The remaining two men were alone, and, aside from ordering drinks, said nothing.

And no one showed more than a slight and quickly passing interest in him.

He had had three Dzban lagers between five and quarter to six when he decided that if Aleksandr Pevsner was going to send someone to meet him-he thought it highly unlikely that Pevsner would come himself-it wasn't going to be tonight.

He paid the bill with an American Express card that had both Karl Gossinger's name and Der Tages Zeitung on it and left the bar. On the way back to the Bristol, he didn't see anyone on Philharmonikerstrasse or Kaertnerstrasse or The Ring who either looked familiar or who showed any interest in him.

He had another beer, this time an Ottakringer Gold Fassl, as the Bristol didn't stock Dzban. The Gold Fassl came with a bowl of potato chips.

The bar was crowded. No one showed any interest in him. He signed the tab, noticing the Gold Fassl was as expensive as the Dzban, and then walked across the lobby to the restaurant. No one in the lobby showed any interest in him.

He ordered- What the hell, I'm in Vienna -a Wiener schnitzel and was happy that he did. The pounded very thin, breaded veal cutlet covered a very large plate and was delicious.

He had- What the hell, I'm in Vienna -an Apfelstrudel for dessert and then went to his room.

He undressed to his undershorts and removed the knife taped to his thigh, wincing as the adhesive pulled hair. Next, he hooked up his laptop and sent Otto, with a copy to Hall, a short e-mail message:

Then he went to bed and watched another movie, an old one, black-and-white, called The Third Man, starring Joseph Cotten, Trevor Howard, and Orson Welles. It was laid in Vienna, right after World War II, and there was a long sequence on the enormous Ferris wheel in Vienna's amusement park, the Prater, down by the not-really-blue Blue Danube. Orson Welles was the villain, dealing in black market penicillin.

Castillo decided that he'd kill time tomorrow by taking a cab out there. He remembered his first ride on the wheel: Grosspappa had taken him when he was about six or seven.

What I'll do is take a ride on the Ferris wheel and then have one of those great wurstchen on a crusty roll, with that sinus-clearing mustard, and maybe some roasted chestnuts and a beer for lunch. What the hell, I'm in Vienna.

With that pleasant prospect in mind, Castillo turned off the lights and punched the pillow under his head.

Then lewd and lascivious mental images of the two hours he had spent with Mrs. Patricia Davies Wilson in his room in the Le Presidente Hotel popped into his mind.

Well, if that turns out to be Ol' Charley's last piece of tail in this world, no complaints.

[THREE]

Office of the Director

The Central Intelligence Agency

Langley, Virginia

0915 8 June 2005

"Good morning, Mr. Director," Mrs. Patricia Davies Wilson said as she was shown into DCI Powell's office. Powell stood up courteously.

"I understand you came directly from Dulles," Powell said. "Would a cup of coffee be in order?"

"Oh, yes. Thank you very much."

He gestured for her to take one of the two upholstered chairs facing his desk as he picked up his telephone to order coffee.

"How was the flight?" Powell asked. "More to the point, how are things in Angola?"

"Under control, Mr. Director," she said. "I hope."

It was clear that she meant Unless there's something I don't know about and Powell smiled his understanding.

"Something has come up, actually," he said and interrupted himself as a secretary came in with a tray holding a coffee service.

They were silent until after the coffee was poured and handed to them and the secretary had left.

"Thank you so much," Patricia Wilson said. "Frankly, for the last hour of the flight I was looking forward to a long bath and a gallon of coffee."

Powell smiled at her.

"As I was saying, something has come up," he said. "And I wanted to talk to you about it as soon as possible."

"I understand, Mr. Director."

"Are you aware, Mrs. Wilson, of a filing from Luanda suggesting that a Russian arms dealer by the name of Aleksandr Pevsner has had something to do with the airplane, the 727, that's gone missing over there?"

"Mr. Director, there was a satburst from Miller-the station chief: ?"

Powell nodded to tell her he knew whom she meant.

": suggesting that something like that was possible."

"And?"

"I didn't think it was credible, Mr. Director," she said. "Everything that's come to me suggests that the most likely scenario is-what's the phrase?-'an insurance scam.' And everything I was able to develop myself when I was in Angola supports that."

"When you got the satburst, what did you do?"

"Nothing, Mr. Director. I dismissed it as a wild hair."

"You didn't send a 'develop further'?"

"No, sir. I did not. But I looked into it when I was in Luanda, as I said a moment ago."

"You, so to speak, just dismissed the satburst out of hand?"

"Yes, sir, I did. Perhaps if it had come from someone else:"

Powell made a "Go on" gesture with his fingers:

"May I speak frankly, Mr. Director?" she asked.

"So far as I know, this office is not wired for sound," he said with a smile.

"Mr. Director, the thing is: After I had my bath and gallon of coffee, the third thing I was going to do was come here and ask-almost demand-that Miller be relieved and replaced."

"You have found him wanting?"

"Yes, sir. I'm sorry to say I have. Mr. Director, I never had the chance to sign off on Miller's assignment. If I had been asked, I would not have concurred in the assignment."

"Why not?"

"Let me say, Mr. Director, that I understand the human resources problem personnel had to deal with to fill that vacancy. A qualified individual simply wasn't available. There simply aren't enough African American officers to go around. And even fewer who speak Portuguese. And we-the agency-needed someone over there desperately. The slot had been vacant for months. They had to scrape the bottom of the barrel-and they did-and they came up with Miller, who really was just not qualified to hold down the job."

"Interesting," Powell said.

"I should have asked that he be relieved a long time ago:"

"And why didn't you?"

"Because Luanda is not one of the more important postings. Until this airplane was stolen, sir, nothing much has really happened there in a year, eighteen months. Aware of the human resources problem, I decided I would just let it slide and hope for the best. I realize now that was an error in judgment."

Powell grunted.

"Does the name Charles Castillo mean anything to you, Mrs. Wilson?"

She searched her memory before replying.

"No, Mr. Director. I can't say that it does. May I ask who he is?"

"At the moment, I don't know much about him myself," Powell admitted. He paused, then he went on: "You said that you were going to come here first thing and ask that Miller be relieved. Why now?"

"Well, I was frankly annoyed, or disappointed, or both, that the best theory Miller came up with was the absurd idea that a Russian arms dealer stole this old airplane and:"

He waited fifteen seconds for her to go on, and, when she did not, asked, "And?"

"I'm reluctant to go into this, Mr. Director."

"Go into it."

"Miller: you know he's Army and not really one of us?"

Powell nodded.

"He may have a drinking problem, sir."

"Oh?"