pissed off at us, has money and connections and is insane. Sound like anyone we know?" Lamont rubbed his nose with a knuckle.

"Foxworth," Elizabeth said. "Adam said he has a brain tumor."

"That son of a bitch." Nick's voice was flat. "It has to be him. Have they found the freighter? The captain can tell us something."

"That's another thing. There was a seismic anomaly registered by underwater sensors off the coast right about where that missile could have come from. An explosion of some kind. The Coast Guard is looking for a ship. They haven't found anything in the area except oil slick and flotsam."

"They sank it. It's at the bottom of the ocean."

"That's what I'd do," Elizabeth said. "I think there's something more going on here. You remember, a few months ago Adam told us Henri de Maupassant was part of AEON?"

"The French Minister of Finance? He was on that list in Foxworth's villa."

"Maupassant had a heart attack last night at a restaurant he frequented in Paris. He's dead. A waiter said someone brushed against him as he came in. He collapsed a minute later."

"That sounds like the KGB," Lamont said. "They were good at things like that. Remember that guy they poisoned with plutonium?"

"The KGB is gone."

"Gone but not forgotten. There are a lot of ex members of the sword and shield out there looking for work."

"Why kill Maupassant?" Nick asked.

Elizabeth picked up her coffee cup and set it down again. She took a piece of chocolate. "I think it's a power struggle inside AEON. There was another death two days ago. Julio Silva, in Brazil. He owned one of the largest energy corporations in the world. A big player."

"You think Silva was part of AEON?" Selena reached up and touched the bandage on her head. The stitches itched.

"I think he was. Silva was assassinated. A sniper got him as he was getting into his armored limo. The bodyguards and car didn't do him much good."

"Foxworth is going after his enemies. Including us." Nick got up and poured more coffee. Lamont held out his cup. Nick reached out with the pot and felt something spasm in his back. The coffee spilled.

"Damn."

"You okay, Nick?"

"Yeah." He set the pot down. "Just a glitch. I'll work it out in the gym. It'll go away."

"Are we in agreement, then?" Elizabeth said. "We assume Foxworth is behind this?"

"Yes," Nick said. Lamont and Selena nodded.

"We'll get him. Our first priority is a temporary place to work. DCI Hood has offered space at Langley if we want it. Rice has suggested the Pentagon."

"Can we access the NSA and CIA mainframes securely with remote access?" Selena asked.

"Yes."

"Then why not work here? Steph will be back tomorrow. There's plenty of room, a place to sleep if someone needs it, good security. There are two big screen TVs we can use for monitors. We can bring in anything we need. It keeps us out of sight."

For a moment Elizabeth was quiet. Then she said, "That's a good idea."

They were up and running.

CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

Valentin Dragonov was pleased with the way things were going. Two down. The Frenchman had been child's play. Sometimes the old ways were best. A simple pin prick, a fast acting poison and a problem was solved.

Silva had been more difficult, but people always had routines that were their undoing. Silva had been smart enough to vary them. Dragonov had to admit it would have been enough to stop most enemies, but he wasn't like most enemies. Silva's downfall had been through a low level employee with a grudge and a need for money. He'd been happy to provide Silva's itinerary.

As promised, Foxworth had transferred two bonus payments of 200,000 Euros each to a numbered account in Zurich. Valentin considered his next target, a banker in Hong Kong with close ties to Beijing. The logistics were difficult.

Dragonov had taken a suite at the luxurious Upper House Hotel, looking out over Victoria Harbor. The service was the best in Hong Kong and the food in the hotel restaurant excellent in a city known for its culinary offerings. The suite was $900 a day. Dragonov saw no reason to try and save his employer any money.

The girls he'd ordered from the escort service would be here soon. Dragonov looked forward to a night of many and varied pleasures. A discreet knock sounded on his door. Dragonov glanced at his watch. Right on time. He went across the room and opened the door.

Two large Chinese men moved in so quickly that Dragonov had no time to react. They were strong, with a grip like iron. The gun jammed into his ribs made struggle pointless.

"Sit," one man said. He pushed Dragonov down on a couch.

A third man entered the room and closed the door behind him. Dragonov recognized his next target.

I'm fucked, he thought.

The man was slim and not very tall. He had streaks of gray in his hair. He wore a gold Rolex on his left wrist. He wore a suit of dark blue Hong Kong silk and a red tie. Heavy lidded eyes looked at Dragonov through glasses with tinted lenses. He gestured and one of the large men brought a chair and placed it directly in front of the Bulgarian. The Chinese man sat down.

"You know who I am," he said. It wasn't a question.

Dragonov licked his lips, suddenly dry. It would do no good to deny it. "Yes."

"Good. Then you know I am a serious man."

Dragonov said nothing.

"Is that right, Mister Dragonov? Am I a serious man?"

"Yes."

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, sir."

"My colleagues believe you should be eliminated. You wouldn't like that."

He waited expectantly for Dragonov's response.

"No, sir, I wouldn't."

"How much did Foxworth pay you?"

Dragonov told him.

The man smiled. "It is always good to know what you are worth in the eyes of another. How much are you worth, Mister Dragonov?"

"I don't understand. Sir."

