

THE GO CODE PROTOCOL

by

Jeffry Weiss

THE BIBLE

1 Samuel 17: 1-58

And there went out a champion of the camp of the Philistines, named Goliath, of Gath, whose height was six cubits and a span. And he had a helmet of brass upon his head, and he was armed with a coat of mail weighing five thousand shekels of brass. And the staff of his spear was like a weaver's beam.

And he stood and cried unto the armies of Israel, "Choose you a man for you, and let him come down to me. If he be able to fight with me, and to kill me, then will we be your servants; but if I prevail against him, then shall ye be our servants."

When King Saul and all Israel heard the words of the Philistine, they were greatly afraid.

Now David was the son of Jesse of Bethlehem, who had eight sons all told. And the three eldest went and followed Saul to the battle, leaving David to tend the herd. Yet David could not abide his father and so left his flock to the keeper and ran to the army.

Eliab, his eldest brother, saw David, he said, "Why camest thou down hither?

And David said, "What have I now done? Is there not a cause?" And he turned from him toward another, and spake after the same manner. And when the words David spoke reached the ear of Saul, the king sent for him.

And David said to Saul, "Let no man's heart fail because of this Philistine; thy servant will go and fight with him."

And Saul said to David, "Thou art not able to go against this Philistine and fight with him: for thou art but a youth, and he a man of war from his youth."

And David said unto Saul, "Thy servant kept his father's sheep, and there came a lion and a bear, and each took a lamb out of the flock. I caught them, and slew them, and delivered those ewes out of those mouths."

And Saul said unto David, "Go then, and the Lord be with thee."

And David chose him five smooth stones out of the brook, and put them in his shepherd's bag, and, with sling in hand, drew near to the Philistine.

And when the Philistine looked about, and saw David, he said, "Am I a dog that thou comest to me with slaves? Come to me, and I will give thy flesh unto the fowls of the air, and to the beasts of the field."

Then said David to the Philistine, "This day will the lord deliver thee into mine hand; and I will smite thee, and give thy carcass to the dogs."

When the Philistine drew nigh, David hasted, and ran toward the Philistine. And David took thence a stone, and slang it, and smote the Philistine, that the stone sunk into his forehead; and he fell upon his face to the earth.

THE PARTICIPANTS

Captain Paul Decker's counter-insurgency team

Borya

Diedrich

Alex

Simon

Julien

Cassandra

Outside Support for Paul Decker

Azubike, leader of African pirates

Reinhardt Fuhrman, German facilitator

General Orgronzki, Russian officer

Hajji, Egyptian facilitator

Andre, British facilitator

Tanya, Russian bar maid

U.S. Military

Captain Paul Decker

Captain Stephen "Louie" Lewis

Colonel Virgil Saunders

Admiral Xavier Zinn, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs

General McAdams, Army Chief of Staff

U.S. Government

Richard Paulson, US President

David McCallum, Secretary of Defense

Phillip Cary, FBI Director

Tom Daniels, CIA Chief

Frank Reynolds, NSA Chief

Tim Carlisle, Director of Homeland Security

Karen Grundy, Secretary of State

Daniel Unger, Paulson's Chief-of-Staff

Harold Cummings, US Vice president

Michael Eagleton, Director of the Atomic Energy Commission

Helen Vasser, President Paulson's personal secretary

Senator Dillard, President Pro Tempore of the Senate

Dr. Carl Mosley, President Paulson's personal physician

Gary Haggerty, Press Secretary to the President

Black Bear

Weapons Specialist Anton

Mechanics Expert Jurg

Medical Officer Ivan

Demolition Expert Sergi

Communications officer Nikolai

Computer Specialist Pavlik

Logistic Expert Fedor

Pilot Lieutenant Zubov

Commander Colonel Kozlov

Black Bear Civilian Agents

Vasilii

Grigor

Rija

Rahim

Abdul-Aziz

THE FOOTBALL

The president and vice-president are to always be accompanied by a military aide carrying a "Football." It is a Zero Halliburton briefcase within a black leather jacket.

There are four items in the Football: The Black Book containing the retaliatory options that appear in red and are labeled: 'Rare,' 'Medium' or 'Well Done', a book listing classified site locations around the country where the president or vice-president can be taken in an emergency, a manila folder with eight or ten pages stapled together giving a description of procedures for the Emergency Broadcast System, and a three-by-five inch card with authentication codes – "The Go Codes" - to launch the nine thousand six hundred US nuclear missiles.

CHAPTER ONE

Greenwood Apts. Washington, D.C.

Captain Paul Decker reached across the bed to touch his wife's shoulder. He wanted to wake her gently, ahead of the alarm clock. But there was no one there. There hadn't been anyone for six years. For too long there hadn't been anyone or anything but the military.

How quickly his future had disappeared, leaving him with nothing but long days that bled together with so little impact that another year passed by before he even turned the calendar page from January to February.

He rose up slowly. For a painful moment his body commanded more attention than his military duties, his ex-wife or estranged children. Old wounds restricted circulation in his limbs. Scars had cross-linked, making even the simplest movements difficult.

His muscles and joints reminded him of the wars he had participated in over the past two decades: The actions for the government, the things he didn't do for his own family. So many opportunities wasted, traded away for the chance for another medal, another ranking, another story. He was a collection of bad habits: failed father, stoic husband, an alcoholic.

Paul was a tall man, roughly hewn, but considered handsome on some plane. Like an unfinished piece of sculpture, he was sharp edges not yet rounded off. It was not simply massiveness he conveyed; it was also a sense that he would not allow age to overcome him. He was designed by a good architect rather than a skilled painter.

"Front and center, soldier!" Paul called to Charlie.

Charlie immediately walked up, but did not salute. Paul accepted that action not as an insult, but due to his subordinate's limited capabilities.

Charlie, his loyal cat, prowled over and rubbed his smooth fur against Paul's leg, reminding him feeding time had long since passed. He was a big orange Tabby, all fifteen pounds of him, with a head as big as Paul's outstretched hand. He filled the cat's bowl, then ran his fingers through his smooth, thick coat. Paul watched as his roommate devoured a fish dinner.

He'd found Charlie along the side of the road one day a few months back, looking skinny, ragged, and half-starved. Against his better judgment, he'd brought the animal home. He recalled why he never had pets in the past. Everything around him seemed to die prematurely, as if it was karma, or some occupational hazard. Maybe he was immune but not the people and things he loved. Maybe Charlie would break the spell.

Paul instinctively turned on the television. He stared at the set like it was a guest who came to breakfast. It was his only company now. Waiting for the news he stepped into his Spartan kitchen: just enough room for a mini refrigerator, stove, sink, and two barren wooden cabinets, hardly space to turn around in. But then he didn't do that much entertaining these days he thought to himself.

He made a cup of coffee. It was instant, just like his life. Paul opened the refrigerator. There was only a small pastry from the day before to make up his meager breakfast. As he sifted through the refrigerator he uncovered a bottle of Tequila. It was left over from...? When had he sworn off liquor the last time? Was it months? Days? Hours? Hell, after so many broken promises, who was he kidding?

But now he wasn't sure if being sober helped or hurt his reflexes. Was he a better soldier with or without the alcohol? Paul clasped the kitchen counter to restrict a violent tremor. He snatched up the bottle and took it over to the sink. A brief internal struggle ensued: pour it down the drain or pour a shot glass full? He filled a glass and slammed it back before he had the chance to convince himself otherwise. He raised the bottle again, but before he filled the glass a second time, he stopped to consider all he faced.

Paul closed his eyes, clenched his teeth. "No!" He had two battles to fight: one to let go of the past: colleagues and friends left behind on the battlefield...places many people couldn't even pronounce, the other to figure out what kind of life he might have outside the military.

He quickly turned the bottle upside down and dumped the liquor in the sink, his gut retching at the sight of the bright liquid swirling down the drain. He had beaten his addiction back this time, but once out of a hundred wasn't very good odds, and when was the last time he had gone into battle sober?

Paul set his thoughts aside as he prepared himself for the day. He dressed in a fog, not remembering the sequence of pants, shirt, shoes, and socks. Looking around his apartment, he took a mental picture, as if he could take with some form of constancy.

He sought solace in his few meager possessions. There were the photos of his ex-wife Susan, son and daughter, war mementoes from Lebanon, Serbia, Somalia, Sri Lanka, Iraq and Afghanistan, and pictures that Captain "Louie" Louis had given him as tokens of his friendship and reminders of wars they waged together for country, God, and glory; but not necessarily in that order.

Through all the years and the transitions he saw himself as neither a successful father nor a war hero. He was a man lost in a netherworld of mixed emotions, struggling with a past clouded by alcohol and the loss of comrades on three continents.

He and Louie returned to the only life they really knew and the only profession in which they found success.

They'd been assigned to White House duty, a choice appointment the two of them could ride out until retirement. Not the excitement of a field operation, but maybe they could use the stability of a stateside job to rebuild their lives.

CHAPTER TWO

The skies above Washington, D.C.

Thick fog blanketed the Northeast, reducing visibility to one hundred feet. A steady drizzle turned wet, black streets into mirrors. Sounds of the night prevailed: bleating car horns, the jackhammers of city workers on overtime.

Distant sirens rose and fell while church bells chimed midnight. Flashes of lightening lit up the sky at narrowing intervals as the center of the storm loomed closer.

In the overcast and pelting rain there was little of interest or concern beyond the weather, unless one knew what to listen for or where to look...

The low-pitched hum became more pronounced. It was non-directional and elusive even to the discerning ear. It drew closer still, yet garnered no more attention than a passing truck.

Running solely on instruments, and without navigation, port side or starboard wing lights, the troop transport plane, equipped with noise suppressor engines to escape detection, prepared for an initial pass over the drop zone.

An endless line of volatile cumulonimbus clouds caused the plane to buck and pitch.

All the men braced themselves, gripping their harnesses, while one soldier paced the floor in spite of the turbulence.

The commander stopped in front of a frail, bespectacled young soldier. "Senior Sergeant Lasky, are we invisible?"

Computer Specialist Pavlik Lasky, clutching his laptop, replied, "Colonel Kozlov, Sir, radar has been compromised by activating logic bomb implanted previously in NSA's 'impenetrable' system."

"And?"

"We are invisible, Sir."

"Good work!" the colonel bellowed.

"Thank you, Sir," Sergeant Lasky replied with the same fervor but in a higher-pitched voice.

"Lieutenant Zubov," the commander addressed his pilot over the intercom, "what information do you have for us?"

"Colonel Kozlov, Sir," Zubov answered, "there are eight heat signatures inside house; none outside. Night vision shows clear flat ground fifty meters east of target. Concrete barricades surround structure; these are impediment to vehicles, not men, Sir."

"Very well, lieutenant, take us down to drop altitude," the colonel instructed.

The pilot quickly descended to twelve hundred meters and slowed to one hundred and forty knots. All team members stood and lined up at the now open door.

Sergeant Lasky unhooked his harness and began to get up. Colonel Kozlov put a heavy hand on his shoulder, forcing him back down in his seat. "You are most valuable person on mission, my so...sergeant. We cannot risk you being injured or killed. No," he insisted, patting the young man's head, "you will remain here."

Inside lights, protected by wire mesh, blinked and went from red to green. At one second intervals, the soldiers jumped.

The twelve men came in swift and silent. Their black Stealth 2 wing suits allowed for incredibly slow freefall speeds. Compared to regular parachutes they were more in the realm of science fiction. Hand-held, back-lit GPS devices made it possible for the squad to home in on the LZ with extreme precision, as if they were riding a laser beam.

Each man was equipped with a state of the art bulletproof vest, night vision and thermal imaging goggle systems, Uzi with suppressor and laser pointer, armor piercing GSh-18 handgun, and for communications: encrypted satellite ear-piece phones. Weapons carefully chosen enabled the men to go in light and fast and be extracted quickly.

When the team dropped below four hundred feet, they deployed their standard chutes and set off an electron disrupter. The detonation produced a burst of electrons causing a circuit-frying current surge that could kill communications in a soccer field-sized area, disarm remote detonators, and stop cars. Computers, sensors, and phones were rendered useless.

They landed exactly one hundred feet from the house: Number One Observatory Circle, the official residence of Harold Cummings, vice-president of the United States, located on the northeast grounds of the U. S. Naval Observatory in Washington, D.C.

The twelve soldiers circled the house, listening to the muffled commotion inside regarding the sudden loss of security and phones. The squad hit the doors on the north and east sides of the residence simultaneously with Plastique explosive, followed immediately by flash-bang grenades.

Chaos erupted among even well-trained Secret Service agents. Realizing they were out-gunned and out-manned, some of the agents formed a phalanx around the vice-president, threw a bullet-proof poncho over Cummings's shoulders, and whisked him away into the basement shelter. The rest were left to fend for themselves.

With the Secret Service armed only with Glocks, the insurgents quickly sliced a path though the house. The government men took positions behind sofas, chairs, and walls, ineffective against armor-piercing rounds. The noise and vibration from automatic weapons fire stirred dust out of sofas, broke plaster off the ceilings, and shook the floor.

Doors and overturned tables used for protection exploded on impact, blasting the Secret Service men off their feet, throwing them back from where they'd crouched.

"Shit!" an agent called out. "Where did these guys come from?"

"Somebody call it in!" another yelled. "Call it in, for Christ's sake!"

"I'm hit! I'm hit!" another cried, then another.

The invaders went for their target. They had no interest in the vice-president; instead they singled out one of his aides: the officer carrying the briefcase, known as the Football, with the Go Codes for America's 9,600 nuclear weapons: Captain Paul Decker.

The foreign soldiers pushed forward. In close proximity, Uzis erupted, overwhelming the few Secret Service men who remained capable of returning fire.

Paul drew his side arm. But as he did he was hit numerous times from different angles, slamming him against the wall. He transferred the gun to his less capable left hand and managed to get off nine rounds. Paul counted three hits on the enemy, but not one man down. Best damn vests I ever came across, he thought.

The firing stopped; all the government men lay wounded or dead. Smoke from several hundred rounds hung in the air, creating an eerie mist, like in a haunted house.

The room reeked from the melting copper of shell casings. Paul's ears rang from the gun fire. He kept himself propped against a wall in the corner of the dining room.

He'd been shot three times: once in the shoulder, once in the leg, and once in the back. None fatal...as long as he got immediate medical attention.

"Looks like you fumble football, captain," Kozlov said, standing in front of Paul. He spoke with an accent Paul couldn't place. He'd file that away.

"Screw you, asshole," Paul retaliated. His sense of indignation kept him focused in spite of his wounds. "You'll never get out of the capitol, with or without the Football."

Paul tried to raise his gun, but the commander slammed a rifle butt into his wounded shoulder, then kicked the weapon away.

"Let me worry 'bout this," the colonel said with a smile, his deep blue eyes glinting.

Paul shook off the pain. He knew he faced a battle-tested warrior. The man had biceps that stretched the fabric of his clothing, and shoulders as broad as a doorframe.

"You'd better kill me," Paul warned. "Because if I'm still breathing, I'll crawl over the whole fuckin' planet to get to you. I've faced your kind in a dozen different countries - guys like you who think a big gun makes them invincible."

"But I am not your enemy, captain," Kozlov said sympathetically. "We are on same side."

"Huh?"

"'I looked in the mirror and saw the enemy was me'," Kozlov quoted.

"What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

"In due time, captain. For you, unfortunately, in next lifetime."

A lanky sergeant came up to the colonel, saluted and said. "Colonel, Sir. What shall we do with the prisoners?"

"Kill them," Kozlov said with the same inflection he might reserve for a mosquito.

"But, sir...."

"Kill them all, Ivan. Do you have a problem with that? If so, we can leave you here and you can care for them."

"No, Sir, colonel," Ivan replied, then repeated in a softer voice, "No, sir."

The Colonel turned back to Paul. "Now, give me lock combination like good boy and we let you die in peace."

"I'm not giving you shit. And if you try to break off the cuffs, the bag will explode and be worthless."

"Oh, I am fully briefed on football," Kozlov assured, then added a laugh. "I will not take time to play with cuffs." He turned half way around and flicked his fingers. One of his men came up beside him. "Senior sergeant, relieve this man of his charge."

"Da, Colonel," the NCO replied with a snap salute. He was even taller than Kozlov and, with a square jaw and Fu Manchu mustache, looked every bit as mean. He pulled a small paper out from his zippered shoulder pocket and read it.

Paul scrambled to get up with one good leg and one good arm as the soldier advanced, but only managed to slide farther down the wall, leaving a long, thick smear of blood. The sergeant reached out for the football. Paul grabbed his wrist and held on.

"Relax," Kozlov suggested. "We already got combination. Do we look stupid?"

Paul slowly let go of the sergeant, but as he did, he glanced down to see an unusual tattoo on the soldier's inner wrist: an upside down pitchfork jammed into an image of the planet Earth.

The soldier rolled the tumblers, the cuffs popped open.

"How could you possibly have the--?" Paul questioned, surprised, as if the colonel morphed into a magician that pulled a top hat out of a rabbit's ass.

Kozlov kicked Paul in the side. Paul clutched his ribs and doubled over.

"What, no salute, soldier?" the colonel asked, putting on a show for his men. He grabbed the briefcase and held it up like a prize from a carnival.

The commander took out a gray, chain-mail bag made of lead and slipped the football inside. "Signaling devices now inoperable," he said to Paul rather matter-of-factly. "You see? I know 'bout such things!"

The sergeant named Ivan returned. "Colonel Kozlov, Sir, your orders have been carried out." The NCO pointed his gun at Paul. "Should I kill him also, sir?"

"Of course!" Kozlov said. "No loose ends."

"Yes, sir," Ivan replied.

Kozlov then spoke a few words into his shoulder mounted radio. When the men turned toward the colonel, he lifted his right arm and spun his index finger in a small circle. They immediately backed out the rear door.

The soldier stood in front of Paul, a pistol aimed at his head. He looked at Paul, looked at his wounds and winced.

Paul could see from the man's eyes that he was thinking, vacillating, with Paul's life hanging in the balance.

Ivan squeezed the trigger. At the last instant, he shifted his hand; the bullet hit the wall inches from Paul's head. He saluted, about faced and retreated from the house.

Within seconds of their exit, the team of twelve heard the whooshing of a turboprop's propellers. The MC-130E Combat Talon 1 aircraft, equipped with Fulton surface-to-air recovery system, swooped in just over the tops of the trees in the park surrounding the house.

In the middle of the expansive lawn, the men formed a straight line spaced five feet apart, pulled out what looked like flare guns, and shot them in the air straight above their heads. Immediately helium balloons inflated, carrying aloft 9mm Perlon ropes up two-hundred feet. The plane engaged all twelve lines with its V-shaped yoke and reeled the men on board.

"Be careful," the colonel warned. "Do not step on dead bodies. Show respect," he said, with a degree of antipathy that would cause a priest to genuflect.

"Colonel Kozlov, Sir," Weapons Specialist Anton asked, "why are we flying around with bodies of fourteen men dressed just like us?"

"They are your replacement bodies."

"Replacement?" Mechanics Expert Jurg asked. "Am I being replaced?"

"No, but I am sure there are things a dead man could probably do better than you."

"But why, colonel?" Weapons Specialist Anton asked.

"When the Americans find this plane, the only things left will be fourteen bodies burned beyond recognition, and one exploded briefcase. They will think they have succeeded in eliminating threat and foiling mission."

"It is bad juju to share the same air with dead men," Jurg warned, tapping his foot against one of the corpses just to make sure they hadn't come back to life like a vampire after a dirt nap.

"But they are not breathing, you fool," Demolitions Expert Sergi assured.

"It is an expression," Communications Officer Nikolai replied. "We are intruding on their space."

"They are nameless, faceless people. Do not morn for them. It will be only for a few minutes," the colonel promised. "In mean time, sit back, enjoy ride."

All the men took their seats and strapped in; six on each side of the plane. The turbo prop flew under the radar, two hundred feet above the Potomac River to the Atlantic Ocean. In what could only be taken as a good omen, the dark clouds dissipated. The first rays of the sun came up over the horizon, reflecting bright white light off the wings of the plane and into the cabin, increasing the inside temperature by ten degrees in a matter of minutes.

Colonel Kozlov remained standing, pacing up and down aisle - like a defiant coach stalking the sidelines in a crucial game - as he addressed the men. The soldiers stared up at him. There was both respect and fear in their eyes.

Kozlov was a handsome man and the men knew he could be funny when he felt like it, but the colonel had a hole where his heart should have been, a complete lack of feeling that hung in his eyes like a vacancy sign.

"Computer Specialist Pavlik," Kozlov said, handing the briefcase to the youngest man on the team, "success of mission is now in your hands."

Pavlik opened the case using the combination provided by HUMINT, plugged in an external hard drive, set up a satellite phone with broad-band up-link to a remote computer, then began typing with his nicotine-stained fingers like a pianist in the throws of a great composition. He focused his entire attention on the laptop. One hundred and twenty-eight numbers on an Excel spread sheet scrolled down the screen. Every few seconds, one column stopped and a fixed number remained at the top.

"I thought this would take days," Nicolai questioned.

"Thousands of people in Kyrgyzstan are working on problem as we speak," Pavlik replied with a chest full of pride. "But this is only phase one, Nikolai. With this," he said, shaking the hard drive, "we have broken their encryption code and entered a keystroke logger that records each number or letter typed. Every change they make to program will be sent directly to us. We now have complete control over their computer system, without having to use a sniffer."

"Like sniffing pussy?" one of the men - with tattoos on his neck, a diamond embedded in his ear lobe, and buzz cut hair - asked.

"Oh, Mr. high school drop out made a joke," a sergeant with the eyes of a devil and mouth of a whore interjected. "Sergi the Terrible...terrible joke maker."

The colonel quickly stepped in front of the two arguing. "Sergi, Fedor," he said, louder than the others, "enough! When it is your turn to speak I rattle your cage."

"We do all the killing and Pavlik gets the recognition, colonel?" Weapons Specialist Anatoli asked, challenging Kozlov.

Some of the other men nodded.

Kozlov glared at the men for daring to question his leadership. "You were each chosen for your expertise. No one man is more important than another," the colonel roared, silencing any dissention in the ranks.

"I will not bore you with technicalities," Pavlik said raising his voice to regain the attention of the others, "but when the NSA put together encryption program for football and Go Codes, their computer was most powerful in world."

"And we have access to better computer than Americans?" Ivan asked.

"Not better computer, computers plural. A botnet of thousands of computers linked together with the help of a college student younger than some of the shirts you own," Pavlik explained. "This is more computing power than has ever been made available before on the face of the earth."

"What is botnet?" Jurg asked, scratching his head. "Is it like bonnet, or hair net?"

"You fool!" the colonel yelled, his face flush. "Your stupidity could destroy an encyclopedia just by you looking at it."

"A botnet," Pavlik explained, trying to quell the tension, "is a robotic network of zombie computers that are under my control."

"Zombies!" Jurg exclaimed. "Michael Jackson! Thriller!"

"Imbecile!" the colonel shouted. "You have the common sense of head of cabbage."

"Robots, networks, computers. Who cares?" Anton said, dismissing Pavlik to irrelevance. He flipped a hand out and leaned back in his seat.

"You should pay attention, Anton," Nikolai said, wagging a single finger at the man. "Some women get off on brains as opposed to big dicks, of which you have neither."

"How about I rip off your head and shit down your neck," Anton suggested cordially.

"That's enough, soldier," the colonel ordered. "Right now, none of you is more important than Senior Computer Specialist.

"Are you done, Pavlik?" the colonel asked.

"Yes, sir. This is all I need right here," he replied with confidence. He slipped a flash drive into a waterproof pouch. "We have created an undetectable back door into their nuclear launch systems. We also destroyed the log files that keep a record of everything that has happened on their network. Our tracks are completely covered."

"Good work, junior lieutenant," the colonel said, patting Pavlik on the shoulder.

"You mean sergeant, don't you, colonel?" Pavlik questioned.

"Do you think I am confused, soldier. Maybe I am now senile?"

"No, Sir. I just--," Pavlik, caught off guard, stuttered.

"Maybe I get in back seat of car and think someone has stolen steering wheel?"

"That is some funny shit, colonel," Anton said.

"You can laugh now, but keep it brief," Kozlov instructed.

All the men laughed, or snorted, or guffawed. Even the ones who didn't get it reacted as though they did. No one was going to find the colonel's joke unfunny.

"Thank you, colonel, Sir, for promotion," Pavlik said.

"You may now bask in the glow of your new position."

Pavlik smiled. "After we get back to base and plug into our waiting friends in Kyrgyzstan, and all ten thousand computers are on line, we will be able to change the targets of the American missiles and launch on our command."

"Why Kyrgyzstan?" Fedor asked.

"Besides the fact that it is my home, the average person makes two hundred American dollars a month," Pavlik explained. "A few dollars buys a lot there."

"Two hundred dollars," Sergeant Anatoli considered. "The cost of one night with a prostitute and a bottle of vodka; not much to show for a month's work."

"But ten thousand people?" Anton asked. "That means ten thousand mouths to talk."

"No, Mr. Weapons Specialist," Pavlik said. "Their computers will be under our control. They will not even know they are cooperating and doing something that was thought to be impossible."

"How long will it take to establish primary launch control of the missiles and reconfigure the targets?" Colonel Kozlov asked.

Pavlik tilted his glasses down and peeked over the top so he could better respond to the Colonel. "Based on projects already completed and computer simulations, I would say ten days, Sir," he replied.

"In ten days," Nikolai warned, "they could triangulate our position. Whether we use radio waves, laser, or infrared, they'll be able to pin-point us, colonel."

"You are correct, Mr. Communications Officer. And that's why I am colonel and you are corporal. We will be everywhere and nowhere."

"I don't get it, sir," Nikolai said.

"The information is on need to know basis, gentlemen. When it becomes necessary, then I tell you. In the meantime, enjoy in-flight entertainment."

"Movies sir?" Jurg asked.

"Yes, 'Rambo Goes to Washington'," the colonel replied.

"I like Sylvester Stallone," Jurg decided. "He is war hero."

"He is midget who never put on military uniform except in movies," Anatoli said.

"You have taken away my happiness," Jurg lamented.

"Enough! Now saddle up," the colonel bellowed. "We are fifteen miles out from drop zone. Prepare."

"Colonel Kozlov, Sir," the pilot called out from the cockpit. "Tiger-class helicopter has just showed up on our radar."

"How far, Lieutenant Zubov?"

"Three miles and closing fast. Should we take evasive action?"

"Negative. Stay on course."

"But colonel, sir, we are an easy target," the pilot warned.

"I know that, you fool," Kozlov snarled. "I have anticipated every move. It is chess game and I am master."

"Then how...?" the lieutenant began.

"The first aircraft to reach us was sent to assess the situation, not take aggressive action. What they see is old troop transport plane with no offensive or defensive weapons. To them, we are not threat. They want us alive and they want briefcase intact. This pilot will radio back what he has seen; then he will receive further instructions. They will given us first move: we will take advantage of this opportunity."

Less than a minute later, the AS 665 Tiger attack helicopter - equipped with Mistral and Hellfire missiles, 12.7 mm machine guns and 20mm cannon pods - came in for a closer look.

Fedor and Anton set down their automatic weapons, reached into their backpacks, and withdrew shoulder-fired surface-to-air missile launchers. They were the newest Chinese QW series with resistance to even the most modern counter-measures.

Lieutenant Zubov lowered the rear cargo door. Just seconds later, and before the chopper pilot could react, Fedor and Anton fired. One rocket hit the main rotors, the other slammed directly into the cockpit. The copter exploded on impact. Pieces rained down on the Atlantic Ocean below. Small fires erupted on the surface of the water from the oil and gas on board.

"Give me football, Pavlik," the colonel ordered.

Pavlik closed the briefcase, spun the combination lock, then handed over the forty-five pound satchel to the commander. The colonel took the briefcase, hooked one handle to a carabineer on the side of the plane, clipped a rope with a slip knot on the other handle, and pulled them apart. There was a muffled explosion and then an acrid smoke seeped out of the case.

The men went into the last phase of the operation. They fitted their Oxymax closed-circuit oxygen diving gear under their wing suits. The pilots put the plane on remote control and hustled into the back with the other men.

Colonel Kozlov checked his GPS device and twenty seconds later gave the nod. The men jumped from the plane and sailed one hundred feet to a soft landing on the water below. They left behind fourteen dead men in black uniforms, fully armed, and the detonated briefcase.

The men immediately submerged. Three minutes later F-16s caught up with their aircraft and blasted it out of the sky. By that time, the colonel and his squad had boarded two Orca swimmer delivery vehicles equipped with stealth technology, an enclosed "no air bubble system" and "obstacle avoidance sonar." The team of men disappeared into the deep, leaving as silently and swiftly as they arrived.

CHAPTER THREE

Home of the U.S. Vice-President. Washington D.C.

Paul sat there, slumped against the wall, the life seeping out of him. He could feel three entrance wounds but that didn't mean there weren't more. He was going into shock; not a good thing. Should he fall asleep, he'd probably die. If he forced himself to stay awake he might make it...if help came quick enough and they decided his sorry ass was worth saving after he lost the football. It wasn't the first time he failed a mission.

He tried to forget, but knew that wasn't going to work. Pain and guilt wouldn't go away with a wave of a magic wand. They were the things he carried with him - the things that made him who he was. If he lost them, he'd lose himself.

He choked on his own blood, then threw up. And there it was; not the vomit, but the past. Mogadishu, 1992. Black Hawk Down.

Paul felt himself drawn in by the need to purge that which had been a constant companion for twenty years. He didn't have much time. It was now or never. Give it up or carry it with him into the next life.

"The plan was to capture or kill Mohamed Aidid," the solider justified.

"The duly elected President of Somalia?" his conscience asked.

"Right," the soldier replied.

"Tell me again, how was that supposed to happen?"

"Delta Force operators would assault the target building using helicopters, while four Rangers would fast rope down from hovering Black Hawk helicopters," the soldier explained. "The Humvees and trucks would arrive to take the assault team and their prisoners back to base. The entire operation was estimated to take no longer than thirty minutes."

"What went wrong?" the conscience asked.

"Somali citizens and local militia formed barricades along the streets of Mogadishu with rocks and burning tires, blocking the convoy from reaching the Rangers and their captives," the soldier replied. "One of the Black Hawk helicopters was shot down by a rocket propelled grenade. There was confusion. The assault team and the ground convoy waited for twenty minutes to receive their orders to move out.

"During the wait, a second Black Hawk helicopter was shot down," the soldier went on. "Upon reaching the site, about ninety Rangers and Delta Force soldiers found themselves under siege from heavy militia fire. Despite air support, the assault team was effectively trapped for the night.

"The Somalis massed forces and tried to overrun our positions but they were neutralized," the soldier added.

"Neutralized. Hum. An interesting term. And how many Somalis were killed?"

"I don't know," the soldier said defensively. "Maybe hundreds"

"Or maybe ten times that number?"

"How would you know?" the soldier challenged.

"Oh, death is my specialty," the conscience assured. "But please, don't let me interrupt. Go on, go on."

"No contingency planning or coordination with UN forces had been arranged prior to the operation; consequently, the recovery of the surrounded U.S. soldiers was delayed."

"And whose responsibility was it to coordinate?"

"Mine," the soldier answered, "but my radio man was hit and the equipment destroyed."

"So you allowed your communication officer to enter the battle?"

"Yes, I--," the soldier stuttered.

"And the rescue convoy?"

"They sustained heavy casualties," the soldier replied.

"But instead of remaining out of the line of fire and observing and coordinating communications, you took an offensive position."

"Men were dying!" the soldier rationalized.

"And how many more died due to your decision?"

"Eighteen U.S. soldiers were killed, seventy three wounded in action," the unwilling soldier replied.

"Oh, but you didn't mention Somali civilian casualties."

"Reports vary," the soldier suggested.

"A little over two thousand."

"I didn't--," the soldier began.

"That's why I'm here, to help you remember. For only by remembering can you erase the memory."

"I haven't been able to do that for twenty years," the soldier replied. "I lost six men in my company during those hours."

"And now you would like an opportunity to redeem yourself."

"Yeah, one more chance," Paul replied, just before he slipped into unconsciousness.

CHAPTER FOUR

The White House. Washington, D.C.

The Situation Room, in the basement of the West Wing, was staffed by thirty senior officers who monitored world events on a real time basis 24/7. The center of the five thousand square foot room was dominated by an oval mahogany table seating fourteen, with additional seating for twenty more on the perimeter. Sliding cabinet shutters covered the banks of TV, satellite and computer monitors built into the walls on three sides.

With all branches of the military, most of the cabinet secretaries, and the heads of the spy agencies represented, egos swelled like the hackles around a rooster's neck. Seating was supposed to be by position and merit, but it behaved more like musical chairs.

President Richard Paulson sat at the head of the table. He had been a college professor in his early days and still looked the part: with a bow tie rather than a Windsor, and bifocals dangling from the tip of his nose. He was not a big man. His stature lay in his intellect, not his height. Those who had made the mistake of underestimating him were now working in the private sector.

The other chairs were filled by Secretary of Defense David McCallum, FBI Director Phillip Cary, CIA Chief Tom Daniels, NSA Director Frank Reynolds, Director of Homeland Security Tim Carlisle, Secretary of State Karen Grundy, Chief-of-Staff Daniel Unger, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff Admiral Xavier Zinn, Director of the Atomic Energy Commission Michael Eagleton, and Vice President Harold Cummings.

With so many differing points of view, and so many diverse personalities, President Paulson had to act as moderator and peacemaker at times.

"Mr. President," Tom interjected. "In about twelve hours, all our enemies are going to know that someone took the football with the Go Codes. Our story about it being just a rogue operation intent on disrupting the G-8 Summit is not going to fly. They'll believe that the terrorists can launch the missiles at any time. And if they believe that, then the only way they can protect themselves is with a preemptive strike."

"Could they have done that?" the President asked as he leaned forward in his seat, reached his hands across the desk. "Could the terrorist have launched the missiles?"

"It's not could," Phil assured, "it's will they."

"We've got the football, Mr. President," Frank said in self-defense. "The Go Codes change every day, along with your personal pin number. We've already changed those again, as well as the vice president's." He nodded knowingly to Cummings.

"You can bet the organization behind this operation involved a lot more people than just the ones who hit Washington," Tom said, casting a cold dish of skepticism on the NSA Director's heated conclusions.

"Is that a yes, or a no?" the president asked, slapping a hand on the table.

"The only two people who can launch the missiles are in this room," Frank replied, pointing to the president and vice-president like his finger was a gun.

"The only way we can be certain is find out who was or is behind the terrorists," Phil countered.

"We don't know who they were, where they came from, or what they want," Tim said, hands out, palms up, fingers spread. "I'd say we're pretty much flying in the dark."

"We've got the bodies, the football, and we're going through the plane, the black box, and every piece of equipment those men carried," Frank explained. "We'll find something. Nobody's that clean."

"There were twenty men from three branches of government in on that recovery operation," Daniel reminded the others. "The story we spun for the newspapers won't hold up under scrutiny."

There was a hostile silence accentuated by the ticking of a clock high on the wall.

"What's our liability here?" Paulson asked, glancing around the room, stopping for a few seconds to home in on each person.

"We don't know what those men, or the people behind them, are capable of," David said. "These terrorists, if that's what they really are, weren't even on our radar." He sat back and folded his arms across his stomach, allowing the others to ponder his remarks.

"So you don't know anything right now," Karen said condescendingly, given a chance to throw a barb at a member of the 'all boy's club.'

"Pardon my French, Ms. Secretary," Frank interjected, brushing a hand away from his chin, "but you don't know shit from Shinola when it comes to terrorists and the games they play."

"I'll have you know I oversaw the conference in Columbia when we were negotiating with the FARC rebels, Mr. Director," Karen retorted.

"The FARC don't even make a blip on the radar, Madam Secretary," Admiral Zinn, butted in. "There's not going to be any negotiations here. We're gonna find out who's behind this and squash 'em like bugs hitting a windshield at ninety miles an hour."

"Let's not get personal here, ladies and gentlemen," the president insisted, holding out his hands in front of him like a stop sign. "The question is, what do we do now?"

"To think that the Chinese, North Koreans and Russians will just sit back and do nothing while our missiles rain down on them has a very low order of probability," Admiral Zinn replied, clicking his gold cigarette case open and closed, a habit he picked up after he found out how much it annoyed others.

"But our missiles are not raining down on them," Paulson clarified.

"It doesn't matter if they do," Admiral Zinn countered, dismissing the president's conclusion out of hand. "If our enemies think they might, it's the same thing."

"They're not our enemies, admiral," Karen shouted. "That was during the cold war."

"Excuse me," Admiral Zinn said demeaningly. "Rivals." The admiral got up and began pacing the room. He stopped in back of each seat, tapping the chair like a dog pissing to mark its territory. "When our rivals make radar contact with our missiles they're not going to call up and ask who fired them. They're going to strike back with everything they've got. If," he went on, pointing one finger up in the air, "prior to that time, we have done nothing further to suppress their retaliatory capabilities, we will suffer virtual annihilation. However," he continued, now extending two fingers, "if we immediately launch a coordinated attack on their airfields and missile bases we'd stand a damn good chance of catching 'em with their pants down."

"If you won't give the order, Mr. President," Harold announced, waving his arms and shooting off at the mouth, "then give me your football and I'll do it!" The vice-president confirmed his status as a man more used to being listened to than listening.

"It is the avowed policy of our country never to strike first with nuclear weapons." Karen said.

"Well, Madam Secretary," Zinn retorted, pointing a rude finger back at the Secretary of State, "I would say that these terrorists have already invalidated that policy."

"There are still alternatives left open to us," the president argued.

"Mr. President," Karen interrupted in a voice full of emotion, "we've got to preempt this by putting out a statement."

"And just what is it you think we should announce, madam secretary?" Frank asked derogatorily.

"That we're taking our missiles off line," she said, looking around as if to see how much support she could garner.

"We'd be literally caught holdin' our dicks in our hands," Zinn said, seemingly startled by the suggestion. "We couldn't retaliate; we couldn't preempt."

"She's right, gentlemen," the president said. "We have to take the missiles off line. It's the only way we can gain the trust of the rest of the world. We'll arrange for their weapons inspectors to come here and observe the process."

"What?" Harold exclaimed, slapping his hands on the desk furiously. "I was the one these men attacked! I know what they're capable of. This is part of a massive conspiracy. We've got to strike, strike now!"

"Calm down, Harold," Paulson said, looking out from over his bifocals. "We've got to maintain cool heads here. Let's remember what Kennedy did during the Cuban Missile crisis. He negotiated that confrontation to a standstill and averted WWIII."

"He was weak and allowed Russian missiles into Cuba in the first place," Harold said heatedly. His ruddy face turned crimson. "If there had been a war their missiles would have been four minutes away instead of forty minutes away."

"If we take our missiles off line, and our enemies can verify that, then they'll use that window of opportunity to blow us out of existence," Zinn assured, nodding in agreement with the vice-president.

"Then maybe we need to prepare people for an attack," Karen suggested, running out of answers.

"All our contingency plans are based on a terrorist group sneaking a suitcase-size device into our country and planting it in a population center or near a nuclear reactor," Michael explained. "The nuclear explosion would level a few buildings within a one block area. But now we're talking about the possibility of a much bigger device."

"Devices, plural," David corrected.

"To prepare for a nuclear blast," Harold interjected, clasping his hands together behind his back and titling forward, "you should do the following: sit down, bend over, put your head between your legs, and kiss your ass goodbye."

"Your sense of humor is not appreciated, Harold." The president eyed him askance.

"We have to launch the missiles now, Mr. President," Admiral Zinn insisted, banging the top of his leather chair hard enough with his hand to cause some of those present to jump an inch or two out of their seats.

"And just why is that, admiral?" Paulson asked, trying to maintain as sense of order in the room.

"One way or another, there is going to be a nuclear war," Zinn replied. "Either we launch our missiles, or China, North Korea and/or Russia will launch theirs, believing that they'll be hit first. The only thing we can do is initiate a pre-emptive attack and try to minimize the damage."

"Yes!" the vice president exclaimed. "Hit them now; hit them hard!" He smashed the fist of one hand into the open palm of his other hand.

"I'll stake my life and my reputation on the fact that those men can't penetrate our launch system," Frank assured.

"That's one life compared to three hundred million lives. I'd say that's a little lop-sided." Karen's snigger was clearly meant for the NSA Director.

"Button your shirt all the way up so your heart doesn't fall out on the floor," Frank suggested. "It' a cruel world out there."

"We can negotiate with these people," Karen countered.

"With dead people?" Frank mocked.

"I suggest you gentlemen...and ladies throw every available resource you have into this." The president got up and the others started to follow. "And let's dispense with the formality, people. We haven't got time for that right now." He stopped to look into the eyes of every single person in the room. "I want a report on my desk in twelve hours with a plan for avoiding war. And I want one of those options to include taking the nukes off line."

"But Mr. President," Harold argued. "That's suicide! We can't leave ourselves unprotected."

"If there's a nuclear war," Paulson retorted, "then we'll all be dead, either from the initial blast or the radiation that will follow."

"But we can't just--," the vice-president began.

"You heard my decision, Harold. This discussion is over," the president said, exiting the room first.

As the others dispersed, Harold grabbed Zinn's arm. "Admiral," he whispered, "you and I think alike; we can't sit back and allow our country to be annihilated."

Admiral Zinn hesitated, looking around the room at the few stragglers. When he felt there was a safe distance between them and the rest, he asked, "What do you have in mind, Mr. Vice President?"

"Options, admiral, options. I want a report from you before the president gets his."

"And what would that report provide, sir?"

"What government facilities of ours would still be intact in a nuclear war where we initiate a first strike." Harold gripped Zinn's arm hard enough to make the admiral wince. "Can I run the country even if Washington is wiped out?"

"That sounds like sedition," Zinn said, pulling away forcefully.

"It's only sedition if you're second in command," Harold countered.

"But you are second in command...sir."

"Not for long, admiral. Not for long."

CHAPTER FIVE

Walter Reed Hospital. Washington, D.C.

In a private room, in the intensive care unit at Walter Reed, Captain Paul Decker lay in an adjustable bed. He had it in the fully upright position so he could see what was going on around him. Above his head two plastic bottles hung suspended upside down on a metal frame. Colorless liquid dripped rhythmically into transparent tubes. One snaked down his left nostril. The other disappeared under a bandage around his right wrist.

Paul's chest was pounding, his ears still vibrating from the gun fire, and his stomach felt like it was a volcano about to erupt. But a few little things like that weren't going to stop him.

A nurse sat at the door, a pen and pad in hand, taking notes. She was prim and proper; very professional in spite of being young and rather pretty with her blonde hair in a bun twisted tight at her nape with not a strand hanging loose.

Every few minutes, a different nurse came in to check on a specific set of vitals. The degree of specialization was mind-numbing. But for Paul it was just over-kill.

The surgeon, an army major, came in, walked over to Paul's bed and picked up his chart. He studied it for a moment, then asked, "How are you feeling, soldier?"

"I need to get out of here, doc," Paul argued ineffectually.

"If you try to leave now, you'll probably bleed to death."

"I haven't got time to bleed."

"I didn't mark it down on your chart, soldier," the doctor said ignoring Paul's demands, "but when you came in you had a severely elevated blood alcohol level. Want to talk about it?"

"Just an old friend still keeping me company." Paul recognized how pathetic he sounded and turned to stare at the wall.

"Yes, well I know what this would do to your service record if I noted it, so I'll keep that information between you and me...for now. If I see you trying to overcome the addiction, I'll keep it off the books. If I see it affecting you, or your ability to command, I'll pass it along to your superiors. I'm not going to see one man's troubles affect the lives of dozens, or hundreds of others. Are we clear, soldier?"

Paul nodded weakly.

The doctor lifted one eyebrow. "I'll take that as a maybe."

The door opened and a uniformed officer entered.

"A visitor!" the doctor exclaimed. "Just one minute, Colonel..."

"Saunders, doc. Virgil Saunders." The colonel gave the impression of a redwood tree: tall, rigid, immoveable, eternal. His strength was obvious. The officer exuded power. There looked to be no fear in the man.

The surgeon finished making his notes, hung the clip board on its hook, and then nodded to the Colonel, taking him off to the side of the room farthest away from Paul's bed.

Paul frowned. He was shot in several places but he hadn't lost his hearing.

"He was almost dead when they brought him in," the doctor explained to the Colonel. "Lost a hell of a lot of blood. But the wounds weren't serious; the bullets went clean through. It was simple patch and sew. We were worried about postoperative shock, but he's past that now. He'll build up his strength over the next twenty-four hours. In the meantime," the doctor shrugged and added, "let's try not to excite him. He might break his sutures."

"Okay. Thanks, doc." The Colonel smiled and walked over to Paul's bedside. "How y'all feelin', captain?" he asked in a slow southern drawl.

"I'll be fine, sir, as soon as they let me out of here," he said, like a horse at the starting gate of a race.

"You've still got a ways to go, son," Saunders said, gently push down on Paul's shoulder, trying to keep him from jumping out of bed. "Why don't you relax."

"But Colonel, sir, whoever it was has got a long head start on us." Paul clutched at the light cotton blanket, his knuckles turning white.

"Our boys took 'em down. All bodies accounted for. We lit 'em up b'fore they were sixty miles out."

"It can't be that simple," Paul insisted. "It's too neat and clean. Those men weren't amateurs. People like that don't come in the way they did and then let themselves get taken down. There's something else happening here."

"The White House Press Secretary says it's a done deal. Look here." The Colonel unfolded a newspaper he had stuck under his arm, and read the headline. "TERRORISTS WHO ATTACKED VICE PRESIDENT KILLED."

"But what about the football, sir? If they have that, then they've got the Go Codes."

"They couldn't figure out how to safely open the briefcase; all contents self-disintegrated. Case closed. That's the conclusion and we'll just have to accept that."

"It doesn't make any sense, colonel," Paul said weakly, fighting the urge to nod off.

They'd given him a pretty strong pain killer and the drugs were starting to kick in.

"Yeah, well, just in case...we'll have a man outside at all times, one of my own boys. You come see me as soon as you get out of here. We need to talk." Colonel Saunders looked Paul squarely in the eyes. "You got that soldier?"

"Yes, sir," Paul replied, summing his reserves of strength to reply properly to his commanding officer. "Oh, colonel, sir? Do you know if Captain Louis is scheduled in to visit me?"

"Captain Louis is AWOL. He won't be visiting anyone for a while, except the brig at Quantico, Virginia...if he shows up at all."

"Louie AWOL? That makes even less sense than a raid on the vice-president that nets nothing. What the hell is going on here, Paul wondered. Where was Louie?

"Yeah, well, in the military a lot of things don't make sense. That's why there're orders. And I'm ordering you to follow the doctor's orders."

"Yes, sir." Paul had to force himself to keep his eyes open.

"In the mean time I'll be checkin' up on ya'll."

The colonel turned to the nurse. "You'll stay with him?"

"Somebody will always be with him," she said, then blushed as the Colonel continued to make eye contact.

Colonel Saunders thanked her and left the room.

The surgeon followed Saunders out. "He'll be okay," he said, "but it will be a day or two before he can function."

"I understand, doc."

"You know these adrenalin junkies, Colonel. Keep him under wraps...will you?"

The colonel laughed, put his arm on the doctor's shoulder and said, "I'll do what I can doc, but these boys are real hard to handle when their hair gets messed up."

When the Colonel left, the surgeon went over to Paul's bedside and shown a pen light in his eyes. "Solider, do you know where you are?"

"Yes, sir. Ft. Campbell, sir." Then he nodded off...

The military base in Kentucky, home of the 101st Airborne Division, famous for bravery going back to WWII, was only a few miles from the Decker family farm. When Paul was teenager, he would run to the barracks after school to listen to the stories from men who made adventure a part of their every day lives. He learned the ABCs at school, but he learned to dream on the base. His classrooms were the dusty barracks where images of far away countries, and tales of bravery in the name of a greater cause, were brought to life.

On his seventeenth birthday, Paul walked in to the living room where his mother and father read the paper every evening. He announced he was enlisting, with or without their approval.

They asked him why he had to go. He didn't think he could explain it to them, so he said, "It's just something I've got to do."

They were afraid something might happen to him. Paul was afraid that nothing might happen to him. That would have been worst of all.

They knew their son well enough to know once he made up his mind, there was no turning back. His only concession was a promise he would write to his mother to let her know how he was getting along, and where in the world the military sent him.

Early on he learned how to use every weapon available in the brigade he belonged to. He could manage the most high-tech electronics, including the operation of robotic drones. He learned several forms of hand-to hand combat and a hundred ways to kill a man. And he found a like-minded comrade in Stephen "Louie" Lewis.

Paul and Louie went through Airborne training, Delta Force, Black ops, CIA, Protocol 6 missions - where they were on their own; their existence disavowed by the government – engaged in kidnapping, supported resistance movements, and even used torture...more times than they'd like to remember.

That's when the alcohol crept into his life. First as a way to celebrate a victory, then to deaden the pain of comrades lost, then to think of a reason to fight in a war that benefited only America, and left poor, dangerous countries no better off.

He didn't have a life outside of the military for the first five years. But his fellow soldiers were all married, and on one of their longer leaves, a buddy introduced Paul to his sister-in-law. He never thought he had the marriage gene, but momentum built; events took on a life of their own.

Her name was Susan: pretty, but not beautiful; not educated, but willing. She didn't expect much from a man who'd be away more than at home. Slight of build yet she pulled her weight in whatever she was a part of. Always direct in her speech and dependable in the toughest circumstances, she was the perfect military man's wife.

And so they married while he was on leave. He managed to get her pregnant before he shipped out the next time. His son, Daniel, was born while he was in Africa, in a place and a war he couldn't even tell her about.

A daughter, Carrie, came three years later. He promised himself he would not miss another of his children's birthdays, that somehow he would get leave for special occasions. But when it came time, he realized he was already married: to the military. Now, as he lay in a hospital bed, he wondered what life would have been like if he'd stayed at home; stayed in school. He felt he had altered the scheme of things: shaved a corner off an edge of time.

* * *

"How do you feel, Paul?" a soothing, friendly, female voice asked.

Paul slowly opened his eyes, then squinted to focus. "Fine," he answered.

"You don't look fine," his ex-wife Susan mentioned in passing.

"Just a scratch. No big deal."

"It looks like a big deal."

"Only to a civilian," Paul replied.

"How's your partner, Louie?" she asked, more as a courtesy than a concern.

"Disappeared."

"Disappeared?" She took a step towards Paul's bed, then hesitated and maintained her distance. "But...I can't believe it! How? Why?"

Paul shrugged his one good shoulder.

"Someone who's been your partner for twenty-two years? Someone you've been closer to than your family and you don't know where he is?"

"No," Paul replied, not wanting to get into it with her.

"That's how you used to answer me...or not answer me when we were married."

"It's the drugs, they're slowing me down."

"Louie's wife, Debbie, called me up last week."

"Oh? What did she have to say?"

Paul pointed to a chair.

Susan thought about it, not wanting to have to say thank you to Paul for anything.

But the discussion was already exhausting her, so she sat.

"That she was going to leave him if he didn't check himself into a clinic for his drug addiction...and get rid of all those other nasty things he brought back with him from Afghanistan and Iraq."

"He didn't ask for the PTSD, or the depression or the drugs. How about the other things he brought back...like the medals, and heroics and presidential citations?"

"You can't buy groceries with those things, or braces for the kids or private school."

Paul needed to move the conversation along. "What did Louie say?" Paul asked,

"He told her that everything was going to change very soon. He said he was going to be able to pay all the child support he missed in the past, remodel their home as he promised and get off the heroin for good."

"Did he say how he was going to do all that?"

"No," Susan replied. "But I thought you'd know."

"I don't have a clue," Paul admitted. "Louie had been making himself scarce the last couple weeks."

"And now you say he's disappeared."

"There was something going on, but I thought he'd tell me when the time was right."

"It's sad," Susan decided.

"If I wasn't tied up to these bottles I'd be out there looking for him myself."

"Debbie will be freaking out. How is she supposed to work a full-time job and take care of two kids by herself?"

"Isn't that pretty much what she's been doing all along?"

Susan took a cigarette case out of her purse and lifted one out of the pack.

"There's no smoking in here," Paul said apologetically.

"You look terrible," Susan retaliated. She stuffed the cigarette back in the pack and sat down. "How's the food here?"

Paul tapped the IV plugged into his arm. "There's food over there," he said, pointing to the window ledge, "for guests."

She ignored him. "I understand you better now, what drives you, and why you make the decisions that you do."

With a forced nonchalance that betrayed the trapped feeling washing over him, Paul asked, "How so?"

Susan pulled her chair forward to compensate for Paul's weakened voice. The sound of metal scraping on cement sent chills up his spine and made him wince.

From her expression, she didn't seem to care.

"When you signed up for a second combat tour without telling me, I took it personally," Susan said. "We'd already been separated for a year and then, when you could have come home, you volunteered to stay over there."

"It wasn't like that. You didn't have anything to do with it. I just needed to finish what I started."

"The easiest thing in the world is to convince yourself you're right," she said with such ease that it had him searching for justifications.

Her words stung him like a hornet. Not just one, but a whole hive of wasps.

Susan tapped the heel of her shoe on the tile floor like a metronome. To him, each tap felt like a bad note on a piano.

"I know. You're drawn to that kind of life, to the rush of adrenalin that's so acute and sudden, and so pleasurable, that you need more frequent and higher doses to feel alive."

"I had to finish the mission." Paul balled his fingers into a fist and squeezed hard to maintain control of his emotions and his gestures. "You make it sound like a disease."

Susan got up and began pacing the room. She went over to the window sill and picked at the fruits and cheeses and crackers. "I know you would die saving me and the kids. But I also know if we weren't in that type of danger, you would pay us no more attention than any other aspect of your life that doesn't involve your sense of honor, duty and courage. You've woven an image of what a man must be that excludes the possibility of living a 'normal' life."

"And, if I'd told you at the time that I needed to stay to kill more of them, would you have understood? Would you have wanted to live with that type of man?"

"No, I suppose not. It's sad that our love and support, mine and the kids, wasn't enough for you. Being in the military doesn't mean you can't have a family or show them love. I wonder if you really knew what it meant to be married when you asked me."

"We discussed all this before we got married," Paul countered. "You knew that I would be away on duty."

"Oh, Paul, stop lying to yourself!" She threw a piece of cheese, which she had been nibbling on, back onto the plate and wiped her hand on her skirt. Her face was flaming red.

The nurse, still in position in a chair by the door, cringed and buried her face in a magazine to avoid the onslaught.

Susan shook her head. "It's one thing to be ordered into battle; it's quite another to prefer it to your wife and children."

His body stiffened. "You told me that you understand more now, but you don't," Paul insisted. "If you did, you would realize that duty has a command of its own, one no soldier can ignore. The men I fight with are my family also. How could I abandon them when they faced death while you and the children were safe at home because of what they did?"

