"Everybody down!" he warned.

As one the men dropped to the ground, pulling back toward the brush. Seconds later one and then two jet helicopters passed over, their bright searchlights sliding over the hillside just above them. Then they were gone.

"The extra bodies are here," Hap said in the darkness. "There'll be a lot more. They weren't looking for us, just going in to land. Means, for the moment, they still think we're underground."

"Then these Mylars are working," Miguel said.

"Or somebody's not paying attention. Or the satellite's not working or it's out of orbit," Hap said. "Every second they give us, we'll take." Abruptly he stood up. "Let's go! Move!"

• 12:53 A.M.

Captain Diaz touched Bill Strait's arm. He turned to look at her.

"CNP helicopter pilot coming in reported a reflection of something on the ground five kilometers before he touched down," she said. "He's not sure what it was, maybe debris of some kind or even someone camping. He didn't think much of it at the time but then thought he should report it anyway. Pilot of the second chopper saw nothing."

"You have the coordinates?"

"Yes, sir."

"Send them both back out now. See what's there. I want to know right away."

"Excuse me, sir. Night, in these mountains, in the rain. The pilots can't see. It's dangerous enough just trying to bring more troops up here."

"I appreciate that, Captain. He's our president, not yours. I still would appreciate it if you would send your pilots back out."

Captain Diaz hesitated.

"Would you feel better if the order came from your people in Madrid?"

"Yes, sir."

"So would I. Please send them anyway."

Captain Diaz nodded slowly, then turned away, giving the orders into her headset.

Christ, Strait thought, it can't be them. How the hell could they get out of the tunnels without us knowing?

Abruptly he crossed to the young Secret Service tech working the satellite feed. "Thermal images," he said. "What the hell is the bird reading?"

The tech moved aside so that Strait could see his computer screen. With a dozen clicks he covered the entire mountaintop search area. In each small groups of hot objects stood out brightly from the darkness. "Our own people, sir. Nothing new. Rain and length of time since darkness doesn't help but it's nothing we don't have control of."

"There's a new sector to focus on. Captain Diaz will give you the coordinates."

"Yes, sir."

"Bill," James Marshall was pushing through Secret Service and CNP techs, coming toward him. "I was with one of your agents interrogating the kid Amado, the one who broke. He didn't tell us everything. Two other people were down there too. His uncle, a limousine driver, and somebody who fits Hap's description. He's the one who sent them to us with their story about being lost."

"Hap is down there?"

"I don't know if he is or he isn't. Or what the hell is going on. I want all of his communications signals monitored, his cell, his BlackBerry, everything."

"That order is already standing, sir. I put it in the minute he went missing."

"If he is down there he can't communicate by phone with anyone until he gets on the surface. The minute he's found he's to be brought directly here. I don't want him talking to anyone but me. If it is him, and the president is with him, we're home free. They're on the Chinook and on their way to the CIA jet, and finally we can shut the door on this whole damn thing."

• 1:05 A.M.

Demi lay on the stainless-steel bunk, the terror of what lay ahead overwhelming her. More than anything she wanted to sleep, to make it all go away, but she knew that if she did it would be the last sleep of her life, and when she woke all that would be left would be the unspeakable: taken from this cell to the amphitheater or some other arena and burned alive, maybe even alongside Cristina, a featured part of some ancient ritual where-she wished she could laugh at the irony-it was the witches who did the burning.

The idea that by this time tomorrow she would no longer exist brought with it the thought that but for the few articles and photographs she had published there was nothing to mark her existence. No real accomplishments, no contributions to society, no husband, no children, nothing at all. The best she could point to was a string of lovers over the years, not one of whom she had given enough of herself to even to be remembered, let alone wept for. Her life after the age of eight had been one of survival followed by the quest for her mother and her mother's fate, and nothing more. Now she had learned it, and that same fate had become her own.

Suddenly she thought of Nicholas Marten and President Harris, and her own fear and horror became compounded by terrible guilt. If they had fallen into the same kind of trap she had, only God could help them. It was like some biblical reckoning where the profoundly innocent paid for another's driving self-interest with their lives. And there was nothing she could do about it except to cry out "what have I done?" and ask for forgiveness.

She closed her eyes, trying to make everything go away. And for a time it did. She saw only darkness and heard the sound of her own breathing. Then, somewhere far off, she thought she heard the chanting of the monks. Little by little the voices rose. The chanting became louder, and more intense. She opened her eyes. When she did she saw what looked like a large photograph of her mother projected on the ceiling directly over her. It was the same photograph she'd found so long ago in her mother's trunk and had cherished for as long as she could remember. The one taken in the days just before she vanished. She was young and beautiful, the way she would have looked when the witches burned her to death.

In the next instant the ceiling above her erupted in fire and the photograph vanished.

Demi screamed out and leapt from the bunk in terror! Heart pounding she looked back to the ceiling but there was nothing. It was as blank as it had been before. It had been a dream, Demi knew. But if it was, why had she heard the chant of the monks? A sound and chant that still filled the tiny room.

Suddenly the icon of Aradia Minor glowed red in the cell's chapel. At the same time the voices of the monks grew louder, and then the entire wall beside her came alive with a video of her mother. She was seen in close-up, barefoot and wearing a clinging white dress like the one Cristina had worn and was bound to a massive stake on some surreal stage. The camera went to the floor at her feet. A ring of gas jets suddenly ignited. The camera pulled back as the flames grew higher. Slowly the lens crept in. It moved closer and closer until all that was visible were her mother's eyes. In them Demi saw not the peace that had rested in the eyes of the great ox but the pure horror of being burned alive. She saw her mother fight her bonds, saw her try to twist away. Glimpsed her mouth as it opened, then heard the terrible, ghastly shriek that came from within her. In seconds the fire overtook her and she was consumed in flame.

Demi screamed again and turned away. But there was no turning away. Every piece of wall, the floor, the ceiling, carried the images she had just seen, played over and over and over. As if to make her witness the hell of her mother's death a thousandfold. She closed her eyes and clamped her hands over her ears, spinning this way and that, doing anything she could to block the chanting. But it kept on. Becoming louder and louder until it occupied every part of her being.

It went on relentlessly. For how long? Seconds. Minutes. Hours. Then suddenly the chanting stopped and silence took over. Slowly Demi opened her eyes, praying to God it was over.

Not quite.