"I have a proposition for you. You have proven most resourceful. It is, after all, business. You will work for me. If you accept my proposition, you will be allowed to live. Your contract will be completely fulfilled with one more assignment and you will be paid the full amount offered before. Can you guess what your new assignment might be?"

Dragonov allowed himself to breathe. For the first time, he thought he might survive this meeting. "Yes, sir. Malcolm Foxworth."

"Good. I see I have not misjudged you. And can you guess what will happen if you do something foolish? Tell Malcolm about this meeting, for example?"

Dragonov nodded. "Yes, sir."

"No, you can't. You can't even imagine it. You understand, don't you?"

Valentin Dragonov knew many ways pain could be applied to the human body. He understood how the body could endure excruciating suffering for days before it died. Dragonov also understood fear. Looking into the Chinese man's eyes, he felt fear he had never known.

The man saw it and smiled. "Good. You understand." He patted his new employee on the knee and stood. "You have made a good decision. I will be watching for news, Mister Dragonov. Don't be long about it."

He moved toward the door. His two men were there before him, one holding the door open. At the door, the Chinese man turned.

"The women will be here soon," he said. "Perhaps you should change your clothes."

The door closed behind them. Dragonov looked down at the stain spreading on his pants.

CHAPTER SEVENTY

Mandy Atherton wore a tailored gray business suit of Italian silk that set off her perfect features and slim body. A gold bracelet studded with sapphires circled her left wrist. Mandy liked sapphires. She looked up as Foxworth's Chief of Security came into the room.

"He's not expecting you," she said. "I thought you were out of town."

She considered the man. Rough around the edges, though Healey had been no jewel himself. She missed the sex, the thrill of sneaking behind Foxworth's back. Looking at Dragonov, she felt the beginnings of arousal. He had big hands, a massive build. She wondered if the rest of him matched. Besides, she'd never had a Bulgarian. At least she didn't think so.

"You don't have to announce me," he said. He walked over to her, bent down and smelled her hair. "What is that perfume you're wearing?"

"You like it?"

"Very much." He laid his large hand on her neck and put hard fingers around her throat. She shivered. For a moment she felt frightened. There was something about Dragonov, a kind of feral danger that radiated like heat from his body. She felt moisture between her legs. He paused as if considering something, then gently withdrew his hand.

"Don't announce me, okay?"

"Okay."

"We'll go out when I'm done here."

"Okay."

Mandy had never felt anything like this. She wasn't the kind of woman who took it well when a man told her what to do. Somehow Dragonov was different.

"Malcolm wants me to go to an event with him tonight."

"That won't be a problem."

"All right."

"Why don't you go have a cigarette? Come back in ten minutes."

She watched him go into the inner office. She heard Foxworth's voice raised in surprise.

"What are you doing here?"

The door was thick and soundproof. Dragonov closed it behind him. Mandy took a cigarette and lighter from her purse and hurried from the room.

Foxworth looked up from his desk, annoyed.  His head was throbbing. Morel was late. His hand trembled as he reached for a glass of water.

"Well? What is it? I thought you were in Hong Kong."

"I was."

"Is he dead?"

"No." Dragonov drew a pistol from under his jacket.

"Ah. I see," Foxworth said. "What did he offer you?"

"More than you," Dragonov said.

"I'm disappointed, Dragonov. Money is no object. Here, I have another 50,000 for you."

He reached in his desk drawer and took out his Walther and fired, just as Dragonov shot him between the eyes. Foxworth's head snapped back. He tumbled from his chair. Dragonov clutched at his chest and took his hand away, covered with blood.

He shot me. The bastard shot me.

The strength went from his legs and he fell to the floor. Blood gushed between his fingers.

He shot me.

Darkness descended.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

Nick put down the phone. Selena watched him.

"That was Harker. Foxworth's dead."

"How?"

"His security chief shot him. Foxworth's assistant went out for a smoke break and when she came back they were both dead."

"Both of them?"

"Foxworth killed him. It looks like they both fired at the same time."

They were in Nick's apartment. Miles Davis played in the background. He took down a bottle of Jameson from a cabinet over the wet bar and a glass.

"Get me one," Selena said.

He got another glass and brought the bottle and glasses over to the counter where she sat.

"I love this album," Nick said. "Kind of Blue. Davis, Cannonball Adderly, John Coltrane. Bill Evans. There's no one like them around anymore."

"It's a different world now." She drank. "What do you think Elizabeth is going to do?"

"You mean about the Project?"

"Yes. Where will the new headquarters be?"

"She's not happy with all the publicity. Maybe somewhere away from the city."

"I never thought it would be like this."

"Yeah." He looked at her. "What are you going to do? About the Project? About us? No one would blame you if you stayed out of the field after what happened in Mexico. Or if you left."

He looked down at his drink as he said it.

"I won't be ready for the field for months." She considered her words. "Would anyone blame you if you got shot and left?"

"What do you mean?'

"It sounds like you think there are different rules for me than there are for you."

"That's not what I meant at all."

"You didn't answer my question. Would anyone blame you?"

"It's different for me."

"See? That's how you and Ronnie and Lamont think." She poured herself another drink.

Nick could feel tension settling on his shoulders. What she'd said was true. He did think it was different for her.

Selena said, "It's important. Do you think getting wounded makes any difference? Excuses me if I quit?"