Susan sat back down. She appeared completely drained now, showing the futility of one who wants to make peace and then suddenly realizes there will never be any terms agreeable to both sides. "Well, I guess you'll have plenty of time now to figure that out."

She got up and, for good measure, pushed the metal chair back with a screech that made Paul's skin crawl. Before he could respond she turned and left the room.

CHAPTER SIX

Redemption Valley Church. Washington, D.C.

A shadow blacker than the night, reflecting off the walls of a church steeple, moved up the stairs with stealth and confidence, and the well measured caution of a hunter. He avoided the deep grooves in the stone steps as he followed a trickle that became a stream which ended in a dark coagulating pool. The dim light of the solitary window painted the red liquid black. The walls were raked with the stains of sin.

On the landing, a man lay sprawled, more victim than martyr. Above his head, an agonized figure on a cross stared down with pity, but without giving him hope of redemption. In the wounded man's right hand was a gun he did not have the chance to use. To his left wrist was handcuffed a dark square object obscured in the shadows.

Seeing his quarry incapacitated, the killer moved more aggressively up the steeps, his footfalls echoing in the empty stone chamber. In his hand, he carried a gun, its silencer pointing at the inert figure to ensure that the wounded man didn't try to get a shot off.

He removed the unused gun from the wounded man's hand and leaned over to get a closer look at the object handcuffed to his other wrist. A single shaft of light from a slit of a second window somewhere above them revealed a metal briefcase with cylinder locks.

The wounded man groaned. He was still alive.

"You don't need this anymore, Louis," the stalker said, tapping the briefcase with his foot. "Oh, sorry; I forgot that you like to be called Louie." He removed the silencer from his gun, deposited it in his pocket, and put the gun into the holster under his coat.

The man snapped his fingers and a figure from behind him stepped forward with a pair of bolt cutters. Holding the cutter with both hands, the assistant severed Louie's hand just above the wrist and freed the briefcase.

Louie opened his mouth to scream but nothing came out. He stuck his wrist in his armpit and squeezed down to staunch the bleeding.

"I could have, of course, simply cut the handcuffs, Louis, but this will send a clearer message to anyone else trying to extort more money from me than agreed upon."

He forced open the briefcase and sifted his hands through its contents. Even in the dim light, the contents glinted. The package weighed the same as when he had handed it over: twenty-eight pounds. Yes, all the gold coins were there: all four hundred and forty-eight of them.

"And where you're going, you won't need these, Louie."

"But I thought you needed me. The codes...the procedures?" Louie gasped, capable of only a hoarse whisper.

"Louie, you need to remember that we live in the information age. Your govern-ment's computer talked to our computer and we have everything we need. In other words, you've become expendable."

He turned and passed the briefcase to one of his subordinates, Louie's hand dangling from the attached cuff. "It seems that God has blessed me." Then he turned back to Louie, glancing from him to the figure on a cross above his head. "But I don't think He's too thrilled with you."

CHAPTER SEVEN

Meridian Hill Apts. Washington D.C.

Paul rose up slowly, disoriented at first. It took a moment until he got his bearings. Three days since the attack he figured. For the first time in his life, he felt older than his years. All the weightlifting and running he did had kept his body taut. But his eyes, which were once a deep hazel color, were now pale green. His hair, the last time he checked, was dark brown. Now, on closer inspection, it was sprinkled with grey.

He eschewed his military garb, threw on some civilian clothes, and took one more look around before closing the door behind him.

It was his first day out of the hospital, and the initial steps outside warned him how weak he still was. The day was one of those hard, deceptive, crystal-clear January mornings, and the cold passed right through him. The sky was full of sun, but that didn't mitigate the freezing temperatures. A biting wind kept the many flags in constant motion.

He tried not to think about the cold. Instead he concentrated on the surroundings. The marble buildings in the nation's capitol were white and glistening. Tourists hurried from the Smithsonian to the Washington Memorial, from the Senate to the Library of Congress, trying to stay a step ahead of the frigid weather.

Paul exhaled a draft of steam that carried out in a straight line for two feet. The cold stung him. His metabolism was down and he had lost muscle mass, making him more susceptible to the bitter weather.

His first stop was the office of the colonel.

The Pentagon. Arlington County, Virginia

It was the larges building in the world, encompassing over six million square feet on thirty-four acres.

Paul needed a road map to find the Colonel's office. There he got the news...

"You're officially retired," Colonel Saunders, seated behind his double desk, explained clinically. "Put out to pasture."

"But there was nothing I could do!" Paul said in his own defense. "We were outgunned and outmanned." He couldn't figure out why he had to justify his actions.

"You gave up the football." The colonel flipped over his hand, fingers spread like that explained it all. "They didn't have to cut the cuffs or saw off your hand. That raised some eyebrows."

"They think I was part of it?" Paul asked, pacing back and forth in front of Saunder's desk.

"And put three holes in myself?"

"Someone's gotta to take the fall, and you're it."

"I've got enough medals and commendations to pull my shirt down off my shoulder."

"Yesterday's news. Only good to line the bird cages."

"I want a public hearing to clear my name."

"Not going to happen."

"So I go out broken in rank, a black mark on my file jacket. No chance for a reprieve?"

"You don't get it, Decker," Saunders reiterated. "This isn't about you. It's about the president. He's the one that needs to come out of this lookin' clean and blameless, and if everyone else comes out smellin' like shit, then that's just the way it's got to be."

"I risked my life a dozen times in my career."

"The wolves at the press need some meat to chew on. This week it's you."

"So nothing I say means anything?"

"If that were all there was, we wouldn't be having this conversashun'," Saunders assured.

"I don't get it, colonel."

"Redemption, son."

"You've got my undivided attention," Paul said, taking a seat in front of the colonel.

"Let me spell it out for you. The Pentagon can't officially sanction a search for the men behind the raid on Washington. The White House press secretary issued a statement that all the terrorists had been killed and that no military security had been breached. If the government now admitted that the Go Codes were stolen and in the hands of enemy agents, then any one of a dozens countries, fearing for their existence, might order a pre-emptive strike on the U.S. The administration's got to stick by its original story. This mission has to fly under the radar and consist of the smallest group of men possible."

"My mission?" Paul asked, hopeful.

"You never heard me say that. All you can count on is access to some military hardware and Intel from me."

"What about Captain Lewis, sir? Is he in trouble? Up for court martial?"

"No, there won't be a court martial or firing squad for Louie. He was found dead early this morning. Not just dead, but mutilated.

A hell of a way for a good solider to go, Paul thought. Alone, without comrades, God, or last rites. I don't expect I'll do much better when my time comes.

"You have any idea where to start, captain?" Saunders asked, drawing Paul back to the moment.

"One...maybe. But if I can get my fingers around someone's neck, I'll have a lot more."

"How are you fixed for money?"

"I've got my savings. That should be enough to get things going."

The colonel reached out and handed Paul a small slip of paper. "Here," was all he said.

"What this?" Paul asked, staring at a sixteen digit number.

"If you're asking me, I'd say it's the number to an offshore bank account."

"Thanks, colonel." Surprised, that was all Paul could say.

"For what?"

Paul waved the paper. "For this."

"I don't see anything. I didn't give you anything. I don't know what you're talking about."

Paul got it, stood up, saluted, and said crisply, "Yes, sir!"

"I suggest you get your ass in gear, soldier," Saunders suggested none too kindly. He stood up and extended his hand, which Paul immediately took. "You're burnin' daylight."

* * *

As soon as he emerged from the Pentagon, Paul breathed in and out deeply: to expel the stale air and guilty thoughts. He didn't even have time to grieve the passing of his friend. Even worse, he wasn't sure Louie deserved the lamentation. That part he might never know for sure. Right now the whole thing smelled dirty. He had to set that, and a lot more, aside.

Commonwealth People's Men's Club. NW Washington, D.C.

His next stop was a bar around the corner from the Russian Embassy. The tattoo he saw on the soldier's wrist the night of the attack was his only clue. He was sure it had meaning, but only to another Russian. It was a place to start.

He didn't give that piece of information at his briefing. His experience with the military was such that those men played by the book. If they investigated the one lead he had and came up against one man who stone-walled them, then the trail would end right there, once and forever. He just couldn't risk that. The country couldn't risk that, he decided.

My career is over one way or the other, he considered. They'll put me out to pasture. So the hell with military procedure.

He knew no matter how well trained and prepared the men were who attacked Cummings they would have needed eyes on the ground: someone to give them the layout of the vice-president's home, the number of agents guarding him there, the weapons they carried, the VP's travel schedule, and a hell of a lot more.

He had to start at the bottom of the food chain. It was far from the head of what-ever organization he was dealing with, but also the easiest people to find and extract information from.

He opened the door and stood at the entrance of the club, waiting until his eyes acclimatized to the ill-lit interior. When he could make out the details of the darkened room he wandered over to the bar. It was a "gentleman's club...without the gentlemen and without the décor.

The scent of sweet perfume invaded his senses, like the aroma of an exotic land. A karaoke stage was set up on the right side of the club. No one was performing; after all, it was only noon. To the left was a long bar - running the length of the floor. Sofas, more like beds, lined the other wall. All the seats occupied by scantily clad girls leaving little to the imagination.

Of the roughly twenty tables in the room, half of them were filled with thick-set men smoking the same stinking tobacco he had experienced in Ukraine.

American music from the late 50s and early 60s played in the background, but it could have just as well been Swahili drums considering how little attention was being paid.

Paul shifted his gaze to the bartender: a short, stocky man with a pockmarked face and jet black hair. He took out his towel, moved down the bar and wiped off the surface until it reflected the ceiling lights.

"Nice place you have here...?" Paul offered sarcastically, taking a seat on one of the stools right in front of the man. It went over his head like a jet at forty thousand feet.

"Peter. Da. This is paradise!" the man said proudly.

"There is no paradise," Paul replied.

"But we are there now!" Peter insisted, arms spread wide to encompass the entire room...and the city outside.

"Well, I haven't read today's paper," Paul said. "Maybe I missed something."

He ordered a vodka; not his favorite drink, and definitely not what he needed at the moment, but he wanted to blend in the only way in knew how. Peter shrugged. He poured Paul a shot, then went to help another customer. Paul picked up the drink; his hand shook. Half the liquor splashed out of the glass. At a time when he thought he needed fortification the most, his fingers and mind rebelled. Another battle was at hand: this one against himself. There's too much on the line, he considered. This time he'd have to go it alone, without the booze.

He quickly gathered his wits. When he was sure no one was watching, he tossed the drink into the sink used for washing the glasses, just behind the counter. With each shot he ordered, he made sure to tip the bartender well. The man's eyebrows went up every time, giving Paul assurance that he was impressed with the generosity. Each time Paul slurred his words a little more, making the man think he was dealing with a lush...from which, by anyone's definition, he was only one day removed.

After playing the game for almost an hour, Paul finally asked, "Who is the most desired woman here, my friend?"

The bartender stood in front of Paul, polishing the bar with his dirty towel. "A favorite of the Americans or the Russians?"

"American men do not know the quality of women," he lied. "I would choose the one desired by the Russian men."

"Then Tanya is the woman you must meet," Peter said as he lifted a finger, pointed to a woman sitting next to the pool table and waved her over. "Take my advice, mister," the man said, leaning in. "Bargain with the women. They overcharge and take advantage of your generosity."

"Marvelous. You should be teaching at the Harvard Business School, but instead these lessons come to me free of charge."

Peter smiled, then frowned, winding up somewhere in the middle.

A moment later, a girl who looked to be in her late twenties or early thirties strolled up to Paul. Her short cropped brown hair reminded him of his daughter. He cringed inwardly at the thought. Her skirt that barely covered her privates, and high heels that elongated her shapely legs and lifted her butt to a more pleasing angle. A push up bra almost forced her abundant breasts completely out of her top.

She tried to smile, but it came across feral. Paul imagined she was in a profession she did not desire, a life she hadn't planned. There they had something in common. He hadn't planned to be an alcoholic either; so what did he know?

She looked up at Paul. "You are a very romantic man, sir." She spoke very good English. "What do you desire?" She primped her hair, then ran her hands down her dress, from her breasts to her hips.

"I'd just like to talk to you for a little while, Tanya," Paul replied.

"It will cost you the same whether I stand here and speak to you, or take you in the back and fuck you, or is it the mouth that you like? All the Americans seem to like that."

"You like Americans?"

"Yes, they wash."

"Just talk."

"Fifty dollars," she said, hand extended. "I could make you very happy, mister. You are a handsome man. I would enjoy fucking you."

Under the circumstances, he thought it was the biggest complement he could expect.

Paul pulled out a wad of bills to impress her. Her eyes lit up. He peeled off a fifty, giving the impression that there might be more where that came from.

She slipped the money into her bra. "Now, what is it you would like to speak of?"

"I'm looking for a friend."

"And what is the name of this friend?" Tanya tried hard not to stare at the money but was losing the battle.

"I don't know his name."

"That will make things a little more difficult," she said thoughtfully. "Is he a generous man or a cheapskate? I remember the big tippers."

"I don't know; we only met a few days ago. All I remember was that I was supposed to run into him here. He said he comes here all the time."

"And that is all?"

"No, he has a tattoo on the inside of his wrist."

"Many Russians wear tattoos, on their hands, chests, arms, back...all over," she said confidently.

"This tattoo was of an upside down pitchfork jabbed into the earth."

The color drained from Tanya's face. "I do not know of such man," she blurted, taking a step back and straightening up, pulling her skirt down a few inches.

Paul took out his money again and started peeling off fifties.

"We cannot speak here," she whispered, looking around the room and standing on tip-toes to peek over Paul's shoulder. "We must go in back. It is very suspicious to just talk in this place. No one comes here for that."

Tanya took his hand, winked at the bartender, and sashayed her way toward the back rooms, making every effort to have the bartender believe Paul was just another John.

They passed through a series of curtains and corners, like sleeping compartments on a train. As soon as they entered Tanya's room - nothing more than a mattress, a table with a bottle of oil and a jug of water - she pulled him close and whispered, "There is not enough money in all of Washington to risk talking of these men."

"Men? More than one man wears this type of tattoo?"

"Yes."

"Then you know these Russians. . . and what they do?"

"Russians?" Tanya asked, confused.

"Yes."

"But they are not Russian, they are Chechen."

"Chechens!" Paul repeated. "That explains a lot. What else can you tell me?"

"I know many men and many things," she said with pride.

"Then you know they're killers?"

"There are many who do harm. It is not for me to judge, or involve myself in such activity."

Paul reached out and grabbed Tanya's arm...a little too forcibly.

She winced and pulled away.

"I need to find these people, quickly," he said without apologizing.

"And you are a friend of these men?" she asked, rubbing away Paul's indented finger marks.

"I only told you that to get the information I need. I'm no more their friend than you are. Now, do you know them?"

"I only know what affects me; the rest I do not care about," she said with a flip of her hand in a dismissive gesture.

"I think you do care," he said, slipping five hundred dollars into her palm.

Tanya stared at the money - as if it were a set of wings she could put on and fly away - then looked nervously around her small room, like the walls had eyes, before slipping the cash into her bra.

"That money," Paul said pointing at her chest, "can buy education for a brother or a good doctor for a parent."

"This money," Tanya replied patting her own breast, "could also buy knife in back or bullet in head."

"Someone has to do something or this will get a lot worse." Paul reached out for her arm again. "It's not just Americans, it's people in Russia, China and most of the world that is at risk because of these men. We're on the brink of nuclear war!"

"I will still have job," she said with a hollow laugh.

"If you've got family in Russia they won't be there anymore."

That reality shook her to the core. "I cannot even save myself from this life. What could be worse?"

"Worse could be for your children."

Tanya nodded. "I have already had friends die at their hands. Very well, what is it you need to know?"

"How can I find them?"

"Some of them come in here. Not every day, but often."

"Is there one of these men who would be more cooperative with me?"

"I do not understand 'cooperative'. I think you would have to kill them before they would speak to you."

"I'm prepared to do that, but I want the one who might give me something before he dies."

"Maybe there is one. He talks much, always bragging, and he hits the women."

"Oh, a man who beats women. That's the one I want."

"This may be," Tanya considered. "It is the men who say the least that are to be feared the most."

"Who's this one you mention?" Paul asked anxiously.

"Vasilii."

"Do you know where Vasilii lives? Or what kind of car he drives?"

"No. I do not think anyone here does. I know only that he likes to beat women who do not do exactly as he says. And that he threatens them with the knife."

"Anything else? Any way to find him?"

"No. He is a cruel man." She hugged herself protectively. I know nothing else."

"I can't come here every day looking for Vasilii."

"I could call you when next he comes in. Then you could see him for yourself."

"That won't work. I'll stand out as an American and everyone will be watching me. Let me think." Paul reached into his pocket and fiddled for a moment. Then a smile came to his face.

"What is it?"

"I've got an idea." He pulled out a very small packet. It looked like a watch battery. He held it in his open palm. "This is a tracking device. All you have to do is peel off the tab on the bottom and it will stick to anything rubber, wooden or plastic. His shoe would be perfect."

"What you say sounds simple, but this man is very suspicious, and very dangerous. He is the worst devil, the one who betrays hell."

"We all need to take chances if we're going change things. Now, can you put this on him?"

"If he chooses me, maybe I can do this thing for you."

"Make it happen, Tanya, we're running out of time."

"And will you see to my family if I am found in a trash dumpster or washed up with the morning tide?"

"We may be on the verge of war," Paul said as he pulled out his wad of money again, peeled off one thousand dollars and slipped the bills into her shaking hand. "We're all expendable."

She stared at Paul. The look of self-preservation was gone. "Yes, I will make it happen as you say."

"How will I recognize him? I can't ask all the men in a bar or restaurant to show me the inside of their wrists."

"He always wears a short leather jacket and a flat black hat to cover his bald spot."

"Anything else? He could always take those things off before I get there."

"Let me think...Yes! He wears cowboy boots with big heels to make himself look taller. They are made of some fancy material."

"Snake skin, alligator, ostrich, lizard, eel?"

"Maybe one of those you speak of. I am not familiar with cowboy things. We don't get many such people in here unless they are lost and looking for direction," she said with a laugh.

Paul took out a card and handed it to the woman. "Call me at this number as soon as you get it done. When this is all over, you'll be able to tell your children how you helped save the world."

"If I am here to speak of anything at all."

CHAPTER EIGHT

The Oval Office. White House. Washington D.C.

An hour after sunset the sky turned angry, filled with dark gray clouds. Lightening flashes and thunder claps indicated the storm was four miles away and closing.

Inside, temperatures were rising as the stakes escalated in regards to the attack on Washington.

The meeting, which began at seven o'clock, had dragged on for two hours and the small group of high-level personnel gathered in the Oval Office were no closer to a consensus. A naval orderly came in and distributed coffee and sandwiches cut in quarters. The food was ignored, but the coffee was quickly consumed.

"Mr. President," Tom, said after taking a long, slow sip of coffee, "we're getting serious grumblings from North Korea. "It seems they think the raid on Washington is going to be blamed on them and used as an excuse to start a shooting war."

"Those pip-squeaks can't shoot their way out of a paper bag," Frank assured.

"In a briefing you gave me last month, Frank," Paulson said, pointing an accusatory finger, "you told me they were a threat to our security and interests."

"Not today, Mr. President, but in the immediate future, they will be."

"How immediate?" Paulson asked.

"Within a few years, sir, they'll have missiles capable of reaching the west coast of America," Frank replied, backing off on how much of a threat the North Koreans were at the moment.

"So we have some time to negotiate with them," the president suggested condescendingly.

"We can't start a shooting war with them, Frank," Karen warned. "If you'll recall, the twenty-two million people in Seoul are within range of North Korean guns. Would you like to tell those people we shouldn't negotiate?"

"Why are we concentrating on them?" Paulson asked. "Why not Russia or China?"

"Because North Korea is the only country crazy enough to start a war where they'd be annihilated," Karen replied.

"Tom," the president said, turning his attention to the CIA director. "What's your take on North Korea?"

"A mixed bag, sir," Tom said, noncommittal.

The president got up from his desk, walked over to the doors to the Rose Garden, and clasped his hands behind him. He took a moment to look out on the rose bushes, the groomed grass and Beech, Elm and Maple trees and gather himself up to deal with the crisis at hand.

Paulson turned back to those in the room. "So, in conclusion, what would you recommend, gentlemen...and ladies?" he asked of all.

"Let's give negotiations another try," Karen suggested.

"Let's take out their long guns pointed at Seoul," Frank insisted. "Then they won't have a hell of a lot of leverage left after that." He snickered at the idea of killing thousands, as if they were pins to knock down in a bowling alley.

"And you, Tom. What do you think?"

"I'd play both hands, Mr. President," CIA Director Daniels suggested. "Negotiate, but know that in just a few short years they'll have the capability of taking out the West Coast. Then they'll have all the leverage and we'll be the ones looking for a face-saving exit from negotiations."

"That'd be great if it was only North Korea that we were facing," Secretary of Defense, David McCallum, the others. "But there are eight counties with nuclear weapons."

"But most of them are our allies," Karen challenged.

"If any of those countries believe we're not in control of our nuclear weapons, then those allies could quickly change to enemies," David retorted, leaving the rest of the attendees with a scenario they never considered possible.

CHAPTER NINE

Commonwealth People's Men's Club. NW Washington, D.C.

"Vasilii was here," Tanya said breathlessly over the phone. "I placed the device on his shoe."

"Is he still there?" Paul turned down the TV in his apartment with the remote.

"Yes, but he is leaving now," she said, just above a whisper.

Paul could tell she had her hand cupped over the receiver. Between her soft voice and broken English, it was difficult to understand her.

"Did he say where he's going?"

"No. I was afraid to ask."

"Just as well. No need to take any more risks. But let me know if you hear him talking to anyone, maybe say where he is going."

"Yes, yes, but I must go." She hung up abruptly.

Paul was a step closer to finding the men from the operation and discerning what their intentions were. So far, they hadn't announced who they were, or what they wanted. They were not your run-of-the-mill terrorists. These people were not about to slip up and make it easy for Paul - even with the help that might be available to him - to catch them quickly...if at all. He couldn't get over the fact that Louie was dead. But as they both said many times before battle, if one of them was wounded or dead, the other shouldn't risk his life and get two people killed instead of one.

Then there was still the question that nagged him: was there a connection between Louie's death and the fact that the terrorists had the combination to the handcuffs that held the briefcase? It was a scenario he didn't even want to consider, but the circum-stances were too much to ignore. Louie had been killed within forty-eight hours of the briefcase being taken. If Louie was involved with the Chechens, then the people he was looking for had a hell of a lot more knowledge than he originally thought. They would be briefed on all the procedures and with the contents of the football and how to use them.

Vasilii was on the move, and Paul was now only steps behind him. Based on Paul's GPS, the Chechen was headed toward an unsavory part of town: drugs, thieves, their victims and customers.

Camelot Showbar. NW Washington, D.C.

Paul got there about twenty minutes after Vasilii. The music was loud. The lights were dim. It was a T&A bar. Somewhere between low class and no class. In the center of the room was a circular stage for the female dancers. Some slid down the poles extending floor to ceiling, as if they were angels descending from heaven. Around the stage were small tables, just big enough to hold drinks, with four chairs edge to edge.

The crowd was a mix of Americans and foreigners: Middle-Eastern, Slavic, Spanish, and Oriental. The waitresses wore shorts exposing half their bottoms and T-shirts exposing most of their breasts. Beautiful girls in a not so beautiful place, he thought.

Women moved suggestively: poll dances, sister acts, gymnastics, juggling, the whole gamut of sexual repertories. The men seated center stage could only take their eyes off the girls long enough to pull dollar bills out of their pockets and wave them in the air. They were mesmerized, watching female bodies in slow motion.

Vasilii was easy to spot, dressed just the way Tanya described.

For an hour Paul waited and watched the man drinking alone at the bar. He didn't seem interested in the dancers or making conversation. He looked most happy with his vodka. Paul didn't keep count, but the more Vasilii drank, the easier time he, Paul, would have carrying out his planned action.

Paul waited patiently. Another twenty minutes went by, then Vasilii stood up, left his half empty shot of Absolute on the bar, and made his way across the room and through a swinging door to the john. The Chechen was shorter than Paul expected, but he didn't take time to dwell on that. Paul used the opportunity to slide over to Vasilii's vacated spot at the bar. He leaned forward, asking the proprietor for a drink he didn't really want and used the distraction to pour some powder into Vasilii's shot glass, then gave it a quick swirl, just as the bartender came back with his tequila.

A moment later, Vasilii emerged from the bathroom and took his place at the bar once more. Paul lifted his glass and turned to the Chechen whose hair and shirt reeked of Eastern tobacco and Western cologne.

"Drink with me," Paul said, his glass raised.

"To what are we drinking?" Vasilii asked suspiciously, leaning back to get a better view of Paul's face.

"To my wedding tomorrow!" He slapped the Chechen on the back in a friendly manner.

"To a beautiful girl, I hope?" the Chechen said and laughed.

"Yes! A most beautiful girl."

"Then let us drink to you, a very lucky man," Vasilii said and lifted his glass as well.

Paul and his new Chechen acquaintance swallowed their shots quickly and shared a few more. He couldn't toss his drinks into a sink, and he couldn't risk Vasilii thinking he was setting him up. Or maybe he just enjoyed the taste too much to set them aside. Who am I kidding? he said to himself.

Paul waited for the powder and alcohol to do its job; hopefully just to Vasilii and not to him. And he didn't have to wait long. Soon, the Chechen's eyes glazed over and he looked to Paul as if for some direction. The powder he had used was meant to make a man compliant without affecting his memory or ability to talk. Paul needed this particular Chechen to be more receptive to his suggestions.

And it looked as though it was working. Paul stood abruptly and clasped the Chechen on the shoulder. "Come my friend, tomorrow is my wedding. Tonight we will celebrate at The Elephant Bar!"

"Such a fancy place is expensive," Vasilii replied.

Paul wondered if the powder really was doing its job. Vasilii was thinking too clearly.

"A man's last night of freedom must be celebrated. Come!" Paul insisted.

"Is true. We go," Vasilii said, sliding off his stool, barely keeping his feet under him.

Paul took out a wad of cash to pay the bartender. Unfortunately, as swift as he had been, his actions and his money had been seen by some of the people in the club. As he left, partially supporting Vasilii, four Russians followed him out. They looked like bikers, dressed in black leather with studs and chains. Once again Paul had under-estimated the liquor and its effects on him. He wasn't sure he could take the four of them, especially not with the drugged Vasilii hindering him. I wonder how high the price will be this time? he asked himself.

As soon as Paul and his intoxicated friend reached the parking lot, one of the Russian men who had followed them called out," Hey, Americaninski, do you have a cigarette?"

"Don't you know that smoking is bad for your health?" Paul mocked.

"You are a very foolish man," the appointed leader said, "to talk so disrespectfully to me." As he spoke, the other three men circled Paul and Vasilii, who was dead weight on Paul's arm. "Do you really want to insult me?"

"Insulting you would be calling you a Communist psycho," Paul answered. "It's redundant."

"You think me a fool?" the leader asked angrily, manically waving his arms.

Paul set Vasilii down gently on the hood of a car to rid himself of the encumbrance.

Meanwhile he glanced about without moving his head and marked the territory around him. He needed to know how much space he had and where his opponents were.

"Oh, no, I wouldn't want to insult you," Paul said with a sarcastic laugh. "For surely you are an important man here in Washington."

"You can apologize, friend, by giving us some money. I need to fix my car and we would take dollars as the only acceptable apology," the tallest Russian said, changing the direction of the conversation and knocking his fist into his other hand as he maneuvered, seeking a point of maximum advantage.

"You know, walking is much healthier," Paul suggested, following the man with his eyes.

"You are amusing, Pindosi," the leader said. "Penguin. It is not our health, but yours with which you should be concerned." He narrowed the distance between himself and Paul. The others followed suit, closing in around Paul.

Paul felt himself reach a level of calm, just as his opponents reached the boiling point: a place where emotions override common sense and spur of the moment trumps past experience. It was the calm before the storm, the moment of preparation before the physical fight was launched. Paul steeled his mind. Once that was done, he knew his body would follow. As he sized them up, the tall Russian pulled out a knife, flipping the switch blade out. One of the others, a stocky Russian pulled out a small caliber hand gun. Paul leaned his head to the side at the sight of it, cracking the tension from his neck.

Paul didn't usually taunt his enemies. It was a waste of precious breath in a life and death situation. But then he didn't see this situation that way. The men before him were so drunk, they smelled as if they had bathed in vodka rather than drank it. So, he couldn't help but goad them a little. Perhaps it was reckless and it was definitely unnecessary, but he couldn't stop himself as he stood there.

"You miserable Ruski losers. Fuck you."

The four men advanced, coming within striking distance. Paul saw the gun as the most serious threat, so he goaded the guy into moving closer. "Come to Papa, sweetie, so I can put you to bed."

When the man came close enough, Paul pulled him in using the Russian's own momentum and rammed his elbow into the side of the Ruski's head, dropping him to the ground, and taking the gun.

The one with the knife took a wild swing at Paul's neck. Paul jumped back, tucking the gun into his waistband as the man came at him again. He caught the man's wrist, twisted it behind his back and flipped him over. The Russian hit the concrete with a thud, probably breaking his coccyx bone. He rocked on the ground, squirming and screaming in pain like a guy who sat on top of a stove turned up to high.

The other two paused a moment, gapping at the carnage Paul had wrought, before nodding their heads. They sprang forward from opposite sides. Paul pushed two of his fingers directly into one of the men's throat, sending the Russian to his knees choking and coughing as he struggled to breathe. As Paul brought the first Russian down, the other one sliced a knife into Paul's arm, cutting him superficially. Paul's leg shot out to give the last Russian a quick kick to the knee. It sent the man hopping backwards where he tripped and landed in a can with the other trash.

Paul took a breath, but the fight wasn't over. The first man he knocked over had recovered and launched himself at Paul. The Russian moved faster than Paul anticipated and as he turned, the man hit Paul in the side of the head with a wild swing of his arm. It was a glancing blow, more upsetting than painful, and Paul cursed at his slow response time. The years had not been kind and he wondered for a second if he should blame the booze, poor conditioning, or the results of his many wounds through-out the years.

Paul faced the Russian as the man came at him once more. He thrust his palm in the man's face, breaking his nose with a spurt of blood. The Ruski stumbled backward until he collided with a parked car and slumped to the ground. One Russian was left standing, but though he may have thought he was far enough away to be safe, Paul knew better. He crouched down and stuck out his foot, sweeping the Russian's legs from beneath him and causing him to fall over on one of his comrades.

The four Russians looked at each other, then at Paul, then at each other again.

Paul watched as fear and embarrassment replaced the earlier arrogance and

certainty. They picked themselves up and slunk away like dogs with their tails between

their legs.

At a safe distance from Paul one Russian looked over his shoulder, spat, and yelled, "American pig!"

They didn't wait around for a reply, and Paul didn't offer one as he lifted Vasilii up and continued on his way. "Sorry for the delay in our plans for the rest of the evening, Vasilii," he said. "I know you're dying to see what happens next."

CHAPTER TEN

Rock Creek Cemetery. Washington, D.C.

A graveyard. One a.m. A time of night when nothing good ever happened.

The lights of the city were far enough away to conceal his game plan, but a full moon provide enough light for him to work without a flashlight.

It hadn't taken as long as he expected to excavate the grave and pry back the nails on the casket. The task had gone rather easily in soil that was freshly dug; plus the recent rain and melted snow helped to soften it even more. Paul was used to the smell of death; he was a soldier after all. As such he'd dealt with it most of his life. But this was almost overwhelming. And now it was Vasilii who was dealing with the smell of decomposition, and the looming sense of the Chechen's own impending demise.

Paul's work was now done but Vasilii's contribution was just beginning.

"There is nothing I can tell you. Where am I? I don't remember anything after meeting you. How did I get here?" The voice echoed within the confines of Vasilii's new quarters.

"How are you, Vasilii? Are you comfortable?" Paul asked as he rested his arm on the shovel. Beads of sweat dripped off his chin. He brushed them away with a red bandana.

"What have I done to deserve this? Where am I?" Vasilii asked again from within the coffin. Paul had left only a small slot for the man to talk out of and breathe through. It was that hole that stood between the Chechen and his demise.

"First I have a question for you, Vasilii."

"My name isn't Vasilii. You have confused me with someone else!"

"I really don't give a fuck what your name is. I only care about what you know."

"But I know nothing."

"Tsk. Tsk. You haven't even heard the question yet."

"Is this about money? Do you intend to rob me?"

"Rob you, Vasilii? It would take a genius to find something worth robbing from you."

"Then why have you brought me here? And where is here?"

"You are in a box in the ground, my friend. A pine box. Well, maybe not, I don't think they make them out of pine anymore. But either way, it's just your size."

"I can barely move my arms and legs." The man banged against the top of the box, but he was unable to generate much force since he was sandwiched in between a corpse and the coffin lid. The lid wasn't going anywhere and neither was Vasilii.

"What is it that I smell?"

"That would be your roommate, Vasilii," Paul replied sardonically.

"Why are you doing this? Were we not celebrating your marriage tomorrow?"

"Now we are celebrating you reuniting with your God, or the Devil, most likely in your case."

"I need air. I am dizzy. What have you done to me?"

"I drugged you obviously."

"What drug have you given me? And why?"

"You're lucky it was a drug, and not a bullet like your friends gave me at the vice-president's house. And I thought we covered where you are already." Paul sighed. "You're not very bright are you? You're in a coffin, Vasilii."

"A coffin?" came the squeaked response.

"Yes. A coffin, in a grave."

There was silence then. Vasilii didn't speak for a moment and Paul waited. He had all the time in the world. The Chechen however, did not.

"Please! Please!" Genuine fear seeped out between gasps for air. Vasilii's voice broke as he struggled to breathe.

"You and your friends made me look bad, Vasilii. I was the keeper of the football, but your friends took that from me. Now, you are going to answer some questions," Paul said gently. "And for every wrong answer or every refusal to answer, one shovelful of dirt gets tossed on top of you."

"Please, let me out." The Chechen paused. "I have a wife and children."

"All you have to do is answer my questions about the attack on the vice-president."

"What am I lying on? It is cutting into my back. What is this stench I smell? It smells like death."

"First answer my questions, then I'll answer yours."

"But I know nothing. I work in a hospital."

"Oh, brain surgeon?"

"What?"

"Forget it, it's an intellectual joke."

"I am a simple man. I do not involve myself with these matters you speak of." Vasilii took in huge gulps of air. "Are you certain you have the right person? I am poor."

"I've studied lying, thieving cockroaches my entire life, Vasilii. I recognize an insect when I see one."

"Please, you are confusing me with someone else."

"You're making me angry, you nat." He threw the first shovelful of dirt in the grave.

Some of it went into the air hole. He could hear the Chechen choke.

"My lungs are burning. Please let me out."

"Tell me what you know, and how your friends found out how to safely remove the football."

"I have never heard of such a thing," Vasilli insisted, but he was running out of lies just like he was running out of air.

"Then what about the tattoo on your wrist? An upside down pitchfork?"

"This is a common tattoo in Russia."

"I've only seen that tattoo once, and that was three days ago in a raid on the vice-president's house here in Washington."

Paul dumped shovel after shovel of dirt on the coffin. Vasilii choked. "I need a name, Vasilii, or you are useless to me. And if you are useless, you are dispensable."

"If I tell you I am a dead man. What difference if I die here with you, or later?"

"What does the tattoo mean and where can I find the men who wear them?" Paul took the shovel and smashed the top of the coffin lid a half-dozen times.

"Wait! Stop! The men you seek call themselves Black Bear. I know nothing more that could be of benefit to you."

Paul could hear the kicking and thumping becoming more desperate. "Black Bear. That's a good start. Are you ready to give me some information I can use to get the contents of the briefcase back?"

"I know nothing more; I swear."

"Do you take me for a fool? You insult me with your lies." He threw another shovelful of dirt into the grave.

Vasilii chocked then threw up on himself.

"Now I'll ask you again, where are these men you call Black Bear?"

"I don't know. I was not involved with their plan. I have witnesses that I was at home when the case was stolen!"

"Oh, do you usually claim to have witnesses to your whereabouts when you are innocent and not involved?" Paul asked, then hammered the top of the coffin with the shovel three times. "Where are the men, Vasilii? Tell me!"

"Eh, eh--."

Vasilii's words were choked off by the dirt falling into the breathing hole.

"The next words may be your last, Vasilii. Choose them carefully." Paul waited, leaning on the end of the shovel.

Vasilii broke into a hacking cough. It took him a moment to recover. "If I give them away, they will kill me and my wife and children. They will kill everyone in my family back three generations."

"Unless you can give me something I can use, you are worthless." Paul snorted, dug into the earth, and dropped a full load of dirt into the grave. He heard Vasilii gag.

With each gag, Paul felt himself one step closer to the answers he needed.

"There is a smell of death in here. I beg you to let me out!" Vasilii screamed. "The smell is making me sick."

"That's because your roommate is a dead man, Vasilii," Paul said matter-of-factly.

The Chechen screamed and attempted once more to kick at the top of the casket. "You are mad. No sane man would do this!"

Paul tossed shovelful after shovelful of dirt into the grave. Vasilii wasn't answering his questions. The Chechen needed more incentive, which the dirt certainly was.

"Is this really happening? Am I dreaming?" the man pleaded.

"Not a dream, my friend. A nightmare. But this one will not end with you waking up to a bright sunny morning," Paul replied, punctuating his words with another shovelful of dirt.

The man screamed again. Then Paul heard the desperate sound of feet and fists kicking and scraping at the top of the coffin. He didn't want to imagine the pain in Vasilii's fingers, but perhaps it would help the man talk.

"Oh God, no, no, no," Vasilii cried.

"Tell me all about your part in the operation: who you report to, where the safe houses are, what the plans are. You might want to hurry. You'll be out of air soon."

"Please. I beg you."

"A lot of good men died trying to protect that briefcase. They begged too, but that did not stop you and your lunatic bosses."

"But I was not even there. I knew nothing of such things."

"But you know now, and you're the one who's about to die for men who care nothing about you or your safety."

"Please! Please!! I beg you!"

"What was your role in the attack on Washington?"

"I only provided information. When the vice-president would be home, how many people would be guarding him, the building plans of the house."

"And how would a mealy-mouth motherfucker like you come up with that?"

"Deep throat," Vasilii replied with some pride.

"What do you mean by that?"

"You do not know about Watergate?" Vasilii asked derogatorily.

Paul smashed the top of the coffin three times with the shovel. "Don't ever disrespect me you little cocksucker. Of course I know Watergate. I need you to tell me how it relates to the attack."

"I was told to meet a man on the National Mall at a certain time of night. He would recognize me. I was supposed to wear a red-hooded sweat shirt."

"And how were you supposed to recognize him?"

"I wasn't. He would know me."

"And this deep throat provided all that information to you?"

Vasilii hesitated, trying to catch his breath. But Paul wasn't interested in his breathing capability. He slammed the lid again.

"Yes! Yes! All of it."

"And you don't know who he was, what he looks like. How about his voice?"

"It sounded mechanical, not human."

"You mean he was using a synthesizer?"

"I do not know of such things."

"That's it? You get the most sensitive government information, information only a couple people in Washington have?"

"I have told you all I know!" Vasilii said, hopeful the information he provided would be sufficient to let him live, but not enough to have him killed buy his masters

"I'm having a hard time believing you." Paul added another shovelful of dirt.

"Please, not like this. Don't let me die like this!"

Paul heard muffled sobbing.

"You're not completely buried yet."

"This cannot be happening. This must be a nightmare."

"The nightmare has just begun, Vasilii. If you don't give me the answers I will kill your children, and sell your wife to the whore house when I leave here."

Paul stood once more resting his arms on the end of the shovel's handle, waiting.

Vasilii's muffled sobs seeped through the coffin's lid. "I will tell you all I know, if you promise not to hurt my family. But trust me, I do not know as much as you believe I do."

"Just like men at the vice-president's home begged for their lives. Did you show them any mercy?" Another shovelful in the hole. "I suggest you start soon," Paul said calmly. "Now who was the man you took orders from and how does he fit into the operation?"

"I . I . I can't think!"

"You wouldn't lie to me, Vasilii, would you?"

"No, no. The . Man's . Name . Is . Grigor." Loud rushes of air escaped between each word. Talking faster he said, "I receive text messages on a cell phone that is sent to me. I receive a new one for each mission. I only do as I am told. Grigor can give you information I cannot."

"And where can I find this man?"

"Let me out and I will take you to him myself," the man pleaded, choking back tears.

Paul threw more dirt in the hole. "You're running out of time and excuses, my friend. You better talk quickly."

"Yes, yes," he cried out, then stopped.

"Why do you protect a man who treats you so poorly?" Paul asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you're so fuckin' poor, all your clothes are Russian. Grigor must be a real generous guy." Paul laughed so hard the shovel slipped from under his arm; he almost fell down. "Now, give me what I need to know."

"He lives in New York City."

"That's a pretty big place, Vasilii. Could you narrow it down for me a little?" Paul didn't wait for an answer, but tossed in another shovel-full as incentive for Vasilii.

"Ah, ah, yes! Four-two-two Flatbush Avenue in Brooklyn."

"I thought you said New York City?" Paul was confused.

"Yes, this is New York!"

"Flatbush is where New York City takes a dump."

"Ah, you are mad!"

"Back to business, Vasilii. How about the cell phones? When and where is the next one to arrive?"

"A train station locker key is sent to me by mail. I go to the locker and pick up the phone."

"So how do you know the phone is coming?"

"I do not know. I have a post office box. I check my mail each day."

"So the key that was in your pocket, that's now in my pocket, is for your P.O. Box?"

"Yes, yes!" he called out. "Now I have told you all I know, please let me out! I beg you!"

"How about some last names?"

"There are no last names; only first names and code words," Vasilii said in a capitulated voice.

There was silence. Paul hesitated. "Are you sure that's all you know? You're holding nothing back?"

"That is all I know. I have nothing more I can tell you." The Chechen coughed and struggled to breathe. Please, I am running out of air."

"I can fix that," Paul said, dropping more shovels full of dirt into the grave. "It is a sad thing that when a man dies, he cannot bury himself."

"Are you going to kill me?" he pleaded.

"No. I won't kill you," Paul said as he bent down, took a small caliber gun from his sock, and slipped it into the breathing hole. "Here is your gun, Vasilii. I hear that suffocation is a terrible way to die, so there is one bullet in there if you have the courage to use it."

"Your God will punish you for this."

"You Chechens are heathens. What do you know about God?"

As he began filling the hole with dirt, there was a "pop" then a poof of dirt escaped the coffin. The acrid smell of gun powder seeped up from the casket.

Paul was almost finished covering the grave that now held two dead men, when headlights broke through the darkness. He dropped the shovel and flattened himself on the ground to avoid being caught by the light. The damp soil and grass stained his shirt and pants, which pissed him off as he lay there, but better dirty and uncomfortable than having to explain his actions and whereabouts.

The car went by within twenty feet of him, and he glanced up as it passed. A young girl sat pressed against the side of an amorous boyfriend, as they drove deeper into the cemetery.

The threat to his safety was gone, but there was no telling when the next car would come by, or who would be in it. Paul quickly finished filling the grave with dirt and started back down the hill to his car. He got the information he had come for, enough to take him to the next link in the chain. This war has just begun, he said to himself, but it's a war I can't win alone.

Paul took out his cell phone and dialed. "Do you know who this is?"

"Yes," came the reply from a female voice.

"No names. Can you meet me tomorrow night on the corner of First Street and Flatbush Avenue in Brooklyn? There's a Starbucks; six o'clock?"

"I need to find a baby sitter," the woman explained.

"Will that be a problem?"

"No. What should I bring?" she asked.

"Same things as last time. Similar assignment. You remember?"

"Of course," she said. "I had a baby; I didn't contract Alzheimer's."

"Then we're clear?" Paul asked.

"Five by five as we say in the military," she assured.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The National Mall. Washington, D.C.

Eight a.m.; just six hours after the self-inflicted funeral, Paul stood freezing his ass off in a sea of cement. No time to change; no time to eat; and I need a drink; damn. The parking lot stretched away to the east, cheerless and vacant. Its monotonous acres of concrete unbroken except for the occasional maple tree erupting from the ground.

The rain stopped and the mist lifted, giving way to a struggling sun. The foliage was dark and soggy, dripping with the dew. Frigid air searched for any gaps in clothing.

A few gray leaves stirred in the gutter, waiting to fossilize in the ice and snow. As he passed the reflecting pool, wind blew from an angle and made a ripple pattern on the surface of the water. Then the concrete faded and trees dominated. Paul got there an hour early to watch for car and foot traffic. The Mall was the experience of a lifetime for visitors, dignitaries, and historians. Now it was the grounds for subterfuge. He could say he represented the forces of good, but that depended upon who ultimately held power.

Paul stayed just inside the shadow thrown by the sun. He was blocked from view by a statute of Albert Einstein at 21st Street and Constitution Avenue NW and a batch of large oak trees to the south. Yeah, now that's appropriate. It's going to take an Einstein to figure out what's going on, he thought. He checked his watch, got his bearings and moved on. After a half hour he had made a full circuit of the Mall, then he headed back to the prearranged spot and waited.

Each time people approached, he envisioned the worst; great storms of retreat and failure whirred in his mind. But those who came out of the shadows were lovers, dog walkers, or street people looking for a soft landing.

Finally, Paul saw a man coming in the opposite direction. He recognized Colonel Saunders right away, even in his civvies. The way he carried himself – ridged, in command of his environment – it could only have been an Airborne Ranger. Paul quickly closed the ground between them.

"What the hell's going on, colonel?" Paul asked.

"I can't tell you everything, Paul," Saunders said, looking around surreptitiously. "They put the clamps down on us."

"Who's they?" Paul asked, trying to follow the colonel's glance.

"I'm not supposed to know, but I hear this comes all the way down from the Joint Chiefs." The colonel tilted his head to the north. "Let's walk; I don't think standing in one place is a good idea."

They began walking, staying under an umbrella of trees that lined the path.

"So they don't want us to go after those people?" Paul asked, thrown a curve.

"Just the opposite, captain," the colonel said, staring straight ahead. "They want these people to succeed."

"And start WWIII?" Paul asked, stopping dead in his tracks.

Turning to Paul, Saunders replied, "Whoever is making the decisions is convinced that now is the time to pull the trigger." The colonel took Paul's arm and guided him forward. "It's North Korea they're after."

"But North Korea isn't a danger."

"Not now, but in a few years they will be. There are loose cannons running that country. Whoever is behind this figures that if they hit North Korea now they take them out of the picture for a hundred years or so."

"But no one can win in a nuclear war!" Paul argued. "Have they forgotten about radiation?"

"They think we can survive that," Saunders replied. "They're talking about limited civilian losses, infrastructure damage manageable, statistical advantage."

"That's how you count tens of millions dead?" Paul questioned.

"There's a power struggle going on in the administration."

"Who's on which side?" Paul asked, turning his head to look at the colonel.

"The generals have the ear of the vice-president," Saunders replied, meeting Paul's gaze. "They want to launch the missiles but have someone else take the blame."

"It's hard to believe," Paul said, feeling himself drained by the colonel's revelations.

"It's worse than bad. Rumor has it that there may be a coup d'état in the works."

"That's treason!" Paul exclaimed.

"Keep your voice down," Saunders said, looking around, concerned they might be overheard.

"But line officers willing to put their heads on the chopping block?" Paul asked, wondering if the whole thing was a test of his allegiance.

"That depends on whether you're on the winning side or not," the colonel corrected.

"Is it better to be on the winning side or the right side?" Paul asked. "It seems right now the two don't equate."

"I know a colonel isn't supposed to question his superiors," Saunders said, "but they're prepared to move troops into position to seal the president off from the rest of the government."

"How did you find out about all this?"

"I'm cleared to top secret level, but I was still out of the loop on this. I heard it from a general who was my commanding officer in Afghanistan. He just assumed I was part of the plot."

"Who is it that's going to give the go ahead?" It can't be just one general?"

"That's where I lost the trail." Saunders shook his head. "There's a very high authority directing this."

"Any ideas?"

"Maybe Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, Admiral Zinn, maybe the head of the NSA, maybe that fat prick Senator Dillard, President Pro Tempore of the Senate, or that nut case V.P. Harold Cummings."

"Cummings?" Paul questioned. "From everything I heard about him while I was his aide, I didn't think he had the balls for something like this. It's hard to swallow, colonel. I know there's contention between the military and civilian leadership. But I never thought--."

"They'll use the Twenty-Fifth Amendment to transfer power to Vice -President Cummings."

"So where do I fit in?" Paul asked, uncertain as to his role in a grander plan. "I've already made some progress in running down the men who attacked Washington. They call themselves Black Bear."

Saunders took Paul's arm turned him around and headed back the way they came.

"This goes beyond that attack and beyond a single enemy or a single target. Some-one's going to push the button, I'm just not sure which side. Hell, I don't even know who's on each side."

"It sounds like the mission parameters just got a lot wider. Who can I count on, colonel? Am I flying solo or do I have some cover?"

"There are only three people who know about your mission: me, Army Joint Chief General McAdams, and the president."

"Then let's expose the traitors. Bring them up for trial."

"And what if the people in on the plot just happen to run those impeachment proceeding?"

Paul lowered his gaze to the concrete. "I never considered that."

"We need proof, captain. And that we haven't got. That's part of your mission: stop Black Bear and find the evidence linking our military to the plot."

"How long?"

"Ten days, I hear. Enough time to either have the president declared incompetent, or get enough votes to impeach him," the colonel replied. "And if those don't work, they'll go ahead with the coup. It could be even sooner if they see Russia, China or North Korea go to red status and are about to launch their missiles."

"And I'm supposed to stop a nuclear war?" Paul asked. "With what?"

"You're the one who has a lead."

"Black Bear," Paul said.

"Then follow it. If you can stop the people who took the Go Codes, then Russia, China, and North Korea will stand down and the U.S. generals won't have congressional support to circumvent the Constitution."

"That's it?" Paul asked, stunned by the revelations.

"It all comes down to finding out who took the Go Codes and who in our government is in cahoots with them; then we can move against the traitors."

"Ten days to do the impossible," Paul considered.

"Not impossible, Decker. Remember your Bible. David and Goliath. But you've got something even David didn't?"

"And what's that?" Paul asked as they arrived back at their cars.

Saunders took out his key and put it in the door lock, then turned back to Paul, and put a hand on his arm. "Twenty years of fighting enemies on three different continents: outmanned, out-gunned, but never out thought."

Paul placed his own hand over the colonel's. "Yeah, but the people who took the Go Codes are a lot smarter than Goliath."

CHAPTER TWELVE

Flatbush Ave. Brooklyn, NY

Grigor climbed out of a pearl white Cadillac Escalade wearing a full-length black mink coat and matching ushanka hat. He had lines in his face deep enough to hide coins in, and was as big around as he was tall: forty-something-going on a coronary.

He walked up the three steps of the landing of the brownstone row home at four-two-two Flatbush Avenue, put a key in the lock and opened the door. He flicked on the light switch, then jumped three feet to the right when he saw Paul sitting in a chair facing him, an Uzi with silencer lying comfortably in his lap.

"What da fuck you do in my house?" Grigor asked in a thick Slavic accent.

It was a small home: a living area with a two person sofa to the right of the door, a recliner on the opposite side of the room, in which Paul sat, and floor lamp standing next to it. A large, heavy oak coffee table dominated the center of the room. It was expensive stuff but beat up and uncared for. Big, nasty pictures of naked women in all types of suggestive poses lined the walls. Empty pizza boxes and crushed beer cans filled the waste baskets and littered the kitchen table.

"Hello, Grigor," Paul said in a relaxed, friendly manner. "And it's not a house; it's a pig sty."

The Chechen was no doubt caught off guard by Paul's demeanor...and the Uzi. "I do not know you. What you want of me?"

"You sent some men to kill me so I thought the least I could do is introduce myself, shit for brains."

"I send many men to kill people all the time," Grigor explained, holding out his hands, palms up in an explanatory manner. "You are not so special that I would remember you."

"The men you sent didn't finish the job. So now it's my turn," Paul said as he lifted up the Uzi causally.

"Be patient!" Grigor insisted, now holding his hands out like a stop signal. "We can trade."

"How much did you make out of the deal?"

"Fifty thousand dollars," Grigor said with a flick of the wrist, "chump change."

"Then give me the money. I think I deserve it. It's only been three days, so I know you've still got it."

"I will have to owe you, Mr. . . ?"

"Names are just as quickly forgotten as annoying relatives," Paul said. "Now I'd like my money."

"I don't have the money," Grigor insisted. "Only a fool would carry that kind of money with him in such a bad neighborhood as this." He sniggered at Paul.

"Well, you'd better shit fifty thousand because I'm not leaving without it."

"Sorry, I cannot help you," Grigor said, a voice ladened with sarcasm. "It would be very difficult to come up with such a large amount of money so quickly, my impatient friend."

"Not as difficult as dying."

"Ah, you have wonderful sense of humor." Grigor spoke casually while lighting a cigarillo with a very small, delicate gold lighter.

Paul raised the Uzi and pointed it at Grigor. "Then give me fifty thousand dollars worth of information. You can start with Operation Black Bear."

Grigor reacted with surprise and started to say something when the back door slammed. Two tall, thick-set, unshaven men, with nasty sneers on their faces, walked right into the living room without having a clue as to what was going on.

"What the fuck is dis?" one of the men asked, in a similar Slavic accent. He stared at Grigor, then his partner, looking for a signal.

"Grigor and I we're just talking," Paul said pleasantly. "Now get the fuck out of here, preferably the same way you came in."

"Why you so uptight?" the second man asked, again the same accent.

As they spoke, the two of them came from the kitchen and circled the room. They took guns out of their shoulder holsters, but Grigor waved a dismissive hand and said, "No guns; noise will attract neighbors. Knives!"

The two men pulled knives, one from his boot, the other from his jacket pocket. Grigor whipped off his own belt and pressed a button on the buckle; a razor unfolded. "I told you to leave," Grigor explained clinically. "You chose not to. Now you will die."

Without a word of warning, Paul shot Grigor in the stomach. The silenced pistol made an almost inaudible popping sound. Grigor looked down, trying to brush the blood away that was oozing out of the wound, as if he was unsure he had really been hit.

One of the other men dove at Paul, hitting him in the side of the head. The other man kicked at Paul's gun. The Uzi went flying and Paul fell to one knee dazed from the blow to his temple. He tried to shake off the stun and dove, along with one of the Chechens, for his gun that now lay uselessly on the floor.

The Chechen was bigger and stronger than Paul. And Paul was still struggling to clear his head after the blow he suffered. The man smirked triumphantly as he held the Uzi up for Paul to see.

A woman stepped out of the shadows and pointed an MTE 224 VA pistol, with silencer, at the man in possession of the Uzi. She was so beautiful - with her long, flowing black hair, green eyes, and white blouse opened almost to her waist - that the other two Chechens, at first, looked at her instead of the gun. She could turn a man's mind to lint storage.

