• MADRID, 9:30 A.M.

Peter Fadden watched the city pass in a blur, barely aware of the taxi's blaring radio playing American rock 'n' roll oldies, his psyche a churning jumble of conflict, exhilaration, and dread. He had called Nicholas Marten because he was certain he was onto something that involved the president, what had happened to Caroline and Mike Parsons and their son, and the congressional hearings surrounding the testimony of Merriman Foxx. And because the center of a huge and intense manhunt for what Spanish authorities were calling "fugitive terrorists" was concentrated right where Marten was, Barcelona.

He had talked to Marten just after seven, little more than two hours earlier, a conversation Marten had abruptly ended by telling him he would get back to him as soon as he could. So far that hadn't happened, and three attempts to reach him had achieved nothing more than a connection to his voice mail. So where was he? What the hell had happened?

If Fadden was right and the authorities were looking for a person or persons other than terrorists, as far as he'd been able to tell none of the other media people had yet picked up on it. That meant if he could break it he just might have an exclusive on an incident of major political, even historic, proportions.

The question was how to handle it. He had been around far too long not to know that if he called his editor at The Washington Post, no matter how confidential their conversation, whatever he said would be reported to the executive editor. Because of it, there was every chance someone in the Washington press corps would learn about it, and soon the flood gates would open and he would be trampled in a stampede of others rushing to the scene; and that was something he wasn't about to let happen.

• 9:35 A.M.

Fadden watched the familiar landscape. They were on Calle de Alcalá and about to pass Madrid's famous bull ring, the Plaza de Toros. Moments later they would be crossing Avenida de la Paz. Fadden knew the way to the airport well. In five years as a Washington Post foreign correspondent in London, two in Rome, two in Paris, and one in Istanbul, he had been to Madrid countless times. By his calculation and with the flow of traffic, he should reach the terminal in less than twenty minutes, giving him just enough breathing room to make his Iberia flight to Barcelona.

• 9:37 A.M.

They passed Avenida de la Paz, and Fadden took a moment to close his eyes. He'd been up into the early morning talking to everyday staff at the Ritz-busboys, maids, kitchen, cleaning, and maintenance people, night managers, hotel security. Afterward he'd worked in his hotel room until nearly four making notes. At six thirty he was up showering and making his airline reservations and then calling Nick Marten. A little over two hours' sleep-no wonder he was tired.

Suddenly he felt the taxi slow. He opened his eyes as the driver made a right turn onto a side street and continued down it.

"Where are you going?" he snapped. "This isn't the way to the airport."

"I am sorry, señor," the driver said in broken English. "There is nothing I can do about it."

"About what?"

The driver glanced in the rearview mirror. "Them."

Fadden turned around. A black car was right behind them. Two men wearing dark glasses were in the front seat.

"Who the hell are they?"

"I'm sorry, señor. I have to stop."

"Stop? Why?"

"I'm sorry."

Immediately the driver pulled to the curb, the oldies American rock still blasting from the radio. An instant later he threw open the door, then got out and took off on the dead run, never looking back.

"Jesus God!" Fadden blurted, fear and realization stabbing through him. His hand went to the handle and he shoved the door open. His feet hit the curb just as the black car slid to a stop behind. He didn't even look, just took off running. Seconds later he reached a cross street and ran into it without looking. A blast of horn was followed by a shriek of tires. Fadden went up on his toes, pirouetted like a running back, and dodged around a blue Toyota van that nearly hit him. Then he was on the far sidewalk and charging into a small plaza. He darted left and then right around a fountain. Then took the gravel path on the far side of it. A brief glance over his shoulder and he could see them coming. They wore jeans and sweatshirts and had military haircuts. They looked and felt American.

"Christ!" he breathed, and kept on.

Just ahead he saw a shrub-lined pathway leading from the plaza and onto the street beyond. Lungs on fire, he took it. Ahead he saw a stopped city bus letting off passengers. There was no reason to look back. They would still be coming. The bus was still thirty feet away and he was running with everything he had. He fully expected a blow from behind or a flying tackle that would take his legs out from under him. Twenty feet more, then ten. The bus door was starting to close.

"Wait!" he yelled, "wait!" The door opened again just as he reached it. In a heartbeat he was onboard, the door closed and the bus pulled away.

• MANCHESTER, ENGLAND. THE BANFIELD COUNTRY

ESTATE,

HALIFAX road. 9:43 A.M.

A heavy mist hung across the rolling deep green fields. Rain clouds drifted above the distant hills. From the hilltop where Ian Graff stood he could see the river and if he turned, the Banfields' newly constructed great house-all twelve thousand square feet of the glass, steel and stone of it. None of which suited English history or the rolling rural setting where it sat. But it was the landscape Fitzsimmons and Justice had been paid to design not the house. It was the landscape, this damp Saturday morning, he had come to once again, plans rolled up and tucked under his arm, to survey one last time before presenting them-no thanks at all to Nicholas Marten-to Robert Fitzsimmons who would again submit them to the young, newly very wealthy, newly married, very testy, Mr. and Mrs. Banfield.

Graff twisted his jacket collar up against the mist and was just turning his Wellington-booted feet back toward the main house when he saw the dark blue Rover sedan parked at the bottom of the hill and two men in raincoats coming up the muddy path toward him.

"Mr. Ian Graff," the first man, stocky and black-haired with a touch of gray at the temples, called out. It wasn't a question as much as the voice of authority. They knew who he was.

"Yes."

The second man was tall and his hair was all gray. He reached into his raincoat pocket as he drew closer and took out a small leather case. He flipped it open and held it up, "John Harrison, Security Service, this is Special Agent Russell. One hour and twenty minutes ago you placed a call from your office to the cell phone of a Nicholas Marten."

"Yes. Why? Is he in some sort of trouble?"

"Why did you make the call?"

"I am his supervisor at the architectural landscape firm of Fitzsimmons and Justice."

"Please answer the question," Agent Russell moved closer.

"I called him because he asked me to. If you look around you will see the acreage that we are about to begin landscaping. Among the many plantings are to be azaleas. He was working on the plan and asked me to go down the azalea list because he had forgotten the name of a specific type he wished to use. I retrieved the list and called him and recited the names."

"Then what?"

"The connection went dead. I tried calling him back but I had no luck."

"You said he asked you to call him," Agent Russell spoke again. "Are you saying he called you and asked you to call him back?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes. He called my house thinking it was Saturday and I would be at home. My housekeeper took the call and then relayed the message to me at my office."