He looked at the ice melting in his glass. "I don't know."

She took a breath. "We're a team. If I quit, I'd be letting you and Ronnie and Lamont down. And I resent the fact that you think I might do that."

He was silent. She toyed with her glass, turning it on the smooth stone countertop.

"I admit, getting hurt like that scared the hell out of me. More than Pakistan. But I'm not quitting."

"You almost died."

"I didn't. Because you saved me. Just like I'd do for you." She looked at him. Her voice betrayed her emotion. "The team is important to me. It's not just what we do. It's everything. We depend on each other. We're a family. How could I give that up? You think I don't understand after what we've all been through in the past year?"

Nick reached out and took her hand. "You're right. I'm sorry."

"All right, then. So shut up about not going back in the field." She took her hand away.

"You didn't answer my second question. About us.

He waited. She was working up to saying something.

"I'm not sure about us right now. How do you think I'd feel if you were killed? Did you ever think of that?"

The words stunned him.

"No. I never thought of that."

"Well, I do. I pushed it away, before. Mexico changed that. It's made me look at my fears in a different way. Not only about me, about you dying. Then you almost don't come back from Russia."

"But I did."

"This time. What about the next?"

"It's the risk we take."

"Yes, it is. That doesn't make it easier."

She stood.

"I think I should go now."

"Why don't you stay," he said.

"I'm sorry, Nick. I can't, right now. Give me a little more time to work it through."

The door closed behind her.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

Three days later Harker called an evening meeting at Selena's. Nick was ten minutes late. He got out of the elevator and went to Selena's door. Since the night they'd talked he'd only seen her at the meetings. He used his key and went in.

The door opened onto a wide hall that led to the great room on the right. He walked to the end of the hall and turned the corner.

"Surprise!"

Selena, Elizabeth, Ronnie, Stephanie and Lamont stood in a group under a wide red banner that shouted Happy Birthday! The room was festive with balloons. The dining table was loaded with food. A cake with candles waited.

He stood speechless.

"Happy Birthday, Nick." Selena came forward and kissed him. She whispered in his ear. "I love you," she said. "It's all right. I'm not going anywhere." She kissed him again.

Lamont said, "Gotcha, man. Surprised you. Happy birthday."

"One more gone," Ronnie said.

"Just like a Scorpio." It was Stephanie. "Late to your own party."

Elizabeth smiled. "Good thing you were. We couldn't get all the food out in time."

They were all smiling at him. The team. His family.

"You guys..." He stopped.

In the end, this was what mattered. This was what he fought for. Not just flag or country, but for the people in his life. That was what was important.

He looked at Selena. Suddenly, life felt good again.

About the Author

Alex Lukeman is the author of the award-winning Action/Adventure thriller The Tesla Secret. He likes riding old, fast motorcycles, sipping Barbados rum and playing guitar, usually not at the same time

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The Project Series

White Jade

The Lance

The Seventh Pillar

Black Harvest

The Tesla Secret

The Nostradamus File

Author's Notes

I like to mix fiction and fact in my stories.

Telluric currents are real, an inexhaustible source of energy with no environmental effects. Nikola Tesla invented alternating current, bladeless turbines and wireless transmission. He patented designs for the transmission of free electrical energy based on the use of the earth's geomagnetic field. We might have that free electricity today if J.P Morgan had not pulled Tesla's funding. It could still be done, which ought to give us all something to think about.

The Mafra Codex does not exist except in my imagination. There are no Mayan books from the period of 500-600 CE. The Mafra Palace in Portugal and it's famous library are real. So is the large and extensive sewer system beneath it.

Zaslon exists. It is composed of the cream of the Russian Special Forces, which makes it a very formidable unit. It is part of Department S of the SVR, which also exists.

Cold launch technology is real. It would allow a missile to be fired from the deck of a freighter lying off our shores. We'd better hope no one does that. A missile fired at the Capitol from close to the Virginia coast would be almost impossible to intercept.

The premise of lost plans for the death ray design is based on fact. Tesla did indeed demonstrate a small device operating in a vacuum, reported in the press as a "Death Ray". Channels exist under the Egyptian pyramids that would have flowed with water before the Nile shifted course. In the Great Pyramid there are no smoke stains from torches on paintings deep inside the structure. What did the builders of the pyramid use for light? Why are the inner walls of the pyramid constructed in such a way that they would serve as a perfect insulator? Why are there illustrations that look exactly like light bulbs of some kind? And why do respected Egyptologists say that the Great Pyramid may not actually have been a tomb after all? If it wasn't a tomb, what was it for?

Tesla saw World War Two coming and made a serious effort to sell his idea for a super weapon to the US and the British governments. Both FDR and Churchill turned him down. Tesla believed his weapon would make war obsolete because of its great destructive power. By this time he was notably eccentric. They didn't believe him. He died in 1943, in poverty and alone, an eccentric old man dismissed as irrelevant and disturbed. Hoover's FBI seized all of his plans, papers, documents and models. These were finally released nine years later and shipped to Serbia. They are in the Tesla Museum in Belgrade.

If he was so irrelevant, why did the FBI grab all his effects?