"Better set the gun down," the second Chechen suggested, talking to the woman, but waving his stiletto at Paul, "or your friend here is dead meat."

"No," she replied sweetly. "Why don't you ask your friend to put his gun down?"

"One of us is going to kill your friend, here," the second Chechen assured. "You can't kill us both with one shot."

"Light 'em up, Cassandra," Paul directed.

Cassandra shot them both before they could take a step toward or away from Paul.

Paul got up, walked over to Grigor, and put the silenced end of the Uzi in the Chechen's mouth.

The man puffed air through his cheeks like a two hundred pound squirrel.

"Now I'm either going to blow your brains out the back of your head, or you're going to tell me all about operation Black Bear. And if your information sounds credible, I'll call for an ambulance and they'll save your sorry ass. You've got twenty minutes before the acid in your stomach seeps into your blood stream and poisons you, a horrible way to die, I might add."

"Come close," Grigor whispered, wincing in pain, "and I will tell you."

Paul leaned in; Grigor spit in his face; Paul shot him in the knee cap.

"Ah!" Grigor screamed. "You are insane! Look what you have you done to me!"

Paul stuck the silencer on the man's other knee cap. "Who's the man you report to? What's his next move?"

"Yes, yes, I will tell you!" he said, using his hand as a shield. "Don't shoot!"

"Ten seconds."

"My contact for operation Black Bear is in Turkey. His name is---."

A shot rang out. The lights flickered as the shock wave interfered with the electricity. The concussion blew dirt out of the chairs and rugs, causing a cloud of dust to settle over the room.

One of the Chechens had enough life left in him to shoot Grigor before he could divulge their plans.

Cassandra stepped over to the man who just shot Grigor and put a bullet in the back of his head.

She sighed. "Fuckin' Russians."

"Well, there's nothing left for us here, Cassandra. Time to go," Paul said. "We've apparently overstayed our welcome." Paul reached into Grigor's pocket and relieved him of his cell phone. "Do we have time for a quick beer?" he asked.

Cassandra holstered her MTE pistol and closed her coat, hiding any evidence of the gun she was carrying. "I know it's been ages since we've shared an evening together, but I've only got the babysitter until eleven," she explained. "You could come by and hang out for a while...if you don't mind the smell of soiled diapers and constant screaming."

"I'll have to take a rain check. I'm playing a game of chess against an opponent who's two moves ahead of me."

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Meridian Hill Apts. Washington, D.C.

Paul looked out across the street from his second floor shoe-box of an apartment in the northeast section of Washington. A street sweeper pushed his broom down the avenue with just enough energy to move a few cups, paper plates, and accumulated dirt forward. A line of cars waited for a light to change. When the first car didn't move fast enough, horns started blasting. That reminded him of how little time he had.

Paul knew he was up against some very formidable men. He was out-numbered, out-gunned, and maybe even being out-thought, despite what Colonel Saunders said. He had to try to even the odds - at least as much as possible, since he really didn't know the full capabilities of his adversaries. It was time to assemble his own team.

The meeting was set for ten o'clock the following night at a bar on the outskirts of London. Whitechapel was a working class neighborhood, the kind of place where everyone knew each other and a stranger would glow like plutonium at midnight.

The calls had gone out twenty-four hours earlier. The first to Diedrich: a man made of concrete – with blonde hair, blue eyes, and a face that could have just as easily been on the cover of GQ. He was a German who had to look for trouble since enough didn't come to him. Paul used him on a mission before. Diedrich scared the hell out of him because he never knew when the man would go ballistic, and if he did whose side he'd attack. Paul's counterpart in the German Federal Intelligence Service, the BND, told him that if Diedrich wasn't picked up at least once a month for questioning about a homicide, it was like a solar eclipse. But it wasn't as if he had an abundance of time to hold new member tryouts.

"What the fuck is the deal, Paul?" Diedrich had asked.

"I've got work for you," Paul replied. "I need you at the bar in Whitechapel tomorrow night, 10:00 p.m."

"The Blind Beggar?" Diedrich had questioned. "The same neighborhood where Jack the Ripper did his dirty work?"

"Yeah, but you don't have to be afraid," Paul assured. "You'll be the most dangerous person there."

"I was planning a trip to the butterfly pavilion," Diedrich explained. "Is this really worth my while?"

"Amusing," Paul replied. "You might need your sense of humor for this."

"Well, if there's a chance for some fun, I'll clear my social schedule. Can you share some of the particulars?"

"It's not something to talk about over the phone, Diedrich," Paul had replied. "Just get yourself over to the bar on time. And please don't kill anyone between now and then. We don't need the heat."

In the Netherlands, a magnificent, but deadly, blonde-haired woman had answered her cell phone. "So, are you asking me out? Or is this just a business call?"

Her voice was like an angel's, melodious, Middle-Eastern, with a slight sing-song inflection. "It's very beautiful here. I've got a wonderful view of the Emperor's Canal, and the bridges are lit up for the holidays."

"Business first before pleasure, Alex. Can you come to the Blind Beggar?"

"You have this fascination with Jack the Ripper, don't you, Paul?"

"It's just a place that all our friends know, a bar where people protect their own and don't see or hear anything."

"Just like nobody saw or heard anything in 1888. I still don't think it's safe for a girl there."

"Alex, you're the one the locals should be scared of."

"What about Cassandra? I thought she was the woman you preferred on your assignments now?"

"Cassandra is limited to local work."

"Why's that?"

"She just had a child. I don't think taking a baby on this assignment would be a good idea. You know, breast feeding and all."

"Well I guess you do need me. When?" she asked.

"Tomorrow night at ten."

"Barely enough time for a girl to put on her make-up."

"It's important, Alex. High priority."

"I'm still in Amsterdam. I stayed over to mourn the passing of a friend."

"Anyone I know?"

"I'm not sure. I hardly had a chance to get to know the guy before I killed him."

"Oh, that kind of friend. So, can I count on you?"

"I'll be there."

Paul dialed again. "Julien, are you working?"

"Oui, but not the kind of job that pays serious money," the Frenchman had answered.

Julien was cosmopolitan, educated at the Sorbonne, worked with the French secret service, and had his own computer consulting company. He was short, thin and wiry, and could handle himself in a fight if it came down to that, but he was more likely to talk his way out of that situation. He was never without a cigarette, and never seemed to eat anything, yet always had reserves of energy to complete a mission.

"Well, if your social agenda is open, I may have something very interesting for you."

"You have already peaked my curiosity, mon ami."

"We're meeting right across the channel from you tomorrow night at ten. The Blind Beggar."

"You like that place, no?"

"It's centrally located."

"Oh, so there's an international flare to this gathering?"

"I'm not sure if this cell phone is safe."

"Cell phone? You're on a cell phone! I've told you before that old technology is going to bite you in the ass," Julien warned. "What happened to the SAT phone the CIA issued you?"

"I'm not sure. I think I pawned it."

"You are driving me crazy! Don't you listen to anything I tell you?"

"That's why you're invited to the party: to bring us up to speed."

"Very well then, tomorrow, mon ami."

Paul hung up and immediately dialed again. He continued the process two more times that night; one call to Borya, an East European arms dealer, another to Simon, an extraordinary pilot from Britain. He then put on his tan cargo pants and slipped two different sets of identification in the thigh pockets. Paul looked at himself in the mirror to see if anything was out of place: shaved, haircut, no visible scars. He slipped on his short, brown leather jacket, grabbed a cardboard tube about three feet long and two inches in diameter, and headed out for Baltimore / Washington International Airport.

As he closed the door behind him, he stopped and padded his pants then slipped a hand in his jacket pockets. He was missing something. What? Then it hit him. No gun. It had been so long since he was weaponless he forgot what it felt like.

But he was flying commercial and didn't have diplomatic immunity. He would have to wait until he was on the other side of the pond and hope Borya was well-stocked.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Whitechapel. London, England

Whitechapel was an inner city district in the London Borough of Tower Hamlets. From Whitechapel Road one could see the accumulated wealth of the skyscrapers to the north.

The street ran parallel to the river for the entire length of the waterfront. At the end of the road sat The Blind Beggar: a two-hundred year old pub that became notorious as the scene of a number of grizzly murders – beginning with Jack the Ripper, which, according to the beliefs of the locals, had not yet run their course.

It was raining hard enough to impair the vision of the drivers. Paul dodged several cars as he crossed the cobblestone street. He used his cardboard tube as a sword to keep the hackneys at bay.

The store windows were steamy from the humidity, concealing their customers and their secrets.

He entered the Blind Beggar but remained at the entrance so he could observe the scene. The smoke hung so thick to the ceiling, that if it was outside, flights would have to be cancelled. The smell of cologne could not fully mask the odor working men brought in from their jobs. Pungent was the word that came to mind for Paul.

An American football game was in progress on a TV set above the bottles lining the wall in the hazy, dim-lit tavern. To the left of the entrance was the long bar with twenty stools, all taken by bulky men: construction workers, plumbers, electricians, movers. To the right were the tables for diners. Each booth - separated by a flimsy, wooden partition - held four patrons.

Diedrich was already there when Paul entered. Paul always admired the sheer audacity of the monster. He was a man to be taken seriously. He had the eyes of a sociopath; his neck muscles bulged beneath his sweater; twenty-inch arms stretched the material, and legs like tree stumps: all solid as a bridge abutment.

"This is not football!" Diedrich insisted. 'Yah, this is bullshit." When Diedrich caught the eye of the bartender he asked, "Hey, do we have to watch this afterbirth?"

"It's the Super Bowl!" the bartender insisted.

"I don't give a fuck if it's the world shit-eating contest. I'd rather watch women's mud wrestling."

There were two other men at the far end of the bar, paying close attention. Paul grinned as he recognized them, but decided to keep out of it for the time being.

One of the men, Simon, sat up taller than the other. He was a typical Brit: about six foot, ruddy complexion, thick brown, disheveled hair, and yellow teeth from too many cigarettes and not enough sun. "Excuse me, shit-for-brains. But we're enjoying this."

"You Limey, socialist, cock-suckers would like this," Diedrich retorted, like he was taking to a lesser species.

"Monsieur," Julien, the Frenchman. said, "a little respect for your European neighbor."

The Brit and the Frenchman started to laugh. Simon was fascinated by the big German. Julien was more interested in the game than in the escalating argument.

"Soccer is eleven men vit out padding that run and bang mit each other," Diedrich explained. "They use every part of der bodies to attack. An opponent's head is just an udder football."

Simon lifted one hand, palm out, in a Nazi greeting. "Hiel Hitler," said the Brit, still smarting from the last war. He had an obvious attitude, all of it bad. And he seemed like a man who could hold his own: a real tough guy who knew how to mix it up.

"Vit out America, you vud have lost every war you ever fought," the German said.

"Mon ami, why not calm down," Julien suggested. "Pay attention to the game; you might learn something, if anything can get through that thick skull of yours."

Diedrich snorted, "You vont know what soccer is?" He now commanded more attention than the game. "It is hitting other guy so hard that you leave a dent in his body like he vos struck with a sledge hammer. It's the fucking best there is. That's vot soccer is," he said pointing to the TV. "And that is not soccer."

Julien gave Diedrich a long, challenging stare. He looked charming, in a deadly sort of way. "Monsieur," he said in an alluring French voice dripping with sarcasm, "we all know what soccer is. What we don't know is why all German men shave their legs."

The bar fell silent, all waiting to hear how the big German would respond. For a moment it seemed as if Diedrich was going to war, but then suddenly a smile broke out on his face and he laughed heartily at the Frenchman's remark. The rest of the people at the bar followed suit.

The three men nodded at each other. The bartender looked relieved, laughing along with everyone else, as the blokes settled down to their drinks and stopped arguing. He knew he could toss drunks out of his bar with no trouble, but these three weren't drunks; they were something else, and he'd prefer not to have to deal with them. He wasn't entirely sure he'd succeed if he had to.

There was a lull in the action at the bar and on the TV. In that moment, a lithe, thirtyish woman with long blonde hair, wearing a one piece leather jump suit showing enough cleavage to make men drool, stepped into the pub like she was walking on to a yacht. She carried herself with the same professional edge as the men at the bar.

A scraggly-haired, tattooed, pencil-neck of a man, seated in a booth close to the entrance, reached out a hand as the woman went by. He grabbed an arm and spun her around. "'Ows about you sit 'ere," he said, sliding over in the booth to make room for her, "and we see just 'ow mooch we have in common."

The woman smiled, grabbed his hand, and bent his fingers backwards. The runt's eyes bulged in pain. With her other hand she clutched his throat, forcing him to look directly into her eyes.

"The only thing we have in common is the air we breathe," she said in a Middle Eastern accent, the smile now gone and her game face on. "And in one more minute, there will only be one of us still doing that."

She let go of the man's hand and throat, put a smile back on her face, and walked deeper into the bar. When she did, the punk stood, pulled out a knife, and followed her. Just as he got close enough to stab her in the back, Paul stepped forward, lifted his cardboard tube like a Yankee slugger, and slammed the guy in the right ear with it. The pencil neck dropped the knife and clutched his head. The woman turned around, saw the threat, and kicked the man in the shin. When he bent over she slammed a knee into his chin and he went down hard, breaking his nose when his face hit the floor.

Not one person in the place missed a beat of conversation or sip of beer. It was business as usual in Blind Beggar.

"Thank you, Paul," she said, as if he'd done no more than opened a car door for her.

"Nice to see you, too, Alex," he replied, a little disappointed she didn't appreciate, or really need, his help. "Shall we adjourn to the back room?"

On the way through the bar, Paul tapped Diedrich on the shoulder. The brute fell in line. A few chairs down, Paul nodded to the Brit. "Simon, please join us."

Simon smiled, got up, and fell in line.

"And you, Julien," Paul addressed the Frenchman, "will you do us the honor?"

"Mais bien sûr!" Julien exclaimed. "But of course, Monsieur!"

The bartender was wiping out a glass. When he finished, he looked up at Paul. They exchanged glances, then the barkeep took out a set of keys and slid them along the bar so they dropped into Paul's hand.

"Interesting," Julien said, pointing to the keys, his tone indicating the gesture impressed him.

"Let's just say he and I have an understanding," Paul replied, as if such a service was available just for the asking.

Five feet beyond the end of the bar was a narrow door. Paul fiddled with the keys until he found the right one and opened it. The five entered. It was set up as a card room and betting parlor for special, trusted guests. The area was only 12'X12'.

A hexagonal table in the center - surrounded by six off-kilter wooden chairs - took up most of the space. Cases of beer, stacked from floor to ceiling, ran along the left wall, a narrow hallway led to the trash collection in the back, and cases of cleaning supplies covered the right wall. Not very pretty, but it served a purpose. An overhead fan turned just fast enough to cool the poorly ventilated room.

A man sat at the table, playing solitaire.

"Borya!" Paul said in a jovial tone. "Thank you for joining us."

"I would not miss action for all vodka in Russia," he assured. Borya had the air of an ex-spook: KGB, FSB, GRU. He was a thickset man with Slavic features, mostly bald, but with a barrel chest that spoke of serious strength.

Paul knew all the men and woman he had invited through past missions and projects, but they did not know each other. Yet they seemed to recognize they were somehow all there for the same purpose. He observed the group knowingly, pleased. "Sorry for the secrecy," he said, "but in a moment you'll understand."

Paul waved his hand toward the table. They all sat except Paul who remained standing. Immediately, the five started pushing each other, vying for elbow space, which the small table did not provide. Well, I guess this room wasn't such a good idea after all, Paul thought. Not enough space for their bodies, let alone their egos.

"Let's cut to the chase, Paul," Borya insisted. "My time is valuable and I have many opportunities to consider."

"You've got no other opportunities, Borya," Paul said, now circling the room as he spoke. "You're wanted by Interpol, the FBI, MI6, the NIA of Gambia and the CIO of Zimbabwe. I'd say your opportunities are limited to this room."

"Je suis d'accord. Let us dispense with the niceties," Julien suggested, "and get down to the business."

"Yah, Paul," Diedrich agreed.

"Every time I join one of these fuckin' groups," Simon said, "one of us turns out to be some fuckin' detective 4th class, inspector of assholes, or something; and then I 'ave to kill him."

"I know cops," Julien said, "and no one here is a cop." He took a pack of smelly, poorly rolled cigarettes from his shirt pocket, shook it until enough cigs stood out, then offered them around. Only Borya and Simon accepted; Julien was disappointed that not everyone loved to smoke as much as him.

"Do we really have to work with girl?" Borya asked. "Women are always trouble. They just get in way, slow things down, make men think with dick instead of brain."

"Eloquent, Borya," Paul said, "but Alex here works for Mossad in Collections."

"Collections?" Diedrich asked. "Like delinquent loans," he added with a laugh.

The other men quickly joined in.

Alex reached for her gun, but thought better of it.

"As in assassinations...collecting dead bodies," Paul explained understatedly. "Like a mobile morgue."

"Ooo," Borya said, "Nurse Nancy."

"Okay. Why don't we introduce ourselves?" Paul suggested, trying to break the tension and diffuse the testosterone. "You've already been introduced to Alex. Why don't you go next, Borya."

"I'm not used to going second," he said, throwing up a refuting hand.

Paul rolled his eyes. "As a favor to me, please, Borya."

Borya sat back in his chair. "Very well. Weapons: arms smuggling, out of Afghan-istan, Syria, Thailand, Iraq and a bit from France; the latest shit. Small arms to cluster bombs, maybe a jet plane if your budget allows. Some stuff their own troops don't have yet. Experimental sound-seeking, wave-seeking, heat-seeking RPGs."

Julien clapped. "Very nice, monsieur, but out of fashion today. It is a high-tech world out there, mon ami. Satellite surveillance, breaking encryption codes, interruption of enemy lines of communication, shutting down weapons systems, intercepting secure transmissions."

"I don't give a fuck," a drunk man just outside the door roared to someone unseen, "I need to pee." He pulled open the door that Paul forgot to lock, obviously thinking it was the john, and began to undo his belt.

Without warning Alex pulled a gun from behind her back. The move was fast, performed with the grace of a professional killer.

The drunk froze, gazing at Alex, his look of horror punctuated by the growing wet splotch on the front of his pants. Belt still undone, covered in his own piss, he excused himself, backing hurriedly from the room.

Alex pocketed her gun and sat down. Simon and Julien applauded. Borya frowned, bitched and moaned, mumbling something about a woman getting so much attention.

"Simon, how about sharing your expertise with us?" Paul asked.

"Flying and logistics: helicopters to jets, implanting and extraction, full day and night capabilities. Languages: Farsi, Russian, Italian, Spanish, Urdi, and a little Japanese."

"What the fuck is Urdu?" Borya asked.

"Pakistani, mate," Simon replied.

"Very nice, Simon. And finally you, Diedrich," Paul said.

"Murder, mayhem, kidnapping, dissection, disappearance. Guilty of conspiracy to leave dead bodies scattered around the world."

"Oh, an Arian Mother Teresa," Borya said. "What a surprise!"

"Knock it off!" Paul commanded.

Borya and Diedrich looked at Paul.

Paul glared them down.

"And how about you, Paul?" Simon asked. "What's on your resume?"

"Just a grunt infantry man," he lied, following his normal procedure of never providing info he didn't have to divulge.

"Come, come, Paul," insisted Alex. "I think it's important to instill confidence in your friends by sharing some choice details."

Paul sighed and shook his head. Alex always enjoyed putting him on the spot.

"Do we really have to go in to this now?" Paul asked, looking for an excuse to avoid the question.

"But it's so juicy," Alex said. "Anti-terrorism, coups d'état, CIA assassinations, sabotage, extortion, spying on allied countries, supporting resistance movements, torture, use of fraud to obtain funds, trafficking in contraband items and related crimes.

"I respect you, mate," Simon said, sweeping a hand across the table. "But I don't work for free no matter what the cause is."

Paul leaned his cardboard tube against the wall, lifted his jacket off the back of his chair, reached into the inner pocket, and pulled out a large manila envelope. He took out smaller packets from within and passed them out. Borya, Diedrich, and Simon snatched theirs. Julien and Alex set theirs aside. The three curious men opened their envelopes and stared at the wads of Euros stuffed inside.

"This is impressive," Simon said, but I don't see how a grade 0-3 officer can afford to bankroll a mission like this. Is this a fee-contingent job?"

"What is fee-contingent?" Diedrich asked.

"That is when you don't get paid unless the mission is a success," Julien said.

"Payment is not based on our success, but on our best effort. Let's just say I've been saving for a rainy day. The rest of the funds will be in gold, so if there's a third word war, everyone else will be burning money to light their fireplaces while you'll be eating caviar."

"Okay, mate," Simon said, padding the stack of Euros, "I, for one, trust you."

"From here on if you want something you pay cash for it," Paul instructed. "No credit cards, no bank accounts: ten percent up front, the rest when the job is done.

You'll use your expertise. But make sure whatever you do gets cleared through me."

No one responded. Paul raised a brow. "Are we in sync on this?...Well?"

"Ja, natürlich," Diedrich replied, slapping his stack of money.

"Right, mate," Simon announced, giving Paul a "thumbs up."

"Surement," Julien said.

"Yes," Alex agreed.

"Da," Borya confirmed.

"So, what do we already know?" Julien asked.

"Well," Paul replied. "What we know is that a group of men were sophisticated enough to break into the vice president's house, steal government secrets, and evade the entire U.S. military."

"Evade?" Julien asked. "I thought they were all killed and the info recovered?"

Paul shook his head as if imparting great wisdom. "I've still got friends in the military. The men they recovered in the plane were dead before they hit the water."

"Suicide pills?" Julien asked.

"No," Paul said.

"Murdered?" Simon asked, shrugging his shoulders.

"By who?" Paul suggested.

"Then what does that say?" Alex asked.

"That the men who attacked Washington are still alive and that whatever they came for, they got," Paul explained.

"An exploded briefcase?" Alex asked.

"How did you know that?" Paul asked, surprised that she knew, more surprised that she would tell the others before asking him.

"The Mossad," she said, "has its fingers and ear buds into every country and every on-going operation."

"Vat is in da briefcase?" Diedrich asked.

"Papers, numbers, a computer," Paul lied.

"And a computer that's worth how much?" Simon asked looking around the table, no doubt adding up numbers in his head. "A couple million Euros?"

"A computer that controls ten thousand nuclear warheads," Alex explained.

"Oh," Simon said, looking side to side to see the reaction of the others.

Paul glared at Alex like she had just given up the keys to Ft. Knox.

Alex's expression turned from cocky to pain.

Did she realize she'd spoken out of turn just for bragging rights? Paul's mind reeled, wondering how much she really knew.

"I must know more before I put my ass on the line," Diedrich said.

"You know everything you need to," Paul said. "You're either in or out."

A moment passed. No one spoke up.

"Anyone else have any irrelevant questions?" Paul asked in a way that it wasn't okay to ask and could result in the loss of much needed body parts.

The room remained uncomfortably silent.

Julien broke the tension. "Then who are we looking for?"

"Terrorists," Paul answered. "Or maybe mercenaries."

"Or freelancers?" Julien suggested.

"Well now, that narrows it down," Borya said with a laugh, rocking back and forth in his chair.

"We can't eliminate anyone yet," Paul responded, stalking the room like a predator.

"And we can't track down every lead, either," Simon said.

"That's right," Paul said, "and that's one of the reasons we're here."

Paul lifted the cardboard tube, shook it until a roll of papers stuck out an inch. He pulled the sheets, unrolled a chart, and used two thumbtacks to stick it on the wall.

"Name: Qaeda," he said, pointing to first the page. "Base: Afghanistan. Main anti-U.S. activities to date: suspected of involvement in the October 2000 bombing of the USS Cole in Aden, Yemen. Conducted the bombings in august 1998 of the U.S. embassies in Nairobi, Kenya and Dar es Salaam, Tanzania, that killed at least three hundred persons and injured more than five thousand others. The World Trade Tower bombing in 2001, killing 3,947 people. Strength: may have several hundred to several thousand members."

Paul paced the room, tapping his pointer against his thigh. "Al-Qaeda has a worldwide reach with cells in a number of countries. Maintains training camps in Pakistan. Also operates moneymaking front organizations, solicits donations, and illicitly siphons funds from donations to Muslim charitable organizations."

"We can eliminate al Qaeda, mon ami," Julien assured.

Paul stopped and gave Julien the floor.

"The U.S. put a bullet in bin Laden's brain. Ayman Al Zawahiri took over but Saudi Arabia pulled the plug on their line of credit, and he needs permission from the Pakistani ISI to go to the bathroom."

"Okay." Paul stepped back up to the board, flipped the page, and pointed. "Name: Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia, FARC. Goal: replace the current government with a Marxist regime. Strength: approximately twelve thousand armed combatants. Operational locations: Colombia with some activities - extortion, kidnapping, logistics - in Venezuela, Panama, and Ecuador."

Paul stopped when he saw Simon shake his head.

"They've gotten everything they want," Simon explained. "They've made peace with Juan Manuel Santos and the conservative Social National Unity Party of Columbia, and now they're member of Congress helping to run the country.

"Right." Paul then shifted his position so he was not blocking Julien's view from the left side of the table. He rolled the page over, and pointed to the third organization. "Name: Abu Nidal, a.k.a. Black September. Has demonstrated ability to operate over wide area, including the Middle East, Asia, and Europe. They've carried out terrorist attacks in twenty countries."

"I need to take a piss." Borya rose from the table grabbing his crotch.

"Get me a beer while you're up," Julien said.

"Make that two," Diedrich added.

"Three," Alex said.

"Four," Simon said.

"Okay, five," Paul said. "And five minutes to powder your noses."

* * *

"We were on Abul Nidal," Paul said, pacing again as he spoke. "Affiliations: has received considerable support, including safe haven, training, logistics, and financial aid from Iraq, Libya, and Syria."

"Abu Nidal was killed in 2002. Their leadership is in hiding," Alex said. "Small-timers. He was a free-lancer, a mercenary with no loyalties to anyone; a paid assassin."

"Okay," Paul said, moving to the next page. "Hezbollah, Party of God. Goals: Opposing Israel and the Middle East peace negotiations. Main activities to date: known or suspected to have been involved in numerous anti-U.S. terrorist attacks, including the suicide truck bombing of the U.S. Embassy and U.S. Marine barracks in Beirut in October 1983. Strength: several thousand supporters and a few hundred terrorist operatives. Has established cells in Europe, Africa, South America, North America, and Asia. Affiliations: receives substantial amounts of finance, training, weapons, explosives, political, diplomatic and organizational aid from Iran and Syria."

"Definitely a player," Alex said. "But they'd need a partner. This is too big for them to handle alone."

"Agreed. And that brings us to Hamas," Paul said, and with a flick of the wrist, he rolled the page. "Goal: establish an Islamic Palestinian state in place of Israel. Strength: unknown number of hard-core members; tens of thousands of supporters and sympathizers. Receives substantial funding from Saudi Arabia and other moderate Arab states. Various Hamas elements have used both political and violent means, including terrorism."

"Hezbollah, Hamas, Islamic Jihad, The Martyrs Brigade...There's the connection," Julien said. "All controlled and funded by Iran. Iranian surrogates in the war against Israel. Iran doesn't attack Israel directly because it doesn't want Israeli missiles raining down on them. So they use other groups that hate Israel and think if they die in the process then they'll be welcomed by seventy virgins in Heaven. Now that's a real possibility. Can't rule them out."

Paul turned to the next page. "Name: Irish Republican Army. Goal: remove British forces from Northern Ireland, unify Ireland, and then overthrow English rule. Operational locations: Northern Ireland, Irish Republic, Great Britain, Europe. Has received aid from a variety of groups and countries and considerable training and arms from Libya and the PLO and sympathizers in the U.S. The IRA has purchased sophisticated weapons from the Balkans."

"They haven't been able to gain a foothold outside of Great Britain," Simon said. "I personally know some of those people. They're constantly on the run. No time to mount an operation. "I'd say they're out."

"Okay. Israel," Paul said.

As he did, arrows shot from Alex's eyes. She was stunned, obviously never thinking Paul would bring up her country.

"Has vowed to eliminate Iran, Syria, and any other state that supports Hamas and the PLO, or attacks Israel directly," Paul said. "And they've hit targets as far as one thousand miles from home."

"I'd say they are a real possibility," Borya insisted.

"We don't need anyone's help, Boring Borya," Alex insisted. "We've got our own nukes and we know the longitude and latitude of every Iranian and Palestinian weapons system. And by the way, those targets were nuclear facilities."

"If we're done with the personal attacks, can we get back to deciding who we focus on?" Julien directed.

Paul grinned inwardly, appreciative of Julien retaking control of the room.

"Okay," Paul said. "Name: The Russian Mafia," Paul pointed out. "Goal: money. Means: extortion, murder, kidnapping, bombings. The most dangerous of all groups."

"Now they're my favorite," Borya said. "Allegiance to no one and no thing but money. They have unlimited funds, and an unlimited supply of volunteers. Most definitely high on the list."

"Would they really be interested in nukes?" Simon asked. "And do they have the resources to pull that off?"

"They control one-third of Russian's economy and they're business men," Borya said. "They wouldn't have use for the nukes themselves, but they know how much they're worth on the black market. Yes, I'd say they're serious players."

"The last group on the board is The Chechen Separatist Movement," Paul said. "Accused by Stalin of collaborating with the Nazis. More than half a million Chechens were forcibly herded onto cattle cars and sent to Western Siberia. As many as half died en route.

"In 1991, the Chechens declared their independence," Paul went on. "In the two years the war lasted, one hundred thousand Chechens died along with fourteen thousand Russian soldiers. A mean combination of Muslim and Russian blood. Willing to do suicide missions and wanting revenge. Equipped with every weapon they could steal from the Russians."

"But what about the money and expertise to pull off a raid on American soil eleven thousand miles from home?" Simon asked.

"You're right," Paul replied. "They'd have to have a partner. But who?"

"What do we care if they kill each other?" Simon asked.

"If any of these groups get the Go Codes," Paul said, "and turn American missiles on Russia, or China or North Korea, then those countries will retaliate and only cock-roaches and some deep-sea fish will be left."

"Where's our first stop?" Alex asked.

"Julien?" Paul turned to the Frenchman. "What did you extract from the cell phone I gave you?"

"Ankara," Julien replied, the smile on his face saying how much he enjoyed his moment in power. "That's where the last three calls emanated from."

"That's a big place," Simon said. "Last time I heard, over five million people."

"No one knows we have Grigor's cell phone," Paul said. "Grigor's contact is in Ankara. The next time they call we can triangulate their position. Right, Julien?"

"Oui."

"You can do that?" Diedrich asked.

"This piece of equipment," Julien said, holding the cell phone, "is equipped with GPS. I can tell you the name of the street they are walking on or driving down."

"Turkey has bad coffee," Diedrich said, seemingly ready to write the country off just for that.

Paul rolled his eyes. "Borya, how does that work for you?"

"It's perfect: The Wal-Mart of weapons," Borya replied with pride. "And right in the middle of the action - within a few hundred miles of all the major players. I maintain a warehouse there for my business."

"Simon?" Paul asked. "What have you got for us in the way of transportation?"

"An old DC-8."

"Is it safe?" Paul inquired.

"If you want safe, then you're in the wrong business. If you're asking whether it will get us there, then the answer is yes."

"We'll need ground transportation when we arrive," Paul said, thinking out loud.

"No problem," Simon assured. "I know the airport manager. I'll call ahead once we're in the air. No sense in using a landline. He'll have a van waiting for us. I'll make sure it's big enough for all of us and our gear."

"Alex, uniforms?" Paul asked.

"Which countries, which organizations?"

"Start with Turkish police, then Interpol. That'll do for now. Do we have those before we go or do we pick them up on the other side?"

"They'll be waiting for us when we clear customs in Ankara," Alex replied, as if she were ordering from Amazon Prime.

"We leave in three hours," Paul said. "Be at...where?" he asked Simon.

"The executive terminal at Heath Row, at 0:300," Simon answered.

"Don't do anything stupid in the mean time." Paul looked directly at Diedrich, but spoke to the group. "Save your bad attitude for the bad guys."

They all got up to leave. Paul reached out and grabbed Julien's arm. "I need to talk to you outside. Hang back here for a minute."

After the others had left, Paul nodded to Julien and pointed down the street. "Let's take a stroll."

"What's up, my friend?" Julien asked.

They continued down the avenue, ignoring the fact that they were in a bad part of a very bad neighborhood. There were abandoned cars, condemned buildings, and piles of uncollected trash.

"This battle is not going to be won with weapons," Paul said. "It's going to be won with technology. And you're the point man. I don't need you taking chances when it comes to gun play."

"I understand, mon ami."

"Where're you parked?" Paul asked.

"Juste au-dessus de la rue...Just up the street a ways."

One hundred yards farther, Julien came to a stop. Four thugs, who looked to be in their early twenties, were working on Julien's rental car. Three of the young hoodlums had the car jacked up and were talking off the tires, another was inside stealing the radio.

"Don't forget the tune-up and oil change, mon ami," Julien said to the boys in his sweetest French voice.

The leader stood up and approached Paul and Julien. "This is a fookin' bad neighborhood. You'd better be gettin' yer ass home now."

"But that's my car," Julien said, pouting.

"Then take a fookin' hackney, mate," he suggested in a thick cockney accent that made him hard to understand.

"Do you know you're guilty of mopry on the highway?" Paul asked.

"What the hell is that?" the leader asked.

"Impersonating a human being."

"Foony mon," one of the thieves said, as he came around from the other side of the car with a tire iron.

The other toughs stopped their work and picked up various tools lying nearby. They shrugged their scrawny shoulders and moved forward as unified force.

"Midnight auto supply?" Paul asked.

"What the fook is that supposed to mean?" one of the four asked.

"It's American humor," Paul explained. "I don't suppose you'd get it."

"You're the one that's going to get it, mate," the leader promised, slapping the tire iron in his open palm. He raised the weapon above his head and took a step forward.

Julien snatched the tie iron out of the kid's hand so fast the thief didn't have time to react. Julien now held it high above his head, ready to do the same damage.

The kid turned and ran without saying another word.

One of the other toughs rushed Paul. Paul shifted his weight to his back leg, then threw a front kick that caught the boy in the groin.

"Ouch!" Paul exclaimed. "Now that's got to hurt."

The other two boys raced over to their fallen comrade, lifted him up, and ran off.

"Hey!" Julien yelled. "What about my oil change?"

"We be back," one said, then turned to help his friend.

"What did he say?" Julien asked.

"He said it would be okay if we dated his sister," Paul replied.

"Huh." Julien shrugged. "Were you using Karate back there?"

"Kung Fu."

"Martial arts are martial arts," Julien decided.

"No. Karate is to attack. Kung Fu is to defend."

"It would be nice if all men we faced were as easy," Julien remarked.

"That's not going to happen. You know it and I know it. We'll plan as carefully as we can, but someone is still bound to get killed. The dumb ones are already dead. The people out there we have to worry about are those who've learned a lot of lessons, and they won't be nearly as easy as a group of juvenile delinquents from Whitechapel."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The Oval Office. Washington, D.C.

The office was crowded with the people requested by President Paulson. They huddled together in small groups.

As the minutes passed, the heat in the room intensified along with the escalating conversations.

When Secretary of Defense David McCallum burst into the office, the room fell silent. "Mr. President," he began, "we just got word that the Russians, Chinese and North Koreans have gone to status three, one step below launch."

"Do you have any suggestions for me as to how to avoid World War III?" Paulson asked, looking at each man and woman in the room.

All those present turned to the president, but no one was suggesting anything.

A diminutive man - bald head, suspenders and wing-tip shoes a generation old - sat in one of the chairs along the east wall. He went beyond the bounds of not handsome and settled on ugly, with a head too large for his body, flaring nostrils, and bug eyes behind thick glasses. He held up a hand like an elementary school student. "Excuse me," he said just loud enough for people to wonder who had spoken.

"Excuse me," he said, this time resoundingly.

"Yes, Mister...?" the president inquired.

"Professor Stanley Abrams, sir," he said, standing up but still not much taller for the effort, "from the Center for Nuclear Policy."

"Yes, Mr. Abrams," Paulson said reluctantly, uncertain of what the man's agenda was or how relevant his topic might be, "let's hear what you have to say."

The professor walked up to the table and took a position behind the vice-president. "I think I speak for most of the people in this room when I say that we need to strike first. We cannot allow China, Russian, North Korea or anyone else to get the upper hand."

"The United States does not attack unprovoked," the president replied, pointing an accusatory finger at Abrams. "We \- no, I - will not allow us to do to others what was done to us at Pearl Harbor, no matter the supposed reason."

"Forgive my disagreement, sir, but the Japanese were right to do what they did. In their minds, we were their mortal enemy and by striking us first and hard they could incapacitate us. Unfortunately for them, they miscalculated and they paid for that mistake with the lives of the people in Hiroshima and Nagasaki."

Secretary of State, Karen Grundy, quickly stood up and pointed an accusatory finger. "You're talking about unprovoked warfare on a massive scale," she said.

"No," the professor corrected. "I'm talking about saving the lives of Americans. If we act first our casualties could be in the thousands rather than the millions."

"Do you have any idea what you're talking about?" HDS Director, Tim Carlisle, asked, eyebrows raised in a sign of incredulity. "You're suggesting the destruction of an untold number of people."

"Do you believe that Communism can be allowed to continue, that Communists can be allowed to influence people against us?" Abrams asked the entire audience.

"You're trying to justify murder," Karen, said, slapping the table with an open palm as she rose to her feet.

"No. I'm trying to suggest that striking first will keep the American people safe," the professor explained in a modulated tone. "Keep our people from being murdered."

"What, exactly, are we preserving by murdering these people? What are we fighting for, or in the name of?" Karen demanded. "Because I don't see this standing in the eyes of the democracy that we in this room represent. Even if this suggestion does allow us to survive, what have we gained? The right to call ourselves murders?"

The Secretary of State began circling the room, moving closer to the professor, who backed up a step, showing fear for his safety. "What gives us the right to survive if we slaughter millions in the process?" Karen asked.

"Madam," Abrams said, moving back a step for each step the secretary took forward, "it's survival of the fittest. We gain the right to survive by protecting ourselves."

"Fighting to live is not the same as killing to live." Karen retaliated, pointing a finger at Abrams like it was a weapon.

"Isn't it?" the professor questioned. "We fight and we kill if we have to. How is this different? We know our enemy, we must strike now!"

"Careful, professor," CIA Chief, Tom Daniels, warned. "Soon there will be no difference between you and that which you seek to destroy."

"You're not listening," Abrams yelled, flailing his arms and turning red in the face. "We cannot sit idly by and wait for Pearl Harbor to happen all over again. They're preparing to attack!"

"We don't know that, not for certain," David insisted.

"They could be flying their bombers under the radar," Abrams suggested, his tone of voice now more of a rant than of logic. "They could be using stealth technology or have fired missiles into orbit around the satellites, knowing that we can't detect such things! We've already recognized that as a possibility."

"We've planned for potential problems. However, they're just contingencies," David said.

"I'm telling you facts, gentleman...and ladies. Cold, hard, well determined facts. I know these things for certain," Abrams persisted.

"What one man knows, or thinks he knows, is not the only factor we must put into this equation," Karen derided the professor. "It takes more than one man to know enough to properly handle this situation. That is why we all sit in this room with the president."

"I think we should recommend a full-strength attack," the professor decided. "In fact, I insist upon it, or I'll go public with the entire story and the American people can then decide!"

"That is not our decision!" Paulson said in a booming voice. He pressed a button under the desk twice, then a delay, then once more.

The professor saw the room closing in on him and that his time was short. "The men and women at the Pentagon...they don't have our inside knowledge. They don't know these facts," he raged. "They're fighting a political battle to send men into real combat, for what? To strike a deal with our enemies, to sell us out to the highest bidder? To bring down our democracy? To protect the world we must first protect ourselves! Strike first, Mr. President. You can save us!"

Two MPs entered the room and looked to the president for orders. Paulson nodded at the professor. The two airmen grabbed the professor under his armpits and lifted him off the ground like thirty gallon trash bag.

"You can't let this opportunity--."

One of the MPs leaned in and whispered to the professor. "If you say one more word we have orders to shoot you. Now let's come along like a good little boy."

"But we're going to be annihilated if we don't--."

The MPs let go and stepped back. The one on the right pressed a taser to the professor's neck and fired at point blank range. The man jerked once, then slumped forward into the arms of his handlers.

When the MPs exited, the room went quiet for a moment, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, Admiral Xavier Zinn, tilted his head down and shook it from side to side. In a voice just loud enough for those in close proximity to hear, he said, "He wasn't that far off the mark, you know."

Several in the room nodded their tacit agreement with Zinn.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Esenboğa International Airport, Ankara, Turkey

Ankara: The capital of Turkey and the country's second largest city after Istanbul, with a population of almost five million. It was Mustafa Kemal Atatürk - a Turkish army officer, revolutionary statesman, writer, and the first President of Turkey – who was credited with being the founder of the modern Turkish state.

And now, the team of six would make the city their base of operations until they gathered enough information to take a step closer to Black Bear.

Simon landed them safely at the airport, thirty-three kilometers northeast of the city, and passed customs quickly thanks to contacts he made over the years of flying in and out of the country. He spoke Turkish, along with the universal language of money.

They had maps of the city that included highway routes, bus stations, and Ankara Garı Train Station, trying to figure every possible contingency should they have to flee. The group was, after all, unattached to any foreign government that might give them cover or bail them out of a jam.

The six of them piled into a rented fifteen-year-old van. Since the operation was in his backyard, Borya took the wheel. The man did not treat the vehicle gently. He had it floored from the moment they left the airport. The van rattled like a tin can, bounced down the highway like a hyper kid on a pogo stick, and smoked like a chimney in Rumania. It smelled of a thousands Turkish cigarettes buried in crevasses of rust where metal used to be.

They stopped by Fed Ex, where Alex picked up a package. They then headed to their destination. The building Borya used for his trade was in Namik Kemai Mh, a neighborhood one-half mile southwest of Ankara proper. The structure was made of corrugated aluminum. The wind caused the roof to flutter. And each time the train went by less than one block away the ground rumbled. Birds raced from one corner of the enclosure to the other, looking for an open window that led to freedom.

There were six rooms that passed for bedrooms and two bathrooms, one marked "Men," the other, "Everyone else."

It wasn't exactly five-star accommodations, Paul realized, but then it was in an area of the city where no one came after dark. During the day the railroad men worked their usual shift of five hours, then went home while still collecting full-time wages. Some things never change in the oldest countries on Earth, he thought, no matter how long ago dictatorship ended.

There were few amenities in the large space: two couches, a few chairs, a rusted refrigerator, and two very long tables. One was filled with sophisticated satellite phones, a box of brand new generic cell phones, several small microwave dishes, three laptops, and two external hard drives.

Paul and Julien carefully went over the inventory.

Alex, Borya, and Diedrich concentrated on the second table: the one with the weapons Borya had provided.

Cigarette smoke from Julien and Simon, and cigar smoke from Borya, wafted up and was caught by a draft coming through the flimsy construction.

"With this parabolic microphone," Julien bragged while holding up a device that looked like an umbrella with lots of small holes in it, "we can listen to a conversation across a football field. It even has a viewfinder with crosshairs so that you can pinpoint and see your subject."

"You sound excited, Julien," Diedrich said. It's only a fuckin' piece of metal."

"Just a piece of metal?" Julien challenged, his face reddening as if Diedrich had insulted him personally. "This device basically works like a satellite dish where all sound signals are concentrated and picked up by the sensitive microphone in the center. It has a twelve second digital recording capacity...so, if you couldn't believe your ears, just play it back again. And it's equipped with a thee-band equalizer to adjust for specific sound frequencies. This piece of metal could save your sorry ass, Diedrich."

Borya lifted up a box on the table and handed it to Julien. "Complements of KGB."

"Remote cameras?" Julien asked, taking one and examining it. He raised his eyebrows. "Very valuable. I have used them on covert operations in the past."

Paul walked over to talk directly to Julien. "Why don't you hang one of those on each corner of the building, right under the eaves?"

Julien nodded, then took the box. "Call me when the pictures come up on that laptop," he said - pointing to the computer open and running on the table - as he walked out.

Paul sat and stared at the laptop. A minute later, the first pictures came up on the screen. It was a view of the outside of the building from the southeast corner. In quick order, views of the northeast, southwest and northwest corners came up.

"We're good to go," Paul said to Julien over the cell.

Julien came back in and nodded to Paul who gave him a thumbs up.

Diedrich, Simon and Alex circled the table were the weapons were laid out. It was piled with guns, ammunition, Kevlar vests, RPGs, infrared scopes, night vision goggle systems, Steyr 9 mm pistols, Uzis with fifty-round clips,; Vanad P-83 pistol capable of firing disabling gas pellets or flares, and penetrating soft body armor, M4a1 close-quarters battle weapon combining grenade launcher and 150 rpm automatic rife, and grenades: concussion, fragmentation, smoke, chemical, and illumination.

Julien went to the refrigerator. "Beer?" he exclaimed. "That's it? This is worse than Bumfuck, Egypt. Why couldn't they have called from a civilized city like Paris?"

"This is going to be our base of operation from now until the end of the mission," Paul said. "So let's make it homey. We'll bring in some tablecloths, plants, and a little potpourri."

"I'm going on a food run," Simon said before ducking out of the building.

Borya, Alex and Diedrich seemed even less interested in anything else Paul or Julien had to say. They made they're way to the far corner of the room.

Alex went to tack a paper target in the shape of a human to the wall about a hundred feet from the weapon-littered table. Borya whistled as she reached up to attach the target. Alex gave him a one finger salute before making her way back to the weapon's table.

Borya smiled viciously as he pointed a Chinese submachine gun, with an effective range of 50m, at her and tracked her walk from the target. Then he swung around and left loose a whole clip. The target danced in place as he discharged his weapon. The acrid smell of sulfur filled the air.

Borya laid the now empty gun on the weapon-covered table and turned to Diedrich who stood by waiting his turn.

"Not terrible," the big German said condescendingly, rooting through the pile of weapons like he was picking out a ripe piece of fruit at the market.

"It does the job," Borya replied in kind.

"You're shots are all over the place: arms, legs, stomach," Diedrich noted. "Not one a killing shot."

"No one said I had to kill in one shot," Borya retorted.

"Gives your enemy the chance to shoot back," Diedrich said, as if conducting a introductory calls in "Killing 101."

"Is that right?" Borya challenged.

"As long as enemy is breathing, he is enemy. When he is dead, he is just dead."

"Show me what you've got then," Borya insisted, "since you think you know best."

Diedrich popped a new clip into the 1. FN 57, Belgian made semi automatic pistol he held. He turned to face the target and squeezed the trigger. "Pop, pop, pop, pop." He hit the target in the chest several times, then finally the head. He smirked as he lowered his gun.

"Well done, Diedrich, but room for improvement," Alex said, standing next in line. "May I?" She didn't wait for an answer. She bruised her way past Diedriich, took the gun out of his hand, slammed in a clip, and fired off fifteen shots in rapid succession: every one in the heart or head.

Stunned silence followed. Alex smirked. "Thank you, gentlemen, for giving a simple girl the chance to compete with such powerful men."

Borya and Diedrich tried real hard not to be impressed. They just watched as Alex walked away with a swagger in her step.

Julien had set up all the computers, modems, hard drives, satellite dishes, and parabolic microphones on the table. He held in his hand a particularly high-tech type cell phone, looking at it almost lovingly.

"Is it all right?" Borya asked with some concern, as he walked over to the table and stood behind Julien.

"It's quite satisfactory," Julien replied, looking over the piece from every angle.

"Good, because it cost enough. There are cheaper phones by far than that one," Borya said pointing to the unit in Julien's hand. "You better make use of it."

"I intend to," Julien replied, holding it out for all to see. "This phone is wired like no other; it's got an encryption chip and instant sat-a-link recognition. It can talk to any computer in any language and make it understand. With my custom hardware and this phone I can trace the target's cell phone signature and follow him anywhere."

"You're sure about that?" Paul asked.

"I'd stake my reputation," Julien replied, turning around to face Paul.

"But would you stake your life?" Paul asked. "That's the question."

"In this business, your life and your reputation are, more often than not, one and the same," Julien replied. "The hard part is finding the cell phone signature. We've got to get lucky; we can't scan millions of frequencies until we find the right one."

Simon entered the warehouse with a large box of food perched on his shoulder. Even turned sideways, he could barely squeeze in past the narrow doorway. "Come and get it, kids, while it's hot." Simon used his free hand to slide an RPG down the table to make room for the container of food.

Diedrich didn't wait on formality but jammed his greedy hands into the box, taking out several packages, ignoring protocol and politeness. He inhaled his food; most of it going in his mouth but some of the ingredients dripping on to the table.

"This...this is incredible!" Diedrich insisted. "What is?"

"That's tandir bread," Simon explained. "Ic pilav: rice, liver, peanuts, Ahtapot: octopus mashed tomato, and spices. Beykoz kebabı: tomato and onion flavored lamb, wrapped in aubergine slices and garnished with lamb brains. Levrek: sea bass cooked in chard leaves. For dessert you get baklava: pastry with nuts and honey. And I hope you like Skol beer."

"Amazing," Diedrich said, not missing a beat with his fork and knife. "Is the rest of our little adventure going to be like this?"

All the others took a seat, trying as best they could to give Diedrich a wide birth.

Simon laughed. "Some places, not all. But don't try bloody England; you don't get much fancier than a deep-fried bar egg. Food's not our thing, you see."

"What is?" Diedrich asked, shifting food to one side of his mouth so he could talk.

"Best beer in the world known to man or God," Simon said proudly.

Diedrich snorted. "That bitter, warm liquid shit? Lager, porter, stout, ale? It all comes out of a douche bag. Best beer in the world? Pilsner for me, thanks."

"You are obviously not a well-traveled man," Simon said as he very properly passed out the food, paper plates and plastic utensils. "Travel expands one's pallet."

"Well traveled?" Diedrich questioned. "You Brits think you're so classy, don't you, with your poor excuse for rabbit piss that passes for beer."

"You're both nothing but beer snobs," Alex said.

"What does the little lady drink then?" Diedrich asked condescendingly.

"Watch your tone," Alex snarled. "I drink what civilized people drink: Italian wine. Beer is for boys playing at being men."

Everyone's stomach was turning over from watching Diedrich shovel food in his mouth while all the others ate with a semblance of decorum.

Borya finally spoke up. "You should watch what you eat, Diedrich," he sniggered.

"Who the fuck died and appointed you food czar?" Diedrich retorted, his mouth full.

"I'm worried about your health, Diedrich. You could stand to shed a few pounds."

"Ja. And you could stand to get a little smarter, you dumb commie fuck."

Borya and Diedrich sat in silence, their gazes locked, they're bodies still and tight, coiled, ready in waiting. Like the flames of a fire, the smell of testosterone rose up from the table.

Borya broke into motion first, reaching for the gun at his waist. Diedrich followed suit not a moment after. Before either could think of actually using their guns, Paul stepped up and decked Borya with a palm thrust to the face. Borya crumpled to the ground, his gun spinning away from him with a scraping sound and hitting the wall.

Diedrich stood in shock, mouth agape, gun hanging by his side. A second later, Paul stepped over and side-kicked the tall German in the stomach. Diedrich coughed and doubled over. Paul took the opportunity to rabbit punch the man in the back of the neck, driving him to the ground.

"Next one of you fuckers that pulls his gun on anyone else, gets a bullet from me," Paul warned. I won't say it again. There's no place for this shit. There's a clock ticking on this job, and I don't have time to babysit."

It was a tense moment as Paul stared them down, letting them know who was in charge.

"Well, it's Bruce Lee...without the eyes, body or speed," Alex said clapping slightly. "Care to share some of those moves?"

"I doubt you need the instruction. After all, the Mossad has its own style, right?"

"You think, or you know?" Alex challenged, getting up from the table and shaking her limbs loose like a prize fighter entering the ring.

"You tell me," Paul suggested. He pushed back his chair, wiped his hands, and threw the towel on to his still full plate of food.

Alex didn't waste her breath telling him anything, but sprang at Paul, throwing a straight punch followed by an upward kick, then an elbow strike followed by a backfist.

She moved quickly and fluidly through the moves and Paul parried her blows as she drove him across the floor. She attacked until he had no place left to retreat to, his back against the wall. Every movement she made, and every return move he offered was powerful, but controlled. Strong, but graceful. There was something almost sensual in the way that he slid past her, the way that her attacks landed so near him.

Alex threw a final punch, and Paul ducked, spinning and coming around behind her.

She turned to face him, her slight smirk disappearing as concentration filled her face. Their first few moves had been more like a kada than fighting. But the tension between them increased. Their eyes narrowed; they pulled up their sleeves and pant legs.

Her attacks came quicker. His defenses were followed by attacks. She retreated; he stalked her. She attacked and he fell back. No blows connected, not on either side. But the lengths by which they missed each other were slim as their feet and hands whizzed passed each other in complicated combinations of movements.

There was no anger in their movements, but playtime had ended when Paul came up behind Alex. There was aggression and competition. Alex threw a punch that Paul blocked, but he didn't see her leg coming, he couldn't. Alex smiled as she saw her win coming, but Paul dropped to the ground, her kick flying over his head. He swept her other leg out from under her taking her to the ground. He planted himself above her, smiling down in victory as they both laid there breathing heavily from the exertion. With sweat shimmering on their bodies, they stared into each other's faces, which were mere inches apart. He looked into her eyes and the aggression there was banked now by fire, a fire that was very seductive from his point of view. Their lips were so close they could feel each other's heavy breathing.

"Bravo!" Borya yelled. "Now can we get back to business?"

* * *

Only when Julien opened his eyes did he realize he 'd been sleeping. For how long, he didn't know. His eyes took in the whole room. He wasn't sure if it was a sound or the silence that woke him. Diedrich slept at the table, his head cradled in his arms. But when Julien looked around he saw Paul was missing. Palming his gun, Julien got up without so much as a creak from the decrepit chair he had been lounging in. He prowled through the warehouse. Alex and Borya were to their rooms. He went down to the storage room, stepped in, and pulled the string for the overhead light that was nothing more than a bulb dangling from the ceiling. The room was illuminated, but still no Paul.

He made his way back down the hallway. There was nowhere left to check but outside. He opened the front door slowly, keeping an eye out and his gun at the ready. When all seemed to be calm, he moved out into the blackness of the night.

There he heard the distinct clanking of metal on metal.

When he walked to the far end of the building, Julien noticed a fire escape that led to the roof. His gaze followed the grating, where it ended at a landing. At the top there was a metal door banging against the door frame. He watched for a moment, as it swung in the night breeze, before he made his way over to the ladder. Silently, he climbed. At the platform he went into a crouch and carefully pushed on the door, trying to open it without making it squeak, while holding his finger on the trigger. He blinked at the sight of Paul standing directly opposite him, gun pointed straight at him. Julien shook his head as they both chuckled slightly, then lowered their guns.

"What's with all the stealth, mon ami?" Julien asked.

