Fernando nodded. For some reason, he didn't trust his voice to speak.

[ONE]

Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport

Arlington, Virginia

0125 10 June 2005

While the Lear was still slowing down on its landing roll at DCA, Castillo punched an autodial button on his cellular telephone.

The call was answered on the second ring.

"Three-zero-six," a man's voice said.

Those were the last three digits of the number Castillo's cellular phone had autodialed. It was the number of the supervisory Secret Service agent in charge of the secretary of homeland security's personal security detail.

If someone dialed the number by mistake-or even was "trolling" for interesting numbers-the three-zero-six answer didn't give much away.

"Mr. Isaacson, please," Castillo said.

"Welcome to our nation's capital, Don Juan," Isaacson himself replied.

"We just landed at Reagan, Joel. You sent someone to meet us, right?"

"Wrong."

"Why not?"

"I myself will greet you personally at Butler Aviation, to which ground control, I suspect, is directing you at this very moment."

The plug in Castillo's other ear was in fact at the moment carrying the order of Reagan ground control to take taxiway B left to Butler Aviation.

"To what do I owe the honor?" Castillo said.

"I was feeling generous," Isaacson said, then added: "Nice airplane, Don Juan."

If he can see the airplane, I should be able to see him.

Castillo looked out the window and saw Joel Isaacson leaning against the door of a black Yukon parked in front of the Butler Aviation fueling facility.

You're not supposed to have vehicles – except with flashing lights, etcetera – on the tarmac.

But I suppose if you are a very senior Secret Service guy, you can park just about anyplace you damned well please.

And all Joel heard was that I was bringing some special radio. He doesn't know how big or how heavy, and he wasn't about to help drag a big heavy radio from Butler to wherever he was supposed to park the Yukon.

"Joel, this is Master Sergeant Alex Dumbrowski," Castillo said as they all stood on the tarmac. "Sergeant, this is Mr. Isaacson of the Secret Service. He's in charge of Secretary Halls security."

The two men nodded and shook hands but said nothing.

"Where's the radio?" Isaacson asked.

Sergeant Dumbrowski pointed at the enormous hard-sided suitcase.

"That's all of it?" Isaacson asked, dubiously.

Sergeant Dumbrowski nodded.

Ground service people walked up, dragging a fuel hose. Fernando Lopez climbed down from the Lear.

"Fernando!" Castillo called and Fernando walked over.

Castillo introduced him to Isaacson as his cousin.

Isaacson motioned one of the fuel handlers over and handed him a credit card.

"Put that fuel and the landing fees on that," he ordered.

"Thank you," Castillo said.

"What the hell, it's in government service-you can send us a bill for the charter, Mr. Lopez-and this way no one gets to see the bills."

"You have just made our lawyers very happy," Fernando said. "Thank you."

Isaacson didn't reply, turning instead to Master Sergeant Dumbrowski.

"All set up, how big is this thing?" he asked. "The antenna, I mean?"

Sergeant Dumbrowski wordlessly demonstrated with his hands the size of the expanded antenna.

"Jesus, that small?" Isaacson asked, rhetorically. "Still, Charley, if we set it up on the roof of the OEOB all kinds of questions will be asked. What about Nebraska Avenue?"

As OEOB meant "Old Executive Office Building"-almost everything in Washington seemed to be boiled down to acronymns-Nebraska Avenue was verbal shorthand for the "Nebraska Avenue Complex," off Ward Circle in Northwest Washington. Originally a Navy installation dating to World War II, there are thirty-two buildings on thirty-eight acres. It was now the home of the Department of Homeland Security. Secretary Hall had his official office there, although, as a practical matter, he most often used his office in the OEOB, which was right next to the White House.

Before Charley could reply, Isaacson asked another question, this time of Master Sergeant Dumbrowski.

"How far can you set up the antenna away from the working part?"

"About fifty feet," Dumbrowski replied. It was the first time he had opened his mouth.

"The boss's office is on the top floor," Isaacson said to Charley. "It's a lot less than fifty feet from it to the roof. And it has secure phones. And, no one will ask questions about one more antenna out there. Make sense?"

"Makes a lot of sense, Joel," Castillo said. "Sergeant Dumbrowski's also going to have to teach a couple of your people how to operate it-it's not that hard-so that it's covered all the time. Most important messages come in when the operator is on the John."

"You can start with me and my partner, Sergeant, okay?"

Dumbrowski nodded and then said, almost hesitantly, "Major?"

"Joel, the fewer people who know these radios exist, the fewer people are going to absolutely have to have them," Castillo said. "Okay?"

"For the moment, Charley, fine. But if this equipment is as good as you told the boss it is, I'll want to talk about getting some permanently."

"We can talk about that later," Charley said. "But this one goes back to Bragg with Dumbrowski when this is over. Agreed?"

"Agreed."

"Sergeant Dumbrowski is going to need a place to stay. Close to the radio."

"There's a bedroom off the boss's office. So far as I know, he's used it twice. I'll put the sergeant in there, and if the boss asks I'll tell him you said to do it. Okay?"

"You are devious," Castillo said.

"Talking about devious, two guys who work for an unnamed federal agency and who we haven't seen in years looked Tom McGuire and me up-purely for auld lang syne, of course-and then asked if we happened to know where they could find your friend Kennedy. Not together. They took four shots at us. First Tom, and then me, and then two hours later another guy did the same thing. I guess they had a real hard time believing us when we said we didn't know anything about Kennedy's whereabouts and didn't think you did, either."

"Thanks," Castillo said.

"You want me to take this radio and the sergeant to Philadelphia with us?"

"Who's going to Philadelphia?"

"The boss is, I guess to try to keep the mayor from going ballistic when the commissioner tells him about the plans for the Liberty Bell. You mean, you didn't know?"

Castillo shook his head. "When?"

"First thing in the morning." Isaacson looked at his watch. "In six hours. He wants to be there early."

"Leave the radio where it is. I'm taking one to Philadelphia to give to Miller. And you'll have secure communications anyway, right?"

Isaacson nodded.

"Well, if that's it, Don Juan, I'll take the sergeant over to Nebraska Avenue."

"I wish you'd knock off with the Don Juan."

"I know," Isaacson said, smiling.

Charley looked at the Lear. They were almost finished fueling it and Fernando was doing the walk-around.

Charley got in the airplane and went into the cockpit.

[TWO]

Philadelphia International Airport

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

0205 10 June 2005

Philadelphia ground control had directed them to the Lease-Aire hangar, so Castillo wasn't surprised to see, as they taxied up, two Ford Crown Victorias, with all the police regalia, and a third, unmarked Victoria.

Is that Betty's unmarked car?

As the Lear parked, Sergeant Schneider and Major H. Richard Miller, Jr., got out of the unmarked car. Miller was still wearing the ragged clothing from his father's garage that Betty had suggested he wear while meeting the undercover cops.