We can already build futuristic beam weapons, including phasers (just like Star Trek- designs exist which would work perfectly in the vacuum of space), masers and lasers. The US is currently researching and developing a proton beam weapon. I assume the Russians and Chinese are as well. There are still problems, primarily with the power issue described in the story. All beam weapons must confront "blooming" and overcome the resistance of the atmosphere, if they are to be effective as weapons of war.

The Russians did invest a great deal of effort during the 50s and 60s at the Semipalatinsk-21 test site in Kazakhstan trying to develop a proton beam weapon. The theory behind such a weapon is well understood. Tesla's death ray is a developing reality. Imagine something that could make the atomic structure of a target destabilize. It is only a question of time until the obstacles are overcome.

For an excerpt from White Jade, Book One, please keep reading...

WHITE JADE

CHAPTER ONE

The dream splintered into shards of red and black, a kaleidoscope gone wrong. William Connor sat up gasping for air and waited for his heart to stop pounding. The green numerals on the clock by his bedside read two-thirty in the morning.

Something wasn't right.

Had he set the alarms?

After a moment he got out of bed and shrugged on a robe. He moved to the stairs of his San Francisco home. Below, a pool of yellow light from a single desk lamp spilled across the polished wooden floor. The rest of the room was in darkness.

His old body protested as he descended the stairs. He started toward the alarm box. A large man stepped from the shadows and blocked his way. Connor's heart skipped a beat and settled to erratic thumping.

"You! What are you doing here?"

Strong arms grabbed Connor from behind and wrestled him to the chair by his desk. Someone wrapped tape around him. The robe fell open, exposing his pale genitals. He was helpless.

"Is it money? I have money. Tell me what you want."

The large man loomed over Connor. He smelled unpleasant, a greasy smell of testosterone and stale sweat.

"Yes, money. And I want the book."

"What book?"

The large man slapped Connor across the face, a casual blow.

"The book. The one from Bhutan."

Connor tasted blood. "It's not here!"

"Then you will tell me where it is. First, the money. I want the account numbers and access codes."

William Connor was a rich man. Access to those accounts gave control over hundreds of millions of dollars.

"Who are you?"

"I am your worst nightmare. Tell me what I want or I will hurt you."

Almost as an afterthought, the man picked up and examined a delicate, antique porcelain vase covered with an exquisite design of flowers and birds. The soft glaze glowed in the dim light. He smiled.

There were only two things William Connor truly loved. One was his niece, Selena. The other was the joy of things old and beautiful.

"Please be careful with that," he said. "It's very old."

The man looked at the fragile vase and smiled again. He held it in front of Connor in his huge hand and squeezed. It shattered into dust. Connor felt his chest tighten.

"If I ask a question and you do not answer, I will hurt you. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"The numbers."

"I don't have them here. All that is in my office."

The man sighed. He went into the kitchen. Connor could hear him rummaging through the kitchen drawers. He came back with a small red-handled pair of pruning shears Connor used on the rose bushes in the garden.

He grabbed the old man's left hand and pinched the blades together and cut off the little finger.

Connor screamed.

The man dug the point of the shears into the bone below Connor's eye. Connor screamed again from the pain. Blood ran down his cheek.

"The fog is thick, outside. The house is solid. No one will hear you scream. Your right eye is next."

The old man's bladder emptied, soaking his robe and the chair. Someone laughed, behind him.

"I'll tell you! I'll tell you! Don't hurt me again!" He began babbling the numbers, blurting them out. Sudden pain started and spread to Connor's left arm, sharp and immediate, a burning, blossoming bolt of fire. He stopped speaking and tried to catch his breath.

"Where is the book?" The man was shouting.

Pain exploded in Connor's chest. As vision faded, his last sight was the terrifying, angry face of his executioner.

CHAPTER TWO

Nicholas Carter wasn't thinking about the grenade. He was thinking about the temperature gauge on his rental Ford, pegged in the red. He pulled into the parking lot at the Project and stepped out into the heat. Steam boiled under the hood. A green pool spread out under the car. His head felt like it was wrapped in iron. He wished he was back at his cabin in California, not standing in Virginia with his shoes sticking to the asphalt.

Carter scanned the surrounding area. He noted the parked cars, all empty. He crossed the lot to the building housing the Project, like hundreds of others in the Metro area. The only difference to a casual observer was the array of antennas bristling on the roof.

Carter went through security and walked past the elevator to the stairs. He climbed past the second floor housing the computers and backup generators and communications. He passed the third floor where the analysts lived. He exited the stairs on the fourth floor, the top floor, where Director Harker's office was. He placed his hand on the biometric scanner outside the door of her office and went in.

Elizabeth Harker looked up from behind her desk. She was small, with milk-white skin, small, pointed ears and raven black hair. Her eyes were like a cat's, wide and green. She looked like an elf dressed in black and white, but a kind of elf you wouldn't want to mess with.

On her desk was a file with his name on it, a silver pen that had belonged to FDR and a picture of the Twin Towers burning on 9/11. She kept the picture to remind herself of why she was there.

"Have a seat." Harker opened the file.

He sat and waited.

"The shrink says you're fit to go back in the field. Are you?"

"I'm fine."

"No more flashbacks?"

"No."

Not for three months. He'd thrown out the pills the doctor had given him. They'd flattened everything into a narrow monotone that made him feel like he was living in a fading black and white picture. He didn't think Harker needed to know about the dreams.