"I had a nightmare," Paul replied. "When I woke up I hoped it was real because what's going on here is even worse."

"These people hate each other more than the enemy we're supposed to be fighting," Julien said.

"That why I came up here," Paul said, "to think."

"How can you think without zee cigarette?"

Julien held out a pack of cigarettes. Paul considered for a minute, and then he took one. Julien took one as well, before pocketing the pack.

Paul patted his jacket pocket in search of his lighter.

Julien leaned in and struck a match, cupping it from the wind, and lit both cigarettes.

The Frenchman inhaled from his cigarette and blew out a smoke ring before he replied. "I've never come up with a good idea or plan without a cigarette in my mouth."

The two men smoked in silence, looking out at the skyline of downtown Ankara which glittered with thousands of lights from the apartment buildings, and a thousand more from the cars traveling on the road leading to town: the Promenade des Anglia's.

"That could have turned out even worse down there," Julien reflected without the need for a crystal ball.

"I agree," Paul said. "But when you bring such volatile men together, there's bound to be explosions."

Paul took a note out of the breast pocket of his shirt. "Here," he said, handing Julien the neatly folded piece of paper. "This is just in case."

"In casr of...?" Julien asked, opening the note.

"It's the number of a friend who carries a lot of weight. If things get bad and I'm not able to conduct business, call him," Paul said pointing to the paper.

"I'd rather not think of a scenario where you're not the one making the decisions, mon ami."

"Yeah, well we'd better get back down there in case Diedrich decides to cut Borya's throat while he sleepwalks," Paul suggested, taking Julien's arm and guiding him to the edge of the roof and down the ladder.

* * *

It was after midnight when the soft tap came on the door. He had been waiting and wondering if she would come. There was no way he could have been sure. But now the wait was over. She entered even without him saying a word. How she knew he was awake, he wasn't sure. She stepped into the room clad in nothing more than a long, white nightdress and carrying a single candle. He sat up as she entered and took the candle offered to him, settling it on the small table next to the bed.

"Part of me says I should just look at this as a perk," he said. "You know, a bonus. But then I remember you're you – Alex who belongs to Mossad-- and it occurs to me that deceit and subterfuge come very naturally to you. And when I consider that, I have to wonder if you don't have some ulterior motive for being here, with me, now."

"I probably do, but for the time being I'm willing to forget about it."

"You need to return to your room," Paul insisted. "There's no time or place for this. After the mission's over, then.... maybe."

"Maybe then is better for you," Alex said. "But maybe not for me."

* * *

Paul waited for a few minutes after Alex had left his room, then unable to sleep, he dressed and made his way down the steps to the main floor. Borya, Julien, Simon and Diedrich were munching on doughnuts and drinking coffee. No one spoke, only grunted if they wanted someone to pass the box or the coffee pot.

A beeping sound went off at table. Julien reached for his laptop and flipped it open.

"Paul," Julien said calmly, setting down his cup of coffee, "we have company."

"Curious natives or opposition forces?" Paul asked, grabbing his jacket off the back of a chair. He was standing next to Julien a second later.

Julien turned his laptop so Paul could see the images. "Definitely enemy."

Julien turned up the volume on the audio receiver. The sounds from outside could now be heard inside. The chatter was in Arabic.

Alex appeared at the table. She threw her leather Israeli Air Force jacket over her nightgown, then chambered a round in her SP-21 Barak pistol and took off the safety.

"Simon," Paul called out, "do you know what these people are saying?"

"It's not a dialect I'm fluent in," Simon replied as he listened intently, "but it's close enough to ones I do know. They're setting IEDs around the building. They'll be waiting for us outside if we survive the blast."

"Uzis with suppressors, night vision on the scopes, heat vision on the goggles, radios open to channel two," Paul instructed. "We need some of these people alive. Shoot for their legs if possible, but no one gets away. We move in thirty seconds."

Everyone swiped their gear off the table. Alex, Simon, and Diedrich stood at the back door; Paul, Borya, and Julien went to the front door. Paul held up his fingers: Three, two, one. They slid open the doors and rushed out, bent over to make less of a target. On the east side, Alex and Simon went north, Diedrich went south. On the west side Paul and Julien went north, Borya went south.

They took the bad guys by surprise. They had laid their weapons down to set the IEDs, so they couldn't even return fire. The only sound was the thudding of Uzi rounds hitting flesh and bone. Four shots from each gun. Not one shot hit anything but its target.

Paul spoke into his shoulder radio. "Two down on the south-east corner."

"Two down on the north west-corner," Borya said.

"Two down south-west," Diedrich retorted.

"Two down north-east," Simon added.

"Any alive?" Paul asked, hopeful.

"Both of mine," Simon said. "They gave up without a fight."

"Misfortune follows misfortune," Diedrich said. "Forgive me. It seems I got carried away and killed them both. My humblest apologies."

"Maybe someone will carry you away, Diedrich," Simon said.

"Okay. That's enough," Paul instructed. "We'll deal with that later. In the mean time, nice shooting. Everyone inside...bodies and stray equipment also. Simon, I want you to go back out with your night vision. Go over the grounds with a fine tooth comb and bring in anything they may have left out there. Julien, come in here, take out the SIM cards and find where their calls originated from."

Paul turned off his shoulder radio, reached out and grabbed Alex's arm. "How the hell could anyone find us here within twelve hours of our arrival?"

* * *

Borya and Alex strapped the two prisoners into metal chairs bolted to the ground.

"Okay, Diedrich," Paul said, "this is your domain. I know you enjoy this sort of thing more than the rest of us."

A broad smile came to Diedrich's face: like a kid waking up to presents on Christmas day. He put thick towels around the necks of the two prisoners.

"Oh, you are too kind," the first Arab exclaimed. "A shave would be appreciated," he said, then laughed hysterically.

The other Islamist joined in.

"Yes," Diedrich replied. "We're just softies at heart; much too nice to our prisoners."

"Please don't forget the aftershave lotion," the second prisoner suggested.

Diedrich pulled a straight razor from his pocket, walked behind the first man, tilted his head back, and slit his neck from ear to ear. The man couldn't scream without a larynx, but his friend could. That one cried to his god, but no miracles came forth.

"The towels are so when you bleed to death you don't stain our floor with your filthy black blood," Diedrich said to the one still alive. "You've probably got AIDS, leprosy and malaria. So it's just a question whether you die fast or slow; your option."

"Diedrich!" Julien exclaimed. "What the hell are you doing? We need information not bodies!"

"You don't begin interrogation with questions," Diedrich explained. "You begin interrogation with killing. Ja? I am sick of their lies, and tired of wasting time on these people. They quote the Quran while butchering anyone who interprets the scriptures differently than they do. They are just a bunch of douche bags and they bore me with their righteous indignation. They think they are soldiers because they carry an AK and their superiors are geniuses because they can read a map and call themselves master-minds."

The team broke out in spontaneous applause for Dietrich's diatribe.

The Arab looked around the room. There was no angel of mercy. Panic flooded into his eyes for the first time.

"Ja. You'd have to be a real bunch of idiots to attack a group of professional soldiers with IEDs. But then idiots aren't an endangered species yet. Now, Achmed," Diedrich suggested, "tell me how you knew about our little set up here. And please do not leave out any details."

"Why do you call me Achmed?' he asked, turning his head in one direction, then the other, trying to follow Diedrich and his razor as the man paced back and forth. "My name is Samood."

"Achmed, Samood, rug rat," Diedrich explained, "it all means the same thing: a fuckin' retard. Now answer my fuckin' question, Achmed."

"You will get nothing from me, you stupid fool. Death is meaningless compared to serving the Jihad." Samood rolled his tongue in his mouth and loosened a capsule. He bit down on it before either Paul or any of the others could react. Immediately the man began foaming at the mouth.

"Son-of-a-bitch had a cyanide capsule hidden in his gums," Paul told the others. "Now we haven't got shit."

"Who do we question now, Diedrich?" Borya asked.

"Next time I'll do the interrogation," Alex said. "I have assets you do not."

"As in ass-ets?" Borya suggested.

Alex gave him a look that could have melted the polar ice caps.

"Thanks to you, Diedrich, we've got nothing," Julien said. "It takes finesse to gain cooperation and information."

"Finesse? Cooperation?" Diedrich questioned. "You still have a conscience and feel compassion. My training has eliminated those obstacles. Besides, I enjoy making people suffer. Would you take away one of my life's little pleasures?"

"You are definitely not ready for the confessional, Diedrich," Alex decided.

"I am baffled by this empathy concept," Diedrich replied with the innocence of a child.

"We're done here," Paul said. "Julien, what did you find from the cell phones?"

"The calls came from right here in Ankara, mon ami."

"Well, that's impressive," Borya said with his usual sarcasm.

The door closed; Simon came in, and quickly went over to Julien. "I found this in their van," he said, holding a device that looked like a cell phone on steroids.

"Now that is very special," Julien said excitedly.

"What have we got, Julien?" Paul asked.

"Most cell phones do not allow the user direct access to the GPS data. So, in general, you cannot track someone using their cell phone, unless the person you want to track has the right kind of cell phone, connected to the right network, with the right service."

"And now we have the right phone, service and network?" Paul asked, taking a place over the Frenchman's shoulder.

"We have full access to their network with this little device," Julien said shaking the phone. "The person or persons behind this attack wanted to know where these rug rats were at all times, so they gave them GPS-enabled phones."

"Not very bright," Alex said.

"No, not at all," Julien said. "A phone with GPS knows exactly where it is, and with Wi-Fi that's accessible via an Internet web site."

"You mean we'll be able to see in real time where these clowns are?" Simon asked.

"Superimposed on a map of Ankara," Julien said with pride.

"No shit!" Diedrich remarked.

"On a zoomable, online map," Julien added with a grin.

"Now that's fuckin' amazing," Borya exclaimed.

"Here's the best part," Julien added. "With the equipment we've got, the application will remain enabled after the phone has been turned off. A feature that is particularly handy if you do not want to instruct the person using the phone how to turn tracking on and off."

"You're telling me that the people on the other end can't just shut down the connection?" Alex asked.

"They may think they've shut it down, but unless they got some very good IT guy working with them, probably not."

"Then we'll be able to sneak up on them unannounced?" Simon asked.

"There is one thing they may have that would make things a bit dicey," Julien explained. "Geo-fencing."

"Which means?" Alex asked.

"It means that an alert is sent when their phone crosses a virtual fence," Julien said. "Accu-Tracking will send an e-mail or SMS message when they, we, move across the designated areas."

"That's something we'll deal with down the line," Paul decided.

"Borya," Paul said, "this mission is going to depend on real fire power, not side arms. What do you have in stock?"

"I have everything from plastique to RPGs; single action sniper rife to a micro Uzi that fires twelve hundred and fifty rounds per minute. Or maybe you want to be a real man and take the M18E1/A1 mini gun capable of six thousand rounds per minute!"

"I don't think we're facing a whole division," Paul responded, trying not to laugh.

"That gun will give you a hard on better than Viagra," Borya assured. "Oh, pardon me, Ms. Alex; just shop talk."

"I'll take a micro Uzi at 1250 rounds per minute, thank you very much," Alex replied.

"Oh, a woman after my own heart," Borya said. "I could fall in love with you."

"I hope it's not those fuckin' RPG-7s," Diedrich said. "Those things can't penetrate underwear and they're unguided."

"You have besmirched my reputation, my Arian brother. I do not sell antiques; only the latest shit. The RPG-29 uses a tandem-charge, heat-seeking, wave-seeking, vibration-seeking, explosive anti-tank warhead capable of penetrating reactive armor and destroying main battle tanks such as the T-90. In Afghanistan, one round stopped an American M1 tank. Now that is some heavy shit!" Borya added with a laugh.

"Okay." Paul turned to Simon. "We'll take both vehicles. If they've got eyes outside, we want them to believe it's their little buddies returning."

"I've narrowed it down to a neighborhood on the south side of Ankara," Julien said. "But I cannot do any more unless they call again."

"We can't wait until they call back. Did their number come up on the SIM card?"

"Mais bien sûr!" Julien assured.

"Simon, you've got to call them and keep them on the line until Julien gives you the thumbs up."

"That'll be dicey, mate. These people aren't stupid."

Paul held up one finger. "Not stupid; overly confident. They'll never expect it. Talk fast. Tell them all the men they came for are dead. What should you do now, celebrate or come back to base?"

"It just may work," Simon shrugged.

"Saddle up, everyone," Paul ordered. "We leave in fifteen minutes. Simon, if we miss these people and they run, what are our alternatives?"

"We can fly out twenty minutes after we reach the airport. I know the people in customs. We'll leave using a fake flight plan. If we have to travel by car there are check points at every border, maybe at every town. Sometimes you can pay off those people, sometimes not. It could be a nightmare."

"Borya," Paul instructed, "load up what you think we'll need."

"Don't worry about a thing, boss. I have supplied weapons to an entire army!"

"Put these on," Paul said, opening up a box of uniforms. "Tonight we're Turkish Police, compliments of Alex. Just in case."

"Just in case of what?" Simon asked.

"In case we come against some one or some thing unexpected," Paul explained. "That does happen sometimes in war."

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Port Sudan, Sudan

Sudan. The third largest country in Africa and the sixteenth largest in the world. Thirty million people even after all the genocides. A decimated economy, widespread greed, endemic poverty, and a sea of despair for 99% of the population.

Port Sudan, the safe harbor for Black Bear on the northeast coast, was five hundred miles north of the capital, Khartoum.

The GNU, the Government of National Unity, presided over by President Umar Hassan - a man wanted for crimes against humanity, genocide and murder - meant the doors were open for business and everything was for sale.

For Black Bear, it was Sudan's access to the Red Sea that made it valuable. That, and the assistance of a government headed by a man who saw the overthrow of Capitalism, Democracy and all things Western as his personal Jihad.

Hassan condoned their presence, even covered their existence, for the small favor of one million in gold.

Black Bear's eighty-foot motorized schooner was moored in a prominent slip in the bay, protected by a frigate of the Sudanese Navy. And with the technical gear on board, that was a big perk.

Their warehouse, complements of Hassan, had been converted from an old airplane hanger to a base for Colonel Kozlov and his hand-picked team.

It was a huge aluminum Quonset hut: the size of a football field. Air conditioned by four massive units built into the roof. And in the heat of mid-day, in a country just twelve hundred miles north of the equator, it was not a nicety, but an essential. Black Bear was made up of battle-hardened soldiers, but with day time temperatures reaching 1050 Fahrenheit, men working would not just perspire, but expire.

There was one thirty-foot overhead door for egress and ingress of equipment and two regular doors for men and supplies.

The structure had sleeping quarters for up to forty. There were showers, latrines, a commercial-grade kitchen with freezer, frig, dual sinks, and a gas stove. Better than back home in Groznyy, the colonel thought.

Kozlov noted his men with pride. Each soldier was an expert in his field: weapons, communications, computers, logistics, mechanics, pilots, and medical.

The colonel had told his men that their mission would make them all rich: gold, the universal currency, in amounts too great to make sense to common men. That was true, but it was not the prime reason for the operation. There was no motive more justifiable, more enduring than revenge. Russia had sent half a million Chechens to die in frozen waste-land of Siberia: family, friends, and loved ones of the colonel and his men. Now the Russians would pay, not by freezing in temperatures of -500 Fahrenheit, but burning in the 20000 degree heat of an atomic explosion.

* * *

Sitting in the southwest corner of the hut was a Soviet Mi-24 attack helicopter partially covered by a huge tarp to keep the desert from seeping in. In the cockpit, Lieutenant Zubov was going through a pre-flight inspection.

The other men were scattered throughout the barracks; each taking the time to go through their own rituals leading up to battle. Weapons specialists Anton and Fedor cleaned their guns for the third time in one day; Anatoli looked at porno; Sergi and Ivan played chess. Communications specialist Nikolai monitored the radio, sending out messages handed him by the colonel who waited nearby to confirm their delivery, then standby for the colonel's reply.

Pavlik set up his computers, monitors, and SAT uplink. When he finished he said, "Colonel Kozlov, sir. I am prepared to proceed."

The colonel walked over, stood behind Pavlik and said, "Very good, junior lieutenant."

Pavlik rubbed his hands together like a man coming home to a warm fire after a bitter night. "First we do vulnerability scan to check to see what, if anything, Americans have changed."

Curious, Anton and Fedor walked over to observe.

"But is that not first thing they would do after their security was breeched?" Anton asked.

"Of course, Anton, I am counting on it," Pavlik assured. "The program that controls the missile systems is probably one hundred million lines of code written by several hundred people in a dozen different countries. If they delete that program, then their missiles would be off line, unable to target and unable to launch as long as the program was down. And they would never allow themselves to be vulnerable. Instead, they will change the passwords and pin numbers but the system itself will remain intact."

"But if they change the passwords...?" Fedor asked, jockeying for position.

"Then that information will be relayed immediately to us through the key stroke logger we incorporated into their system."

"But the computers and programs you're talking about have been developed by the greatest minds in the world," Fedor questioned.

"You said this incorrectly, Fedor," Pavlik responded. "The greatest intellect in West, not in world! Now the most brilliant minds reside in East. Who do you think created Google?"

"A Russian?" Fedor guessed.

Pavlik turned from his work to face Fedor. "Sergey Brin," Pavlik replied. "Born in the motherland, now the fifth most powerful person in world and twenty-fourth richest person. Knowing what he did, people in Kyrgyzstan, Uzbekistan, Chechnya, Tajikistan, Kazakhstan and the Ukraine are motivated by chance to escape poverty. To extract themselves from misery that surrounds them. They know that the Internet is the only way available to them. And some of those people helped me set up this system."

"Enough philosophy, lieutenant," the colonel instructed. 'Let's see some results."

"Yes, colonel, sir," Pavlik replied, red-faced from embarrassment by going into unnecessary detail regarding his work. "First we check the root kit we installed to see what, if anything, the Americans have changed. With our back door we can gain access at any time...like right now."

"A back door?" Anton asked. "Like anal sex?"

"For a man who can't get it up, you sure talk about sex a lot, Anton," Fedor said.

The mention of sex perked Anatolli's ears. He set down his magazine and walked over to the table.

"The only term I learned about was viruses," Jurg said, scratching his head in an attempted to stir his brain.

"A virus is a self-replicating program that spreads by inserting copies of itself into documents."

"Oh, that sounds like Ivan," Anatoli said, "always inserting himself where he is not wanted; trying to impregnate women and replicate himself, setting evolution back a hundred thousand years."

"This is something slightly different, Anatoli," Pavlik explained. "We could infiltrate their computers with a virus, and that would shut down their systems but that would give us nothing to sell or trade, correct colonel?"

"Correct, junior lieutenant," the colonel replied. "In a few days we will create a new world order. To gain the freedom and emancipation that we could not gain through two wars."

"Too much information," Jurg insisted, walking around in a circle. "It is giving me headache."

"Go back to sleep you lazy dog," the colonel said. "Go on, Pavlik."

"Everyday the Americans change the code or password, and when they do, we get it instantaneously. They think they are protected and so they don't try to change the underlying system. Beautiful, yes?"

"Magnificent!" Anton exclaimed.

Nikolai realized a flaw in their plan and so he set down his headphones and swiveled his chair around. "But colonel, sir, if we are sending out and receiving signals, then we risk being triangulated and vulnerable to detection."

"You are correct, communications specialist," the colonel replied. That is why we will be going fishing."

"Fishing, colonel?" Nikolai repeated.

"Yes, in the Indian Ocean," Kozlov explained.

"Why there, colonel?" Anton asked.

"It is the most lawless ocean on earth. Even the super powers don't dare intrude."

"Can we swim with the dolphins?" Jurg asked.

"You can sleep with the fishes, Jurg," Kozlov replied.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Ankara, Turkey

Simon, dressed in the Salwar kameez - the traditional unisex shirt and pants of an Afghani - drove the van, while Julien monitored his laptop and checked their coordinates. In case they were stopped, Simon had the best chance of pulling it off due to his language skills. Borya drove the other van with Alex, Paul and Diedrich. With all of their gear stuffed in back, the men were forced to sit on their packs.

The short conversation Simon had with the bad guys gave Julien the coordinates. According to the city plans available on line, it was an old, one-story building that had once been a bank, separated from other structures by about ten feet.

The two vans drove around the block several times. There were few lights on at 3:30 a.m. Most of the buildings were high-rise apartments. Wash hung from every balcony, using the wind as a clothes dryer. A few stray dogs scavenged for food in over-flowing trash bins. Of the many cars parked on the street, only a handful were in running order; the rest pickings for the auto vultures.

Julien's checked their position, while Simon continued to circle the block.

"This is as close as we can go," Julien said, holding up a hand. "Any farther, their cell phone will alert them we're here."

Simon pulled over. Borya pulled up behind them. It was now 4:00 a.m.

Their uniforms had the insignias and marking of the Turkish Police, supplied by Alex by way of the Mossad. The word "POLICE" in foot high gold letters was visible on the fronts and backs.

They all got out of the vans and walked to the end of the block. Around the corner, was the building: two stories high, an old, ornate bank, with stone relief, gargoyles, and narrow windows. On each corner of the structure was a surveillance camera. They were the standard ones in use in every city. Chances were the men inside were monitoring them as well.

Paul turned to Julien and eyed him, then the cameras. Julien typed in his laptop and easily broke into the city facilities network. He then took a picture of the street with his digital camera and uploaded it into the cameras surrounding the city block. Now all the bad guys could see was a deserted street. They were invisible to the men inside.

"It would be nice to know a little more about the enemy," Simon said. "For instance their level of sophistication, weapons systems, resources and the location of any possible assistance."

"Yeah, well, that just isn't going to happen," Paul replied. "We have to move before day light and that's less than two hours away."

"Je suis d'accord,' Julien replied.

"Explosives?" Paul asked Borya.

"Semtex: contains both RDX and PETN. Czech-made. Used in many terrorist bombings. It is odorless and comes along with a remote detonating cap. Three pounds of Semtex Plastique packs enough punch to raze a two-story building. Virtually invisible to conventional security devices. Set it off remotely with this," Borya said, holding a small square plastic box with an antenna and red button.

"Borya," Paul said, "you and Diedrich go around back to the alley. You take the RPG; give the sniper's rifle to Diedrich. By the way, what do you have, an M-40?"

"Nyet. The American M-40 is inferior weapon," Borya explained. "It's the L115A British gun now. It can stop any car in its tracks by splitting the engine block in two, and it can pierce the armor of light tanks or armored personnel carriers. With a decent sniper, anyone within a mile is a dead man...even if they are wearing body armor."

"Okay," Paul interjected. "Alex, you'll attach a double charge and stick it to the front door."

"Won't a double charge blow the whole building down?" Alex questioned.

"It's an old bank; that door is going to be reinforced," Paul replied. "We can't risk it. Borya, what do we use for the frontal attack?"

"The Vanad P-83 pistol," Borya offered. "They fire disabling gas pellets, rubber balls, or flares, and regular ammo that can penetrate soft body armor, twenty-six round magazine and laser sighting. We have four all together."

"I'll take the Uzi," Alex said.

"Of course," Borya said. "A fine weapon even if the Israelis invented it."

"Body armor?" Paul asked.

"The Interceptor," Borya replied. "The plates are made of boronic carbide, the second hardest substance known to man. It's the best fuckin' body armor manufactured in the world today, and the new, improved model can stop armor-piercing ammunition.

"Dig in," Borya said, pointing to a box in the back of the van. He was almost jovial in his roll of a demented Santa Claus.

"Flash-bang grenades?" Paul asked.

"In the satchels," Borya said, handing out a bag of four to each man and Alex.

"Alex, me, and Simon at the front."

"Pourquoi pas moi?" Julien asked. "What about me? I can pull my own weight when it gets down to business."

"If something happens to you, this mission stops dead in its tracks," Paul replied, ending any further discussion of the matter like a sentinel at a railroad crossing. "Now, have you downloaded the building plans?"

"Bien sûr," Julien relented.

"We need you to pin-point where the bad guys are in the building," Paul said to all. "Right now, we're going in blind and I don't like it one bit."

"With this little device, we can solve that mystery," Julien said, holding up a fiber optic cable. "If you can attach it to the glass window in front we can see and hear what's going on inside."

"That could be risky. What about tracking them on their cell phone?" Alex asked.

"We would only be tracking the person carrying the cell phone," Julien replied.

"Julien, you work out of the van," Paul ordered. "I don't want you visible. Alex, you're the smallest. Can you crawl over to the building and stick this to the glass window?"

"So size does matter?" she chided, winking at Paul.

"Yes, and big is not always better," Paul replied. "Take the Semtex with you."

"They are peel and paste," Borya explained.

"Right back," Alex replied, slinking away in a deep crouch.

* * *

"How're we doing with the video and audio," Paul asked Julien over his shoulder mounted radio.

"Très bien. The size of the lens doesn't make for good imagery, even with the enhancement program I'm using. But I see one man squatting about fifteen feet to the left of the door. Another seated in the center of the room twenty feet back from the entrance. Looks like he is nodded out. Two more seated on a couch against the right wall, maybe asleep. That makes four, but there are six or eight backpacks on the counters. I get the feeling there are more bad guys in the back rooms."

"Can you tell what type of weapons they're carrying?" Paul asked.

"They look like just automatic pistols," Julien replied. "One guy with maybe a Kalashnikov. Not very sophisticated. Just what you'd expect from people who sent a bunch of amateurs to blow us up with outdated IEDs."

"Are they talking? Any hints as to who they are or where they come from?"

"They mentioned 'PPK,'" Julien related. "I couldn't get any more than that. Too much background noise. The building has an old heating system that's playing hell with the window mike."

"Any idea as to who that is?" Paul asked.

"Oui," Julien said. "The Kurdistan Worker's Party. Goal: to establish an independent Kurdish state. Four to five thousand members; uses urban terrorism tactics, a designated terrorist organization."

"You got all that from overhearing a few words through the glass?" Paul asked.

"No, the Internet, of course," Julien said, as if the information was available on Facebook.

"What else can you give us?" Paul asked.

"Here's a picture of the main man," Julien said, "coming through on your cell phone now. Saud Rija. Forty-four years old, walks with a distinct limp due to a wound inflicted in some skirmish."

Paul observed a picture of a man who looked ten years older than his age, ragged beard, and bloated like the Goodyear blimp.

"He may or may not be the one leading this operation. But if I had to bet, it would be him. There's not much action going on in Turkey these days, and I'm sure he'd want to be in on whatever's available."

"What about the building?"

"The plans say there are three small offices in the back. It figures there might be two or three more men back there. Maybe they're taking turns sleeping and guarding."

"Borya, you and Diedrich in the back," Paul ordered.

Borya and Diedrich nodded, then made their way to the rear of the building.

"Are they wearing body armor?" Paul asked Julien.

"Hard to be sure, but I'd say no. The way they're slumped over tells us something. Body armor would hold them up."

"Thanks, Julien," Paul said. "Okay. Keep me posted."

"Oh, there is one more thing, mon ami: a set of stairs going into the basement. It doesn't show it, but there may be access to a tunnel down there, left over from the days of the Byzantine Empire. I just can't tell for certain from these plans."

"We'll worry about that later," Paul said to Julien, then spoke to the rest of the team. "Remember people, we need some of these people alive. We need information, not more bodies. Got it? Now, on my count, Borya?"

"Da."

"Alex?"

"Yes."

"Diedrich?"

"Ja."

"Julien?"

"Oui."

"Simon?"

"Awright, mate."

"Three, two, one, blow and go!"

The two blasts were almost simultaneous. Borya's Stemulite in the back, Alex's in the front. The concussion blew the doors into the street and alley, respectively.

The intervening seconds seemed to last for hours; the building shook, all the way out to the street. It felt as if the whole planet was crumbling. It was end of the world noise, like having your head in a toilet bowl when someone shoots out the water tank. The metal doors disintegrated into a thousand fragments that flew in every direction at a thousand feet per second.

As soon as debris stopped flying, Paul and Simon threw in their flash-bang grenades. Alex stood at the ready with her Uzi with laser sighting. She had on thermo goggles waiting for the dust to settle, and would be the first one to spot the men...or bodies, before they could possibly spot her.

Paul could hear firing coming from the rear of the building. Some of the men tried to make it out the back, only to be met by Borya and Diedrich.

Alex jumped in ahead of Paul and Simon. One man was standing, bleeding from his nose and ears. He was disoriented, which was what they had counted on. He tried to raise his rife but didn't even get to waist level before Alex sprayed him with a short burst from the Uzi.

Paul and Simon rushed in right behind Alex, each focused on opposite sides of the room. To the left, a man was on his hands and knees, blinded by the magnesium powder in the explosive. He was groping for a weapon, or maybe his eye balls; Paul wasn't sure which. But when the man turned to the sound of Alex's gun fire, Paul didn't know if the guy had a weapon in his hand or not. Paul shot him once with the Vanad pistol, using armor-piercing ammunition. The round blew a hole as big as a basketball in the man's chest. Simon zapped the man to the right.

Simon yelled, "Clear."

Paul called out, "Clear."

Alex yelled, "Clear."

Diedrich said, "Clear."

Borya said, "Two of the men came out under a white flag to surrender. Diedrich shot them both. Head shots."

"Jesus Christ, Diedrich," Paul said into his shoulder mounted radio. "Whose side are you on? I told you we needed Intel."

Julien's voice crackled on all of their radios. "One is escaping through the under-ground tunnel. It came up to street level one hundred yards away. He's on a motor scooter!"

"You mean motorcycle?" Paul asked.

"Oui, I guess so. I don't know what the hell you Americans call them."

"On our way." Paul keyed his radio for all to hear. "Julien and I will follow him in the van. Borya, Diedrich, Alex, Simon, go back to base. We'll meet you there."

"I know this city well," Borya said. "I can be of help."

"I only need Simon," Paul replied. "He's the one who can help me track this guy. Can any of you do that?"

There was silence.

Paul jumped in the van, fired it up, and screamed around the corner. When he stopped for Julien, there was smoke coming from both the tires and the brakes. It smelled like a race track on Indy 500 Day. Paul pushed open the door and Julien slid in.

"Tell me the guy we're chasing is the one with the cell phone," Paul said.

"The man we are after is the one with the cell phone."

"Do we have a clear signal from him?"

"Five by five, as you Americans say," Julien replied, trying to smoke his cigarette while monitoring the chase.

Paul burned the tires as he backed the van up, whipped the wheel to the right, and started down the narrow street.

"He can move faster through these streets than we can and he's half a mile ahead of us," Julien instructed, looking at a small, blinking red light superimposed on a street map of Ankara. "Stay on this road. Two blocks up we make a right then immediate left. He's probably going up on the highway, we can catch him there."

Julien lit up a cigarette and inhaled deeply, enjoying every second of it.

"Could I get one of those?" Paul asked.

"I didn't think you smoked very often?"

"I don't, except when I'm nervous."

"Stay to the right ahead. There's a fork in the road," Julien said, then stopped to consider. "You just killed half dozen men, but now you're nervous?"

"Yeah," Paul grimaced. "Driving down these alley ways they call streets is going to give me an ulcer. I'm surprised we haven't been killed yet; either by the Turks or these narrow roads.

The van bounced off the walls on one side of the street, then the other, as he over-steered the vehicle, hit a car only a midget could have driven, and tore off the front bumper, sending it flying, along with trashcans, discarded furniture, and cardboard shelters used by the homeless.

"You are nervous," Julien said as he took a long drag from his cigarette unconcerned with the sound of scraping that was accompanying his friend's driving. He put a second cigarette in his mouth and lit it up for Paul. "Here," he said offering the cigarette to Paul. "How much do you smoke exactly anyway?"

Paul took a drag and said, "Maybe a cigarette a week. On a good week."

"'A' cigarette? One cigarette a week?"

"Yea, why?" Paul asked, glancing over at Julien.

"What, you only get nervous once a week? Seriously, one cigarette a week, who smokes like that?"

"Me. The weeks I get nervous I smoke more. Case in point, this week."

"Christ, I smoke a pack-and-a-half a day, don't think I could do any less than that. There are days I want to do more." Julien took a drag and smiled like a satisfied cat. "It's just so damned enjoyable. Better than sex."

Paul guffawed.

Julien always seemed to surprise him; one of the things he liked about the man. "I don't know if I'd go that far. But it does have its moments." Paul smiled, taking one long drag. He then threw the cigarette out the window just as the turn came up. He needed both hands to steer the van. Even so, he managed to hit a trash can head on. The junk inside exploded out of the can like it was shot from a cannon. "Of course, you get cancer and die, that's the down side."

Julien ground out his cigarette in the ash tray, looking vaguely unhappy that Paul had spoiled his smoke.

By then it was 5:00 a.m. Dawn was upon them, and early morning traffic was beginning to build up on the highway. Soon, it was a sea of headlights.

"So, Paul, why bring just me along for the ride? Jobs like this calls for more than one man, and one car."

"Like Borya or Diedrich?"

"Take the right, the right!" Julien yelled as Paul almost missed the turn. "Christ, you're a horrible driver." Julien pushed out another cigarette from his pack and, just before he lit it said, "Exactly. Why not bring them?"

"Let's just say I thought the conversational possibilities might make them uncomfortable."

"And the conversation is about...what, may I ask?"

"Leaks."

"As in spies?"

"As in questions that can only have one answer. How did someone know where we were only twelve hours after we arrived?"

Julien held the unlit cigarette in his mouth, pondering. "And you think it's...?"

"If I knew for sure, I'd have probably killed him by now."

"Or her," Julien added.

"He'll, for all I know, it could be you!"

"That's hurts, mon ami." Julien half turned in his seat to frown at Paul.

Paul at least had the decency to look embarrassed. "Well, I--."

"You just missed the turn!" Julien exclaimed. "Back up, back up!"

"Shit!" Paul yelled. He threw the van in reverse and crushed the front end of a Mini Cooper car that had been right behind. But instead of putting it in park, getting out, and inspecting the damage, Paul floored it and drove the little car back fifty feet to the point where they could go up the ramp to the highway. The car was so light, it barely registered as an impact in the van.

Paul looked out the rearview mirror. The man in the Mini Cooper got out of his accordioned car by squeezing through the driver's window. He was screaming at the top of his lungs, waving his hands, and running after the van. As if they hadn't done enough damage, Julien flipped him off.

"What do you think of Borya?" Paul asked, eyes on the road. The van engine whined, pissed, moaned; billowing smoke out the back like a crop duster in Oklahoma.

Paul weaved from lane to lane in an effort to catch up to the motorcycle.

"Watch that one, he's definitely a spook for sure, maybe FSB," Julien warned. "For them, a lie is the main form of currency, truth a luxury few can afford."

"Is or was?" Paul asked.

"There is no 'was' with a spy," Julien replied. "He's smart, Borya is. So is the woman."

"Alex?" Paul assumed. "The heart of an undertaker, the conscience of an amnesia victim."

"Is she working for Mossad, or freelancing?"

"I've wondered that myself."

Julien nodded, his eyes thoughtful. "You're facing two, maybe more, enemies, mon ami. And you can't go in two directions at once."

"I've got a ton of questions but not an ounce of positive answers."

"None of this answers my question either," Julien said directly. "Why me?"

"I needed to know more of who you are besides what I've read in your CIA profile."

"I'm curious now. What does it say about me?" Julien asked, amused.

Paul gave Julien a sideways glance before speaking. "You were once some kind of special forces. Maybe the Foreign Legion, then assigned to Africa: the Congo or Zaire. Afterwards you worked missions with the French DGSE, places like Pakistan, Afghanistan, or the Ukraine: a real mercenary. Only now – since the Berlin Wall fell – it's been a buyer's market. Seals, Special forces, airborne, CIA; there're ten people for every job."

"There he is!" Julien exclaimed, pointing to the road ahead. "A hundred yards ahead in the left lane. What do we do now?"

"We give him enough space so he thinks he's in the clear," Paul said. "I'm hoping he'll take us to the next level up. Now what were we talking about?"

"You were mentioning my work," Julien replied.

"Yeah. Wet work."

"When I started free-lancing," Julien began, "I was getting a couple of calls a week. Now, maybe three or four a year. Then you show up with a stack of Euros and a promise of gold to back it up. I still don't know if you really have the resources."

"We're all masters of deception, aren't we Julien?"

"Yes, we certainly are," Julien agreed, smirking.

Concentrating on their conversation rather than the road, they quickly realized their mistake.

"I've lost sight of him. Where is he?" Paul demanded.

"Quarter mile ahead, center lane. He's headed right for the airport," Julien replied. "And he's driving slow enough that he doesn't think he's being followed." Julien looked over at Paul. "Would you like a cigarette?" Julien offered one to Paul, who declined with a shake of his head.

"Nope," he said.

"I thought you were nervous?" Julien asked, confused. "What, that one cigarette made everything better?"

"No, but something tells me this is going to be a long week. And I really don't want to turn around six months from now and have the first thing I do in morning be light up a cigarette. Besides, one cigarette may calm my nerves. Two just means there's too much to be nervous about for anything to calm me."

"So what is the plan? Or are we just winging it as you Americans say?"

"When we get to the airport, I'll follow him inside. You drive back, join the group. I'll call you and tell you where we're headed; you can all meet me there."

"Oui. He turned left. That is the international terminal. He is leaving the country."

They arrived at the airport. Paul pulled up to the sidewalk. "Stay here. Call me and let me know which airline he's going to. Can your magic black box do that?"

"I've already uploaded the plans for the airport: terminals, runways, gates."

Paul started to get out of the car; Julien grabbed his arm and said, "Be careful, mon ami. You are in enemy territory...with no one to bail you out of a dicey situation."

Paul smiled knowingly, patted Julien's hand and walked into the airport. He moved calmly but briskly through the terminal. Rija had just passed the security checkpoint. There were a dozen people between Paul and the front of the line. The man turned around, looked right in Paul's eyes and took off running. Paul had no choice. He broke through the security gate and took off after Rija. An airport guard took up the chase. Under the circum-stances, it certainly looked like Paul was the bad guy.

Paul caught sight of Rija a hundred feet ahead of him, using his substantial bulk to bowl over people as he headed for the departure gates. A large group of people exiting customs suddenly flooded the terminal. Paul lost sight of Rija. The man just disappeared into thin air.

Paul rushed into the crowd, tossing people aside looking for the man. Nothing. The only place left where Rija could have gone was the men's room. Paul pulled his Glock and used his left foot to kick open the door. No one was at the urinals. He slowly approached the two booths. Both were in use. Paul made a quick decision, kicked in the door of the first booth, and pointed his gun right at the man's head.

"Hey! I am here. What you do? No room for two. Go away!" the man exclaimed.

Paul knew right away it was the wrong guy: fifty pounds too light and bald as an egg. "Sorry, sir. You can apply to the government for any stains in your pants."

Paul moved to the next booth and kicked in the door. He was met by a duffle bag to the face. Paul dropped to his knees, stunned more than hurt. Thousands of Euros burst out of the bag and took to the air.

As Rija stepped over him, Paul reached up and grabbed the man's belt, lifted himself up from the ground, and stuck his gun in the back of Rija's head.

"Police!" Paul screamed as he kicked Rija in the back of the leg, dropping him to his knees.

"What kind of police breaks the law to harass innocent man?" Rija cried.

"I make the laws; my gun enforces them."

"Someone help!" he screamed. "A mad man is trying to kill me!"

Paul reached in his pocket and took out a pair of flex cuffs and put them on the Turk, taking exquisite pleasure in pulling them as tight as they would go. "That's for making me chase you in my van and waste precious gas on you. And this," Paul said, smacking Rija on the side of his head, "is for making me chase you on foot through the airport, and reminding me how out of shape I am."

A uniformed cop forced his way past the local guy fleeing from the first booth.

The security guard quickly assessed the situation.

"The American has a gun!" Rija yelled.

The policeman drew his gun and said, "Hands up."

The cop looked at Paul, then Rija, then at the bills scattered on the floor. "What you do here?"

"I'm arresting this man for impersonating a human being," Paul explained.

"No here in Ankara," the guard explained.

In the confusion, Rija slipped from Paul's grip and rushed out of the bathroom. "He's a killer," he told the guard, pointing vigorously at Rija. "Don't let him out of your sight."

Paul moved to chase after Rija but immediately had the gun stuck in his face. For the moment he was the one in deep shit.

* * *

Colonel Saunders had to cash in a few of chips to make Paul's problem go away. The Colonel made the call to his counterpart in Turkey. It was six hours later when Paul was finally released, on the condition that he leave the country immediately. By that time Rija was long gone. Dejectedly, Paul made his way to the exit. His cell phone rang and a familiar voice came on. "Well, mon ami, I have heard of your troubles."

"How?"

"I was monitoring the police radios. I had Simon on a three way call. He interpreted for me."

"Oh."

"Do not sound so dejected, mon ami. Things aren't that bad."

"Rija is gone and I haven't got a clue as to where."

"He took Flight 407 to Tunis. Arriving at 2:00 p.m. local time."

"I won't even ask how you know that."

Julien chuckled. "You're booked on flight 311, SAS out of terminal D, gate 44, departure in forty-five minutes. You will arrive in Tunis eight hours after Rija. That's all I can provide you at this time. I'll have to wait until he uses his cell phone after he lands."

"Thanks, Julien. Meet me in Tunis with the rest of the team. Call me when you arrive. Maybe by that time I'll have made some progress."

"We need answers, Paul," Julien said, "and quickly."

"When I catch up to Rija we'll have a morgue full of answers."

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The Oval Office, white House. Washington, D.C.

"Mr. President, are you feeling all right?" Secretary of Defense, David McCallum, asked.

"It's just this damn heart of mine," President Paulson replied, rubbing his chest in an effort to get his heart pumping agains.

"When's the last time you had a check up, sir?" David pressed.

"He just had a check up a month ago, his pace-maker is working fine," Daniel answered for the president.

"It's nothing," Paulson said dismissively, brushing his tie as if brushing away a summer cold. "Let's stay with the matters at hand."

"We need to be prepared, Mr. President," DHS Chief, Tim Carlisle, said. "I don't want to dwell on the negative, but we're dealing with the greatest crisis this country has faced since the cold war. If you're incapacitated, then Vice-President Cummings becomes acting president."

"Well, nothing had better happen to him, then, Mr. Director," David warned, "because Cummings is a goddamn warmonger. He'll call for a first strike if he sees a North Korean missile in a TV documentary."

"Gentlemen," Paulson spoke up, "I'm not going anywhere; now let's tend to the matters at hand."

"We'd be better off with a Communist in the White House than Cummings," David muttered.

"Let's not jump too far ahead of ourselves, gentlemen," Karen said. "The president is not dying, and Cummings isn't president."

"Yet," Tom whispered, then said aloud, "Let's get the White House doctor in here right now!"

CHAPTER TWENTY

Port Sudan, Sudan

Night set in on Port Sudan but the temperature still hovered in the high 80s. The four big air conditioners roared like lions. Each soldier found his own place in the Quonset hut – some cleaning and loading their weapons, others writing letters, some resting, but none sleeping. A battle lay ahead and every man prepared in his own way.

"Pavlik," the colonel said, slapping his computer expert on the shoulder hard enough to make the man wince, "how are you coming along in our little heart-to-heart talk with the American president?"

"I think that right about now the president might be feeling some chest pains," proud to show off his skills to a man who had taken the place of his father who had passed away before Pavlik reached him sixteenth birthday. The colonel took Pavlik under his wing, got him enrolled in the KBG school of Cyber warfare, where he excelled. And now Pavlik was in a position to replay Kozlov with his skills and loyalty.

"That is very good news for us...but very bad news for the doves in the current administration," the colonel said. "What a pleasant change it would be if a war-monger president were in power. And to think that the decision is ours!"

A few of the men wandered over to listen to what the colonel was saying.

"And why would it benefit us if a warrior president was in power?" asked Jurg. "Would that not mean we could be attacked?"

"Attack, yes; us, no," the colonel assured. "All our plans are based on the U.S. missiles hitting their targets in the Soviet Union and Iran."

"Iran?" Fedor questioned. "I thought our mission was to make Russia pay for the killing of a million Chechens in three different wars? What does Iran have to do with Chechnya?"

"Let's just say it's a favor for some of our new-found friends," the colonel replied.

"I do not like favors," Anton said. "It always seems that repayment exceeds gift."

"Those friends are paying us to blow up their enemies. Whether it is Iran for Israel, or Israel for Iran, or the US for North Korea, we are capitalists open to the highest bidder. Without those clients, this mission would not be possible."

"The only thing that would interfere with our plans would be if the U.S. President took the missiles off line," Pavlik said.

"Can that happen?" Ivan asked, folding up his Playboy Magazine.

"Not if the president has a heart attack," the colonel replied. "It would be a shame that at the moment of ultimate decision, the American commander-in-chief stopped breathing." Kozlov sniggered, which was picked up by the men.

"No one can predict when a heart attack will happen," Jurg said with the certainty only a slow mind could conclude.

"Except us," Pavlik said in a much understated tone.

"You never cease to amaze me, Pavlik," the colonel said, heaping praise on the young, impressionable man. "How did you manage to learn enough about the president's medical condition to accomplish this?"

Pavlik turned half way around, smiled, and said, "The New York Times, of course! With that information, I gained access to the hospital that implanted the device. And the newspapers were kind enough to tell me when president was in the hospital.

"How nice of them!" Anton said.

"All electronic devises, insulin pumps, pacemakers and defibrillators are monitored by the hospitals that implant the devices," Pavlik explained. "They send out a signal that goes into the hospital computer. And any signal that comes into a computer is just code; bytes. So you hack the computer and reprogram it to listen to you rather than the hospital. You can even tell it do the opposite of what it was originally instructed to do."

"Like turn it off?" Fedor asked.

"Exactly," Pavlik agreed. "Turn it off, or on, or shut it down for a short period of time. When the hospital thinks they're doing one thing, the computer's sending out a different signal."

"That is beautiful, Pavlik," Sergi said.

"Is this something I should be worried about?" Fedor asked, anxious to get back to his chess game.

"Pay attention, Fedor," the colonel insisted. "You might learn something and become invaluable to the team, rather than expendable like a gun without bullets."

"My proficiency on the firing range speaks for itself," Fedor assured.

"One man with knowledge of computers can equal a division in the field," Kozlov said. "Now, allow Pavlik to continue."

"Thank you, colonel, sir," the young man replied. "They know the system is flawed but they cannot change it and still make it simple enough for techs, patients and doctors to regulate."

"And so...," the colonel egged.

"The system has as many holes as Swiss cheese," Pavlik explained. "The pace-makers and defibrillators are more open to attack as they become more sophisticated. One fool even had the audacity to say 'the risk of someone hacking into a wireless medical device was 'extremely low.'"

"Make sure the president's condition worsens over the next seventy-two hours," the colonel said. "We need a new man in the White House in order to complete our mission."

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Abid Hotel. Tunis, Tunisia

Sitting in a sagged out chair, in the pest-ridden Abid Hotel, in a section of Tunis that looked more like a war zone than a resort, Saud Rija mulled over his fate. He was sweating like a stuck pig even as the lop-sided ceiling fan, hanging three feet above his head, whirled like a jet engine.

The Turk flipped open the cover to his cell phone and punched in numbers. "A thousand apologies for calling you, Rahim," he said in a distinctly Middle-Eastern voice. He was overly contrite.

"You fool!" Rahim cursed. "I have no name. I am invisible, omniscient."

"Yes, but I don't know what else to do, where else to go!" Rija cradled the phone between his ear and shoulder as he picked up a leg of lamb and gnawed on it between listening and talking.

"Don't you realize the risk you...I take talking to you?"

"I can't stay here!" Rija said choking on a mouth-full of meat.

"What are you dong there, you pig? Are you eating while speaking to me?" Rahim demanded.

"A thousand pardons, Rahim," Rija replied in a voice unable to conceal his embarrassment. "I have not eaten a single meal since fleeing Ankara."

"Yes, I am sure you are all skin and bones, you sloth."

"This American is chasing me and he is very persistent."

""You are expendable."

"But I was successful in my assignment!" Rija exclaimed, trying to reach for a piece of baklava. In the process he tipped the tray over and it crashed to the ground. The baklava flew up in the air and landed on the dirty wooden floor. Rija's heart sank like he had lost a dear friend.

"It was a mission a blind man could have succeeded in," Rahim said.

"They are not seeking you!" Rija insisted, trying to decide whether the baklava could be saved.

"You are not done yet," Rahim instructed. "You must keep them occupied."

"I am told that they arrived in Tunis three hours ago. What should I do?" he asked, picking up the sticky piece of desert and brushing the dirt off of it.

"Remain where you are. I am certain they will find you."

"But if they do, they will kill me," Rija said. He popped the baklava into his mouth which brought a smile to face despite the seriousness of the matter at hand.

"You are the one who speaks so highly of the Jihad. Isn't dying for God the highest goal?"

"I have family: three wives, nine children."

"You are so fat you can't even see your dick anymore. It is unlikely you'll ever have more children. Your family mission is over. Now it is time to assure your place in heaven."

"My position has been compromised! I am leaving now to come to you."

"You would dare such a thing without my permission?" Rahim screamed so loud Rija had to move the phone away from his ear.

"Then where should I go?" Rija pleaded.

"Go to hell," Rahim suggested cordially. "You'll be there in a few years anyway. Just leave early."

"But I can't fly under my passport. Can you get me a new one right away?"

"After you have diverted the American, then we can speak of a new passport."

"Why don't we just kill this man?" Rija suggested.

"We do not know if he has been sent by his government, or if he is working on his own. If we kill him, maybe a dozen teams will replace him," Rahim explained. "No, we must keep this man alive, but on the wrong trail. That is your mission. Remember, if you fail, you are expendable."

"If I delay the American, you're going to help me, yes?"

"You will help yourself, you fool!"

"Yes, yes, I understand!"

"You will remain exactly where you are unless you are called and given other orders. One more mistake and you become past tense."

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Ankara, Turkey

Paul called and gave them his location in Tunis. Julien and Alex were at the airport with Simon, readying the plane for their trip. Borya and Diedrich were at the warehouse; left there to pack up the guns and supplies.

"I fantasize about killing this Paul Decker," Diedrich said, packing a machine gun in bubble wrap.

"Why? The American has given us no cause," Borya said, seated at the table, boxing ammunition in a wooden crate.

"He has endangered our lives by bringing us together for an impossible mission," Diedrich said.

"And you know this for a fact?" Borya asked, setting his work aside.

"We are up against powerful men with seemingly unlimited resources. And the United States government has not sanctioned this mission."

"I enjoy long odds," Borya said, still working but now diverting some of his attention to see where Diedrich was.

"We are a means to an end for him," Diedrich said, keeping one eye on the Russian as he continued working.

"Decker is paying us very well for this mission," Borya insisted, each word moving him closer to action.

"This mission is a joke," Diedrich retorted.

"There is one other thing...and it is not a joke," Borya assured, a step ahead of Diedrich.

"What's that?" the German asked, still believing his postion was secure.

"While you were out, an encrypted text message came in for you on your cell phone. Fortunately, I have encryption equipment on hand. I used a SIM reader to transfer your calls to my phone. All it took was for both our phones to be within range.

Diedrich frowned. "And you monitor my personal calls now?" He looked around the room, gaining a perspective as to where everything was, preparing himself.

"There are no personal calls on this mission as far as I'm concerned," Borya said. "I like to know what everyone is doing. And now I know you are trying to get us all killed."

"It's a harsh world out there, Borya." Diedrich's eyes narrowed and darkened. "We must all look out for our own interests."

"On this mission, we were supposed to put aside our personal agenda," Borya said.

"You maybe, not me."

"I began to suspect you each time you killed people we needed to interrogate. You made me think you wanted this mission to fail. But you not only want the mission to fail, you want to see us all wind up dead."

"I'd rather be on the winning side," Diedrich replied with a smirk.

"You'd better be on my side," Borya said. "It's a lot safer for you."

"Borya, mein freund," Diedrich said in a pleasant tone while walking over to where the Russian was seated, "even if this mission succeeds, there are too many ways the pot must be split up. Let me explain to you what we must do to maximize our return on investment."

"You sound like a banker, not a mercenary," Borya replied.

Diedrich laughed and patted Borya on the shoulder as he moved behind him.

Suddenly the big German looped a thin piece of wire around Borya's neck and pulled hard on the ends. Borya was caught off guard. He tried to stand but Diedrich pressed all his weight on Borya's back. Borya's face changed from beet red to purple as the wire tightened. He tried to scream, but only a squeak came out. Diedrich laughed maniacally.

Borya tried to put his finger between the garrote and his neck, but found it impossible. He shifted his weight on the chair, trying to tip it over. Diedrich compensated by shifting his weight to the other side.

"You fool!" Diedrich laughed. "Your tricks are as old as the mountains. Don't you have anything more interesting for me?"

Borya tried to grab Diedrich's face, but Diedrich leaned away. Borya attempted to grab Diedrich's hands and pull them apart but by then his strength was ebbing and he failed.

Diedrich pulled harder on the garrote. Instead of becoming tired, he was applying more and more pressure.

Just as he was about to black out, Borya remembered something. He lurched for the knife that Diedrich carried in his boot. He managed to pull it out, reached back behind his head, and plunge the blade deep into Diedrich's shoulder.

Diedrich just laughed and used the adrenaline rush to twist the garrote harder.

Borya struck again, this time in the heart. The big German gasped and staggered backwards into a chair, clutching at the knife handle. Borya slipped off the chair and fell to his knees. He undid the garrote, gasping for air, then stood, turned, and kicked Diedrich's chair over, spilling his lifeless body to the ground.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Tunis, Tunisia

The five of them sat at a lake-front restaurant in Sidi Dhrif, four miles east of city center Tunis. The sky overhead was filled with stratus clouds. Waves rolled up almost silently, washing the rocks along the beach. The sun was quickly falling to the horizon, giving way to the evening, a half moon, and a thousand stars.

As the heat of the day subsided, Tunis came alive. On Lake Tunis the boats turned on neon lights that glowed red, blue and green. Couples, families and tourists filled the sidewalks of Rue du Maroc savoring the breeze off the lake.

It was a popular place: filled with patrons from many countries. Paul overheard conversations in French, Arabic, Russian and Italian. Very eclectic, he thought, and very good for our cover.

The table at Café Sat Sat was loaded with food and drink: steaming pots of lamb, chicken, grouper and hare simmered in bay leaves, salted butter, bell peppers, Spanish onions and garlic. Only Borya was really hungry. The rest just picked at their food.

Simon had touched down with Alex, Borya, and Julien at the Aeroport Tunis Carthage terminal two hours earlier. Paul arrived six hours before them and reconnoitered the city.

"Tell me again how it went down?" Paul asked, looking for inconsistencies in Borya's story. He had seated himself next to Borya to catch the inflection in his voice and in his facial and bodily expression.

"I found out Diedrich was the leak," Borya explained between bites of Tandori chicken. "He was greedy; wanted more than one share. He tried to kill me. Look here!" he insisted, pulling his collar down to show the others the wire marks on his throat.

"And how did you manage to kill a man who killed people for a living?" Alex asked, her suspicions radar on high alert.

