The lines on the pattern were actually of a special plastic that would both keep the documents from shifting around, thus making a lump in the cushion pad, and also present a faint, baffling pattern to X-ray machines.

He carefully closed the cushion pad, put it back in the briefcase, zipped everything up, and went back to his seat.

Patricia Wilson was not only awake but sitting up and sipping at a glass of tomato juice. There was another glass of tomato juice on the small flat area between their seats.

She pointed to it.

"You didn't strike me as the canned orange or grapefruit juice type," she said. "Okay?"

"You're a mind reader," he said. "Which will probably get me in trouble."

She smiled but did not respond directly.

"Let me get out and go where you have been," she said. "And then you can sit down. Take my seat, if you like."

[THREE]

Frankfurt International Airport

Frankfurt am Main, West Germany

0900 2 June 2005

When the Lufthansa 767 touched down at Frankfurt International Airport-which he always thought of as "Rhine-Main," as it was known to American military personnel-Castillo remembered, somewhat painfully, the first time he'd come there twenty-four years ago, at age twelve.

He'd said good-bye to his mother three hours before. He had understood that she was close to dying and didn't want him to see her last days. But leaving her had really been tough; they had both known it was really good-bye forever.

Otto Gorner had driven him and Abuela and Grandpa down from Bad Hersfeld in his mother's Mercedes. Major Naylor and his wife and Colonel Lustrous's wife had met them in the Pan American VIP lounge. There had been a man from the American consulate there, too, to make sure things went smoothly. It had been the first proof of what his mother had said about Grandpa. That he was "a man of influence."

The Naylor's and Mrs. Lustrous had told him they would see him in America. He hadn't believed them. Otto had made him promise to write, and to get on the phone if he ever needed anything, or just to talk.

Mrs. Naylor and Mrs. Lustrous had kissed him. Major Naylor had hugged his shoulders. Otto had shaken his hand. And then he and Abuela and Grandpa had gotten on the first-class-passengers-only bus, which carried them to the 747. It was not only the largest airplane he had ever seen but the first airplane he'd ever been inside of.

He had stared out the window, fighting back tears, as they taxied to the runway and then taken off. He had been surprised how little time it had taken before Germany disappeared under them.

Pat Wilson went with Castillo while he rented a car. She was on her way to Berlin, she had told him, and coming the way she had, even though it meant changing planes after a two-hour wait in Frankfurt, would get her there faster than either waiting for a direct Dulles-Berlin flight or catching one in New York would.

They had exchanged telephone numbers and promised to call whenever one of them was in the other's city- Forbes was published in New York City. He intended to call her the next time he had some free time in Manhattan, but the number he gave her was that of one of the answering machines in his suite in the Mayflower. He never answered the machines. The Karl von und zu Gossinger machine announced in his voice, in English and German, that Herr von und zu Gossinger was out of town but would return the call as soon as possible if the caller would leave a name and number at the beep.

He didn't want to see her in Washington. She was a journalist and there was too much in his life there that would ignite her curiosity.

Seeing her in New York was something else again. Or anywhere but Washington, for that matter. Maybe he could coincidentally find himself wherever her journalistic duties took her.

As Castillo drove away from the Hertz lot in an Opel Kapitan, he was surprised to realize he really wanted to see more of Patricia Wilson.

[FOUR]

Executive Offices

Der Fulda Tages Zeitung

Fulda, Hesse, West Germany

1045 2 June 2005

Castillo took the A66 Autobahn to Schultheim, where it turned into Highway 40, and continued on that until he came to the A7 Autobahn to Fulda. Once out of the Frankfurt area traffic, he made good time. He kept the speedometer needle hovering around 120 kilometers per hour, which meant he was going about 75 miles per hour, which seemed both fast enough and safe on the four-lane, gently curved superhighway.

A steady stream of cars, an occasional Audi or Porsche or Mercedes but mostly Volkswagens and other small cars, passed him as if he were standing still.

He told the burly guard-almost certainly a retired cop-at the entrance to the Tages Zeitung parking lot that his name was Gossinger and that he had an appointment with Herr Gorner, which wasn't exactly true but got him into the parking lot.

By the time he entered the building-which had been built in the late nineteenth century, destroyed in World War II, and then rebuilt to prewar specifications afterward-and went up the wide staircase to Otto's office, Otto was standing at the head of the stairs waiting for him.

Otto Gorner was a Hessian, but he looked like a postcard Bavarian. Plump, red-cheeked, and radiating gemutlichkeit. He was wearing a dark gray vested suit he'd probably had made in Berlin, but he would have looked just as much at home in lederhosen and a green hat with a tassel waving a liter mug of beer.

" Ach, der verlorene Sohn, "Otto said. "You should have let me know you were coming. I'd have had someone meet you."

You mean, you would have been waiting for the prodigal son at Rhine-Main.

"I rented a car, no problem," Castillo said.

Otto put his arm around Castillo's shoulders when Castillo reached the head of the stairs, hugged him briefly, and then waved him into the suite of executive offices.

The two women and one man in the outer office stood up as they entered. Castillo smiled and shook hands with each of them.

They knew who he was, and thought they knew what he did. He was the owner, and was the Washington correspondent, of the Gossinger G. m.b. h newspapers. Read: Playboy/Remittance Man.

Otto followed him into his office and waved him into one of the leather armchairs facing his desk.

"I was just thinking about you, actually," Otto said.

"I'm flattered."

"I just got your monthly bill from the Mayflower," Otto said. "I've got to come see you and see what all that money is buying."

"On the other hand, you're not paying me a salary," Castillo said. "We should not forget that. Especially since you're sending me all the way to Africa."

"Is that where I'm sending you?"

"Uh-huh."

"What story is that?" Otto asked and then answered his own question. "That missing airplane? The missing 727?"

Castillo nodded.

"I've been following that yarn on Reuters," Otto said. "Actually, I think we ran sort of a wrap-up in the Sunday editions."

"Looks like a fascinating story," Castillo said.

"Dare I hope that you will send something we can use?"

"Unless I am eaten by a lion, or wind up in some cannibal's pot, I intend to file daily."

"When do you want to go?"

"I'm on British Airways Flight BA 077, departing Heathrow at seven thirty-five tomorrow night, and will arrive at Luanda at four-ten the next morning."

"And we're sending you first class, of course?"

"It's a long flight, Otto."

"You do know you'll need a visa?"

"I got one in the States. One of their assistant consul generals couldn't do enough for me."

Otto snorted.

"You can't stick around a couple of days?" he asked.

"I'd like to, Otto, but:"

Otto shrugged.