Harker nodded. She made a note in the file and placed it in a drawer.

A large, flat monitor was mounted on one wall of the office. Harker did something at her desk and the display came to life with a picture of an elderly man. His eyes were blue. He looked like the sort of man you'd like for a Grandfather.

She said, "This is William Connor. He was a very rich man. He was also a personal friend of the President."

"Was?"

"Someone tortured him until he died of a heart attack. They cut off one of his fingers with pruning shears. Then they transferred money from his accounts and tore his home apart."

An electric tension settled across his shoulders. Cutting off the finger of an old man made things personal, something he could grab on to. It was better when it was personal. He needed personal. It helped motivate him. Going forth for God and Country didn't work too well for him anymore, not since Afghanistan. Not since South America.

"That's cold. How much money?"

"Around four hundred million."

"Why are we getting involved with this? This looks like FBI or Treasury territory."

"We intercepted an encrypted satellite transmission last week from the Chinese consulate in San Francisco. There's a Colonel from Chinese Military Intelligence in the consulate named Wu. He pretends he's a trade official. He called his boss, General Yang. Yang is chief of their MI. Wu told him about an old book Connor found in Bhutan and Yang ordered him to get the book and Connor's money. The money went to accounts in Macau controlled by Yang."

"Chinese MI? Why would they do something as stupid as that? It doesn't make sense. What's in the book?"

"We don't know. Connor had a niece who might know. I want to ask her about it. Doctor Connor is coming here today."

"Doctor?"

"PhDs in oriental and ancient languages. She's one of the top experts in the country."

Carter pictured an expert PhD niece. Someone academic looking. Maybe in an earth tone baggy suit, with large glasses and gray hair, around fifty.

Harker said, "The FBI had Wu under routine surveillance. I requested a photo and they sent one over but my gut says they're holding something back."

Nick didn't respond.

"Zeke Jordan is the liaison. You know him. Talk with him and see what you can find out."

A voice came from the intercom on Harker's desk.

"Director, Doctor Connor is here."

"Escort her up."

While they waited, Carter thought about his car and decided to call Triple A and ride back with the tow.

CHAPTER THREE

Selena Connor didn't look like a fiftyish, gray-haired professor. It wasn't the way she looked that got Carter's attention, though that would have been enough. It was the way she came into the room, all contained, taut energy, with the rippling grace of an athlete. She was in her thirties. Her hair was short and reddish blond. Her face was tan from the outdoors. She had high cheekbones and violet eyes. There was a small mole above her lip.

She wasn't wearing a baggy suit or big glasses. She had on a smooth silk jacket and slacks and a pale blouse that picked up the violet color. In her left hand she carried a black leather computer case.

Carter stood and Harker introduced him. They all sat down.

Harker said, "What have you got there?"

"My uncle's laptop. He'd never left it with me before. I haven't looked at it, but I thought you might want to." Her voice was controlled. There were lines of tension in her face.

Got the lid on, Nick thought.

"Doctor Connor," Elizabeth said.

"Please call me Selena."

"Selena. The people who killed your uncle were after a book he acquired in Bhutan. We need to know what's in it."

Selena gave Harker an odd look. How did she know about the book?

"It's gone. I don't know where it is. I haven't read all of it, but it's a copy of an ancient text about immortality, mostly written in Sanskrit. Books like that are rare, but this one is unique. What's in it is impossible."

"Impossible?" Harker tapped her pen against her lip.

"Part of it is written in Linear A. If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes I'd never believe it. Linear A is one of two written languages from the Minoan Empire, before 1600 BCE. There are no books written in Linear A. There shouldn't be anything Minoan in the Himalayan region at all."

"You're sure the book is gone?"

"My uncle kept it on his desk, but it's not there now. He was going to scan it onto his computer."

"So it might be on that laptop you brought."

"It could be."

Harker began tapping on her desk. "The money from your uncle's accounts went to China."

"China? Part of the book is about the first Chinese emperor, Qin Huang."

"Emperor Huang?" Carter said. "The one with the soldiers and horses?"

"Yes. Huang placed an army of terracotta soldiers and horses outside his tomb. Chinese farmers found it in '74. It's a big tourist attraction."

Selena brushed a wisp of hair away from her forehead.

"The book described Huang's search for immortality. He was obsessed with it. It also repeated old stories of treasure in his tomb. Everyone knows where it is but it's never been excavated."

Harker told Selena about the intercept.

"Then you know who did this! Can't you arrest him, this…Colonel, or whatever he is?"

"We don't have hard evidence. Besides, he has diplomatic immunity."

Nick's ear began itching. Since he was a kid it had itched when things were about to get complicated, a personal early warning system. Then again, sometimes it was just an itch. He scratched it.

Harker set down her pen. "Maybe there's something on that laptop. Let's take a look."

Selena handed her the case. Harker took the computer out and plugged it into a port on her desk. The display booted up on the wall monitor. The screen filled with folder icons.

"Lots of files." She clicked on one labeled Beijing. The file was a list of bank account numbers in the Chinese capitol.

"That might help track the money. I don't see anything about a book."