"He was overconfident," Borya said. "I was able to grab his knife and I managed to stab him just before I was about to lose consciousness."

"What did you do with the body?" Paul asked, still suspicious.

"I called my friends in the sanitation business. They sent out a truck and we dumped him in with the other trash."

"Germans; Russians," Paul said. "It's been this way for fifty years. Who killed first gets killed. And it would go all the way back to their ancestors if the killers had a map like the one people in Hollywood use to find the homes of the stars."

"It's done," Simon said, "and all for the better. Three times Diedrich killed men we needed information from. He was a detriment to our mission and he put our lives at risk. We haven't got time for remorse. Now, let's move on. Where do we go from here?"

"Rija is holed up at the Abid hotel," Julien replied. "He has used his cell phone three times. More than enough for me to confirm his position."

"I already checked it out," Paul said. "It's a flea bag, drug-infested, shit box place about two clicks from here."

"Sounds like four stars in Tunis," Alex said in jest.

Paul, Simon and Julien laughed out loud; Borya just grunted.

"I bought a dashiki at the local market and wander by the hotel a few times," Paul related. "He's got maybe twenty people with him: all nasty Arab types. He hasn't come out since I got here but I saw him walk by a window, as nervous as a cat lying behind a rocking chair."

"Now then, let's run through it one more time, shall we?" Paul suggested. "Julien, what's your job?"

"I capture Rija's cell phone number and--."

"How can you do that?" Simon asked.

"I sit within one hundred feet of the hotel," the Frenchman said, dipping a piece of hard black bread in olive oil. "The first time someone uses that cell phone the number will come up on my laptop."

"What if someone else uses a cell phone from that same location?" Alex asked.

"I downloaded the floor plan of the hotel. We already know he is on the third floor. My computer tells me which floor, even which room, the user is in," Julien said, as if he were playing a game of checkers, not life and death.

"Okay, then what?" Paul pressed.

"I give Simon Rija's cell phone number," Julien replied. He stopped to take a sip of red wine, then set it back gingerly on the table. "Simon tells Rija that his location has been found by the American and he must leave Tunis right away. Operation Black Bear needs him to go to meet a man in Nalut, Libya. He must drive: no airports or buses."

"Then?" Paul coaxed.

"I track him as he moves south out of Tunis, relaying that information to all of you," Julien replied.

"Next," Paul said, nodding to Simon.

With a sigh, from having been through it too many times, Simon put down his leg of lamb. "Aw rite. I wait until he's at least five miles outside of town. I follow along until we reach a wide out where I can pass him and run his sorry ass off the road."

"And you, Alex?" Paul asked. Nobody else seemed to notice the looks between the two of them. When he stared at Alex, the coldness was gone from his eyes. When she looked at him she couldn't hold his gaze. Paul's voice was flat when he spoke to the others, but animated when he spoke to Alex. Her voice was an octave higher for him only. They queried each other about their roles, in a way voicing concern for each other's safety without using the words.

"I ride with you, Paul," she said, nodding at him. "Load the weapons, fill the extra clips.

"Borya, let's hear from you."

Reluctantly, Borya set down his fork, pushed all the food into one cheek, then spoke out the other side of his mouth. "After Simon stops the van, I get out and use the heavy artillery to kill everybody." He laughed so hard he had to spit food out of his mouth to keep from choking.

"Alex?" Paul queried.

"I back up Simon."

"Julien?"

"I monitor all police bands," the Frenchman replied, "and pin-point Rija's location for you as he leaves town." Julien stopped to light up a cigarette before continuing. "I intercept all of his calls. He talks to no one but Simon, who, in this case, is an agent of Black Bear." Julien stopped to think. "But I can help more by being with you at the takedown."

"I've told you before, Julien, there's only one person who's indispensable, and that's you. If anything goes wrong, you can tell us where the police are, or where Rija might escape to. No, you stay in town, seated at one of those pleasant cafes along the lake.

"Simon?"

"After Borya does his thing, I step in with you and drag the target out of the car and deposit him in the back of our van."

"Alex?" Paul asked.

"If something goes wrong and somebody takes Simon down, I help you escort Rija to the van," Alex said.

"We head back to the airport as soon as we're loaded," Paul said. "Simon, are we cleared to take off without inspection?"

"It's amazing how far a few Dinars go in this country," Simon said. He leaned back in his chair and took a long slip of wine. "Easy as pie, mate."

"Very good," Borya said. "Now all we have to do is live long enough to get paid."

* * *

Julien took a position at the coffee house across the street from Rija's hotel. It didn't take long for the fat man to use his cell phone and for Julien to capture the number. He relayed the information to Simon who barked out the new instructions from Black Bear.

Activity at the hotel picked up immediately. A caravan of banged-up Toyota cars and pickups pulled up to the front entrance. It was a menagerie of vehicles that in America would be relegated to the demolition derby. They were covered in dust, smoking out the tail pipes like chimneys on a cold British day, as they sat idling, ready to leave from the barely standing Abid hotel.

There were a dozen men in the cars and on the sidewalk, others remained in the lobby awaiting the Grand Emir of Mishigas. The locals were nowhere to be seen. They were aware that something was up: something usual, like people about to be killed.

Rija's men seemed more prepared that the vehicles they were depending on. They were big men, dressed in Western garb, carrying very serious fire power. Julien noted. MAC-10s, M4a1 close quarters automatic rife with grenade launcher, and your every day, reliable Kalashnikov rifles.

Rija peeked out from the lobby and nodded. Immediately he was escorted to his Toyota Corolla by several burley men. The others piled into the remaining cars and trucks and the caravan quickly sped off.

As soon as they pulled away from the sidewalk, Julien notified Simon who called Rija a second time. "You fool," Simon said in Fārsi, "you attract too much attention with all those men and cars!"

"But how do you know--?"

"I know everything, you pig! I know what you ate for breakfast!"

In the back of the rented van, Simon quickly dressed as he spoke to Rija. He slipped on a thobe: a white cotton dress going to the ankles. It had large triangular sleeves tied back with a cord.

"But--," Rija implored.

"Couscous, you tub of lard! You had a double helping!"

"I--."

"The tray bent under the weight of the food!" Simon insisted.

"How--?"

Over his thobe Simon put on a striped kibr open down front with shoulder straps.

"And baklava for dessert."

"But--."

"Your bathroom smells like someone died in there!"

Over the kibr, Simon slipped on a sleeveless coat: an aba. On his head he placed a kufeya held in place with an igal of camel wool.

"I can explain!" Rija pleaded.

"Explain why your bowels no longer work!"

"Please, allow me to--."

"No! You fool! Just listen. You are now headed south on Avenue Habib Bourguiba."

"But it is impossible for you to know that!" Rija pleaded.

"I have eyes in the sky, behind every door, even your most trusted advisors answer to me!"

"I do not under--."

"Of course not, you idiot! Now radio some of your men to return to Tunis and wait for further instructions."

"Yes, sir, I will--."

Simon hung up because he was laughing so hard he couldn't continue the conversation.

Quickly, three of the cars in Rija's caravan veered off, turned around, and headed back to Tunis. The rest continued south on Habib Bourguiba, past Carthage, on the long roadway that ran adjacent to the beach. It was the main thoroughfare for cars, with bazaars for tourists lining much of the road, but ending before the edge of town.

Julien moved from the coffee shop in front of Rija's hotel to an Internet café where he would be less conspicuous. He had his laptop in front of him, wearing a headset. Seated around him were a dozen people of all ages typing away on laptops, or chattering like crazy on their cell phones. The mood was ebullient at the café. People in jeans and t-shirts mixed seamlessly with those in traditional garb. Conversations readily switched from Farsi to English. Young boys jumped from table to table, peeking over the shoulder of a friend to see what the latest news was.

Julien watched Rija's progress and the proximity of Simon, Paul, Borya and Alex on his laptop. "They just passed mile marker fourteen," Julien said into his headset. "There is a turn-around at mile marker seventeen. That is the perfect place for Monsieur Simon to cut them off."

"In position," Simon replied. "Half mile back of the caravan."

"Alex and I are half mile behind Simon," Paul replied.

Alex sat behind Paul readying a small arsenal of weapons: M1014 Combat Shotgun, MK 19 grenade machine gun, Uzi with thirty round clip and GSh-18 lightweight handgun with armor piercing shells.

Borya, driving a battered-up Ford sedan, asked Alex and Paul over the headset, "Can we attack them soon? I haven't killed anyone lately."

"How about Diedrich?" Alex asked.

"That was personal; this is business," Borya replied.

Simon gunned the van. He began passing the caravan of cars, gave Rija the finger, and said in Farsi, "Get out of the way you fat pig!"

A few seconds later, Simon got along side the lead car of the caravan, an E-320, and slammed into it. As the two cars ground together, Simon pushed the Mercedes into a ditch on the side of the road. He then pulled the wheel hard and skidded sideways, blocking the highway.

Rija's bodyguards got out of the car with their guns drawn. Simon grabbed an Uzi, jumped out of the van, and made his way around the side.

Paul and Borya pulled their vehicles to a stop right behind Rija's entourage, blocking any retreat.

Borya hit the trunk release, ran around to the back, and took out a Korean USAS-12 fully automatic, gas operated, twelve gauge shotgun with a twenty round detachable drum magazine.

"It's show time!" he yelled, then put in earplugs and obliterated the last two cars and every one standing outside or seated in them. Each round sounded more like a bomb than a bullet. The ground shook when a shot hit a car. The cries of the men were horrific, even as Borya hooped and hollered.

Alex jumped out of Paul's car with her Uzi and shot down the men running toward Simon, who was in danger of being out-flanked. She crouched and made her way to the front where she joined Simon.

Paul fired the GSh-18, shooting out the radiators of all the cars in the caravan. He left the killing to Alex and Borya. They seemed to like it more than he did. Paul waited for his opportunity to get to Rija's car and grab the man.

Borya reached in the back of his car, grabbed a large, circular refill housing for the shotgun, slammed it in place and opened fire, blasting huge holes in men and cars. Door windows and windshields exploded, sending glass flying in every direction. The hoods of the cars flew open when the latches were hit by errant rounds. Machine gun fire from both sides was deafening.

Men were still pouring from the cars, but most were cut down - by Alex and Simon in front and Borya in back - as soon as they got out. The remaining bodyguards took defensive positions behind car doors. Simon and Paul rushed to Rija's car and pulled the stunned man out. He was in shock but not wounded.

Some of the bodyguards were still able to fire back. On pulled out a rocket launcher, which he pointed at Borya. But before he could fire, Borya blasted a hole in his chest with a round from the shotgun. The shot caused the man to spasm. He squeezed the trigger and the missile went almost straight up in the air - with a whoosh like an Atlas rocket on a launch pad - landing harmlessly two hundred yards away on the side of the steep hill to the west of the highway.

Alex and Borya covered Paul and Simon as they dragged Rija, kicking and screaming profanities in Arabic, to the opposite side of the van, away from the shooting.

The remaining bodyguards were warriors. They did not retreat or surrender, but regrouped. They had guns in both hands, using a weapon until it was out of bullets and then discarding it in favor of a new one.

In the midst of blazing gunfire, Alex and Borya reloaded, so fast that they barely skipped a beat: a fifty round clip for Alex's Uzi, a twenty round magazine for Borya's automatic shotgun. Instantly, four of the body guards went down in the face of superior weaponry.

A round punctured a gas tank. The second round set the fuel on fire, then came the explosion that lifted the car three feet in the air. When it landed, the car was in two pieces.

The remaining two gave up the battle, turned on their heels, and ran for the cover of the rocks on the adjacent hill.

Simon and Paul lifted Rija to a sitting position when a loud crack rang out. Rija was ripped from their grip, bleeding from a fatal wound to his chest.

Both Paul and Alex turned to where the flash of fire came from. Borya reached into the trunk for the British sniper's rifle, took aim, and fired a single shot. The man, a half-mile away, fell forward into a pile of rocks ten feet below. For Paul, whoever he was, and how he anticipated where their attack would take place, were questions to be filed away for a later date.

"You might as well tell us what we need to know, Rija," Paul said. "You're not going to be here for very long."

His body stiffened. The hair on his head was matted with sweat. His puffed features twisted out of shape. Rija's eyes were wide, in shock, stretching the skin on his face. In a reply laced with anger, he said, "Fuck you!" in perfect English.

"Ah, so you've mastered the universal language," Paul said.

Simon and Borya rushed to the side of the van where Rija laid bleeding and dying as sirens grew closer.

"We've got to get out of here, mate," Simon yelled to Paul over the sound of burning cars and crackling metal.

"Not until we get what we came for," Paul said.

"The gun fire put our vehicles out of commission," Simon said. "We're on foot!"

A van, coming from the opposite direction, came to a screeching halt a few feet in front of them. Julien jumped out and ran to the side of the others.

Paul knelt down over Rija as the sirens got louder.

"We've been crossed," Alex said. "Whoever these people are they've been one step ahead of us since we left London."

The sirens reached a crescendo as a group of four Tunis police cars arrived. They piled out of their cars, weapons drawn. Between the police and Paul, Julien, Simon, Alex and Borya lay the burned out wrecks of six cars and trucks. Borya had the cops pinned down by superior fire power while Paul spoke to a dying Rija.

"Tell me who you answer to, Rija, where he is, and what his plans are."

Rija's breathing was audible and labored. Sweat trickledown from his forehead to his cheeks and neck. With a grim smile, he pointed to his head. "In here."

"Then you better find it in your heart to tell me, Rija, because while your death is inevitable, it still isn't decided how painful it's going to be."

Paul leaned in and said to Rija, "Alex here is going to convert you Judaism before you die, then circumcise you. And instead of seventy vessel virgins in heaven, you'll be reading from the torah for the next thousand years and taking it up the ass from every Jew your people ever killed."

"You are an infidel. You know nothing of the after life."

"Are you willing to bet an eternity on it?"

Rija looked at Paul, then blinked. He pulled Paul in and whispered in his ear. He let go of his grip on Paul's shirt; his head fell back; he was dead.

"Now would be a good time to get the fuck out of here," Julien suggested, standing outside the running van.

The police tried to outflank Borya. Anticipating their moves, he took out a grenade, pulled the pin, and rolled it across the ground, beneath the car, as the police approached. Seconds later, the car exploded. The sedan was thrown up on its side, burning, black plums of smoke fowled the air. The police fired off enough rounds to cover their retreat, then turned and fled back to the cover of their cars. They opened the doors and crouched behind them.

But one of their errant shots hit Julien in the back. He cried out as he slumped to the ground. Simon lifted Julien, placed him as carefully as he could in the back of the van and laid him flat on the floor. The rest of the team piled in the side and rear doors.

Before the police could regroup, Simon floored the van and took off in the opposite direction. All at once, the team looked back on the remains of the battle: dead bodies, broken glass, and the flaming, smoking hulk of cars and pickup trucks strewn across both lanes of the highway.

"Simon," Paul said. "You need to take off the minute you get to the airport. Call ahead and make sure you've got priority clearance."

"We've got some time," Julien explained, woozy but still awake and coherent.

"How do you figure that?" Alex asked. "They'll have the airport under surveillance by the time we get there."

"I do not think so, mon ami," Julien said proudly. "I reprogrammed their radios to different channels. They may be talking to somebody, but it won't be to other cops."

"Who, then?" Borya asked.

Julien coughed painfully, then sucked in enough air to reply. "Maybe the bird sanctuary, sanitation department, maybe an internet café."

"Aw rite, mate," Simon said, already dialing his cell phone. "But what did you mean by 'you,' Paul? What about us."

"I can't explain everything right now." Paul opened up his duffle bag and took out an emergency medical kit. He then stuck a syringe into Julien's arm which took three tries as the van bounded down the highway. Each turn created enough force to throw them to one side of the vehicle, then the other. Paul tended to Julien's wound to the amazement of the others. "There are parts of this mission that I have to take on alone."

"It looks like you actually know what the fuck you're doing," Julien said.

Paul hooked Julien up to a bottle of plasma hanging on a hook from the ceiling.

"What's that, mon ami?" Julien asked.

"It's a cocktail. Mostly morphine, cut with a little speed because we might need you coherent...just in case."

"I'll be fine," Julien assured. "You can count on me."

"The people we'll be going after will be a lot more capable than the ones we've faced so far," Paul said to the other while he worked at a feverish pace.

"After what we've been through, that damn computer better be priceless," Borya added.

* * *

"You risked your life back there," Paul said to Julien.

"What I did back there I did because we're working together; we're on the same team."

They reached the outskirts of Tunis.

"I'll get out here," Paul said.

"What's this all about?" Borya asked. "I thought we were staying together?"

"I need you all to get medical care for Julien. But make sure the doctor doesn't put him under. Tell him to use a local anesthetic. Otherwise they'll shoot him up with enough drugs to turn him into a statue. I can't have him incommunicado for ten to twelve hours."

The van slowed to a crawl in heavy traffic.

"And what are we supposed to do in the mean time?" Alex asked.

"Get to the warehouse in Ankara and wait for my call," Paul instructed.

"What did Rija tell you?" Simon asked.

"Enough to follow a hunch; not enough to tie us all up in a wild goose chase. Besides, the police will be looking for a group of foreigners. It's safer for one person, me, traveling alone. And Julien's going to need professional care to stay alive. What I did was a stop-gap," Paul said, reaching for the door handle. He bent over, slid the door open and jumped out. "You've got a narrow window of opportunity to fly out of here. Let's not waste time talking. Now get going. I'll be in touch." He slammed the door, banged on the side of the van, and watched it speed off, tires smoking, hoping it wasn't the last time he would see them.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

The Oval Office. Washington, D.C.

Gathered in the office with the president were Vice-President Cummings, Army Chief of Staff McAdams, Naval Chief O'Conner, Air Force Commander Bruster, Marine Commandant Cody, Joint Chiefs Chairman Zinn, SAC Commander Meyers, and NSA Director Reynolds.

"Commander Meyers," Paulson said to the SAC chief, "how long of a process is it to take the missiles off line?" He leaned over his desk to make sure the general knew he was already suspicious of collusion between the militaries.

''Sir," the officer said, his posture as rigid as his thinking, "it's only been done one missile at a time before. If we extrapolate that procedure for ten thousand warheads, it could be weeks, and that wouldn't include the subs."

"Commander, are you stalling?" Paulson asked, looking at Meyers askance.

"No, sir," he said, looking straight ahead, avoiding the commander-in-chief's gaze.

"So how would we handle the subs?" Paulson asked, watching for tell-tale signs.

"Sir. They only surface for new instruction once every ten days. They will not respond to orders between those times, sir."

"How many nuclear subs are there?"

"There are seventy-five, sir," Meyers replied like he was talking to a subordinate. "But not all of them carry ballistic missiles. There are eighteen Ohio class ballistic missile subs, five Virginia class attack subs, three Seawolf class attack subs and forty-nine Los Angeles class attack submarines."

"That's all well and good, commander, but I want those subs to stand down and I want you to give the order!"

"But sir, we can't just--."

"I don't want to hear buts, commander," the president exclaimed in a raised voice. He banged his fist on the desk. "If you can't execute the order, then I'll bring in someone in who can."

"Sir. We have procedures to follow in the military," Meyers explained derogatorily. "We can't just circumvent the rules and regulations that have enabled us to have the safest, and most powerful military force in the world."

"I'm not interested in you opinions or conclusions. Do it now!"

"Sir," Meyers said, "I will not give orders to my men and put their lives in jeopardy with no way to defend themselves. These men enlisted with the promise and intent to protect their nation, and to also defend themselves from attack. You're asking me to place those men in an untenable position,"

"Admiral Zinn, I want you to order this man to follow my directive," Paulson said, pointing an accusatory finger at the CJCS.

"No, sir," Zinn replied. "I will not endanger the men under my command. Nor will I order others to do so."

"General," the president said, pointing to the Secretary of the Air Force, "I order you to take those missiles and subs off line."

"Sir," the general said, "I will give up my commission before I do that, sir!"

"Is there anyone here who will follow my orders?" Paulson asked, craning his head around the room to make deliberate eye contact with all those present.

McAdams stepped forward. "Yes, sir, Mr. President," he said, "I will obey the orders of the Commander-in-Chief."

"Very good, soldier, then carry them out immediately!"

"Yes, sir, but I'll need the authorization codes to reach the various bases and commanders and have them follow your orders."

"And where do you get those?" Paulson demanded.

"From the same men you just spoke to, sir."

The president's face turned beet red. His eyes were as large as silver dollars and sweat accumulated on his forehead. "God damn it, isn't there anyone who takes orders anymore?" His hands clenched into fists and his eyes caught fire as he stared at the generals.

"Mr. President," Vice-President Harold Cummings said calmly, "this is a Communist trap. We've known for months that they have been trying to tap into our missile defense system. I believe, and much of the military in this room agrees," he said, looking from general to general and getting nods from each and every one of them, "that to take the missiles off line is suicide. The Commies are preparing to attack the moment we do it. The only way to protect our democracy is to order a preemptive attack."

"I will give no such order, Mr. Vice President," Paulson said, pushing back his chair to get out of Cummings' space.

"Mr. President," Cummings announced standing up straight, "if you proceed with your plan to have our land-based missiles and nuclear subs rendered inoperable, then I will invoke the 25th Amendment of the Constitution, ratified in 1967, Article II, Section 1 – which provides that in case of the removal of the president from office, or of his death, resignation, or inability to discharge the powers and duties of the said office, the same shall devolve on the vice-president...until the disability be removed, or a president elected."

Paulson looked around the room, trying to determine the men who would follow his orders and those that would side with the vice-president. The odds were about even. Some of the senior generals had the red of hatred and rebellion in their eyes. They would be willing to follow Cummings. The middle range officers, major generals, brigadiers, and colonels were vacillating. He decided he didn't have a majority at that moment and wondered if he had lost control of the office of the presidency.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Cairo, Egypt

Cairo, al-Qāhira: "The Conqueror," the capital of Egypt; the largest city in Africa and the Arab World, and one of the most densely populated cities in the world. Nicknamed "The City of a Thousand Minarets" for its preponderance of Islamic architecture.

Cairo was the eleventh-largest urban area in the world with a population of more than twenty million. Paul hoped he could be absorbed into those masses, then disappear just as easily after his work was done.

With his duffle bag full and heavy, Paul had taken the circuitous route to his destination. He caught a bus to Algeria, then a plane to Libya, and then on to Cairo. From the airport, he took a bus, not wanting to leave a paper trail. He could not afford to have a tail on himself while he was on the trail of others.

He got off the bus a kilometer before his final destination and waited a moment for a car directly behind the bus to turn a corner and speed away. Paul headed out on foot, moving through the old city, down twisting, turning, back streets. It was quiet, almost deserted, when a testosterone-crazed local whipped his motor scooter through the alley, engine whining. Paul had to flatten out against the wall to avoid being hit.

He continued down yet another side street, where not even a compact car could go, and came to a neighborhood of three-story apartment buildings. They were badly in need of repair, with plaster falling off the front façades, roof tiles missing, the metal bars on the windows almost rusted through. People had set up their balconies as kitchens, strung lines to hang wet clothes on, and commiserate with neighbors above, below, and next door who conducted their lives the same way as they had for centuries. Modernity barely made a mark on their culture.

Paul tapped on a metal door leading to the apartments above. "Hajji," he called.

A man on the third floor leaned out over the balcony. He had a gray flowing beard that dipped a foot below the railing. His hair was like the mane of a lion: shaggy, thick, unkempt. He gave Paul a broad, gapped-tooth smile. "Enter, my brother!" he exclaimed.

Paul pushed the door open. The smell of couscous, lamb, and herbs overwhelmed his senses. Damn, they must be using the stuff as potpourri, he thought.

He climbed the narrow, twisting steps, dragging his bag behind him. It was as dark as night in the stairwell with no light from the outside or bulbs on the inside. Children ran up and down the steps, screaming at one another, playing games with imaginary toys, laughing in the face of poverty, and with no TV, oblivious as to how much those in the West had and how little they possessed.

At the top of the stairs, Hajji welcomed him with a powerful hug. He was a big man by middle-east standards: over six foot tall, with broad shoulders and hands as big as a third baseman's glove. He wore a simple white tunic and leather sandals.

"I'm lucky you're still around," Paul said.

"Neither God nor the devil would take me in, so here I am," Hajji said with a laugh. He pulled Paul into his apartment and closed the door. "Now, tell, my friend, how are you?"

"I'm fine, but in need of your expertise."

"I have many skills," he said, going over to the stove to heat up some tea. "Which do I need to share with you?"

"Its--."

"Ah, first we must sit and have tea. Once we catch up on the old, we can discuss the new!"

"Where can I set this?" Paul asked, shaking his bag.

"Oh, I see what business you are interested in undertaking. Or is it with the undertaker?" Hajji added with a laugh. "English humor. Inscrutable."

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Ankara, Turkey

Twelve hours earlier, Simon, Alex, Borya and Julien landed in Ankara. Thanks to Simon's connections, they by-passed customs without a hitch. Julien was still bleeding, although somewhat staunched by Paul's triage. They needed real medical help...fast.

After the four hour, twelve-hundred and forty-five mile flight from Tunis to Aklara, the four of them quickly made their way to the van they had left at the airport and headed south on the D-180 highway to the Namik Kemai Mh neighborhood on the outskirts of Ankara.

They made one stop on the way from the airport to the house for a doctor Borya used previously. A man who knew a lot about medicine, and how to keep his mouth shut. He attended to Julien who was now stitched up and provided with pain killers but not sedated. It was 1:00 a.m. by the time they were settled in.

No one said much while Julien's condition was still precarious. But after they got the Frenchman settled in, the semblance of peace did not last long. Pent up frustration quickly broke out with Borya leading the tirade. He kicked a box of ammunition and pushed a MAC-10 and an Uzi off the table and onto the floor.

"We do all the heavy lifting," Borya said, stomping around the room like a bull in an arena, "and now Paul is somewhere probably making a deal, and then he walks off with the money while we sit here scratching our asses."

"Paul's done lots of operations," Alex insisted, picking the guns off the floor and setting them back on the table, "and no one's ever got screwed."

"Fine. You think whatever you like," Borya spat. "But that was then and this is now. I don't care what it takes, I want to be the one who gets the asset and puts it into the hands of the people who are going to pay us a great deal of money when we do."

"Okay, okay," Simon said, stepping forward. "Let's focus on what we can do while Paul checks out his lead. Finding this package is a thing easier said than done. We don't even know what form it's in now." He then looked at Alex for direction.

"They may have already extracted the contents," Alex said, "digitized it, and tossed the package it came in."

"Oh, now that's fuckin' helpful!" Borya said. "You and Paul go back a long way, Alex. Now you're saying you don't know shit. Well I don't believe it. I think you know what's really going on."

"I don't know any more than you," Alex insisted, keeping Borya in her line of sight as she and the Russian moved slowly around the table, each trying to get an advantage on one-another.

"If that briefcase is worth enough for Paul to pay us thousands in gold, then it's worth millions to the people he's going to sell it to," Borya said, searching the table for the most available weapons.

"He's not going to sell it;" Alex said, "he's going to return it."

"And I don't believe you," Borya decided, grabbing a gun off the table and, in the blink of an eye, pointing it at Alex's head.

But as fast as he was, Alex was just as fast. In an instant she had her gun drawn and jammed into his stomach. Alex went feral, pressing the gun so far into Borya's gut it was almost swallowed up. Her voice went up two octaves. "You go and shoot me if you want, Borya, but you'll be dead before I hit the ground."

Matching her intensity, Borya replied, "I don't want you dead; I want the truth!"

Simon had the two of them covered with his gun. He could shoot either Alex or Borya, but not both at the same time. With a cool voice, Simon said, "We don't need this shit right now. We've got more important things to do than work on old vendettas." He stepped in between the two, forcing them each back a few feet. "Put your guns down and chill out."

Borya and Alex lowered their weapons, followed by Simon.

"Like it or not, we're on the same side," Simon said. "We're here and the package isn't." He looked at Alex. "None of us is the boss; we're all partners. So if you know something, Alex, tell us so we can figure a way out of this mess."

"I don't know anything more than you," Alex insisted, keeping that information to herself. "Without Paul, we're not going anywhere."

"Bullshit!" Borya bellowed.

"Well I don't!" Alex yelled. "It's a goddamned mystery to me just like it is to you. We might be fighting the Russian Mafia, al Qaeda, Iran, Syria, the Palestinians, and who knows who the hell else."

"We need to trust each other or we're not going to succeed on this mission," Simon said.

"Mossad," Borya yelled, pointing his hand at Alex. "That's who you're working for; or Shin Bet. Professional killers: babies, old women, children who throw stones at tanks. That's quite a resume."

"My job was going after pigs like you who supply guns to rebels like Bagarsora in Rwanda, Mugabe in Zimbabwe, Harun in Darfur, Charles Traylor in Liberia, al Bashir in the Sudan," Alex shot back.

"How do we know that you're not going to meet Paul and finish the deal without us?" Borya asked.

"Because if she was going to do that, she would have gone along with Paul instead of sitting here with us," Simon said in Alex's defense. "And I've known her longer than I've known you. And that goes for trust, too."

"You talk about me," Borya said, "but why don't you ask Alex, here? I know damn well she has her own agenda!"

"And how about you, Borya?" Alex asked. "You the point man for Russia? The Russians have the capital to finance a run for the briefcase. We were all supposed to be neutral. Diedrich must have been on to you and you killed him when he found you out."

"I never trusted that German," Borya said. "And I never asked to work with him."

"The question still remains: what do we do now?" Simon said.

"We ask Borya's cell phone," Julien said, standing on wobbly legs just outside his bedroom.

"Borya's cell phone?" Simon asked.

They all saw that Julien had figured something out. "Borya's cell phone," Julien said again, taking a few more tentative steps toward the center of the room.

"And what?" Simon asked. "Wait until some one calls him and listen in to the conversation?"

"It's his previous calls I'm most interested in," Julien said, as he made it to the table and held on to the back of a chair.

"I suspected Borya from the start. So I put a request in to my contacts in The Direction Générale de la Sécurité Extérieure. They had quite a file on him. I asked them to intercept his calls."

Borya edged away from the three of them, trying to gain as much separation as he could without being too noticeable.

"Borya's been communicating with people in the old Eastern Bloc countries, Russia, and Chechnya. He's playing both ends against the middle."

"Why didn't you tell us when we were in Tunisia?" Alex asked.

"I didn't get an answer until I got back here," Julien explained.

"I knew it," Alex said. "He's got no allegiance and no conscience."

"When he was a spy he lived the life," Julien said. "You know, a prince in some Eastern Bloc country where nobody had shit and Borya had everything. Then the wall comes down. No more Cold War. And Borya is out of a job. No apartment, no special stores with Western food and DVDs."

"But how about all the money he makes from arms smuggling?" Simon asked.

"Borya works for people who supply the weapons and provide the contacts. He's just an errand boy."

"What else did you find out?" Simon asked with a sense of urgency.

"That Borya is supposed to report on our progress," Julien said.

"To who?" Alex asked.

"That I don't know," Julien said.

While they spoke, Borya backed his way to the door. He took one step for each new revelation. He watched Simon and Alex. They weren't looking at him; they were paying attention to Julien.

When Borya was as close to the door as he thought he could get, he pulled out a Glock that was tucked in the back of his pants.

Before the others could react, he fired out the lights, kicked the door, and burst out into the blackness.

Alex and Simon grabbed their guns and raced out, just seconds behind Borya. But when they got outside, he was gone. There was a stillness broken only by chirping of crickets.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Cairo, Egypt

Talaat Harb Square in the northeast section of Cairo was composed of small, locally owned shops catering to those who didn't even have money for transportation to the big malls so prevalent in Cairo. They offered fresh fruits and vegetables, meats, magazines, newspapers and lottery tickets: the only means of escaping endemic poverty.

Store fronts were no more than a few baskets of goods, a box of shaved ice, a clothes rack on wheels, or a series of cardboard boxes piled one atop another.

Hajji and Paul looked down the street from their vantage point just around the corner from their destination.

"How does it look to you, Hajji?" Paul asked.

The big man looked at his watch. "Three p.m. Very normal for this time of day. People stay inside during the heat of the afternoon. Come sunset, these streets will be very busy. This is a good time to pick out people who do not belong in this neighbor-hood."

"I need you to take a table on the veranda of that coffee shop," Paul said, pointing to a building directly across from his intended target.

"And do what?"

"I don't know if I can really trust this guy. He's a spook, semi-retired, but you know the old saying, 'once a spook always a spook.' He might be setting me up. If some people show up who look out of place, text me on the cell phone, then shoot off a couple of rounds in the air. They'll think there's more than just me, and they might retreat and take up defensive positions. If we have to split up, where should we meet afterwards?"

"There's a GAD restaurant one mile east of here," Hajji said.

"Yeah, I know it," Paul replied.

"A wonderful place to go after killing someone; very authentic," Hajji decided. "You'll love it! It's fast food, done Egyptian Style. Usually very busy, packed with locals and foreigners. A very good place to disappear. But now I must go to establish my position."

Paul waited at the corner until Hajji set himself up on the second floor balcony. When Hajji nodded to him, Paul walked across the street to Number One Talaat Harb Square: The Talaat Bookshop; a rat trap of an old building, tilted, leaning against its neighbor like a drunk on Saturday night. The windows were so grimy one had to guess what was being sold inside.

Paul stood outside for a moment, taking it all in. It may not have been pretty, but in days gone by, the place and the proprietor had given him valuable information, some of which may have even saved Paul's life.

He pushed hard on the warped wooden entrance of the shop. The door creaked open, setting off the bell ringer. A tall, gaunt, disheveled man - on a ladder placing books on one of the few shelves that was not overflowing - glanced down.

"Help me find space...or more customers," he said, before even a formal hello was exchanged.

"Don't ask me, Andre," Paul replied, looking around the store to see if anything had changed in the ten years since he had last been there. Pretty much the same he concluded: shelves still bulging, with no apparent order of things, except in Andre's mind. If he died, no one could ever make sense of things and the store would have to close.

The register was ancient: a mechanical pull handle and large buttons for dollars and cents. Receipts were extra. In the back, behind a flimsy cloth curtain was Andre's home: a bunk bed, two burner stove, refrigerator, and a wash basin that doubled as a kitchen sink.

"Don't ask you what?" Andre inquired.

"How to make a legitimate living," Paul replied.

Andre Gustafson had been operating in Cairo for almost forty years. He arrived there as a spy, but was now a fixture in the city. He was MI6 in the sixties, seventies, and eighties, retired just after the collapse of the Soviet Union. Then set up his shop and never regretted the decision.

"I don't think legitimate and making a living go together," Andre replied.

Just to keep his fingers nimble, Andre dabbled in spying; acting as a conduit for competing agents and money launderers. He managed to keep his nose clean and out of trouble and ran a respectable business, at least in the front of the store.

Andre was meticulous in his care and knowledge of his books, but was inept when it came to himself and personal hygiene. But Paul didn't go there for hugs and kisses.

Andre got down off his ladder. "Let's go in here, Paul," he said, walking into his small kitchen in the back of the bookstore.

Andre poured two cups of dark, thick Moroccan coffee from a kettle on the stove. "Do you want something stronger?"

"No thanks, I'm working."

"That didn't stop you before."

Paul sighed, then nodded. "It almost got me killed...several times."

"Then just one...for old times sake."

"Sure, what the hell," Paul replied without giving himself time to consider the consequences.

Andre spiked the coffee with rum, gave it a quick swirl with his dilettante spoon, and offered it to Paul. Paul looked at the mix still swirling in the cup and it mesmerized him. He didn't move a muscle until André said, "Cheers."

He clinked his glass with Paul's and drank. "Now, tell me what you are working on. Maybe I can help."

"You're one of the few men in the world who can help me, Andre. I'm dealing with some pretty sophisticated people. Anyone who can snatch a football from the U.S. VP deserves a lot of respect and attention."

"Do you have any leads?" Andre asked. He spotted a book that must have carried some importance. "Ah ha!" he said, moving faster than Paul had seen him do in years. Andre plucked the book off the shelf, thumbed through the pages, walked to the front, set it next to the register, then came back and sat down. Paul waited a moment until Andre settled in.

"Every time I think I've got a suspect, he winds up dead before I get a chance to question him. Were you able to come up with anything based on the information I sent you?"

Andre shrugged. "The only people talented enough to do what they did are soldiers with access to the most high-tech weapons and technology." Andre set his cup down on a pile of books, on top of an end table, but when the whole thing started to teeter, he thought better of it. He set his cup aside, lifted several of the books, then looked around for a place to put them. His eyes moved so slowly he might as well have been sleeping. He gave up and put them on the floor.

"Five years ago," Andre continued, "I would have said the men who attacked Washington could only have been funded, supplied, and sent by another nation. Maybe Iranian, Russian, North Korean, China. But now, I'm not so sure."

"Who else would be a suspect?"

"I wouldn't count out the drug cartels. They've got billions in cash and they'd love to eliminate the competition for heroin and opium; that means making Afghanistan radioactive for fifty years. They're all crazy bastards. And don't leave Taiwan off that list. They'd enjoy seeing China sink into the ocean or become a wasteland for a century."

"You know every spy who's working. I'm missing something and I hope you can fill in the blanks."

"This is a city where many diverse people feel comfortable. It is like a soup bowl as you American's say."

"A melting pot, not soup bowl," Paul explained.

"You know what I mean, Paul." Andre frowned.

"What do you know about Chechens?"

"A nasty bunch they are. Why do you ask?"

"One thing I didn't tell the investigators after the Washington raid. They weren't exactly Russian; they were Chechens."

"Do you think they could pull that off?" Andre asked, running his nicotine-stained fingers through his thinning blonde hair.

"Maybe not solely," Paul considered, taking a sip of his drink. He looked in and saw it was already empty. Who could have done that? he asked himself.

Andre was quick to react. Without asking, he took Paul's cup, refilled it will coffee and rum and handed it to Paul.

"They would have needed help," Paul considered.

"Who would help them, and why?"

"That's why I'm here. This is where every spy from every country congregates to buy and sell information. Well, I'm buying."

"And just what are you using for money?" Andre asked.

"I got an inheritance from my Great Aunt Martha," Paul deadpanned.

"Very funny. We're talking real dollars here, Paul."

"Where and how I got the money doesn't concern you. Suffice it to say it's one phone call, one bank transfer away."

"I didn't mean to pry. It's just part of my curious nature," Andre said defensively.

"Yeah, well just remember, 'curiosity got the cat tortured'."

"You mean curiosity killed the cat', don't you?"

"Do I look confused to you, Andre?"

"No."

"Good. Now that we understand one another, we can move on." Paul took his cup, trying hard no to swallow his drink in one gulp.

Andre got up, went over to the stove and refilled his cup with rum. He brought the bottle out with him and tried to pour Paul another. This time Paul put his hand firmly over the rim of the cup. Andre looked like he was going to pour the rum between Paul's fingers, but finally gave up with a shrug.

"Now, about the Chechens...?" Paul suggested.

"Do you want the Reader's Digest Version, or the whole story?"

"Just don't leave out anything important."

"Chechnya formally announced its fight for independence in 1991, saying it never joined Russia voluntarily. After a series of rebel attacks, then-Russian President Boris Yeltsin sent in forty thousand Russian troops in 1994 to quash the insurgency. Two years later, the forces withdrew after heavy losses on both sides. Russia and Chechnya declared a cease-fire.

In September 1999, rebels bombed apartment buildings in Moscow. Nearly three hundred people died. Then-Prime Minister Vladimir Putin vowed to crack down on the insurgency by sending in troops, a promise that partly ensured his election as president the following year. A second war followed from 1999 to 2009, killing an estimated fifteen thousand Russian soldiers three hundred thousand Chechens.

"The United Nations in 2002 named Chechnya's capital, Grozny, the most destroyed city on the planet," Andre continued. "The Russian's were accused of abducting relatives of rebel leaders to compel them to surrender. The Russians fear that the Chechens will gain control of a nuclear device and turn Russia into a wasteland."

"Okay. That's the Chechen connection to the Go Codes. How about Israel?" Paul asked, finally thinking he had gotten somewhere.

"We can only speculate on that," Andre said.

"The Mossad," Paul said. "Somehow they're mixed up in all this."

"But isn't Alex Mossad?"

"Alex has no allegiance I know of. She just likes being on the winning side."

The store bell rang and Andre excused himself. Several minutes of climbing ladders, pulling out dusty books, then the requisite bargaining finally led to a sale. Andre returned with the proceeds. "Not bad for a two dollar investment!" he exclaimed, holding out a ten pound note. "Now, where were we?"

"Alex," Paul answered.

"I thought there was something special going on between you and her?"

"There is something special going on. I'm not sure if it's love, symbiosis, or just smart business."'

"That's too bad. She seems like such a nice girl."

"It's that charm I'm most worried about. Now what about Mossad?"

"If Mossad is involved, then it's got to be about Iran. That's the only connection between the Go Codes, Israel, and the nukes."

"For a simple book seller, you know an awful lot of what's going on in the world," Paul said.

"That's what I get paid for. This bookstore doesn't make enough money to keep me in the life style I became accustomed to when I was in the field for MI6. I made a lot of friends back then and some are still working and enjoy nothing better than to share with me the latest gossip."

"Gossip? Political assassinations are gossip?" Paul looked at Andre askance.

"Well, you must maintain a sense of humor in this business, don't you?" Andre grinned duplicity.

"You always did have a warped view of things, Andre."

"Me? How about Mossad? Their motto is a quote from the Bible. Proverbs 24:6: 'For by wise guidance you can wage your war, and in abundance of counselors there is victory.' In English wise guidance can also be translated as 'cunning,' 'trick,' or 'deception.' Israel would love to turn Syria and Iran into dust bowls," Andre explained.

"That's Israel's position. What about Iran," Paul asked. "Are they sitting this one out or are they a player for the nukes?"

"In 2007, an Iranian scientist, involved in their nuclear program, was killed by Mossad. In 1979, Mossad destroyed sixty percent of the Iraqi reactor components being built in France. The reactor itself was completely destroyed by an Israeli air strike in 1981. In the summer of 2009 Mossad was involved in the case of the MV Arctic Sea, carrying Russian missiles to Iran in the Baltic Sea. It just disappeared off the face of the earth. That's why many people think that if Iran gets the bomb, the first thing they'll do is drop it on Israel, regardless of the fallout. Well, that's a double entendre. Fallout!"

"Brilliant, Andre, but can we stick to the point?" Paul asked. "So how do we connect the dots?"

Andre took the time to fiddle through his pockets for a cigarette. Only after he placed it in his mouth, then struggled to find a match and finally take a long, satisfying drag, did he go on. "There is a new player in the game," Andre replied. "Someone who wants the Go Codes very badly and is very well connected. Apparently he has a person on the inside of Black Bear and wants to buy in to the game, albeit late."

Paul lean forward, cutting down the space between Andre and himself. "Does this man have a name?" Paul pressed.

"I was planning on selling this valuable piece of information."

"Who, Andre?" Paul asked abrasively, slipping his Glock out of his waistband and sticking it in Andre's stomach. "I haven't got time for games."

"You wouldn't shoot me!" Andre laughed, then looked at Paul's expression and frowned.

Paul cocked the trigger; Andre got the message.

"A North Korean Major. Major--."

"Major Tong?" Paul said, completing the mysterious man's name.

"You know of the Major?"

"I've run into him from time to time: Thailand, Serbia, Sudan," Paul replied. "He's like the black plague: leaves a trail of dead bodies wherever he goes. Do you thing he's free-lancing or representing Dear Leader Kim?"

"I've been trying to find out, but when I mention the major's name people seem to get laryngitis," Andre replied.

"Can you give me a lead?" Paul asked, hopeful but resigned. "Anything I can use to narrow it down to something less than the whole world?"

Andre shrugged. "I do not know. It is beyond my humble sphere of knowledge. It's up to you to find that out...hopefully before war breaks out." Andre said, then hesitated before asking, "So what's your next move?"

"Just before he died, Rija told me something."

"And just what was that." Andre straightened a pile of books about to teeter, then turned to face Paul.

"He said that the raid was successful."

"In what way?" Andre asked, startled enough to drop one of his precious books. "You killed all his men!"

"It was only meant to slow us down. The people sent were expendable."

Andre got up and walked over to the stove. "And?" Andre asked, refilling their two cups of coffee from the pot, but this time, with Paul eyeing him cautiously, he didn't spike the drink.

"And everything they've done has gone as planned," Paul said.

Andre sat back down with an "oomph."

"Another twenty plus terrorists dead and everything's going as planned?" Andre summed up. His face conveyed astonishment. "It seems whoever is behind this is a master planner and the stakes must be very high indeed."

"Yeah," Paul replied. "Establishment of a new world order."

"That sounds a little fantastical, don't you think?" Andre suggested.

"I don't think so. A hell of a lot of people playing this game have disappeared or wound up dead...or worse."

"Worse?"

"Tortured."

"Where will you go? Can I ask you that much?"

"Jalalabad," Paul confided.

"Jalalabad? That is a cauldron of thieves, spies, gun merchants and the worst of the terrorists. You'll get your throat cut before you get any information out of one of those groups."

"Rija took orders from an arms dealer; a Punjab man named Rahim. It's the only lead I've got."

"An arms dealer in Jalalabad named Rahim? Well that probably narrows it down to a thousand people," Andre said with a laugh.

"This man has an unusual trait."

"That being?"

"He has no legs."

Paul's cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out and looked at the message. "Bad guys arrived. Four. Maybe more. Heavily armed. Diversion on the way."

Then all hell erupted. Gun fire from out front: heavy weapons: machine guns, not hand guns. Serious people.

Paul raced to the front and looked outside. Store windows exploded; shattered glass rained down on cars and people indiscriminately. The screams of women and children rent the air. The screeching of car tires, return fire from Hajji's MAC-10.

Paul turned back to Andre. "Just a coincidence?" Paul asked calmly.

"They have my family, Paul. I had no choice."

"I should have known it when you were force-feeding me the liquor. You know I've been trying to quit for years. You were just plying me for information."

"I did what I had to do to protect my family. You would have done the same."

"Why haven't they killed me, Andre? Wouldn't that be the easiest way to stop this?"

"They can't kill you...at least not yet."

"Why not?"

"They believe that killing you would bring the entire U.S. military after them. They thought it much easier and expendable to hire mercenaries for you to chase around the globe and keep one man running in circles based on false leads rather than face the entire army, navy, air force, and marines of America."

"So, what am I dealing with outside?" Paul asked, his eyes boring at and through Andre.

"These men are killers. They do not follow orders very well. They may think killing you, rather than keeping you occupied, will earn them a greater reward. I would say your life is definitely in danger."

"What about Afghanistan? Is that bullshit too?"

"Jalalabad is a where you will find your Rahim; and also your friend Borya."

"Borya? But I thought--."

"Do not think; believe. When a man is confronted by large amounts of money, they will change allegiances as quickly as they change underwear."

Paul bolted for the door, pistol drawn.

Hajji was standing on the veranda, leaning over the railing with his MAC-10, blasting the store fronts, forcing everyone to stay inside the buildings. But two men dared other-wise. They were returning fire at Hajji. He set down the MAC-10 and picked up the automatic shotgun.

Two more edged their way out of a fruit market – on the same side of the street as Andre and three stores down - guns aimed at Hajji from an angle he could not readily see. Paul dropped them both with a single shot each.

Two others raced down the street; these with machine guns: Egyptian MP5 and UMP 9 mm. Serious firepower.

Paul fired from behind the doorway; Hajji fired from above. They had the two pinned down, but that was not enough. They needed to break out of there. Sirens could already be heard in the background, and soon the streets leading to the bookstore would be cordoned off, Paul figured.

A form moved out of shadows behind Hajji. Paul couldn't make out the face, but the sun glinted off the gun aimed at the back of Hajji's head. There was a gap of two inches between the side of Hajji's head and the outstretched hand with the gun.

There wasn't time to warn his friend and there wasn't time to set up a shot from a better angle. Paul fired. The shape staggered backwards and fired wildly, just missing Hajji.

Hajji looked quickly to his left, saw the body on the floor, and then swung back to Paul. There was only time for a brief smile.

One of the men was preparing to throw a grenade onto the ledge where Hajji stood.

But before he could pull the pin, Hajji hit him in the arm with a single shot from the MAC-10. It was either a great shot or bad aiming. The grenade exploded at the man's feet, blowing off his legs and leaving him crawling for safety with only the top half of his body. The concussion shook the buildings like an underground gas line explosion. The whole street vibrated.

Hajji raced down the steps, meeting Paul in the middle of a street that looked like a war zone.

The last two men fled when they saw their friend blown up.

Sirens filled the air, so many Paul could not tell the direction from which they were coming. "Here," Hajji said, motioning to an old, beat up, rusted out Citroen, "get in!"

Paul hesitated. Instead of getting in, he asked, "Are you kidding? We could run faster than this thing!"

"Looks are deceiving, my friend. There is a Ford V-8 engine under the hood!" Hajji said, as if speaking about his new borne son.

Paul accepted the invitation, seeing as he had no other options at that moment.

Hajji mashed the gas pedal to the floor and the car lurched forward.

"It sounds like we're surrounded," Paul said, listening to the sirens.

"That is only because of the buildings. I know which direction the police are coming from and how to avoid them. Please, sit back and relax!"

"I guess this means GAD is out," Paul said.

"Only temporarily. We will share an authentic Egyptian meal before you must leave," Hajji said while trying to navigate a sharp right turn down a street barely wider than their car.

As the two approached the corner, they ran into a police car: a tiny Fiat. Two police officers stood by the side of the car, guns drawn. Rather than back up, or go around, Hajji hit the gas and drove the Fiat back up the street a hundred feet before veering off and leaving the car wedged sideways so no vehicles could pass. The police were so stunned that they only started shooting after Hajji and Paul were well out of range of side arms fire.

More sirens. Hajji judged the sounds and took a narrow alley to the north. They barely avoided crashing into a police car as they exited the alley, but were able to continue, headed east now. The vehicle they almost hit, and thought they out-maneuvered, had circled the block and was now coming straight at them.

Hajji spun the wheel hard to the left. The rear tires broke free and the Citroen did a one-eighty. He dropped the transmission into low and floored the accelerator, smoking the rear tires. The Citroen headed under a bridge, traveling down a street that was really no more than an alley. The scrapping of metal on brick confirmed how narrow the space was. A mound of trash blocked their way: boxes, tires, clothing, and a mattress. With no place to maneuver, Hajji plowed into the obstacle. The Citroen exploded the pile apart.

Bridge abutments whizzed past them so fast they seemed like a picket fence.

Quickly, the smaller, lighter, more agile pursuit car caught up with Hajji and Paul.

The police fired shots at them but with the plumes of blue smoke billowing out of the tail pipe of the Citroen the police could hardly see, let alone hit them.

They came out of the alley onto the access road of a two-lane highway. Hajji pushed the old car to its limits. But even as he did, other police cars joined the chase. Now the pursuers had a clear view of Hajji's vehicle as they transitioned from the access road to the highway, accelerating to eighty miles an hour.

Shots from the pursuit car hit the side view mirror just outside of Hajji's window. Paul pulled his Glock out. Suddenly and forcefully, Hajji grabbed his wrist. "No guns!" he insisted. "If we return fire, then they will call for the State Police and their helicopters.

No, we must win this race with our heads, not our hardware."

"Okay, you convinced me," Paul said, stuffing his gun into his waist band.

"Ping." "Ping," again. But the police were only using standard ammunition, it was not penetrating the metal sides of the Citroen, however Hajji and Paul were not immune to gun fire through the glass windows, so they slipped down in their seats to avoid being hit.

More police cars entered the highway. Traffic thickened as late afternoon workers headed home. Hajji couldn't get around the cars in front of therm.

"I have an idea!" Hajji explained in a jubilant tone.

"I hope it's better than what you've come up with so far," Paul replied casually.

They were still on the access road - with the huge towers for power lines spaced every hundred feet, and old discarded furniture lining the sides - running at heart-stopping speed.

Again, shots fired. "Ping." "Ping." The bullets hit the side and rear of the Citroen.

Hajji turned right on to a winding two lane street. He was now at a distinct disadvantage. One of the police cars accelerated and jumped in front of the Citroen, then hit the brakes, trying to force Hajji to slow down. Hajji swerved to the outside, taking the path the pursuit car just left.

Twice more they exchange positions, trying to find a weakness, take an advantage.

Hajji hit the trash cans on the side, throwing them into the path of the pursuit car.

The driver of the lead police car avoided them expertly.

"He is very good," Hajji mentioned, as he looked in the read view mirror. "Very good indeed. I think a new plan is in order."

Hajji accelerated away from the pursuit car, gaining a one-hundred yard advantage. Four blocks ahead the railroad crossing gates slid down. In the distance the cry of the train could be heard.

Instead of slowing, and looking for an alternative path, Hajji floored the Citroen. As they approached the crossing they could see the train coming, now only two-hundred yards away from the intersection.

The police car caught up to the Citroen and shots were fired again. Hajji was timing it. At the last second, he hit the brakes, went sideways through the first set of crossing guards, spun the wheel hard in the opposite direction and went through the second set of guards. Hajji looked behind. The pursuit car had been cut off by the passing train. They were now on the opposite side tracks with a hundred car train between them and headed on to the highway and safety. Hajji let out a huge exhale.

"After all the drama, did you lose them?" Paul asked.

"Yes, I lost them, thanks to your bravery," Hajji joked, keeping eye contact with Paul, waiting for his response.

"Hajji, Hajji," Paul yelled, reaching out for the steering wheel.

Hajji fought him off. "Are you mad?" he exclaimed.

"You're headed up the off ramp!" Paul responded.

By the time Hajji regained his focus, they were up on the highway.

Instantly, the cars coming toward them began honking their horns, causing a blaring noise as vehicles swerved to avoid them. Drivers flapped their arms out of their windows, waving frantically in an effort to get Hajji's attention. Cars whizzed past, drivers screaming at the top of their lungs.

"What are they saying?" Paul asked.

"Just what you'd expect. 'You are going the wrong way, moron.'"

Rush hour traffic was headed towards them, coming up the ramps. Hajji dodged traffic headed directly at them. Now another police car came up on the highway right behind them, lights flashing, siren wailing.

With adrenaline pumping, Hajji's face flushed, and sweat dripped down his cheeks even as a strong wind blew into the car.

The police car narrowed the gap. Weaving left and right to avoid a head on, Hajji had to slow down. The cop car got right on his bumper and tried to push the Citroen into an accident.

A policeman sitting in the passenger seat of the trailing car stuck half his body out the window. He had an old AK-47. Hajji kept one eye on the gun and one eye on the road. When the cop had a bead on the Citroen, Hajji yelled, "Hold on!" He weaved in and out of traffic. The police car could not get a good target; most of the bullets whizzed by, a few hit the Citroen: high and low, just off the mark.

The driver of the police car again closed the distance on Hajji. When it looked like the cop had a clear shot, Hajji slammed on the brakes. The Citroen came to a screeching stop.

