“What time sensitivity?” said Pierce. “There’s no imminent threat here. This is just one more weapon-which they may not even have.”

“The situation in North Korea is deteriorating rapidly,” said Blitz.

“If we start a war, it’ll deteriorate even faster.”

“I’m not advocating a preemptive strike, or anything of that nature,” said Blitz.

“There are time constraints on our side,” said Brukowski. “They’ve given the weapon to terrorists. I’m sure of it.”

Pierce gave Brukowski a contemptuous scowl, then asked Blitz, “You buy the contention that the weapon has been smuggled into the U.S.?”

“I don’t know,” said Blitz, hedging; he actually didn’t. “The situation in Korea is such that a well-designed operation, be it Special Forces or CIA, should be able to retrieve our scientist. I think it would be worth the risk. The North Koreans have been making outrageous claims about intrusions by our forces for months without basis; even if they see something now, who will believe them?”

“The Japanese,” said Cook.

“Special Operations can put something together,” said General Grant Richards, the head of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. “It would make sense.”

“Helicopters, even Ospreys, aren’t going to make it over the border from the south, given their present alert status,” said Pierce. “And they’d be pushing beyond their range. If we put an aircraft carrier or an assault ship-hell, even a destroyer-close to the Korean coast, the Chinese are going to be upset.”

“And we shouldn’t be upset that the Koreans are building terrorist weapons and giving them to murderers?” said Brukowski.

“My point is, a large operation is going to be noticed,” said Pierce. “Whatever you do. You use a ship to get close to the coast and use Ospreys or helicopters to land at the complex where he is, or you send a C-130 to the airfield. Either way, you’ll be seen. This is North Korea we’re talking about. There are only a limited number of ways to get by their radars and air defenses, and each one of them is very risky. As for getting a bomb out, forget it: It’s a pipe dream. I bet this guy isn’t even real.”

“I think the situation calls for finesse,” said Anthony. “I have a plan drawn up. I only need minimal help.”

“If he’s worth getting, we’re going to have to take some risks,” said Blitz.

“Let’s see what those risks are,” said the President. “Draw up some plans. I want to see your option, and I want to see what the Army thinks. By tonight.”

“You want to review the plans yourself?” Blitz asked. While he wanted it to proceed, he understood the need for the President to stand aloof in case something went wrong.

“I want to see the outlines, not all of the specifics,” said the President. “I don’t need to know how many gallons of fuel we’re using or how many clips of ammunition we’re carrying. In the end I’m going to get blamed no matter what happens,” he added. “I might as well deserve some of it.”

Seeing New York City from the air always filled Fisher with a certain indescribable sensation. Fortunately, he had come prepared, and so, with the help of four or five industrial-strength antacids and an Alka-Seltzer tablet he found in the seat cushion, the FBI agent made it off the plane in reasonably good shape. He was just starting to feel the light tingle of a nascent nicotine fit when he spotted Karl Grinberg of the New York office prowling the JFK reception hall. Fearing the worst, he turned right, hoping to make his escape-only to run into Kowalski’s extended arms.

“You better let me go or read me my rights,” said Fisher.

“Even with jet lag, you’re a pistol,” said Kowalski.

“I don’t have jet lag. I need a cigarette,” said Fisher, edging toward the door.

“Fisher. Your boss wants to talk to you,” said Grinberg, marching up.

“Which boss?” tried Fisher, though he knew it was no use.

“Hunter.”

“I work for Homeland Security now.”

“Yeah,” said Kowalski. “He’s going to swab the deck on a Coast Guard cutter.”

“You better stay away from their recruiters, Kowalski,” Fisher said. “I hear they have a tugboat shortage.”

“Yuk, yuk, yuk. Come on. Make your call and let’s get going.”

“You came for me?”

“That and the pizza. Macklin says it’s good here.”

“One question, Fisher,” said Hunter when Fisher called him from Grinberg’s car.

“Thanks for the warning.”

“Is the scientist legitimate?”

“What do you mean?”

“Was this scientist real?”

“Seemed to be breathing.”

“You know what I mean,” said Hunter. “Were they trying to snatch our gal, or was this guy really trying to defect?”

“I didn’t get a chance to ask.”

“No screwing around here, Fisher. The President wants to know.”

“I’m not sure,” said Fisher. “If I didn’t think he was real, I wouldn’t have gone in the first place.” He blew a smoke ring toward the car dashboard.

“People’s lives are on the line here,” said Hunter. “And my reputation.”

“Is that another question?”

“I’m asking you again: Was he real?”

“I think so. But maybe you ought to tell me what answer you want so I get it right.”

Hunter hung up.

HELLO AMANDA

I ASK AGAIN FOR HELP. AT LEAST ONE WEAPON SOLD. I HAVE INFORMATION.

PLEASE.

ANSWER.

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3326EE10”

Howe celebrated his decision by walking against a brisk late-winter wind to Washington ’s Chinatown section and having lunch. He even gamely tried eating with chopsticks, though he soon gave that up in favor of tried-and-true Western utensils. After lunch he headed back across the mall to the Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum, studying the World War I-era aircraft and just wandering in general through the vast halls of the museum. A new computer simulation booth had been set up, allowing visitors to practice their skill in simulated World War II dogfights. Howe blasted a Focke-Wulf 190 out of the sky with a Hurricane-no mean feat-but had a much harder time against the V-1 buzz bombs, pilotless terror weapons used by Germany at the end of the war. The trick was to fly next to them, then tip them off course with your wing. Howe gave up his spot to a twelve-year-old after several unsuccessful tries; the kid upended the V-1 on the first try.

The visit to aviation’s past made him feel as if he had let go of his own, and he arrived back at his hotel in good spirits, deciding to have one last meal in town at an expensive restaurant before leaving in the morning. He got into the elevator and held it open for a young mother and her child; the doors had nearly closed when a man in a blue pin-striped suit stuck his hand in, leveraging them back. The man leaned over and punched the button for Howe’s floor-seventeen-even though it was lit.