"Not bad, Gringo. We'll have to report a hard landing, but not bad."

"Screw you, Fernando," Castillo said.

"BWI ground control, Lear Five-Oh-Seven-Five," Fernando said into his microphone. "Request taxi instructions to civil aviation refuel facilities."

"Correction," Castillo said after keying his mike. "Ground control, we want to go to the UPS facility."

Visibly surprised, Fernando didn't say anything until after ground control had given directions.

"UPS?" he asked.

"Yeah, UPS," Castillo said. "That's where I'm going."

"And I can't ask why, right?"

"That's right, but if you promise to keep your mouth shut: and I mean shut, Fernando: you can tag along if you'd like."

"UPS?" Fernando repeated, wonderingly.

An armed Department of Transportation security officer was waiting warily for them when they opened the Lear's cabin door.

"Can I help you, gentlemen?" he asked.

"Good morning," Castillo said and took a small leather wallet from his jacket pocket and handed it to the security guard.

The security guard carefully examined the credentials, then handed the wallet back.

"Yes, sir," he said. "Now, how can I help you?"

"You can point us toward UPS flight operations," Castillo said.

"Ground floor, second door, of that building," the guard said, pointing.

"Thank you," Castillo said. "I think you'd better come along, Lopez."

"Yes, sir," Fernando said.

Halfway to the two-story concrete-block building, Fernando asked, "What did you show him?"

"The pictures of your rug rats Maria gave me yesterday," Castillo said.

A man in an open-collared white shirt, with the four-stripe shoulder boards that are just about the universal identification of a captain of an airline, came through the second door as they walked up to it.

He smiled.

"You got past the guard, so I guess you didn't come here to blow anything up. How can I help you?"

Castillo took a regular wallet from his hip pocket and from it first one business card and then a second. He handed the first to the man in the white captains shirt and the second to Fernando.

"You'd better have one of these, Lopez," he said.

"Thank you, sir," Fernando said, politely, and looked at it.

The card bore the insignia of the Department of Homeland Security, gave the Washington address, two telephone numbers, an e-mail address, and said that C. G. Castillo was Executive Assistant to the Secretary.

"How can I help you, Mr. Castillo?" the captain asked. He offered his hand. "I'm Jerry Witherington, the station chief here."

"I need a favor," Castillo said. "I need to talk to somebody who knows the Boeing 727, and, if there's one here, I'd really like to have a tour."

"I've got a lot of hours in one," Witherington said. "This have anything to do with the one they can't find in Africa?"

"You heard about that, did you?" Castillo said.

"I've been trying to figure it out since I heard about it," Witherington said. "How the hell can you lose a 727?"

"I don't know," Castillo said. "But I guess the CIA, the FBI, the FAA, and everybody else who is trying to get an answer will eventually come up with one."

"You're not investigating it?"

"Oh, no," Castillo said. "Were you ever in the service, Mr. Witherington?"

"Weren't we all? Air Force. Seven years."

"Okay. I was Army. So you know what an aide-de-camp is, right?"

"Sure."

"The only difference in being the secretary's special assistant and being some general's aide is that I don't get a gold rope to dangle from my shoulder."

Witherington smiled at him and chuckled.

"Among other things, like carrying his briefcase, what I try to do is get answers for the secretary before some reporter asks the question. And some re-porter is going to ask him, 'What about the missing 727?' And since I know he knows as much about 727s as I do-almost nothing-I figured I'd better find someone who's an expert and get some facts."

"And you flew here in that Lear to do that?"

"Lopez and I were in Texas," Castillo said. "So I asked myself who would have the expert, and maybe even an airplane that I could look at and where. The answer was: UPS, and here."

"You're a pilot, right?"

"I drove mostly Hueys when I was in the Army," Castillo said. "I know nothing about big jets."

"But you were flying the Lear, right?"

"The secretary is a devout believer that idle hands are the tools of the devil," Castillo said. "So he told Lopez here, 'Instead of you watching the fuel-remaining needle drop while Castillo snores in the back, why don't you teach him how to fly the Lear? It might come in handy someday.' "

Witherington chuckled.

"He must be a good IP," he said. "I happened to be watching when you came in. You greased it in."

"They call that beginner's luck," Fernando said.

"The reason I asked the question, Mr. Castillo:"

"I don't suppose you could call me Charley, could you?"

"Okay, Charley," Witherington said. "I'm Jerry." He looked at Fernando.

"Most people just call me Lopez," Fernando said. "It's hard to make up a nickname if your first name is Fernando."

"Okay, Lopez it is," Witherington said as he shook his hand. "The reason I asked was to give me an idea where to start the lecture," Witherington said. "And I've been trying to guess what questions your boss will get asked."

"Well, the obvious one is, 'Do you think it was stolen by terrorists who plan to fly it into another building?' "

"That's the first thing I thought of when I heard somebody stole the 727," Witherington said.

"And what do you think?"

"I don't think so," Witherington said.

"Why not?"

"Hey, I don't want to get quoted and then have some rag-head fly this missing 727 into the White House," Witherington said.

"None of this gets written down," Castillo said. "Nobody in the office even knows I'm here. So why not?"

"It would be easier to skyjack another 767," Witherington said. "If you think about it, when they took down the Trade Center and almost the Pentagon and the White House they really thought it through. They had great big airplanes-the wingspan of a 767 is 156 feet and some inches; the 727's wingspan is 108 feet even:"

"A third wider, huh?" Castillo said. "I didn't realize there was that much difference."

"What the rag-heads had was airplanes with just about topped-off tanks," Witherington said. "The 767 has a range of about 6,100 nautical miles. The tanks on a 767 can hold almost 24,000 gallons of fuel."

"Jesus, that's a lot of fuel!" Castillo said.

"Yeah, it is," Witherington said. "And that's what took down the Trade Towers. When all that fuel burned, it took the temper out of the structural steel-hell, melted a lot of it-and the building came down."

"What you're saying is that it probably wouldn't have happened with a 727?"

"I really don't want to sound like a know-it-all, but:"

"Hey, this is just between us. I'm grateful for your expertise."

"Just don't quote me, huh?"

"You have my word," Castillo said.

"The 727's max range is no more that 2,500 miles," Witherington said. "The way most of them are configured, no more than 1,500. And that means less fuel is needed, so smaller tanks. I never heard of a 727-and I've flown a lot of them-with tanks that hold more than 9,800 gallons; most hold about 8,000."

"One-third of what a 767 carries," Castillo said.

"Right," Witherington said. "So, what I'm saying is that if I wanted to blow myself and some building up-and get a pass into heaven and the seven whores that are promised-I think I'd rather grab another 767 instead of going all the way to Africa to steal a 727, which wouldn't do nearly as much damage, and which would be damned hard to get into any place where it could do damage. They're still watching, as I guess you know, incoming aircraft pretty carefully."