The cop car smashed into the back of the Citroen. The AK-47 went off inside the vehicle and blew holes in the roof of the car. The headliner fell down, blanketing the driver and passenger. The car immediately crashed into a concrete abutment.

"Well, at least the brakes are good," Paul chided.

Hajji went another hundred yards, spun the car around to go with the flow of traffic, and took the very next exit.

"So, tell me, Paul," Hajji said, breathing calmly through his nose. "Now that we have some peace and quiet, where is your next stop?"

"Jalalabad."

"Ah, a most interesting place. Let me recommend a wonderful restaurant to you. It is only two kilometers from the main market place."

Hajji wound his way around the city, taking Ring Road west¸ then south to Al Haram. Several more zigs and zags, avoiding the more heavily-traveled streets, led to Hajji's home. "Ah, my humble abode," he said, looking up proudly at his three story house. "My first wife lives on the first floor, and her mother lives on the second floor. I live with my mistress on the third floor. We try not to meet in the stairwell," Hajji said with a laugh that set his belly in motion.

He quickly opened the garage door and pulled the car inside. Within, Hajji offered Paul a white tunic, which he immediately slipped on.

"What awaits you in Jalalabad?" Hajji asked.

"A man who I'm sure wants to offer his help. And I've got lots of questions I need answered."

"But it is very dangerous."

"It can't be helped. Without that information I'm not in the game."

"Come then, we have time for a good meal. Killing always stimulates the appetite."

"And the police?'" Paul asked with some concern.

"Not a problem!" Hajji assured. "I am certain they are tired and hungry as well. Probably went to GAD if my guess is correct."

"I don't know if I can spare the time right now, Hajji."

"Come, come, there is more to life than, say...death," he added for effect, then followed that with a hearty laugh.

As they spoke, the sun disappeared and the sky turned from powder blue to cobalt. From every direction the calls to evening prayers began, amplified voices that echoed through the city.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

The Hart Building. Washington, D.C.

"You wanted to see me, Mr. Vice President?" Admiral Zinn asked, standing at the entrance of the office rather than entering, like a man walking the plank on a pirate ship, not wanting to take the last step.

"Come in and sit down, Zinn," Cummings said, more an order than an invitation.

The admiral reluctantly entered and stood in front of Cummings's desk. "Why are we meeting at the office of the president pro tempore of the senate?" Zinn asked, suspicious of Cummings and agenda.

"My place has more holes in it than a glass house on a golf course after the attack last week," Cummings said. "Besides, Senator Dillard is on our team. Now if I've answered all your questions," he said rudely, "maybe you can answer one of mine. What the hell is going on with the missiles?"

"I'm not sure what you mean, sir," Zinn said as he took a seat, eyeing the vice-president cautiously.

"Don't bullshit me, Zinn," Cummings said, waving a dismissive hand in the air. "You know everything that's going on at the Pentagon and the Armed Services Committees."

Zinn thought for a moment, weighing his options. Unsure if he wanted to throw his lot in with the V.P. or go it alone. He quickly realized he needed civilian authority. "Well, sir, I've stalled on implementing the president's directive every way I know how," he said, attempting for the moment to remain neutral. "Now he's trying to do an end run around me."

"What can you do to keep that up while we gather the votes for impeachment?" Cummings asked, putting his cards on the table.

"I've ordered that every piece of paperwork regarding taking the missiles off line comes across my desk," Zinn said, committing himself to the conspiracy.

"And how long can that last?" Cummings asked.

"I'm running out of options. The president's circumventing me, going directly to General McAdams."

"Bullshit, you're still his superior officer."

"Mc Adams is old school. He won't question a direct order from the commander-in-chief, and he won't ask me if it's all right to implement the directive."

"You're not one to back down from a fight. What else do you have up your sleeve?" Cummings asked, a sly smile on his face, leaning across the desk to cut down on the distance between the two of them.

Zinn learned back in his chair and set his hands firmly on his thighs. "I don't know what you mean, Mr. Vice-President."

"I've got a plan to save the country. And I know you're not going to just capitulate and turn the keys over to doves like that whore Secretary of State."

"There's something called the Sedition Act, Mr. Vice-President. Even talking about an act of treason makes one guilty of the crime."

"I'm risking my entire fuckin' career on getting the president impeached," Cummings argued. "If I fail, I'm gone. We've got only a matter of days until the missiles are going to be off line. I want to know what you're planning to do if the impeachment hearings don't take place in time to stop that."

"I'm in the same place you are," Zinn said. "If my plan fails my military career is over and I'm probably facing a long vacation at Leavenworth."

"Well, I'd say that the chances are we're going to sink separately if we rely just on our individual plans, but we might just swim if we combine or resources."

"Very well, sir," Zinn replied, moving his chair closer to Cummings and leaning forward to the point where their heads almost touched. "Let me brief you on Operation Black Bear."

"Black Bear?" the V.P. exclaimed. "Never heard of it, and I'm filled in on every military operation."

"Not on this one, Mr. Vice-President. You see, it's not ours."

"How the hell did you learn about it then?" Cummings demanded, slapping the desk.

"Reynolds at the NSA," Zinn said. "Frank and I see eye to eye on this thing."

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Jalalabad, Afghanistan

The plane was seventy-five miles southeast of Kabul: the capital and largest city of Afghanistan, with a population of two million eight hundred thousand people. The city was wedged between the Hindu Kush mountains along the Kabul River, and linked with Kandahar, Herat and Mazar-e Sharif via a circular highway that stretched across the country. The city was also the start of the main road to his destination: Jalalabad, and further east to Peshawar, Pakistan.

Paul looked out the window and recalled the last time he was there, four years before, part of a Special Forces company, supported by a contingent of attack helicopters, a squadron of F-18s and a fleet of drones. With real time Intel from CIA assets.

They ruled the ground and the skies in those days. All the fear was on the side of the Taliban and al Qaeda. They didn't know who or what was going to attack them. But still, he had lots of regrets. Like when the people you attacked one week are on your side the next week, he reflected. And now he might wind up needing help from people whose family members he may have killed. Wouldn't that be poetic justice, he thought.

He was going in alone: no cover, no backup, no extraction, and no intel. He knew nothing about an enemy except a name, while they might know everything about him.

Somewhere on the long approach he fell asleep for a few minutes. The thoughts that filled his subconscious mind were not pleasant. He left his food untouched. He hadn't had a good night's sleep in a week and his plan did not look promising. Rahim supplied the guns and IEDs to Rija for the raid in Turkey. But now Borya was there too. What's the connection? It just doesn't fit.

If he had any other leads, any other contacts, he wouldn't be heading to Jalalabad alone. Yet if it was a trap, better it only be him rather than the whole team. And he did have an ace in the hole. He knew they couldn't kill him. Whoever was directing the show wanted to keep him alive or risk the U.S. military intervening. He figured that would give him a pass. Of course there were still things worse than death. Maybe that's what awaited him.

* * *

They landed at Kabul International Airport, twenty five kilometers from the city center. Paul hustled through customs on one of his backup passports, and boarded a bus for the ninety mile ride to Jalalabad.

The sky was filled with a smog that held industrial poisons that hovered over the populous like an umbrella of despair.

Jalalabad was located at the junction of the Kabul and Kunar rivers near the Laghman Valley. Nearly all the people were Muslim, three-quarters Sunnis, the rest Shias.

He had plenty of time to consider his mission while he choked on the dust blown up by the bus roaring down the dirt highway at break-neck speed. The tires rumbled; the wind whistled through the partially open windows. People trying to talk above the noise had to scream. It didn't make for a relaxing journey.

An hour and a half later, the bus rolled into town. The old part of Jalalabad was filled with bazaars nestled along its narrow, crooked streets. Paul got out on Chicken Street where they sold everything unimaginable, including munitions, especially munitions: Kalashnikovs, RPGs, grenades, and M-60 heavy machine guns. The gun sellers were seated outside their booths drinking chai with the sellers of handicrafts, fruits, vegetables, nuts, chickens, and butcher meats. The people of Jalalabad were so poor, for most, the market was a place to look at all the thing they needed, but couldn't afford.

The noises melded together and made the place a menagerie: roosters crowing, goats bleating, pigs snorting, men cursing. The smell of urine, feces, and rotten food did nothing to stimulate his appetite or quiet his gnawing stomach.

An emaciated man sat on the curb, covered in dust and surrounded by garbage. He looked around with stealthy eyes. When he felt it was safe, he reached into the inner pocket of his jacket, groping and twisting. He withdrew his hand slowly, while looking around to see who was watching. With slight of hand he shoved the piece of lamb into his mouth, his jaw working violently to compress the thing before it choked him to death.

The merchants started to approach Paul as soon as they saw the taller head standing out from among the locals. They carried their goods, racing to keep up with the larger, longer-striding American. The goods were inexpensive; the smiles were free.

In the past, he had enjoyed visiting the market and having tea and great conversations with the Afghan men from different tribes: Pashtun, Tajik, Hazara, Uzbek, and Turkmen. But now, he just needed to find one man. "I must speak to Rahim," he said to a vendor. "The arms merchant with no legs."

"Rahim? No, no. Very bad man," a frail old fruit seller said, trying to push Paul back the way he came, but all his strength amounted to a light breeze.

"Go home, now!" a younger man called out, shaking his stick in the air.

Paul pulled out American dollars, peeled off a fifty - about what a worker made in a month there - and waved it at the men. "Fifty more to whoever takes me to him."

Three men raised their hands and grabbed for the money.

A bigger man pushed his way forward using a crutch, knocking people in the ankles. He grasped the bill. "Come, come," he said. The other men cowered and backed away. "This way," he insisted, pointing with his crutch like a sword-fighter.

Along the path, beggars lined the streets, their hands out, eyes pleading for help. The cripples used their arms to move, dragging their useless legs in the dirt, searching for a few Qirush. Men pulled their pre-teen daughters along, offering them for a night, or a lifetime, depending on the money. Paul stopped, took out a few coins, and gave it to one of the men. Others ran over, blocking Paul's path.

His guide beat them off and said without remorse or concern, "Old men, cripples, they're better off dead," he muttered. "You take them out to dinner, and on the way home you drop them off in the nearest trash bin."

* * *

Borya had arrived in Jalalabad the previous evening. He was a day early and had to spend the night in a flea-bag, bug-infested hotel with no air conditioning, fan, or running water. Now, approaching 11:00 a.m., he still had four hours to kill before his meeting. And so he sat in the outdoor café, at a table with a clear view of vehicle and foot traffic coming from both directions. He ordered his third chai and waited, impatiently...

In the late afternoon a knocking, rattling, rusted-out Toyota pick up pulled up to the corner and idled in neutral. The driver smiled, showing off the few crooked, yellow teeth he still had. Borya threw some bills on the table, got up, and crossed to the vehicle. The driver reached over and opened the door for Borya with a loud creak where it was pushed into the fender. The man drove off in a cloud of smoke and dust.

Borya and the driver rode in silence for minute, down the length of the A01 highway headed out of town and to Rahim. The driver, excited to talk about his country, finally said, "It is a beautiful road, yes?"

"It's a fucked road, good for driving cattle down and shitting in the trench."

The driver smiled, spinning Borya's comments as a compliment.

"Do you have it?" Borya asked.

"Oh, no sir. I am just a driver. I am not trusted with such important things."

"How long before we get there?"

"Maybe twenty minutes, maybe thirty. You should not rush. Learn to enjoy the scenery."

Borya looked to the side. There were patches of shrubs bent by the wind, struggling for survival between boulders, broken trees, and endless boredom. "If you're the driver, then just fuckin' drive."

Twenty minutes later they pulled up to a roadblock. There were four heavily armed men, dressed in shabby tunics and worn sandals, guarding the path. The driver and one of the guards talked, then argued, then smiled. The gate went up and the driver entered the compound. There were a dozen men with an odd assortment of weapons – old and new - leaning against beat-up cars, sitting on stone steps, and squatting in a grove of juniper, hazel, and pine trees. There was a modern satellite dish on the roof of the main house along with a Russian-made anti-aircraft gun. There were at last a half dozen lorries with tarps covering their contents. But when the wind blew, the tarp on one of the trucks billowed. It was only for a second, but that was more than enough time for an old arms merchant to spot boxes of RPGs, AR-15s, grenades, and ammo. He figured the other trucks had to be loaded with the same cargo.

When Borya took a longer, slower look, he saw even more men: at each corner of the compound and on the porches that surrounded the mud-brick house. Everyone was armed with an automatic weapon. At least two with RPGs, and a man on a laptop who looked like he knew what he was doing.

The driver stopped the Jeep and got out. "Please, he said, "come this way." He bowed before Borya, leading the way into the house. Immediately it was twenty degrees cooler. The thick adobe walls worked as well as air conditioning, he thought.

An old, frail man, with long wisps of white hair, sitting in a wheel chair decorated with jewels, was pushed into the room by a towering man who looked a little like Osama bin Laden. Rahim greeted Borya with open arms. He wore a tunic like all his men, but his was embroidered in gold. His fingers were adorned with sapphire and ruby rings, and his wrists with gold and silver bracelets.

"Rahim," Borya exclaimed. "Good to see you again!" He leaned down and kissed the man on both cheeks. When he did, he gagged from the smell of onions and olives and curry.

"Yes, it has been too long between wars. Your weapons have been very productive in our battles with the infidels."

"I do what I can to help," Borya offered gratuitously.

"It would be even better if you did not sell weapons to our enemies as well!" Rahim said with a laugh.

"But you get first choice, and for the older weapons I sell to the Taliban there are no longer spare parts and finding ammunition for their guns is so difficult they have to make their own shells."

"Yes, this is true," Rahim said, stroking his thin, white beard.

"Is there anything I can do for the sheik, any task befitting your servant?"

"Let us say a prayer," the sheik suggested.

"What are we praying for?" Borya asked, ready to go along with the program.

"That everyone who doesn't like me gets cancer."

Borya smiled. He was done waiting. "Do you have it?"

The sheik snapped his fingers. Immediately, a man carried in a black satchel...with a hand attached to it by handcuffs.

The servant bent down and gave the satchel to the Rahim. With a laugh the sheik passed it to Borya. The hand was rotting; it was bloated and swollen and horrific and it scared the shit out of Borya, but he refused to show it. He couldn't help himself; he opened the satchel and there it was. His eyes literally danced with the excitement of his reward: twenty-eight pounds of gold coins; enough for him to live like a prince for quite some time.

There was a cry from a room down the hall. It was a chilling cry that sent shivers up Borya's spine. It was a voice he knew well. He took a quick, shallow breath, then said to the sheik, "I would like to buy this man's freedom. I am in a generous mood tonight."

"You who have killed so many, and been instrumental in the deaths of thousands more?" the sheik asked incredulously.

"A man who does not hold compassion for his fellow human beings is not a man at all. Isn't that in the Koran?" Borya guessed.

"There is not enough gold in all of Jalalabad to buy this person's freedom. He has incurred the wrath of a man who has powers far beyond the meager ones I possess."

"No man can put fear in the heart of so great a sheik."

"Enough!" Rahim said, quickly putting up a refuting hand. "You are becoming a nuisance. Our business is done here. Take your gold and go, before you are in one of the end rooms yourself." The sheik was then wheeled out of the room by his servant, leaving Borya with the driver.

"Come," the driver insisted. "It is time you returned to your own world, such as it is."

CHAPTER THIRTY

Jalalabad, Afghanistan

The bag they'd placed over his head was filled with the sweat and fear of all the men who had worn it before him. It was attack on his sense: taste, smell, touch, hearing, sight. Even though he could not see within the bag, his mind created images worse than what could possibly be.

They let him sit for a time and ponder his situation. He'd already been hit with rubber hoses, bricks and fists, and whipped with tree braches that stung like salt was being poured into open wounds. Yet all those things paled in comparison to what his mind conjured up. It wasn't just his life that was a risk, but all the members of the team. If he talked, gave them details, then Simon and Borya, and Alex and Julien might all be strapped to chairs in the adjoining rooms.

Paul focused on his breath, trying to regain control of his breathing which was the first step in regaining control of his mind. It was what he learned studying Buddhism: everything starts with the breath. He had a strong body. He figured he could take the physical punishment. It was the not knowing. The darkest recesses of his mind could create a caldron of tricks; worse tham anything they could throw at him.

These people were very adept at torture. While it was a new game for the Americans, the Afghans, who were made up of many tribes and ethnicities, had been at the game for centuries, not decades. It was said that the Tajiks were thrifty, the Pashtuns bellicose, and the Uzbeks brutal. He imagined that these Afghans had a little bit of all of those in them.

Paul at least knew he was in the basement, having been dragged down two flights of steps, then down a long hall, and thrown into a chair bolted to the floor. He had been transferred from the back of a pickup truck to the trunk of a sedan, to an adobe house where the temperature was twenty degrees cooler than the hundred plus degrees outside. He could smell the mud and straw bricks used for centuries in that part of the world.

Paul marked the time in his head. Two hours he thought from the time he'd first been grabbed. He could hear voices in the adjoining rooms but they were just whispers and he couldn't make out the conversation, although he was sure it revolved around him.

They searched him twice, looking for a wire or communication device of some sort that could send a signal.

If he'd listened to Julien, he would have had a radio with GPS that worked even when turned off. Then his team would at least know where he was, even though he wasn't sure himself.

He knew from his training that there was no way a man could hold out indefinitely under torture. It was a question of when, not if. Paul hated the waiting.

Footsteps outside the door. More than one man. They came in without speaking. He felt surrounded.

He twisted his head around so he could listen better. They were his opposition, even though he couldn't fight back physically, he could retaliate verbally; maybe goad them into revealing a link between where he was to where he needed to go next.

They didn't speak; pretty standard procedure for detainees.

One of the men pulled the bag off his head. It felt excruciatingly good.

He figured he'd play his one card. "I'm here to do business with Rahim. He's not going to be very happy when he finds out you're fuckin' with the guy who's going to make him a lot of money."

"You are a worthless piece of shit," the smaller of the three men said in passable English. "You know nothing. You have nothing to trade. You think you can bluff your way out of here?"

"I know all about Black Bear. Who they are, where they are, and what they're going to do," he said, giving away his only chit.

The three men huddled. The biggest man left the room while the other two remained, standing behind Paul so he could not see. One more trick in the torturer's hand book.

The silence stretched on. The air in the room seemed to thicken.

Several minutes passed before there were voices and movement coming from outside the door. One of the men behind Paul walked over, opened it. He bowed low before the man entering. Paul saw the wheelchair before he saw the man. He knew right away it was the legless arms dealer: Rahim.

"Well, Mr. Decker. We meet at last!" he said in an overly friendly manner, a man who tried the honey before the stick.

"You know my name?" Paul asked, trying to keep Rahim talking and learn his plans.

"Ah," Rahim said with a sly smile. "I know many things."

"Now that we met, can we cut the bullshit Middle East welcoming home party and get down to business?"

"And what business would that be?" Rahim said with a half smile, uncertain if Paul really had something worth trading for.

"I know that you're working with Black Bear and without their help you'll just be a small time arms merchant."

"And with their help?"

"Then you may be a player: a man who tribal leaders and defense ministers and dictators come to for arms and logistics."

"What you say could be copied off any page of the internet. You know nothing of Black Bear. You're just bluffing."

"Then why not let me go?"

"Oh, but I must be certain...and also satisfy my craving to inflict pain. You see, since I lost my legs in the great war with Russia, I am reminded every day of my loss and incapacities. I desire others to feel a similar pain I do."

"I think you're going to be disappointed, Rahim."

"And why is that?"

"Because I hate myself so much I inflict worse punishment on me than you could ever meet out."

"Well, I am up for the challenge!"

Rahim nodded at one of the men. The younger man left the room for a moment and came back in wheeling a rusty, squeaking cart filled with tools.

"Shall we start with fingernails?" Rahim suggested cordially, a man warming to his task.

"Why don't you look at my fingers first before you get your hopes up?" Paul suggested, smiling for the first time since his capture.

Rahim looked at Paul in a confused manner before focusing on his hands. "What is this?" he exclaimed. "No fingernails?"

"Right. You see, I like pain so much I pull them out with my own teeth. I can't always wait for someone to torture me. I'm proactive."

"Fortunately there are many other parts of your body that are still intact."

"Then let's get on with it. I can hardly wait," Paul said, so excited he jerked around in his chair

"Why did you come here, Mr. Decker? Without support? Into the lion's den as we say."

"I've got questions; you've got answers."

"And so you expect me to supply you with information?" Rahim asked, taken aback.

"Most definitely. Either here and now, or later. But eventually you'll answer my questions."

"You are mad, Mr. Decker. You must have lost your mind in the desert sun. That happens to many in this part of the world."

"We'll see who's in charge here, Stumpy."

"Stumpy," Rahim repeated. "Good, very good! You inspire me." And with that Rahim picked up a cord with a clamp on the end. He handed the plug to the taller man who pushed it into a socket hanging from the ceiling. Rahim clamped the end to Paul's ear and flicked the switch for the battery. A surge of current went through the wire and fried Paul's ear.

But instead of screaming, he laughed like a jackal. He laughed so hard tears came to his eyes. "I think you'd better pick a different body part, Rahim," Paul suggested.

"And why is that?" the old man asked in a slow, friendly manner.

"If I can't hear your questions, I won't know what lie to tell," Paul replied, laughing like a hyena.

Paul's words and actions confused Rahim. He stopped to think for a moment before nodding to one of his men. The assistant unzipped Paul's fly and pulled out his cock. Rahim handed the clamp to the young man who attached it to Paul's penis. The arms dealer flipped the switch. Paul jumped so hard that if the chair were not bolted to the floor he might have hit the ceiling.

"Now that you've seen what a real cock looks like, Rahim, do I get a blow job?" he asked, laughing as he did.

"You insult me?" Rahim asked. "The man who hold your life in his hands?"

"You're a latent homosexual who only wants to hold my dick in your hands, you perverted, penis envy, stump of a man."

"Fool!" Rahim roared. "Your words only inspire me to be more creative."

Rahim handed a ball-peen hammer to the bigger man. "Break his fingers; one at a time."

The big man took Paul's hand, put it in a vice on the cart, locked it in place, then looked to Rahim for authorization to proceed. The invalid nodded, the assistant lifted the hammer and slammed it down on Paul's pinkie finger.

"Wow!" Paul yelled. "What a rush!" Okay, I admit it. Raji blew me but he said you are much better at that than he was."

Rahim nodded and the man repeated the procedure on Paul's index finger.

"Yes!" Paul exclaimed. "Now that woke me up!" Paul laughed till he cried.

Rahim couldn't tell if Paul's tears were of pain or joy. The American confused him greatly. He didn't know if it was worth his time to continue.

"Com'on, Rahim. Is that the best you can do? I've done worse to myself before breakfast. I want the pain. I need the pain! Goddamn it, Rahim. Think man! Think! Use your imagination! You can do this!"

"Ah, you are mad!" Rahim screamed at Paul, then turned to his men. "Take me away from this lunatic. I must consider how to proceed."

The servant started to wheel Rahim out of the room.

"Wait! Wait!" Paul yelled. "Come back! I promise I'll cry. I'll beg for mercy. Please. Hang me by my thumbs." He laughed, rocking back and forth in the chair as far as the slack in the ropes would allow.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

The White House. Washington, D.C.

At ten p.m. the Situation Room was still hectic. The table was littered with plates of cheese, fruit, and breads, all untouched. One the other hand, the coffee dispensers were almost empty.

"Gentlemen, and ladies, we stand at the precipice," President Paulson said. "Do we take an irreversible step forward, or step back and show the world our willingness to strive for peace?"

Admiral Zinn stood, straightened his crisp, starched uniform, and began pacing the room. "We estimate that North Korea will soon have enough nuclear weapons and delivery systems to hit every major city in America. In a full scale nuclear war between the United States and North Korea, we would stand to lose one hundred and seventy five million people," he said, talking down to men he thought lesser of. "But if we strike the North now, our casualties will go down to five million. Very manageable."

"But I thought your people said North Korea can't fire a missile any further than eight hundred miles?" the President asked.

"Well," Zinn said, "they do have several nuclear subs patrolling international waters."

"Manageable? Are you mad?" Secretary of State Karen Grundy asked, quickly rising to her feet. She leaned halfway across the table to Zinn. She had fire in her eyes. If Zinn were a few feet closer, she could have reached out for his throat. "To lose five million people would impact our civilization in way you couldn't imagine! If they hit New York, with all our financial records, banks, and stock exchanges, it would take decades to rebuild what we have there. Our economy would stagnate."

"I disagree," Zinn said with remarkable composure. "The Japanese lost two point seven million people in the war and it took them less than ten years to not only rebuild but improve the economy they had. Germany lost nine million people and by 1960 industrial production had risen far beyond that which the Nazis had reached during the 1930s in all of Germany."

"You throw around these numbers as if they are nothing more than that, numbers," Karen shouted, thinking Zinn must be deaf a swell as dumb. "You speak of millions of deaths and the time it took to rebuild what was destroyed as if it were mere days rather than the decades it truly was."

"Those were tragedies and no one here denies that," Zinn said. "But we are talking of saving lives here. Striking first would give us an advantage that could not be taken away."

"Advantage?" Karen asked incredulously. "Five million dead instead of one hundred and seventy-five million; that is what you are calling an advantage?"

"Less of our infrastructure would be damaged. We could rebuild where our enemies could not," Zinn insisted, holding his ground against every fact and theory the secretary of state threw at him.

Homeland Secretary Tim Carlisle was even more incensed than Karen. He slowly moved toward Zinn who backed up every time Tim came toward him.

"Having one hundred million less dead isn't winning," Tim said.

"Are you suggesting we should capitulate?" Zinn asked, looking at a red-faced, outraged man standing in front of him, and for an escape route behind him.

"You sound like a shill at a corner in NYC," Tim said sarcastically. HIs grin turned malicious. "You have no idea of what you're saying, admiral. You are living in the Stone Age: all the collective years before 1945. You're a Neanderthal."

"A what?" Zinn demanded.

"An extinct species," Karen insisted, banging her fist against the table. "In the atomic age, what we do to others we do to ourselves. Have you ever heard of radiation fallout, admiral? It's the classic, 'What goes around, comes around.'"

Zinn, unwilling to capitulate, went back on offense. "We live in a world with twenty-two thousand nuclear weapons held by nine different countries. In your kind of war they all get shot off. In my war, only thirteen hundred are fired. That's a fraction of the total if we strike first. I'd say that's a damn good reason for going first."

"Going first or last in the atomic age provides no advantage, admiral. We'd kill ourselves with our own radiation," Tim retorted. "Are you aware of research which concluded that as few as 100 warheads can set off a 'nuclear winter'? Peace has to be the goal," the Homeland Secretary said without hesitation. "Even if we fall short, we must not lose sight of the goal. If peace is not seen as a possibility, then the winds of war will dominate. Peace is the only way we can live, admiral."

"Moving, very moving," Zinn said, a slight laugh emitted through his nose. "Nations who desire peace are those with something to lose: Industrialized, capitalist nations. Unfortunately, now there are many countries that have the bomb that are run by extremists willing to sacrifice their people, who are not part of the world community, and who see the death of their enemy as more important than the survival of their own nation. No man wants war, but war is a reality and I want us to face reality."

"All right, Zinn, answer me this," Tim demanded. "Why do we go to war?"

"To protect our land, our people, our resources," Zinn snapped back.

"And in Paleolithic societies, how did conflicts get resolved?"

"By war between tribes," Zinn replied.

"And when individuals organize themselves into city-states?" Tim pressed on, setting a trap for Zinn.

"The fighting involved more people, more sophisticated weapons, more strategy," Zinn replied swiftly. "Whether it is tribe versus tribe or country versus country, war is still war no matter who is fighting it or how they wage it."

"War is still war? In a battle where full nations could be wiped out, is that still a resolution of conflict, admiral?" Tim questioned. "Or is it needless slaughter? War had its purpose, but now we have the capability of not only wiping out the enemy, and ourselves, but contaminating the whole planet so no one can populate the earth again for a hundred years."

"Yet there were primitive wars in which whole populations were destroyed," Zinn said. "War today is no different. The only question left is who will be the victor. It is still a question of survival."

"When most of the people are dead, the food sources destroyed, and the lives of the survivors contaminated, I am not sure we can call either side a victor," Tim countered. "Such a world does not have a victor, much less any culture."

"Enough, gentlemen...and ladies!" the president interjected. "I want every one of you to meet back here in one hour. And you better be ready to give me solutions not philosophy."

All parties stood.

The president rose, but staggered back into his chair. His face was pained and pale, his eyes wide, shock setting in. "My heart," he cried, clutching his chest. "My damn heart!" he said just before losing consciousness.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Jalalabad, Afghanistan

The Night Stalker was equipped with stealth technology, radar jamming, sound absorbing, light-reflecting capability, an M134 mini-gun rated at six thousand rounds per minute, rocket launchers, Kevlar body armor, and night vision and thermal vision helmets for pilot and co-pilot. All compliments of Colonel Saunders who was acting on his own authority for the second time.

Simon came in with all lights off, flying on instruments alone. He went around the compound one time from four thousand feet; the lowest he could go without being distinctly heard. He switched to thermal vision and counted twenty-two men, all sleeping against trees, vehicles, or curled up on the ground. One man was on the anti-aircraft gun but he was asleep as well.

Julien was on his laptop, clicking away at the keys. "I just turned off all their radar warning devices and disabled their cell phones."

Alex and Borya sat opposite Julien, giving him space to work.

"Tell me again, Borya," Alex insisted, "how is it that you're on our side now? Is it a guilty conscience, or to pass along false information to keep us chasing our tails?"

"I have much to regret in my life. I had two options: keep you all busy and assure that war breaks out, or help you stop it from happening. I chose to make amends for some of the bad choices I have made."

"You're duplicitous, Borya," Julien said. "You've been a spy for so long for so many sides you don't know who the good guys or bad guys are anymore."

"I have already proven to you whose side I am on by my being here. I am attacking a man who has paid me royally for weapons in the past. After this I will not be able to sell weapons to the Afghans and I will have a target on my back. I could be on the beach in the South of France. Instead, I am here, risking my life along with all of you. That is enough."

"I think we've gotten this far because of Borya," Simon said. "I say we go all the way with him."

"I agree," Alex said. "I can't say anything bad about a man who risks his life without any reward."

"It's show time," Simon announced. "Tie in your rappel lines, we're going in." His hands tingled on the cyclic control stick. As many times as he had done it in the past, this one was not a rehearsal. He dropped his nose, and without anti-collision lights, the aircraft would only be a shadow, slightly darker than the night. The four-bladed rotors made a sound that was non-directional. Even if the men were awake, they wouldn't' be able to locate the sound or know what it was until it was too late.

Simon slowly descended over the compound until he got to within two-hundred feet of the roof. He tilted the nose of the chopper up. "Okay, people."

Borya and Alex started their slide down the rappel lines. Just as Julien moved toward the door, a hand grabbed the back of his jacket.

"Not you, Julien," Simon said. "Paul made it clear, you're the most important member of the team. So, you stay here with me and monitor their communications...if any."

Borya and Alex landed on to the roof, just feet from the anti-aircraft gunner. Their rubber-soled boots came down lightly on the flat surface. They immediately unclipped their ropes and pushed them aside. Alex slapped a rag full of chloroform over the gunner's mouth and held it tight until the man slid to the ground.

Borya took over the anti-aircraft gun.

"We're in place," Alex said to Simon over her shoulder-mounted radio.

Simon shot two rockets into the courtyard, one hitting a truck where three men slept, the other knocking down a tree which definitely got everyone's attention. A few seconds later, the cargo in the truck exploded with an end-of-the-earth boom. Then more explosions as the ammo went off. It sounded like the beaches of Normandy.

Borya swung the big gun around and began shooting at anything that moved.

Men were running like ants at a fire, all in different directions, screaming orders at each other which none obeyed. It was every man for himself.

Alex used her night vision and laser sighting on the Uzi to sweep the compound. Movement off to her right caught her attention. She quickly aimed and fired, taking down several bad guys before they could gather their senses from the explosions and point their weapons.

A group of three men ran out of the house and into the line of fire. Borya tossed a hand grenade into the middle of the crowd of men, then blasted others as they tried to leave the compound behind the first group.

Simon swept the grounds from two hundred feet overhead. "There are five men crouched behind the perimeter," he said. "I've got them." He then sprayed the wall with the mini gun, destroying the barrier and taking out everyone behind it.

The gunfire died out.

"Nobody's moving," Simon said, looking over the scene with his thermal-vision goggles.

"We're going into the house," Alex relayed.

Borya and Alex opened the trap door on the roof and took the steps down into the main house. There was smoke everywhere and the smell of cordite was thick in the air. They both switched to night vision since the fire fight had knocked out the electricity.

Borya led the way to the back room, his mind retracing the route of the screams he'd heard earlier.

"Well, it's about time," Paul said.

"You look terrible," Alex said understatedly. She tried to hide the pained expression in her eyes by looking down and away from Paul.

"Thanks. Sorry I didn't have time to shower and shave," he replied. His face was swollen black and blue around his eyes, cheekbones, and mouth. Blood trickled from his nose. There was matted blood on his hair line and on his forehead.

He was still tied up to a chair that was bolted to the floor. Alex quickly cut the cords holding him with an Israeli government-issued knife.

"Let's get the hell out of here," Alex said, trying to pull Paul on to his feet.

Paul started to stand, but his legs gave way and he fell back in his chair. He moaned, clearly in pain, tried again, and managed to keep his feet, but shuffled forward like an old cripple. He had to place most of his weight on Alex's shoulder to make any progress.

"Sorry to slow you down," he apologized, trying to move faster than a snail's pace.

"You walked into the enemy's lair, just gave yourself up?" Alex asked.

"I looked in the mirror and the enemy was me," Paul replied.

"What?" Alex asked, thinking Paul was delusional.

A shot rang out. Borya spun, hit in the back. The rest turned to see Rahim in his wheelchair with a gun. Alex reacted fastest. She pulled a Barak SP-21 out of her holster and peeled off two shots. The first one knocked the gun out of Rahim's hand. The second hit him in the stump of one of his legs. He fell forward out of his chair and hit the floor like a soccer ball kicked by Renaldo.

"Borya," Alex asked, "Are you all right?"

Borya just laughed and lifted up his shirt in the back. "Boronic carbide."

"And what the hell is Borya doing here?" Paul asked. "I thought he was the traitor?"

"Not that simple," Alex said. "Diedrich was the real threat and Borya took care of him. Borya's may have had some ulterior motives but he did what we should have done a while ago. He's on our side now and that's what matters."

"The party is over." Borya insisted. "There'll be time for teary reunions later. Let's get the hell out of here."

Alex helped Paul, while Borya grabbed a hold of Rahim's tunic and dragged him along. They rushed out of the house and into the courtyard where Simon had landed.

The three of them, plus a rather reluctant Rahim, boarded into the chopper and Simon immediately took off.

"That was very nice work, gentlemen," Paul said, recovering his senses.

"Excuse me?" Alex said.

"And ladies, of course," Paul corrected. A wave of embarrassment flushed his face red.

While Borya focused on Rahim, Alex tended to Paul's wounds. She wiped the cuts with hydrogen peroxide to clean them out and placed two-inch square bandages on the larger wounds. She poured saline solution in his eyes to wash out any dust, and splinted two fingers together.

"I thought they just wanted to lead you on a wild goose chase," Alex said to Paul.

"Whoever was in charge thought that I was getting too close and wanted to know what I had found out," Paul explained, grimacing from even the lightest touches from Alex's hands. The feeling was coming back to his limbs; his skin prickled with the renewed flow of blood. "Rahim is just a gofor. He was taking orders."

"From who?" Alex asked.

"Don't know," Paul said. "Why don't you ask Rahim?" He closed his eyes and rested his head back against the side of the chopper. "I'm not up to torturing anyone right now."

Alex turned so that her back faced the men and smiled softly at Paul, patting his cheek. He turned his head slightly to brush his lips against her warm palm. Just the closeness of her skin made some of the pain go away, and he breathed in deeply.

"With your permission," Borya said, moving the arms dealer to the edge of the open door until half his body dangled out into space. "So, Rahim, would you like to tell us what your part is in all this?"

"I know nothing!" he exclaimed, trying to wiggle back inside the chopper.

Borya put his foot in Rahim's back and nudged him further out the door.

"Yes! Yes! I am to provide weapons."

"To who?" Julien asked. "We saw enough weapons back there to outfit a small army. Where were they going?"

"To Mogadishu."

"Mogadishu?" Julien questioned. "Why the hell would they need more weapons there?"

"Al Shabab desires to overthrow Somali's transitional government," hoping that the bits of information he provided would be enough to save him.

"Why would you give a shit if Al Shabab or Snoop Doggy Dog runs Somali?" Alex asked.

"They promised to topple the government by the end of Ramadan, but they did not. That was a disgrace that they must amend."

"So what do you get in return for helping Al Shabab?" Alex asked.

"I do not know. I only do as I am told."

Borya pushed against Rahim's back again.

"Ah! Ah! Please! Can't you see I am a cripple? Have mercy!"

"Tell us what Al Shabab is going to do for you in return?" Borya said, keeping pressure on Rahim's back with his knee.

"I would rather die than tell you!"

"Okay," Borya said, nudging Rahim ever closer to the precipice.

"Ah! Ah! Yes. They are going to attack the Somali pirates."

"And why would they do that?" Alex asked.

"To keep the pirates busy."

"Busy?" Julien asked. "Too busy to capture ships?"

"That is all I know. I swear!"

"And where do these weapons come from?" Alex asked.

"From the general."

"Does this general have a name?" Julien asked.

Rahim didn't answer quickly enough. Borya pushed him out a few more inches.

"Yes! Yes! General Orgronzki."

"General Orgronzki!" Borya repeated. "He is commander of all Soviet forces in St. Petersburg."

"Do you know him?" Paul asked, looking up.

"Very well, but now my thinking has changed."

"In what way?" Alex asked.

"The general provides arms to nations, major terrorist organizations, not a small group of petty warlords. We are dealing with something very different here. Men that have the respect and attention of General Orgronzki are very serious people indeed," Borya said.

"Then you need to pay the general a visit," Paul said. "Oh, and while you're there, ask him about a Major Tong. He's one of the key players in all this, but right now he's still a ghost. We need to flush him out."

"Consider it done," Borya replied.

"Okay, Rahim," Julien said, "what else can you tell us?"

"Ah, ah. I know nothing else! Please, take me back to my home now!"

"Certainly!" Borya said, and pushed him out the door. "Have a nice trip."

The four watched Rahim float out of the chopper, then pick up speed as gravity took over.

"And what's your story, Borya?" Paul asked.

"I was paid to observe; that is all."

"Observe what?" Simon asked.

"Your progress, your moves."

"And report to?" Alex pressed.

"My superiors."

"And where are your superiors?" Julien asked.

"That is not important. What is important is that Paul is alive because of me."

"But he almost died because of you before that," Julien said.

"It is not a perfect world," Borya said, then belly laughed. "What can I say?"

"We could have interrogated Diedrich if you didn't kill him," Paul said. "We might have been able to find out who was behind him and what we're up against."

"I would have been dead myself if I did not react fast," Borya replied, wanting to end the interrogation and concentrate on their future moves. "I did not have the luxury of trying to calm him down."

"How do we know we can trust you?" Simon asked.

"That I have already proven to you. Paul is sitting here. Isn't that enough?"

"But you're working for someone else at the same time you're work for us," Julien said. "How are we supposed to deal with that?"

"There is no conflict. I can do my part without compromise," Borya assured.

"And we're supposed to be okay with that?" Alex asked.

"Maybe I think that the mission I was sent on is a mistake. Maybe I think it is more important that you succeed than my sponsors succeed."

"Okay," Paul decided for all of them. "We need Borya and his expertise. I say we can't afford to lose a key player."

"Somalia?" Julien asked. "What the hell is that all about?"

"Beats me," Paul said. "But that's our next stop."

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Walter Reed Hospital. Washington, D.C.

A somber group of men surrounded the president's bed. Paulson had tubes running from upside down vials above his head to his wrist and forearm. Electrical wires ran from his heart to an EKG, an oxygen tube was attached to his nose.

There was jockeying for position. On one side stood Cummings, Zinn, Frank Reynolds, and President pro tem of the Senate Evan Dillard. On the other side stood Karen Grundy, Tim Daniels, Phil Cary, Tim Carlisle, David McCallum, and Chief of Staff Daniel Unger.

"Mr. President," Cummings announced, "I am formally invoking the 25th amendment, hereby assuming the office of the presidency."

"You're not assuming anything, Cummings, except a seat on the toilet at the end of the hall," Paulson yelled, surprising Cummings by the strength in his voice.

Doctors and nurses tried to break through the blockade.

"I'm sorry, gentlemen," the nurse said. "But I insist that you all leave and let the President rest."

"Madam," FBI Director Phil Cary said, "we're conducting important government business here. I'm going to insist you leave the room since you do not have the proper security clearance." He shooed the woman out of the room.

The nurse conferred with a doctor in the hallway. The doctor entered the room. "Gentlemen, you'll have to leave," the head cardiologist insisted.

"Doctor," CIA Chief TomDaniels said, "if you do not leave this room I'll have the MPs place you under arrest."

The doctor took the hint, turned on his heels, and left.

"The 25th amendment addresses the situation where the president is temporarily disabled," Cummings explained, flagrantly waving a copy of the act in the air, "such as if the president has a surgical procedure or becomes mentally unstable. Article II, Section 1 of the United States Constitution provides that 'in case of the removal of the president from office, or of his death, resignation, or inability to discharge the powers and duties of the said office, the same shall devolve on the vice-president until the disability be removed, or a new president elected.' And you, Mr. President, are obviously mentally unstable since you intend to make this country defenseless in the face of our sworn enemies."

"You're mad, Cummings!" the Paulson challenged

"I have the backing of half the secretaries, and the entire military, Mr. President," Cummings assured.

"Get your cabal out of here and start sending out resumes," the president barked.

"Tell him, Senator Dillard," Cummings insisted, pulling the president pro tempore of the Senate forward.

"We're going to call a vote for impeachment, Mr. President," the burly, bald, quick-sweating man - who looked like he was about to exploded out of his own skin - said, "if you do not step down voluntarily."

"You'll never get the votes, senator," Karen Grundy countered.

"We're two votes short, and by the end of the week we'll have those locked in," Dillard assured.

The doctor and nurse came back into the room, this time led by Carl Mosley, Paulson's personal physician. "Gentlemen, I am in charge here and I order you to leave immediately. The president must have complete rest if he is to recover. This meeting is adjourned."

"This doesn't end here, Mr. President," Cummings said as he turned for the door with his minions in tow.

The doctor, nurse, and Mosley led the way out, but a few of the president's supporters lingered.

"There's got to be a way to stop him," Karen said. "How can we use the constitution to stop an insane vice president?"

"I think I can answer that," Press Secretary Gary Haggerty spoke up from the corner of the room.

"Come up here," Karen ordered, taking the shorter man by the arm and dragging him forward. "And how can a press secretary figure a way out of this mess?"

"My background is in law," Haggerty said. "I'm an expert in Constitutional matters."

"Well, Mr. Press Secretary," Paulson said, somewhat condescendingly, "enlighten us."

"People who are not natural-born citizens are constitutionally ineligible to the office of president, as are persons who are not at least thirty-five years old or have not resided in the United States for fourteen years. This is specified in the Presidential Succession Act."

"Get to the point, Gary," Paulson insisted.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but wasn't Mr. Cummings born in Alaska before 1959?" Haggerty asked slyly.

"You are correct," Paulson said, seeing a ray of hope emanating from the meeting.

"Well, Alaska was not a state of the union in 1959, as spelled out in the citizenship act of 2012," Haggerty elucidated.

"Wasn't that put in after Obama got elected?" Daniel asked.

"Precisely. Now, people like him would no longer be eligible."

"So, who's next?" Tim asked.

"According to the 25th Amendment the vice president is first in the line of succession," Gary replied, "followed by the Speaker of the House, President pro tempore of the Senate, then the secretaries, starting with the Secretary of State."

Doctor Moseley returned and shooed the stragglers out.

They continued their conversation as they walked down the hall to the elevators.

"Well, I think that settles it," Karen said. "Cummings is out."

"If I know Cummings, Madam Secretary," Tom said, "he won't go so easily, quickly, or noiselessly. We'd better be prepared for a fight."

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

In transit: Kabul to Mogadishu, Somalia

The five of them – Paul, Borya, Julien, Alex and Simon - got back to Kabul, Afghanistan at mid-day. While Simon dropped the helicopter to Army Special forces and retrieved the old DC-8, the rest divvied up their gear on the tarmac of Kabul Inter-national, or Khwaja Rawash Airport as it was known by the locals.

"Simon, you, Borya and Julien go on to St. Petersburg and pay a visit to General Orgronzki," Paul instructed. "Alex and I have business in Mogadishu."

"What's in Somalia beside AIDS and malaria?" Simon asked.

"The next link in the chain," Paul replied, gathering clothes, some small arms, food rations, and, most essential, two pairs of ray ban aviator sun glasses.

"You're chasing one lead; from a dead man, no less," Julien argued. "That is very thin: thinking one person can lead you to the men planning to terminate any number of countries depending on who the highest bidders are for the Go Codes."

"It's all we've got; it's what we go with," Paul countered.

"Who are we after?" Alex asked.

"A man named Abdul-Aziz."

"And how do we know him...if we find him?" Alex asked.

"Julien got into Rahim's laptop," Paul said, "and found the e-mails he exchanged with Abdul. He's arriving in Mogadishu on flight 406 at six p.m. We should beat him there by two hours. Is that confirmed, Julien?"

"Oui."

"Borya, call me after you meet with General Orgronzki. We need to know who he's been supplying weapons to, and if he knows Major Tong's agenda. In the mean time, Alex and I will concentrate of Abdul-Aziz."

"It is as good as done," Borya assured.

Simon, Borya and Julien immediately taxied out for their flight to Russia, while Paul and Alex made their way to the international terminal

* * *

They got two seats together - which was no small feat on such short notice - on Turkish Air for the five hour and thirty-eight minute flight to Mogadishu.

Here he was, headed back into the worst nightmare of his life. Wouldn't it be poetic justice, he thought, if the same country and people where he had caused so much devastation to its people and culture, would now provide the help he needed to defeat Black Bear?

"What happened in Somali after you left?" Alex asked, touching Paul's arm in a gentle, affectionate gesture. "You never spoke much about that."

It did not go unnoticed by him. He smiled briefly, even though it hurt his jaw. He laughed at he irony of it all, and that hurt even more. "After 1993, Mogadishu was ruled by different warlords until 2006, when Islamists and businessmen formed a coalition government. Less than a year later, the Ethiopian military invaded to oust the ICU and restore the internationally-recognized government. Fighting between Ethiopian and Somali government troops and Islamist guerrillas pretty much decimated the country. By 2008, the city had lost at half of its residents, and the streets and buildings were bombed into the last century.

"And that's where we're headed?"

"Rahim said that's where Abdul Aziz is going, and it's where El Shabab is supposed to keep the pirates busy. And that somehow helps Black Bear. I'd say all roads lead to Mogadishu."

During the flight into Aden Adde International Airport, Alex had time to tend to Paul's wounds more carefully. And this time she didn't need to modulate her voice or purposely lose eye contact as she did when they were together with the team.

"In hind sight, Mr. Hero," Alex said sarcastically, punching a gentle elbow into Paul's arm, "do you think it was one of your best ideas to go into the lion's den by yourself?"

"Contrary to popular opinion, I did give it a lot of thought. What we learned from Rahim was that all those people wanted to keep us busy, chasing our tails. The last thing they wanted to do was risk bringing in the U.S. military. I figured I could get more information out of them than they could get from me."

"And then they would just let you go?"

"Right."

"Sounds like a no brainer," Alex chided.

"We were stuck. The trail ended with Rahim. All other leads had dried up. I wasn't going to just give up after we had gotten so close."

"Okay. I have to admit, your logic is impeccable, Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

"Now can I please get some sleep?" Paul asked, his eyes already half closed.

Alex felt badly that she had not only questioned his plan, but hadn't given him the grace of sleep. She grabbed a pillow and tucked it behind his head. "Get some rest, big guy. I'll give you a wake up call when we're on finial approach."

Less than a minute later, he was out like a light.

* * *

They landed in Mogadishu in sweltering heat.

The airport provided no jet ramp, and they had to drag their luggage a quarter mile into an international terminal that was wall-to-wall travelers. Women were lamenting, men cursing, and babies screaming at the interminable wait for customs.

Ceiling fans only managed to swirl the super-heated air. People stood outside bathrooms with "out of order signs" - hoping for a miracle: that they'd open before their bladders gave out.

Alex used diplomatic credentials to get them through customs, but it still took an hour. "Do we know anything about this guy besides his name?" she questioned.

"That's all we've got. They rest we'll have to improvise."

"How does improvisation help us find a man we've never seen?"

"Leave that to me," Paul assured.

"And if he won't answer your questions?"

"Then we change the program for him...from alive to dead."

"You want me to back your play?" Alex asked.

"No, you rent a van and park directly outside the exit. I'll meet you there after I convince Abdul to come along."

Alex left the terminal. Paul walked to the passenger service window and handed the old, frail teller a note. "Can you page Abdul-Aziz for me...and give him that note?" Paul asked the station attendant.

"Well, I'm not supposed to...," the withered man began.

Paul took out a ten dollar U.S. bill from his wallet and slipped it to the old fellow. "It would mean a lot to me. He's a relative I haven't seen for decades. I don't even know what he looks like these days."

"But of course, sir," the teller said with a big toothless smile. He picked up the money gently, like it was a Faberge Egg and stuck it deep into his shirt pocket. "I'll see to it personally!"

Paul quickly walked away and took a position behind a pillar from which he had a view of the arriving passengers and the service widow.

Less than an hour later, the announcement was made. "Arriving passenger Abdul-Aziz on flight 447 from Mumbai please come to the customer service window."

Paul watched as a rotund man - maybe five foot eight inches, two hundred and fifty pounds, hair that stuck straight up on is head, a tub of lard that kept trying to tuck in his shirt - broke off from the crowd and stepped to the teller's window. Abdul said some-thing and then the old man handed him the note. Abdul opened the note, and while a look of astonishment grew on his face, a smile came to Paul's. The note he left said, "Welcome to Mogadishu, asshole."

Paul moved into position, using large plaster pillars as cover while getting closer to the man. Abdul whipped his head around in all directions, but before he could take another step, Paul had a gun in his side with a jacket covering the pistol. "Let's move, Abdul. We've got a lot to talk about and we're burning daylight."

Paul pushed Abdul forward.

"Who are you?" he blubbered like a big baby. "What do you want? I am only--."

Paul jammed the gun a little deeper in Abdul's gut, send him a clear message: that Paul was asking the questions.

He directed his reluctant guest to the closest exit. They hit the doors hard and burst through. Sitting at the curb was a white van, no windows in back, dark tint on the windows in front, with Alex at the wheel.

She pushed open the side door as the two approached. Paul threw Abdul in unceremoniously and jumped in next to him. Alex didn't even wait until the doors shut before racing away from the curb. The tires smoked, leaving a smell of burnt rubber for the rest to deal with.

As soon as they left the airport, Paul asked, "Are we clear?"

Alex adjusted her rear view mirror and said, "We're..."

"What? What is it, Alex?"

"We've got company! Put on your seat belts."

"Are those your people, Abdul?" Paul asked. "I didn't think anyone gave a fuck about you."

Paul snatched the briefcase out of Abdul's hands.

"Where's the key, asshole?" he asked the Arab as nicely as he could.

"Why not try in my underpants, asshole," Abdul snorted, in complete contempt for Paul.

"I'll bet if it's there, the key is the biggest thing I'll find," Paul replied.

"Paul," Alex yelled over the road noise, "these guys are good; they're closing in."

"Can you lose them?"

"In this piece of shit van that has a limiter of 80 KPH?"

"Then think creatively. I need enough time to talk some sense into Abdul, here before we get to the embassy."

Paul strapped Abdul in, then put his own seat belt on, cinching it as tight as it would go, anticipating a wild ride.

Alex turned left on to a rutted dirt road that followed the curve of the ocean leading from the airport toward the capitol. She swerved left and right, kicking up a cloud of dust to cut the visibility of their pursuers to a few feet. The tail tried to pass, but Alex swerved to the right, almost throwing the small sedan into the ocean. If Paul and Abdul weren't strapped in they would have been bounced around like beach volley balls.

"So tell me, Abdul, what the fuck are you doing in Somalia? The only thing they've got here are rain, dysentery, and cholera."

"For a million dollars you can rent an army of two thousand men for a month: men who don't even value their own lives, let alone that of their enemy."

"Now that's a bargain," Paul decided. "But I thought that piracy and ransom were making the country rich?"

"Hey, not everyone can be a pirate!" he replied with a laugh.

"And what does this army of two thousand men do for you?"

"Wait for orders."

"Orders from whom?"

"From the man you killed: Rahim Al Haj."

"And how would you know if I killed Rahim?"

"Bad news travels fast."

"Don't give me any shit, Abdul, or I'll turn you into a girl," Paul said, taking out is gun and jamming it in Abdul's crotch.

"I am to keep the pirates off the high seas for the next seventy-two hours. They also mentioned a crazy American who might make the matter more complex. And I cannot imagine one crazier than you."

The man riding shotgun in the chase car stuck an old Russian-made RPG out the window. Alex saw it and yelled, 'Incoming!" At the same time she pulled out her SP-21 Barak pistol, stuck the gun out the window, and got off a full chamber of fifteen shots.

Several went through the windshield and hit the guy with the RPG who was thrown back in his seat. The RPG went off inside the vehicle, blowing a hole in the roof and setting the seats on fire. The car swerved out of control and drove directly into the ocean.

Alex took a sharp right turn on Jioka Madina and made a bee-line for the U.S. Embassy where they could question Abdul more thoroughly.

The chargé de faire wasn't thrilled about having a man abducted in their country - on a foreign passport, not wanted on any charges - dumped in their lap. It took a little convincing by Alex and Paul for the man to pass Abdul along to the interrogation division. The CIA could get a lot friendlier in a sound-proofed room. Apparently, they learned quite a bit about torture from their counterparts in Iraq and Afghanistan. But they didn't count on the fortitude of their prisoner.

They left the Embassy with more questions that they started with. The man they snatched at the airport was so freaked out he would have told everything and anything. He confessed to things he didn't even do. Apparently his handlers only entrusted him with a minimum of information. But they did get the name of a village and the name of a man: Harardhere and Thomas Azubike. It may not have meant much to others, but it was a trip down memory lane for Paul.

They got the loan of a jeep provided by the agent in charge; someone Paul knew from the old days in Serbia. It was a lot better than the fifteen year-old rental van that now had a major oil leak and a transmission that slipped so bad it couldn't get out of first gear. Paul guessed there would be a substantial fee back at the airport rental counter for the damage done...that is, if they had paid with a legitimate credit card.

After thanking the Du Consulat Général, they left the embassy and immediately headed for Harardhere. They took Jidka Madinna - the road that led north out of Mogadishu - and followed the coast highway for the two hundred and fifty mile trip.