Selena said, "It looks like financial files labeled by location, like the Bahamas or Caymans, or by industry and city. There's one labeled Li Shan. That's where the emperor is buried. Open that one."

The file was a draft proposal to excavate the tomb of the First Emperor, complete with time lines and cost breakdowns. There was nothing about the book in the file.

"There's a file with my name," Selena said.

"Let's see it."

It was a letter from William Connor to his niece, dated a week before his death.

My Dearest Selena,

You know how I hate clichés. Please forgive me for the one I use now. Quite simply, if you are reading this letter then something has happened to me. I do not contemplate this with equanimity, my dear, but life sometimes forces unpleasant possibilities upon us. I am leaving this note and my computer with you in hopes you never read it.

I think I am being watched by agents of the Chinese government and that it has something to do with the book I acquired in Bhutan. My translation is incomplete, but it seems there are historical inaccuracies regarding the death and burial of the First Emperor, and that these relate to a supposed elixir of eternal life.

I have prepared a proposal regarding possible excavation of the First Emperor's tomb at Li Shan. A week ago I met with a Chinese consular official named Wu Chen to discuss obtaining permission to fund and participate in such an important project. Wu offered to put me in touch with the correct people in Beijing.

In the course of our meeting I talked about the book. Not long after that I noticed a large and rather menacing Chinese man observing me at a restaurant I frequent. Then I noticed that same man in other places, at other times. It may have nothing to do with Wu, but it seems too coincidental to me.

I feel threatened. So I write this letter to you, although it may be just the foolish act of an old man.

I have placed the book in a safe place. If it does hold a clue to the secret of immortality or a key to the emperor's treasures, it is a dangerous thing to have in one's possession.

Do you remember, when we used to have our summer time together at the old mine, when you were a child, the special place you found to secret away your most precious things? That is where you will find the book.

My dear Selena, if you are indeed reading this, please know that you have always been a source of joy and delight for this old uncle of yours.

With all my love, Uncle William

They read the letter again. Selena sat rigidly in her chair. Carter watched her. It was an old habit, watching. It told him things. Right now it told him Selena was wound up tight. Close to her uncle, he thought, but she wasn't going to let anyone see it. How she really felt.

He knew what that was like.

Harker said, "Do you know what he was talking about? The place he hid the book?"

Selena's voice was controlled, neutral. "My family found gold in California in 1850. There's a house at the old mine property. In the front yard there's an ore cart full of rocks from the mine. When I was a child I hid things under the rocks. That must be where he put it. I'm surprised he didn't put it in one of his safe deposit boxes."

"No safe deposit box keys have turned up." Harker twirled her pen.

"He had at least three."

"The FBI searched his office and home. We'll check with them."

"If they have the keys, they know what's in the boxes." Nick looked at Harker. "I'll ask Jordan when I talk with him."

"Do that. Then I want you to go to California with Doctor Connor and retrieve that book. Does that work for you, Selena?"

"Anything that helps."

"Why do you want me along?" Carter said.

"They didn't get the book. If they think Selena has it they might go after her. I want you to keep an eye out." She looked at her watch and turned to Selena. "It's too late to get a flight today. We'll book one for tomorrow. What airport, Selena?"

"Sacramento. The mine is only an hour away."

"We'll arrange a car."

Carter said, "We can use mine. It's already there." He'd flown out of Sacramento. His truck was in the long term lot at the airport.

"Good. Hook up with Jordan before you go. Call me after you find the book. We'll search the rest of these files and follow up."

"What do I tell Jordan?"

Harker tapped her pen on the desk. "Tell him about the financial accounts. We'll keep the book to ourselves for now. There's no need for the Bureau to know about it."

CHAPTER FOUR

Earlier that same day, Colonel Wu Chen was sitting in a secluded red leather booth at the Happy Family restaurant in San Francisco.

Muted sounds drifted up from the street below. The only other customer was an old man across the room reading his newspaper. The smell of rice, pork and noodles mingled with the murmured conversation of waiters huddled in a corner. Wu sipped his tea. He took a bright red carnation from the vase on the table and twirled it in his hands. He thought about his conversation with the General.

"Tell me about this book."

Yang's wet voice had echoed through the satellite link.

"The American obtained it in Bhutan. The book concerns the First Emperor. It is a medical text with a formula for a draught of immortality. That is why I contacted you."

The General was always interested in anything to do with the First Emperor and his quest for immortality. Wu needed to keep General Yang happy.

"What is the name of this book?"

"The American said it translates as 'The Golden Garuda'."

Wu heard a sharp intake of breath. When Yang spoke again, his voice was controlled. Wu sensed his excitement.

"I have an assignment for you."

"Sir."

"I require the book. Obtain it and deliver it to me." There was a pause. Wu waited. "The American is rich?"

"Yes, sir. He has great wealth."

"Access his financial accounts. Transfer the funds to the account numbers I send after this conversation."

"Yes, sir. Are there any restrictions?"

"Use any means necessary. Make sure there are no complications after."

"Yes, sir."

"Inform me when you have succeeded."

Wu toyed with the flower and sipped his tea. The book hadn't been in Connor's home. The niece must know where it was. His agents would bring her to him for questioning.

