"Thank you."

"I don't suppose you have anything you'd like to share with me?"

"Not now. Maybe tonight."

There was a pause before Kennedy went on.

"Charley, I really don't want to accidentally bump into anyone working for my former employer."

"I understand."

"I really hope you do. I'll be in touch, Charley."

The line went dead.

I wonder where he is? Probably New York, because it's easier to be less visible in a big city than a small one. But maybe Washington. Hell, he could be anywhere.

And even if the agency or the FBI somehow latched on to that call and traced it, it was almost certainly made over a cellular he bought at a newsstand and dumped in a trash can the moment he hung up on me.

I wonder what the hell he did that he's so afraid the FBI will find him?

Castillo became aware that General and Mrs. Miller, Dick, and Betty were all looking at him.

Mrs. Miller broke the silence first. "Come in the house, Charley," she said. "Everybody's here to say thank you."

"I've got to make a call," Charley said. "I really do. It's important."

"Then we'll give you a minute," General Miller said.

"Why don't you come with us, Betty," Mrs. Miller offered, "and meet the rest of the family? Perhaps you'd like to freshen up."

"Thank you."

Castillo waited until they disappeared into the house and then looked at Dick Miller.

"Kennedy," he said.

"I heard."

"The plane is not there. It was. They tossed the seats out and loaded fuel bladders:"

"Loaded? Or installed? Hooked up?"

"He didn't say. One of Pevsner's airlines hauled the bladders from Mogadishu to N'Djamena. Then they were trucked overland to Abeche."

"You believe him?"

Castillo nodded.

"He has no idea where the airplane is now and is really worried that I'm going to flip him to the FBI."

"Is there a warrant out for him?"

Castillo shrugged.

"Go in the house, Dick. This won't take me more than a minute."

Miller looked at the house. His older brother and his aunt Belle were in the door about to come on the lawn.

"Keep me in the loop, right?" Miller said and then moved to intercept Kenneth Miller and their aunt Belle.

Castillo punched the autodial button that would connect him with the White House switchboard.

[THREE]

Camp David

Catoctin Mountains, Maryland

1700 9 June 2005

The president of the United States, who had been resting his hand on the king with which, when the telephone light flashed, he had been about to checkmate the secretary of homeland security, finally took his hand away and leaned back in the pillow-upholstered armchair and tried to make sense of the one side of Hall's telephone conversation he could hear.

After a moment, he gave up on that, too, and pushed a small button under the table beside his chair. A moment later, a white-jacketed steward appeared.

"Yes, Mr. President?"

"Booze time," the President said. "A little Maker's Mark for me:"

He stopped, said, "Matt?," and, when Hall looked at him, mimed drinking a shot.

"Scotch, please," the secretary of homeland security said.

"And scotch. Cheap scotch. The secretary of homeland security is not looked favorably upon by his president at this time."

The steward, a dignified, gray-haired black man, smiled.

"One good bourbon and one cheap scotch. Yes, sir. Something to munch on, Mr. President?"

"In lieu of the hearty meal customarily offered to the condemned, why not?"

The steward smiled again and left.

"Okay, Charley," Matt Hall said to the telephone. "Keep at it. Let me know if anything comes of it."

He thoughtfully put the telephone back in its cradle, leaned back in his chair, and raised his eyes to the president.

"First things first," the president said, pointing to the chessboard on the low table between them. "Checkmate."

The secretary examined the board.

"Shit."

"I always beat you," the president said. "Why are you surprised?"

"I was hoping your mind might be on other things," Hall said. "That was Major Castillo."

"Our no-longer-so-secret secret agent," the president said. "I picked up on that much."

"He just had another call from Howard Kennedy, the ex-FBI man who now works for the Russian arms dealer."

"And?"

"Kennedy told him the 727 was in Abeche but has left. With new-unknown-identification numbers, and painted in the color scheme of an airline. Which airline, no one knows. Nor did Mr. Kennedy have any idea where the airplane might be now."

"God!"

"Charley-Castillo-said something else. Kennedy knew where Castillo was-made a point of letting him know he knew. Charley said the only way he can think of that Kennedy could know that was he has a contact with the cellular telephone people, who can trace a call to the nearest antenna."

"In other words, this Kennedy character can do what the FBI can't do without getting a warrant from a federal judge?"

Hall nodded.

"Castillo also said Kennedy seemed very worried that we were going to tip off the FBI about him. Castillo said he has no idea where Kennedy is-was-and Kennedy knows that. So Kennedy's worries are a little unusual."

"Is there a warrant out for this fellow?"

"I don't know. I told you, the FBI: Mark Schmidt himself was: Schmidt gave me a hard time about getting Kennedy's dossier. I had to really lean on him to get him to promise to get it to me by nine o'clock this morning. " He paused. "And, I'm embarrassed to say, I haven't checked to see if he actually came up with it this morning."

"Okay. Try this on. Mark Schmidt, the FBI, knows this Kennedy is a really bad apple. He's an embarrassment to them. They don't want you or anybody to know how high this bad apple rose in the bureau or how much trouble he caused."

"Okay."

"Okay, so maybe that doesn't justify Schmidt's ignoring Natalie Cohen's memo that you were to get whatever you asked for. That's a separate issue and I'll deal with that."

"Yes, sir."

"But why should I be expected to believe anything this guy says? Your man:"

"Charley Castillo? He's now my man, is that the way it is?"

"No. Sorry. Bad choice of phrase, I set this up. Castillo is my responsibility. My Major Castillo tells us that the reason Kennedy is being so helpful is that he wants us to stop watching him closely. He sure sounds helpful when he tells us where the 727 is, but, before we can do anything about it, lo and behold he tells us the airplane isn't in Chad anymore. Why should we believe that it ever was there?"

"All I have, Mr. President, is what Castillo tells me. He believes him, and Charley is very good at separating the truth from the bullshit."

The president snorted.

"And what is our secret agent doing right now? Where is he?"

"He's at Miller's father's house outside Philadelphia. Miller's father is a retired two-star general. The counterterrorism people in the Philadelphia police department are going to set up a meeting between Castillo and Miller and some police working undercover with Muslim groups-two kinds, Arab-type Muslims, and converts to Islam, mostly African Americans-to see if they can come up with a Somalian connection."

The steward came into the room carrying a tray with two large glasses dark with whiskey, together with a bowl of ice and a pitcher of water.

"One very good bourbon for the president," he said. "And one really cheap scotch for the secretary."

"Thank you very much," Hall said, smiling.

"The reason we got it cheap, Mr. Secretary, is that nobody wanted to buy it. Can you believe that stuff sat in a barrel in Scotland for twenty-four years before they could sell it?"

"Now that we know where you stand, Jerry," the president said, "that means that I am not the only friend Matt Hall has in the whole world."