"And what is Harardhere?" Alex questioned.

"It's the main village of the pirates," Paul said without slowing down for ruts or downed branches.

"What do we learn there?" Alex asked, uncomfortable being on the outside of the information loop.

"You heard as much as I did. Abdul Azziz and Rahm Haji were so worried about the pirates that they were willing to spend millions of dollars seeing to it that they didn't do what they do best."

"And what's that?"

"Be pirates."

"And they'll tell you what their role is in this?" Alex asked. "I didn't think they trusted anyone with white skin."

"You forget, I spent two years in Somalia. I fought against some very courageous people. And Thomas Azubike was one of them."

"And now you're asking people you fought against to help you?"

"It was just business, nothing personal. If you're a warrior and you fight and kill with honor, then you gain the respect of your adversary."

"You mean enemy, don't you?"

"No, that's different," Paul explained.

"How?"

"An enemy kills indiscriminately; he doesn't differentiate between the opponent and his family, women, or children."

* * *

As they approached the village they were stopped at a check point by boys no older than fourteen. They held their AK-47s like seasoned fighters.

"Tell Azubike Paul Decker is here."

One of the boys took out his satellite phone and spoke rapid Somalia. "Naam, mimi lazima wao kupitia, bosi."

The boy stared at Paul suspiciously while waiting for a reply

"Go, you are welcome," the boy said without ever changing his stoic expression.

They drove past a half dozen more check points. Those had been cleared in advance; they were no longer stopped and questioned.

A half mile of roads, so rutted that only four wheel drive vehicles could make the trip, led them to the entrance of the camp. There to greet them was Azubike himself. He was a tall man, well over six feet. He had long, wild dreadlocks, and wore a flowing sarong known as macawiis. His top was a decorative shawl, and on his head was a colorful, embroidered cap called koofiyad. He was a handsome man, as well as a tribal leader. He held himself like a person who deserved respect and more often than not, receive it. And when he did not...well, tribal law often ended in someone's death.

"How's business, Azubike?" Paul asked.

"Ah, much better than the roadblocks we operated in the past, which was a form of taxation against the people. Now we've seen the opportunities on the high seas."

As they walked through the village, it suddenly turned into a Western city: boom-boxes, color TVs with satellite link-ups, gas generators, refrigerators, stoves, and even dishwashers were prominent in most of the houses.

"How did you go from farmers to millionaires?" Alex asked, as they followed Azubike on the grand tour.

He was obviously proud of his accomplishments, and for the wealth he bestowed on his people.

"At first, we worked with local fishermen, and later bought boats and weapons with the proceeds of every ship we captured. It was pure survival. Armed extortion is one of the few opportunities to make a living in lawless Somalia."

"But now there's more competition?" Paul asked.

"There is more because of a rise in food prices," the Somali said. "Now it has brought in amateurs, and that is very bad."

"In what way?" Alex asked.

"Someone is going to get killed and the wrath of the super powers will be upon us. They have weapons that are so far advanced we have no defense."

"Who do you work for?" Alex asked, her curiosity getting the better of her.

"Ha! We pirates mainly work for ourselves!"

They continued walking through the village. Paul noted how happy the people seemed. A similar life in America would have people ready to steal from their neighbor and curse their surrounding.

"But you can't pull this off without the help of the government, can you?" she asked.

"We bribe officials to allow us to use Eyl and other ports as our bases of operations, and to bring some of the captured ships in for safekeeping while we negotiate ransoms with the ships' owners."

"And how do you know what ships to attack and where to find them?" Alex pressed.

"Expatriate Somalis living in Kenya, Saudi Arabia and throughout the Persian Gulf feed information to us about ships docked in these regions that may be heading toward the Gulf of Aden and other areas close enough to shore that we can attack."

"What about the people who don't pirate?" Alex asked, fascinated by tale Azubike wove

"The money is distributed by us to our families and friends, and then further to fellow clan members."

"But not all of the pirates are that generous," Alex suggested.

"No, this is true." Azubike took the time to pat the head of a little naked boy who wandered over, then shooed him off.

"And what about the Islamic movement?" Paul asked.

"Groups such as Al Shabab do not believe in piracy or any criminal activity. They do not want warlords gaining arms and money outside of their control. If they take over Somalia, all piracy would stop. These people are extremists. Free enterprise is a great evil in their eyes."

"And you're not afraid of the Russian, or Chinese, or Americans coming in with their sophisticated weapons, ships and air power?" Paul asked.

"The last thing we want to do is give an unnecessary provocation to the major powers," Azubike explained. "We do not like Al Qaeda, or other radical groups. Wherever they go they bring the wrath of the United States with them."

A man and a woman argued over a colorful shirt, pulling it in different directions. Azubike called them over and spoke in rapid Somali. When he was done speaking, he took the shirt and handed it to the woman who ran off. The man started after her, but Azubike grabbed him by his belt, spun him around, and pushed him away in the opposite direction. It all took place in less than a minute.

"How did you get so good at taking ships?" Alex asked, smiling at the scene that had just taken place: justice meted out in minutes that would have tied the court for weeks or months in a first world country.

"Ha! Like playing a musical instrument: practice, practice, practice. We have attacked more than ninety ships this year. Seventeen ships remain in our hands. The Saudi owners of an oil tanker we took are now in contact with us to negotiate the release of the ship, its crew, and the one hundred and ten million dollar cargo of crude oil on board. What surprised everyone is that this capture was four-hundred nautical miles out to sea. That is far deeper water than anything we had done before."

"Your level of sophistication has baffled the powers that be," Alex said in the form of a compliment.

"With a GPS we can hijack to order. We use a mother ship - an old Russian trawler – to prowl deeper waters for our targets. Then we offload smaller boats to move in close, overtake the ship."

"Won't the rules change as the stake rise?" Paul inquired.

"The major problem is that piracy has given some fundamentalist groups the chance to lay their hands on money. There has been thirty million in ransom money received in recent years. Once the extremists get that kind of money, they can buy a ground-to-air missile. Getting a hold of such arms will affect the whole region."

"Do you care that world opinion is turning against you?" Paul asked.

"We feel we are justified in our attacks. We know that some foreign governments are responsible for dumping toxic wastes in our waters. Our scientists believe the Somali coastline has been hugely destroyed as a result. We believe that the money we demand is very little compared to the devastation that has been caused by the poisons, which includes nuclear waste."

"How do Somali pirates elude military ships patrolling there?" Alex asked.

"It is being a needle in a haze," Azubike said, guiding them over to an open area surrounded by huts that looked like kitchens. "The sea is large. It is very difficult for a big military boat to catch a small, quick-moving speedboat vessel. Some of the military ships carry speedboats, but I guess they fear to get down into the waters and chase us."

"So why was Abdul willing to supply El Shabab with weapons to fight you?" Paul asked.

"I know only part of this," Azubike said. "It is to occupy us in some way. These things are beyond my understanding. It is up to you to make sense of this. Now, come, you must accept my hospitality."

Azubike clapped his hands and a dozen women came out of the huts with trays balanced on their heads. They wore long, billowing dresses over petticoats known as dire. Some women wore a four-yard cloth tied over shoulder and draped around the waist, called a conation. But none wore the hijab, the traditional Muslim head scarf.

At least not in the village, Paul thought.

Two very young boys, no more than ten, rushed forward and placed an expensive oriental carpet on the ground. The food was set out carefully and with purpose on the carpet and the three sat down to enjoy the feast provided by their host.

"And what do we have here?" Paul asked, providing a way for Azubike to shine.

"Goat, beef, grilled, lamb and chicken fried in ghee and spiced with turmeric, coriander, cumin and curry," he said pointing to the largest dish in the middle of the carpet. "There is also anjara, our homemade bread." Shifting his position, he reached out. "Here," he said, pointing to the smaller dishes on the periphery of the carpet, "are potatoes, carrots, peas, green peppers, and spinach with garlic. And for desert," he said, pointing to another large bowl, "we have bananas, dates, apples, oranges, pears, and grapes. Now you must stop asking questions and eat!"

* * *

The first rocket hit the middle of the camp. Several corrugated tin shacks blew twenty feet in the air, taking their occupants with them.

The Russian Mi-24P Hind F attack helicopter crested the one-thousand meter mountains surrounding the camp. It could resist impacts from .50 caliber rounds, had twin 30mm cannons, a four barrel YakB machine gun capable of eight hundred rounds per second, four anti-tank missiles, door-mounted machine guns, and ten 100 Kilo iron bombs for attacks on strong points.

The chopper streaked overhead. The second rocket hit a truck, instantly turning it into a fireball. The attack helicopter's mini-guns rattled, chewing up wood shacks, jeeps, supply trucks, and men. The rebels fired back, but to their amazement their bullets bounced off the copter.

Paul took Alex's hand and they dashed for the trees. Explosions were occurring all around them. A bomb hit thirty meters from Alex and Paul. The ground shook so hard it knocked them off their feet. Paul got up and pulled Alex along.

The copter swung around and came in for another run. The pirates kept firing futilely at the chopper even as they were mowed down by the mini-guns. Al Shabab mercenaries - not included in the riches of the piracy – wearing black hoods over their faces - came in, crouched down, firing indiscriminately at men, women and children.

The big bird landed and the Chechens entered the perimeter, their machine guns firing at anything left standing.

The mercenaries began searching the dead men for bounty.

"Do not lift the bodies," Demolitions Expert Sergi called out. "They maybe be wired to explode when they are moved. Search them from the back only."

Alex and Paul were deep enough in the bushes to be hidden, but close enough to hear.

"You did a good job, Anton," the colonel said. His deep blue eyes shone with satisfaction.

"Thank you, colonel, Sir," Anton replied proudly.

The satellite phone rang. It was picked up by communications specialist Nikolai. "Colonel, Sir," Nicolai called out above the noise. He then rushed over to the officer, and said, "Base wants to know if we need transportation and medivac for the wounded."

The colonel grabbed the phone from the corporal. "No transport necessary," he commanded, then tossed the phone back to the corporal.

"Sir?" Weapons Specialist, Fedor, asked. "What should we do with the prisoners?"

"Shoot them, Fedor. Shoot them all. That's what you get paid for."

"Yes, Sir," Fedor replied with a snap salute.

"And you will organize the withdrawal, Fedor. We move out in thirty minutes."

"What else is there to do here, colonel, sir?" Mechanics Expert, Jurg, asked.

"Money and diamonds, Jurg," the colonel explained. "That's what these people do best: enslave others to search for diamonds and kidnap sailors and boats and hold them for ransom. And I don't think they use banks!" he said with a laugh.

"Where should we start looking, colonel?" Fedor asked.

"You start by killing, Fedor, not looking. Always kill first, that makes looking a lot easier. Kill the women and children in front of their fathers or brothers; someone will speak up."

Something caught Paul's attention. The bushes were alive with movement. Gun barrels stuck through the thick, green vegetation at three foot intervals. During the confusion, the pirates had encircled their enemy. Instinctively he grabbed Alex and pulled her to the ground as machine gun fire erupted from behind every bush. But it wasn't AK-47s, these were M-2 fifty caliber, heavy machine guns and automatic shotguns.

The pirates screamed and chanted," God awaits the warrior!"

They concentrated their fire on the Al Shabab mercenaries, who, unlike the Chechens, did not have body armor. The Somali pirates had not been defeated, they had just retreated. The Somalis were at home while the Chechens were on new ground. Even though facing superior weapons, the pirates now held the advantage.

Some of the braver pirates left their defensive positions and charged the Chechens.

Paul jumped out of his safe place and picked up an AK-47 off a fallen Somali. Alex followed suit. They rushed forward to engage the Chechens, fighting along side Azubike's men.

Many were mowed down by fire from the Chechens. The bullets tore away the pirates' clothing and splattered blood over a wide area. But as fast as some went down, others moved forward to take their places. The air was ripped by the noise of bullets moving faster than the speed of sound.

"Colonel Sir!" Nikolai yelled, "Our position is in danger of being over-run by superior numbers. We must form a retreat to the chopper."

The colonel was so amazed by the turn of events, he was temporarily frozen. Nikola risked court martial by pushing on his shoulder.

"Yes," the colonel said, awakening to the new reality, "order the retreat."

The Chechens performed a professional and orderly withdrawal behind a smoke screen of gas grenades and boarded the chopper. Lieutenant Zubov revved the engine, the sixty-foot blades picked up speed, creating a deafening "whooshing" sound as it kicked up enough dust to blind anyone on the ground. The pilot had them airborne less than a minute after the last man was aboard.

Had it not been for the heavy armor on the chopper, the pirates might have brought down the bird. As it was, both sides had sustained loses: the pirates in terms of men, mercenaries all killed or ran off, and the Chechens in regards to the mission only partially successful.

* * *

The dead and wounded were scattered over a wide area. The women tended to the injured, the children sat next to their dead parents, in shock. Paul and Alex helped administer to the survivors. They left the prayers for the dead in the hands of the women.

After an hour, the seriously wounded had been cared for as best their meager supplies would allow. The dead were carted off to the burial ground beyond the trees.

"You fought with the heart of a warrior, Paul Decker," Azubike said.

Alex looked up, her expression changed from compassionate to hard-boiled.

"And you as well, Ms. Alex," Azubike quickly added, nodding at Alex in a deferring manner.

Azubike snapped his fingers. He motioned to a young boy who brought over three wooden chairs and set them out in a circle.

"What is it you want me to do, Paul?' asked Azubike. "Since you have earned my thanks many times over."

"We just need you to do what you do best."

"And that is?"

"Be pirates."

"And who is it you want us to kill?"

"Not kill, distract."

"I am listening."

"In about seventy-two hours, a boat carrying the men we just fought is going to be somewhere off your coast. Unless we can stop them, they're going to start World War Three."

"Yes, but these men have arms that are beyond our meager abilities. The ships we seize are manned by merchant marines, not regular army men."

"You are just a diversion, not the main form of attack."

"There is one million square miles of sea out there. How do you propose to give us the coordinates?"

"I'll have them in forty-eight hours," Paul replied, trying to sound more confident than he really was.

"That leaves twenty-four hours. Boats that travel at twenty knots will change their position by four-hundred and eighty miles," Azubike calculated. "And you say that in three days these men will start a war. That is not much time, my friend."

"It's all we've got." Paul looked carefully at Azubike. "You haven't asked what's in it for you."

"I know you are a fair man, Paul. You will reward me in some modest way."

"The men who we're after are supplying guns to Al Shabab and the Islamofascists. If they deliver those weapons then you, along with the current government, will be out of business. If we take them out of the picture, there's mutual benefit."

"Yes, I see," Azubike said rubbing his chin.

"But I do have something else you can use."

"And what is that?"

"The latest Chinese RPGs with heat-sensing, sound-sensing, vibration-sensing technology."

"These I have heard of but never seen!" Azubike's eyes lit up at the offer.

Paul's SAT phone rang. He got up and walked away before answering. Alex watched, more than a little curious. Paul answered the one call, then made another. Satisfied with the results, he walked back over to Azubike and Alex.

"They'll be dropped in here within twenty-four hours. You can keep them after the job is done."

"Very good, Mr. Paul," Azubike said with a smile that took up most of his face. "You can count on our cooperation."

"Alex is going to stay here to coordinate our attack and vector in the air drop of the equipment. I entrust her safety to you," Paul said with a smile, patting her on the shoulder gently.

"I don't suppose I have any say in this," Alex interrupted, hands on hips.

"No," Paul replied.

"I will guard her as I would my own child," Azubike assured.

Alex pulled Paul to the side. "Where are you going, Paul?" she demanded more than asked.

"I'm waiting for a call from Borya. That will tell me my next move."

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Oval Office. White House. Washington, D.C.

"Mr. President," Paulson's Chief-of-Staff, Daniel Unger, announced, hanging up a phone in the southeast corner of the Oval Office, "we have a new problem."

It was the president's first day home from the hospital and already there was another emergency. He sat at his desk, slightly slumped over. Paulson was not a well man.

"What now?" he asked, pushing himself up so he could sit straighter. "Don't I have enough on my plate?"

"We just received a note from the Democratic leader of the House," Daniel said, waving the paper at Paulson. "The vice-president has brought sixteen Democratic votes to the Republicans in Congress. They've got enough votes for impeachment."

"And?" the president queried.

"They're calling for an immediate vote," Daniel replied.

"So, Cummings is in bed with the enemy," Paulson realized.

"Representative Knox says he's filibustering, stalling a roll call vote," Daniel said.

"Can he keep it up?" the president asked. "Can he give us twenty-four hours?"

"We don't know, Mr. President," Daniel said apologetically.

The president's personal secretary stepped half way into the room, "Senator James Quinn, is on the phone. He says it's urgent. Line four, sir," she said, then turned and walked out of the room.

The president pressed the flashing button on the phone.

"What is it, Jimmy?" Paulson asked.

"Things don't look good over here, Mr. President. They just took a vote for impeachment and lost by only two votes. They're calling in two senators who were out of town. They'll be here by tomorrow."

Daniel came over to Paulson's desk and stood beside the president, trying to give at least some moral support.

"I need time, Jim. My whole presidency, Christ, the whole world is coming down to the next twenty-four hours. Don't let me down. Use every trick in the book. I'm sure you know which ones. You wrote most of them into law."

"The sentiment on the floor is against you, Mr. President," Jim warned. "They're wolves and they're ready to feed on your dyin' carcass."

"And the bad news?" Paulson asked.

"We'll need to stop them in the House," Mr. President. If it gets to the senate, you're goose is cooked."

"What do you recommend we do from here, Jim?" the president asked in desperation.

"We need to pull an elephant out of a hat, sir."

"You mean rabbit, Jim," Paulson corrected the senator.

"A rabbit would be easy, sir."

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

St. Petersburg, Russia

They came out of a dense forest where the visibility was only a hundred feet. The taxi strained under the weight of its passengers and the gain in altitude. Borya, Simon and Julien could feel the difference in their diminished ability to breathe deeply.

Emerging above the tree line the skies opened up. They were at the base of a vast estate. It took up the entire top of the mountain. It was an awesome sight: a mansion that overlooked the city of St, Petersburg, like a lord overseeing his domain.

The taxi let them out at the bottom of the driveway. It was a steep, quarter-mile winding path to the main entrance of the castle set high above the second largest city in Russia. Siberian Spruce trees lined the path all the way to the top.

Borya pressed the bell set into the stone column anchoring the gate. The remote cameras swiveled so that they looked directly at Borya. The buzzer sounded and the gate creaked as it slid back, allowing the three to enter.

Simon, Julien and Borya began the slow, arduous trudge up the hill.

"What is this place, Borya?" Simon asked. "It looks like a city, not a house."

"Close," Borya replied.

The steep grade forced all three stopped to catch their breaths.

"Fuck," Julien lamented, "I guess those cigarettes really aren't good for me." He coughed for a good twenty seconds before taking another step.

"Are you two okay, Julien, Simon?" Borya asked.

"Go on with your history," Julien insisted. "It will take my mind off this ordeal."

Simon was hacking his guts up and couldn't even reply.

"Very well. When Soviet troops forced the Germans to retreat in 1944, the invaders set fire to the palace before they left, burning it to the ground. In the mid 1950's, the restoration began, using the blueprints and photographs that were guarded before the war. In 1970, the palace was once again a place of beauty and grace."

They came to the top of the path and to a twelve foot iron gate as thick as a bridge abutment guarded by five soldiers and a 6X6 all-terrain truck blocking the entrance to the castle. The NCOs wore their game faces: like they were eating oyster shells rather than the oyster.

They all wore Russian Military Army BDU Suits and had Vector SR-1 hand guns capable of defeating titanium plate body armor, Saiga 12K automatic shotguns, and Pecheneg machine guns with hundred round clips. One solider carried a Vintorez sniper rifle with integrated silencer.

"General Orgronzki is expecting me," Borya said.

Unimpressed, one of the soldiers spoke into his shoulder mounted radio. A reply came back too softly to hear. The soldier behind the wheel of the truck started the engine and moved it to allow entrance. The first soldier then waved them through.

"What do you think we can learn from the general?" Simon asked, as they started on the last leg of their trek up one hundred marble steps.

"There isn't one weapon that is sold on the black market that the general does not know about," Borya explained. "Russia is at the pinnacle and General Orgronzki is the overseer. We will soon know who it is we are fighting."

"It's the Chechens that Paul thinks might be involved in all this," Simon said.

"I think this is too big for them alone. But we will soon see," Borya replied.

At the top of the steps they were greeted by a major in full dress uniform. He did not speak, but simply waved for them to follow.

They entered the grand hall: twenty-foot ceiling, twelve foot tapestries, Napoleon era furniture, Chinese oriental carpet, armor and arms from the 13th century, paintings from the Impressionist era.

The general swept into the room like a king, flanked by his knights. He wore the Marshal of the Soviet Union field uniform. He was flanked by two colonels, also in dress uniforms. "You come to me now?" General Orgronzki asked with a bitter look. "After all these years you need your general again? I gave you your start, yet you chose to dismiss me from your life?" The man laughed, getting the best of Borya.

"No, my general, it was not out of disrespect." Borya bowed slightly. "During the Afghani years you were preoccupied, then in Chechnya. It has only been recently that you have been available to your humble servant."

"You know I've always liked you, Borya," Orgronzki assured. "After me, you come first," he added with a laugh heartily. "Come," the general motioned, "this way!"

They walked through the main hall and into the dinning room, with a table that could seat twenty. A collection of art adorned the walls, which if real, was worth millions.

"Oh, general, I don't know what to say."

"Don't grovel, Borya. It's unbecoming of you. Now, introduce me to your very interesting friends."

"Yes, of course. This," Borya said pulling the Frenchman forward, "is Julien. An expert in communications, computers, hacking, and surveillance."

"Very useful skills these days," the general considered. He rubbed his chin, already figuring how he might use Julien's skills.

"And here we have Simon: pilot extraordinaire, props, jets, helicopters. Speaks six languages and learns a new one every day."

"Well, I am impressed, Borya. You are keeping better company these days."

"Yes, I--."

The general's tone and body language turned from jovial and relaxed to cold and calculating in a moment. He tensed his shoulders, pulled down the sleeve of his jacket, and wiggled his head as if his collar were choking him. "I'm a busy man, Borya. Tell me what you need of me."

"A group of men invaded Washington and stole something very valuable."

"I have already been informed of this. Why should this be of further interest to me?"

"If you can help me, general, then maybe I can help you."

"I don't see how, in your position, you can benefit me, Borya."

"We know what was inside the briefcase."

"Yes, the Go Codes for the American missiles."

"Then you--?" Borya drew his head back.

"Of course," Orgronzki laughed. "Very little gets past me!"

"You know these men?" Borya asked, hopefully.

"I supplied them with their armaments," the general said proudly.

"We're trying to stop them before they start World War Three."

"And why should I care if they do? War is good for business."

"Not this war, general," Borya explained. "If they launch those missiles the only weapons needed afterwards will be bows and arrows."

"I thought these men to be no more than a nuisance on the world stage. Do you really think they might succeed?"

"Yes, my general," Borya assured. "A very real chance. We have been chasing them around the world and have been unable to engage them or thwart their plans."

"Maybe I underestimated you."

"You're too kind, general."

"Nevertheless, I agree that something should be done, but these people did not leave me with their itinerary."

"But they call you when have needs, yes?"

"True, they already rented a Mi-24P Hind F attack helicopter. But I do not know in advance when they may call or what they may ask for."

"That's why I brought Julien along," Borya said, pulling Julien closer to Orgronzki. "Explain to the general, Julien, how to keep tabs on our friends."

"If these men call, tell them to call you back on this number," Julien said, handing the General the phone with the number taped to the side. "It will bounce their signal off of a satellite that will give us their position."

"That is amazing!" the general exclaimed. "I must get some of these for my inventory. I'll take two thousand," he said to Julien.

"I'm sorry, Monsieur General," Julien replied remorsefully, "but they're experimental; there is no inventory yet, and even if there was, I am not in a position to access them."

"Oh well," Orgronzki sighed, seeing a wonderful opportunity evaporate before it had a chance to coalesce.

"So, will you help us, general?" Borya asked.

"Leave me the phone and a way to contact you. I'll see what I can do."

"Thank you, general," Borya said. "If there is anyway I can assist you in the future, I am at your disposal."

Borya, Julien and Simon turned to leave but the general stopped them. "Oh, I almost forgot, Borya. It may or may not be important, but I recently received a big order that is supposed to go to Al Shabab."

"Al Shabab!" Borya exclaimed.

"They asked for some unusual items. Ground to ground missiles, flame throwers, white phosphorous grenades."

"What does that tell you, my general?" Borya asked.

"They are going after gorillas in the jungle; burn them out of their habitat, blind them, and capture them. Maybe sell them to zoos?"

"Yes, well that--," Borya began.

"How the fuck do I know? I'm a general, not Houdini. I can't even tell what my chef is going to make me in the morning. He keeps it a secret."

"Anything else, my general?"

"Very well, Borya. The name of the man who negotiated the Al Shabab transaction is Reinhardt Fuhrman."

"A German!" Borya exclaimed.

"You powers of perception amaze me, Borya," Orgronzki chided. "He is at the Peace Hotel in Mogadishu. Do you know this place?"

"I'll find it, my general. You have been more than helpful. I am forever in your debt." Borya smiled and nodded to the general, then thought before asking, "But will this man talk to us?"

"I will pass along your request. Considered it done."

"Thank you again, my general."

"Are you sure you don't need any long-range missiles, tanks, submarines...all essential for a modern army on the go."

"No, thank you, general. My gratitude knows no bounds." Borya started to walk away, but then thought the better of it, turned and said, "General, do you think you could put me in touch with Major Tong?"

"His is a mad man, Borya. A loose cannon, as they would say in the West."

"He plays a role in this affair," Borya explained, "but we don't know what that is. We need to locate him."

"You cannot bargain with such a man. I have tried and have come out on the losing end. He wants to blow up Japan and South Korea."

"This is true, General?"

"Tong is a man who places little value on the lives of others and cares even less for himself."

"I would be forever in your debt," Borya said with a flourish of his hand, "if you were able to provide a lead for us."

"I want no part of Tong."

"But general--."

"To overstay ones welcome is task best left to annoying relatives."

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Peace Hotel. Mogadishu, Somalia

Six hours later, Paul sat at the Peace Hotel in Mogadishu. The palm trees that swayed in the salty sea breeze around him did little to reveal the improbability of the tranquility consumed in a city whose name had become a synonym for anarchy. He had to remind himself that he was in Mogadishu rather than in a beach resort in Malibu. Of course the artillery shells and mortar rounds that whizzed above his head like red shooting stars, and the sound of gunfire and screaming from nearby Bakara Market, was a constant reminder.

The city continued to burn and bleed, but inside the sturdy walls of the Peace Hotel - the accommodation of choice for most foreign journalists visiting the country - was a courtyard big enough for an early morning jog. Its thatched rooftops offered a safe vantage point for a camera shot of the city's derelict skyline. And in a country that hadn't had proper functioning telephone lines in almost two decades, there was internet access.

Then, there was the food, and the air-conditioning, running water and twenty-four hours a day of electricity - luxuries few Somalis could afford in a city whose infrastructure was carved up among rival militias.

The light was fading fast, casting long shadows on the patio. Paul reviewed in his mind what he had and didn't have. He didn't have Black Bear, Al Shabab, or the group who provided intel to Colonel Kozlov. Then there was Major Tong's connection into Black Bear. He did have a lot of holes.

Borya had called and expressed to Paul that he was angry at himself for not contacting the general sooner. In a rare display of emotion he had said, "We could have warned your friend."

Paul thanked Borya, then returned to his own thoughts. "Someone must know when and where Black Bear will be in position. Who is indispensible to that group? I'm missing pieces of the puzzle and I need to fill in the blanks fast." He peered out on to the gardens, looking for someone out of place.

"Is Borya's man going to show up?" Paul asked himself impatiently. "But the general gave an order. And to not follow his directive is a death sentence."

At that moment, a textbook German walked over to his table, his stride the stride of a confident man. He was tall, maybe six feet, two inches, short blonde hair, blue eyes, athletic build. He could have been a poster boy for the Third Reich.

He smiled and introduced himself. "I am Reinhardt Fuhrman." He stuck out his hand. Paul stood up and reached across the table to take it. They both shook vigorously. It quickly became a game of one-upmanship. It ended in a draw and both men sat down.

The German pulled his seat as close as it would go to the table, cutting down the distance between himself to Paul. "What is it you need to know, Mr. Decker?"

He looked at the man carefully. The eyes that stared back at him seemed to be the eyes of a man who could go from hot to cold in a heartbeat.

"Well, you've already got a leg up on me, Mr. Fuhrman. May I ask how you came to know me?"

"The general said an American was very interested in regaining control of the Go Codes. There has only been one American in this since the beginning. You are well known now: Ankara, Tunisia, Somalia, Egypt...have I left anything out?" he asked cleverly.

"Impressive, Mr., Fuhrman," Paul responded. "Now I need some answers."

"General Orgronzki gave orders for me to be as helpful as possible. This I will do."

A waiter came over. He smiled warmly and offered menus. Fuhrman spoke to him in Somali. The man nodded and walked away without leaving the menus.

Paul waited until the waiter was a safe distance away, then turned back to the German. "Where does Tong fit in? Is he a serious player for the Go Codes; and if so, what does Tong offer Big Bear? Where does Israel fit in? How long before Black Bear gains control of the missiles and launches them?"

The fastidious German extracted a very expensive-looking, gold cigarette case from his inner jacket pocket, opened it, and offered one to Paul. "My own blend; rolled for me by Davidoff of London."

Paul shook it off.

"Mind if I?" Fuhrman asked politely, then waited for the reply before continuing.

Paul shrugged his shoulders.

"What you ask for is very valuable information," the German said very pragmatically, then took a moment to light the cigarette with a matching gold lighter, inhaled, and leaned back and blew out the first stream of smoke. "There are many who would pay great sums to learn of these things."

"Tell me what you know and maybe I can stop World War III from breaking out."

"And just how do you intend to do that? You are working independently of your government. They are disavowing any knowledge of you. You don't exist as far as they are concerned."

"I answer to one man, and that man is the one who makes all the decisions. There's nobody in-between him and me."

"Your president?" Fuhrman asked rhetorically, his respect for Paul jumping up several notches.

"You said it, not me."

"Even if I believe you, you do not have much time. We believe Black Bear is readying its attack against--."

"Against who?" Paul broke in.

"That depends on who you ask. If you asked Colonel Kozlov, he will tell you Russia. If you ask the people who supplied Kozlov with intel, it's Iran and Syria. If you ask Tong, it's Japan and South Korea. If you ask Admiral Zinn, it's North Korea."

"Zinn?" Paul exclaimed. "North Korea? Admiral Zinn head of the Joint Chiefs?"

"The one and the same," Fuhrman assured.

"Wasn't it General Orgronzki who supplied Black Bear?"

"That is why the general had me meet you. He now realizes that the men he supplied weapons to lied to him. They intend to attack Russia: specifically military locations. Now it is just as imperative for the general to find Black Bear as it is for you.

"So who provided intel to Black Bear to pull off the Washington raid?"

"The intel came from Israel." the German replied

"So Israel supplies intel, and in exchange Black Bear blows up half the Arab world," Paul said.

"That seems to be precise," the German concurred.

"And you can move seamlessly between two worlds while I've got whole armies after me?"

"You are hunted while I am free to move where I will without surveillance. I operate for money, you for idealism."

"And how about the pirates? Where do they fit in?" Paul asked.

"Black Bear is out on the high seas," Furman explained. "The only group with the expertise to attack them are the pirates. So, Black Bear supplies Al Shabab with weapons to eliminate the pirates, then Al Shabab can turn the weapons on the duly elected government of Somali and over throw it."

"It's all so neat and clean," Paul decided, duly impressed. "And how is it you know so much, Mr. Fuhrman?" Paul asked.

Fuhrman sat perfectly still, observing Paul, debating what to say and not to say. He smiled, then nodded his head: a prudent man rising to a baited question.

"Disparate groups require different things. It just so happened that I am the one person who has access to what all those organizations needed."

"And how is it I never heard of you before?" Paul inquired.

"I fly under the radar, as you Americans say. I enjoy anonymity, and the people who need me have protected my identity in order to have access to whatever it is they want."

"And you're not afraid of losing your anonymity now?" Paul asked, wanting to take a peek inside Fuhrman's world.

"There will always be crises in the world: fanatical groups looking to blow up their neighbors in the name of God, countries running out of food, water, timber who need to invade their neighbors to survive." Fuhrman took a long measured, and ultimately pleasurable pull on his cigarette, then looked at it admiringly before continuing. "When these things become a reality, there will be need for my expertise. No, I think it is in everyone's best interest to keep me invisible."

"You've been a great help, Mr. Fuhrman," Paul said.

"I'm afraid not, Mr. Decker. You see I do not know exactly where Black Bear is, or how close they are to being able to launch the missiles. I do not know where Major Tong is, or who the Israeli contact may be."

"Yeah," Paul said, '"but I've got a hell of a lot more than I had five minutes ago."

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

The Oval Office. Washington, DC

David McCallum, Karen Grundy and Daniel Unger were in conversation in the corner of the Oval Office when CIA Director Tom Daniels burst into the room.

"Mr. President," Daniels announced, "we just learned that Soviet President Bukanov is dead."

"Dead? Dead you say?" Paulson exclaimed. "At the moment the world is on the precipice? Was he killed or was it an accident?"

"There are no accidents in Russia," Tom explained. "There's no doubt that he was assassinated." The man stood nervously in front of the president's desk. He obviously didn't want to be beheaded as the bearer of bad tidings. "His plane blew up fifteen minutes after takeoff from Sheremetyevo International Airport."

Paulson slumped back in his leather chair, overwhelmed by the enormity of the news. "The Russian president was a moderate in a government filled with right-wing warmongers," Paulson imparted. "He was sometimes puzzling, but willing at least to talk. Who's in charge now? Is there anyone we can talk to who speaks for the Russian government?"

"Igor Shimenenko is the Premier," Karen said. "I've met with him before, but he was just a mouthpiece for the president. I never heard him express an independent thought."

"What will East-West relations be like without Bukanov?" Paulson asked those present. "We needed to make sense of it all. What of glasnost? Will things revert to Putin, or even worse: the Stalinist mode? And who's going to replace him?"

"We've got assets on the ground, Mr. President," Tom said. "We'll be getting hard Intel in a few hours."

"Call a meeting of all the security branches. Get them in here on the double," the President said to his Chief of Staff, Daniel Unger. "Oh, and get our Ambassador to Russia on the line. He's the one with the closest ties to the Kremlin. Let's move fast on this people, before there's no one left to talk to in Russia except the generals."

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Harardhere, Somalia

Borya waited in St. Petersburg with General Orgronzki, intent on finding out where Black Bear was located.

Simon flew himself and Julien back to Mogadishu where they met Paul and picked up the four wheel drive the embassy had loaned him for the ride to Harardhere. They had to scream at one-another to overcome the wind rushing by them as they flew down the highway at fifty miles per hour.

"Julien, do you think you can pin-point the location of the freighter?" Paul yelled. "I don't think we can rely on the general. Maybe the Chechens won't call. Maybe they'll call, but Orgronzki won't pass along the message. We need to insure this from our end."

"It's possible," Julien replied.

"How possible?"

"It's been all over the news: about your president's sudden heart trouble. That he has been in the hospital three times in the past ten days. So, I did a little detective work to see who been accessing the hospital computers."

"And who has?" Paul asked, taking his eyes off the road and looking at Julien in amazement.

"The Chechens tapped into the president's hospital," Julien said. "They are issuing orders to the computer that regulates his pace maker."

"And how can we use that to our advantage?" Simon asked, holding on to the roll bar with one arm and leaning forward into the conversation.

"Up until now they've been very smart. But they're over-confident and making a serious mistake," Julien replied.

"How so?" Simon asked.

"Whenever you tap into a computer and capture a signal, that signal leaves a trail like a comet when it goes back to its source," Julien explained. "We're tapped into the same computer and I'm following that signal back to its source."

"And how does that translate into pin-pointing their position?" Paul asked.

"I can only learn that if they access the hospital computer again. It's a long shot, but I don't see where we have anything better right now."

Paul slowed down when they approached a checkpoint. They were ten kilometers from Azubike's compound. The same young boys who met them the last time manned the stop. Even though they recognized each other, the boy did not let them through until he got approval over the radio.

"You may pass," the boy said after a moment, nodding to another who raised the wooden crossing bar.

"Can you go out and back without refueling, Simon?" Paul asked.

"It depends how far off shore their ship is," he replied.

"What do you have in the way of electron disrupters?"

"Crude but reliable," Simon replied. "From Borya's private stock."

"Then we go with that," Paul decided.

"Where will you be?" Simon asked Paul.

"In Bucharest."

"What's there except good wine?" Simon asked.

"I know a man there who's considered the best computer mind for sale on the black market. This is a computer-driven operation. Anybody playing at this level needs genius and there just aren't that many in the world to choose from."

They came to the entrance of Azubike's compound and were greeted by the man himself. He seemed at ease in spite of what was being asked of him.

"Where's Alex?" Paul asked.

"Is she not with you?" Azubike replied, surprised. "She said she was going to meet you in some place I am not familiar with."

"Do you think she meant hell?" Julien asked.

A light went on in Paul's head. "So Alex is Major Tong's connection into Black Bear."

"What's our next step?" Julien asked.

"You come with me. Simon stays here to coordinate plans for the attack against Black Bear."

"Is there anything else I can do in preparation for the attack?" Azubike asked.

"There is," Paul replied. "We need at least one of those Chechens alive. He's got to testify against the people in our military who used them."

"I will see to this personally."

"If we find out where they are," Simon reminded the group.

"Not if; when," Paul replied.

"No one knows where Black Bear is," Julien said. "Not the general, no your mysterious Mr. Fuhrman, not Saunders, not Azubike; and these are his waters."

"There's one person left who might," Paul said with as much confidence as he could muster. "My man in Bucharest."

CHAPTER FORTY

Situation Room. White House. Wash. D.C.

The President was surrounded by his most trusted advisors. Visibly left out were Cummings, Zinn and Reynolds.

Those present waited around the encrypted fax machine for the latest news from Russia. The mood was grim. With threats coming from inside and outside the country, no one knew which direction to look.

"Things have gotten worse, Mr. President," Karen said tearing off a fax and carrying it to Paulson at his desk. "The news from Russia is that their foreign minister, Uchenko, is dead."

"I didn't think they would go that far," the president said, unprepared for another piece of bad news.

"Mr. President," Helen Vasser, the president's personal secretary said, stepping into the room, "Ambassador Wilson is on the line from Russia."

"Put him on speaker phone," Paulson replied.

"Yes, sir," Helen said, disappearing into her adjoining office.

"Kevin," Paulson said, "what are you hearing? Initial reports say it was a heart attack." Paulson leaned over the desk, his face only inches from the speaker.

"His heart stopped," came the reply, "after he was stabbed with a knife a half dozen times."

"Good God!" Karen exclaimed. "What's the connection between the deaths?"

"The FSB," Owen said. "No one gets killed without them knowing...or participating."

"Have there been any arrests?" Karen asked as she entered the circle of advisors around Paulson's desk.

"No," the ambassador replied from Moscow. "Whoever they are, they've got sympathizers covering for them: FSB men who think the Kremlin has been too soft."

"Is it all part of a coup?" the president asked. "What's your take on this, Tom?"

"Yes, but not immediately," the CIA Director said. "I think they'll settle for a weakened government for now. But they control the news, and they'll post stories of corruption in the old regime and gain public support over the next few weeks. Then I'm sure they'll go for a full coup."

"What do we know of the people behind this?" Paulson asked. "Are they people we'll be able to deal with?"

"The people in the FSB and SVR are a pro-Slavic, nationalistic, anti-Semitic group called 'Pamyat.' or 'Memory,' whose members follow the creed of the old religious autocratic Russia," Ambassador Wilson replied. "But now they've got more wide-spread support: disgruntled party members, Stalinists, neo-Fascists and especially the Breznevites who hate the new glasnost. They want to bring back the gulags...for every-one but themselves."

"Do we know who's poised to become president?" Paulson asked.

"We're not sure, Mr. President," Wilson said. "It depends on who wins the power struggle."

"Isn't it a given that the military will prevail?" Karen questioned.

"We don't think so," Wilson said. "Remember when Yeltsin stood on top of a tank in 1991? One man stopped a coup. It depends on who steps forward this time. We'd better hope for a man who's not afraid of tanks."

"What does Russia have in the way of an immediate threat to us?" Paulson asked, looking to his Defense Secretary David McCallum.

"They've got two hundred thousand men inside their borders with Eastern Europe and on the border with China," McCallum explained. "There're one hundred and seventy divisions inside Russia, fifty-thousand tanks, three thousand warheads on mobile SS-24 and twenty-five rail and trucks, but they're vulnerable to attack. Ours are in hardened silos. In the air, their Backfire bomber is as good as our B-1 bomber. As for the subs, they have three times as many, but about the same number of warheads."

"Do we have sufficient forces in Eastern Europe to defend against a conventional war with Russia?" Paulson asked.

"I don't think it's going to be a war won by convention, Mr. President," the ambassador said.

"What do you mean?"

"For them it's a war of ideology," Wilson replied. "Losing a war would mean that Communism is dead and that only democracy and capitalism survive. They're willing to take loses we would deem unacceptable. They'll fight like the Japanese did in the Pacific during World War II: entrenched behind every tree, house, or mound of dirt."

"Do you think they can be reasoned with?" the president asked.

"They lost their empire in 1989. It took them a thousand years to build it and capitalism took it down in fifty. No, Mr. President," the ambassador replied, "they won't negotiate and they won't relinquish any territory they capture. If they perceive a real threat from America, they'll fight. This all came about due to the theft of the football. Their military is convinced that U.S. missiles are about to rain down on them. The civil authorities wouldn't order a preemptive strike, so the hard-liners stage a coup. The only chance we have is to find the men behind the attack on Washington and stop them from starting world War III."

"Is there anything we can do between now and then?" Paulson asked pensively.

"There's an epic struggle going on in Russia at this very moment," the ambassador said. "The politburo and military leaders are fighting for supremacy. We can only hope that the civilian authority prevails. Then we can open negotiations and work toward a new peace accord. If the military prevails, then we better prepare for war, Mr. President."

"Can will tilt the game in favor of the Politburo?" Karen asked.

"The only thing we can do is assure them that we, or anyone else, won't push the button for the nuclear weapons," the ambassador replied. "And right now that would be a very difficult story to sell."

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Aden Adde Airport, Mogadishu, Somalia

Paul and Julien sat in the VIP lounge in Aden Adde airport, Mogadishu, Somalia, waiting for their flight to Bucharest. Simon remained in Harardhere with Azubike going over preliminary plans to attack Black Bear...that is, if they could locate them. Paul's SAT phone sat in the middle of their small table. It was surrounded by empty beer bottles and two ashtrays full of stubbed out cigarettes: nineteen by Julien, one by Paul.

Paul stared at the phone as if he could will it to ring. Two hours had passed since he left a message for Colonel Saunders. He couldn't figure out what was taking the colonel so long to get back to him. Time was running out and there were still lots of unanswered questions.

His SAT phone rang, jarring him from his thoughts. Paul reached out for the phone, almost knocking it off the table.

"Colonel, what the hell is going on?" he asked. "I'm hearing some really strange stuff."

"Like what, captain?"

"Like Admiral Zinn wants to blow up North Korea."

"I know."

"You know?" Paul asked, startled by the revelation. "Then why the hell didn't you warn me?" He could feel the heat rise in his cheeks.

"I told I couldn't tell you everything," the colonel replied with a hint of frustration.

Paul blinked. "I don't understand."

"Every communication I make is monitored. They're not allowing any traffic to go out except by secured, monitored channels."

"How did you manage this call?"

"The same people who provided you with that bank account: a friend at Langley. They've got lines all over the world that work off their own satellites. But I'm still taking a chance."

"Tell me what I can do."

"The joint chiefs know about operation Black Bear but aren't doing a thing to stop it."

"What?" Paul nearly choked. He shot a look at Julien, then turned to make sure no one was over-hearing the conversation.

As if they would really care what's going on in the white man's world, he thought, regaining his senses.

"That's right. They think this is the only way to save the country."

"By blowing up the world?"

"Not the world, just North Korea," Colonel Saunders explained.

"Yes, but that'll start World War Three!" Paul said, falling back in his chair.

"No, it'll look like it's the terrorists who blow up North Korea, not the U.S. military or the president," the colonel replied. "They only use our missiles to carry out their mission. To the world it looks like the president is doing everything he can to stop a war from starting."

"But won't North Korea retaliate against the U.S. no matter who pushes the button?" Paul asked, trying to find flaws in the plan.

"They crunched the numbers. After a first strike, North Korea will lose ninety percent of its nuclear retaliatory missiles. We'll never have a strategic advantage again like we have now...at least that's how they look at it."

"They?" Paul asked. "Who else is in on this?

"For sure the vice president, I think," said the colonel, "and Senator Dillard, probably Frank at the NSA, and maybe the heads of the armed services committees."

"Does Zinn have the backing of all the rest of the joint chiefs?" Paul asked.

"All except McAdams at Army Command."

"What was their plan before Black Bear came along?"

"Find a way to force the president's hand and conduct a preemptive strike," Saunders replied. "They were ready to try any means possible, but then Operation Black Bear fell right into their hands. And it was going to work...except there was one thing they didn't plan on."

"And what's that?" Paul asked.

"The president was going to take the missiles off line, so even with the Go Codes, the people who stole them couldn't launch the missiles. But somebody, probably Black Bear, launched a virus that blocked that action along with temporarily bringing down the electrical grid."

"Is that all?" Paul asked sardonically, having trouble wrapping his head around a plan of such enormous risk and consequences.

"Vice president Cummings is calling for an impeachment vote in the Senate."

"What happens if they lose that vote?" Paul asked, trying to make room for more revelations.

"Then they'll invoke the 25th amendment."

"On what grounds?"

"The President's health. His heart is failing."

"No it's not!" Paul assured, finally able to relate some of his findings.

"What do you know about that?"

"Let's just say I've got back door into the communications line of the operatives."

"But how does that factor in to the president's health?" the colonel asked.

"Black Bear is controlling his pacemaker."

There was a pause. Paul could hear breathing on the other end of the line. "That's science fiction!"

"Not any more, colonel."

"So what's your next step?" Saunders asked. "We've only got a day or two before they'll have the president declared incapacitated, or impeach him if he doesn't step down voluntarily."

"From what Julien has learned, in less than forty-eight hours Black Bear will have reset the launch codes and be ready to fire the missiles," Paul responded.

"And now only the people who installed the virus can control the missiles," Saunders said.

"That explains a lot," Paul said.

"You need to do whatever it takes to stop them, captain," Saunders said, issuing a directly order.

"I'll do my best, colonel."

"The hell with your best, captain. The world is sitting at the precipice. Choke somebody; water board them. Just get the job done. There is no contingency plan if you fail; no backup, no second chances. We can worry about the Geneva Convention afterwards." There was a moment of silence before the colonel added, "Now, what's your next move?"

"I've got to find Major Tong. He's the key right now. Tong knows where Black Bear is. We've got Borya sitting with Russian General Orgronzki waiting for Black Bear to call with an order for more equipment, and I've got Julien waiting for Black Bear to access the president's pace maker again. But they're both long shots."

"So...?" the colonel asked, hoping Paul had more to offer.

"So I'm going to the one man who's set up the most sophisticated computer programs on the planet for the people with the deepest pockets, regardless of their political affiliations or objectives. If anyone can tap into Black Bear's communications, it's him."

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Bucharest, Rumania

Paul and Julien landed at Rumania's Henri Coandă International Airport in a fog so thick the pilot used night approach technology.

Julien's ability to be back on his feet in such a short time was amazing, but Paul knew he was not the same guy he was at the start of the action all the way back in England. What he did from now on would be done by sheer force of will.

After the usual interminable delays passing customs they picked up a new Peugeot model 206 rental car at an astronomical daily rate. They made it out of the maze that passed for the highway system, but it still took another hour before they came to the exit that led to them into the center of Bucharest.

The city was known for its wide, tree-lined boulevards, glorious Belle Époque buildings and a reputation for the high life, which in the 1900s earned its nickname of Little Paris.

Calea Victoriei was Bucharest's oldest and arguably, most charming street. It was the major avenue in central Bucharest. Unfortunately they were not on Calea Victoria, but in an alley that intersected the grand boulevard two blocks further north: calea no name.

Paul slowed down as he drove the Peugeot through the narrow lanes of the old city. From a distance, ancient buildings filled the skyline. But a closer look revealed tacky, flyblown posters on dingy streets. Merchants sat on wooden crates outside their stores, waiting for customers to show up. They constantly looked up and down the road, their eyes searching for something that was not there: money.

Paul pulled over to the curb and sat with the engine idling, watching as a number of very bizarre people came out of the Bucharest Computer Company: from geeks to uni-bombers to your classic middle-eastern terrorist. It looked like a convention of international criminals was being held there.

The store sign advertised "American computers." But the windows were filled with PCs and laptops a decade old.

Julien looked at the store. "So tell me more about your fascinating friend."

"Newton Isaacs, an expatriate American, runs the place and lives above it. Newton knows everything there is to know about the computers. He also knows what's in other peoples' computers. He's written some of the most complex, biggest, more creative programs in the world. Stuff used by NASA and environmentalists trying to predict future weather patterns.. We need to find Black Bear. So far, we've struck out."

The customers in the store thinned out. Paul saw a chance to catch Newton when he wasn't busy. The two got out of their car and walked in the store, setting off a buzzer.

The proprietor was talking to a customer. Newton was as thin as a rail. His skin was the color and texture of parchment paper, and he looked like he was on a hunger strike. When he spoke to his customer he sounded like Count Dracula. "Dey are both von-der-ful laptops. You vill like them very much! I promise you! Vone is more poor-table, da udder heavier but more powerful. Dey are very good laptops, and dey are American. Not your left over Soviet shit."

Newton looked up and saw Paul and Julien. "Excuse me," Newton said to the customer.

Newton moved to join them, and the conversation immediately turned to New York hip. "Mr. Secret Agent! How you doin'?" Newton said to Paul.

Paul glanced around before speaking: seeing if they were far enough away to be having a serious conversation.

The customer standing in the aisles was still deciding on one of the two laptops Newton had shown him.

"Oh, don't mind him. He can't hear anything more than a foot away from his ear. So, what's going on in the spy world?" Newton asked, always up for a challenge.

"The usual. Coup d'états, genocides, weapons of mass destruction. You?"

"Wheelin' and dealin'." He then threw a look at Julien. "Who's this?"

"A friend."

"Let me get rid of slow pay, no pay then we can chat.

Newton spoke to his customer for a moment. The man nodded and left the store.

Newton turned the "Open" sign around and locked the front door.

"Well why don't we, and your friend, step into my office," Newton suggested.

Newton's office was a room in the back of the store with a tattered curtain the only thing separating the two areas. He noted the serious looks from Paul and Julien and went instantly into business mode. "What is it you need, Paul?"

"I'm looking for something...new; high end. Got anything?"

"Matter of fact, I do." He paused. "There's this new program that's just come out. I've been hearing a lot about it recently."

"What's it do?" Paul asked.

"Supposed to simulate World War Three...or something cool like that. Really powerful. It's off the grid. Uses its own satellite, solar power, and the people who run it are hooked up to a serious botnet. Very big. More gigs than what the NSA has."

"Have you seen it?" Julien asked.

"Seen it? Shit, I worked on it! Put in a bigger hard drive, more RAM, and a serious surge protector.

"Did you get to see what was in the files?"

"Hell no! The guy and girl who brought it in were hanging over my shoulder the whole time I was working on it."

There was a loud banging on the front door. Either a customer who couldn't read or didn't take no for an answer.

"Let me conduct some business with Mr. Retard. He's been begging me to take his money for weeks," Newton said. "There's a restaurant across the street. I'll meet you there in five minutes.

Paul nodded. He and Julien stepped out of the back room and made their way outside.

The street was busier now; the lunch crowd filled many of the small restaurants that catered to people with barely enough money to buy one meal per day.

They could smell the aroma of paprika and garlic. On closer inspection they found vats of soup simmering; carp, pike, and catfish grilling in pans of butter, and pastries under glass. The patrons were too busy eating to be curious, which suited Paul just fine. And from the looks of their girth, they wouldn't have much time to take an interest in someone else's business..

Paul and Julien took an outside table and waited.

A few minutes later, the customer exited Newton's shop smiling like he had won the lottery. Newton then came out, locking the store behind him. He crossed the street making his way toward the restaurant where Paul and Julien were sitting, waved at a waitress and said, "The usual, my dear!" before taking a seat at Paul and Julien's table.

The waitress smiled and blushed at Newton, then rushed off to get his order. Just a minute after Newton sat down, the same waitress came and set a large plate in front of him. He dove into the huge piece of Pike simmering in garlic, surrounded by sautéed vegetable and wedges of lemon and lime.

After taking a big bite, Newton sat back with his mouth full of fish, and said, "Strange things been going on. I've heard lots of talk, you understand. All this shit about blowing up the world; then these two foreigners walk in and tell me they need more hard drive. So I ask how much, and they say, enough to hold a program simulating the evolution of the universe."

"Foreigners?" Paul asked.

"Yeah, one from the Far East, one from the Middle East."

"Okay, go on."

"Well, I've had lots of requests before for some odd shit, but someone needin' to download the largest program ever developed: five hundred million lines of code, is insane. I knew the reason they mentioned was bullshit, but I didn't ask them what they really wanted the drives for. All I cared 'bout was makin' the sale."

"So you hooked them up?" Julien asked.

"Ten terabit hard drives. Costs two thousand dollars each. Sold them three. They didn't blink at the price. Made me a cool three thousand dollars!"

"Do you know where we might find this laptop?" Paul asked.

"Sure. They're right here in Bucharest."

"You can't be serious," Paul said a little too loud under the circumstances..

"Serious as a heart attack," Newton replied. "They're waitin' on a cooling fan. The mother was really heating up. Didn't have it in stock. Had to order it overnight."

Newton scribbled something on a piece of paper. "Last I heard the players are stayin' at this address."

"You catch a name?" Paul asked.

"They were whispering all while they were here, but I did hear the girl call the guy Major...ah...something."

"Major Tong," Paul said impatiently.

"Yeah. You know him?" Newton asked.

"I know of him, a serious madman - a real suicide," Paul explained. "I've been chasing him half way around the world."

"I get the picture," Newton said, bobbing his head like he was singing a song only he could hear.

Julien reached out to take the piece of paper with the address on it. Paul put a hand on his arm, and shook his head. "Newton and I need to squabble about price before we can take that."

"I gotta try to jack him up," Newton said. "Paul here has to haggle me down a bit."

"It's our usual hand of cards," Paul explained, adding a smile for Newton and a nod to Julien.

"Why don't you take a walk around the block," Paul said to Julien. "Check out the local flavor."