Wu thought about interrogating her. He felt the beginning of an erection. He would strip her naked and bind her. That always unnerved prisoners, especially the women. Choy could question her, but sometimes his sergeant got carried away and damaged the subject beyond repair before Wu learned what he needed. No, he'd do it himself.

The water technique was effective, but time consuming if the subject was stubborn. Wu preferred the blowtorch and pliers. Or knives, the kind you'd find in any kitchen. Simple tools were always best.

He reached for his tea and glanced down. The shredded petals of the flower made a delicate pattern against the scarred table top. He brushed them aside with his hand. They fell to the floor in a shower of red, like drops of blood.

Tinkling green jade prosperity symbols over the restaurant doorway announced the arrival of his Sergeant.

Choy Gang's skin was the color of the Mongolian desert on a winter evening, betraying his mixed heritage. He was tall and weighed over two hundred and fifty pounds. His head was large and sat like a cantaloupe with crumpled ears on his massive shoulders. His hands were broad clubs, the knuckles scarred and bulbous.

Choy's fleshy face was marred with acne scars. His eyes were small and close set, almond-shaped, an odd golden color. A shiny blue shirt stretched taut across his massive chest and arms under a loose fitting brown jacket.

In the People's Liberation Army, Choy had found a home. In Colonel Wu, he had found a Master.

Choy cast a contemptuous glance at the elderly customer across the room. He squeezed into the booth. One of the waiters poured more tea. Wu ordered food in a rapid burst of Mandarin.

When the waiter was gone Wu said, "You had no trouble obtaining the information for Connor's accounts?"

"No, sir. He resisted at first, but it didn't take much to convince him to give me the numbers." Choy thought about how the old man had screamed when his finger had been snipped off. He smiled, showing the gaps between his yellowed teeth.

"You are sure the book was not in Connor's home?"

"Yes, sir. I am positive it was not there. His heart gave out too soon, before he revealed its location."

"That was unfortunate. But you did well. Now I have another task for you."

Wu watched Choy perk up. He's like a good dog, Wu thought. Give him something new and interesting to do and he's happy.

"The American owned a house three or four hours from here. Take some men tomorrow and search for the book. Use a vehicle from the black pool."

The black pool was a small fleet of cars untraceable to the Chinese Consulate.

Wu took an envelope from his jacket and slid it across the table to Choy. "Money and a driver's license. The directions to the place are also there."

Choy put the envelope in his jacket pocket as the waiter returned with steaming plates of food.

"Sergeant," Wu said, "enjoy this delicious dim sum. It's as good as we get at home."

Across the room, the elderly Chinese man took a last sip of his cold tea. He folded his newspaper and rose. He shuffled by the cash register to pay and carefully made his way down the steep stairs. His superiors would be pleased when they learned of the meeting he had just overheard.

CHAPTER FIVE

Nicholas Carter and Selena Connor stood in the heat of the parking lot. All the parked cars were still empty. Carter put his phone away. Two and a half hours before Triple A could get him out of here.

"Can you give me a ride into town? My rental's no good." He gestured at the mess under his car.

"Of course. I'm parked just over there."

A new Mercedes CL600 gleamed in the late afternoon light. Twelve cylinders and over five hundred horsepower. A fast, luxury car. A driver's car. A money car. Not many women drove cars with that kind of power. It said something about her. Nick got his bag from the rental and climbed in.

"Nice car."

"I just got it a few weeks ago."

She started up, drove out of the lot.

"Where are you staying?" he asked.

"The Mayflower Renaissance. I stay there when I'm in Washington and leave the car there when I'm out of town."

"That's not far from my place. Where do you live when you're not in D.C.?"

"San Francisco. I've got a loft in North Beach."

They pulled onto the Interstate. The interior was quiet except for the whisper of the air conditioner. Carter relaxed into the leather.

They were doing a little over seventy. Selena glanced in the rear view mirror and switched lanes. A BMW 740 with blacked out windows passed her and cut sharply in front.

"Jerk," she muttered under her breath. In the side mirror Nick saw a black Suburban pull in behind, riding their tail. His ear began itching.

They entered a construction zone. The right lane of the highway was bordered by heavy cement barriers laid end to end. Orange signs warned of doubled fines and men at work.

The Suburban rammed into them and drove the Mercedes into the cement. The car rebounded from the barrier in a shower of sparks and fishtailed back onto the roadway. In front, the BMW blocked them. Selena fought for control. The Suburban came alongside on the left and broadsided her back into the barrier.

The front right fender and hood buckled. Something flew over the roof. Sparks streamed by Nick's window. The Mercedes slid along the cement in a din of screeching steel.

Drivers swerved around them, horns blaring.

Carter pulled out his .45. Selena's eyes narrowed.

"Hang on," she said.

She hit the brakes and the big discs on the Mercedes grabbed the wheels. Carter wasn't ready. The seat belt stopped his head inches from the dash. The Suburban surged past on the left, scraping strips from the car, taking the mirror with it. Selena shifted down. She floored the accelerator and the five hundred horses came to life. She cut across panicked traffic into the outer lane.

They shot past the SUV and the BMW. The car filled with the smooth growl of the engine and the sound of pavement under the tires.

The speedometer climbed past ninety. Selena wove in and out of the traffic and clipped a red Honda. It skewed across the highway and flipped over onto the grass median. In the side mirror, Carter saw a gray sedan slam into an old pickup filled with furniture. Chests and chairs spilled across the roadway.

A quarter mile ahead a blinking yellow arrow on the back of a truck and a string of orange and white barrels funneled three lanes into two. They were about to run out of room. The cement streamed by on the right, a blurring, silent ripple of gray outside his window.

Shit, he thought. He calmed himself, lowered his heart rate, getting ready for whatever was coming. The gun rested on his thigh. He was out of control, but the car was so comfortable. Carter glanced at Selena. She gripped the wheel, her face set, absorbed in the traffic and the road. The speedometer hung at a hundred.

A long, wide gap in the cement barrier opened along the right onto an excavated parking area with neat rows of equipment and stacks of supplies. Selena slowed, shifted down, stood on the emergency brake and wrenched the wheel over. The rear end slid smoking to the left in a howl of burning rubber. In one fluid motion she released the brake and whipped the wheel back to center. The Mercedes shot through the gap and went airborne over the edge of the road and down hard onto gravel.

The front tires blew out. The car corkscrewed and slewed sideways and sprayed gravel and dirt in a wide arc. They fishtailed across the lot. The car slammed to a jarring halt against a pile of rebar and steel. Steam erupted under the buckled hood.

The BMW and Suburban caught up and stopped on the highway. Two men jumped from the car, guns in their hands. Two more piled out of the Suburban.

Carter pushed Selena down into her seat and fired twice at the windshield. The shots deafened him inside the car. The glass spider-webbed. He fired again. A large piece of the windshield blew out. He fired at the first man out of the BMW and missed. He fired again and the man spun backwards, arms splayed wide.

Carter shot the second man in the chest, then turned toward the others. He ducked. The two from the Suburban opened up with their pistols. The car windows disappeared in a shower of flying glass. Bullets thumped into the sides of the car.

Something clipped his ear. Selena was bent low behind the wheel with her hands covering her ears. He let off three more rounds over her head. A third man doubled over and fell face down on the pavement. The fourth ran back behind the Suburban. Carter made out a driver hunched down behind the wheel and shot him.

The BMW drove away, fast. The last man pulled the body of the driver from behind the wheel of the SUV. He climbed in and took off on smoking tires. Carter fired after him until the slide locked back on his pistol.

For one or two seconds the Suburban kept going straight. Then it heeled right in a tilting, impossible turn and flipped over onto the driver's side. It slid along the pavement showering sparks and shedding pieces of metal, glass and chrome until it came to rest. With a loud thump, it burst into flame.

The BMW was gone, out of sight.

"Are you all right?" His words sounded flat and far away. His ears rang from the pistol shots.

"What? Yes, I'm okay, I think." She sat up, brushed glass from her hair, and looked at him. "You're bleeding."

The Suburban burned with fierce, red beauty. A black column of smoke rose into a sky scattered with clouds turning pink and gold from the lowering sun. He felt blood dripping on the side of his neck.

He wanted to look in the rearview mirror but it was gone.

On the highway, people were getting out of their cars. Holding the .45 high, Carter ejected the empty magazine and inserted a fresh one. He racked the slide.

His door was blocked shut.

"Can you open your door?"

She pushed hard. It groaned open with a sound of bent metal. Selena got out. He slid across the seat and stood beside her.

"Stay here." Smoke from the flaming Suburban swirled around him. It smelled of burning rubber and roasting flesh. Nick felt his mind try to pull him back to Afghanistan. He pushed the memory away.

He walked toward the motionless figures on the ground, toe to heel, bent low, holding the .45 straight out in front with both hands. He nudged the first body with his foot. A pistol lay on the ground, a Beretta by the looks of it. He kicked it away.

The thick steel and leather of the Mercedes and bad shooting had kept the nine millimeter rounds from penetrating far into the body of the car. Something with more punch, he thought, he'd be dead. Selena would be dead.

Sightless Asian eyes stared up at him. Carter checked the others, one by one. His .45 hollow points had done a lot of damage. None of them were breathing. They all looked Asian. He figured the driver cooking in the SUV would turn out to be the same.

He put the pistol in his shoulder holster and went back to where Selena stood by the car.

"What did they want?" She was pale under her tan.

"You. I don't think they expected trouble."

She clasped her arms around herself. He wondered if she was about to faint. Then her face got tight and angry.

"Goddamn it, this is America, not fucking Afghanistan! This isn't supposed to happen here. That was a new car. Look at it!"

She surprised him, the language. He hadn't figured her for someone who would swear like that. He looked at the car.

Her hundred and fifty thousand dollar Mercedes was totaled. The front end was buckled and listing to the right. The tires were spider webs of shredded metal and rubber. There was a long dented scrape along the driver's side. All the windows were gone. The ground around the car was littered with tiny fragments of broken glass. The beautiful paint job was pocked with bullet holes. Antifreeze and oil made a widening pool on the dirt.

"Maybe the insurance will cover it," he said. "I'm going to make a call."

She looked at him like he was crazy. She shook her head.

A news helicopter circled overhead, getting pictures to feed the greed for violence on the evening news. Sirens wailed in the distance. Carter took out his phone and called the Director. She'd get them out of the clutches of the law a lot faster than explanations would.

At least his headache was gone.