Julien gave a tight smile, rose from the table, and walked down the street. Behind him Newton and Paul were leaning in so close together that their heads were touching. It looked to Julien like they were enjoying themselves immensely. The Frenchman grinned as he strolled down the street.

* * *

Julien was walking back up the street when Paul was coming out of the restaurant.

They got into the Peugeot. Paul handed Julien a piece of paper.

"The address?" Julien asked.

"A very thorough man, that Newton," Paul replied, nodding at the paper.

* * *

Several hours later, the sun began to set, falling below the rooftops of the four story homes crowding the residential district. Julien and Paul sat in the Peugeot a discreet distance from an apartment house. Neighborhood kids were playing soccer in the street.

Women with bags of groceries trudged down the avenue and shuffled up the six marble steps adorning each home.

The day was coming to an end for the locals, but just starting for Paul and Julien.

Julien held the paper, alternatively looking out at the housing complex and the note. "You think Newton got it right?"

"If Newton says this is it, then it's--." Paul stopped in mid-sentence. "Look at that!"

Through the windshield they saw Alex exit the apartment building. She was wearing a pair of black tights that showed off her spectacular ass, and a thin black leather jacket. Her hair was tucked into the jacket and she had her game face on.

She stood at the entrance for a moment. A man was in the vestibule. It was Major Tong! They spoke just loud enough for Paul and Julien to hear what he said.

"All things come to those who wait," the Major said to Alex. "Hold on, I'll only be a minute."

"I thought you said she was on our side?" Julien asked.

"That's what I thought...once."

Julien was not surprised. "So much for loyalty."

Paul tried to make sense of it. "Does she have the program?" he whispered.

"I don't know," Julien responded. "What do you think?"

"You heard what the Major said to Alex," Paul said. "All things come to those who wait.' They've either got it, or they're going to get it." Paul stopped to consider. "What do you suppose it is?"

"It's either hardware or software," Julien replied. "Maybe an encrypted disc to bypass the virus on the NSA computers. I wish I knew, mon ami. If I did I'd be Houdini."

"Whatever it is, I'm sure it's key to all this," Paul said.

"Possibly sending the coordinates of the targets they want the terrorist to hit," Julien suggested. "Maybe Iran and Syria for the Israelis, South Korea and Japan for the Major, Russia for the Chechens."

"Or North Korea for the U.S.," Paul added. "Black Bear has control of enough fire power to make a deal with every terrorist group on the planet. Whoever is paying them the most money can pick their target."

Julien and Paul exchanged a look; now they figured it out.

They both realized the implications but Paul spoke first. "If we could break into their Internet connection, then we'd know where Black Bear is and how close they are to launching the missiles."

"Maybe even enter a virus into their system and crash the whole thing," Julien said.

"That wouldn't do it," Paul figured. "It might kill the Major and Alex's plan, but the terrorist could still launch the missiles."

Alex walked over to car that was parked directly across the street from where Paul and Julien sat. She opened the car door to a new, black, compact Renault and slid behind the wheel. Rushing as she was, she didn't see Paul standing next to her car. But he had her blocked and he pulled his gun out. Alex started to reach for her weapon, but Paul cut her off. "I wouldn't do it," he said, offering friendly advice. She looked at him and she set her hand back onto the steering wheel.

"Well, if it isn't Captain America," Alex said with as much sarcasm as she could muster.

"I can't believe you double-crossed me," Paul said, his voice full of indignation.

"What are you, on some sort of Jihad?" Alex asked, her cynicism as thick as molasses.

"I'm not on anything personal. I'm trying to stop World War Three from starting."

"Yours isn't the only just cause. Each country wants to survive."

"But not at the cost of millions of lives," Paul retorted.

Major Tong suddenly came out of the building across the street. He made his way quickly down the steps in the direction of Alex's car. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw Paul leaning over the car. Paul noticed him. Tong pulled a pistol from his shoulder holster. "Well, well. Major Tong!" Paul said to himself as the man walked slowly toward the car, gun held at the ready.

Paul glanced at Alex, who shot him a look. Paul was watching her now, waiting for her to reach for her gun. It was only a matter of time. But Tong was still headed toward him.

"Don't even try, Alex," Paul said, with a wave of his gun. It felt nice to have the reassuring weight of the gun in his hand, but even that wouldn't protect him from two against one, and when Paul turned to face Tong, Alex would have her opening.

Her attention wasn't on Paul anymore. He saw her eyes focus on the rear view mirror, watching what was going on behind her. But if he turned to look she could shoot him. It didn't matter; she slammed the car into gear all of a sudden and drove off, tires squealing. Paul raised his gun sighting down the barrel, but when he saw her blonde hair at the end of his barrel he hesitated.

Damn, he thought to himself. He couldn't kill Alex.

Paul lowered his gun and saw Julien closing in on Major Tong. The Major was weaving in and out of cars and behind him, not far, but just out of line of fire was Julien. He was shadowing Tong and in a few more seconds he'd have a shot; Paul could see it. But the sound of Alex's car alerted the Major and he turned to see Julien just as the Frenchman was raising his gun to shoot. Alex veered around the major, aiming directly for Julien who dove out of the way even as he squeezed the trigger. Julien missed his mark, but he rolled away just in time to avoid becoming road kill.

Alex slammed the brakes bringing the car to a screeching halt and Tong jumped in. Seconds later, they pealed out. Paul began running to their car the minute Julien was safe. Paul got in and pulled the Peugeot up next to Julien who lifted himself off the ground without a backwards glance and jumped in.

"Buckle up," Paul said to Julien. "This ride is gonna be bumpy."

The black Renault flew down a small street, and Paul followed closely in the Peugeot. He didn't enjoy driving streets like this but he couldn't let Alex get away, not after he didn't take that shot earlier. Julien tried to get a bead on the Renault as Paul floored it to keep up with the Alex and Tong.

"What the fuck happened back there?" Julien asked.

Paul cringed. "I don't know," he lied.

"Bullshit, buddy. You had a clear shot. Why didn't you take it?"

Paul didn't answer and Julien fell silent as the two cars raced through traffic, heading for a highway ramp. Alex wove in and out of traffic. Paul followed suit.

"You slept with her!" Julien declared suddenly.

The two cars reached the entrance ramp and Paul followed Alex as she gunned it onto the highway. Paul was wishing for Interstate 5 in California, but this highway system was way more confusing. There was no telling where Alex was headed. The entrance ramp led straight to a traffic circle filled with exit ramps that split off to four different sections of the highway.

Alex was just far enough ahead that Paul couldn't see which ramp she took. He was going to have to take a guess.

"You slept with her!" Julien said again as he slammed his hand on the dashboard in disgust. "You could have killed her and we'd have Tong, the computer and maybe the location of Black Bear."

"Now's not really a good time to talk about this," Paul said through clenched teeth as he tried to see where Alex went.

Paul kept going and the Peugeot cruised onto the upper part of the traffic circle, while down below them he could see that Alex had turned the Renault to the left.

"Fuck!" Paul said.

"Left!" Julien cried. "Left!"

Paul looked up and saw them approaching three possible ramps: one to the right, one to the center, and one to the left. At the last second he took the left one. Thankfully the extra time on the transition allowed them to come up directly behind the Renault.

Julien raised his gun and blew a bullet hole in the back windshield of the Renault. Alex gunned it and managed to pull away for a time, but Paul quickly caught up to her again. Julien leaned out of his window once more, firing away until his clip ran out and then reloading and firing again.

Alex swung the wheel wildly, and the Renault took a screaming turn. Paul followed her lead, burning rubber as he tried to catch up. They were speeding towards another junction. It was a merge for more lanes to join the highway. And as Paul got closer, the Major leaned out his own window and began returning Julien's fire. Paul could barely keep track of where Alex was going, but he managed to follow her to the right and onto an exit ramp where she jumped to the wrong side of the road and drove against traffic coming at them. Paul saw her side-swipe several cars, but it was all he could do to avoid his own head on collisions at the same time. Suddenly, one of the cars Alex hit careened wildly down the ramp. It crashed into the guard rail and stopped directly in front of them. Paul slammed on the brakes. Julien and he bounced wildly in their seats; the seatbelts cutting into their shoulders.

Their car stalled and Paul turned the key to start it again. It clicked several times, and he cursed as he turned the key again. He barely waited for the engine to catch before he slammed the car into reverse, pulled around the car blocking them, put the car into drive, and plastered his foot to the gas pedal. Alex had at least a hundred yard lead now. The only positive for Julien and Paul was that Alex was opening a path for them as she made her way through the oncoming cars. Paul gunned the engine racing after Alex through the rush hour traffic.

Finally, Paul and Julien started to gain on Alex and the Major. As they did, Paul snapped at Julien without taking his eyes off the road.

"Give me a cigarette."

"Right now?"

"Gimme a goddamn cigarette!"

Julien handed him one, but Paul dropped it as he tried to keep track of Alex.

"Why are you driving? You're not European," Julien said as he put a fresh cigarette in Paul's mouth. "It definitely would have been best for me to drive."

The Peugeot weaved in and out of the traffic as Paul gained ground on the Renault. Just ahead, fifteen cars piled up. They collided in an effort to avoid the Renault, but somehow Alex and the Major emerged from the pile unscathed.

"Shit," Paul cursed, slamming his palm on the wheel. He drove the Peugeot up on to the curb and edged forward, scraping the paint off of three cars, and etching deep groves in their fenders and doors as he squeaked past. He popped out of the grasp of those cars and pressed the gas pedal to the floor as he caught up to the Renault. He jerked the wheel when he came up along her right side and slammed the Peugeot into the side of Alex's Renault. Tong turned to them and opened fire, while Julien unloaded the better part of his clip into the other car. Paul ducked as glass shattered in both cars.

He took his eyes off the road for a second to brush the shards off of his hands, face, and neck. But when he glanced up again he suddenly saw that they were rapidly approaching a fork in the road. The left side of the fork was closed off, blocked by a concrete barricade and reflective cones, and the Renault was headed right for it. Paul had the Peugeot pinned right to the side of Alex's car, sparks flying, metal grating against metal. She had nowhere to go, the barricade would end the race then and there.

Alex jammed on the brakes seconds before slamming into the barricade, as the Major fired one last shot that blew out the window in front of Paul's eyes. Paul instinctively ducked his head as glass shattered all around him. He jerked the wheel of the Peugeot wildly, spinning out of control. He didn't see Alex's car hit the barricade, but he heard the shriek of sliding tires and the amplified sound of someone crushing a giant aluminum can. The Renault plowed into the barricade with a screech and the crunch of metal on stone. He glanced over his shoulder in time to see Alex's driver's side air bag deploy, probably saving her life even as the North Korean was hurled from the car, crashing through the windshield, and flying through the air as the Renault flipped end over end again and again. The Major hit the ground with a terrible thud, his face sliced to ribbons, but somehow still alive. Paul tried to control the Peugeot, but wound up wedged sideways on the exit ramp. As Paul worked to get the car unstuck he watched Alex struggle to free herself from the burning wreck of her car.

A fleet of cop cars were closing in on the accident and Paul couldn't afford to waste time dealing with police. He could only watch as Alex managed to pull herself out of the wreck, lean back inside to pull free the laptop, and bolt away, just seconds before the car exploded into a ball of fire.

Alex was knocked off her feet by the blast, and she rolled away, her body curled around the computer protectively. Tong, who was mere ten paces from her, was on fire and laughing maniacally as he threw himself onto the grass and rolled down the side of the embankment.

Paul saw Alex scurrying away from the highway carrying the laptop they badly needed to get their hands on. He managed to get the Peugeot free of the exit ramp and he gunned the engine mere seconds before the cops reached the scene of the accident. As he and Julien drove away, Paul watched the cops in the rearview mirror. They searched the debris but there was no one left to find.

"We don't have much time," Julien said to Paul.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Turkish A/L. Bucharest, Rumania

Paul and Julien flew back on commercial air to Mogadishu from Rumania to meet with Simon and Azubike. The six hour flight was as bumpy as he ever remembered. Many of the passengers got sick, the smell making even more throw up their shitty lunches. But it did give him time to consider their options. Plenty of time, as there were not many to choose from. Paul managed to get a few hours sleep while Julien fell asleep a minute after take off. There was not much more to talk about; now, there was only to do.

Harardhere, Somalia

Paul, Simon and Julien sat in a hut reserved for them by Azubike in Harardhere. It was raining outside, the dark gray sky cast a hint of the mood they were all in. Paul thought maybe the rain never stopped since the time he was there previously.

Their host had prepared for them a grand assortment of foods. A feast, really, for those able to think about eating. After their plane ride, Paul's only plan was to keep down what was already in his stomach.

Time went by at two speeds: one on the time running out until Black Bear reconfigured the launch coordinates; the other on how long it was to finalize their plans.

"Can we give Simon the cover he needs, Julien?" Paul asked.

"The only way Simon can do this and survive is for us to tap into Black Bear's missile defense system and reprogram it to show clear skies," Julien explained. "Like the Israelis did to Syria. Now that was a fine piece of work." He smiled in admiration.

"How did they pull it off?" Simon asked.

"And can we duplicate that?" Paul said.

Julien shook his head. "Impossible with the equipment we have at our disposal, and lack of proximity to their servers. The only chance is if they try again to access the president's pacemaker. I placed a key logger into that system. If Black Bear taps into the system it will send us a signal we can triangulate off a satellite.

"That sounds like a long shot," Paul said, staring blankly at Julien.

Paul's SAT phone rang, making him jump.

"Hello, Paul," Alex said in he sweetest voice that immediately touched Paul's better memories of her.

Paul's eyes widened, his heart suddenly racing. "I never thought I'd hear from you again."

"And I never thought I'd be calling you either."

"So, is this a social call, or do you have something important to say?"

"I've got the coordinates of Black Bear's trawler, on a real time basis. They're being downloaded into Julien's laptop right now...complements of the Mossad."

Paul cupped the receiver. "Julien?" he asked in a low voice.

Julien nodded, already in his laptop.

"Oh, and Black Bear is three hours away from retargeting the launch coordinates for the missiles. So I'd say you better get whatever plan you have in gear."

"Why the change of heart, Alex?"

"Let me just say we were able to achieve our goals without the need for further warfare."

"And that's it?" Paul wasn't sure he could believe anything she said.

"I had a conflict of interests, just like Borya."

"And that's supposed to be enough of an explanation?"

"I did for my government the same thing you were doing for yours."

"And just what was that?"

"Fighting for preservation," Alex explained. "Now, if you don't mind, I'm not in a very safe area. I need to exit here rapidly."

He hesitated. "Will I see you again?"

"In the most unexpected of places."

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

The Indian Ocean

Simon flew the DC-8 in low, racing just a hundred yards above the Indian Ocean. He was avoiding enemy radar but also using more fuel. He told Paul that he could drop the electron disrupter from two thousand feet as he flew over the Chechen trawler, but he knew that probably wouldn't work. There would be only one chance to stop the launching of the missiles. The doomsday clock was counting down to zero.

"Simon, where are you now?" Paul asked over the SAT phone while sitting with Julien in Azubike's compound. He was hungry all of a sudden and his body was screaming from the poor treatment over the past few days. He shifted uncomfortably.

At least the rain had stopped.

"One hundred twenty miles south east of Mogadishu. Fifty miles from target."

"How are you doing on fuel?" Paul asked.

"With the extra tanks on board I've got enough to drop my package then land at Kismayo," he said in a voice lacking conviction.

"Kiss my what?" Paul asked.

"Kismayo. It's the third biggest city in Somalia, you dunce." Simon laughed. "Where were you during geography class?"

"Weapons training at Ft. Bragg."

"I've got a friend who will let me land without an authorized flight plan," he said.

Julien interrupted. "We estimate ninety minutes until the Chechens complete reprogramming of the ICBM target coordinates and launches the missiles."

"How are you and Julien doing with the cloaking?" Simon asked.

"Julien says the Chechens must have someone very good running their computers," Paul replied. "He hasn't been able to break in yet, but we've still got time."

"Minutes mate, not hours," Simon said calmly, like a seasoned pilot would.

* * *

"I'm two clicks from target," Simon announced. "Am I invisible?"

"Negative. Julien says you're visible," Paul replied. "I'm sending in the pirates. They'll be there in four minutes."

"Right, mate. See you at the pub."

"They're on channel four, Simon," Paul said. "Let them know when to open fire. They've got the new Chinese RPGs. They'll make quite an impression on our friends."

"I can see the Somalis," Simon relayed. "I just flew over them. They waved to me. Those boys are amazing. They're going against men and weapons they've never faced before, yet they look like they're out fishing.

"I'm letting the pirates go in first," Simon explained. "Waiting for the fireworks to begin."

"Stay on the line with me, Simon," Paul insisted.

* * *

The pirate mother ship was anchored just two kilometers from the Black Bear Trawler. The captured hundred foot tanker held twenty smaller launches. There were four pirates for every launch: three men with AK-47s and one with an RPG. Twelve pirates stayed on the mother ship manning radar, radios and outfitting the launches.

"Azubike here," came the voice over the radio.

Both Simon and Paul could hear him.

"We are downloading our launches now. I will be leading the attack myself."

"But, Affande," Paul said, using a term of respect, "the danger is too great!"

"Ha!" he exclaimed. "We have minimized the risk by following strict rules. Would you like to hear them?"

"If you think we have time," Paul said warily.

"Rule one: Use many boats small, large but few. Rule two: Finding matters more than flanking. Rule three: Blend in with other civilian craft in the great expanse of the ocean. Rule four: Swarm - hundreds of pirates attack, gambling that one or two will make it in for the take down."

"Wait! Azubike," Paul yelled into the SAT phone, "your people need you. You can't risk yourself on a mission where the odds of success aren't good. This isn't like capturing a ship for ransom run by merchant marines. Black Bear has very sophisticated weapons."

"I would never ask my people to take a risk I myself would be unwilling to accept." There was a lot of static on the line. "Something is wrong with our phones. I think Black Bear is interfering with our communications. We will switch to our two-way radios. I will not be able to reach you, but only contact my--." Azubike was cut off.

Simon watched from above as Azubike launched the operation against Black Bear from the north, south, east and west. They used the tactics honed during the years of attacking tankers and supply ships.

They played a dangerous game of cat and mouse. One pirate boat went in fast and close and draw fire from Black Bear. Then when those men were aiming at the first boat, a second boat came up and fired on the men focused on the first.

Their tactic worked well, but at a very high cost. Azubike was losing four men for every Black Bear killed. It was a war of attrition and Black Bear was winning.

Azubike signaled his men to retreat. But it was the same tactic they had used at the compound. The pirate boats hooked together to better absorb the motion of the waves. Azubike instructed his best man to take a forward position with the RPG.

The solider waited for a lull in the ocean, then fired. The RPG propelled itself with a loud "swoosh." The flame and the backlash shook the boats and the gunner fell backwards onto his mates.

It was a direct hit at the bowline. Even from two hundred yards away the explosion was deafening. It blew a four-foot gap in the hull of the ship. She started taking on water immediately.

Black Bear fired back. Azubike ordered his men to uncouple and disperse. But before they could break apart, fire from Black Bear found the range. M-2 heavy machine guns, Soviet-made AK-74 assault rifle with GP-25 40 mm grenade launcher and ground-to-ground guided missiles took out four boats, including Azubike's, but he was quickly pulled from the waters by his men.

When the waves settled down there were many pieces of debris floating on the surface in between the boats that had survived the attack. Azubike's men were warriors. They knew the odds and the risks but were not deterred. There was no time to morn for fallen comrades. They pulled wounded men from the water and continued the attack.

"It looks like the fourth of July down there," Simon said, in awe of the scene below him. "I see a dozen pirate boats going in from all angles. Black Bear is returning fire. At least six boats have been hit.

"God, those Somalis have more guts than any of the best trained men I ever fought with. But their AK-47s are no match against real firepower. And the sea is too choppy to use the RPGs. I'm going in."

Simon maneuvered the plane in closer. "I'm at two thousand feet, directly over the target. I just dropped the first electron disrupter."

"And?" Paul asked, his voice five by five over the radio.

"It detonated too high. Their radar is still rotating. It didn't work. I'm going down to one thousand feet."

"Negative, Simon. That's too close."

"Sorry, Paul. But I'm senior officer on this mission. The Somalis are getting cut to ribbons. I can't ask other men to risk their lives if I'm not willing to risk mine."

"Simon, wait!" Paul yelled into the phone.

"The Somalis got a direct hit on Black Bear with one of the RPGs," Simon relayed. "The trawler has fires on deck and a hole in the bow of the ship. Now's a perfect time for me. Here goes number two."

The electron disrupter exploded twenty feet over the trawler. There was a brilliant flash of lightning that traveled sideways the length of the ship and blinded Simon for a few seconds. A huge amount of static electricity arced from one electronic component to another.

There was ten seconds of silence that felt like an hour to Paul.

"Wow, that one got their attention. Their radar just went out. Oops, they're turning their anti-aircraft guns on me."

"Get out of there now, Simon," Paul called over the radio.

"Negative. Those guns are electronically operated. They're still firing. I'm going around for another run at five-hundred feet."

"Simon, get the hell out of there!" Paul screamed.

"This one's going right down their throats."

The electron disrupter hit the deck. The surge of electricity knocked the soldiers off their feet. There was pandemonium. In the wake of the confusion, the pirates came in for the kill.

"Yes! Their guns are out," Simon relayed. "Just their hand weapons are operable. All their electronics are fried. The Somalis are getting the upper hand now. They're throwing grappling hooks on the trawler. They're going up so many sides at once; the Chechens can't cover them all. I think they're going to take the boat!

"Uh, oh, they're training their RPGs on me. I'm out of here!"

Another moment passed. "Simon! Simon!" Paul yelled.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

President's personal quarters. White House

President Paulson stood by the window, his hands linked behind his back. He'd been standing there far longer than he would have expected. He couldn't help but replay all that had been going on. The night was quiet, calm almost, except for the rush of water out of the fountain on the south lawn. Everything was so serene since evening had set in, but somehow the commander-in-chief couldn't relax. The lack of people moving about the White House hadn't helped to remove any of the actual stress from his shoulders or neck; others around him had simply removed the visible representation of that stress.

A confrontation was imminent. And as far as the president could tell there was no way to avoid it. The knot in his stomach grew ever larger, even though he had eaten a meager meal in hopes of avoiding the very stomach ache he was bound to get with all this stress. The remains of his single glass of wine sat on his desk behind him, a testament to his attempt at calming his own nerves. It hadn't worked.

A black limousine pulled up to the southeast entrance of the White House drawing his attention. The car was the first thing he had really seen in what felt like hours. The sedan paused at the guard house for identification before the gate was opened, and the limo was allowed to approach. The time for thought was over.

With a sigh, Paulson picked up a book off of his desk and settled into his armchair. He would do his best to seem at ease when the vice-president arrived. To appear in any way agitated would be a sure sign of weakness, one that the president could not afford. He would be alone when Cummings arrived, but it was the way he had chosen for this confrontation to occur. It would be on the president's terms, no one else's.

Paulson had dismissed all of his allies after dinner. Them being with him would do no good. The secretary of state, secretary of defense, FBI director, and Army General McAdams, the only military commander who agreed with his plan, were all in another wing of the White House waiting to hear how the meeting went. The president couldn't blame them for being curious; beneath all his concern; he himself was curious as to exactly how it would play out.

Sam Johnson, his head of the secret service detail, had insisted on assembling a contingent of agents that would be on alert in case anything went wrong. Johnson hadn't quite mentioned a possible coup, but he had implied it rather heavily. Paulson didn't want to believe that was possible, but he trusted Johnson. And if having the secret service detail prepared for any eventuality made the man feel better; the president couldn't bring himself to say no.

"Mr. President," Helen said as she opened the door and stepped half way into the room, "Vice-President Cummings is here."

"Thank you, Helen. Show him in and then you can go home for the evening."

"Yes, sir," she replied before opening the door wider and allowing the vice-president to enter the office.

Helen closed the door behind Cummings and the two men were alone. The vice president was dressed in an ill-fitting gray pinstriped suit, with a tie pulled half way down his shirt. His belly stuck out and fell four inches below his belt line. Cummings stepped further into the room and settled on the couch at the president's gesture.

"How do you feel, Mr. President?" Cummings asked, crossing his arms over his stomach.

"Never better, Mr. Vice-President, never better. Yourself?"

Cumming's demeanor danced with uncertainty before he pushed forth the blank face of a professional politician. "Fine, sir. But I thought...."

"My health is none of your concern, Mr. Vice-President. Now, why don't we get down to the real reason you are here, hmm?"

"Very well," Cummings said. "We formally request that you step down from your position as president, sir."

"And just who is we, Mr. Vice-President? Since I assume you are not using the royal we."

"We being myself, all the senior military officers supporting me, and the great majority of the American people, who would agree if they knew what you were planning to do."

"I see," Paulson mused. "I'm afraid I'll have to decline your request. With all due respect of course." The president did his best to keep a straight face, not entirely surprised that it had come to this.

"Mr. President, the country is in crisis," Cummings said, stating the obvious, pointing rudely at Paulson and wagging his finger. "We have a chance to take things in the right direction, but you are neither qualified to, nor capable of making the decisions necessary to insure the safety of the American people."

"And who exactly do you think is more qualified, Cummings? You?"

"I know I am." The vice-president thumped his chest like a gorilla in the wild.

"To be honest, Cummings, I don't give a damn what you think," Paulson said, flipping his hand in the air. "I will not be deterred from the policy I stated clearly to Congress and the people. I have a responsibility to uphold my oath to protect this country and I will do so to the best of my ability. Whether you agree with me or not."

"Then you truly intend to take the missiles off line?" Cummings asked.

"I not only intend to take the missiles of line, but I want your resignation on my desk before you leave my office."

"I will not voluntarily step down."

"I had truly hoped we could avoid coming down to this."

"What's that, Mr. President?"

"Sedition, treason, Mr. Vice-President. It has come to my attention that you have conspired with Admiral Zinn, NSA Director Frank Reynolds, President Pro Tempore of the Senate Evan Dillard, and several members of the Joint Chefs of Staff with the intent of conducting a coup d'état."

"What exactly are you referring to, Mr. President?" Cummings asked, trying to feel Paulson out to learn how much he knew.

"I believe the designation is operation Black Bear."

Vice president Cummings sat back and smiled like a mouse who had trapped by a cat in a corner.

The president was internally prepared for whatever the man before him intended to say.

Cummings spoke soothingly, as he might to a frightened or sick child. "I'm afraid you are confused, Mr. President. Black Bear is a foreign plot to destroy the United States," he sniggered.

"Black Bear started out as a plot to take over the U.S. missiles capability, but when you saw an even greater opportunity, you gave support to those men and their plan. You gave quarter to the enemy, Mr. Vice-President and that is an act of treason for which you can be shot. And if you do not resign, you will be shot."

The president sat back in his chair and silence fell between the two men. Cummings was well prepared for this confrontation and Paulson wasn't surprised.

Cummings pulled out a Cuban cigar in the ensuing silence and held it up to the president. "Do you mind?"

"Not at all," the Paulson wanting to maintain some semblance of decorum.

Cummings lit his cigar and watched as the first few puffs of smoke rose toward the ceiling. He then settled back on the couch once more and smiled, smoke curling from under his nose. "Your thinking and methodology are antiquated, Mr. President. We are in the Information Age today. The enemy is reacting in milliseconds while you waste precious moments trying to negotiate with countries that do not trust us and would much prefer we did not exist. You, Mr. President, with your out of date thinking, are the greatest danger this country faces."

"I suppose Admiral Zinn agrees with you? That a coup d'état is quicker and easier than an impeachment trial."

"Perhaps."

"You and the admiral have had many discussions about myself, my plans, and the state of the country, haven't you?" the president insisted.

At those words, Cummings, took one of his hands and began tapping his fingers on the top of the couch upon which he sat.

The president watched clasping his own hands behind his head. The Vice-President continued to tap his fingers, the tips turning white when they hit against the wooden frame.

"Any discussions that I had with the admiral are private, just as conversations with you and I are, Mr. President. I won't discuss them."

"You visited Senator Dillard's home along with Admiral Zinn. Do you care to comment on that?"

"I take it you have been monitoring my actions?" Cummings replied, not answering the question. "Having me followed?"

"I didn't have you followed, Cummings. I accessed your e-mails. You see, you never bothered to use an encryption program like you were instructed."

"I'd like to know why the president of the United States feels it necessary to spy on his vice-president as if he were whoring around with his mistress?" Cummings snapped.

"Not until you answer my question, Cummings," Paulson replied with a grimace. "What did you, Zinn, and Dillard discuss?"

Cummings got to his feet and took one step toward the still-seated president. Holding his cigar between his thumb and forefinger as he towered over his commander in-chief. Cummings pointed accusingly at the president. "I will not stand here and be questioned as though I am the one on trial here. You are the one leading this country to its downfall."

"Is that all?"

"No," Cummings replied jabbing his finger once more in the president's direction. I will not resign and allow you to take this country down the road to Purgatory."

The president didn't reply right away and silence fell heavily between the two men once more. The smoke from Cumming's cigar moved lazily in the air between them, the only sign of life in the sudden stillness. The serenity that the president had sensed before was gone, he couldn't feel even the slightest bit of it. He perceived himself inadequate and small before the imposing figure that stood before him making grandiose accusations. But he couldn't sit by and do nothing. Placing his hands flat on his desk, the president pushed himself to his feet.

"I don't think--," Paulson began.

"No. You don't think, Mr. President," Cummings attacked verbally. "We warned you. We warned you that the North Koreans would jump at the opportunity to launch a pre-emptive strike against the United States using their subs which we have no way to trace, but you didn't listen. You didn't think. And now you're prepared to take our missiles off line. Why not open the doors and throw them a celebratory party for the destruction that they will wreak upon our country when you do that?" The Vice-President paused. "You, Mr. President, are the greatest danger to our country. You, not the Russians, or Chinese or North Koreans!"

"And you, sir, are a traitor," the president said calmly.

"No, I am a patriot," Cummings assured. "And I will do whatever I must to protect and serve my country. Even if that means going straight to the American people with the truth. I can assure you, sir, that you will be leaving this office for good the moment I get the word out."

"Mr. Vice-President," Paulson began slowly and softly, "you are going to usher in the very event we are trying to avoid. The very event we have all been trying to avoid for the last fifty years."

"And what might that be, Mr. President?" Cumming's asked, squinting at Paulson. Making a face that was almost threatening.

The president dismissed the insinuation and said, ""World War III. You must know that if the Russians see conflict between the military and the civilian administrations they will surely take advantage of that rift to launch a preemptive strike. You would be opening the door to the very thing you are saying you want to protect against."

"Not the way I see it, Mr. President. I will save this country from you," he said, pointing his cigar in Paulson's direction. "And from your mistakes."

"What you don't realize, Mr. Vice-President is that one action will not solve the problems the presidency faces. It is the culmination of many different decisions and their outcomes that will bring peace. To bring war is far easier. To act immediately and irreversibly is to open the door to far reaching consequences the likes of which you have not contemplated. It is through patience and foresight that peace will be wrought, not by rashness and stubbornness."

"Your politics have brought us to the edge of annihilation," Cummings countered. "Every poll in the country shows that the American people have lost faith in you. They do not trust you to protect them. And they're right. You cannot protect them, especially not by taking our missiles off line."

"Yet you would overthrow me and place yourself in charge of the American people with nary a word," Paulson replied. "You would undermine what little faith the American people have in government and allow even that to crumble in your vain attempt to solve something you cannot know the ramifications of."

Paulson saw Cummings' eye twitch. It was a small thing, but he knew that he had struck home. The president now believed there was a possibility for him to win, and for the vice-president to take his leave quietly, the same way he had come in.

"I want your resignation on my desk right now, Mr. Vice-President," Paulson demanded.

"I would gladly give my life for this country, but to give you my resignation – when I see my leadership as the only thing that can save America – is unacceptable. Your request is nothing but a plea from a desperate man seeking to maintain his position. This has nothing to do with what is best for this country. In the end, it is the American people who will be the final arbiters of our differing positions."

"No, Mr. Vice-President, the American people will never hear of this."

"Oh, the people will hear of this; that I can promise you," Cummings assured. "They will learn of the folly of their president."

"I'm afraid that in this case you are wrong, sir." The president pulled a stack of papers from one of the drawers in his desk. "I have here written statements from three of the Joint Chiefs and their Chairman, the president pro tempore of the Senate, the heads of the Armed Services Committees, and the Director of the NSA as to their roll in this conspiracy to overthrow the government. Each statement was signed and acknowledged by them and myself. I gave those people my word that they will not be prosecuted for treason and sedition if they tendered their resignations. Each and every one of them has done so. I am now offering you that same opportunity. Tender your resignation, Mr. Vice-President, or I will prosecute you to the fullest extent of the law."

Cummings' knees buckled and he sat abruptly on the couch. "But how did..."

"How I did it is of no concern to you. Suffice it to say, I did. Now, do I have your resignation, Mr. Vice-President?"

"I have your word, Mr. President? I will not be tried for treason?"

Cummings was bargaining now and the president wanted to smile. The room was eerily quiet. The only sounds were the breathing of the two men and the intermittent hum of traffic from the street below. Paulson nodded. He had won. Cummings lowered his eyes, lines of defeat etched in his face.

"May I use your writing desk?"

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Harardhere, Mogadishu

The burial for Simon took place in Azubike's village, in the early morning, just before dawn.

"Sorcerers are asleep in the mornings," Azubike explained. "In the afternoon they move around looking for corpses to use for evil purposes."

Paul, as the closest friend, drew two parallel lines in the dirt with a short hoe. Members of Azubike's tribe helped dig the grave based on those marking. Azubike himself killed a cow for the ceremony. It was then skinned. The cow hide was cut in two: one piece set under the body and one over. Simon was placed in the grave on his right side, facing the rising sun.

Afterwards, the Mwesi, the sanctifier, threw the hoe down an ant hill. Water from the sea was sprinkled on the grave and the few remaining possessions of Simon sitting on top of the body.

A bowl of water with pieces of cut aloe was passed around by the women.

"This is to wash off the dust of the grave and also removes bad luck," Azubike explained.

"Where are all the children?" Paul asked.

"Pregnant women, children, and unmarried adults are not allowed to attend the burial. That is a tradition."

Some of the mourners played the traditional African harp - the Kora. One of the tribesmen killed a white cock and sprinkled the blood on the grave. Its feathers were plucked and taken to the crossroads of two paths intersecting in the village. Each member of the tribe walked past the threshold.

"The action of these people is to carry out with them any pollution left by the spirit of the dead man," Azubike said.

Now, as the sun rose in height, people sat, talked, and ate. Paul, Julien and Azubike stood around the grave site. As the tribal leader, Azubike explained some of the tribal beliefs to Paul and Julien.

"Do not grieve for your friend, Paul. Life does not end with death but continues in another realm. Death does not alter or end the life or personality of an individual. People who die still live in the community and communicate with their loved ones. Simon is with us now. We will always have a place for him in our huts and in our hearts."

"Beautiful words, Azubike," Paul said. "Simon would have been very thankful to you. Making him a member of your tribe and bestowing all rites upon him is an honor."

"None of us will forget the respect you have shown for our friend, Azubike," Julien said.

"If we did not give him a proper burial he would become a wandering ghost, unable to live properly after death and therefore a danger to those still alive."

"He didn't have family, Azubike," Paul said. "He'd appreciate that."

"The man was a true warrior," Azubike replied. "He gave his life for people who were not his family. He has earned an honored place in our hearts and in our village."

"He would like to be thought of in that way," Paul said.

"It is time for the coming out," Azubike said. "This is to celebrate the removal of the pollution of death and the restoration of normal activities."

Paul and Julien bowed their heads. Words could no longer suffice. Each saying goodbye in his own private way.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

West Wing. White House. Washington, D.C.

The regular press room was bypassed. The news conference was set up in the West Wing. The area was already filled with reporters from a dozen different countries jockeying for position. Everyone knew that it was not going to be an ordinary speech by the president, not with the death of the Russian president and his foreign minister.

There was a swelling of murmurs in the room. An excitement moved through the crowd like a living thing. The talk was who was in charge in Russia. Reporters shared notes but not sources. That was sacrosanct.

Even the most hardened newsmen were visibly shaken by the recent events. Many of the reporters had connections into the CIA, NSA and all the military branches. Yet not even their most reliable inside sources would shed any new light on the situation. Word was that it was orders from the top down: no leaks. This one was under as tight a rap as even the oldest reporters had known.

Few knew what to expect: how deep the threat was; how vulnerable the U.S. was to attack.

President Paulson waited in the wings, talking to the U.S. Ambassador to Russia by phone. He needed the most up-to-date information in order for his speech to hold water. Finally, prepared as best he could be, he walked deliberately out on stage. He paused, looking out over the sea of anxious faces, and let out a deep breath.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he began. "Just two hours ago, I was informed that the group of men behind the attack on Washington have been found and neutralized."

"Does that mean dead, Mr. President?" a male BBC reporter asked, using elbows to gain enough space to stand up.

"I can only tell you that they are no longer a threat to national security: either ours or any other nation."

The president stopped for a sip of water, but found himself weakened by the efforts of the past few days, and so remained silent until his press secretary called out from the wings, "Mr. President!"

He turned in that direction and said softly. "Yes; right." He then faced the audience. "Just before coming out here this evening," Paulson continued, "I was on the phone with the new Russian premier. We have opened a dialogue that we hope will lead to greater security for our respective countries. There was, in the Russian government, as there was in our government an attempted coup d'état."

"Mr. President!" a young, female UPI reported called out. "Can you elaborate on that? Who's in charge in Russia? Can you tell us what's going on?"

"For national security purposes, I cannot discuss what has occurred, only tell you that the coups have been averted, our mutual governments are secure, and a new day has dawned in arms control based on the happenings of the past ten days."

"Mr. President, is it true that you have asked for and received the resignation of all the joint chiefs?" a Reuters reporter asked, shifting her weight from one foot to another, eagerly awaiting an answer.

"Yes, all except General McAdams."

"And the Vice-President?" another called out.

"Yes."

"Have all the perpetrators in Russia been arrested?" an Al Jazeera reporter asked, "or just the head of the beast?"

"It has been the civilian forces that have held sway. Even facing the most powerful armies on Earth, it has been the righteous and just who remain in power. The military does not represent the people. The elected officials do. And just as Boris Yeltsin stood on top of a tank to stop the 1991 coup attempt in Russia, so did a dedicated few men in America and Russia risked their lives, and gave their lives, to insure the continuation of democracy and freedom."

"Mr. President," a male voice from the back of the room called out. "What needs to change so that we don't face Armageddon again in a few more years?"

Paulson took a long, slow sip of water. He stepped around, then in front of the podium to narrow the distance between himself and the audience.

A secret service agent came out from the wings of the stage and whispered in the president's ear. Paulson nodded and walked around to get in back of the podium. There was an ironic smile on his face.

"It seems that with offices of the vice-president and president pro tem of the Senate vacant, and the speaker of the house notifying us that he is too ill to accept the office...should that be necessary, we are in an unprecedented situation in our country. Never before has the order of succession fallen to such a level in our history. So the secret service has asked me to please take all reasonable precautions...even though I do not see any enemies in the audience. Well, maybe some political enemies."

That caused an uproar of laughter which eased the tension lines in the president's face. He took the time to gather his notes and his focus.

"Mr. President," a New York Times reporter called out, "what's been the reaction from North Korea. We heard that one of their military people was up to his eye balls in the Black Bear conspiracy."

"I will leave that question for the secretary of defense."

"But--," he began again, until a presidential aide reached out and squeezed his elbow hard enough to make the man wince.

"I am creating a new cabinet post of Secretary of Cyber Warfare. It is all too clear now that a new form of warfare exists: cyber attacks on a country's infrastructure. We have already called for an international cyber conference where Internet technology will be shared by all members, putting cyber warfare on an equal footing for each nation.

"All counties will be on notice that a cyber attack can and will be answered by a kinetic, military attack, by the signature states."

He paused until a sudden wave of murmurs quieted. "We live in an age where borders mean less than ever. Cyber warriors have no loyalty to a state or to the world. Therefore, such criminals will be pursued regardless of where they may operate or hide. We will, once again, lead the world in peace, prosperity, and equality."

Immediately the shouts of reporters deafened the room. But Paulson was unmoved. He waited for order to be restored before closing. "We have much to be thankful for. Let us bow our heads for a moment in gratitude for all we have and hold dear."

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

The Capitol. Washington, D.C.

Paul was back in Washington. He was still recovering from jet lag, and a dozen debriefings with the NSA, CIA, DOD, the new joint chief, General McAdams, and the president, who conferred on him the highest civilian medal possible. But if President Paulson had been deposed, Paul was probably looking at a charge of treason and possibly a firing squad, rather than a medal.

Paul picked up the vibrating SAT phone. "Yes?"

"Hello," Borya said in his booming bass voice.

Paul frowned. "I didn't think I'd hear from you again."

"Well, I enjoyed working with you too!"

"Where are you?" Paul asked. "I haven't seen you since St. Petersburg."

"I am in Ankara, restocking my warehouse."

"So, tell me, did you really have to kill Diedrich?"

"It was, unfortunately, necessary. It was never in my plans to kill him. He was not an obstacle. He made for himself his own grave. And while I didn't like him, I did respect him. He was a warrior and there are few of us left."

"What did you stand to gain out of this?"

"I thought you'd figure that out by now."

"I'm a little dense; why don't you enlighten me."

"It's rather simple, Paul. I'm Chechen, not Russian. Russia was never going to grant us independence. Yeltsin, Putin, Medvedev, it didn't matter who was in power, they weren't going to let us be free."

"So you figure that if you programmed U.S. missiles to hit Russia--."

"Not all of Russia. Specific targets: military bases, missiles defense systems, government facilities, airports, munitions factories. Destroy just enough of their infra-structure that it would take them fifty years to recover. In the mean time, our country would be the only one intact for two thousand miles."

"Then what was the meeting with General Orgronzki all about. If it was the Chechens who stole the Go Codes, then why did you bother setting up that meeting?"

"My weapons dealings in the past have led to many deaths. Regional conflict is one thing, being responsible for an atomic war is quite another."

"That still doesn't explain why you wanted to meet with the general. You already knew it was him who supplied the weapons. What did you stand to gain?"

"I knew about the arms sale, but I didn't know where Black Bear was. In order to help you, I had to try to find that out."

"But you still wanted those men to succeed?"

"I had, as you Americans say, a conflict of interests."

"And now what will you do?"

"Sell weapons, of course! Through my North Korean contacts, now that Major Tong is out of the picture. I have obtained exclusive rights to Indonesia, Philippines, Burma, Thailand and Malaysia. With funding from the Chechen government that will mean billions of dollars in revenue each year for my country."

"It sounds wonderful, Borya. Except for the fact that Simon, Julien, Alex and me were expendable."

"The situation has been resolved without further deaths. Russia was made aware of how vulnerable their country is. We made it very clear that she was within hours of annihilation. So, we struck a deal: independence for peace. There is not a need for more violence unless . . ."

"Unless?"

"Unless Moscow decides to renege on our agreement. Then we go to plan 'B.'"

"Which is?"

"I am sorry but I cannot divulge the details. Suffice it to say that we would find another way to bring Russia to its knees. After all, Chechnya has access to the greatest power on Earth!"

"And just what is more powerful than ten thousand ICBMs?"

"Ten thousand computers, of course!"

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

The Capitol. Washington, D.C.

Paul was walking from the White House to Capitol Hill for another Senate sub-committee deposing when his SAT phone rang for the tenth time that morning.

"Bonjour, mon ami," Julien said.

"Where are you, Julien?" Paul asked. "I left a message about what was going on here."

"They should have put you up on a stage and given you a medal for saving the world instead of a back room ceremony where they pinned a ten cent ribbon on you."

"A Presidential Commendation Medal."

"Oh, excusez-moi."

"That's not the way it works in the military. You do your duty and get ready for the next mission."

"And will there be a next mission?"

"I'm officially retired," Paul said as he entered the Capitol. He had to show his credentials twice to gain access to the hearings chamber.

"What's that saying? 'You can take the man out of the military but you can't take the military out of the man.' Your whole life has been preparing for missions. Maybe the place and the stakes change, but not the desire."

"My ex-wife said something like that," Paul mused. "I guess that's why I'm no longer married."

"I too am estranged from my wife."

Paul blinked; surprised. "I never heard you talk of her."

"That is because some things are better left unsaid. It hurts a great deal to be reminded of all the mistakes one has made."

Paul's jaw tightened. "It seems we have more in common than I realized."

"Maybe fate will provide us the opportunity to renew our friendship over a glass of wine the next time we are in the same time zone," Julien suggested.

"I'll go with the celebration part, but maybe we can do it without the alcohol," Paul considered.

"I understand, mon ami. I will support you in that endeavor."

"Speaking of fate, are you looking for work?" Paul asked.

"I have a new position; full time!"

"Really! Can you talk about it on an unencrypted line?"

"At the moment, yes. I am chief communications officer for General Orgronzki!"

"Now that's a match made in heaven."

"The general and I have a similar vision," Julien assured.

"And may I ask what that is?"

"Exploiting the vagaries of the times and disputes between neighbors."

"Any conflict of interest?" Paul asked, skeptical.

"You mean philosophically?"

"I mean can you justify General Orgronzki's agenda?"

"There are now two ways to fight a war, Paul: kinetics, with troops and guns, or cyber warfare, with computers and the internet. I am showing the general how we can use technology as a weapon, and maybe limit casualties in the process. Instead of being charged with war crimes and have a tribunal prosecute him, the general may be recognized as a great new force for peace. Now that's progress!"

"Julien, I should have never doubted you."

Paul was standing outside the chamber, looking at his watch. "I need to break off now, Julien. I'm sure our paths will cross again."

"Should you need me, I am only a phone call away...but please make it on a SAT phone with encryption software."

CHAPTER FIFTY

Tel Aviv, Israel

A gray light seeped into the room from the horizon as the darkness relented. The night had been good, bright in a way the day would never be. She had wanted last night, she really had. But in the light of day, even the choice that she had made was not as clear as it had been the previous evening.

Alex looked over at Paul before she pulled her dress over her head. He was still sleeping and that was the way she preferred to deal with trysts usually. If she slept with a man she left before he had the chance to look at her again, if he was still alive. It was simpler that way. She stifled a sigh. She couldn't decide whether she wanted to wake him. Maybe because he was peacefully sleeping or because it would be too much for her if she had to talk to him before she left. She slipped her shoes on and made her way passed the bed quietly.

Just as she walked by the head of the bed, Paul reached out and, gently but firmly, and grabbed her wrist.

"What? No goodbye?" he asked, sitting up, suddenly wide awake. He looked at Alex, locking his gaze with hers.

She sighed. "This was a swan song, Paul, not the beginning of a grand romance."

"I got that impression," Paul said letting go of her wrist and falling back on his pillows.

Alex stayed in place beside the bed watching him running his hand through his bushy hair. She couldn't decide if she wanted to say more or if she just wanted to leave.

"I'm surprised we did it this time," Paul said suddenly.

Alex arched a brow at him.

Paul shook his head, an embarrassed smile on his face.

"Sorry. Look you don't have to explain yourself to me, Alex. What happened, happened. And if this is the finale, I understand. Maybe it's better this way. With you around, I'd never devote myself to the kids. That is, if they'd let me."

Alex blinked at his response. She didn't have to explain. But the need to express her feelings bubble out of her. "I know I don't have to, Paul. Somehow though, for once, I want to."

Paul leaned back in his pillow, waiting for her to continue.

She stood next to the bed and glanced away from him. She may have been prepared to say it but she wasn't sure she was ready to see his reaction to her words.

"When I was working for the Mossad, I was used in any way that would help. Up to and including sex with whatever man was necessary for us to achieve our goals. I was little more than a prostitute without the pay." She laughed self-deprecatingly. "Sex was just a tool for the Mossad, and I was its best handler.

"The Mossad isn't exactly an enlightened feminist organization, Paul. To most of the men I worked with I was always the girl. More useful for my sex appeal to the enemy than anything else. But I look at you and I get this feeling that you take me for what I am."

"You're a soldier, Alex, just like me."

"Exactly. And last night I wanted to be with someone who was just like me; someone who understood what and who I am." Alex sat back down on the bed, only inches away from Paul. She leaned forward and their lips brushed. But as Paul reached out to put his arms around her and tried to deepen the kiss, Alex pulled away. She placed a hand on his bare chest holding him at bay.

"I'm sorry, Paul," Alex said.

"Sorry for what? For lying to me? Risking the lives of men who believed in a higher cause than personal gain? Putting the lives of six billion people in danger to protect five million? Those aren't good odds, Alex."

"Eight million, Paul. You're not keeping up with the times."

"Why not use your own missiles. I understand that you have two hundred nuclear weapons."

"We needed to launch the American missiles at Iran. We couldn't use ours because that would unite all of the Arab countries with the Islamofascists in Pakistan and Africa.

"So why didn't you steal the Go Codes?"

"We get ten billion a year from the U.S. in foreign aid and two-thirds of all our military hardware comes from you. We couldn't afford to risk harming that relationship."

"So you hired the Chechens to steal the football?"

"No, they wanted the Go Codes as much a as we did, just for a different purpose. They wanted to destroy Russia, we wanted to destroy Iran. We figured we'd both get what we wanted. We needed a go-between and they needed the high-tech gear and intel to pull off the raid."

"And how did Major Tong fit in?" Paul asked.

"The Major learned that the U.S. bought into the lottery for the Go Codes and was going to nuke North Korea. Tong was willing to pay more to have the U.S. missiles bomb their own country."

"And so U.S. missiles do the dirty work and you and Tong take home the prize?"

"Not exactly, Paul. You got the bad guys and democracy is safe once again."

"And we would have been blamed for the destruction of Iran and Russia?"

"You get blamed for every bad thing that happens in the world, anyway." Alex shrugged. "You're the Great Satan, remember?"

"We're trying to polish up our image."

"You'll need a lot of Shinola," Alex said, grinning. "Isn't that what they used to call shoe polish?"

"Yeah, I guess," Paul vacillated.

"Look, Paul, we both got what we wanted," Alex assured.

"You saved Israel, and I...?"

"Got redemption. How many people get to make up for past mistakes?" Alex asked rhetorically.

"Not many," Paul reluctantly agreed.

"Mogadishu, Afghanistan, Iraq, Serbia. Men left behind, objective abandoned. Need more?" she asked.

"I found more than redemption."

"What else is there? And be careful for what you ask. Wishes have a way of taking something away form the present and offer only vague possibilities for the future," Alex warned.

"In the past, I was always able to erase the faces," Paul explained, wanting her to know, wanting to hear what it sounded like when verbalized.

"And now?"

"I can't do that anymore. I don't want to do that. Whatever I am today is due, at least in part, to all the people I shared those missions with."

"And me?" she asked, hopeful.

"Yeah, you included."

"I'm glad I was able to help you get to that place," she said with more compassion than she'd like to admit.

Paul lapsed into introspective thought. After a brief moment, he roused himself from that state. "So what happens with the Iranians now?"

"The Ayatollahs did a little praying to Mecca, then plowed over their reactors. They knew we meant business. They were within minutes of being vaporized. They're done playing the 'nuclear reactors for peace' game'...at least for now."

"It sounds like a successful mission, except..." Paul frowned, looking past Alex.

"Except what, Paul?"

"Except for the fact that Diedrich and Simon are dead."

"That's a hell of a lot less than several billion, don't you think?" Alex suggested, as if Paul needed help with the math.

"I don't think so well when the people who died were under my command."

'Oh, com'on, Paul, very campaign has its casualties. How many men have you had to leave behind on black-ops missions?"

"Those men chose the missions and knew the risks. On this one, it was supposed to be done with computers, not weapons."

"Computers are weapons, Paul." Alex shook her head. She sighed and moved further down on the edge of the bed. "Don't be so naive. We each did work for our country. That sounds personal to me."

"We were working for a nuclear free world."

"You sound like a commercial for cereal," Alex mocked him like she was reprimanding a child.

"We put Israel first before all those other Arab states and this is how you react?"

"Well, you were doing work for America and I was doing work for God."

"Which God are we talking about?" Paul asked.

"The one who protects Israel, of course!"

"Isn't dying a little extreme considering you're still young and--."

"Beautiful?" Alex finished Paul's sentence, smiling.

"Well, yes." He reached up and brushed away a lock of hair that had fallen out of her bun.

"In the world of the Holocaust, survival itself had become the main form of resistance. As Gerda Klein, one of the survivors wrote, 'It seemed almost a luxury to die, to go to sleep and never wake up again.' There's not going to be another holocaust, Paul. The Arabs aren't going to kill all the Jews like the Germans did. We were unorganized then. Now we've got the ability to wipe our enemy off the face of the earth...or have someone else do it for us. And that's exactly what we'll do. Remember the code that the Irgun, Stern Gang and Haganah all lived by?"

"Your grandfather, Avrum Stern?" he assumed.

"The Stern Gang was an armed underground Zionist group founded by Avraham in the British Mandate of Palestine. Their avowed aim was to forcibly evict the British authorities from Palestine, allowing unrestricted immigration of Jews and the formation of a Jewish state. They were the smallest and most radical of three Zionist paramilitary organizations.

"The Stern Gang never had more than a few hundred members. It was banned by the newly-formed Israeli government," she went on. "The United Nations Security Council called the band 'a criminal group of terrorists.'

"Avraham Stern was first a member of the Irgun," Alex continued, "but when the Irgun decided to suspend its underground military activities against the British during the World War II, he left that group to form his own organization. He saw no difference between Hitler and Chamberlain. He believed that immigration to Palestine should be available to Jewish refugees fleeing from Europe.

"He gave a speech to the Irgun and Haganah. He said, 'We have before us the command of the Torah, whose morality surpasses that of any other body of laws in the world: 'Ye shall blot them out to the last man'.

"Do you know what the policy of the Stern Gang was?"

"No, Alex, what was that?"

"A hundred to one."

"A hundred to one?"

"That's right. For every Jew killed, one hundred Arabs had to die. It was the only way they could justify all their battles. Look back at every war they fought: a hundred to one, maybe even better than a hundred to one. The only way the Arabs could win was by a war of attrition. But the Jews figured out that if they could kill that many Arabs in retaliation for any attack, then the Arabs would give up the jihad."

He leaned back against the headboard. "That's cold and calculated, Alex."

"If the world was going to let Iran, or Hezbollah, or their affiliates have the bomb, then we get access to the Go Codes, turn the U.S. missiles on Iran, Syria, and maybe Saudi Arabia for good measure - and get inside our bomb shelters until the all clear sounds."

"A hundred million dead Arabs?" Paul asked, startled by the plan. "And how many Jews die from radiation?"

"One million, tops," Alex figured, tilting her head to the side and letting her hair fall over her shoulder. "A hundred to one, Paul. A hundred to one."

Paul sat there, absorbing the enormity of what Alex had said. An indeterminate amount of time passed before he spoke again. "That's quite a story."

"One that will never be told," she said, closing the subject.

